Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,152

grace and their own efforts, even if there was often friction between them. But she knew it could change any day and nowhere was truly safe. Robert of Gloucester was being exchanged for Stephen and the fighting could only escalate.

ttt

Three weeks later, Adeliza stood in the nave of Westminster Cathedral, feeling sick as she watched King Stephen receive his crown from Theobald of Canterbury in reaffirmation of his 376

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kingship. She would rather have stayed at Arundel, but Will had wanted her with him, and as the former queen of England, it was her duty to attend. Stephen’s queen had worn her own crown throughout the ceremony, a delicate affair of gold spires and lilies set with pearls that looked incongruous adorning her matronly form. She carried her head high, a look of satisfied pride on her face. As well she might, Adeliza thought, even while feeling resentful. Maheut had managed to keep that crown on her head through thick and thin and, in so doing, prevent Matilda from gaining the throne.

Everywhere Adeliza saw reminders of her own life as a queen. Once it would have been her playing a major part at the ceremony and the feast. Smiling graciously, speaking and mingling; receiving petitions. Now it was Maheut’s role and Adeliza was part of the background. Any attention paid to her was in deference to memory.

Stephen looked unwell, she thought. His face was gaunt and his gaze darted watchfully between his courtiers. His captivity had sucked out the bluff good humour that had lightened his personality. So many attendees had abandoned him during the months following Lincoln and pursued their own advantage that he must be wondering whom he could trust. The camaraderie was shattered. And men must wonder whether a once-defeated king might not be defeated again. Stephen was not steadfast. He would sway like a grass stalk in the wind. Matilda had angered people with her brusque ways, but she had always been resolute. Will could talk all he liked about it being the natural order to have a man on the throne, but what kind of man? No matter what ceremonies were performed, the gleam of his crown was forever tarnished.

In the Rufus hall at Westminster Palace after the ceremony, Adeliza sank in a curtsey as Stephen and Maheut paused to speak with her and Will. She kept her eyes lowered, fixing 377

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them on her gown, which was one she had worn when she had been England’s queen and lady of the English.

Maheut raised her to her feet and gave her the kiss of peace.

“It is good to see you here. It has been a long time since we have shared company.”

“Without a doubt,” Adeliza replied, thinking that it was not long enough.

“At least today is a time for celebration and peacemaking,” Maheut added. “We can begin restored and anew.”

“Indeed,” Adeliza said. “The birth of the Christ Child is always an occasion for joy in the world whatever our sorrows and tribulations. I pray that peace will prevail for the sake of all who suffer.”

“Amen to that,” said Maheut, a little narrow-eyed now.

“By our actions and our prayers should these things come to fruition.” She and Stephen moved on, and although Maheut followed her husband it was by her will that they paced forward, like a snail with its shell.

Adeliza knew she was going to vomit, and pressed her hand to her mouth. Blessedly Will noticed her predicament and hurried her from the hall. She stooped over in the bitter winter cold and heaved and heaved, feeling utterly wretched.

Will supported her as she straightened, and offered her a napkin to wipe her mouth. “What is wrong?” he said anxiously.

Adeliza pressed her hand to her belly. “I think I may be with child again, although it is too early to be certain.” Immediately he was all tender concern. “You should have said. I will take you to our lodgings.”

“I only began to suspect when we were on the road. I knew you wanted me to attend this crown-wearing, and it is so long since I have been to Westminster. I wanted to see the palace again and worship in the abbey.” She shook her head sadly.

“Perhaps it was not so fine a notion after all. We can never go back, can we?”

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Forty-four

Devizes Castle, Wiltshire, Summer 1142

Matilda tapped her fingers on the arms of her chair and scowled at the men gathered around her. Beside her,