Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,76
Their faces were solemn too, but, as with many gathered here, aglow with an underlying smugness that was almost as distasteful as the stench emanating from the coffin.
There was no doubt in Brian’s mind that Stephen had stolen the crown of England and the duchy of Normandy, although like everyone else he had bent his knee and sworn his fealty despite feeling sickened. Henry’s corpse had still been warm when Stephen had taken ship from Wissant and made his bid for the throne, and if it had not been pre-planned, Brian would eat his red leather boots, silver laces and all.
Stephen’s speed had been such that his acquisition of England had become a fact before anyone had had a chance to think. The Londoners had supported him to the hilt, as had the citizens of Winchester. Canterbury and Dover had closed their gates, but only until they realised that Stephen had gained access to the treasury at Winchester. Hugh Bigod had sworn on his soul that he had heard Henry absolve his barons of their oaths to Matilda on his deathbed, but Brian did not believe it because that was not Henry’s way. He suspected Henry had not said anything, because he was still clinging to power with his final breath.
Henry’s sudden death had caused the ground to heave up beneath Brian. He had had no choice but to give his fealty to Stephen because everyone else had done so and there was no one with whom to ally. The king of Scots was too far removed to be of immediate help, and Matilda herself was far away in Anjou. What use was rebelling for a cause that had no head, and no direction? He could not talk matters over with Robert of Gloucester because he was still in Normandy. Robert was not in open rebellion, but neither had he come to court to bend the knee at Stephen’s throne.
Once the former king had been lowered into his tomb before the altar, the mourners and attendees processed solemnly out of the abbey into the raw January day.
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Waleran de Meulan paused at Brian’s side and gave him a calculating look. “Well,” he said in a quiet voice, his breath making swift, short clouds in the air, “the business is finished now and we can move on with a new reign. I for one am glad to be out of there. The embalmers did a poor job of hiding the corruption of the world.”
“He deserved better,” Brian said.
De Meulan shrugged. “It hardly matters now, does it?”
“It always matters, my lord. We owe respect and the correct duty to a man whether he be living or dead.” De Meulan annoyed Brian. There was friction between them going back to de Meulan’s house arrest at Wallingford, and in the years since then, their antipathy had continued apace. Waleran and his twin brother were keen to monopolise the king’s ear and anyone not of their faction was already being forced out to the edges and isolated.
Waleran wrapped his hands around his belt and thrust out one foreleg in a dominant pose. “It must be difficult for you,” he said.
“You have no kin in England to rely on, beyond those belonging to your wife, and none of them are worth the time and trouble.” He shot Brian a malicious look. “You have no heirs and the lands King Henry bestowed on you were in right of your marriage.
They were in the king’s gift, and what was given might be taken away again should a vassal prove disloyal to his sovereign lord.”
“Your meaning?” Brian said icily. “Let us have it out in the open, my lord.”
Waleran shrugged. “My meaning is obvious, FitzCount.
You may be a scion of the house of Brittany, but, like my lord of Gloucester, you are bastard born and you, even more than he, depended on the largesse of the king for your power. He raised you up from the dust and to the dust you could return.” Brian was sickened. “So could any man.”
“Some more than others.” With a nod of his head, Waleran 190
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joined his twin brother, Robert de Beaumont, and Hugh Bigod, who was swaggering like a plump cockerel. Brian stood alone for a moment, and thus Waleran’s point about isolation was emphasised. However, moments later, he was joined by Miles FitzWalter, the castellan of Hereford, a tough, pragmatic border warlord.
“De Meulan should watch his step,” Miles said amiably.