Sharon Penman - When Christ and his Saints Slept

Minna was dumbfounded. “He cannot mean that, madame…can he?”

“No,” Maude said, as emphatically as she could. “Of course he does not mean it! There is too much at stake-the succession of Anjou, England, and Normandy. The scandal would be beyond belief. All of my father’s plans would be set at naught.” She paused, turning then, to meet Minna’s troubled gaze. “My father,” she said softly, “would never forgive me…”

Maude spent the evening’s remaining hours seeking to convince herself that Geoffrey could not possibly have been serious. But she still slept badly and awakened at dawn, so tense and edgy that she decided she had but one course of action: to confront Geoffrey straightaway.

Her husband’s squire could not hide his surprise, for she’d never before made an early-morning appearance in Geoffrey’s bedchamber. Geoffrey was already up and dressed; his high boots and dark-green tunic indicated he had a day’s hunting in mind. He gave Maude a cool, mocking glance. “Into the lion’s den? How brave of you, darling.”

Now it was Maude’s turn to say, “We need to talk. Will you send Raimund away?” Forcing herself to add “please” through gritted teeth.

He shrugged, dismissing his squire with a casual gesture. “Have you come, then, to bid me farewell?”

Maude stared at him. “You cannot do this, Geoffrey. You could not be so irresponsible, so reckless!”

“You think not? Go to the window, then. Your escort is waiting below, ready to see you safe into Normandy or Hell or wherever else you care to go.”

“For God’s sake, Geoffrey, this is madness! You’ve not thought this through. The Church will not annul our marriage; we have no grounds. You’ll not be able to wed again. Neither one of us will. What will you do for an heir?”

Moving to the table, he poured himself a breakfast beverage of watered-down wine. “If it comes to that, I suppose I can wait for you to die, dear heart. The only benefit of having such an older wife is that you’re not likely to outlive me, are you?”

“This is nothing to joke about! What of your father? He’ll be enraged if you commit this folly and well you know it!”

“I expect so,” he acknowledged airily. “But Jerusalem is a long, long way from Angers. It’ll be months ere he even hears.”

“ My father is not in Jerusalem,” she snapped. “What of his rage?”

“That is your problem, dear heart, not mine,” he said, and smiled at her.

It was like looking at a stranger. He even sounded different; there was malice in his tone but no anger. Maude was at a loss, not knowing how to deal with this new Geoffrey, defeated by this odd mixture of boyish flippancy and adult resolve. “So be it,” she said at last. “I’ll not beg.”

“A pity,” he said, “for that would have been one memory of our marriage I might have cherished.” The smile he gave her was lighthearted, quite genuine. Moving past her to the door, he said, “Well, I’m off to the hunt. It would be sporting of you to wish me luck. I wish you Godspeed and a safe journey. But Maude…do be gone by the time I get back tonight.”

He didn’t bother to close the door; she could hear him whistling as he started down the stairs. Maude stood very still, listening to the sounds of his receding footsteps in the stairwell, the fading echoes of his jaunty tune. God in Heaven, what now?

IN early September, Maude arrived at her father’s royal manor at Quevilly, in the parish of Saint-Sever on the outskirts of Rouen. The king was no longer in Normandy, though, having returned to England in July. Writing to her father was one of the most difficult tasks Maude had ever faced. It left her pride in tatters, lacerated and raw. But she had no choice. Her father had to know how Geoffrey had abused her, how miserable he’d made her. If he understood that, he might not blame her for the breakup of her marriage.

After dispatching a letter to her father at Windsor, Maude then had a confidential, candid, and disheartening discussion with Hugh d’Amiens, the new Archbishop of Rouen. He confirmed what she already knew: that the Church recognized but three grounds for dissolving a marriage-a previous plight troth, a blood kinship within the seventh degree, or a spiritual kinship such as godparent and godchild-and that Geoffrey and Maude could satisfy none of them. Which meant, Maude later confided bitterly to Minna, that she was chained to Geoffrey as surely as if he’d cast her into an Angevin dungeon and clapped her in irons. As wretched as their life together had been, all she could hope for was that he might relent and take her back. If he did not, her father’s dynastic dreams would be destroyed, and so would her own dreams of queenship, for Henry would not keep her as his heir if she could not give him a grandson.

She’d always liked Rouen, but now she hated it. Heads turned and whispers began each time she ventured into the city’s streets. She found it intensely humiliating, knowing that she was the object of so much gossip, much of it salacious, her broken marriage the butt of alehouse jokes and crude tavern humor. But worst of all was the suspense, the silence from England as the weeks passed. She wrote again, and after that, all she could do was wait for her father’s response.

It came at last on a rain-chilled October eve. Maude and Minna were seated before the solar hearth, playing a game of chess. Maude glanced up as the door opened, expecting a servant, and found herself gazing at her eldest brother and his wife.

“Robert, thank God!” Maude was not demonstrative by nature, but now she flung herself into Robert’s arms and even embraced Amabel, although the two women had nothing in common except Robert. “Why did you not let me know you were coming? How the sight of you gladdens me! You…you do know about Geoffrey?”

“Yes,” he said, “that is why I am here.” There was a brief delay while Robert and Amabel exchanged pleasantries with Minna and wine was served. But as soon as they were alone, Robert took a sealed parchment from a pouch at his belt and silently held it out to her.

He watched sadly as Maude read their father’s letter, saw the color fade from her face, only to flood back as she continued to read, and then ebb away again. Raising wide, stricken eyes to his, she said, “Papa blames me, Robert. He says it is all my fault.”

“I know.”

“This is so unjust! Did he not get my letters? Did he read them?”

When he nodded reluctantly, she reached out and caught his arm. “Then he knows how Geoffrey maltreated me! What did he say to that?”

“I do not remember, lass,” he said, no longer meeting her eyes.

“Robert, tell me!”

Still he said nothing. It was Amabel who finally told Maude what her husband would not. “He said, Maude, that you’d likely brought it upon yourself.”

Maude stared at her sister-in-law, then swung back toward her brother. “He truly said that?”

“He was in a rage, Maude. When men are angry, they are careless, ofttimes say what they do not mean-”

“No,” Maude said, “not Papa. He never says what he does not mean.” She was badly shaken, and it showed. “How can he be so uncaring? How can he take Geoffrey’s side over mine?”

“Maude, he is not doing that.”

“No? It certainly sounds that way to me! But I am not the one who murdered our marriage. It is Geoffrey’s dagger buried in the body, for it was Geoffrey who cast me out. What would Papa have me do? Beg him to take me back? This was not my fault, Robert. Why could you not make Papa see that?”

“Ah, Maude…” He glanced at her, then looked away, and it was then that Maude saw the truth.

“My God,” she whispered. “You, too? You think I am to blame?”