Geoffrey looked at his older brother. Sadness showed for the barest instant in his eyes. “Lanfranc was more a father to me than our own father, as well you know. Despite my worldliness, he was forgiving—and understanding. In truth, I am now torn. I both seek and do not seek the day of Anselm’s election. In the beginning we will be friends, out of need to protect the see from the King, but in the end?” Geoffrey shrugged.
“Anselm is a holy fool if he does not see the powerful ally that he has in you,” Stephen said abruptly.
“Some men will not—cannot—compromise their morals.”
Stephen looked at his brother’s face, trying to glimpse Geoffrey’s soul in his eyes; but Geoffrey would not meet his gaze. “You are not immoral.”
“He has asked me why I am not ordained.”
Stephen stared. It was hardly surprising that Anselm would want to know why his archdeacon had yet to make his final vows—Stephen had wondered about it himself. He believed, but could not be certain, that it was Geoffrey himself who delayed the event. And Stephen suspected he knew why. “And what did you reply?”
Geoffrey raised his gaze. It was hooded. “That I am no Lanfranc.”
Stephen was disappointed with the response, but he should have known that his brother would keep his own dark secrets. To break the tension, he smiled. “Thank God.”
Geoffrey laughed, his mask back in place. Stephen joined him. The moment of tension—and frightening intimacy—had passed.
“’Twas inevitable, was it not, that Rufus appoint a successor?” Stephen said, pouring them both ale. “How long could he keep the see vacant? No matter how he bleeds Canterbury’s coffers, the lack of an archbishop was too mighty a matter for even the King. Surely you have been prepared for this day.”
Geoffrey folded his arms and looked at his brother, his eyes glittering. “In the past three and a half years since Lanfranc’s death, I have prepared for this day, by administering the see to the best of my ability, with the help of my able, and loyal, staff, and by guarding its coffers in a losing battle.” His face was hard. “Anselm will find his ship easy to navigate, but the course he must steer is fraught with peril. Too, I think that Anselm will be far more fanatical in his dealings with the King than anyone anticipates.”
Stephen looked at his brother, the Archdeacon of Canterbury. He had been awarded the appointment by his mentor, the Archbishop Lanfranc, when Lanfranc was on his deathbed four years ago. But even before his appointment, he had been Lanfranc’s most trusted personal assistant. With the death of his friend and mentor, he had continued his duties, the first being to administer the see until a successor took office. Not only had he done so, he also had to fight the King in a constant hidden battle over control of ecclesiastical revenues.
“I have other news as well,” Geoffrey said. “I have been summoned to Court. My spies have told me I am to be asked for a precise accounting of my holdings, especially of the knights and men-at-arms in my service.” Then he flushed. “Rather—an accounting of the see’s holdings.”
This was news. It could pertain to the new archbishop, or it could not. Stephen raised an eyebrow at the news and replied, “And I was sent to Carlisle to ascertain if it is ripe for the taking.”
“Is it ripe?” Geoffrey asked, drumming his long fingers upon the scarred table.
“Yes.”
“Well, for the moment you can rest assured that Rufus thinks not of invasion but of repentance for his sins,” Geoffrey murmured.
“Perhaps his fear that he lies dying will change whatever his plans were,” Stephen said darkly. “We have maintained such a fragile peace for such a short time. I hate to see it ended, especially by us.”
“Even if the King decides against invasion,” Geoffrey said, “and you can be sure that Father is doing his best to turn him from this purpose, undoubtedly that scoundrel Malcolm will break the peace. He is a barbarian; he will not change his ways.”
Geoffrey was right. Stephen knew it was only a matter of time before that precious peace was broken, one way or another. Malcolm Canmore had sworn fealty to William Rufus at Abernathy two years ago, but that would not stop him from treachery. It never did. It was inevitable that sooner or later Malcolm would invade Northumberland. His last invasion, while not successful, had still inflicted much damage upon Stephen’s northernmost manors. Those manors had lost their harvest, and last winter Stephen had been forced to use sparse coin to import extra stores so his northern vassals would not starve. Some of his mercenaries had yet to be paid in full for that campaign. His marriage to Adele Beaufort would solve that particular problem, as well as many others. Suddenly Stephen found himself thinking not about war and peace but about his captive. Why on earth had she continued to defy him until it was too late?
“So who is the vocal wench?” Geoffrey asked, as if he could read Stephen’s mind. His tone was openly teasing now.
Despite himself, Stephen flushed. Had his thoughts been so visible? “She is my mistress and we shall leave it at that.”
“Your mistress!” Geoffrey mocked incredulity. “Shame on you, my lord, for taking a mistress upon the eve of your wedding. Shall I determine your penance?”
“Thank you, no.”
Geoffrey’s tone became serious. “I am surprised you have brought a leman here, brother. Tread softly. News travels far too quickly, especially news with the potential to destroy. You would not want to wreck your alliance with the Essex heiress. Lady Beaufort does not strike me as an understanding—or forgiving—woman.”
“First Brand, now you,” Stephen said with real anger. Geoffrey’s words were an unpleasant reminder of the quandary he had fallen in. “I am not a stupid boy to be chastised thus. Lady Beaufort will stand with me at the altar this Christmastide.”
At that moment, before Geoffrey could reply, a noise made both brothers turn towards the stairs. Stephen started as his captive stumbled around the corner and froze, staring at him. Apparently she had lost her balance as she hung on to the wall on the bottom steps, eavesdropping. She regarded only him, and if looks could kill, he would now be dead.
Slowly he smiled. He found himself on his feet. He was aware of the rushing of his blood, not just through his veins, but to his loins. He found that he could recall the past night in instant, vivid detail. He recalled her defiance; he recalled her surrender. He was far from sated. “Were you spying upon my brother and me, mademoiselle?” He stepped down from the dais.
She straightened, her back against the wall. “No.”
Stephen still smiled, a smile he had worn upon many occasions when facing a particularly dangerous enemy. He paused in front of her. Their gazes clashed.
