Mary said nothing, tight-lipped. He could see her mind racing. When she spoke, he knew she lied, and although he had expected it, his disappointment left a bilious taste in his mouth. “I have been imprisoned in this airless tomb for almost a week! A single Scotswoman amongst a hundred Normans. Yet you begrudge me my single friend. You cannot keep us apart.”
“She has not a generous nature, demoiselle. She befriends no one unless it furthers her own cause. Mark my words, Mary. If you believe her to be your friend, you are mistaken. In fact, there is no such thing as friends in a life such as this.”
She eyed him, defiant, frightened, trembling.
“Whatever you are planning,” he said abruptly, “I suggest you end it, now.”
“Your imagination runs wild,” she said through stiff lips. “There is no scheme between us.”
“We shall soon see. I suspect,” he said flatly. “Are you interested in joining me for the noon meal?”
“No,” she said. “No, I have a terrible headache, I cannot.”
There was nothing graceful about his acceptance of her words; irritation and anger hardened his features one by one. Mary ducked her head away from him and turned to leave him. He stopped her, gripping her shoulder. “Wait.” He gestured to one of his men, who had followed him up the stairs, who now came forward with the bolt of Flanders wool, carefully wrapped in cheap colorless linen. His mouth turned down. There was no pleasure in the giving, none at all.
“What is this?” Mary whispered, her eyes huge.
“For you, mademoiselle,” Stephen said curtly. He nodded in parting. “I hope your megrim soon eases.” He found he could not give her the rest of her gifts. Apparently the war was not over yet.
Geoffrey strode through the great hall. His golden face was flushed with anger, anger he must at all costs hide. For the third time in as many weeks, he had received a royal summons. But this time he was not being made to wait. This time the summons had been delivered by the King’s own men, who had escorted him posthaste back to London, who even now accompanied him to the King.
The sergeants who stood at attention outside the royal chamber stiffened and stepped aside. Geoffrey was ushered within immediately, and only then did the two knights leave his side.
Geoffrey almost faltered as he came across the room, approaching Rufus, who sat upon a throne that was the exact replica of the one in the hall outside. For three men were present with him, Duncan, Montgomery, and his father, Rolfe de Warenne.
The Earl of Northumberland’s eyes flashed to his, with warning.
“How pleased We are, dear Geoffrey, to see that you have come to Us so swiftly,” Rufus said.
Geoffrey’s mind whirled. He could think of no reason for this summons other than to be put to the test—the King would demand the knights owed him.
Geoffrey knelt briefly on one knee and rose at the King’s bidding. “Sire?”
“The time has come for you to make your choice,” Rufus said, smiling as if he had just asked Geoffrey about the weather.
Geoffrey’s heart skidded wildly, then resumed its steady beat.
“Will you swear fealty to your King, Archdeacon? In front of these three men, with God also as Our witness?”
Geoffrey blanched. He had been wrong. The King was not demanding mere service after all.
He was demanding far more: that Geoffrey swear homage to him in front of witnesses. Recently some churchmen claimed that no cleric should ever swear fealty to their King, that their real allegiance was only to God, and therefore, the Pope. These reformers refused upon investiture to make such vows, and their refusal was encouraged by Rome. These prelates also disputed the King’s power to appoint and invest clerics. So far, Rufus continued to follow in the footsteps of his father, demanding and exercising his rights over the Church when it was necessary, such as when he had appointed Anselm Canterbury’s archbishop. He was demanding those rights now, from Geoffrey.
“And when would this act take place?” Geoffrey asked. His mouth was dry; he wet his lips. He was sweating.
“Today. Here. Now.”
Geoffrey forced his stunned mind to think. There was no time to maneuver himself out of this new dilemma. The King demanded homage now. Normally an archdeacon was hardly a significant prelate. In fact, having run Canterbury ever since Lanfranc’s death, Geoffrey had risen to an unprecedented position of power and preeminence. For the past four years, in the absence of an archbishop, he had battled the Crown head-on as he ruled Canterbury. Rufus was pushing their ongoing battle to its final conclusion. For Geoffrey had two choices, yea or nay, and he had little doubt that refusal would precipitate his direct descent to the dungeons below. Rufus had done far worse to those who defied him.
“You hesitate,” Rufus said, his smile no longer pleasant. “Are you a fanatic then?”
His jaw clenched; a muscle ticked there. “I am no fanatic.” Geoffrey forced himself to smile. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” And he dropped to his knees.
Someone gasped, perhaps Montgomery.
Geoffrey was not a fanatic, yet his cause was the Church. He supported most of the suggested reforms, he supported the rights of the Church against the claims of the King, and he would continue to do so. But the past four years had proved that he could not best the King in open war. To what good had all his efforts so far been? The King’s last accounting had resulted in another rape of the see to the tune of several thousand pounds.
The time had come to change his tactics. Could he not become an ally of the Crown, yet surreptitiously continue to further the interest of the Church and God?
