Preparing for the audience with King John occupied the balance of the morning. Stephen dressed in finery borrowed from Henry and allowed one of Henry’s squires to trim his hair. Stephen did his best to scrape the bristles from his puffy, scratched cheeks.
Cold compresses had done little to reduce the swelling and discoloration remaining from the fight, but he no longer cared. He would heal—sooner than Evie. The knife wound he’d received in the fight had sealed almost immediately helped, Stephen was certain, by the dip in the cold waters of the Thames. He didn’t even limp.
When at last he presented himself at John’s audience chamber, Macsen at his side, he was ready to take on a king.
He didn’t have to.
He, and several others there to see John, found their appearances delayed. Stephen was the first shown in, long after the scheduled time. The new ruler did not look happy. At his side were a clutch of advisors unknown to Stephen. None of them appeared happy, either.
When Stephen approached, John held up a hand.
“Sir Stephen. You have served me well over the past years. It never escaped my notice that you and your troop always refused to fight in my brother’s armies, only in mine. Although your friend, Lord Henry, favored Richard, I never doubted your loyalty nor that of your men. Mercadier always spoke well of you when we campaigned together.”
Stephen didn’t know how to respond to those odd words. The acrimonious last meeting between them might never have occurred, the way the king behaved. So he lowered his head in what might have been considered a bow and said, “Yes, Sire.”
“It has been brought to my attention these past days that I have need of loyal men here at home, men who can be counted on not to foster insurrection. I have been assured you are one of those men.”
Stephen looked up in surprise and encountered a hard-eyed glare.
“Are you?”
That question from the king could be answered without reservation. Any attempt to unseat this sovereign would mean a vicious civil war that Stephen would never countenance.
With great relief, he sucked in a deep breath that cleansed him. Freed him.
“I am, Sire. I pledge my vow to serve you in the protection of England.”
The king uttered, “Ummmm.” It sounded like a rumbled grunt.
“And on this—other matter.” John pursed his lips. “I’ve found that the documents you presented seem authentic. Of course, any lord who betrays his ruler’s trust in such a manner as Fulk d’Ambrosie would be tried as a traitor. The public disgrace of a trial and execution would not be good for anyone. It seems his recent death in the tragic fire has saved us much grief.”
A silence followed the pronouncement. Was Stephen supposed to answer? To leave? Finally, he murmured a safe, “Yes, Sire.”
“Well?”
“My men will be exonerated, Sire?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I’ll provide the clerk with their names to be entered on the official documents?”
“I said, so, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Sire. One last thing.” Stephen lifted his chin.
“Don’t press your luck, sir. I have several more to see, and the hour grows late.”
“I plan to wed the Lady Evelynn of Chauvere. I thought you should know, as you had betrothed her to d’Ambrosie.”
Instead of the display of temper Stephen had dreaded, the king laughed. Much longer than the occasion warranted, Stephen thought.
John sipped from a jeweled goblet. “So it looks as if I’ll gain a connection to Henry, Baron of Chauvere, after all. I will enjoy his chagrin. And the other one—what was his name?” One of the advisors lined behind the king stepped forward and murmured to him.
“Yes. Roark, Baron of Windom.” John sneered. “My brother certainly enjoyed dispensing baronies, did he not? Well? Is that all?”
“Yes, Sire. Thank you.” Stephen stepped back.
“Who’s next out there?” John demanded. “Damned if I’ll finish by nightfall.”
Stephen left the chamber, Macsen close behind. They managed to restrain their smiles until they reached the street.
“Come along, my friend.” Stephen flung an arm around Macsen’s shoulders—a far reach, but he didn’t care. The world suddenly seemed a wonderful place.
But there was one last thing to do before he claimed Evie. He called up the image of the lovely Sorya and the smile that had kept him going during the darkest days of his life.
Forgive me for not being there that day, Sorya. But I have received justice for you, my dear wife, and I must go forward, now. I hope you understand
.
A freshening breeze swept the narrow street. And Stephen knew.
Thank you
.
****
Three months later
.
Evie bounced on her toes while her sister, Lady Alyss of Windom, affixed a crown of summer flowers to her hair.
“Stand still,” Alyss scolded playfully, “or these blooms will fall over your eyes during the ceremony.”
The other lady in the chamber laughed. “I doubt that will discourage her one bit, my friend.” Emelin of Granville, Sir Giles’ wife, shifted on the bed, and rubbed her rounded stomach.
Kate peered into the chamber. “Are you nearly ready? The men are threatening to break open the ale if we don’t hurry.”
Evie stilled and looked around her. These women—her family and friends—how had she never realized how much they meant to her? She bit her lower lip and felt the tears well. Oh, no. Not now.
Kate rushed to her side. “Why are you angry?”
“I’m not angry. Why would you think that?
“Because you’re weeping, goose. You only cry when you’re angry.”
“Not today.” Evie smiled through the tears. “Today I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”
“Well, come along, then.” Emelin took her hand. “Let’s go greet the thirsty men.”
“Wait.” Evie halted, looked at the three others. “Do I look all right?”
“You are beautiful, Sister.” Alyss kissed her cheek.
“And you are not to worry,” Kate added, her eyes full of secret knowledge. “You are perfect in every way.”
Evie silently blessed her sister-by-marriage for understanding the real problem. She squeezed Emelin’s hand, thrilled her friend would become a mother for the second time. No one had shared Evie’s secret fear with Emelin, so she would not feel guilt at her own joy.
“All right. I am prepared.” Evie took a deep breath. “But not ready.”
Sharing laughter, the four made their way down the steps to Chauvere’s great hall, and thence to the chapel.
As she made her way through the crowd of their people, gathered to wish her happiness, Evie espied Stephen waiting for her on the chapel steps. Her stomach dipped in that old way. She could hardly believe this wasn’t a dream from which she would wake.
How handsome he looked, dressed in his finery. Oh, but she looked forward to this night, when she would see him without his finery. Wearing nothing at all. She felt her cheeks burn. She smiled.
When she reached the threshold, he took her hand. Their vows would be said here, in front of everyone, then the family would go into the chapel to observe mass.
****
Stephen returned her smile as she approached. How could he not? His little shadow would be his, and the future looked brighter than he’d ever thought it could be.
She glowed, her dimples flashing. He’d hardly seen them at all these past months. But now, he’d make it his goal to bring them out at least once a day.
His heart beat to the spring in her step, and when she held out her hand, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and dash back to their bedchamber. He gazed into her eyes, filled with promise for the night. The past three months of her recovery had been hell and not only for her. He missed her warmth. He’d awaken sometimes, his arms aching.
But he’d remained steadfast in his determination not to seduce her again until they were wed. Until she fully recovered. They had a lifetime of loving ahead. A few days delay wouldn’t matter.
He didn’t hear the words of the priest. He was aware only of Evie at his side. But at last it must have ended, because the robed figure turned to go into the chapel.
Stephen gave up and slid his arm around Evie’s waist. Ignoring the gasps and chuckles, he leaned down and kissed her. “Come along, wife. We’ve a life to live.”
Evie rose up on tiptoes and whispered, “I’ll meet you tonight on the roof.”
Five years later
“Have you seen Anabel?” Evie called to Alyss.
“She’s gone with Juliana to watch the pages practice swordplay.” Alyss set a bowl of salat on the table and came around to the bench where Evie sat.
Midsummer’s Eve was one of the wonderful celebrations when all the friends and family gathered, but for that reason, alone, it was hard to keep track of her precocious daughter. But if Anabel was with her older cousin, she was safe. Alyss’s ten-year-old daughter was such a little mother.
Evie hated that Kate and Henry couldn’t be here, but Kate’s confinement was near, and Henry refused to travel. It was to be expected. She prayed the child would come soon and safely.
Emelin carefully made her way down the stairs from the hall, balancing a tray of honeyed treats for the children. And the husbands. They were as much children as their offspring.
“We do have people to take care of this work,” Evie said as Emelin staggered over.
“Yes, but if the tray gets dropped this year, it will be my own fault. I fear poor Marie felt guilty for days.”
“She got over it,” Evie said. “Nothing perturbs her.”
“Shall we go down to watch the boys practice?” Alyss held out a hand to help Evie rise.
Her second pregnancy was drawing to a close, and frankly, Evie was happy. This child must be a boy, the way he swung from her ribs.
“Active is he?” Emelin asked. “I swore Mangan was performing somersaults the last days before he came.”
Alyss gave Evie’s hand a quick squeeze. Their fears after Evie’s attack all those years earlier had proven groundless. Stephen and Evie’s daughter had been born the May following their wedding. And she’d kept them both running from that moment.
This year, the four-year-old had developed a fascination with Giles and Emelin’s seven-year-old son, Mangan. Wherever the boy went, Anabel would surely follow.
The three ladies had rounded the curve in the lower bailey where the practice yard lay, when they heard a yelp, then an outcry of voices. The pages were upset about something. Moments later, emerging from a collection of young boys, came Stephen, a dusty but smiling Anabel perched on his shoulder. The girl had a grimy finger stuck in her mouth.
Behind them strode Giles, a red-faced Mangan at his side.
“But it wasn’t my fault, Papa,” the boy insisted. “I didn’t know she had run onto the field.”
“We have to be careful of ladies, even young ones, son,” Giles said calmly. “There’s no harm done.”
“But, Papa. It’s terrible. She’s just a baby, and she follows me everywhere. It’s like…it’s like she’s my shadow!”
Snug on her father’s shoulder, the unrepentant angel watched Mangan with glee.
Evie glanced at Stephen.
He threw her a smile filled with sunshine and joy and love.
Then, he winked.
The people in
The Heart of the Phoenix
sometimes refer to John as King John and sometimes, Prince John. Here’s why.
The issue of how to address John after the death of his brother, King Richard I (the Lionheart) proved an interesting one. Richard had named John his successor, but when Richard died April 6, 1199, from an infected arrow wound at Chalus-Chabrol in Limousin, the succession was not a clear one. Many thought John’s sixteen-year-old nephew, Arthur, had a better claim as the son of John’s older brother Geoffrey, who had died some years earlier.
Arthur was backed by several influential individuals, including King Philip of France. (Ironically, this same Philip conspired with John against Richard while Richard was a prisoner after the Third Crusade. Now he aligned against John.) After Richard’s death, the struggles began. John did face several battles to prove his right to the throne as he worked his way home to England—a month and a half. (His fight to retain the crown continued after he was crowned.)
Many English barons favored Arthur over John, as well. John had not made himself popular with everyone at home. So when Richard died, there was a real debate over whether John or Arthur would be preferable.
William Marshal believed John would better serve the country, not the least because Philip of France supported the young and impressionable Arthur, and Marshal feared France would exert too much influence over English matters.
Marshal, along with Hubert Walter, England’s justiciar, returned to England (according to several sources, they returned for the council; at least one said Marshal did not). Nevertheless, a council was convened among English barons to argue support for John. They finally agreed to support his claim.
Thus, the question of how to address John during this time of uncertainty. Was he the king? He had yet to be crowned or even recognized as such by many. Yet, as his brother’s successor, he would have been considered king immediately after Richard’s death. So it is reasonable to assume that those who supported him would immediately designate him king. Others who opposed him might withhold that title until battle or crowning in England made it official.
Interestingly, John was the only one of his family actually born in England. Richard spent a total of six months in that country during his ten-year reign.
Award-winning author Barbara Bettis can’t recall a time she didn’t love adventures of daring heroes and plucky heroines. She lives in Missouri, where by day she’s a mild-mannered English teacher at a local college, and by night she’s an intrepid plotter of her own tales featuring heroines to die for—and heroes to live for.
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