With his other hand he sipped from a pewter tankard. Beside him, seated on a cushioned stool, his brother Henry fixed him with a stern eye. “What happened to you last night?” the Abbot asked. “The truth now.” Stephen told him how he had spent half the night riding aimlessly through Southwark, then stopped at a bankside tavern and finally ended up in a drunken brawl. “My head aches and my arm is stiff but I’m none the worse for it.” “Are you able to bear more ill news?” Henry asked. Stephen gave a bitter laugh. “What could be worse than last night’s apocalypse?” The Abbot moved his stool closer to the bed, and gave a perfunctory glance around the empty chamber. “I have this straight from the Bishop of Salisbury’s lips: At the homage ceremony, after the peers of the church have sworn, the first lay peer to swear homage to Maud will be the King of Scotland. By all rights, you should swear next. But Robert is to swear before you.” Stephen stared at his brother, aghast.
