But then, it was king he claimed to be, king of England and heir to all the lands his grandfather, Henry I, had ruled a score of years before. His mother, Matilda, had fought Stephen to regain her lands. But it was her youthful son, a brilliant strategist though only nineteen years old, who was succeeding already. He’d stormed Britain, fanned across the entire countryside in his march toward London, and with an astounding lack of bloodshed, had claimed the land his own. But he seemed intent on seeing blood shed at Maidenstone, Axton brooded. In the guise of sport he would allow two of his nobles to settle their opposing claims by spilling their blood before him. It was Henry’s greatest strength: He assembled powerful nobles around him but kept them at odds with one another and, therefore, loyal only to him. Axton steeled himself for the coming hours. Maintaining a semblance of civility would be his hardest test. Entertaining Eustace and Beatrix under Henry’s amused observation would strain every bit of his patience.
