When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I would that were so, Amabel, but the sad truth is that the lad has a great deal to lose. He may have no lands to forfeit, but his loyalty to Maude may well cost him what he values most-that lass of his. Raymond de Bernay is liegeman to Simon de Senlis, one of Stephen’s most fervent supporters. Unless Ranulf comes to his senses and does homage to Stephen soon, Bernay will disavow the plight troth for certes.”

  “I trust that you pointed this out to Ranulf?”

  “Of course I did. But he does not believe me. Ranulf has been cursed with a dangerous defect in his vision: he can see only what he wants to see. He remains convinced that a happy ending is not only possible, it is a certainty, so sure is he that virtue and justice must prevail. He can no more conceive of losing Annora than he can of Stephen triumphing over Maude.”

  Amabel shivered suddenly. “Close the shutters, love, ere we catch our deaths. That ‘dangerous defect’ of Ranulf’s-you know who else shares it?”

  “Stephen,” he said promptly, and she gave a satisfied nod.

  “Indeed. I’ve never known anyone who thrives on hope as Stephen does. He never doubts that every storm must have a rainbow, and if he falls into a stream, he fully expects to rise up with a fish in his cap!”

  Robert slid the shutter latch into place, closing out the cold but casting the window seat into shadow. “Well, I would wager that the next time our new king stumbles into a stream, he’ll find himself in water over his head. The pity of it,” he added grimly, “is that he’ll not drown alone, but will drag some good men down with him. I just hope Ranulf will not be one of them.”

  Raymond De Bernay was a man of uncommon patience, and his fondness for Ranulf was genuine. But he was not willing to wait indefinitely, and on a cool, overcast day in early June, Ranulf at last ran out of time.

  “I have been more than fair with you, lad. I’ve given you every chance to repent your folly and make your peace with the king. I will ask you but once more. Will you come to England, swear homage to Stephen?”

  “No,” Ranulf said softly, “I cannot.”

  Raymond had expected no other answer. “So be it, then.” Striding to the solar door, he beckoned to his son. “Ancel, you are to watch over your sister whilst she and Ranulf say their farewells,” he said, and although his voice held no anger, it held no hope of reprieve, either.

  Ancel had not seen Ranulf in several months, for his father had taken him from Robert’s household as soon as Robert’s loyalty came into question, placing him with a lord whose allegiance was not suspect, Simon de Senlis. Ancel looked acutely uncomfortable; while he had no objections to being cast as the defender of his sister’s virtue, that was not a role he’d ever wanted to play with Ranulf. He mustered up a sheepish smile, a shrug, and was relieved when Ranulf smiled back.

  “You need not be so discomfited, Ancel, for this came as no surprise. I knew how your father would react. Just as I know what a hard task lies ahead of me, trying to persuade Annora to be patient and-”

  The door was thrown open with such force that the closest candle flame flared and then waned. Annora’s eyes were swollen and darkly circled, her pallor so pronounced that she looked ill. Wakeful nights and tear-drenched days, bewilderment and betrayal-it all showed so nakedly upon her face that Ranulf’s utter assurance faltered for a moment, much like that quavering candle. But Annora’s eyes were dry, for she’d vowed that she was done with weeping. She stopped just out of reach, and said bitterly, “So you are still set upon this madness.”

  “I have no choice, Annora. I cannot do homage to a man who stole my sister’s crown and then perjured himself to keep-”

  “Oh, you did have a choice! You chose Maude over me!”

  Ranulf frowned. “That is not true. You know better, Annora, for we have talked about this, and I’ve told you my reasons, why I must support Maude’s claim over Stephen’s-”

  “I do not want to hear any more, not another word! You knew that if you balked at swearing homage to Stephen, you’d lose me; you knew that, but still you clung to that haughty, vengeful bitch, still you-”

  “Annora, stop it! You are not being fair, to me or to Maude. Yes, I am loyal to my sister. But you are the one I love, the one I mean to wed. We may have to wait awhile, but we will be wed, that I promise you,” he vowed, with all the conviction at his command. When he reached for her, though, Annora recoiled abruptly.

  “Do not touch me,” she warned, “not ever again! You had your chance, made your choice, and I will never forgive you for it-never!” She was perilously close to tears, and she whirled, stumbling from the chamber before Ranulf could see them fall.

  Ancel hastily grabbed for the fire tongs, busied himself in scattering stone-cold ashes about the hearth. But he soon felt foolish, gave up the pretense, and turned reluctantly to face his friend. It was not as bad as he’d feared. Ranulf looked unhappy and angry, but not desolate or defeated, not in need of the sort of comfort Ancel did not know how to give.

  “With a temper like hers, your father must save a fortune on firewood.” It was a wan attempt at humor, but Ancel chuckled long and loud, so grateful was he that Ranulf was jesting, not raving or ranting or, Jesu forfend, expecting him to stanch the bleeding.

  Ranulf was fumbling in his tunic. “I’ve a letter for Annora,” he said, “and I want you to give it to her once her anger cools.”

  “If we live that long,” Ancel gibed, but he reached for the letter, and even tried to look as if he truly believed that it was not too late.

  They were on the road by dawn. The sun quickly burned away the morning mist, and the sky took on that glazed blue unique to early autumn, a color so clear and vivid that it did not seem quite real. In the distance, the trees appeared to be dusted with gold, as the green shades of summer slowly yielded to October’s amber and copper and russet. The villages they passed through were shuttered and still, ghost villages bereft of life, for when an army was on the march, people of common sense fled, or cowered behind bolted doors and prayed.

  “Guirribecs!” The warning had raced ahead, outrunning horses, spurred on by pure panic. “Guirribecs!” A Norman term of contempt for the ancient enemies of Anjou, now ravaging their lands, burning their churches, plundering their towns. “Guirribecs!” they spat, watching from hiding as this new army rode past, marveling that these men did not stop to torch or loot. They did not understand their reprieve, but they thanked God for it, never suspecting that they should also be thanking the woman who would be their duchess.

  Riding at his sister’s side, Ranulf caught an occasional glimpse of a creaking shutter, an astonished face staring after them in wonder. An army lived on the land whenever it could, and those who had the bad luck to be in its path were bound to suffer. But Maude was too shrewd to turn her army loose upon the very people she meant to rule. Ranulf wished that Geoffrey had shown the same restraint. This was Geoffrey’s second foray into Normandy, and each time his men had pillaged and raped and robbed on such a grand scale that for every castle won, he’d lost Maude hearts beyond counting.

  So far Geoffrey’s campaign had yielded mixed results; he’d won some impressive victories, but he’d also suffered a few sharp setbacks. He’d taken Carrouges after a three-day siege, only to be repulsed at Montreuil. But he’d then captured Moutiers-Hubert, and as Michaelmas had approached, he’d made ready to besiege a grand prize, indeed, the prosperous city of Lisieux. Maude felt confident that he would prevail. However often she’d damned him to Hell Everlasting over the past eight years, she’d never denied his abilities as a battle commander.

  Each time Ranulf glanced over at his sister, he felt a throb of pride, for it was not so long ago that Maude had given birth to her third son, and the delivery had not been an easy one. But she’d responded to Geoffrey’s summons with alacrity, gathered two thousand men under her command, and set such a punishing pace that by dusk on this first day of October, they expected to be within sight of the city walls of Lisieux.

  Catching Ranulf’s eye,
Maude smiled. “It gladdens me that you’ll be there to witness the fall of Lisieux,” she said, and Ranulf knew she was thinking of the brother who would not be there: Robert, who’d been in England since April, at Stephen’s court. Nor was he alone, for their brother Rainald had also come to terms with Stephen. But it was Robert’s defection that haunted Maude, one more act of betrayal.

  A sudden flurry off to the side of the road drew their attention. The thickets rustled, and Ranulf’s two dyrehunds went streaking off into the underbrush. “They must have flushed a rabbit,” Ranulf said, but he made no attempt to call them back, knowing they’d catch up again once their hunt was over.

  Maude decided, then, that this was a good time to rest their horses, and gave the order to halt. “Have you had any word about that lass of yours…Anna, was it?”

  “Annora…and no, I have not. If she were still at Bernay, I know she would have been able to get a letter to me by now. But her father returned to England in July, and he took Annora with him.”

  Maude had met Annora on several occasions and had been quick to conclude that the girl was quite ordinary, not at all the sort of wife she would have chosen for Ranulf. But now none of that mattered. If Ranulf wanted Annora, she would move Heaven and Earth to see that he got her. She would not forget those who had stood by her when it truly counted…or those who had not.

  “You and your lass will be well rewarded for your patience,” she promised. “I’ll give you a wedding so lavish that the festivities will last for days.”

  “Between the two of us, Annora and I could not scrape up enough patience to fill a thimble,” Ranulf said ruefully. “Fortunately, we’ll not have to wait much longer. Once you take Normandy away from Stephen, he’ll find he’s seized control of a sinking ship. Even the rats will start swimming for shore,” he predicted with a grin.

  Maude gave him an amused look. “The rats must be jumping overboard in droves after what happened at Exeter,” she said, and they both laughed, for they’d not expected Stephen to begin blundering so soon. Until Exeter, he’d been making all the right moves, placating the Pope and buying peace with the Scots king. But then Baldwin de Redvers had seized Exeter Castle. Stephen had promptly assaulted the stronghold, and after a three-month siege, victory was his for the taking. It was then that he’d tarnished his triumph with an act of mercy so misguided that men were still marveling at it. He’d heeded the pleas of Baldwin de Redvers’s fellow barons, allowed the castle garrison to go free.

  “They were in rebellion against him,” Maude said, baffled that Stephen had failed to grasp so basic a tenet of kingship. “Those men should have been hanged, or at the least, maimed, so their fate might serve as a lesson for other would-be rebels. Instead, he sets them free! Forgiveness is well and good for saints and holy men and Christian martyrs, but that is not an indulgence any king can afford. This was Stephen’s first test of strength, and he failed miserably, for men now know they need not fear the king’s wrath.”

  “Stephen never could resist a gallant gesture,” Ranulf jeered, summoning up scorn to keep from remembering those times when Stephen’s gallantry had served as his own lifeline. He’d never realized how dangerous memories could be, not until he had a lifetime of them to deny, for if the man himself had proved false, it must follow that the memories, too, were false…did it not? These were not thoughts he cared to dwell upon, and he hastily groped for a more innocuous topic. “Tell me about Geoffrey’s new ally. I’ve never met him; what sort of man is he?”

  There was no need to be more specific; Maude knew at once whom he meant. “Well…William is not one to be overlooked, for he’s a vast mountain of a man, with hungers to match his size. Even his titles are weighty: Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou. He has a booming laugh, an eye for a pretty face, a temper hotter than brimstone, and even more enemies than Geoffrey. Have I left anything out?”

  “Not that I can think of. Oh…have you ever seen his daughter?” Ranulf thought the question sounded quite casual and offhand, but Maude was not taken in.

  “Does Annora know you’re lusting after Eleanor of Aquitaine?” she teased, and he flushed, then laughed. “No, lad, I have not seen the girl, so I cannot tell you if she is truly as dazzling as men claim. Since she is such a great heiress, it does not seen fair that she should have been favored with great beauty, too, does it?”

  “The same could be said for you,” Ranulf pointed out, and although she merely shrugged, he knew he’d pleased her; Geoffrey’s compliments were always barbed enough to draw blood. “I’ll admit I am curious about the Lady Eleanor, would like to judge this beauty of hers for myself. It puzzles me, though, that her father did not marry again after he lost his wife and son. Surely he must have qualms about entrusting Aquitaine to a mere slip of a lass-”

  He caught himself, too late. But Maude was not affronted. “You need offer no apologies, Ranulf, for saying what so many think. Nor have I ever claimed that all members of my sex are capable of wielding power. I can only speak for myself, and I have no doubts whatsoever that I can rule as well as any man and better than most, for certes better than my usurping cousin, damn his sly, thieving soul to Hell!”

  “And you’ll soon be able to prove it, too, that I-Maude? Look over there, through the trees. Smoke!”

  Maude was shortsighted, but she soon saw it, too, a distant, dark cloud smudging the purity of that limpid, azure sky. They both said it at once, in dismayed comprehension: “Lisieux!”

  Maude’s scout reined in a lathered horse, swung from the saddle to give her his bad news. Stephen had entrusted the defense of Normandy to Waleran Beaumont, and Waleran had garrisoned Lisieux with battle-wise Breton soldiers. When it had begun to look as if the capture of the city was inevitable, the Breton commander gave the order to fire the town, choosing to destroy Lisieux rather than surrender it.

  Maude turned aside, struggling to mask her disappointment. Ranulf was disappointed, too, but he was also shocked by the ruthlessness of the Breton commander’s act. He said nothing, though, for he was still a month shy of his eighteenth birthday, and he knew he had much to learn about how wars were waged. The scout was not done. Thwarted at Lisieux, he said, Count Geoffrey and the Duke of Aquitaine had then fallen back on the town of Le Sap. It was being stoutly defended by Walter de Clare, and a battle was raging even now in the streets.

  The day’s last light was fading along the horizon. But the sky was lit by a hundred fires. The church of St Peter was the heart of Le Sap. Now flames were shooting from every window. As Maude and Ranulf watched, the rafters gave way and the roof collapsed with a hellish roar. Embers and sparks and burning brands rained down upon the spectators, spooking several horses and unseating their riders. As the wind shifted, Ranulf found himself choking on dense, swirling smoke. He could hear screaming, and hoped it was not coming from the church, for it was utterly engulfed in surging, wind-lashed flames. The air was hot enough to sear his skin, and when his stallion panicked, he was tempted to let it bolt, for in that moment his desire to put Le Sap’s death throes far behind was almost overwhelming. Instead, he calmed the fearful animal, then reined in beside his sister.

  Maude had clapped her veil over her nose and mouth. “Well, Le Sap is ours, what is left of it. It looks like the castle has fallen, too. But-”

  “Lady Maude!” Striding toward them out of the murky smoke and cinders was an armor-clad giant, his coif pulled back to reveal a tousled head of curly, damp hair, his face streaked with soot, his hauberk liberally splattered with blood. “Thank God you’re here, for you’ve got to talk some sense into that lunatic you married!”

  Maude’s smile was sour; as if she could! “You give me too much credit, Will. Where is Geoffrey…at the castle?”

  “No, he is still being treated by the doctor.”

  “Doctor? Geoffrey has been hurt?” Maude slid from the saddle before the Duke of Aquitaine could offer his assistance. “Is it serious?”

  “No, more’s the pity,” he snapped, and Ran
ulf barely stifled an involuntary laugh. But the duke, whose tactlessness was legendary, seemed unaware how inappropriate a remark that was to make to a man’s wife, even a less than doting one. “It happened about noon,” he said, “whilst we were besieging the castle. One of their crossbowmen got off a lucky shot and hit Geoffrey in the foot. I’ll not deny it is a nasty wound, for he broke a few bones, and those fool doctors did almost as much damage as the bowman when they cut out the bolt. So there has to be a goodly amount of pain. But Christ on the Cross, Maude, a man cannot give in to it!”

  “Geoffrey has never been wounded before, Will, not even so much as a scratch. In fact, he rarely gets sick at all-mayhap a fever or cough, but no more than that since we’ve been wed. It is not surprising, then, that he’d be such a poor patient, for he’s had no practice at it.”

  “No, Maude, you do not understand…not yet. He says the campaign is over, says he is going home to Anjou on the morrow!”

  The doctor was standing in front of Geoffrey’s command tent. At sight of Maude, he looked like a man reprieved from the gallows. “Madame, how glad I am to see you! If you could talk to the count, mayhap you could-” But Maude brushed past the man as if he didn’t exist, with Ranulf and the Duke of Aquitaine hard on her heels.

  Geoffrey had been trying to drown his pain in wine, but he’d succeeded only in making himself queasy, too. His face was grey and beaded with cold sweat; he looked so haggard that even Ranulf felt a flicker of pity. Maude hastened toward the bed, snatching up a candle along the way. “Geoffrey?”

  Blinking in the sudden flare of light, Geoffrey focused hazily upon the white, tense face so close to his. “Get me a doctor,” he said huskily. “That dolt out there could not heal a blister without holy help from Above…”

  “Geoffrey, you cannot give up the campaign! If you retreat now, you’ll lose all you’ve gained so far, and your suffering will have been for naught!”