When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “What vexes you the most, my lord earl? That I took steps to smoke you out? Or that I reminded men of a fact you would rather we forgot-your blood kinship to a woman who is our king’s sworn enemy?”

  “Enough!” Stephen got to his feet, striding toward the edge of the dais. “You’ve both had your say. Hurling insults and accusations at each other serves for naught. My lord of Gloucester, I can understand your anger. Whatever my lord de Ypres’s intent, he had not the right to put your loyalty to a test. It was an unfortunate incident, but it is over now, and best forgotten. As I am responsible for what is done in my name, I offer you my apology.”

  To Robert, that was too little, too late. “I accept your apology,” he said, with perfunctory courtesy. “But what of Ypres? What penalty does he pay?”

  “That is for me to decide. But you need not fear, for it will never happen again. On that, you have my oath.”

  Robert’s mouth thinned. “I have your oath?” The words themselves were innocuous, but with a rising inflection, they became a sardonic commentary upon the king’s credibility.

  “Yes, by God, my oath-the oath of a crowned, anointed king!” Stephen stalked down the dais steps, and Matilda held her breath, for a long-smoldering fire seemed about to burst into a hellish conflagration. Her relief knew no bounds when Robert chose not to strike that fatal flint, and she sat down hastily in the closest seat, so disquieted she did not even notice it was Stephen’s throne.

  Stephen’s triumph was so fleeting, though, that he had no chance to savor it. As enraged as he was by Robert’s oblique defiance, he would not have let it fester, for if the voice was Robert’s, the hostility was Maude’s, and was thus easy to shrug off. But when he turned toward their audience, he was jolted by what he saw on so many faces: the same skepticism, the same doubt that his word was good. And standing there in the great hall of Rouen’s royal castle, he suddenly realized a very unpalatable truth: that most men might recognize him as England’s king, but they no longer saw him as a man of honour.

  Matilda could not sleep unless she was sure that her children slept, too, and cupping her candle, she bent over the bed. They were sprawled in an ungainly tangle, legs and arms protruding at odd angles, as flaxen-haired as their father; Eustace had claimed both pillows, and William had fallen asleep sucking his thumb again. Smiling, she gently tucked the blankets about them, for she had at last banished Baldwin’s ghost from the nursery, no longer saw his curly blond head on the pillow beside his brothers’. Not a day passed when she did not think of him, her firstborn, taken too soon. She’d had two years, though, to come to terms with his loss. But her little girl’s grave was too newly dug, for they had buried her in ground frozen and snow-encrusted, last winter’s grief, too recent and raw for healing. Matilda straightened up slowly, backed quietly away from the bed where her sons slept, while whispering, soft as a breath, as she did every night, “Blessed Mary Ever Virgin, keep my lads safe, spare them hurt or harm, Amen.”

  Her daughter stirred as soon as she approached the bed, mumbling a sleepy “Mama?” Matilda sat beside her, lifting the child onto her lap. When Mary began to nuzzle her breast, she opened her gown and let the little girl suckle. She had not nursed her older children, for women of rank were expected to hire wet nurses. But she had insisted upon nursing Mary, despite Stephen’s objections, prompted by feelings she could not fully explain, a need that was somehow related to her grieving for Baldwin. Whatever her reasons, she had cause to be thankful for her obstinacy, for the intimacy of that physical bonding with her baby when God suddenly took her other daughter, her namesake, just days away from her second birthday.

  Mary had been a godsend, solace for her empty, aching arms, balm for her buffeted and bleeding faith. She knew hers was a common grief, knew how often children died in their first fragile years of life. She knew, too, that it was not for her to question the mysterious workings of the Almighty. But God had reclaimed two of her children; what if He wanted the others, too? And so she had decided to give Him one, to give Him Mary.

  Stephen had resisted at first, for daughters were a king’s political capital; many an alliance had been forged in the heat of the marriage bed. Their little Tilda had been buried with a betrothal ring, having been plight-trothed to Waleran Beaumont a few months before her death. But his wife’s entreaties had soon won Stephen over; he’d reluctantly agreed that Mary would be pledged as a nun. And Matilda, mourning her dead daughter, was comforted, for surely Mary would find contentment in the cloistered peace of the convent. As a Bride of Christ, her salvation would be assured, her happiness more certain than as a bartered bride for a Waleran Beaumont or a Geoffrey of Anjou.

  Once she’d rocked Mary back to sleep, Matilda headed for the stairwell that led up to her own bedchamber. The room was shuttered and still, and she wondered why it had not been made ready for her. Raising her candle, she moved toward the table, then recoiled at a sudden movement in the shadows. “Stephen? You scared me so! Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

  He shrugged, saying nothing. Matilda subjected him to a candlelit scrutiny, and then retraced her steps to the door, where she discreetly dismissed the servant just entering with an oil lamp. She’d not expected this, that he should still be brooding about his clash with Robert of Gloucester; he’d always been one for living utterly in the present, with little patience for sifting through yesterday’s mistakes, even less interest in borrowing tomorrow’s troubles. Crossing to his chair, she tried to massage away the tension coiled in the muscles of his neck and shoulders.

  “Have you decided what you shall do about William de Ypres, Stephen?”

  “Nothing,” he said wearily. “How can I in good conscience punish him for reading my mind? He was wrong to act upon his suspicions, but they were mine, too. Anytime now I expect to find Brother Robert perched on the foot of my bed, watching to see if I stop breathing in the night. He is worse than a vulture, though, Tilda. At least they do not begin their deathwatch until their prey is down and floundering. Robert-damn his eyes-began his vigil as soon as he set foot in my realm.”

  Matilda sighed softly. “He will like it not if you refuse to chastise Ypres.”

  “Even if I did lesson Ypres, Robert would still find fault with it. Nothing I do would satisfy him-short of abdicating my throne in favor of his wretched sister.”

  Matilda’s fingers had stopped moving, lay still against the nape of his neck. It worried her in no small measure, his failure to make peace with Robert. She blamed them both, Robert for being so stiff-necked and self-righteous, Stephen for being so defensive and suspicious, so unwilling to bid for Robert’s allegiance. Had the power only been hers, she’d have lavished Robert with royal favor; she’d have done whatever she could to give him compelling reasons for wanting Stephen’s kingship to succeed. But try though she might, she’d not been able to mute the echoes of their lifelong rivalry, and could only watch with foreboding as the rift between them widened. If Robert of Gloucester repudiated Stephen’s authority and openly declared himself for his sister, would his defection cause a few earth tremors…or an earthquake?

  She’d rarely heard Stephen sound so disheartened. “I was proud of you today,” she said, “proud of the way you took responsibility for Ypres’s plotting. That was a forthright and courageous act, love.”

  He shrugged again, and then surprised her by saying, “The old king would not have apologized.”

  “Mayhap he would not,” she agreed, somewhat hesitantly, for she was not sure where he was going with this. “But it was right, Stephen, and honourable, and what else matters?”

  “You are such an innocent,” he said, and rose abruptly to his feet. “I tried to do what was ‘right and honourable’ at the siege of Exeter; you remember, Tilda? Baldwin de Redvers’s wife came out to plead for mercy, hair streaming down her back, feet bare like one doing penance, face wet with tears. A man would have had a heart of flint if he were not moved by her pleas. And then Redvers’s fellow barons added their
voices, arguing for clemency. So I agreed to pardon Redvers, I freed the garrison, and I was glad to do it. Even after Redvers then turned to piracy and fled the country, finding refuge with Maude, I was not sorry I spared them. I thought I’d done the right thing, and that was enough. But not for my barons. They’ve been laughing at me ever since, mocking me for showing mercy, for showing weakness-and this from the very same men who’d argued on Redvers’s behalf!”

  “Even if that is so,” Matilda said, “you followed your conscience. What more can a man do than that, Stephen?”

  “I do not know,” he admitted. “That is just the trouble, Matilda, I do not know!”

  She was on her feet now, too, reaching out to him. “I’ve never heard you talk like this. What has happened?”

  “I had a rightful claim to the English throne. It was no usurpation, for I was the old king’s favorite nephew, grandson of the great William the Bastard of Normandy. None wanted a woman on the throne, you know they did not. And I was urged to it, by men who rejoiced that I’d be sparing them-and England-untold misery. My oath to Maude meant nothing, writ on water, they said. But in breaking that oath, I became less in their eyes. Where is the fairness in that?”

  “Ah, Stephen…” Matilda got no further, not knowing what to say.

  “I looked out across that hall today, and I realized that I could trust none of them. None of them, Matilda!”

  “Surely that is not so! What of your brother and the Beaumont twins?”

  “Ah, yes, my faithful brother. How faithful do you think he’ll be if I do not set that archbishop’s mitre upon his head? And the Beaumonts will stay loyal-as long as they benefit from that loyalty. But do not fool yourself, Matilda-they’d go over to Maude without a qualm if she could come up with a big enough bribe. Even William de Ypres is suspect, for when a man’s loyalty is for sale to the highest bidder, there is always a risk of being outbid.”

  He turned at her touch, looked down bleakly into her face. “No one I can trust, Tilda,” he repeated, and then pulled her to him, holding her against his chest, so close she could hear the thudding of his heart. “Only you,” he said softly, “only you…”

  8

  Caen, Normandy

  April 1138

  Spring in Caen was cold and damp and disappointing, for April had so far shown itself to be winter’s accomplice. Amabel, a restless sleeper, soon kicked the coverlets off. But when she rolled over, drowsily seeking Robert’s warmth, she found only the chill of an empty bed. Sitting up, she peered into the lurking night shadows, then groped for her bed-robe.

  “Lent is over, Robert. How much longer do you mean to deny yourself sleep?”

  “It is not penance, Amabel. If I’m wakeful, it is not by choice. But you need not keep vigil with me. Go back to bed.”

  “Indeed not! If you broke a leg, I’d fetch a doctor to set it. If you were suffering from a fever, I’d treat it with sage and vervain. So why should I do any less now? You’ve a conscience in need of mending, and I’ve a needle and thread at the ready. Shall I start stitching?”

  She could always coax a smile from him, however brief. “Are you so sure you’d know where to stitch?”

  “Who would know your wounds better than I? This particular wound was inflicted the day you knelt before Stephen and pledged him your fealty. I’d hoped it would heal in time, but it has begun to fester. You’d best cut it out, Robert, ere its poison starts to spread.”

  He could not hide his surprise. “You urged me from the first to make peace with Stephen. Are you saying now that you were wrong?”

  “No…but you were, for listening to me!”

  “Amabel, this is too serious a matter for jesting. If I were to renounce my allegiance to Stephen, you could accept that? You’d not fear the consequences?”

  “Of course I’d fear them-not being a fool! But what I fear more is Stephen’s fear. For he does fear you: your power, your castles, your vassals, and your kinship to Maude. And all the while, William de Ypres hovers close at hand, awaiting his chance. How long ere that Flemish viper talks Stephen into moving against you? One failed ambush is enough, by God! If war is sure to come, then you may as well follow your heart-and the oath you swore to your father on Maude’s behalf.”

  “You are a constant source of wonderment, Amabel. I know you like Maude not. You never wanted to see her as England’s queen, never.”

  “What of it? Neither did you.” Holding up her hand before he could protest. “Admit it, Robert. Your fondness for Maude notwithstanding, you had grave doubts about a woman’s wielding a man’s power, especially a woman wed to Geoffrey of Anjou. But Maude has a son, a son with the blood-right to Normandy and England, and I’d wager that is what robs you of sleep at night.”

  Robert was silent for several moments, marveling at how well she knew him, how easily she’d seen into the most private corners of his soul. “You are right,” he conceded. “I did have qualms about Maude’s queenship. I let her down and I regret that. But it is young Henry who has been haunting my peace. I tried to do what was best for us, for England, and I failed, I failed miserably. Stephen has not the makings of a king, however well-meaning he may be. Nor can I trust him, and if-”

  “What more is there to say, then? Why let Stephen choose the time and place for your reckoning? You choose, Robert-here and now.”

  Robert’s relief rendered him speechless. It had taken him months to reach that same conclusion, and with great reluctance, for he was that paradox, a man of courage whose nature was inherently cautious and conservative, and rebellion was as rash and reckless an action as he could envision. It was also inevitable, but even after he’d finally acknowledged that, he’d not known how to break the news to his wife, loath to cause her pain.

  “I thank God for your change of heart,” he said, “but I’ll confess that I did not expect it. I well remember how you argued with me, insisting that I must recognize Stephen as king.”

  “And I was right-then. You’d have stood alone, without allies. But time has favored Maude, not Stephen. The Scots king has led another army across the border, is burning and pillaging Northumbria even as we speak. Stephen’s disgruntled brother grows weary of waiting for that archbishop’s mitre, and who can count all the lords who’ve come to resent the royal favors lavished upon the Beaumonts and their kin? It would have been sheer folly to urge a mutiny when the ship was still in the harbor, sails just catching the wind. But now that same ship is taking on water, those splendid new sails are in tatters, reefs lie ahead…and how much more likely it is that the crew shall be willing to heave Stephen overboard!”

  Even after three decades of marriage, Robert could be taken aback by his wife’s ice-blooded practicality, so at odds with the conventional wisdom that women were sentimental creatures, good-hearted and guileless and charmingly giddy. As much as he’d come to value Amabel’s commonsense shrewdness, it troubled him occasionally that honour weighed so lightly on her ethical scales. But not now. Now he was grateful for the stark single-mindedness of her vision, and he said, “It means much to me, that you understand what I must do.”

  “I always understand, my love,” Amabel said fondly. “I just do not always approve! Now I think we’d best end this midnight council. No man ever died of conscience pangs. The same cannot be said, though, for men who court chills in drafty, cold, fireless chambers.” And taking his arm, she drew him back to the warmth of their marriage bed.

  ON a windy, cool day in June, Geoffrey and Maude rode into the Norman city of Caen. The procession was a colorful one, for they both appreciated the value of pageantry, those “bread and circuses” offered by royalty since time immemorial. They made a striking couple, mounted on matching white palfreys, dressed in rich shades of red silk, Maude’s gold-threaded veil a gossamer swirl of sunlight, Geoffrey’s scabbard aglitter with studded gemstones. The citizens were impressed by their splendor, but they were not won over. However handsome Geoffrey was, he was still Angevin, of the Devil’s Brood, and no
Norman could rejoice in his triumph. They were a practical people, though, and now that their liege lord had seen fit to welcome the Angevin and his haughty wife, they turned out in large numbers to watch, if not to cheer.

  As the procession wound its way through the narrow, thronged streets, the attention of the crowd shifted from their would-be duchess and her hated husband, focusing instead upon the tawny-haired, dark-eyed youth riding at Maude’s side. Ranulf’s spirits were soaring higher than Caen’s circling, raucous gulls, and his laughing exuberance was so contagious that only the most dour soul could resist smiling at his antics.

  He was flirting shamelessly with every pretty girl he passed, fishing out coins for street urchins and beggars, saluting priests and widows, and teasing the small boys who were trying to keep pace. As they neared the castle, a young woman leaned from an upper window, throwing down a long-stemmed rose. Ranulf caught it deftly, casting about him for a favor to give in return. Several streets back, he’d amused the crowd by plucking a flowering sprig from an overhanging tree and presenting it to a giggling redhead. Now, though, he saw no gardens to raid. But then his gaze fell upon a nearby street vendor. Moments later, he triggered a burst of laughter by tossing a spiced wafer to the girl at the window-laughter that spread as he then distributed wafers with comic gallantry to all female spectators within reach.

  Of those watching, Maude alone was not entertained. Although she was Norman-French and Scots by blood, her formative years had been spent in Germany, and she still clung to those lessons she’d learned at the august and regal court of her first husband, the Holy Roman Emperor. By the time she’d come home to England, it was an alien land, and she’d yearned for the ceremonial elegance and protective protocol of her husband’s world, a world she’d made her own, only to have it taken from her by death and her father’s implacable will. Even now she was disconcerted by informality, finding it too closely akin to familiarity, and Ranulf’s free and easy manner jarred her sense of decorum. It was not seemly that he should jest with these Norman peddlers and craftsmen and their women, for he was a king’s son. She said nothing, though, for this was neither the time nor the place for a reprimand. Geoffrey would overhear and laugh rudely. Nor did she want to spoil the moment for Ranulf. He was entitled to play the fool, as long as he did not make a habit of it.