When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The garrison tried frantically to contain the flames, pouring water onto the timbered walls in a vain attempt to keep the blaze from spreading. But in fighting the fire, they exposed themselves to another sort of fire, coming from Stephen’s archers and crossbowmen. What drove them off the walls, though, was the smoke. Men were soon coughing and choking, for the wind was blowing dense black clouds over the walls. They retreated, reeling about blindly in the sudden dark smothering the bailey. And by then, the king’s battering ram was smashing into the smoldering wooden gates.

  The siege of Shrewsbury Castle had lasted more than four weeks. The final assault lasted less than four hours. Once Stephen’s men had control of the bailey, they set fire to the door of the keep, forced their way into Fitz Alan’s refuge. The fighting was brief and bloody and over by Vespers. As the peaceful pealing of church bells echoed through the town, the fearful citizens bolted their doors, shuttered their windows, and prayed that Shrewsbury would be spared the fallen castle’s fate.

  But Stephen’s triumph was flawed, and his initial elation was soon curdled by disappointment, for a thorough search of the castle revealed a frustrating fact-that William Fitz Alan had somehow managed to escape the trap. He was not among the prisoners taken, nor among the bodies being collected for burial. An interrogation of the survivors revealed nothing of substance, for Fitz Alan’s men were loyal and Stephen loath to resort to torture. Fitz Alan’s wife was gone, too, but Stephen had expected that, for rumors had circulated for weeks that all the women had been spirited out of the castle before the siege began. Fitz Alan’s flight was far more recent, possibly only hours old, and Stephen gave orders for a house-to-house search of Shrewsbury, although without any expectation of success. His men had barricaded both of Shrewsbury’s bridges, but he knew Fitz Alan could have gotten a small boat, crossed the river by night, and so there was no surprise when the town’s search proved futile.

  If Fitz Alan had slipped through the royal nets, his uncle was not so lucky. Arnulf de Hesdin had remained behind, and that night he was escorted into the great hall to confront his king. The hall still bore the visible scars of the day’s assault. Broken tables and stools had been piled in a corner, forming a forlorn pyramid of splintered wood. There had been no time to sweep up the bloodied floor rushes, and the smell of smoke still hung heavily upon the air. Arnulf de Hesdin had not emerged unscathed, either, from the siege. His thinning hair was matted and snarled, his eyes smoke-reddened, a rivulet of dried blood smudging his cheek, caking in his beard. But he stode into the hall as if his chains were badges of honour, and faced Stephen defiantly, without a trace of fear or repentance. “I am here, my lord king. Do with me what you will,” he said, flinging down his submission as if it were a gauntlet.

  “One might think you were the anointed king,” Stephen snapped, “instead of a miserable wretch of a rebel, that craven Fitz Alan’s scapegoat.”

  Arnulf flushed angrily. “My nephew is no coward! We insisted he get away whilst he could, for he’d be of no use to the Empress Maude in one of your prisons.”

  Stephen had reddened, too. “How dare you speak so to me, your king? You come before me in chains, boast of your loyalty to that unworthy woman, and you expect me to do…what? Commend you for your candor? No, by God, no-I’ve had enough!”

  Stephen paused for breath, his chest heaving. His rage was surging to the surface, like a river spilling its banks, for his resentment had been rising for months, and there in Shrewsbury Castle’s great hall, it at last reached flood tide, breaking loose in a torrent of infuriated, frustrated accusation and reproach.

  “I swore to rule by law and God’s Holy Word, to do justice to every man, be he beggar or bishop. I sought no bloodshed, forgave betrayals with a good heart, and held out my hand to enemies and rebels and malcontents alike, for Scriptures would have us ‘forgive their inequity and remember their sin no more.’ And my reward was to be mocked, to be made the butt of jokes, to see my mercy scorned as weakness.”

  Again, he paused. The hall was utterly silent. All were listening attentively for once. Let them listen, let them learn! “But Scriptures speak of more than forgiveness,” he said hoarsely, for his throat had become tight and raw. “They say, too, that ‘rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft’ and ‘the wages of sin is death.’ This man, Arnulf de Hesdin, was taken in rebellion against his lawful king. He deserves to hang…and hang he will.”

  Stephen swallowed with an effort. Arnulf de Hesdin’s mouth was ajar, his color draining away. There was open surprise on the faces of his barons, and sudden wariness on the faces of the other prisoners, but not outright fear, not yet. They owed him a mortal debt, every man jack of them; did they think him too softhearted to demand payment? He’d show them otherwise. He knew full well what his uncle the old king would have done, and he said harshly:

  “Hang the garrison, too. Hang them all.”

  THE following day dawned in a burst of late-summer sunlight; by midmorning, the great hall was stifling. Stephen’s bitter satisfaction had ebbed away during the night; he awoke in an oddly morose mood, not sure why his triumph should have soured while he slept. He picked indifferently at the food on his breakfast trencher, and refused curtly when he was asked if he wished to watch Arnulf de Hesdin die.

  The doomed men had been given a night’s grace to make their peace with God, but once the sky lightened, the executions began. There were too many for a gallows-ninety-four of them, more than Stephen had realized-and so his Flemish mercenaries were dragging them up onto the castle battlements. Bodies were soon dangling above the moat like grotesque decorations, a sight to strike terror into the hearts of the cowed townspeople, but death was much quicker this way, if less dignified: most of the men died of broken necks rather than the slow strangulation of a gallows execution. Stephen’s chosen hangmen went about their task with matter-of-fact efficiency, but the sheer numbers of the condemned slowed them down, and as the morning wore on, Stephen grimly concluded that the hangings were likely to take all day.

  Stephen’s fraying temper was subjected to still more strain by the unexpected noontime arrival of his brother the Bishop of Winchester. Attended by his usual deferential entourage, the bishop swept into the great hall like an ill wind, made Stephen a perfunctory obeisance, subject to sovereign, and then demanded, brother to brother, to know what was going on.

  “That should be obvious,” Stephen said tersely. “We are hanging the castle garrison.”

  The bishop nodded approvingly. “God’s Will be done,” he said sententiously, and then lowered his voice, revealing he did have a modicum of tact. “I’m glad to hear that you’re finally showing some sense. In truth, Stephen, if you’d heeded my advice all along, you’d not be racing about the country like a crazed fire fighter, dousing one blaze only to have another flare up as soon as you move on.”

  The bishop glanced about the hall then, frowning, for it was filled with men he little liked or trusted. One of those high-flying Beaumont hawks. Waleran? No-the other one, Leicester, for Waleran was in Normandy, trying to chase Geoffrey back into Anjou. The taciturn Earl of Northampton, a man likely to welcome salvation with a scowl. That hellspawn Mandeville, looking much too comfortable at Stephen’s side. Maude’s spies, Miles Fitz Walter and that Breton count’s bastard get. The Earl of Chester, holding court across the hall as if he and Stephen were competing kings. Not men he’d want as an audience. Not men he’d want within a hundred miles of his brother, but Stephen was a sheep stubbornly set upon running with wolves. “I need to speak with you, Stephen…in private.”

  Stephen could guess what was in store for him: another of his brother’s lectures about his manifold failings as a king, interspersed with indignant rebukes for taking so unforgivably long to name him Archbishop of Canterbury. Not that Stephen could actually bestow the archbishop’s mitre, as that was for an ecclesiastical synod to do. But the king’s candidate would clearly have the advantage, and Henry was determined to obtain Stephen’s official endo
rsement, an endorsement Stephen was equally determined to withhold, for both he and Matilda were convinced that his brother could not be trusted with so much power. Yet he was reluctant to be the one to slay Henry’s dream, and so he’d been temporizing for months now, hoping that if the problem could be ignored long enough, it might somehow go away. Of course it did not; the bishop only grew more insistent, more aggrieved, and Stephen knew a confrontation was inevitable. But not today, God Willing, not today.

  “I would that I could spare the time,” he said, “but I’ve promised to grant an audience to the townspeople and the monks from the abbey.”

  The citizens of Shrewsbury had dreaded the castle’s fall, not because they were so devoted to Maude’s cause, or even to their lord, William Fitz Alan. Most of them cared little about who ruled in faraway Westminster, as long as they were left in peace. Instead, they’d found themselves caught up in a rebellion not of their making, spoils of war for Stephen’s much-feared Flemings, as it was customary to reward a victorious army with plunder and looting.

  They were luckier than they knew, though, for William de Ypres was in Normandy with Waleran Beaumont. Had he been at the siege, the town’s fate might have been far different; he’d have insisted that Shrewsbury be turned over to his Flemish mercenaries for their sport. But Stephen had chosen to rein them in, much to their disappointment. There had been enough killing, he said brusquely, and although they’d continued to grumble among themselves, they’d not dared to disobey him. Those bodies already stinking in the sun were a convincing argument, indeed, that this king was not to be trifled with, after all.

  The townspeople had selected their provost and a handful of their most prominent citizens to plead their case with the king. Stephen was not interested in their carefully rehearsed pledges of heartfelt support, only half listening to their predictable disavowals of entanglement in Fitz Alan’s treachery. But when they were done, he agreed to spare Shrewsbury his royal wrath, provided that they kept faith from now on. The delegation willingly promised loyalty to the grave, so great was their relief at their reprieve, and they then made haste to withdraw, lest Stephen change his mind.

  Stephen was not as accommodating to the abbot of the Benedictine monastery of St Peter and St Paul, for he’d been stung by the monks’ attempt to remain neutral, as if he and Maude were claimants on equal footing, as if he were not a consecrated king and a good son of the Church. Nor was Abbot Herbert a particularly effective advocate, for he was a well-meaning man of limited vision, and not even ten years at the abbey’s helm had done much to expand his horizons. Stephen had already decided to levy punitive fines upon the townspeople and the monks. He was wondering whether or not the abbey might also benefit from a change of command when a courier was ushered into the hall, crying out that he was the bearer of news the king must hear straightaway.

  The messenger was disheveled and dusty, his tunic sweat-stained, his fatigue as deeply etched in his face as the dirt of the road. He looked triumphant, though, and as he knelt before Stephen, he broke into a wide, cocky grin. “I come from His Grace, the Archbishop of York, my liege. He would have you know that a great battle was fought against the Scots army on Monday last at Cowton Moor near Northallerton. God was with us, my lord king, for your enemies were utterly routed. The field was strewn with their bodies and the Scots king fled like a hare! So did his son-”

  But Stephen was no longer listening; the details could wait. Rising to his feet, he gave a jubilant shout, silencing the hall. “Did you all hear?” he demanded. “We have defeated the Scots king, slaughtered his army, and sent him slinking back across the border where he belongs!”

  Stephen was immediately surrounded by men eager to offer their congratulations and share in his joy. Some were motivated by a desire to curry favor with the king. Others-such as Robert Beaumont-had a vested interest in Stephen’s survival. The Earl of Northampton rejoiced in David’s defeat fully as much as Stephen; he was actually smiling. The Earl of Chester had a rivalry of his own with the Scots king, for he and David had competing claims to the Honour of Carlisle. And many of the men were simply grateful that an alien Scots invasion had been thwarted. Only two exchanged a covert glance of quickly masked dismay-Miles Fitz Walter and Brien Fitz Count-for Maude had gone down to defeat with David at Cowton Moor, and they both knew it.

  Wine was soon flowing in abundance. Toasts were drunk to the aged Archbishop of York, and then to Robert de Ferrers and William d’Aumale, Stephen’s battle commanders, the heroes of the day. Jokes were made at the Scots king’s expense and Maude came in for her share, too. The Scots were damned as a savage, barbaric people; highly partisan accounts of Scots atrocities were related, for which they blamed Maude fully as much as David. She was, after all, the man’s niece, they reminded themselves, and only Brien and Miles remembered that David was Matilda’s uncle, too.

  But in the midst of these revelries, Stephen suddenly grew quiet. Setting down his wine cup, he gazed across the hall toward the unshuttered windows, and then said pensively, “I was wondering if it might not be a Christian act to spare those prisoners who’ve not yet been hanged. What better way to thank the Almighty for our victory?”

  They stared at him, momentarily startled into silence. All but the abbot, who’d been waiting patiently for the king to resume their interrupted audience. There were worldly men of God, and then there were those like Abbot Herbert. Beaming at Stephen, he said warmly, “Bless you, my liege, that would be a deed well done!”

  “In a pig’s eye!” Robert Beaumont sputtered, half choking on his wine, and Miles reached over, thumping him solicitously on the back.

  “You disappoint me, Rob. Where is your sense of charity? I think the king is right, that it would indeed please the Almighty to pardon those poor wretches.”

  “For certes, it would please the Lady Maude,” the bishop said acidly, “as you know right well, my lord!”

  By now the hall was in turmoil, each man attempting to voice his opinion, to make himself heard above the din. Only two held their peace, Geoffrey de Mandeville and Brien Fitz Count. The former looked faintly amused by the uproar, the latter pained. It was not that Brien did not want to see the condemned prisoners reprieved, for he did. In Brien’s eyes, they were not rebels, and they did not deserve to die for keeping faith with their queen. For Maude was the rightful sovereign, not Stephen, and God forgive him, but he ought never to have disavowed his oath, for in saving his lands, he’d sacrificed his honour.

  But still Brien kept silent, unable to encourage Stephen’s folly, as Miles was doing with such zest. If Stephen had determined at the outset to spare the Shrewsbury garrison, as he had spared the garrisons at Exeter and Hereford, he’d have done himself no good for certes. However much mercy might be admired in saints, Brien mused, it made men most uneasy when encountered in kings. But to condemn the prisoners and then relent, that would be sheer madness. He might stand aside and watch as Stephen cut his own throat. He could not bring himself to offer Stephen a dagger.

  Stephen was under siege, being assailed from all sides by insistent voices. His head had begun to ache. Why did a crown complicate matters so? As Count of Mortain and Boulogne, he’d done what he pleased, and an easier life it had been, too. He glared at his brother the bishop. How dare Henry speak to him like this, as if he were a green stripling without a grain of sense! Well, he’d best learn to content himself with Winchester, for by all that’s holy, he’d never get his grasping hands upon Canterbury. If only Tilda were here. But she was at Dover and his only allies a weakling abbot and that crafty tame fox of Maude’s. If Miles was urging clemency, it must be wrong. So why, then, did it feel right?

  “Enough!” he said angrily, flinging up his hand for silence. “You chatter at me like a flock of hungry magpies, and for naught. I never said I intended for certes to pardon those men. It was idle talk, no more than that.”

  They subsided, relieved. Eventually conversation resumed, men drifted away from the dais, talk turned agai
n to the humiliation of the Scots king, the likely whereabouts of William Fitz Alan, the need to appoint a new sheriff in his place, and out upon the castle battlements, men continued to die.

  A ghostlike swirling fog had wafted in from the Channel, shrouding the chalky cliffs usually visible for miles. The night air was damp, uncommonly cold for September, and a sea-salted wind chilled victors and vanquished alike as the gates of Dover Castle slowly swung open to admit the Queen of England.

  The sight that met Matilda’s eyes was an eerie one: a circle of flickering flames, yellow beacons of light stabbing through the fog. As she drew nearer, she realized that she was looking upon the flaring torches of her own guards, for they’d insisted upon entering the castle first, intent upon making sure that there would be no surprises, no eleventh-hour change of heart by the castellan. Her nervousness eased somewhat as she rode toward their beckoning glow, wondering if sailors felt this way upon catching the reassuring glimmer of Dover’s light tower.

  Blessed Lady Mary, how lucky she had been and how well served! It had been her vassals’ duty to respond, of course, once she’d called upon them. But she’d gotten from these men of Kent and Boulogne more than grudging service. Rank seemed not to matter, for she’d found champions in equal numbers among her knights, serjeants, and men-at-arms. She still did not understand how she’d managed to touch their calloused soldiers’ hearts, could only be grateful for it.

  She was grateful, too, for the man riding at her side. She was convinced that the arrival of Robert de Ferrers, fresh from his triumph over the Scots, had marked a turning point in the siege. How good of Stephen to send her such a stalwart knight. He’d be well rewarded; she and Stephen would see to that.

  “There he is, my lady. Walkelin Maminot, who held the castle for Robert Fitz Roy, and waits now to deliver it into your hands.” Reining in his stallion, Robert de Ferrers swung to the ground, then reached up to help Matilda dismount.