When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Henry said nothing. His eyes had darkened, and a few freckles stood out across the bridge of his nose. Maude got slowly to her feet, brushed dirt from her skirts. Her name was echoing again on the wind. First Rainald and then Ranulf had appeared in the doorway of the great hall, urging her not to tarry. Now it was Robert, admonishing her to make haste, reminding her of “all that must be done and done yesterday if we hope to sail ere winter weather sets in.”

  “We’ll talk later, Henry, I promise,” she said, and bent down, kissing him quickly on the cheek. She glanced back once, just before reaching the hall. Henry had not moved. Shoulders hunched forward, so pale that her lip-rouge marked his skin like a brand, he was such a forlorn little figure that Maude dared not let herself look back again.

  10

  Sussex, England

  September 1139

  Stephen had been blessed with more than his share of good fortune; he’d been given health and high birth and a handsome face, and he’d made the most of his advantages. His life, like his marriage, had been a remarkably happy one. It baffled him, therefore, that his luck could have soured so suddenly, that his kingship should be sore beset by turmoil and treachery. He wanted only to be a good king, but his Eden was full of snakes. He could no longer trust, he who’d once trusted as easily as he breathed. The approval he craved-and had always gotten-now eluded him. He knew that he’d been judged and found wanting, and the unfairness of that judgment was a constant goad. The road to the crown had been so easy to travel; how had it ever become so mud-mired and twisting? It was almost as if the Almighty were no longer pleased with His servant Stephen.

  He sensed the danger in such doubts, shared them with no others, not even his wife or his confessor. He could not let himself believe that he’d lost God’s Favor. If he was being tested, he would prove himself worthy.

  But why were his victories so fleeting? Waleran’s scheme to cripple the Bishop of Salisbury’s power had gone as planned. Yet he’d had little time to savor their success. In August, he’d been summoned to Winchester, compelled to defend himself before a Church Council convened by his vengeful brother. His advocates had been able to blunt the thrust of the bishop’s charges, and no verdict had been returned, to the bishop’s obvious surprise. But he had a surprise of his own for Stephen: since March, he’d been in possession of a papal bull, one naming him as England’s new papal legate.

  And so another triumph had turned to ashes in Stephen’s mouth, for his frayed relationship with the Church would continue to unravel; Henry would see to that. But he did the best he could, sought to reassure the Church that he did, indeed, respect Church prerogatives. He even managed to cobble together a patchwork peace with his brother, at least on the surface.

  Before he could catch his breath, though, the next crisis was upon him. Baldwin de Redvers had fled to Normandy after the fall of Exeter Castle. In September he came back, landed without warning at Wareham, and seized Corfe Castle. Stephen reacted with his usual verve, hastening to lay siege to Corfe. And while Baldwin de Redvers lured him west, Maude and Robert made ready to sail for the southeast coast of England.

  They left Barfleur at dusk, for a night crossing allowed the helmsman to steer by the polestar and then to approach England’s shores by daylight. This helmsman’s task was a challenging one; once land was in sight, he had to hug the coast and sail into the sunrise, aiming for a stretch of beach marked only by memory. To his passengers, it seemed truly miraculous when he steered their ships into a sheltered Sussex cove, as unerringly as if he were coming home.

  There were no quays for disembarking, but their ships were flat-bottomed vessels, built-like their Viking prototypes-for beaching. After waiting so long, Maude was of no mind to wait any longer, but Robert’s innate caution won out over her eagerness, and he had no intention of venturing ashore until he was assured of his sister’s safety. At his command, their small fleet anchored in the cove, a dinghy was lowered into the water, and its crew began to row toward the beach.

  It was a harvest sky, a cloudless, crystalline blue, but the wind held a wintry tang and a thief’s touch, robbing them of the warmth they had the right to expect from a September sun. It carried off Maude’s veil as she leaned over the gunwale, but she did not appear to notice, her eyes never straying from the English shoreline. Ranulf was not surprised when Minna soon emerged from their canvas tent, another veil in hand. She was ashen, for she’d been seasick for much of the voyage, but she resolutely lurched toward the prow of the ship, determined to see her lady well coiffed or die in the attempt. Ranulf thought they made an odd pair, the elegant empress and the stout German widow. He could not see why Maude had chosen the stolid, taciturn Minna as a companion, and if there was a fondness between them, it was unspoken, not overt. But Minna had been there when Maude buried her first husband, when she was compelled to wed Geoffrey of Anjou, when she nearly died in childbed, and God Willing, she would be there when the Archbishop of Canterbury placed Stephen’s stolen crown upon Maude’s head.

  Amabel’s ladies had followed Minna from the tent, and much to Ranulf’s amusement, began to express their dismay at the lack of quays or wharves. He laughed outright when Amabel lost patience with Agnes’s whining and threatened to let her swim ashore, but when the women turned to glare at him, he prudently withdrew, joining Maude and Robert at the ship’s prow. “Am I the only one,” he wondered aloud, “who cannot sail from Barfleur without thinking of the White Ship?”

  “I expect we all do,” Maude said, and then, “What is taking so long? They ought to have been back by now!”

  “Arundel is three or four miles distant from the sea,” Robert pointed out calmly. “They’ll be here soon.”

  Maude continued to fret, infecting Ranulf and Rainald with her sense of urgency. But Robert was right; it was not long before one of their scouts rode into view, well mounted upon a horse from Arundel’s stables. Reining in at the water’s edge, he cupped his hands, and his triumphant shout came echoing across the waves like a clarion call to battle. “All is well, my lady! Come ashore and claim your crown!”

  Robert sent the women ashore in the dinghy, for they could not be expected to hike up their skirts and splash through the shallows like men. They were preparing to beach their ships so the horses could be unloaded when their escort arrived from Arundel Castle.

  William d’Aubigny was in the lead, and Adeliza rode proudly at his side, mounted on a snow-white mule. The Fair Maid of Brabant was now in her late thirties, although she looked years younger, a German Lorelei, who instinctively knew what Maude had never learned-that charm could be a formidable female weapon. Her new husband shared her easygoing nature and carefree approach to life, and it was obvious, even in those first few moments, that Adeliza’s second marriage was far happier than her first. William d’Aubigny shared her coloring, too; they were both flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, vibrant with health and energy. They would, Maude thought, have handsome children. And then, as Adeliza slid from the saddle, Maude stared, for her friend’s mantle had fallen open, revealing a slim waist encircled by a braided belt of scarlet silk.

  Adeliza saw her surprise and laughed, stretching out her hands in welcome. “Yes, I have a waistline again…and a robust son asleep in the solar. So you see, Maude, not only can we offer you a safe haven at Arundel, but a new subject, too!”

  Arundel castle was situated on a high, narrow ridge overlooking the River Arun. It was strategically significant, commanding the approach between the South Downs and the sea, and a small town had grown up in its protective shadow. On the east and south it was defended by the steep angle of its slopes, on the north and west by deep ditches. Appraising its formidable defenses with a soldier’s eye, Robert was comforted by what he found. Arundel would be a secure haven, just as Adeliza had promised. He could leave his sister and wife here and not fear for their safety.

  They had assembled in the lower bailey to bid him Godspeed. His men were already mounted. They’d sailed with one hundred forty k
nights, but he was taking only twelve with him, leaving the rest to defend Arundel. Having thanked Adeliza and her husband, he kissed Maude’s hand and sought to coax a smile from Ranulf, who was noticeably disgruntled at being left behind. And then Robert turned, walked toward his silent wife.

  They had said their private farewells earlier that afternoon. This public leave-taking was restrained, circumspect. But he knew her too well; he could read her fear in the taut set of her shoulders, the uneasy fluttering of her lashes. “Ah, Amabel,” he said softly, “you need not look so bereft. I’ll get to Bristol safe and sound, will rally our men and be back ere you have time to miss me.”

  She managed a bright, hollow smile, for she would not send him away with recriminations echoing in his ears, would not have him regret agreeing to bring her with him. “Go with God, Robert,” she said bravely.

  She held on to her smile until Robert and his men rode through the gateway. Arundel did not have a tower keep; its motte was encircled by a stone wall, with lodgings built within the enclosure. It was toward that shell keep that Amabel fled, rushing breathlessly up onto the battlements, where she kept a lonely vigil, watching until her husband was out of sight.

  Maude was usually an early riser, but during her week at Arundel, she’d been sleeping late, for she’d been staying up late with Adeliza; they had four years to catch up on. Soon after daybreak on Saturday, though, she was jolted awake by the sound of a fist thudding against her bedchamber door. As she sat up groggily, half blinded by her own hair-for she’d been too tired to bother with her customary night plait-the door was flung open. Minna started forward, indignant at this invasion of Maude’s privacy; such an intrusion would have been unheard-of at the German court. But by then Ranulf was in the room, with Adeliza on his heels, an Adeliza flushed and disheveled, obviously just roused from bed. “Maude,” she cried, “Maude, we are under siege!”

  Maude was lodged in the gatehouse, for its upper chamber was spacious enough to satisfy even an empress’s imperial tastes. She fumbled for her bed-robe as Ranulf strode to the window and jerked back the shutters. The window opened onto the west, offering a view of the village High Street, the clustered thatched houses, the steeple of the parish church, and to the south, the silvered gleam of the River Arun, swift-flowing toward the sea. But Maude saw none of those familiar sights. She saw only the battle banners catching the wind, heard only the drumming of hooves upon the sun-dried Downs above the town.

  “Stephen,” she breathed, staring out upon her cousin’s army.

  The herald rode boldly toward the castle walls. “I have a message for the Lady Adeliza and the Lord William d’Aubigny,” he called, “and my lord king says you’d best heed it well. You are sheltering the Countess of Anjou, an enemy of the Crown and a threat to the peace of the realm. The king demands that you surrender this woman forthwith, or suffer the consequences.”

  The great hall was crammed with people: Arundel’s harried servants and disquieted garrison, Maude’s men, fearful villagers who’d fled their homes for the greater security of the castle. The latter milled about in confusion, some clutching meagre belongings, others trying to comfort wailing children and hush barking dogs, all watching their liege lady and her husband, mutely entreating Adeliza and Will to deliver them from this evil come so suddenly into their midst.

  Adeliza, Will, Maude, and Ranulf had retreated from the chaos and dread in the hall, withdrawing to the privacy of their above-stairs solar. Adeliza was too distraught to sit still; she paced the chamber as if seeking escape, pausing only to rock the cradle where her infant son slept.

  “How could Stephen have found out that you were here, Maude? Who betrayed us?” Adeliza kept coming back to that, as if it mattered. She seemed genuinely surprised that Stephen should have spies.

  Ranulf frowned, glancing over at Adeliza’s husband. Will had been conspicuously silent so far, but he was as tense as his wife, fidgeting in his chair, fingers drumming absently upon the armrest, not once meeting Maude’s eyes.

  It was becoming all too obvious to Ranulf that neither Adeliza nor Will had given serious thought to the consequences of their act. They’d made an impulsive offer without fully calculating the price they might have to pay, and now that Stephen was presenting the bill, they were rapidly reassessing the cost of their generosity. Ranulf had been irked by Robert’s refusal to take him on that dangerous cross-country dash to Bristol, not truly believing Robert’s explanation, that Maude might need him. Now her need was urgent, indeed, and Ranulf would have given anything to have Robert and Rainald back at Arundel; having sole responsibility for Maude’s safety was a heavier burden than he’d been prepared to bear. But bear it he would, as long as he had breath in his body. Moving toward his sister, he took up position, as if by chance, behind her chair.

  Maude gave him a quick smile; his loyalty was a luxury she was learning to rely upon. She had never doubted that Ranulf would follow her into the flames, but God help her, for Adeliza and Will were balking at the first hint of heat. She chose, as always, to face her fears head-on; if there was a betrayal coming, better to know it now. “Let Stephen do his worst,” she said coolly. “He can besiege Arundel from now till Judgment Day for all it will avail him. His only hope of taking the castle would be to starve us into submission, and Robert will not give him that much time. He’ll be back to break the siege ere the first frost.”

  She truly believed every word she said, but she’d have been more confident had she not been aware of the undercurrents in this room. And the silence that followed was a telling one. She turned in her chair, and under her level-eyed scrutiny, color crept into Adeliza’s face and throat.

  “I…” Will cleared his throat, sounding as uncomfortable as he looked. “The truth of the matter is…we never thought it would come to bloodshed. When Adeliza told me she wished to help you, Lady Maude, I agreed, for I knew how much it meant to her. But I did not bargain upon this, to have Stephen outside the castle walls with an army at his back. If we defy the king, we could be held guilty of treason, and all we own could be forfeit, including Arundel.”

  “Yes…your wife’s dower castle,” Maude said acidly, and Will suddenly found it a lot easier to contemplate turning her over to Stephen. He flushed angrily, but Adeliza forestalled his protest.

  “That is not fair, Maude. Will has every right to worry about losing Arundel. We have a son to think of; Arundel is his heritage. I’ll not deny that the prospect of war terrifies me…and not just for us. What of the villagers? If Stephen attacks Arundel, they’ll lose all they have, and they have precious little to lose. They look to me for protection. If I do not keep faith with them-”

  “I cannot believe what I am hearing!” Ranulf was outraged. “What of keeping faith with Maude? She trusted you! If you betray that trust, I swear that-”

  “Ranulf, wait.” Maude reached out, put a restraining hand on his arm. “Adeliza, I do not wish you harm. Surely you know that?” The other woman nodded unhappily, and Maude rose, closed the space between them. “I would not be the instrument of your downfall. But do not expect me to submit tamely to Stephen. Do not ask that of me. Tell Stephen that we gave you no choice, that we forced you to aid us.”

  “Ah, Maude…” Adeliza had begun to blink back tears.

  Ranulf doubted that Stephen would believe it, and he could tell that Will doubted it, too. But it could be made true; their men easily outnumbered the castle garrison. He edged slowly toward the door, too desperate for qualms or second thoughts. He was reaching stealthily for the latch when Adeliza started to speak, and as he listened, he realized that he had undervalued his father’s queen.

  “I will not betray you to Stephen, Maude. No matter what it costs us. On that, you have my word.”

  “Adeliza…” Will had risen to his feet. “Do not be so quick to promise her salvation, for it may be a promise you cannot keep.”

  “Do as I suggested,” Maude insisted. “If I took advantage of our friendship to seize control of Aru
ndel, how could Stephen blame you?”

  Adeliza smiled shakily. “He’d not believe it, Maude. Not even Stephen is that gullible. But there may be another way. I shall go to him, humble myself, and try to sway him with my tears. Say what you will of Stephen, he does hate to see a woman weep!”

  Ranulf found Maude up on the battlements of the shell keep, watching as Adeliza and a lone servant rode out under a flag of truce. A few yards beyond the castle, they were met by Stephen’s escort, and headed toward the king’s encampment. “She will accomplish nothing,” Maude said at last. “Stephen will not heed her. Why should he?”

  Ranulf agreed with her bleak assessment of Adeliza’s chances, but at the moment, he had a more immediate concern. “Maude, it is not safe for you up here. You are within crossbow range; did you not realize that? What if you were recognized?”

  “I do not care,” she said, with sudden, defiant passion. “Let them recognize me. Let Stephen see that I am not afraid!”

  Adeliza was welcomed with courtesy, but she’d expected no less from Stephen. She’d known she’d have no chance of getting a private audience; his barons seemed to take turns standing as sentinels between Stephen and his better instincts. She’d been resigned to the presence of the Beaumont twins, William de Ypres, Geoffrey de Mandeville, and the Earl of Northampton. But the sight of Stephen’s bishop brother was an unpleasant surprise. She knew Henry invariably advised Stephen against compromise or conciliation, and when she’d learned he’d ridden into Stephen’s camp just before she did, she took it as an ill omen. But she could not lose heart, not with so much at stake. Dropping gracefully to her knees before Stephen, she caught his hand in hers.

  “My lord king, hear me, I beg you. My husband and I have not been disloyal to you. We did make the Lady Maude welcome at Arundel, but as my kinswoman, not as your enemy. What else could I do? She is the daughter of my late husband, may God assoil him.”