When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Nan joined in his laughter, even though the humor eluded her. She laughed at all of Geoffrey’s jokes, whether she understood them or not. “What of the other man, this Fitz…Herbert?”

  “Fitz Hubert. He was one of Stephen’s Flemish hirelings, mayhap the worst of a bad lot. Last October he turned on Stephen and seized Malmesbury Castle. Stephen snatched it back, but-surprise of surprises-he then agreed to let Fitz Hubert go. It seems he was a kinsman of William de Ypres, and he prevailed upon Stephen to show his cousin some undeserved mercy.”

  “Was that the end of it?”

  “Of course not. Fitz Hubert promptly hied off to Maude at Bristol. But he soon saw he could do better on his own and by a ruse, succeeded in getting hold of Devizes Castle. When Righteous Robert-my saintly brother by marriage-sent his son to take command, Fitz Hubert drove him off. Using Devizes as a refuge, he and his brigands set about terrorizing the countryside, plundering and raping and burning as they pleased. It then occurred to him that if he’d done so well with one castle, how much better he could do with two, and he set his eyes upon Marlborough. But he overreached himself there, for Marlborough was held by a man named John Marshal, and that one could teach the Devil himself about guile.”

  Nan clapped her hands, like a child hearing a bedtime story. “What happened then?”

  “Marshal pretended to believe Fitz Hubert’s cock-and-bull tale about forging an alliance, lured our greedy Fleming to Marlborough, and cast him into the castle’s dungeon. He then agreed to turn Fitz Hubert over to Brother Robert for five hundred marks. Robert dragged the Fleming back to Devizes, where he swore to hang him if he did not order the garrison to surrender. But Fitz Hubert balked and Robert, ever a man of his word, hanged him outside the castle walls. Meanwhile, the garrison had decided they did not truly need Fitz Hubert, and so they spurned all demands for surrender. Instead, they waited until Robert’s forces withdrew, and then yielded the castle to Stephen, for a right goodly profit!”

  Geoffrey and Nan laughed so loudly that Henry feared they’d awaken the squires. He huddled against the coffer, holding his breath, but those blanketed forms by the hearth didn’t stir.

  “So you see, sweet, it is every man for himself in England these days. And it’ll get worse ere it gets better. Stephen and Maude have opened the floodgates, and all they can do is let the tide carry them along, whilst trying to keep their heads above water. Not that it would break my heart if the lady drowned! But whether she survives or not, she’ll not be coming back to bedevil me. Now…enough of these English lunatics. We’ve more interesting matters to discuss. When are you going to make good your offer?”

  “Offer?” Nan echoed coyly. “What offer was that, my lord?”

  Henry did not hear his father’s murmured response, only the woman’s laugh. There was an intimacy to their conversation now that was different and disquieting. Making no further attempts at concealment, Henry got to his feet. He no longer cared if he was caught or not. With a deliberation that verged upon defiance, he turned away from the bed, started toward the door.

  His father had once told him that ice could burn. He hadn’t believed it; now he did. The coldness within him was numbing, seemed to have seeped into the very marrow of his bones. He’d never felt like this before, did not even know how to describe it. The word desolate was not yet in his seven-year-old’s vocabulary. There was anger, too, but it was unfamiliar anger-not hot, more like the ice that burned. He had not comprehended all that he’d overheard, but he had understood what mattered. His mother was not coming back.

  12

  Westminster, England

  December 1140

  Goffrey’s cynical assessment of English affairs was more accurate than he knew. Even as he predicted coming chaos, the Earl of Chester was plotting a royal murder.

  Chester had not forgiven Stephen for bestowing upon Harry of Scotland the disputed Honour of Carlisle. When the Scots king’s son took as his wife a half-sister of the detested Beaumonts, Chester’s fury reached the flash point. He’d never been one to bother about consequences, and he had no fear whatsoever of the king’s wrath-not this king-for Stephen had repeatedly shown himself to be a believer in second chances, even third, fourth, and fifth chances. Once he made up his mind to take action, Chester turned to the only man he truly trusted, his half-brother, William de Roumare.

  William de Roumare was nine years older than Chester, and of a less volatile temperament. He was famed not so much for his own accomplishments as for his fortuitous dockside decision not to sail on the White Ship. Although he was ambitious, even his ambition seemed a pale echo of Chester’s ravenous hunger for power and prestige. The two brothers were very close, but there was no doubt who dominated, and William de Roumare became a willing accomplice to Chester’s vengeful scheme.

  Their plan, as reckless as it was ruthless, was to ambush Harry of Scotland and his Beaumont bride as they made their way home from a Michaelmas visit to Stephen’s court. Fortunately for the Scots prince, one of their conspirators had a weakness for wine, and did some rash bragging to a bought bedmate. The young woman was shrewd enough to realize both the value and the danger in such information, and she wasted no time confiding her perilous, prized secret to the most trustworthy of Stephen’s inner circle, his queen. Matilda was appalled, but acted swiftly to frustrate Chester’s murderous intent, persuading Stephen to provide Prince Harry and Adeline de Warenne with a royal escort all the way to the Scots border.

  They were then faced with a Draconian dilemma: what to do about the Earl of Chester. There was no easy answer, for this would-be assassin was also the most powerful lord of the realm. As furious as Stephen was with Chester’s treachery, he and Matilda reluctantly concluded that there was no way to punish him for it. The crime had been thwarted, evidence was lacking, and who’d take the word of a drunken hireling over his highborn lord? An earl might be charged with rebellion, but a felony? No, they’d have to find another way to deal with this overmighty, unscrupulous subject, however little they liked it.

  Resorting to the tactic that had become a habit by now, Stephen sought to buy Chester’s loyalty. At the time of the old king’s death, there had been no more than seven earls in his domains. In the five years since Stephen had claimed the crown, though, he’d bestowed no less than sixteen new earldoms. Four had gone to the Beaumonts and their kin; in the past year alone, he had created six new earls. Adding a seventh to that list, he conferred upon William de Roumare the earldom of Lincoln.

  He then returned to London, confident that he’d outbid Maude and the brothers were his, but with a sour taste in his mouth, withal. He had yet to learn that for some men, “more” is never “enough.” Instead of rejoicing in their new family earldom, Chester and his brother fumed, for Stephen had not included the royal castle of Lincoln in his grudging grant. And as their king rode south, they began to lay plans to remedy his omission.

  Christmas Eve revelries at Westminster were lavish that year-deliberately so, as if rich fare and dramatic spectacle could somehow validate Stephen’s contested kingship, as if roast goose and spiced red wine and a baker’s dozen of minstrels could make people forget the burning of Worcester, the sacking of Nottingham, the newly dug graves, and the uncertain tomorrows that lay ahead. The great hall of William Rufus had been adorned with so much greenery that it resembled the forest in which Rufus had met his death, decorated with evergreen boughs and holly and beribboned sprigs of mistletoe. The meal had been so bountiful that the leftover goose and venison and bread and eel scraped from the trenchers would feed Christ’s poor for days to come. The entertainment was equally extravagant: a woman rope dancer, a daredevil who juggled daggers, a Nativity play that offered not only the requisite shepherds and Magi but even a few sheep as props. Then the last of the trestle tables were cleared away and the dancing began, the irresistible, exuberant music of everyone’s favorite, the carol.

  Matilda danced so many carols that she began to get dizzy, and when the circle started
to form for the next one, she begged off, moving to the sidelines to catch her breath. She had no need for center stage, would have been quite content to watch her husband have fun. But she was still keeping an eye upon her son and his bride; Eustace and Constance had been given permission to attend the evening revelries, although it was well past their bedtime hour. Constance had withdrawn to a cushioned window seat, Eustace had followed, and only Matilda saw what happened next, saw Eustace deliberately pour his cider down the front of Constance’s gown.

  Constance gave a scream, quickly choked off, and began to brush ineffectually at the spreading stain. Eustace laughed, then turned to saunter innocently away. Before he could make his escape, though, his mother was there, with a napkin for Constance and a low-voiced but stinging rebuke for him. He flushed, insisting it had been an accident, that Constance had jogged his arm. But Matilda was not mollified. Sounding like the queen and not at all like his mother, she said coldly, “Do not make your misdeed worse by lying about it, Eustace. When the carol ends, go to your lord father and ask if you may withdraw. Then go to your bedchamber straightaway, and if you wake Will, you’ll have reason to rue it.”

  Eustace started to argue, but then thought better of it. He was not a stupid child, and he well knew which of his parents could be gotten around, which one could not. Giving Constance a baleful glance that promised future retribution, he stalked off to do as his mother bade, and Matilda turned her efforts to comforting her daughter-in-law.

  Constance was the older of the two children, eleven to Eustace’s ten, although none would have guessed it by appearance, for Eustace was a swaggering, handsome boy, as yellow-haired and bold as a Viking, tall for his age, and Constance’s fairness was ethereal, even fey. She had the flaxen hair and blue eyes and shy nature of her elder brother the French king. Like Louis, she yearned for approval, and like Louis, she could be surprisingly stubborn. But most of the time she was quite biddable, eager to do what was expected of her, fearful of disappointing…fearful, too, of Eustace.

  They had been betrothed that past February, wed on the last Sunday before Advent. Constance would be raised at the English court, learning the customs and ways of her new homeland, and when she and Eustace were of an age to consummate their marriage, they would share a bed. It was a common arrangement, but Matilda was already uneasy, sensing that they were poorly matched, this little French fawn and her wolf-cub son.

  It was not easy to admit, for Eustace was her flesh and blood and she did love him. For some time, though, she had been troubled by what she was seeing in her son. He had known how Constance had looked forward to this evening-a chance to attend the Christmas fete, to sit at the high table and take part in the carol and wear a grown-up gown of moss-green silk. In spoiling her pleasure, Eustace had been playing no mere prank; it was a meanspirited act, the act of a bully.

  Matilda had tried at first to find mitigation for her son’s misbehavior, tried to convince herself that she was exaggerating the significance of his petty sins, sins common to all boys of spirit. But once her eyes were opened, she saw shadows at every turn. Her younger son had too many bruises; no child fell down that often. Four-year-old Mary had begun to shrink back whenever Eustace was nearby. Her own spaniel would not approach the boy, and Stephen’s favorite greyhound was equally wary. There was an awkward incident involving a one-legged beggar who claimed Eustace had stolen his crutch, an accusation he’d hastily retracted upon learning the boy’s identity. And then there was the day when Eustace was seen flinging a cat from an upper-story window. He’d been quite forthright when confronted, admitted the deed freely, explaining he wanted to see if the cat would land on its feet, as folklore held. But Matilda had been unable to repress a queasy suspicion that he’d hoped to see the cat splatter upon the hard ground below.

  She did not want to bother Stephen; he had enough on his trencher as it was. After the cat episode, though, she felt she had no choice. Stephen hadn’t liked what he heard, and he’d given Eustace a stern lecture about the obligations of the highborn, the need to protect those too weak to protect themselves, the duties imposed by chivalry and Christianity, duties which no king’s son could shirk. Afterward, he’d assured Matilda that the lad was quite attentive and whilst denying any wrongdoing, promised to make them proud of him. Boys that age ofttimes went astray, it was to be expected, but they outgrew it, for certes he had.

  Matilda very much wanted to believe him, but she could never imagine Stephen-no matter how young-tormenting small children or dumb animals. She no longer shared Stephen’s implicit faith that all would always turn out for the best, and she could not help asking unsettling questions. What if Eustace did not outgrow it? What sort of king would he make? What sort of husband?

  She’d engaged a new nurse for her children, one who understood that her duties included a discreet surveillance. But Constance was another matter. If her suspicions about Eustace were correct, the girl’s marriage would be a wretched one. She’d become very fond of Constance, and it distressed her enormously to think of her vulnerable daughter-in-law wed to a brutal husband, and he her own son. Pray God she was wrong, that they had not done Constance a terrible injustice, for she did not believe a crown compensated for all of life’s maladies. She would have to teach the lass to speak up for herself, to show more backbone. A pity the child had not come under the sway of her brother’s wife, for no one would ever call Eleanor of Aquitaine docile or sweetly submissive.

  Matilda had to smile at the very thought; during her stay in Paris, she’d been somewhat shocked by Eleanor’s outspokenness, while envying it, too. She’d had to take a much more active part in Stephen’s fight to save his crown than she’d ever envisioned, and she was proud of her accomplishments on Stephen’s behalf, but it was neither easy nor natural for her to play such a role, not as it was for Eleanor.

  She could not leave the hall herself, and she looked over her guests until her gaze finally settled upon Robert Beaumont’s daughter Isabel, the Earl of Northampton’s countess. A wife at thirteen, a mother at fifteen, she’d surely sympathize with Constance’s discomfort, and when Matilda beckoned her over, she volunteered at once to assist the child in sponging off her gown, salvaging the remainder of the evening. Watching as Isabel gently steered Constance across the crowded hall, Matilda vowed to have another long, frank talk with her son, one he would not enjoy.

  Matilda wanted suddenly to be with her husband. For a few hours, she was not going to fret about Eustace or Constance or Maude or that vile hellspawn Chester. For a few hours, she was going to focus upon Stephen and only Stephen, hoping that his high spirits would be contagious.

  But Stephen would have to wait, for one of her guests was bearing down upon her, clearly intent upon interception. She guessed him to be about her own age, midthirties, and her initial impression was of a lord both pleasant and prosperous. While his tunic was not cut in the latest fashion, it was finely stitched and of good-quality wool, and his shoes had silver buckles. He looked like a man who smiled easily and often. He also looked familiar, but his name eluded her. He was shepherding a woman, a slim, dark creature not much taller than Matilda herself, and quite young. Had her hair been loose and her feet bare, she would have looked right at home in a gypsy encampment. She did not look at home at Westminster, and Matilda’s heart warmed toward her, as it did toward all of life’s misfits and orphans and lost lambs.

  As they reached her, the man’s name bobbed up from the depths of her memory, just in time for her to say with a smile, “Sir Gervase, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

  Her memory’s reprieve won her a lifelong champion. He beamed, so flattered to be remembered by the queen that it was a moment before he recollected himself. “Madame, may I present my wife, Annora?”

  The girl curtsied hastily, murmuring a conventional response, then raised her lashes to reveal brilliant black eyes. “The little lass…was that the Lady Constance?” It was soon apparent to Matilda that Constance was merely a conversational brid
ge, meant to get Annora Fitz Clement where she wanted to go-across the Channel to the French court, home of Constance’s celebrated sister-in-law. “You met the French queen, my lady. Is she as fair as men claim? I heard that she does just as she pleases, says whatever is on her mind, and yet the French king dotes on her every whim! Can that be true?”

  Matilda stifled a laugh, amused both by Annora’s candor and the faintly wistful tone. She tried then to think of a diplomatic way to deflect Annora’s curiosity, but Annora’s husband was quicker.

  “You cannot ask questions like that, lass. Queens do not gossip.” His laugh was indulgent, his rebuke kindly meant, but Matilda saw it was not kindly taken; color had flared in the girl’s face and the corners of her mouth drooped.

  “Well…in truth, Sir Gervase, queens fancy gossip, too. For certes, I do,” Matilda lied cheerfully. “Queen Eleanor is indeed a beauty, with green-gold cat eyes and a cat’s elegant grace. She has a cat’s confidence, too, and I suspect that would be true whether she wore a crown or not. She is lively and quick-witted and strong-willed and worldly, but very young, withal, only eighteen or thereabouts,” Matilda concluded, satisfied that she’d given Annora an intimate glimpse of the French queen she so admired and envied, but without saying anything hurtful or too revealing.

  There was still so much Annora yearned to know about the French queen, questions she could never have asked in front of her husband, for she had convinced herself that Eleanor would have been willing to brave scandal for a lover’s sake. She needed to believe that not all the women in her world had their wings clipped; surely there must be a few still able to soar up into the sky, untamed and fearless and free. She smiled at Matilda, torn between gratitude and guilt. Why did Stephen’s queen have to be so likable? Pray God she’d somehow survive Stephen’s fall.