When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Maude was outraged. It was repentance she wanted, not gallantry. Jerking her hand away, she said scathingly, “I am not the lady of the manor come to bid you welcome. I am your sovereign, and I expect you to show me the respect due your queen, I expect you to kneel!”

  Stephen sought to remain impassive, but he could not keep the color from rising in his face. By now it was very quiet, all eyes upon them. “As you wish,” he said, and slowly knelt before her.

  She’d won, but somehow it did not feel like a victory. Maude glanced around at the encircling men. They were watching intently, too intently, and she wondered suddenly if they were remembering Stephen’s magnanimous gesture at Arundel. Turning toward Robert, she demanded, “Why is this man not in irons? If the theft of a crown does not warrant it, what crime does?”

  “I did not think it necessary,” Robert said, rather stiffly. “He gave me his word that he would not attempt to escape, and so-”

  “His word?” Maude echoed derisively. “Is that the same word that he pledged to me when he swore to accept my queenship?”

  Stephen had gotten to his feet, although she had not given him permission to rise. She wanted to protest, to force him back onto his knees. She wanted to order him clapped in irons, as he so deserved. But she was stopped by what she saw in the faces of the watching men: disapproval, instinctive and involuntary, but disapproval, nonetheless. They were not comfortable when power was wielded by a woman, not at a man’s expense, a man who had just acquitted himself so spectacularly at Lincoln, winning their reluctant respect in a way she knew she never could. The brotherhood of the battlefield, she thought, feeling a sharp sense of betrayal as she looked about at the silent spectators. These were her kinsmen, men who’d sacrificed and bled for her cause. If even they doubted her right to rule as a man could, how would she ever convince the others?

  It was a bitter moment for her, gazing upon her defeated rival as her triumph threatened to turn to ashes before her eyes. But no, she’d not let that happen. She would prove to them that she was worthy to rule. She knew what her father would have done, and she would show them that she was her father’s daughter, England’s true queen-by God, she would.

  “I want this man put under close guard,” she said, “and I want it done now.”

  Stephen was steeling himself for confinement in one of the castle dungeons. He was relieved to find that his prison was to be a small but comfortable bedchamber in the keep, albeit with a guard posted at the door. This was the first time he’d been alone since the Battle of Lincoln, and he lay down upon the bed without shedding his clothes, grateful for the solitude.

  He’d known that his encounter with Maude would be a daunting one, and so it was, for he found it very disquieting to have a woman as his enemy. He could not deflect her hostility with defiance, as he had with Chester. His dealings with Robert were free of rancor, for they both knew what was expected of them under the circumstances. Not so with Maude. None of the rules of warfare seemed to apply, for Maude neither knew nor cared what they were.

  His scene with Maude had been unpleasant, but surprising, too, in a way he had not foreseen. Maude and he shared the same inability to camouflage their emotions, and the emotions he’d read on Maude’s face were anger, frustration, and chagrin, not triumph. If he had not enjoyed their confrontation, neither had she. Much to his astonishment, he’d even felt a flicker of pity for her plight, for he’d suddenly seen the truth-that there would be no winners in their war. He was facing lifelong confinement at Bristol or Gloucester, and Maude was about to discover that her English subjects still did not want her as queen. She was blazing a trail on her own, and there in the great hall at Gloucester Castle, he’d realized that she did not even have a map. Whatever happened to him, he doubted that she’d reach Westminster.

  Stephen folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. But it made no sense, not that he and Maude should both lose. A ship with no helmsman would soon founder, and so would England. How could that be part of the Almighty’s Plan? Was it possible that he’d been too quick to conclude that he knew the Lord’s Will? What if his loss at Lincoln was not God’s Judgment upon him? Mayhap the Lord God had not abandoned him, after all. The Almighty had seen fit to test Job, so why not His servant Stephen? Mayhap that was why he’d lost the Battle of Lincoln-so that he might prove his faith was strong, that he was indeed worthy to be England’s king.

  This was the first glimmer of light in the dark that had descended upon Stephen’s world at Lincoln. The loss of hope had been a crueler loss even than his crown, for he’d never known what it was like to live without hope-not until this past week, riding as a prisoner along the muddy winter roads of his own realm. Stephen needed hope as he needed air to breathe, and he lunged toward the light. It did not take much to convince him; he was halfway down the path toward conviction by the time he heard voices at the door.

  He was sitting up on the bed as the door opened. His guard stepped aside, and Stephen smiled at sight of Ranulf, beckoning him inside as if he still had that right.

  Ranulf seemed ill at ease, as if he’d somehow ended up in Stephen’s chamber through no doing of his own. “I…I just wanted to see if you need anything.”

  Stephen considered. “Well, how about a fast horse and a head start?” he suggested, and Ranulf grinned, pleased by this proof that Stephen’s sense of humor had not been one of the casualties of Lincoln, after all.

  “I’ve no horses to spare,” he said, “but I do not come empty-handed,” and with a dramatic flourish, he unhooked a wine flask from his belt, holding it aloft.

  “Sir Ranulf to the rescue,” Stephen joked. But when Ranulf passed him the flask, he put it down, untasted. “There is something you can do for me, lad. Persuade Maude to let me write a letter to my wife. Matilda must be half mad with worry by now.”

  “I’ll ask Maude,” Ranulf promised, wishing he could promise more. But he was remembering the obdurate look on his sister’s face, and he was not at all sure that she would heed his plea, for he suspected that Stephen was the last man in Christendom likely to receive any favors from Maude.

  London’s justiciar and the leaders of the city’s guilds came to the Tower to bid farewell to Stephen’s queen, and to assure her again that Londoners were still loyal to her husband. Soon after, Geoffrey de Mandeville arrived, ostensibly to wish Matilda Godspeed on her journey to safety in the south of England. But he was not long in revealing the real purpose of his visit. As sorry as he was to see her go, he said, he understood that it was for the best. “I do think, though, that the little Lady Constance ought to stay here at the Tower.”

  Matilda stared at him. “I do not agree. My daughter-in-law’s place is with me.”

  Geoffrey de Mandeville smiled and shook his head. “I can protect her, madame, make sure that no evil befalls her in these troubled times. I owe her brother that much.”

  Her brother. The French king. Matilda understood now. “You are indeed kind to worry about Constance,” she said, as steadily as she could, “but there is no need, I assure you.”

  “Ah, but I insist,” he said, still smiling. Matilda looked at him-so elegant, handsome, and urbane-and she had to fight the urge to cross herself, suddenly sure that she was in the presence of true evil.

  Matilda had chosen Guildford as her refuge, a fortified castle in the heart of the North Downs. It was only thirty miles from London, but they were braving February weather at its worst, and they did not reach the Wey Valley until dusk on the second day. The sky was dark and foreboding, the wind as cold and desolate as the future they faced in Maude’s England. It took some time before Matilda was able to get her family settled, still longer before she could slip away to the chapel, for the younger children literally clung to her skirts these days, and although Eustace rebuffed all her attempts at comfort, he watched her constantly with bewildered, needful eyes.

  The chapel was deserted, but that was what Matilda wanted most: time alone. She was so tired, in body
and soul, drained by the need to be strong for her children, her household. Only at night could she give in to her fears, and even then she dared not let herself weep for Stephen, afraid that once she started, she could not stop.

  Moving forward into the chancel, she sank to her knees before the candlelit altar. “Lord God Almighty, into Thy Hands and those of Thy Blessed Son I commit myself. Holy Father, hear my prayer. My husband is in great peril, forsaken by those who had most cause to be true. I would help him if only I could, but I do not know how. Show me the way. I beseech Thee, Dear Lord, to send me a sign. Reveal unto me Thy Will.”

  Breathing a shaken “Amen,” she got slowly to her feet. But she was not yet ready to take up her burden again, and she lingered there in the quiet castle chapel, trying not to think of Constance’s tear-streaked face. That hellspawn Mandeville would not harm her; Matilda knew that. But their parting had been wrenching, the child’s piteous sobs echoing in her ears even after they’d escaped the Tower. For that was how Matilda saw their departure-as an escape. She did not doubt that Mandeville would have kept them all there, hostages to win Maude’s favor, if not for the Londoners. But public opinion was still on Stephen’s side, and even Mandeville dared not risk the Londoners’ wrath by seizing Stephen’s wife and children.

  She’d discussed with Cecily the advisability of taking her children to Boulogne, but she was loath to leave England and she could not bear to be separated from them. If only there were someone she could turn to, someone she could trust. Stephen’s brother Theobald would be sympathetic once he learned of Stephen’s downfall, but what could he do at a distance? He could not rally support for Stephen, not from Blois. The bishop could, though. A prince of the Church, a papal legate, lord of some of the most formidable castles in England, he should have been her natural ally, but she’d not yet heard from him; her plea for help had so far gone unheeded. Just like Waleran Beaumont and William de Ypres and those other craven wretches who’d fled the field at Lincoln, she thought bleakly. Stephen’s brother was abandoning him, too.

  Had Stephen gotten her letter yet? She’d sent a courier to Gloucester, for where else would he be taken? Surely Maude would give him the letter? She could not be so cruel as to withhold it…could she? Matilda had begun to pace, as if trying to outrun her fears. What lay ahead for Stephen? Maude would not dare put him to death? No, God would not let that happen. Nor would Robert, surely? Stephen’s life was not at risk; she must believe that. But he would be buying his life with his freedom, for they would never let him go. The old king had confined his elder brother for nigh on thirty years. His daughter was not likely to be any more merciful to Stephen.

  Caught up in her own thoughts, she was slow to realize that she was no longer alone. A man was standing in the shadows, watching her. “Father Paul?” she asked uncertainly, for the silhouette did not resemble that of the portly chaplain. When he moved forward into the light, she recoiled abruptly. “You!”

  William de Ypres strode toward her. “I must speak with you, my lady.”

  “You dare to face me after what you did! My husband trusted you and you betrayed him!”

  The Fleming had not thought Stephen’s queen capable of such anger. “I know.”

  “How could you abandon him after all he’d done for you? You owed him better than that!”

  “I know,” he said again, “and I am here to make amends.”

  “It is rather late for that,” Matilda snapped. “Why are you really here? What do you want?”

  “I told you-to make amends. I did your husband a grave wrong and I want to right it if I can.”

  Some of Matilda’s rage gave way to astonishment. “You expect me to believe you? If you have a conscience, you’ve kept it remarkably well hidden in the years I’ve known you!”

  “It was a surprise to me, too,” he admitted, “and it is a right inconvenient discovery at this time of my life. I’d gotten along quite well without one up till now.” But his humor fell flat. She continued to look at him suspiciously, and he shrugged. “If I am not sincere, why am I here? Why am I not off selling my sword-and my Flemings-to the highest bidder, to Maude?”

  She opened her mouth, but she could not think of an answer to that, and for the first time, she began to take him seriously. “I do not understand what you are telling me. If you truly regret deserting Stephen, why did you do it?”

  He shrugged again. “There is not much time for reflection in the midst of a battle. When my Flemings broke and ran, I tried to rally them. Obviously I did not try hard enough. But I’d not truly taken the measure of the man, not until it was too late, until I learned how he’d refused to flee, willing to fight to the death-”

  “But why did he have to buy your loyalty with his blood? My husband is a good and decent man. Why could you not see that sooner?”

  “Ah, but I did, Lady Matilda. Stephen has courage and a generous spirit and he is for certes one of the most likeable men I’ve ever met. As you say, he is a good man. But he is not a good king.”

  Matilda wanted to protest the unfairness of that verdict. But she did not, and after a moment, she said quietly, almost beseechingly, “Why is that? Why do men think that Stephen is not a good king? I do not understand.”

  “Well…” He frowned thoughtfully. “Suppose you had a Greenland falcon, a joy to behold, so handsome he was, whiter than a winter snowfall. A falcon that flies straighter and higher than any arrow, and twice as fast. Every falconer’s dream…except that he falters when it is time to make the kill.”

  Once again, Matilda wanted to argue; once again, she did not. “Did you truly mean what you said-about helping Stephen?”

  He nodded. “If not, I’d be in Gloucester by now, offering my services and men to Maude. Instead, I am here, offering them to you. I do not-” He got no further; Matilda gave a sudden gasp, clasping her hand to her mouth.

  “You are my sign!” she cried. “I begged the Almighty to show me how to aid Stephen, and He did, He sent you to me!”

  William de Ypres burst out laughing. “I’ve often been called the Devil’s henchman, but this is the first time anyone ever accused me of being one of God’s good angels!” He stopped laughing, though, as he realized that Matilda was utterly in earnest. “I’d not lead you astray, Lady Matilda. It may be too late. And you should know this, too-that many men may have to die to set your husband free. Will you be able to do what must be done to restore him to the throne?”

  Matilda hesitated. “I cannot answer that,” she said at last, “for I do not know what might be asked of me. If I could secure Stephen’s freedom by sacrificing his crown, I would. But even if he agreed to abdicate-and I doubt that he would-Maude would still not let him go, for she is not a woman who knows how to trust.”

  “Indeed, she is not,” he agreed, “and that is why we must be very cautious. Stephen survived the battle, and they must not regret it-not yet.”

  He was pleased to see that his bluntness had not shocked her. She was nodding somberly. “I know,” she said. “That is all I can think about: Stephen’s danger and Maude’s controversial queenship. If I were Maude, I’d be treading with great care and speaking softly, doing whatever I could to dispel men’s doubts and ease their minds.”

  “At least until the coronation,” he said dryly. “But you do not think Maude will follow that prudent path, do you?”

  “I pray to God she will not,” Matilda said, “for that is the only chance Stephen has. His future, mayhap his very life, depends upon Maude’s making mistakes.”

  It was midmorning, but wall torches and cresset oil lamps had been burning for hours in the great hall of Geoffrey d’Anjou’s castle at Angers. Although this last day of February was sunlit and clear, it was still too cold to open the shutters. A desk had been set up in a corner for study, and Henry was hunched over a primer, his face hidden by a tumbling thatch of copper-gold hair.

  Geoffrey resented his brother’s absorption in the book, for he felt it keenly that Henry could read and he
could not. He was still learning his letters, and he was supposed to be practicing them now, copying the Christcross row their tutor had etched onto a wax tablet. But the alphabet held no charms for Geoffrey, and his parchment sheet remained blank. Instead, he’d been amusing himself by aligning and realigning his writing supplies: a pumice stone to erase mistakes, a boar’s tooth to polish the parchment afterward, a small knife to trim his quill pen, a ruler to make margins, and his favorite, an inkhorn made from a real cow’s horn, stuck down into a hole in the desk to minimize spills.

  Geoffrey set the pumice stone on its end, was attempting to balance the ruler on top of it when he glanced up, saw their tutor heading their way. He hastily dunked the quill in the inkhorn, drew a large, crooked A on the parchment. Master Peter had stopped by Henry first, complimenting him for having gotten through most of the Pater Noster. Geoffrey slopped a B onto the page, splattering ink upon his sleeve. Fortunately Master Peter seemed in no hurry, for he was still talking to Henry, joking about his birthday next week.

  Geoffrey scowled, putting down his pen. That was all anyone talked about these days, Henry’s upcoming birthday. He was so jealous of the attention Henry was getting that he forgot he was likely to receive a scolding for his own lackluster efforts. But luck was with him, for Master Peter was now being called away. Instead of putting his reprieve to good use, though, Geoffrey leaned over and dribbled ink onto Henry’s side of the desk. “So you are going to be eight,” he said. “So what? I’ll be eight in June.”

  Henry prudently moved his book out of ink range. “No, you will not,” he said calmly. “You’ll only be seven.”

  As much as Geoffrey yearned to refute that fact, he didn’t know how. “Well…I’ll be eight next year,” he countered, and Henry grinned.

  “Yes,” he said, “but then I’ll be nine!”

  Geoffrey glowered at his brother. Somehow Henry always seemed to get the better of him. “Birthdays are stupid,” he said, and pretended to stretch, taking the opportunity to prod Henry in the ribs with his elbow. Henry jabbed him back, but his retaliation was halfhearted; he was staring across the hall. Like a cat at a mousehole, Geoffrey thought, looking to see what had claimed Henry’s attention. It was that lady, he decided, Papa’s friend. He wished he knew why Henry disliked her so much, but Henry would not tell him, acting as if he knew a secret no one else did. Sometimes Geoffrey went out of his way to be friendly with the lady, just to vex Henry. But today it was their little brother, Will, who was doing that, holding her hand and laughing as she ruffled his hair. As soon as she moved away, Henry gave a sharp whistle and beckoned to Will, who trotted obediently across the hall in response to the summons.