When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I told you to stay away from her, Will,” Henry said accusingly, and Will blinked in bewilderment.

  “Why? She tells me riddles, and she smells good, like flowers in the garden, like Mama. She looks like Mama, too-”

  “She does not!” Henry glared at the little boy. “She is not at all like Mama!”

  For once, Geoffrey and Henry were united in their indignation. “Her hair is as yellow as butter,” Geoffrey pointed out scornfully, “and Mama’s hair is black. You must be daft, Will, if you cannot tell the difference!”

  Will’s mouth trembled, and Henry was suddenly struck by an unlikely suspicion. “Will…do you remember what Mama looks like?”

  “Of course I do! I remember better than you!” But in truth, Will did not. His mother had been gone a year and a half, and that was almost a third of Will’s lifetime. It had happened so gradually that he was not aware of it, the fading of his memories. There just came a day when he could no longer call up an image of his mother’s face, and now when her letters were read to him, he heard no echoes of her voice. But he could not admit that to his brothers, and he insisted, “I do remember Mama, I do!” before spinning on his heel and running from the hall.

  He did not get far, colliding in the doorway with his father. Geoffrey scooped his son up into his arms, and soon had the little boy giggling. Henry and young Geoffrey watched as he strode toward them, Will gleefully riding astride his shoulders, his earlier distress quite forgotten. Setting Will back upon his feet, Geoffrey smiled down at his sons, and it was only then that they saw the letter in his hand.

  “Is that from Mama?”

  “Yes, Henry, it is, and a remarkable birthday gift she has for you, lad. It seems she has won her war. Your uncles fought a battle with Stephen on Candlemas, at a place called Lincoln. The victory was theirs, and Stephen was taken prisoner.”

  “Then Mama will be queen?” This from Henry, and “Will she come home now?” from Geoffrey.

  “Yes, she will be queen, and yes, she will come back…in time. But England will be her home now, and Normandy, of course. Once she has been crowned, though, you’ll be able to visit her. Me, too,” Geoffrey said and laughed, for he’d just added a silent, “ when Hell freezes over.”

  “You’ll have to go away now, too, Papa,” Henry said, and Geoffrey nodded, surprised and proud that Henry was so quick; he was becoming convinced that his firstborn had been endowed with an uncommonly sharp intelligence.

  “Yes,” he said, “I shall have to go into Normandy straightaway. Until Maude is formally recognized as England’s queen and the crown is set upon her head at Westminster, the danger of rebellion remains. It will be up to me to convince the Norman barons to come to terms without delay.”

  Henry and Geoffrey had fallen silent, for they understood that when their father rode into Normandy, he would be riding off to war. That had escaped Will, though, for he was still focusing upon the good news, that Mama would be queen. “Will Mama let me wear our crown sometimes?”

  Geoffrey hid a smile. But if Will was too young to comprehend the concept of primogeniture, his eldest son was not, as Henry now proved.

  “Oh, no, Will,” he said, firmly but not unkindly. “It is not your crown. It is Mama’s and mine.”

  A month to the day after the Battle of Lincoln, Maude met with Stephen’s brother the Bishop of Winchester at Wherwell. It was a wet, blustery March afternoon, and they were all shrouded in wool mantles and hoods, for this kingmaking conference was being held in an open field not far from the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Cross. The mood was almost as cheerless as the weather, for neither the empress nor the bishop truly wished to be there. Theirs was an alliance of expediency, a grudging recognition of unpalatable political realities-that Maude’s claim to the throne needed the sanction of the Church, and the bishop’s ambitions necessitated a cooperative relationship with England’s sovereign.

  At this dismal March meeting, they were to ratify already agreed-upon terms, terms Maude liked not at all, for she had reluctantly promised that “all major affairs, especially the bestowal of bishoprics and abbeys, should be subject to the papal legate’s authority.” In return, the bishop had vowed to recognize her as queen and pledged her his loyalty. Maude had let herself be persuaded, but she resented having to concede so much royal autonomy to gain support that should have been hers by right. She did not trust Stephen’s brother the bishop, and even though she knew they needed him as an ally, she could not help despising him a little for abandoning Stephen with such alacrity. Stephen may have been luckier in wedlock, she thought, but not in brotherhood. There she’d been truly blessed, and she glanced proudly at her own brothers Robert and Ranulf and Rainald, newly come back from Cornwall.

  Oddly enough, the bishop’s private thoughts were not so far removed from Maude’s musings. He was studying the men flanking her-Robert of Gloucester, Miles Fitz Walter, and Brien Fitz Count-and he was wondering why Maude had been able to attract men of stature and integrity whilst Stephen had relied upon self-serving knaves and malcontents, like the Beaumonts and that treacherous Fleming. If only Stephen had not been so stubborn, so shortsighted. For if Stephen had heeded his advice, he would not now be imprisoned at Bristol Castle and Maude would not be about to set his crown upon that haughty dark head of hers. He’d gotten some impressive concessions from her, more than he’d been able to coax from Stephen, but this was not how he’d wanted it to be. Yet he’d had no choice, for he had to protect the interests of Holy Church. In time, Stephen would come to understand that. Or so he hoped.

  From the Gesta Stephani Chronicle: “So that when the bishop and the Countess of Anjou had jointly made a pact of peace and concord, the bishop came to meet her in cordial fashion and admitted her into the city of Winchester, and after handing over to her disposal the king’s castle and the royal crown, which she had always most eagerly desired, and the treasure the king had left there, though it was very scanty, he bade the people, at a public meeting in the market place of the town, salute her as their lady and their queen.”

  16

  Oxford Castle, England

  April 1141

  “Beatrice?” Ranulf’s sister-in-law gave him a timid smile and he felt a throb of pity. At a distance, she looked like a child, a little girl borrowing her mother’s gown. Up close, she looked fragile, breakable.

  “I have to go, lass,” Rainald said, surprising Ranulf by the gentle way he kissed his wife’s cheek. “My sister has summoned me. But Ella will stay with you whilst I am gone.” Beatrice smiled and nodded, but Ranulf noticed how her hands were clenching in her lap, her fingers knotting in her skirts; her nails were bitten down to the quick, several rimmed in dried blood. Ella had moved protectively to her side, and over Beatrice’s bowed head, her eyes met Rainald’s in a glance of grim reassurance.

  Rainald was silent as they moved into the stairwell. But as they neared the bottom, he said abruptly, “She cannot bear to be alone, not even for a heartbeat.”

  Ranulf hesitated, not sure what he should say. Had Beatrice’s troubles all begun when she was caught in that siege? Or had she always been one to shy at shadows, to see demons lurking in the dark? He knew she was a great heiress. But he knew, too, that Rainald’s women had invariably been bold and lusty wenches, bawdy, cheerful bedmates, never a bird with a broken wing.

  He was still pondering his response when Rainald poked him in the ribs. “So…what is this I hear about your turning down Maude’s offer to find you an heiress of your own?”

  Ranulf shrugged, for he could not tell anyone about Annora. Soon, God Willing, but not yet. “The truth? Well, my lord Earl of Cornwall,” he said, playfully drawling out Rainald’s new title, “I’ve my heart set upon a particular lady, Eleanor of Aquitaine. I hear she and the French king are mismatched, and should their marriage falter, I want to be able to put in my bid.”

  Once more, Rainald’s elbow went into action, connecting with Ranulf’s ribs. “So keep your secrets, then, lad. I’d
wager you’ve got a light o’ love hidden away somewhere,” Rainald said, showing unexpected insight. “But that is no obstacle to a profitable marriage. Not that you’ll need to marry for money, not once Maude-Damnation!” He broke off, giving Ranulf a rueful grin. “I let that cat out of the bag, for certes, me and my runaway mouth!”

  “What?” Ranulf demanded. “What does Maude intend to do?”

  “You cannot tell her I told you,” Rainald warned. “She has it in mind to bestow a title upon you, too-Mortain.”

  “Mortain?” Ranulf echoed. “But…but Mortain is Stephen’s.”

  “Not any more,” Rainald said, punctuating with his elbow again.

  “Christ on the Cross, will you stop prodding me? I’m not a balky horse in need of the spurs! Are you sure about this, Rainald?” When his brother nodded, he exhaled slowly. Count of Mortain. He could not deny that he wanted it. Yet he wished that his gain need not come at Stephen’s expense. But Eustace still had the bulk of his inheritance intact, the county of Boulogne. When he said that aloud, though, Rainald shook his head.

  “You truly think Maude will let Boulogne pass to Stephen’s son? I’d say the lad has a better chance of becoming Pope than Count of Boulogne!”

  Ranulf was taken aback. “That is crazed talk, Rainald! It can be argued that Stephen has forfeited Mortain, but Boulogne is Matilda’s. Eustace is her lawful heir, and no court in the land would say otherwise.”

  “Maude’s court is the only one that counts now, lad.”

  “No…Maude would not do that, Rainald. To deprive Eustace of his rightful inheritance-it would be unjust!”

  “You are such an innocent, Ranulf! Do you honestly believe that Maude cares tuppence about doing Stephen justice? She hates him, lad, as I hope no woman ever hates me. You think she detests Geoffrey? Their marriage is a love feast compared to the way she loathes Cousin Stephen!”

  Ranulf was not convinced, and would have argued further, but by then they’d reached the castle solar. It was already crowded with men, most of the faces familiar to Ranulf. Robert, as always, by Maude’s side. Miles and Brien, also close at hand. Baldwin de Redvers, newly named by Maude as Earl of Devon. Oxford’s castellan, Robert d’Oilly, and his stepson, another of the old king’s illegitimate offspring.

  But there were a few newcomers to their ranks, too. John Marshal, who held Marlborough Castle, although until recently, no one could be sure for whom; he’d managed an adroit balancing act for the past year, convincing both Stephen and Maude that he was on their side. William Beauchamp, formerly one of Waleran Beaumont’s most trusted captains. And Hugh Bigod, who was doing his best to pretend that no one remembered he’d perjured himself on Stephen’s behalf.

  Ranulf squeezed in, finding a space against the far wall. He was expecting no surprises, for he knew why Maude had summoned them-to hear the eyewitness accounts of the Church Council held last week, called by Maude’s new ally the Bishop of Winchester to recognize her as England’s rightful queen. She was flanked by Nigel, Bishop of Ely, and Bernard, Bishop of the Welsh see of St David’s. But it was Gilbert Foliot who’d assumed the role of spokesman, and Ranulf edged over to get a closer look, for he was curious about Foliot, only thirty and already in a position of influence, abbot of the Benedictine abbey at Gloucester. Ranulf knew some begrudged Foliot his rapid rise in the Church hierarchy, attributing it to his kinship with Miles Fitz Walter; they were first cousins, once removed. But Foliot was said to have a quick wit, a nimble tongue, and a sardonic eye, all of which were in evidence now as he described for them the events of the Winchester synod.

  Gilbert Foliot began with an unexpected admission, that in his youth he’d taken great pleasure in the acts of fair tumblers and ropewalkers. “But in all honesty, my fond memories of those spectacular somersaults and dazzling back flips cannot compete with the remarkable performance I just witnessed at Winchester. The bishop’s mental contortions were truly breathtaking!”

  He had an adroit sense of timing, waited now for the laughter to subside. “But then, he had to justify not one, but two turnabouts. He was up to the task, though. First he explained why he had been compelled to break his oath to you, my lady. As he told it, England was in chaos, and you tarried so long in Normandy that he had no choice but to accept Stephen-for England’s sake. And indeed, three whole weeks did drag by between King Henry’s death and Stephen’s coronation.”

  Foliot paused again for laughter, and was not disappointed. “The suspense is becoming too much, Cousin,” Miles said wryly. “How did he explain then, his abandonment of Stephen?”

  “He said that whilst he loved his mortal brother, he loved far more his Immortal Father, and Stephen’s defeat at Lincoln was clearly God’s Judgment upon him, both as a man and a king. And so he urged his fellow clerics to follow his lead, which they did, and elected you, madame, as Lady of the English. After that, the bishop excommunicated Stephen’s supporters, with special thunderbolts aimed at Stephen’s steward, William Martel, who’d dared to seize the bishop’s castle at Sherborne.”

  The word elect jarred with Maude; it was for the Church to consecrate a sovereign, not select one. But at least the bishop had kept faith with her, even if he did choose to pass himself off as a kingmaker. “The Archbishop of Canterbury balked at recognizing my right, claiming he could not break his oath to Stephen. He insisted upon being taken to Bristol, getting Stephen’s consent ere he would agree to accept me. What of the clerics at the synod? Did any of them echo the archbishop’s argument? Did any of them balk, too?”

  “No, my lady,” Foliot said emphatically, if not altogether truthfully. A number of the clerics had not even attended the synod, but he did not want Maude to know that, for he already had enough troubling news to tell her. “It was not the clerics who cast a shadow over the proceedings, it was the queen.” Quickly amending that to “Stephen’s wife,” for he knew how sensitive Maude was on this particular point.

  “Matilda? What could she do?”

  “She sent her chaplain to the synod, a very brave priest named Christian. The bishop refused to read her letter aloud, so Christian boldly snatched it back and read it himself, much to the bishop’s indignation.” Memory of the bishop’s discomfiture brought a brief, involuntary smile to his lips. “It was an impassioned plea for Stephen’s freedom, stressing what the bishop would rather ignore, that he is his brother’s keeper.”

  “Matilda poses no threat. But what of the Londoners? Did they obey the summons?”

  “Yes, they did. But I regret to say that they were not cooperative, madame. They came to argue for Stephen’s release and restoration to the throne. And the bishop had little success in winning them over. They agreed to take his message back to the city, but they warned it was likely to fall on deaf ears. London, it seems, still holds fast for Stephen.”

  There was silence after that, for they all knew they’d suffered a disturbing setback. Maude must be crowned at Westminster. But that could not happen until the Londoners came to their senses. Maude’s disappointment was so intense that she actually felt ill, chilled to the very marrow of her bones.

  “I cannot comprehend such folly. At best, they can delay my coronation, not thwart it. What do they hope to gain by antagonizing me like this? I have the blood-right to be queen, the Almighty has judged my claim at Lincoln, and Stephen is my prisoner. What else need I do to convince them? What more do they want of me?”

  Maude’s cry was heartfelt and found ready echoes. She heard murmurs of agreement and anger, rippling outward like waves across the crowded solar. There was one discordant note, though, a burst of laughter from the window seat occupied by John Marshal, Baldwin de Redvers, and her brother Rainald. They stopped as soon as she glanced their way, but the sound of their snickering lingered, unpleasantly so, in her memory.

  Gilbert Foliot had nothing more to impart; they now knew the best and the worst of the Winchestser council. For a time, they discussed and damned the obstinacy of the Londoners, and Maude then revealed
some good news from Normandy: on Easter Sunday, the Bishop of Lisieux had surrendered the city to Geoffrey. It was agreed that Miles should return to Gloucester, where he could keep watch upon the Marches, lest the Welsh seek to take advantage of English unrest. After that, the day’s business was done.

  Robert waited until he and Maude were alone with their brothers, Miles, and Brien. Only then did he say quietly, “I fear, Maude, that you hold Matilda too cheaply. She could be more of a threat than you think.”

  “Matilda? That little mouse? Surely you jest, Robert!”

  “As long as she controls Kent and the coast, she is dangerous, Maude, for she could hire Flemish mercenaries, strip Boulogne bare to pay them, mayhap even blockade London-”

  “She’d never have the stomach for killing, not St Matilda. She-” Maude stopped abruptly. “Rainald? You are going?”

  Rainald nodded. “By your leave, Madame Queen,” he said jauntily, and kissed her hand with an exaggerated courtly flourish.

  “Rainald…ere you go, I would put a question to you. I am curious about something. What were you finding so amusing with John Marshal and Baldwin de Redvers?”

  “What?” Rainald looked blank, and then shrugged, too nonchalantly. “Oh…that. Just a jest.”