When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I admit there is a risk, but if we take a stand, others will join us. No one wants that woman as queen, and men would be heartened by our defiance. They would rise up, too, would-”

  “And if they did not? What would befall us then? If the empress is even half as vengeful as Gervase claims, she would exact a dreadful price for our rebellion. Let Gervase talk about long-dead Norman poets. I say we talk about history closer to home-Lincoln! Is there a man here who does not know what that city suffered after it was taken by the empress’s army? Do you truly want to see London reduced to the same pitiful straits?”

  The spectre of the ravaged ruins of Lincoln was a powerful deterrent. Although Gervase continued to argue, he soon saw that he was swimming against the tide. He’d wager that most of the men agreed with him, but they needed more than hope ere they’d commit to such a perilous course. He subsided, slumping down in his chair as the discussion ebbed and flowed around him. If the fools would not listen, what more could he do?

  Thomas Becket had taken no part in the debate, listening intently but voicing no opinion of his own. When it was clear that Osborn’s arguments were going to carry the day, he asked his clerk to fetch him more wine. Thomas rose obligingly, and it was then that he saw the monk being ushered across the hall toward Gervase. He paused to watch, sensing something out of the ordinary was occurring.

  “Silence!” Gervase shouted suddenly. “I’ve just gotten an urgent message from Bermondsey Priory, and it changes everything. It seems there is a new player in this game. Brother Anselm here has come at the behest of Prior Clarembald to bear witness. He says that Queen Matilda and William de Ypres have led an army out of Kent, and they are ravaging and burning south of the river!”

  That announcement unleashed brief pandemonium. “Quiet!” Gervase cried, over and over until he got his way. “Let Brother Anselm tell us what he knows.”

  “It is true,” the monk said calmly; he alone seemed untouched by the chaos permeating the hall. “They spared our priory, but others were not so fortunate. If it were not full dark, you could see the smoke along the horizon. And by the morrow, they’ll be in Southwark.”

  “As I said,” Gervase repeated triumphantly, “this changes everything. The queen is sending us an unmistakable message-that we have as much to fear from her wrath as we do from Maude’s.”

  “It is so unfair! How can people hope to survive, trapped between two armies! What can we do?”

  “Is it not obvious? We ally ourselves with the queen, we keep faith with Stephen, and we show Maude the mettle of true Londoners!”

  This stirring declaration set off a burst of cheering. Osborn shuddered, seeing his rental houses and his luxurious Thames Street home going up in flames, a lifetime’s work lost, and for what? “Let’s not be hasty! We must think this through, must-”

  “What was it you’d asked, Osborn-who would come to our aid? Well, now we know-Queen Matilda! I say we send word to her straightaway!” And this time Gervase prevailed. Agreement was swift and almost unanimous. On this Midsummer’s Eve, London cast its fate with Stephen’s queen.

  June 24th, the Nativity of John the Baptist, was also known as Midsummer’s Day. It was a popular festival, celebrated with bonfires and flowering garlands and torch-lit processions. Westminster’s great hall was hung with St John’s wort, rue, roses, and vervain. The palace cooks had been laboring all morning to produce a truly spectacular meal, a trial run for Maude’s coronation banquet, and the air was redolent with the aromas of simmering venison stew and roast swan and freshly baked bread. As noon approached, the guests were escorted into the hall, then to their designated seats at the linen-draped trestle tables, while youths hurried to offer lavers of scented washing water and hand towels.

  It was not until the first course was served-a savory rabbit soup-that Maude had the opportunity to question Robert about the Bishop of Winchester’s conspicuous absence. “When you saw him this morn, Robert, did he tell you he’d not be attending? What excuse did he offer?”

  “I did not see him, Maude. He has left Westminster.”

  “Without a word to me? Where did he go?”

  “I do not know. I have to admit, Maude, that I’m troubled in this disappearance of his. I know you do not like hearing it, but we have to make our peace with the man…and it will not be easy if we cannot even find him.”

  Maude set her spoon down. “Most likely he’s gone off to one of his manors to brood, waiting to be coaxed back. I understand that was his usual routine whenever he did not get his own way with Stephen. I never expected to be in sympathy with Stephen, but I can well imagine what he must have gone through after denying Henry that archbishop’s mitre he so craved. It amazes me that he had the backbone to hold fast…”

  She waited until a server had removed her soup bowl before turning back toward her brother. “Now…what of the rumors about Ypres? Is it true that he plundered and burned manors and villages south of the river? Have you been able to verify that yet?”

  “My scouts have not returned, but Geoffrey de Mandeville says it is true enough, and he ought to know.” Robert lowered his voice, for the Earl of Essex had been given a seat of honor at the high table. “I’ve heard it claimed that half the whores in Southwark spy for him, and I’d not be surprised, for little gets past him.”

  Maude found it difficult to admit she’d so misjudged Stephen’s queen. She was baffled, too, for she would never have expected Matilda to put Stephen’s life at risk. But this was neither the time nor the place to discuss Matilda’s astonishing metamorphosis, and she contented herself with saying only, “I thought Matilda had more common sense.”

  The conversation at their table was now focusing upon the continuing saga of the Earl of Chester’s lordly banditry. He’d claimed proprietary rights over most of the prisoners captured at Lincoln, and those unlucky souls had been bled for exorbitant ransoms, not always in money. Young Gilbert de Gant had been compelled to wed Chester’s niece as the price of his freedom, and William Peverel had been forced to yield Nottingham Castle. But if the table talk was true, it seemed that Chester had pulled off an even more outrageous coup. He’d lured his old enemy the Earl of Richmond into an ambush, cast the man into one of his dungeons, and neglected to feed him until he’d agreed to turn over Galclint Castle.

  As usual, Chester’s utter indifference to public opinion stirred amazement, amusement, disapproval, and possibly even envy. Maude’s feelings were not so ambivalent, though; her response was anger, pure and simple. Once her coronation was over and she could concentrate upon matters of state, she meant to teach the outlaw earl a sharp lesson in the powers of the Crown. He seemed to think he was above the laws of the land, and for that, she blamed Stephen. Her father would never have tolerated such arrant breaches of the King’s Peace, and neither would she.

  She glanced down the table now toward her niece. Maud was giggling at something Ranulf had just said. If she was distressed on her husband’s behalf, she was concealing it remarkably well. Maude still thought it prudent to divert the conversation away from Chester’s manifold misdeeds, and she signaled for silence.

  “I have good news to share. I received a letter this morn from my husband. He writes that the city of Caen has yielded to him, as have Verneuil and Nonancourt, and he predicts that by summer’s end, he will control all of Normandy west of the River Seine.”

  Audible ripples of approval and relief eddied about the hall. All were war-weary and impatient for the succession dispute to be settled. Maude was not the only one who resented Stephen’s barons for their stubborn reluctance to come to terms with political realities.

  The venison stew was being ladled onto trenchers when a flustered youth was admitted to the hall, insisting that he had an urgent message for the Earl of Essex. Geoffrey de Mandeville rose at once, and Maude watched with interest as they conferred. So did Robert, for it had occurred to them both that Mandeville’s spy system might have unearthed information about Matilda’s whereabouts or intent
ions. When the earl turned around, they knew at once that whatever he’d just learned was calamitous, for the color had faded from his face, and he was not a man to be easily shaken.

  Striding swiftly back to the high table, he said, “The Londoners are rising up against you, madame. They are massing in the streets, making ready to march on Westminster.”

  “No…they would not dare!”

  “Yes,” he said flatly, “they would. You can believe it or not as you choose, but I do. This lad’s master is a local merchant, a man who’s given me reliable information in the past, and he is not likely to make a mistake of this magnitude.”

  Osborn Huitdeniers’s servant had trailed the earl to the dais, and he nodded vigorously. “It is true, my lady, I swear it,” he assured Maude solemnly. “By the time I reached Ludgate, the church bells had begun to peal throughout the city, calling men to arms. Listen…can you not hear?”

  Maude and Robert tilted their heads, and indeed, they could hear the distant, muted chiming of church bells. As stunned as Maude was, she rallied fast and got hastily to her feet, still clutching her napkin. “Thank God for the warning! But we’ll have to act at once if we hope to repel them. Robert, the command is yours-”

  “What command?” Geoffrey de Mandeville snapped. “We’re facing a mob, not an army. That is not a fight we can win. But we ought to be able to get away ere they-”

  “Run?” Maude was flabbergasted. “Never!”

  Robert was on his feet, too. “Maude, he is right. Not only are we outnumbered, but our wives and daughters are with us. If we’d been able to reach the Tower…but we could never hope to keep them out of Westminster and Christ pity us if we try!”

  By now those at the high table knew of their peril. Men were pushing their chairs back. Ranulf had already reached Maude’s side, with Brien just a stride slower. Maude’s niece was leaning over Rainald’s wife, coaxing her to rise, but Beatrice seemed incapable of moving; she’d begun to make soft whimpering noises, sounding eerily like a mewing kitten. Maude saw the truth of Robert’s words in their stricken faces, but her every instinct fought against flight. “Is there not some way that we can resist?”

  Robert shook his head. “Even if we could hold them off for a time, there is another army on the loose, just across the river. How long do you think it would take the Londoners to open their gates to Matilda and Ypres? No, Maude, if we stay, we doom ourselves.” He glanced around at the hall, now in a state of spreading confusion. Fear stood poised to strike, and nothing was more contagious, as he well knew. If they hoped to head off utter panic, they’d have to act swiftly. “I will tell them,” he offered, “if you wish.”

  “No,” Maude said, “it is for me to do.” Wondering how she would ever find the words, she moved toward the edge of the dais. “Be silent so you may hear me,” she urged, “for there is something I must say.”

  The retreat from Westminster was done “without tumult and with military order” according to a chronicle favorable to Maude’s cause. One much more sympathetic to Stephen described a “panic” and a “disorderly flight.” The truth lay somewhere in between.

  Maude and her coterie got away safely to Oxford, but some of her adherents veered off on their own. The Londoners surged into a ghost palace: food still heaped on trenchers in the deserted great hall, chairs overturned, doors oddly ajar, open coffers, burning candles and silence. A few of the angry citizens were disappointed to have won by default; most were relieved. They celebrated by ransacking the palace, carrying off clothes and bedding and belongings left behind, and some sat down to enjoy Maude’s interrupted meal. As word spread into the city, people flocked into the streets again, to cheer and hug and marvel at the ease of their triumph, while church bells were rung with joyful exuberance, until all of London reverberated with the clamorous, silver-toned sounds of victory.

  They had gathered at Eastcheap to wait. At this time of day, the marketplace ought to have been thronged with people looking for bargains, moving from stall to stall, examining the fresh fish, choosing the plumpest hens, buying candles and pepper and needles. The stalls were open, but the fishmongers and cordwainers and butchers were doing no business, despite the growing crowd. The sun was hot, flies were thick, and the odors pungent; no one complained, though. They talked and gossiped among themselves, strangers soon becoming friends, for the normally fractious and outspoken Londoners had forgotten their differences, at least for a day, united in a common purpose and determined to revel in their triumph, for they were pragmatic enough to understand this might be their only one. Now they joked and swapped rumors and waited with uncommon patience, and at last they heard a cry, swiftly picked up and echoed across the marketplace: “She is coming!”

  People had been clustered at the bridge, lining both sides of the narrow street. But Matilda had not expected a crowd of this size. Nor did she expect the sudden cheer that went up as she came into view. Her mare shied and the Earl of Northampton kicked his stallion forward, ready to grab her reins if need be. William de Ypres was content merely to watch; he’d learned by now that Matilda was better able to take care of herself than most men realized. Matilda soon got her mare under control, and reined in as the spectators pressed forward. She found herself looking out upon a sea of friendly faces, and she smiled at them, wishing she could thank each and every one, these Londoners who’d fought for Stephen as his own barons would not.

  “We have made a beginning this day,” she said. “With your help, good people, we shall set my husband free and restore him to England’s throne.”

  18

  Guildford, England

  July 1141

  William de Ypres was taken at once to the queen’s presence, despite the lateness of the hour. Not for the first time, Matilda found herself marveling at the Fleming’s stamina. He was past fifty, his hair thinning into a silver fringe, his skin as rough-hewn as bark from constant exposure to sun, wind, and winter gales. He was fighting age, though, as fiercely as he’d fought all his foes, continuing to expend his energy with the reckless abandon of a twenty-year-old. Matilda knew he must be greatly fatigued, for he’d been in the saddle since dawn. But she knew, too, that he’d never admit to it. Ignoring his protests, she insisted upon ordering him a meal from the kitchen and then stood over him while he ate it. It still surprised her, that she could have become fond of a man so likely to burn in Hell’s hottest flames.

  Casting aside a drumstick, Ypres reached for a napkin. “Can we forget about chicken now and talk instead of crowns? I have news, my lady, about your enemy the empress. My scouts were right; she did indeed head for Oxford. But she did not tarry there for long, and she and Brother Robert were soon riding west in all haste.”

  Matilda stiffened. “Bristol?”

  “No…Gloucester, most likely to confer urgently with Miles.” Ypres caught the echoes of alarm in her voice and gave her a level, faintly admonitory look. “That is not a fear you ought to dwell upon, madame. It serves for naught.”

  “I know,” Matilda admitted. “I have no reason to think Maude capable of outright murder. And…even if desperation did drive her to it, I cannot believe that Robert would ever agree. But such comforting certitude comes more easily to me during the daylight hours. Alone at night, I begin to hear whispers in the dark…”

  “I cannot swear to you, madame, that you have no cause for fear. Nor will I deny that you have put your husband in greater peril. But had you done nothing, he’d have no chance whatsoever of regaining his throne or his freedom. Remember what he was facing: a lifetime’s confinement with no hope of reprieve. With the stakes that high, I’d willingly gamble my life on the outcome, and from what I know of your husband, I suspect he would, too.”

  Matilda smiled wanly. “You do find your own way, Willem. Anyone else would have reassured me that Stephen’s life is not truly at risk. You assure me, instead, that he’ll go to his grave bearing me no grudge.”

  Ypres grinned; he was always encouraged whenever Matilda essayed a j
est, however tentative or forced, for he’d initially feared that she lacked any humor whatsoever. She’d moved to the solar window, gazing out at the summer darkness. After a few moments of silence, she said, “I have news of my own. I had a clandestine visit from Stephen’s brother whilst you were gone.”

  Ypres showed no surprise. But then, he was the most cynical soul she’d ever met, always expecting the worst of men and rarely disappointed. “The bishop is seeking to mend fences, is he? Let me see…he did not want to forsake Stephen, but he had no choice, for he had to put the good of Holy Church above all else, however deeply it pained him.”

  “If I did not know better, I’d swear you were there, Willem, for that is exactly what he said. By the time he was done, he’d even managed to make his betrayal seem almost heroic.”

  He’d rarely heard her sound so bitter. “It was easy enough to guess what he would say. But what of you, madame? What did you tell him?”

  “I wanted to spurn his hypocrisy,” Matilda confessed, “to curse his treachery and revile him as Cain. Instead, I made myself smile. I let him clasp my hand and I lied, I said I understood. And then I told him the truth, that we need his help.”

  “We do,” he said succinctly.

  “I know. And to save Stephen, I’d have made a deal with the Devil himself.” Matilda paused. “In truth, I think I did.”

  Word soon spread of Maude’s return to Oxford. She wasted no time, conferring with her uncle David, the Scots king, and then summoning the others to the castle solar. They were heartened to find Miles at her side, for he had the gift of the best battle commanders, that ability to banish doubts and exorcise the spectre of defeat by the sheer contagious force of his own self-assurance. His presence seemed to have bolstered Maude’s spirits, too; she looked tired and thin, but resolute. “We have made mistakes, most of them mine,” she said, surprising them by her candor. “Fortunately, mistakes can be made right, and that is why I have called you here.”