When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Chester looked truly surprised, and she hated him all the more for that, for the arrogance that allowed him to imagine his betrayals would be overlooked, his treachery forgotten. “That is a strange jest, madame,” he said coldly, “one likely to offend rather than amuse.”

  “I assure you I find no humor in your presence here, my lord earl. I want you gone from my sight. How much more plainly need I speak than that?”

  Chester was enraged. Angry color scorched his face, and he communicated so much tension to his stallion that the animal kicked out suddenly, causing the closest spectators to scatter. The earl yanked savagely on the reins, glaring at Matilda. “You are distraught, madame, do not know what you are saying. But I cannot indulge your whims, not with so much at stake. The king’s need is too great. I think it best that I speak with you, my lord bishop.”

  Matilda spun around, but the bishop was as deliberate as Stephen was impulsive, and his face was impassive, his thoughts his own. She was never to know what his response would have been, for William de Ypres had sauntered forward, brandishing a drawn sword and a smile so full of mockery that it was in itself a lethal weapon, conveying mortal insult without need of any words whatsoever.

  Words he had, though, each one aimed unerringly at Chester’s greatest vulnerability-his pride. “I can speak for the bishop,” he said, “for every man jack here. We heed but one voice in this camp-that of the queen. Now that flag of truce means no more to me than it would to you, but our lady is a woman of honour. So thank God for her forbearance and ride out, my lord earl, whilst you still can.”

  Chester showed no fear, only fury. “You fools,” he snarled, “you shortsighted, pompous fools! Mark this day well, remember that you had a chance to save your king. Instead, you heeded a woman and a foreign cutthroat, and sealed his doom. He’ll stay chained up at Bristol till he rots, and glad I’ll be of it!”

  Chester spurred his stallion without warning, and men dived out of his way as the horse plunged forward into the crowd. His men hastily followed, retreating in a hail of hostile catcalls and curses.

  Matilda had moved away, jamming small fists into the folds of her skirts as she sought to regain her composure. When she turned back to face the men, she was braced for disapproval. “If you say I ought to have accepted his offer, I cannot dispute you. But I could not help myself. I could not pretend that I believed his lies, that I did not despise him. I can only pray that I have not harmed my husband…”

  “You did not,” Ypres said, with an assurance that she envied.

  “You think not, Willem…truly?”

  “I think spurning Chester was for the best. I’ll not deny that I enjoyed it immensely. But it was still a wise move, for the man would have been a constant source of trouble. Not even a saint could fully trust him, and our men are far from saintly. We’d have had an army of hungry cats, so intent upon watching the rat in our midst that Maude would be forgotten!”

  The bishop smiled at that, then nodded. “It is rare indeed when the two of us are in agreement about anything under God’s sky,” he said wryly, “but we do agree about the Earl of Chester. He would have been a dangerous distraction, more of a hindrance than a help. The man has proven himself to be thoroughly untrustworthy, an unscrupulous self-seeker who serves only himself.”

  Matilda stared at her brother-in-law in amazement, for he seemed to have spoken utterly without irony. She’d been incensed not just by Geoffrey de Mandeville’s treachery, but also by his cynicism. In offering his aid, he’d made no attempt to convince her of his good faith, sardonically sure that her need would outweigh her anger. He was not blind to ethical boundaries-as was Chester-merely indifferent to them. But as she looked now at Stephen’s brother, she realized that he was quite unlike those two renegade earls. It would never occur to him that others might consider him an “unscrupulous self-seeker,” too. He truly believed himself to be on the side of the angels, a pious man of God, defender of Holy Church, burdened with a feckless, ungrateful brother, a foolhardy king. And Matilda found his sincerity even scarier than Mandeville’s mockery or Chester’s amorality.

  Chester was being damned now from all sides, with great zest and considerable venom. Soldiers were not accustomed to censoring themselves. But few of them were comfortable cursing so freely in front of their queen. Matilda’s presence was inhibiting, therefore, and she knew it. Turning aside, she started back toward her tent, smiling at Warenne’s colorful way with words; he’d just described Chester as “able to slither under a snake’s belly with space to spare.” That got a laugh from Geoffrey de Mandeville. “To give the Devil his due, though, he roots out secrets like a pig going after acorns. How many men know about the king yet? Bristol must be swarming with Chester’s spies! He-madame?”

  Matilda had darted forward, grabbing Mandeville’s arm. “Know what? Has something happened to Stephen?”

  “My lady, we did not mean for you to hear…” William de Warenne stammered. “I am truly sorry!”

  “For what?” Mandeville demanded. “Unless…you mean she does not know?”

  Warenne shook his head, looking more miserable by the moment.

  “Know what?” Matilda repeated. “What are you keeping from me?” She had her answer not from either man, but from Chester himself, for his parting taunt came back to her then. “Chains,” she echoed, “oh, Sweet Jesus, no!” Whirling around, she sought the one man she trusted not to lie to her. “Have they put my husband in irons? Willem…answer me!”

  Ypres was already beside her. “Yes,” he said, “it is so. He has been shackled since mid-July or thereabouts.”

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  That was a difficult question for him to answer; he’d had so few protective urges in his life that he did not know how to justify such an alien emotion. “I did not see what good it would do for you to know,” he said gruffly.

  “You had no right to keep this from me-no right!” Tears had begun to sting her eyes, but she made no attempt to hide them, to wipe them away. What man among them would not have wanted a wife who’d weep for his pain? “Whatever happens to Stephen,” she said tautly, “I must be told. You are fighting to free your king. But I am fighting to free my husband. Do not ever forget that.”

  Ranulf Fitz Roy and John Marshal led a force of three hundred knights, crossbowmen, and men-at-arms out of Winchester’s North Gate and onto the old Ickniell Way, toward Andover. It was still dark, dawn more than an hour away. The men were silent, tense. They had less than ten miles to go, but every one of those miles would be fraught with peril.

  John Marshal’s plan was not only dangerous, but controversial, too. He’d proposed setting up an outpost at Wherwell, where the River Test could be forded. Once they had control of the Andover Road, they would be able to escort supply convoys safely into Winchester. They would have to fortify the crossing, but that could be done with surprising speed; when a castle was under siege, timber countercastles were often put up by the attacking army. This would be far riskier, and to protect their men while they were building a temporary stronghold, John Marshal meant to take over the nearby nunnery of the Holy Cross. The nuns would be sent to safety in Andover until the nunnery could be returned to them, and would be compensated for their dispossession. But Maude and her allies would be bringing the wrath of the Church down upon them for this intrusion into a House of God, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, already irate at being trapped in the siege, would not be easy to placate. It was a measure of their desperation that they’d approved John Marshal’s daring stratagem.

  Maude had not been so willing, though, for Ranulf to lead this high-risk mission, and had quarreled hotly with her brother over it. But Ranulf had insisted and he’d prevailed. The argument he’d made was a valid one, that John Marshal was a good man to have on their side in battle, but not the ideal candidate to negotiate with a convent of nuns. But there was more to his motivation than concern for Holy Cross and its Brides of Christ. Ranulf was in need of diversion-however
dangerous-for his nerves were fraying under the strain. He was still an optimist, still believed that Maude would win her war. But they’d come so close! Just three months ago, he’d been lodged at Westminster Palace, anticipating his sister’s coronation, and Annora was within his reach, if not yet his grasp. Now she seemed to slip further away with each passing day of this accursed siege. Maude had lost ground that it would take them months to regain. He was trying not to blame Maude for this, but those were months he could never get back, months in which Annora would be sharing Gervase Fitz Clement’s life and bed, instead of being where she belonged-at his side and in his bed.

  Easing his stallion, Ranulf now slowed its pace until Gilbert caught up. “I still say you ought to have stayed back in Winchester,” he grumbled. “You act at times as if I cannot be trusted out of your sight!”

  “Well…the last time you ventured into a nunnery, you got yourself arrested!” Gilbert glanced up at the greying sky, for they’d outrun the night, would be racing the sun to Wherwell. “What are the chances, you think, of Ancel’s being in the queen’s encampment?”

  “More than likely,” Ranulf conceded. “We know Northampton is there. So why would Ancel not be with his liege lord?”

  “It could be that he has seen the error of his ways, is now ready to acknowledge Lady Maude as his rightful queen.”

  “As if you believe that!”

  Gilbert shrugged. “I will if you will,” he offered, and got from Ranulf a reluctant grin. They rode on, bantering, into a waiting ambush.

  They had no warning, for the terrain was ideally suited for concealment, the road narrowing and curving as it wound its way up into the hills, bordered by deep woods, tangled oak and beech and yew providing perfect camouflage for the soldiers who now rushed out to the attack.

  There was instant chaos, horses rearing up, men swearing, hastily drawing swords, reeling back under the onslaught. What followed was not so much a battle as a wild melee, confusing and random and deadly.

  There was no organized retreat, no orders given. It was each man for himself, doing his best to stay alive. Assailed from both sides of the woods, Ranulf’s companions bunched together for protection, spurring their horses mercilessly, for those who halted were quickly struck down, dragged bleeding from their mounts, trampled and left for dead as the running battle surged up the road, until it reached the moss-covered walls of the Wherwell nunnery.

  Warned by the sounds of conflict, two nuns and the porter were struggling to close the doors of the gatehouse. They jumped aside just in time as the first horsemen swept by them into the convent grounds. As the nuns and porter watched helplessly, their nunnery was invaded by armed men, all striving urgently to kill one another.

  Ranulf’s stallion swerved suddenly, almost unseating him. Steering with his knees until he was able to snatch up the reins, he glanced back and gasped, for had his horse not veered off so sharply, he’d have ridden down a small child. It was quite common for nunneries to take in children as boarders or pupils, and several youngsters had been drawn outside by the commotion. This particular child was in the greatest peril, for she’d toddled directly into the path of the riders galloping through the gateway. Fighting to swing his stallion about, Ranulf yelled, “Run, lass!” But she was frozen with fear. Crouching down in the dirt, she disappeared into the dust clouds being swirled up by the flying hooves. When Ranulf got a glimpse of her again, her little body was being cradled by one of the nuns, and he was never to know if the nun had gotten to her in time.

  Nuns had come running out of their dorter, from the bakehouse and the buttery. Not all the women wore the black habit of the Benedictine Order, for widows often lodged in nunneries, renting themselves a safe haven away from worldly temptations and turmoil. But the real world had intruded upon them with a vengeance on this second Tuesday in September. Some of them screamed, fled back into the nearest buildings. Others stood rooted as the battle raged around them.

  John Marshal slashed and cut his way toward the church. “Take shelter inside!” he shouted, shoving aside the priest who tried to block the doorway. Flinging themselves from their horses, his men sprinted after him into the church. Ranulf had just traded blows with a young Fleming, their swords coming together with numbing force, clashing in a shiver of sparks. When the Fleming’s horse stumbled, Ranulf spurred his mount toward the church, too.

  He never made it. A dog lunged toward them, barking ferociously. The stallion reared, lost its footing, and went down. When Ranulf tried to throw himself clear, his spur caught in the stirrup. He hit the ground hard enough to drive all the air out of his lungs, yanked desperately to free his spur, and rolled away from the horse’s flailing hooves. Before he could regain his feet, a soldier was standing over him, wielding a bloodied mace. His helmet took the brunt of the blow, undoubtedly saved his life. But the impact was still strong enough to stun. His vision blurred, and he saw the mace start to descend again through a wavering red haze, powerless to deflect it. The blow never landed. Someone grabbed his assailant’s arm, spoiling his aim. “Do not kill this one, you fool! Look at his horse! He’ll be able to pay a goodly ransom!”

  Ranulf’s arms were pinned behind his back, bound with leather thongs. He and the other prisoners, those judged worthy of ransoming, had been dragged over to the almonry, shoved against the wall, and held under guard. Ranulf’s head was throbbing so wildly that his slightest move set the world to whirling around him. He closed his eyes tightly until the dizziness subsided. When he opened them again, he could think only of those ancient Roman circuses, for the comic and the tragic had merged into a scene as bizarre and compelling as any he’d ever witnessed.

  Bodies lay sprawled at odd angles. Horses milled about in panic. Convent dogs barked hysterically. Plundering had already begun. Soldiers had broken into the abbess’s dwelling and the guesthouse in search of valuables. Others were ransacking the buttery for wine. Not far from Ranulf, two youths were squabbling good-naturedly over a lute, while a third staggered under the weight of a massive coffer. When he broke the lock, revealing neatly folded veils, wimples, and habits, his friends roared with laughter at his chagrin. There was an almost festive air about the looting, but sporadic fighting still continued. John Marshal and the men with him had managed to barricade the church, and some of the Flemings were attempting to force their way inside. And through it all, there echoed the screams of the nuns and children.

  Ranulf tugged at his bonds, to no avail. He’d have to concoct a false identity, for if they learned he was Maude’s brother, he’d not have a prayer in Hell of being ransomed. Mayhap he could claim to be a knight of her household; that would explain why she’d be willing to buy his freedom. It was hard to think clearly, though, when his head was pounding like a drum. As he tried to contrive an alias, one that would alert Maude as to his true identity, more riders rode through the gateway. As they passed Ranulf and the other prisoners, his heart skipped a beat, for he recognized William de Ypres, and he did not doubt that the Fleming could also recognize him.

  Ypres beckoned to several of his captains. After conferring briefly with them, he started toward the church. He’d not ridden far before a nun ran out to intercept him. She was an elderly woman, barely five feet tall, plump and pink-cheeked, as unlikely a foe as he could imagine. But she displayed no fear whatsoever, boldly blocking his horse’s path, and when Ypres reigned in, she cried fiercely, “God will curse you forever if you do not stop this from occurring!”

  Ypres assumed that she was blaming him for shedding blood in God’s Acre. But when she warned that “There is no greater sin than to defile one of His daughters!” he understood. “Where?” he said, and she pointed toward the stables.

  The horses had already been led from the barn, for they were among the most prized of all plunder. It was not empty, though. In a shadowy back stall, two men crouched over a struggling, thrashing figure. One was kneeling on the girl’s outstretched arms, a hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her screams, while hi
s partner was tearing away her habit. They were so intent upon their prey that they did not at once realize they had an audience. Their recoil was almost comical, therefore, when Ypres queried, “I trust I am not interrupting anything of importance?”

  They whirled, groping for their weapons, weapons that went untouched as soon as they recognized the identity of this intruder. They knew Ypres on sight-and by reputation-every man in his army did. The young nun gasped for breath, then pleaded with Ypres to help her, but he kept his eyes upon the men.

  Ypres seemed in no hurry, gazing down at them impassively. “She is a pretty bit, what I can see of her. So…if she’s what you want, go to it. In all fairness, though, you ought to know this. The last time one of my men raped a nun, I cut off his cock and fed it to him.”

  The nun understood none of this, for Ypres spoke in Flemish. “Please,” she sobbed, but without hope, for this cold-eyed man on a grey stallion did not have the look of a saviour. It seemed miraculous to her, therefore, when her assailants suddenly let her go, scrambled to their feet, and fled the stables. Her relief gave way almost at once to a new jolt of fear; what if this foreign knight meant to finish what his men had begun? She clutched at her ripped garments, and when she dared to look up again, she started to weep in earnest, no longer doubting her deliverance, for Ypres was gone.

  As he rode out of the stables, Ypres was met by one of his captains and the elderly nun, now gripping a pitchfork, much to his amusement. “Your lamb is within, Sister,” he said, “scared but unsullied.” She gave him a hard, hostile look, then brushed past him into the stables. Ypres laughed. “That old lady,” he said, “loves us not.”

  His captain grinned. “I truly thought she was going to run those fools through!”

  “No loss if she had. When you can buy a woman for a fistful of coins, why do these dolts have to muck about with nuns? Now…what is happening in the church?”