When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Some of them have holed up inside, refusing to surrender. Marshal is amongst them, and that one will hold out till we’re all too old and feeble to fight.”

  “Patience,” Ypres said, “is a nun’s virtue, not mine. Let’s make it easy on us all, Martin. Find some kindling.”

  Ranulf had tensed as Ypres emerged from the stables, fearing that at any moment, the Fleming would glance his way. He was not close enough to hear the orders being given, but he soon saw what they meant to do, and began to struggle frantically against his bonds, until one of his guards came over and threatened to slice off an ear if he did not keep still. Ranulf slumped back, for by now it was too late. Ypres’s soldiers had flung blazing torches onto the porch, were shooting fire arrows into the shutters, up onto the roof shingles. Ranulf watched in horror as the church began to burn, for he was sure that Gilbert was one of the men trapped inside.

  When he’d raced into the church, Gilbert had thought Ranulf was right behind him. By the time he discovered his mistake, the other men were hastily barring the doors and latching the shutters, dragging altars over to blockade the entrances. With daylight cast out so suddenly, the church was plunged into darkness. It was hot and uncomfortable inside, crowded with anxious men and two terrified nuns, who’d had the bad luck to be in the chancel when John Marshal seized control. The atmosphere was grim, for they knew they could not hold out for long. Their only hope was to offer so much resistance that their attackers would decide it was not worth the effort to overcome them. Under John Marshal’s command, they managed to beat back two assaults. But one of the doors was beginning to split under repeated blows, and when they opened a shutter for their crossbowmen to fire out, a torch was tossed through into the nave. They were able to quench it, but they could still smell smoke, and they soon discovered why-the church was afire.

  When John Marshal ripped up an altar cloth and soaked it in the holy water font as protection against the smoke, Gilbert did the same. And when the smoke and flames became too intense, he followed Marshal’s lead again, and they retreated up the stairs to the dubious shelter of the bell tower. He was not long in regretting it, not long in realizing he’d made the greatest mistake of his life. The heat was getting unbearable. Smoke was seeping up into their sanctuary, and they could hear the crackle of the flames below; it sounded to Gilbert as if half the church were ablaze. “My lord,” he said, “if we stay up here, we’ll die for certes. We’d best surrender whilst we still can.”

  John Marshal blotted sweat from his forehead with a corner of the altar cloth. Raising his head, he stared at Gilbert. “You take a step toward that door, and I’ll kill you myself. We are not going to surrender.”

  Gilbert’s mouth dropped open. Was the man serious? Marshal was regarding him with unblinking, inscrutable eyes. “What are you saying, that it is better to be roasted alive than surrender?”

  “I have no intention of being roasted,” Marshal said calmly. “That door ought to keep out the worst of the smoke for now. This church is stone, will take a while to burn. We can wait them out-as long as we do not panic. I cannot speak for you, Fitz John, but I’m not one for panicking.”

  Gilbert had never doubted his own courage, but he was not willing to dice with Death, not like this. He’d watched from one of the tower windows as men reeled out of the flames, coughing and choking. Some were spared, some were not. But a quick sword thrust was not the worst of ways to die. Being trapped in a burning building with a lunatic suddenly seemed a far worse fate. “We’ll be doomed if we stay up here!”

  “No,” Marshal said, “we will not,” and to Gilbert’s dismay, he sounded faintly amused. “God favors risk-takers. He’ll not let us burn.”

  Gilbert was speechless. He watched warily as Marshal moved toward a window, having made up his mind to bolt for the door at the first opportunity. But then Marshal gave a triumphant cry. “What did I tell you? They are riding off!”

  “Truly? God be praised!” Gilbert darted over, joining Marshal at the window. The older man was leaning out recklessly, laughing. But then he screamed and stumbled backward. Gilbert was stunned, not sure what had happened. Had he been hit by an arrow? There was a sudden stench; although he’d encountered it only once, the night the man in the pillory had died, he’d never forget it-the smell of burning flesh. Marshal had dropped to his knees, making no sound now, rocking back and forth in agony. When Gilbert bent over him, he got his first look at Marshal’s face, and his stomach heaved. “Christ,” he choked. “Your eye…it is gone!”

  Nuns had rushed from hiding in a futile attempt to save their church. Ypres’s soldiers held them back, and they watched in despair as flames swept through the nave. When the roof collapsed, they wept and then prayed. But their prayers went unheeded, for the wind was swirling fiery embers up into the sky. A shower of cinders drifted down into the cloister garth, and some of them landed upon the dorter roof, setting the shingles afire.

  By then the enemy was gone. William de Ypres saw no reason to tarry any longer in the ravaged abbey. He was disappointed that John Marshal was not among the men who’d fled the flames, but the whoreson was probably halfway to Hell by now, he said, for no one was getting out of that inferno alive. Halting the looting, he dispatched some of his men back to camp with their wounded and dead, their prisoners, their captured horses and booty. The others he took with him, for the town of Andover lay just a few miles up the road, too tempting a target to resist. They’d reached the river ford when they heard the bells pealing in the distance. His men were puzzled as to the source of the sound, but Ypres merely laughed. “Do you not know what that is?” he said. “Those are funeral bells, tolling for Winchester!”

  Ranulf’s balance was still unsteady and he stumbled frequently. But his emotional equilibrium was even more precarious. He no longer cared about his own peril. He realized that Winchester was now doomed, but it did not seem to matter anymore. There was but one image filling his brain: a burning church. He’d watched Gilbert die, as hideous a death as he could imagine, and a needless one. If he’d not been so stubbornly set upon taking part in this lunacy, Gilbert would still be alive.

  Surrounded by other prisoners and guards, Ranulf was alone with his grief and his remorse. He trudged along in a daze, not noticing when he was prodded to keep pace. When a knight reined in beside him, he paid the man no heed. Not even the sound of his own name could cut through his fog.

  “Ranulf! Christ Jesus, have you gone deaf? Ranulf!”

  Ranulf stopped, but the sun was in his eyes. The man’s face was dark and sharply sculptured and familiar. “Ancel?”

  Ancel slid hastily from the saddle. “I want a word with this man,” he said curtly, waving away the closest of the guards. “I could not trust my eyes at first,” he confessed, pitching his voice now for Ranulf’s ears alone. “Why would you risk your neck like this? Did you truly expect to take us by surprise? A starving city is a natural breeding ground for spies! You ought to-Ranulf? What ails you? Do you even hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  Ancel’s narrow black eyes probed Ranulf’s face, then roamed over his hauberk in search of blood, finally finding it encrusted along Ranulf’s temple, half hidden by the tousled blond hair. “More fool I,” he said. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “I am not the one…” Ranulf swallowed with difficulty. “Gilbert is dead. He was in the church.”

  Ancel paled, then spun around to stare at the distant smoke billowing up behind them. When he turned back, his eyes glistened with unshed tears and his hands had balled into hard fists. “God rot them all!” he spat. “Stephen and Ypres and yes, that precious sister of yours!”

  Ranulf blinked. “Annora?”

  “Not my sister,” Ancel hissed, “Yours! Just how clouded are your wits? Can you fend for yourself?”

  Ranulf started to nod and winced. “I think so…why?”

  Instead of answering, Ancel turned his attention to his horse. He seemed to be adjusting the girth strap, but
Ranulf soon saw what he was really about: he’d moved so that his stallion now blocked the closest guard’s view. “Hold still,” he said, and Ranulf felt his bonds giving way. Ancel swiftly stooped, slid his dagger into the top of Ranulf’s boot. He gave Ranulf no chance to respond, swung up into the saddle, and urged his stallion on, not looking back.

  Ranulf lagged farther and farther behind, biding his time. His chance came as the road dipped, for the ground fell away to the right, and he crouched, then slid down into the hollow. Some of the other prisoners saw him go. He did not think, though, that they’d give him away. Had any of the guards noticed? But his fear of capture was soon forgotten, for his head was spinning again. Long after his enemies had moved on, he lay there in the hollow, his cheek pressed into the grass, his fingers digging into the dirt as he prayed for the pain to pass.

  It was almost dark by the time Ranulf was within sight of the walls of Winchester. Maude’s men still controlled the fields within arrow-shot of the city, and he approached the North Gate without fear. He was admitted at once, and it was like plunging down into a well, for the citizens had heard of their calamitous defeat at Wherwell, and they were understandably terrified. They trailed Ranulf to the castle, but when they sought his promise that his sister would not abandon them, he had no assurances for them, only a heart-wrenching and exhausted surge of pity.

  Maude came running down the steps of the great hall, flung her arms around Ranulf. Even through his numbed fatigue, he was surprised, for he’d never known her to be so unrestrained in public. “Thank God,” she cried, “oh, thank God…” Stepping back, she sought to compose herself, gave up the struggle, and embraced him again. “We were so afraid you were dead!”

  By then, Robert had reached them. “I do not know,” he said, “when I have ever been so glad to see anyone as I am to see you, lad.” Turning, he called to a man just coming through the doorway of the hall, “Fetch Lord Rainald! Tell him his brother is alive!” After a second, closer look at Ranulf, he added, “And find the doctor!”

  “I have no need of a doctor,” Ranulf insisted, even as he wondered where he’d find the strength to climb those few steps into the hall. “You know, then, what happened?”

  “We know,” Maude said, and while her words might have referred only to the ambush, Ranulf could see in her eyes what they truly encompassed-her anguished acknowledgment that Wherwell was a devastating setback for her queenship claims and for Winchester, possibly a death blow.

  “A few men were able to get back to Winchester,” Robert said, “like you. But there are not many survivors. Most are either prisoners or slain. What of John Marshal, Ranulf? Do you know what befell him?”

  “He is dead.” Ranulf’s voice thickened. “So is Gilbert,” he said, “and it should have been me.”

  The dream was fragmented, foreboding, and filled with dark undercurrents more frightening than overt menace. Ranulf awoke with relief, which lasted only until memory came flooding back. Waking or sleeping-he was no longer sure where lurked the worst nightmares. The room was shadowed; it seemed to be night, and for a troubling moment, he could not remember which night it was. Wednesday…it had to be Wednesday, for Tuesday night he did remember. The doctor had given him a potion to ease his pain, but he’d drunk little of it and tossed and turned restively till dawn. Maude had sat up with him; that he remembered, too. Stretching out, he tried to will sleep to return, and when it did not, he sought to coax it along with a flagon of wine. Eventually he did sleep again, a shallow, uneasy doze instead of the dreamless stupor he craved. And then it was morning, and his guilt-ridden grieving began anew.

  He’d gotten up and dressed, but although his earlier bouts of nausea had abated, he still had no appetite, and when his squire brought him bread and cheese for breakfast, he left it untouched. Luke hovered nearby, eager to serve, but Ranulf wanted no comfort, no solace, wanted only to be alone.

  When the door opened suddenly, he did not even glance up. It was Maude. “I am glad you are awake,” she said, “for you have a visitor.”

  “I do not need the doctor again. I still have some of that concoction he brewed up for me, betony and feverfew and God knows what else. Anyway, my head feels better, probably because I did not drink it all down.”

  “Your head may be better, but your good humor is breathing its last.”

  Ranulf turned to stare at her, unable to believe she could be joking. She was smiling, the sort of smile he’d not seen on her face since the siege began. “We may have been defeated at Wherwell,” she said, “but we did not lose as much as you think. See for yourself.” Opening the door wider, she stepped aside and Gilbert walked into the room.

  He looked dreadful. An ugly welt seared across his forehead, blistered and raw, as red as his hair. His eyes were swollen and puffy, his lashes and one eyebrow had been singed off, and when Ranulf flung himself off the bed, he recoiled, hastily holding up his hand to stave off the embrace. “Easy,” he cautioned. “I’m not up to one of your bear hugs yet. I’ve peeled off more skin from this arm than an onion.”

  “You’re a ghost,” Ranulf said, “by God, you are! Not even the Devil himself could have come through that fire unscathed!”

  Gilbert grimaced. “Scathed I am,” he said. “Broiled might be a better way to put it.”

  He was trying hard for levity, too hard. His smile contorted, and when Ranulf grasped his good arm and steered him toward the bed, he sank down upon it gratefully. Luke poured wine and then disappeared; they didn’t even notice that Maude had also discreetly vanished. “Between us, we used up the luck of a lifetime at Wherwell,” Gilbert said hoarsely. “For all I knew, you were dead, too. When Lady Maude told me you were safe, I could scarce believe her.”

  “I had a guardian angel, one you happen to know: Ancel. I can see, though, that Maude already told you about my adventures-except for the part about me retching in a ditch, since I did not share that golden moment with her. But do not keep me in suspense, Gib. How did you escape from that inferno?”

  “John Marshal and I took refuge in the bell tower. When it began to look as if we’d end up as smoked hams, I suggested we yield. He responded as any reasonable man would, that he’d kill me if I tried.”

  Ranulf choked on his wine. “You are joking!”

  “No, and neither was Marshal.”

  “Name of God, Gib, are you going to leave me twisting on the hook? What happened?”

  Gilbert gazed down into his wine cup, frowning. “Something horrible happened,” he said quietly. “The fire had not yet reached the upper story of the tower, but it had spread to the roof. It was only afterward that I figured it out. I think the heat was so intense that the lead on the roof started to melt. When Marshal leaned out of the window, some of the molten lead splashed him in the face.” He shuddered at the memory, gulping down the rest of the drink. “I’ve never seen anything like that, Ranulf, hope to Christ I never do again. His skin just…just melted like candle wax. But the worst was his eye. It was burned away, as if scooped out with a spoon, leaving nothing but an empty socket…”

  Ranulf’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he reached quickly for his own wine. “No wonder you looked so greensick! That poor soul. So that was when you escaped? But how? What did you do?”

  “What I did was nearly get us both killed. I tried to go down the stairs. You’ve never lacked for imagination, Ranulf. Envision what it would be like to be stuffed into an oven, for that was the tower stairwell.” He gestured self-consciously at his burns. “You can see for yourself. I slammed the door shut just in time. Next, I tried shouting for help, but no one heard. So I did the only thing I could think of: I rang the bells.”

  Ranulf was riveted. “I heard it,” he said, “I did!”

  “Fortunately, so did the nuns. They are remarkable women, Ranulf. I’d not have blamed them for turning a deaf ear to my pleas. Jesu, look what we brought down upon them! But as soon as they saw me at the tower window, they did all they could to save us, dragging bales of
hay from the stables. I anchored the bell rope, knotted it around Marshal’s waist, and lowered him down. When he got to the end of the rope, he cut himself loose and fell onto the hay. I said the most fervent if brief prayer of my life and followed.”

  “You mean Marshal was still in his right senses? An injury like that would have driven most men mad!”

  “Oh, he is mad,” Gilbert said, very seriously. “Only a madman could lack all fear as he does. I swear to you that he was not afraid up in that tower. I saw it in his face, and that scared me for certes! But crazed or not, he is as remarkable in his own way as those nuns. I cannot even imagine the sort of pain he must have been in. He was soon burning up with fever, too, and sick as a dog. I had to keep reining in the horse so he could puke. And by the time we got there, he-”

  “Got where, Gib? Back up to those bales of hay and start over.”

  “The nuns did what they could, smeared our burns with fennel and goose grease. We dared not stay there, though, for Ypres would be coming back. The nuns said he’d ridden off to raid Andover, and-as we discovered-he burned it to the ground. I could not take Marshal back with me to Winchester, and he insisted upon going to his castle at Ludgershall. That made some sense to me; his wife could tend to him there. As we were starting out, we got lucky and stumbled onto a loose horse from the battle. I do not know how far Ludgershall is from Wherwell-about ten miles, mayhap more. But it was without doubt the longest journey of my life. We got there, though, Marshal suffering in silence all the way. As I said, an amazing man. I admire him mightily, but I much prefer that it be at a distance from now on!”

  Ranulf was quiet, marveling. Leaning over, he emptied the last of the wine into their cups. “I’ll grant you that Marshal must have been suffering the torments of the damned. But what of your own pain? Have you even seen the doctor yet?”

  “I think the nuns and Marshal’s lady did right by me, as much as any doctor could do. I will let him tend to me, though, if you insist. But later. Now…now I just want to sit here and get drunker than I’ve ever been before. I know we’re fast running out of food, but how is the wine holding up?”