When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I’ll tell Luke to bring up enough wine to fill a bathtub. That way you can drink it or bathe in it or both.” Ranulf smiled crookedly. “My God, Gib, why did you come back? Why did you not stay at Ludgershall?”

  “Earl Robert is my liege lord,” Gilbert said, as if that explained all, and for him, it did. “And I’d rather take my chances with you and Lady Maude than our friend Marshal. For all the trouble you’ve gotten me into, not once did you ever trap me in a burning tower…” Gilbert had lain back on the bed; his voice was blurring, his odd, lashless eyelids drooping. Just when he seemed to be asleep, he murmured, “I feel like I escaped from Hell…”

  Ranulf reached out, taking the tilting wine cup from Gilbert’s lax fingers. “That you did, Gib,” he said softly. “From Hell back to Purgatory.”

  21

  Winchester, England

  September 1141

  “My lady?” Minna’s self-control was impressive; she’d had a lifetime’s practice in curbing unruly emotions. But even her vaunted composure had been affected by the strain of the siege, and she could not completely conceal her anxiety. “Has a decision been reached?”

  Maude closed the bedchamber door. “Yes,” she said. “We are withdrawing from the city on the morrow. We have no other choice, Minna. It has become painfully clear that we can expect no aid. Of all the lords we summoned, we’ve heard from none but Chester. And whilst he claims he is making ready to march on Winchester, none of us are willing to wager our lives upon his good faith. If he truly meant to help, he’d have been here by now.”

  “Could King David not send to Scotland for more men? Or Lord Geoffrey…?”

  “By the time they could get here, we’d all have starved. We’ve talked it over and agree that we must try to break free. Matilda’s men have blocked the roads to the south and east, and now that Ypres has taken over the Wherwell nunnery, he holds the Andover Road, too, in the palm of his hand. But we think the road west-the Salisbury Road-remains open. We’ve decided that I should go out first, ahead of the army, and ride hard and fast for John Marshal’s castle at Ludgershall. Robert believes that would be the safest way.”

  Although Minna said nothing, Maude quickly added, as convincingly as she could, “You need not fear for me, Minna. I will be with Brien and Rainald, and they’ll not let me come to harm.”

  Minna did not doubt that Brien and Rainald would do all they could to protect Maude, but would it be enough? What if the road was not still passable, as they hoped? Or if they could not outrun pursuit? It would serve for naught, though, to give voice to her fears; her lady well knew the dangers. Forcing a smile, she sought to sound rueful as she said, “I ought to have heeded you, my lady, and stayed at Oxford Castle with Lady Beatrice and Lord Ranulf’s wolf-dogs. It is good of you to resist reminding me of my folly, but I do not want you to fret on my behalf. I’ll be quite safe here at the castle.”

  “That might have been true if Stephen were commanding this siege, but I would never entrust your safety to a man like Ypres. No, Minna, I’ll not leave you behind.”

  “My lady, you must listen to your head, not your heart. I am an old woman, past fifty. Once you go out that West Gate, you must ride for your life. I could never keep up with you, would be an anchor dragging you down.”

  “That is why I have arranged for you to ride with the Archbishop of Canterbury and his retinue. They will have a flag of truce, and the greater protection of God’s Cross. You’ll be safe with them, Minna. You at least will be safe.”

  Minna was at a loss. What Maude needed to hear-that the men who mattered most to her would not be in peril-she could not say, for it would have been a lie. “What will happen come morning, my lady?”

  “Once the archbishop departs, the army will ride forth, led by Miles and my uncle David. Robert will then bring up the rearward. I tried to talk him out of it, Minna, I tried so hard…but he would not listen. He insists upon commanding the rear guard.”

  “I know naught of military matters, my lady. Is that so dangerous?”

  “He means to delay pursuit as long as possible, Minna, so that I might have time to get away. He would not admit it, but I know that is what he intends to do. Robert always lays claim to the heaviest burden, the greatest risk, and if any evil befalls him because of me, I do not think I could live with it…”

  “I will pray for him, madame,” Minna said earnestly. “I will pray for us all.”

  “Pray for the poor people of Winchester, too, Minna. May Almighty God protect them,” Maude said softly, “for I cannot.”

  It was no longer night, not yet day. Dawn was still hovering beyond the horizon, although faint glimmerings of light had begun to infiltrate the eastern sky. Torches were flaring in the castle bailey, giving Maude one last glimpse of the taut, shadowed faces of her kinsmen and liegemen. Farewells had already been said, muted and measured and private, and once she’d mounted her mare, Robert confined himself to a grave “Godspeed.”

  Meant as a benediction, it sounded more like an epitaph. Ranulf salvaged the moment, though, by drawling, “The first one to reach Ludgershall gets to go to church with John Marshal.” Since Gilbert’s account of his bell-tower interlude had not only circulated throughout Winchester, but was fast passing into legend, that got an edgy laugh. Maude looked at her brothers, her throat constricting, and then urged her mare forward, toward the opening gate.

  Once they passed through the city’s West Gate, they turned onto the Salisbury Road. Maude did not look back at Winchester; she did not dare. Never had she felt so powerless, and she envied the men their weapons, their male right to self-defense. She’d thought she knew all of the burdens imposed upon her because she’d been unfortunate enough to have been born female, but they’d not gone a mile before she discovered yet another of Eve’s afflictions: that her very skirts were hampering her escape. She was riding sidesaddle, for women of rank rode astride only on the hunting field, and although she was an accomplished rider, sidesaddles were not meant for a flat-out gallop at full speed. As she could not match the men’s pace, they had to slow their mounts to accommodate her mare, and Maude’s fears for Brien and Rainald soon rivaled her dread for those she’d left in Winchester. If they were pursued, they’d never be able to outrun the enemy. But she knew they’d not abandon her, no matter how badly her mare lagged behind. Had she doomed them, too?

  The road was an ancient one, of Roman origin, the major route to Salisbury and the West. They would follow it until they reached Le Strete, a raised causeway also dating from Roman times. There they would cross the River Test, and then turn off onto a narrow trackway that would take them safely past Andover, on to Ludgershall Castle. Maude tried to focus her thoughts upon the hard, perilous ride ahead of them, but her brain would not cooperate; it kept conjuring up bloody images of dead and dying men. Would Robert and the others be able to fight their way free? How much time had passed? Daylight was nigh, the sky a soft, milky shade of grey. What would this day bring for Winchester, for them all?

  The countryside was hilly and the road was rising. When they reached the crest, they drew rein abruptly, for the road below was blocked by a large log. There weren’t that many soldiers in the camp, just enough to keep watch or halt a supply convoy. They were not as alert as William de Ypres would have wished, for they did not appear to have posted a guard, and they were rolling sleepily out of their blankets, cursing to find their fire had gone out during the night, yawning and stretching and then gaping up at the riders above them.

  For seconds that seemed endless, both sides stared at one another. And then Brien grasped Maude’s arm. “Do not stop,” he said, “no matter what!” As soon as he saw she understood, he spurred his stallion forward, led his men down the slope into the enemy encampment.

  Lacking spurs, women riders carried small leather whips. Maude rarely used hers, and when she brought it down now upon her mare’s withers, the horse shot forward as if launched from a crossbow. Gathering momentum as they swept down the hill, t
he mare did not falter as they approached the barricade, soared up and over. Maude thought one man had grabbed for her reins as she galloped past, but she could not be sure, for it all happened in a blur. She heard shouts and swearing, another sound she’d never heard before but would never forget-the metallic, lethal jangle of clashing swords. She did as Brien had bade, urged her mare on until the noise had begun to fade behind her and the road ahead was clear. Only then did she ease her mount and look back at the enemy camp.

  The battle was already over. But it had been as bloody as it was brief. Outnumbered, on foot, and just roused from sleep, these careless young sentinels had been no match for Brien’s armed knights, handpicked for their killing capabilities. Bodies lay crumpled in the road, half hidden by the tall grass, slumped across the log barricade. There were no survivors, for there could be no witnesses. They’d suffered but one casualty of their own, and they left him where he’d fallen, amidst his enemies, for on this Sunday September morn, debts owed to the dead had to be deferred.

  They paused only long enough to set free the tethered horses. Rainald was cursing his own clumsiness. He seemed more aggrieved by the damage done to his hauberk than to his arm, and submitted, grumbling, as Maude hastily bandaged his wound with her silk veil. She was about to mount her mare again when Brien rode up.

  “You are not hurt?” Much to her relief, he shook his head. He slid his sword back into its leather scabbard, but not before she saw the blood smeared upon the blade.

  “Can you ride astride like a man?” he asked. “I urge you to attempt it, for speed may well be our salvation.”

  Although she’d only ridden astride during an occasional hunt, Maude did not hesitate. “I will,” she said, and when they brought forward the slain knight’s stallion, she let Brien assist her up into the saddle. As they turned the mare loose, Maude felt a pang, for the graceful grey palfrey was her favorite mount.

  “I am sorry,” Brien said, “but we cannot spare the time to switch saddles.”

  Maude was surprised and touched that in the midst of all this carnage and chaos, he’d remembered her fondness for the filly. “I pray,” she said, “that by day’s end, the greatest of my regrets will be for a lost mare.”

  Despite the early hour, the citizens of Winchester turned out to watch as Miles led his army out of their city. Logic had told them this day was coming, but they seemed stunned, nonetheless, now that it was finally here, for they’d had to believe all the more fervently in God’s Mercy, knowing they could expect none from William de Ypres and his Flemings. But neither the Almighty nor the empress was answering prayers on the second Sunday in September. On one of the sacred days of the Church calendar, the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, the Apocalypse was at hand.

  As Robert approached his stallion, the man holding his reins spoke up. “I am Ellis, my lord, groom here these ten years past. I fear for my family now that you are going. What shall I do? How can I keep them safe?”

  “There will be looting,” Robert said, “afterward. Stay off the streets if you can. Bar your doors and shutter your windows. Do nothing to call attention to yourself. I can tell you no more than that.”

  Ellis still clutched at Robert’s reins. “My lord,” he said, “I have daughters.”

  Robert felt anger flare, anger at a world in which so many men saw war as sport. He’d fought when it was necessary, killed when he must, but never had he taken any pleasure in it. “Hide them away,” he said, knowing how inadequate an answer that was, yet having no other advice to offer. He could do nothing for Ellis, nothing for Winchester.

  His men were mounted and waiting. They looked tired and tense and of a sudden, younger than their years. Never did men seem so vulnerable to him as when they were about to go into battle under his command. He glanced again at their faces, then drew a sharp breath. “Ranulf!” He beckoned and his brother nudged his stallion forward. “What are you doing here? You agreed to ride out with Miles!”

  Ranulf shrugged. “I overslept.”

  Robert’s reaction was hopelessly conflicted-enormous pride in Ranulf warring with an urge to grab hold of the younger man and shake some sense into him. “I should think that one fool in the family would be enough. You just be sure to get through this unharmed, or Maude will never forgive me.”

  “Come on,” Ranulf said. “I’ll race you to Ludgershall.”

  They’d come more than eight miles and were almost upon Le Strete; it was on the other side of the hill. Rainald signaled for a brief halt to ease their horses, and unwittingly earned Maude’s undying gratitude. She shifted gingerly in the saddle, seeking inconspicuously to tuck her skirts in under her legs. When Brien glanced her way, she mustered up a smile, for she was determined to keep her discomfort hidden as long as possible. Hopefully, it would not occur to them that skirts were not meant for riding astride. Nor were they likely to realize that her stockings were gartered at the knee, that with nothing between her inner thighs and the saddle leather, the constant jouncing had soon rubbed her skin raw. She was already chafed and blistered, and they had hours of hard riding ahead of them-if they could get safely across the River Test.

  That was still in doubt, for they’d run into two of Ypres’s scouts a few miles back. Brien’s crossbowmen had brought one of them down, but the other had been luckier and had vanished into the woods. Their greatest danger lay just ahead at Le Strete, for there the Salisbury Road was joined by the one from Wherwell. If the scout had succeeded in giving the alarm, Ypres’s men could be waiting for them at the river crossing.

  Maude was not the only one thinking of that. Brien moved his horse close so they could talk. “The man on the roan is a local lad, who’ll guide us across the downs to Ludgershall. He says there is a ford at Leckford, but it is too close to Wherwell for us to risk it. There is a royal manor at Le Strete, a handful of houses, and a bridge. If we can get across it without being seen by Ypres’s men, they’ll not know which path we took. Are you ready to ride as if the Devil were on our tails?”

  She nodded. “If I had to choose between Ypres and the Devil, I’m not sure which one I’d pick. Let’s outrun them both.”

  For Ranulf and Gilbert, the Battle of Winchester was chillingly familiar. It was as if they were reliving that frantic skirmish on the Wherwell Road, for once again they were being assailed from all sides, caught up in a surging, frenzied tide of thrashing bodies, panicked horses, and bloodied weapons. Only this time there was no abbey to take shelter in, just the road ahead and the enemy behind.

  Robert was urging them to stay close together and to keep going, and they did their best to heed him, for his was the one voice of reason in a world gone mad, a world filled only with their enemies now that their retreat from Winchester had turned into this wild rout.

  Miles had known they’d be pursued; what suspense there was lay in the timing of the attack. But he’d not expected his men to crack under the assault. It happened, though, and with shocking suddenness. His army had disintegrated as more and more men lost heart in this unequal struggle, sought salvation in flight, and Robert’s rear guard found itself on its own, fighting a desperate and valiant delaying action in a war already lost.

  The battle raged along the Salisbury Road. The fugitives from Miles’s broken command were being chased down, bodies were being looted, and riderless horses seemed to be everywhere, circling about in confusion. Ranulf’s own mount was tiring; it had begun to shorten stride. He had to strain now to find Robert midst the crush of men and horses. They would have to make a stand soon; if not, they’d be cut to pieces. But where? The road was sloping up again. He glanced over his shoulder, seeking Gilbert, and was jolted to discover he’d lost his squire.

  He twisted around in the saddle. Some yards back, a chestnut stallion was flailing about on the ground, unable to rise. It had a white blaze and foreleg, and so did Luke’s palfrey. As little as that was to go upon, it was enough for Ranulf, and he swung his horse about.

  He soon spotted Luke. The youth was on h
is feet, although he seemed dazed by his fall, and did not respond to Ranulf’s shout. But he’d drawn the attention of these men searching a nearby body for valuables. Recognizing him as easy prey, the men moved in confidently.

  Their cockiness almost cost them dearly. They scattered just in time as Ranulf’s destrier plunged into their midst. But they did not go far. Instead, they spread out and began to circle warily, swords and pike at the ready. Ranulf aimed his stallion at the closest of his assailants. Blood spurted, the man’s sword thudded to the ground, and he recoiled hastily. Ranulf turned to confront the others, only to find them in retreat, too, for he was no longer alone; Gilbert was coming toward them at a gallop.

  “You came back for me!” Luke lurched forward, tripped, and nearly fell under the hooves of Ranulf’s stallion. Ranulf saw no blood, but the boy’s face was the shade of curdled milk. “I hurt my arm,” he said, sounding apologetic, as if his injury was somehow his fault. “I fear it is broken.”

  Ranulf and Gilbert exchanged troubled looks. They could not leave the lad here, injured and on his own. But never could they have ridden away, abandoned Robert to his fate. They wasted no time in discussion, caught a loose horse for Luke, put his foundering chestnut out of its suffering, and hastened after their beleaguered comrades.

  The battle had swept past them, over the crest of Winchester Hill. They spurred their horses up the road, glancing back to make sure Luke was following, and came upon the last bitter moments of the ill-fated seven-week siege of Winchester. It ended there at Le Strete, when Robert’s struggling rear guard collided with a contingent of Flemings coming down the Wherwell Road, ended in one final flurry of doomed resistance, dying, and defeat.