When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Edgar squirmed uneasily. “But…well, people without hope…they might…”

  “What are you so shy of saying, lad…that I might soon follow Robert to the grave? I have more faith in Maude than that. If she were capable of outright murder, I’d have been dead months ago.”

  Edgar was not reassured. He knew Stephen was more worldly than he, but he suspected that he’d had far more experience with desperation than ever Stephen had. “What if the empress was not consulted beforehand? What if some of her men took it upon themselves to rid her of her only real rival? If you were dead, my lord, I daresay most men would accept her as queen.”

  Now that he’d finally confessed his fears, Edgar looked up quickly to catch Stephen’s reaction. To his amazement, Stephen seemed quite unperturbed, almost amused. “It does not pay to borrow trouble, lad. If you do, you’re sure to end up with more than your share. I am not going to be smothered in my sleep or poisoned or take a convenient tumble down the stairs.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I believe in happy endings! If the Almighty had meant for me to die, I’d have died at Lincoln. What would be the purpose of my confinement if I were slain now, with vindication just within my reach? No, lad, the Almighty would never be so cruel.”

  Edgar didn’t argue, although Stephen’s benevolent Deity did not sound at all like the one he’d been taught to revere and fear, Jehovah, God of Wrath. He had a multitude of reasons for envying Stephen-his health and high birth and handsome face and devoted wife-but he found himself envying above all else Stephen’s utter certitude, his sunlit faith in what he’d just jokingly called a “happy ending.” Edgar could not imagine what it would be like to dwell in a world so free of shadows. But then his own world was one in which he was known-to all but Stephen-as Scarecrow.

  “I’d best go,” he said, “ere I am missed. I’ll not see you on the morrow, my lord, for it is not my turn to guard you. But if I hear anything more about Earl Robert or the battle, I’ll find a way to get word to you.”

  Stephen shoved his pillow behind his shoulders, knowing he’d never be able to get back to sleep. He had long, wakeful hours ahead, but they would be a gift, a private time alone in which to rejoice, to thank the Almighty, and to anticipate a reunion with his wife. “Edgar…think you that you might like to see London one day? If so, you need only seek out my steward, William Martel, and identify yourself. You’ll have a place in my household waiting for you as long as I am king. You have but to come and claim it.”

  Edgar was mute, awed by the offer and all it encompassed. Reaching the door, he opened it cautiously, glanced back over his shoulder, grinned, and then was gone. The memory of that rapt, shining smile lingered, though, for it was the first time that Stephen had seen Edgar smile without bringing up his hand to shield his cleft lip.

  From the castle solar, Matilda could catch a glimpse of Winchester’s streets. People were out and about, the city slowly getting back to normal. But the damage done by the siege was even more extensive than she had first feared. On this sun-warmed September morning, she found herself dreading the coming of winter, knowing what suffering it would bring to Winchester.

  Turning from the window, she studied the men seated at the solar’s table. They were tense, expectant-except for Robert. He seemed quite calm; she suspected that he’d gotten a better night’s sleep than she had, and her anger flared without warning. If not for Robert, Maude’s claim would have flickered out by now, a candle quenched and cast aside. But anger was a luxury she could not afford, not yet. Instead she smiled; she was learning to use smiles as shields.

  “I trust you’ve thought about our last conversation?” she queried, pointedly but still polite. Robert smiled, too, a noncommittal smile that was as meaningless as her own, saying nothing, and her brother-in-law stirred impatiently.

  “What is there to think about? We’ve made you a remarkable offer, Robert. You need only renew your allegiance to Stephen and take your rightful place in the government-as his second-in-command. How could you even contemplate turning down an opportunity like that?”

  Robert glanced from the bishop to Matilda, then over at Ypres. They’d promised to give him a vast amount of power. He wondered impersonally if they meant it, if it was bribe or hoax. “As you say, Cousin Henry, a ‘remarkable offer.’ But it is not one I can fairly judge under the present circumstances. Set me free and I shall give it the consideration it deserves.”

  He saw their faces change as they absorbed his answer, saw their disappointment and anger and-from Ypres-a grim glimmer of amusement. “I will not betray my sister,” he said quietly. “You ought to have known that.”

  Matilda’s eyes narrowed. “I will not apologize for trying to halt this needless, bloody war. I am sorry, Robert, that you cannot see the harm you are doing, sorrier than I can say. But so be it.”

  “I think you made a fool’s choice,” the bishop said brusquely, “but you are the one who’ll have to live with it. So…let’s talk of a trade: your freedom for Stephen’s. That should be simple enough to arrange. There is a pen and inkwell on the table, and plenty of parchment. The sooner you write to your sister, the sooner you-”

  “I cannot do that.”

  They stared at him. “Why not?”

  “I cannot agree to a trade on those terms. I am but an earl, whilst Stephen is a consecrated king. I would have an inflated sense of my own worth, indeed, were I to believe I was a king’s equal. If Stephen is to be freed, it is only fair that the men taken prisoner with me at Le Strete should be freed, too.”

  There was an astonished silence, broken by Ypres. “Set them free, without ransoms? Never whilst I draw breath!”

  He sounded so indignant that Robert knew at once he must have captured one or more highborn prisoners himself. “Those are the only terms that I can accept.”

  “I hardly think you are in a position to dictate terms!” the bishop snapped. “I think it is time for some plain talking. You’ve been very well treated so far, Cousin, but that can change. We know that Maude clapped Stephen in irons. I daresay we can find some for you, too, if it comes to that.”

  Robert remained impassive. “We all do what we must.”

  Ypres leaned across the table. “You’d do well to remember that I am no friend to you, Fitz Roy. Moreover, I’ve always looked upon mercy as a character flaw.”

  “Willem!” Matilda confined herself to that involuntary objection, not willing to reprimand Ypres in Robert’s presence. The bishop had no such scruples, and aimed a withering look in the Fleming’s direction.

  “You are but wasting your breath and our time, Ypres. He knows full well that we’ll not be torturing him to break his will. Matilda would never abide it, nor would I. Let’s talk, instead, of confinement. Not the kind you’d enjoy, Cousin. And not in England, either, where you might find friends foolhardy enough to attempt a rescue. No…if you force us to it, we’ll send you to Matilda’s lands in Boulogne. I’d advise you to think on that prospect long and hard: a lifetime alone in the dark, with no hope of escape.”

  Robert was not intimidated. But neither was he defiant. Sounding eminently reasonable, as if he were merely pointing out a hitherto overlooked fact, he said, “And whilst I was rotting away in a Boulognese dungeon, what do you think would be happening to Stephen?”

  Amabel picked up a pen without enthusiasm. She’d been taught to read and write in her youth; lacking a son, her father had lavished unusual care upon the education of his daughters. Writing was a clerk’s task, though, and she’d had little practice at it. But this was not a letter she dared dictate to a scribe; she no longer trusted her own discretion.

  To my daughter Maud, Countess of Chester, greetings:

  I would that I had word for you of your father’s fate, but it has been three days now since I joined Maude at Gloucester, and we’ve heard nothing. I fear I shall go stark mad if we do not soon

  Reconsidering, she scratched out that last sentence. Gripping the pen
again, she wrote:

  Miles Fitz Walter reached us yesterday, in a sorry state indeed-bruised and bleeding and hungry and dispirited, having made his way alone to Gloucester after his command shattered. And last night a message arrived from Gilbert Foliot, the abbot of the Benedictine monastery here. He was one of the churchmen with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and reports they were ill used, their horses stolen, their belongings rifled; those impious knaves even robbed the archbishop of a silver cross. But they were not harmed, and Abbot Gilbert vows to bring Minna back with him as soon as he can provide a safe escort-you remember Minna, that dour German woman of Maude’s? We still do not know, though, what befell Ranulf or the Scots king; pray God they were able to escape as Miles did.

  Her pen hovered above the parchment as her attention wandered, and ink dripped down onto the letter. She could not seem to control her thoughts anymore; every road led her back to Robert and that wretched river crossing at Le Strete.

  Your brothers Will and Philip are back at Bristol, keeping a close watch upon Stephen, but I brought Roger with me. He is so sure that Robert is alive and unhurt, but a priest would not be likely to lack faith, would he?

  She got no further. Her head came up, the pen slipping from her fingers. Her maid had heard it, too. Casting aside her sewing, she said, “Something is amiss below-stairs.” But by then Amabel was already halfway to the door.

  The great hall was lit by smoking torches and an open hearth fire. Coming from the dark of the stairwell, Amabel squinted at the sudden brightness. Maude and Rainald and Brien and Miles were clustered in a circle, utterly intent upon a new arrival. She could tell only that he was of middle height, for her view was blocked by those crowding around him, but her heart leapt in a sudden, desperate surge, a hope that plummeted as Rainald moved aside, revealing the man in their midst. She thought Ranulf looked ghastly, his face bloodless and haggard, dark eyes glazed and unfocused-until he glanced her way.

  “You are a welcome sight-” she began as he strode toward her, but Ranulf cut her off, as if his safety were of no matter.

  “Robert was taken prisoner at Le Strete,” he said. “But he was not harmed, Amabel, I swear he was not.”

  “Be sure what you say, Ranulf. For God’s Pity, be very sure!”

  “I am sure,” he insisted. “I was there. I saw him surrender.”

  “You were there?” she echoed blankly. “And you left him? You just rode off and left him? Jesus wept, how could you?”

  His face twitched, as if he’d taken a blow. “It…it was too late,” he stammered, “was all over by the time I got there…”

  He sounded as wretched as he looked, and somewhere in the back of her brain, she perceived his pain, acknowledged her own unfairness. But she did not want to be fair, not anymore. Robert had toiled his entire life striving to be fair, and where had it gotten him? “He would never have abandoned you,” she cried, “never! You know he-”

  “How dare you!” Maude’s voice was choked, so great was her fury. “Ranulf would have given his life for Robert! If you must blame someone, blame me, then. But not Ranulf, damn you, not Ranulf!”

  “You are right-for once. The blame does belong to you, Maude, and I’ll not cheat you of any of it!”

  Maude stepped closer, grasped Amabel’s arm. “I care not if you make a fool of yourself. But Robert would. You owe him better than this.”

  The realization that Robert would indeed have disapproved of her behavior only stoked Amabel’s rage all the higher. “You are right again,” she said, with a tight, brittle smile. “Twice in a row-a record for certes.” She pulled free of Maude’s hold then, so violently that she stumbled backward, and when she felt a steadying hand upon her arm, she started to lash out at this new enemy. It was only when she heard his indrawn protest of “Mama” that she glanced up at his face, recognized her youngest son.

  “Let’s go to the chapel, Mama,” he urged, “and pray for Papa’s safe deliverance.”

  Roger was still new to his calling, painfully earnest in his priestly dignity. To the rest of the world, he may have seemed like one of God’s Chosen, but to Amabel, he was a lost lamb, and she did not object when he tugged her toward the door. “But if prayer does not gain Robert’s release…”

  It was an unspoken threat, and a needless one. Maude would do whatever she must to pay Robert’s ransom. Those in the hall knew that. But they knew, too, what his freedom would cost-for Maude, for them all, and for England.

  The bishop had settled in at Wolvesey, for it had not been badly damaged by the siege, unlike the royal palace, which was in ruins. Declining his hospitality, Matilda chose to stay at the castle, and people were soon lining up outside the kitchen, for the threat of starvation no longer hung over the city, but hunger was still Winchester’s unwelcome guest. Robert was gone, though; William de Ypres had escorted him to the greater security of Rochester Castle in Kent, deep in the heartland of Matilda’s English domains. It was mid-October before Ypres reported back to Matilda, and the news he brought was not good: Robert was still refusing to end his own captivity by setting Stephen free, not without additional concessions they were unwilling to make.

  They were seated close by the hearth in the great hall, for there was a chill of early winter in the air. Stretching his legs, cramped from long hours in the saddle, Ypres complained, half humorously, “It is extremely irksome, having to respect someone I dislike so heartily. But I cannot deny the man’s courage. If he was cut, he’d likely bleed ice!”

  Matilda did not find Robert’s fortitude quite so admirable; she didn’t share Ypres’s conviction that courage was the defining measure of a man. “If we agreed to free the other prisoners-”

  “You cannot do that! When a man takes a highborn prisoner, he expects to profit from it. That is the way it’s always been. You cannot change the rules with no warning, not without risking rebellion. My lady…Gloucester is engaging you in a clash of wills; do not let him win. He thinks he can outwait you, that you’re so eager to get Stephen back that nothing else matters. Prove him wrong.”

  “How?”

  “Simple. Make him want his freedom just as much as you want Stephen.”

  Matilda shook her head. “I do not like the sound of that, Willem.”

  “I am not suggesting we hang the man up by his heels, although the idea does have some merit. But we need not make his confinement quite so comfortable, either. He is being treated more like an honoured guest than a prisoner of war, allowed to have visitors, to write letters, to go into the town if he chooses; last week he even bought some blooded horses! I know what you are about to say, that he gave his sworn word he’d not attempt to escape. And I’ll concede that he’s probably the one man in Christendom whom I’d trust to keep such a preposterous oath, for he has always been insufferably prideful whenever honour is involved. But your generosity is leading you astray. He can afford to balk, to reject your terms, for what is it costing him? I say we change that, impose a price he’ll not be willing to meet.”

  Matilda frowned. “I will think upon what you’ve said, Willem. I know my brother-in-law agrees with you. I will admit that my patience is fast shredding thin. If Robert does not see reason soon…”

  A servant was hovering close by, ready to refill their wine cups. Once the man withdrew, Matilda shook off her disappointment and sought to sound more cheerful as she said, “We did have an unexpected stroke of luck last week. We intercepted a courier from the Scots king on his way to Gloucester with a message for Maude.”

  “So David finally surfaced for air, did he? Well, we knew he’d not been taken prisoner, and I found it unlikely that a king would be lying dead in a ditch and no one know of it. Where is he now…and more to the point, does he intend to rejoin Maude?”

  “By now he ought to be back in Scotland. His letter was dated on the 22nd of September, and by then he’d gotten as far north as Durham. To hear him tell it, he had as many narrow escapes as Maude-it must run in the family. Twice he was cornered and
bribed his way free. His letter was sparing of details, so I assume he still had enough men to defend himself, and his would-be captors must have decided it was easier to take what was offered. The third time that he ran into trouble, he was recognized. But the knight in charge turned a blind eye, let him go by, for he just happened to be David’s godson! I have to confess that I am glad he got away; he is my uncle, too, after all. What gladdens me even more is that he will be staying up in Scotland where he belongs. He said as much to Maude, tactfully, of course. Still, the meaning seemed clear enough, that from now on, Maude is on her own.”

  That was what Ypres was hoping to hear. Pulling his seat closer to the fire, he listened with amusement as Matilda related the bishop’s latest undertaking. He’d sent his men to scour through the ruins of Hyde Abbey, sifting the ashes until they’d recovered those abbey treasures that had survived the flames. He’d gotten back enough melted gold and silver to pay for the soldiers he’d hired, Matilda reported, much to the outrage of the monks.

  Ypres was still laughing when the message arrived. Matilda gazed down at the seal of the Countess of Gloucester and all else was forgotten. Ypres had tensed, too, and watched intently as she read Amabel’s letter. He could not read her face as easily as he once had, for she was belatedly learning a queen’s skill at camouflage. But it seemed to him that she’d gotten paler, and when she glanced up, her eyes gave away her unease.

  “Amabel has heard rumors that we’ve threatened to drag Robert off to Boulogne. She reminds me that Stephen is being held at her castle, in her custody, and she vows that if any harm whatsoever comes to Robert, she will send Stephen where even God could not find him-to Ireland.”

  As threats went, that was a daunting one. “You know the woman,” he said, “as I do not. Is this a bluff? Or is she capable of carrying out her threat?”

  “Amabel? Oh, yes,” Matilda said, without hesitation, and Ypres slouched back in his chair, reconsidering their options. They’d have to tread with care, for if Gloucester’s wife knew her Scriptures-an eye for an eye, a wound for a wound-Matilda was not likely to follow his advice and strip Gloucester’s confinement down to the bare bone. Jesu, would she be desperate enough to give in, to let Gloucester win?