When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Matilda was studying Amabel’s letter, but her initial disquiet seemed to have ebbed away. She looked pensive now, not dismayed, and as he watched, he saw a smile flicker about the corners of her mouth.

  “What is it?” he said sharply. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I am thinking,” she said, “that we’ve been going about this the wrong way. We have been negotiating with the wrong people, Willem. We’ve been seeking to come to terms with Robert and Maude, when the one we ought to have been bargaining with is the woman who holds Stephen-the woman who wants her husband back just as much as I want mine.”

  23

  Bristol, England

  November 1141

  The first of November was not a comfortable day for travel. Rain had been falling intermittently since dawn and the wind had been constant, blustery and biting. Eustace did not care about the cold; he was so tense he barely felt it. He looked occasionally at his mother, but more often at William de Ypres, for he was very much in awe of the redoubtable Fleming. When Ypres happened to glance in his direction, Eustace stiffened his spine and raised his head, hoping that Ypres would notice how well he rode. He wished he had a stallion as spirited as Ypres’s chestnut, but his horse was a docile gelding. Wolf-bait, he thought scornfully, longing for spurs like Ypres and the other men wore. Despite his disappointment with his placid mount, it was still easy to pretend that he was the one leading an army to Bristol, not Ypres and his mother. If only theirs were a real rescue mission. He was sure they could catch the enemy by surprise, assault the castle and set Papa free. A pity Mama was so timid, so loath to see bloodshed.

  Feeling her son’s gaze upon her, Matilda gave him a quick smile. Eustace knew it was meant to reassure, but he resented it for that very reason. “I do not need to be coddled, Mama,” he said indignantly. “I am not a bairn like Will and Mary, and I am not scared to be a hostage, not at all.”

  “I know that, Eustace.” Matilda found herself yearning for bygone days, when the distance between them was never so great that it could not be spanned by a hug. After some moments, she said, choosing her words with care: “It will all be over in a matter of days. Upon our arrival at Bristol, your father will be set free. He and Willem and Robert’s eldest son will then ride straightaway for Winchester. Once they get there, Robert will be released. Leaving his son as his pledge, he will hasten to Bristol. You and I will then be escorted safely back to Winchester, and Robert’s son will be freed. So you see, Eustace, we’ll scarcely have time to unpack, will be reunited with your father at Winchester by week’s end.”

  “It sounds as if none of you trust each other very much,” he said, with a cynicism that seemed too adult and knowing for his eleven years. Matilda was troubled by it, but she could not contradict him.

  “One another,” she corrected automatically, “not ‘each other.’ And you are right, lad. Trust never entered into it.”

  He slanted a sidelong glance her way. “Will she be at Bristol, too…the Angevin slut?”

  Matilda was no novice at motherhood, knew full well that she was being tested. “I like it not when you use such unseemly language, Eustace. Moreover, you are mistaken as well as rude. Maude’s husband is the Angevin. She is of Norman and Scots stock. Nor is she a slut.”

  Eustace’s lower lip jutted out. “Then why do men call her that? I’ve heard them,” he insisted.

  “I do not doubt it. But that does not make it true. When people want to insult a man, they cast slurs upon his courage. But the worst they can say about a woman is to impugn her chastity. It is unfair, though, for no scandal has ever sullied Maude’s good name. Whatever her other failings-and I find them plentiful-she is not a wanton.”

  Eustace was not convinced, but he prudently refrained from saying so. He didn’t really want to quarrel with his mother, not today. “Will she be there or not, Mama?”

  “No, she will not. She has withdrawn to Oxford Castle, will be awaiting Robert there upon his release. I suspect she could not bear to see your father ride forth as a free man.”

  Eustace felt a momentary disappointment, for he’d envisioned himself confronting her, this troublesome, wicked woman who’d dared to make war upon his father. “Mama…after Papa is free, what happens then? Will Maude give up, go back to her husband, and leave us in peace?”

  Matilda kept her eyes on the road ahead. “I doubt it,” she said bleakly. “I very much doubt it.”

  Matilda had never been to Bristol, and she was both impressed and chilled by the fortified defenses of town and castle, protected by two rivers and a deep man-made ditch. They would never have been able to free Stephen by force. Thank God and His Holy Son that it had not come to that. Now they passed unchallenged into Robert Fitz Roy’s great citadel, and when they dismounted in the inner bailey of the castle, the Countess of Gloucester was awaiting them. Following Amabel inside, Matilda found a hall crowded with curious, wary, and hostile onlookers. But one glance was all she needed to see that the only man who mattered was not in their midst.

  Whirling upon Amabel, she demanded, “Where is my husband? Why is he not here?”

  Her suspicions were insulting, but Amabel was willing to overlook the affront, for she could identify with Matilda’s fear. “Stephen is waiting for you in the solar. He wanted your first meeting to be private.” And ushering Matilda and Eustace across the hall, she herself led them up into the stairwell.

  Matilda soon moved ahead, lifting her skirts and taking the stairs two at a time. When Eustace would have followed, Amabel blocked his way. “Give them a few moments alone, lad, ere you enter.” Eustace stared at her in astonishment, for this woman was the enemy. Did she truly think he’d do as she bade him? But to his fury, she refused to move aside when he sought to push past her, effectively trapping him in the narrow stairwell.

  Matilda was not aware that her son had been waylaid. By the time she’d reached the door, she was breathless and flushed. Nine months he’d been a prisoner, to the very day. How would he look? Could a man like Stephen survive confinement with no scars on his soul? Her heart was pounding. Reaching for the door latch, she shoved inward.

  Stephen was standing by the window. It had occurred to her that he might have gained weight, an active man suddenly forced into idleness. Instead he seemed to have lost weight. His face was thinner, his cheekbones noticeably hollowed, and he had more grey in his hair than she remembered. But his eyes were crinkling at the corners, alight with such a blazing blue joy that her throat tightened and she found herself thinking that no crown was worth more than Stephen’s smile. He moved so fast that before the door could close behind her, he had her in his arms, holding her so hard it hurt a little. She clung tightly, raising her face so he could claim her mouth, not even realizing she was crying until he’d begun to kiss away her tears.

  “I was so afraid,” she confessed, “that this day would never come.”

  “I never doubted,” he assured her, encircling her waist and pulling her even closer, “never.”

  She’d worried as much over his mental state as she had over his physical danger. “Truly, Stephen?”

  “Truly,” he said and grinned. “With you and God both on my side, Tilda, how could I lose?” He kissed her again, hungrily. “But I’d pawn my crown right now for a bed.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “oh, indeed, yes…” Giving him so ardent a look that his joke lost all humor. But at that moment, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by their son’s angry entrance.

  “That meddlesome woman would not let me in!” Eustace’s outrage flamed out quickly, though, at sight of his father. He was suddenly uncertain, oddly ill at ease.

  Stephen felt no such shyness. “Look at you, lad,” he marveled. “You are taller than your mother!”

  Eustace nodded, very pleased that his father had seen it at once, just how much he’d grown. “I am glad you are free, Papa,” he said, sounding rather formal even to his own ears, but surely he was too old now for open displays of affection
? Stephen thought otherwise, and once Eustace found himself caught up in his father’s embrace, he forgot his qualms and clung no less urgently than his mother had done.

  Amabel gave them as much time as she could, but she could not wait long, not with so much at stake. “I am sorry to intrude,” she said, “but the sooner you are on the way to Winchester, Stephen, the sooner I’ll have my husband back. Now there is someone else waiting to see you.” And she stepped aside so William de Ypres could enter the room.

  The Fleming paused, almost imperceptibly, before crossing the threshold. In his entire adult life, he could not remember ever offering an apology for any act of his, and he was not sure how to go about it. But if they were to put the ghost of his Lincoln betrayal to rest, he’d have to say a few words at graveside. “I owed you better than you got,” he began awkwardly, “and for what it is worth, I did regret it. But by then, it was too late.”

  “Regrets always are,” Stephen said. He felt Matilda’s hand tighten on his arm, and he covered it with his own before turning his gaze back to Ypres. “It is passing strange,” he said, “how confinement has affected my memory. For the life of me, I cannot seem to remember anything at all about your conduct at Lincoln. Yet I have a very clear and vivid recollection of the great service you did me at Winchester…and I was not even there!”

  Amabel, watching from the doorway, said nothing. She was still furious with her sister-in-law. But somewhat to her surprise, she experienced a sudden, sharp pang of pity for Maude, who had right on her side, but little of Stephen’s generosity and none of his charm.

  Matilda’s dream was at first fanciful and then increasingly erotic. Stirring drowsily, she opened her eyes and discovered this dream was-at long last-real. “Are you getting hungry again, my love?” she murmured, and Stephen laughed into her hair.

  “I did not mean to wake you. I was just taking inventory of treasures I’ve been too long without. I ought to warn you, Tilda, that we are likely to create something of a scandal, for I may not let you leave this bed for days.”

  “Promise?” she said and he laughed again, drawing her in against him until they lay entwined, two halves made whole. “I was so proud,” she said, “of the way you accepted them back into the fold, all the sheep who had strayed…Willem and Northampton and Warenne and the others.”

  “‘Willem’?” he echoed, as if affronted by the intimacy. But she caught the playful tone, and bit him gently when he traced her mouth with his fingers.

  “It was easy enough,” he said lightly, “for I believe in redemption. I would that I could say I also believe I am my brother’s keeper, but that saintly I am not, sweetheart.”

  She saw through the flippancy, for she knew that of all the betrayals he’d suffered, none wounded so deeply as his brother’s defection. Shifting so she could cradle her head in the crook of his shoulder, she said, “I think Henry will be loyal from now on…in his own, odd way. At least you need not fear any more dalliances with Maude. He’s burned that bridge for certes.”

  “Along with most of Winchester,” he said, “and I wonder if he spares any regrets for the city when he mourns all his losses.”

  “Speaking of loss,” she said softly, “I came too close to the abyss, Stephen. You must promise me that you’ll never put yourself so at risk again. You have nothing to prove, for not even your most bitter enemies have ever questioned your courage. No more Lincolns, my love…promise me.”

  “Such a promise would be hollow, Matilda, unless it came from the Almighty. I cannot promise you that I’ll never come to harm. I can pledge to you that I will not be so careless of my own safety in the future. Lincoln was…my Antioch, but that is not a mistake a man makes twice.”

  Lincoln and Antioch. The similarities between the two sieges had occurred to Matilda almost at once, so striking were they. The crusaders capturing Antioch, Stephen besieging Lincoln Castle. Both armies then caught by surprise, confronted by a large enemy force. Stephen’s father had abandoned the siege, rode away from Antioch and-fairly or not-into infamy, disgrace that not even his subsequent martyr’s death had fully expiated. Stephen had chosen to stay and fight. It was Matilda’s belief that he’d been paying off his father’s debt, but she had not expected him to see that for himself, as he was the least introspective of men.

  He sensed her surprise and said wryly, “Solitary confinement gives a man plenty of time to think. What else was there to do?” Reaching for her hand, he kissed her fingers, one by one. “I do not have too many memories of my father, Tilda, for I was only five when he took the cross again, at my mother’s insistence. But I do have one very strong memory of a church, probably the cathedral at Chartres. He was telling me about Antioch, and what I remember was the sadness in his face…”

  Raising up on her elbow, Matilda brushed her lips against his cheek. What a heartless wife Adela had been, that she could have valued her husband’s honour above his life. She was no longer threatened, though, by her indomitable mother-in-law, for Adela’s shadow had receded in the three years since her death in the cloistered quiet of a Marcigny nunnery. Matilda supposed most people would say her life had been a great success. Daughter, wife, widow, mother, and nun-she’d never failed to play the part expected of her, and lived long enough to see one son as a prince of the Church, a second as Count of Blois and Champagne, and a third as England’s king. But when Adela died, few had grieved for her.

  Stephen had been stroking her hair, sliding his hand down her back, along the curve of her hip. Before his caresses could become more intimate, she laced her fingers through his, holding his hand still against her thigh. “Stephen…we need to talk about betrayals, those beyond forgiving.”

  “Geoffrey de Mandeville?”

  “Yes. I realize that you can take no action against him now, not yet. But he must be punished for what he did. I entreat you to see that he is, to hold him accountable for his treachery.”

  “Of course I will. Jesu, the man abducted Constance! Moreover, he abandoned you when your need was greatest. Do you truly think I could ever forgive him, Tilda?”

  “Forgiveness comes easily to you, my love, sometimes too easily.” Her smile was tender enough to take any sting from her words. “You are not a man to nurture grudges, and I admire you greatly for that. But Mandeville owes us a debt that cannot be remitted. Promise me, Stephen, that you will harden your heart against him. He is not deserving of clemency, yours or the Almighty’s.”

  She kissed him then, a kiss so soft and seeking and full of promise that he began to laugh. “What is hardening at the moment,” he said, “is not my heart!”

  She laughed, too, and gave herself up gladly to the joys of the marriage bed, those pleasures of the flesh that were so sweet and mayhap sinful, for the Church said passion was suspect, even if sanctified by wedlock. But it seemed a strange sin, indeed, that of loving her husband overly well, and she could not believe it was one to imperil her soul. “I’ve been so wretched without you,” she confided, and those were the last words she got to say for some time thereafter.

  Later-much later-as they lay at ease in each other’s arms, he could not resist teasing her about her “sudden thirst for blood.” Dropping a quick kiss on the tip of her nose, he said, “Can this truly be my Matilda? My gentle little wife who would not even frown at a mangy dog or a surly beggar? Can this be the same woman who now plies her seductive wiles with a skill that Salome might envy?”

  Matilda was unperturbed. “If I remember my Scriptures,” she said placidly, “Salome did her dance of the veils for the head of John the Baptist. But I do not want you to kill Geoffrey de Mandeville, Stephen.” She turned her head on the pillow and smiled at her husband. “Just ruin him.”

  Upon Robert’s arrival at Oxford, Maude celebrated his freedom with a lavish supper of roast swan, stewed venison, baked lamprey, and a sugared subtlety sculptured to resemble a unicorn. Wines were poured freely, her minstrel entertained them between courses, and all did their best to act as if they truly h
ad cause for rejoicing.

  Afterward, they retired to the solar, ostensibly for privacy, but also because they could keep up the pretense no longer. The castellan, Robert d’Oilly, and his stepson, yet another of the old king’s by-blows, had excused themselves as soon as they could, leaving behind a fractured family circle.

  Rainald thought those remaining were as glum a bunch as he’d ever had the bad luck to encounter. Robert was so quiet one would have thought he’d taken a holy vow of silence whilst he was captive. Amabel and Maude were being polite to each other, but it was the kind of courtesy to set a man’s teeth on edge. And Ranulf was brooding again. He was usually good company, cheerful and obliging. But something was sitting heavy on his shoulders these days, over and above his natural chagrin at Maude’s rout from Winchester. Whatever it was, though, he was keeping it to himself. Rainald had made one attempt to find out what was festering, only to have the lad snap at him like one of those blasted dyrehunds.

  Ranulf was staring intently into the fire, and did not even notice when Rainald leaned over and helped himself to his brother’s drink. It would be a shame to waste good wine, he reasoned. His gaze roamed the chamber, flitting over his wife, sitting meek and mute in the window seat, before coming to rest on Maude. She and Robert were hunched over a chessboard, but neither of them seemed to have much interest in the game. Rainald felt pity stir and looked away hastily, lest she read it in his face, for he knew she’d forgive him almost anything but pity. He did feel sorry for her, though, damned if he did not. He did not even blame her anymore for botching things so badly. Mayhap it was just not meant to be. At least he’d done better than most, for he’d gotten an earldom out of it all. If he could hold on to it. Getting to his feet, he reminded them that he was leaving for Cornwall on the morrow and bade them goodnight, remembering just in time to take Beatrice with him.