When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Hugh was already shinnying down the swaying rope. Alexander and Rob were to lower Maude slowly once the men had climbed down, and Ranulf and the others watched nervously now as she started the perilous descent. The wind tugged at her cloak, blew back her hood, and at one point, the rope jerked, plummeting her briefly toward the ground before the men above were able to brace themselves again. By then she was close enough for Ranulf and Hugh to catch. She leaned against Ranulf, struggling to regain her breath as Hugh cut away her rope harness. No one spoke-they dared not risk it-but the same thought was in all their minds. It was not a comfortable feeling, being on the wrong side of the castle walls.

  Their first test of faith was the castle moat. With Sampson in the lead, they stepped out gingerly onto the ice, and when it held, they shared tense smiles. It was bitterly cold, but the wind was not constant. A sudden gust would send snow swirling across their path, stinging their eyes and skin, but then it would subside. If not for the castle wall rising up at their backs, Ranulf would have been utterly disoriented, for all recognizable landmarks were camouflaged or buried. But Sampson showed no hesitation, striking out boldly as if following the King’s Highway. Peering into the impenetrable blackness ahead, he whispered, “We’re coming up on the millstream.” Ranulf and the others could not see a foot in front of their faces, so dark was it. They could only put their trust in Sampson, and they trailed after him out onto the ice again, for the millstream was just where he’d said it would be.

  Off to the east and west, they could now see smoke rising, and Sampson plotted a course that would take them between these enemy campfires. They had agreed that Stephen’s sentries would not likely be patrolling on a night like this; for certes, any man with sense would be keeping as close to the fire as he could get. They felt sure they had logic on their side. But they knew, too, that gambles are won by luck as much as logic.

  The drifts were deep, and it was more tiring than any of them had anticipated, their pace a slow and laborious one. The marshes were hidden under a blanket of soft snow, but the ground was frozen so hard that it was difficult to remember these same meadows had been under water when the siege began.

  They crossed a second stream with encouraging ease. Ranulf guessed they had come no more than half a mile, but already the castle had disappeared into the darkness. Visibility was so poor that Hugh walked straight into a tree, a mishap that might have been comic if not for the fact that he gashed his cheek on a splintered branch, just missing his eye, more proof-as if they needed it-of how vulnerable they were out here, for any mistake was likely to be lethal.

  Sampson was in the lead, with Ranulf and Hugh close behind, breaking a trail for Maude, who was hampered by her skirts. When Sampson stopped abruptly, flinging up his hand in warning, they froze as a rider materialized out of the night. His stallion’s hoofbeats made no sound upon the snow; moving with a ghostly grace, it seemed more like a phantom spirit than a flesh-and-blood animal, an illusion enhanced by its odd color, the shade of pale smoke. The rider was enveloped in a dark mantle, his face shadowed by a peaked hood, and he seemed no more real than his mount. There was a fey, dreamlike quality to the encounter-until he turned his head and looked in their direction.

  No one moved. No one even blinked. For seconds that lasted longer than years, he seemed to be staring right at them. And then he shook his head, like a man trying to clear cobwebs from his brain, made a sketchy sign of the cross, and rode on. No one spoke for another eternity. Had he decided he could not possibly have seen what he’d first thought? Had he concluded that these spectral white shapes were but a figment of his imagination? Or had he only sensed a presence, instinct overruled, then, by reason? They would never know.

  As soon as they dared, they pushed on, blessing Maude’s foresight, her camouflaging white cloaks. They’d not gone far when they saw a gleam through the trees up ahead. Quickening their steps, resisting the urge to keep looking over their shoulders, they halted on the riverbank, staring in silence at the icy grey surface of the Thames.

  The moat and millstream had been obstacles to be overcome, but the Thames would be their grave if Maude’s gamble failed, if the ice was not solid. Trying not to think of the depth and power of that frigid current, trying not to remember how unusual it was for the Thames to freeze over, they clasped hands and slowly ventured out onto the ice. As they moved farther from shore, they could hear snapping sounds as the ice settled, and first one and then another would pause, eyes straining for cracks. Each footstep was an act of hope, an expenditure of courage. They had almost reached the far bank when Ranulf’s boot skidded. In the fragmented instant before his body hit the ice, they all saw it break under his weight, pitching them into the ink-black water. There was a thud that could surely have been heard back in Oxford, and then…nothing. The ice held firm, and a few moments later, they had achieved a rare distinction: they would be able to say in all honesty that they had crossed the River Thames without even getting their feet wet.

  “That was fun,” Maude said faintly, and caught the flicker of shaken grins. By common consent, they sought the shelter of a massive oak. Hugh pulled out his wineskin and passed it around. Maude drank so deeply that she choked; the wine was heavily spiced, burned its way down her throat, but she welcomed the heat, for never in her life had she been so cold. She’d not expected to be so tired so soon. She estimated they’d come about a mile or more. Which meant they had at least another five miles ere they reached Abingdon. “I am rested,” she lied. “Let’s go on.”

  The ground was sloping upward, and the snow was knee-deep in spots. It was like trying to run through water. The wind had shifted, was coming now from the south, and seemed intent upon blowing them back to Oxford. They stumbled repeatedly, clutching at one another to keep from falling. The trees were glazed in ice; branches broken off by the weight of the snow crunched underfoot and occasionally sent one of them sprawling. Hugh’s hands were growing numb; he tucked them into his armpits in an attempt to warm them, deciding that gloves might not be such an effete fashion, after all, even if they were worn only by women and princes of the Church. Panting and shivering, they struggled on, until at last they reached the crest of the hill.

  “Look,” Maude said softly, pointing back down the hill. The blowing snow was already drifting across their trail; soon all signs of their tracks would be gone, blotted out as if they’d never passed this way.

  “By God,” Hugh murmured, sounding awed, “we just might make it!”

  “You did not think we would?” Maude asked, and he shook his head with a grin.

  “Not a chance in Hell,” he admitted cheerfully, and Maude turned away hastily, moved almost to tears by their fealty and their reckless, rash gallantry. And there in the December darkness on this snow-clouded, silent hill, she beheld a glimmer of illuminating light, the realization that such loyalty could only be earned, not commanded, no matter who claimed England’s crown.

  It took them another six hours to reach Abingdon, and by the time they were within sight of the abbey walls of St Mary’s, they were in danger of losing the night. Leaving Ranulf and Maude to hide in the woods, Sampson and Hugh trudged out to seek admittance from the porter at the gate. Maude and Ranulf were both acquainted with Abbot Ingulph, had dined with him at Oxford Castle that summer, and Maude did not want to implicate him in her escape; while Stephen was not usually given to searching for scapegoats, it was difficult to predict what a man might do when reeling from the blow Stephen was about to take.

  So they had concocted a cover story for Sampson and Hugh, which explained their urgent need for horses without stirring up suspicions. Sampson was going to claim that he’d left Rob d’Oilly’s employ before the siege began, and now served Hugh, who’d taken on Bennet de Malpas’s name for the occasion, Ranulf’s sardonic contribution to the fable. Sampson’s cousin, Brother Joseph, would know better, of course, but Sampson swore he’d not say so, and they were fast learning to accept whatever the slight young soldier said as gosp
el, for he’d gotten them this far, had he not?

  The snow had stopped several hours ago, but began again as soon as Hugh and Sampson were out of sight, and this time the flakes were not soft and lazy, floating wisps of white lace. This dawn snowfall was wet and icy, pelted against their skin like sleet. Hugh and Sampson had shed the white cloaks that had so effectively disguised their mantles, and Maude and Ranulf made a little tent of them, huddling together in a futile search for warmth. They took turns talking, keeping each other awake, for exhaustion was on their trail, even if Stephen was not. And they could not be sure of that, either. Discovery and capture were still very real threats. That sentry might have reevaluated what he’d seen and decided to give the alarm. Or they could have the bad luck to run into one of Stephen’s patrols, now that daylight was nigh. Or Hugh and Sampson might fail, be unable to buy or borrow horses. There were any number of ways disaster could descend upon them, and between them, Maude and Ranulf thought of them all, seeking to scare away sleep.

  The last night-shadows were in retreat and the wind was picking up as they heard approaching horses. Ranulf unsheathed his sword, drawing Maude in behind him. Moments later Sampson and Hugh rode into the clearing, mounted upon matching bay geldings, grinning from ear to ear. They’d agreed that it would be too suspicious to seek four horses, and now Sampson swung nimbly from the saddle, tossing Ranulf the reins. As soon as he’d assisted Maude up behind her brother, he vaulted onto Hugh’s mount, and confidently pointed out the direction they were to take. Putting spurs to their horses, they set off at as fast a pace as the weather and their double burdens would allow, leaving in the snow for the villagers to find and puzzle over, four hooded white cloaks.

  Wallingford Castle was nine miles away, so close and yet so far. Sampson was taking no chances, though, and steered clear of the Abingdon-Wallingford Road in favor of a safer cross-country route that he followed as unerringly as a bloodhound on the scent of prey. So it was almost noon before the castle at last came into view.

  Wallingford was one of the best-defended strongholds in England, and they were challenged as soon as they came within bow range of its massive walls. “Open up,” Ranulf shouted, “for the empress!” a claim so unexpected and so startling that the guard forgot all about caution and popped up to peer over the wall embrasure.

  “The empress is trapped at Oxford,” he shouted back. “What sort of lunatic trick is this?”

  Maude’s teeth were chattering too much for speech. Reaching up impatiently, she pulled back the hood of her mantle so the skeptical guard could see her face. There was a strangled sound up on the battlements, which might have amused her had she not been so very, very cold. She would later realize that Brien’s men had acted with impressive dispatch, but now it seemed to take an extraordinarily long time before the drawbridge began to lower and the gate swung open to admit her.

  Crossing into the bailey, they rode into utter pandemonium. Men were coming on the run from all corners of the castle, and they were mobbed as soon as they reined in. A dozen eager hands reached up to help Maude dismount, but her muscles were so numbed and cramped that she stumbled and had to grab at the nearest arm to keep from falling. When she faltered again, Brien was there to catch her. As soon as he felt her trembling, he jerked off his own mantle and wrapped her in it before escorting her into the great hall, leaving Ranulf, Hugh, and Sampson to fend for themselves.

  Maude was dazed by the furor. She had often been the center of attention, but never before the object of such intense and unbridled enthusiasm. Every man in the hall was beaming at her, admiring, marveling, approving. She was being assailed from all sides with shouted questions and lavish praise; it was unseemly behavior and she reveled in it.

  Ranulf and Hugh and Sampson were fighting their way toward her, overwhelmed by so much goodwill; men were slapping them on the back, spilling wine on them with overeager generosity, inadvertently keeping them from what they most wanted: to thaw themselves out by that blazing hearth. Maude was so close to the flames that she was in danger of being singed. She was thirsty and hungry and half frozen and so fatigued she felt lightheaded. But none of that mattered. She was quite content to stay right where she was, in Brien’s arms, surrounded by laughing, exultant men, men who were calling her Queen Maude as if they truly meant it, rejoicing in her triumph and making it their own.

  Brien was holding her as if he had no intention of letting her go, dark eyes never leaving her face. “You are the most amazing woman,” he said, and laughed, too happy to hide it, to keep up the pretense between them any longer. Maude smiled at him as her own defenses dropped, realizing what was happening and not caring, not now, not anymore.

  “My only regret,” she said, “is that I’ll not be there to see Stephen’s face when he finds out I’ve bested him!” That set them all to laughing, and this time she knew the jokes were at Stephen’s expense, not hers.

  “If I do not sit down soon, I’m likely to fall down,” she confided to Brien, for she could admit to physical frailties now; she’d earned that right. His arm tightened around her shoulder, and when he called out for a chair, so many men volunteered that Maude began to laugh. Never had she felt like this, so in harmony with her world, so at ease with herself. It was a wonderful feeling, had been a long time coming.

  She smiled again at Brien. But he was no longer gazing down into her face with such flattering and heartfelt joy. He was looking over her shoulder, and although he showed no overt signs of tension, Maude saw enough subtle indications-a tightening around his mouth, a flickering of his eyelids-for her to turn around, seeking the source of his stress.

  A woman was coming toward them. She was about Maude’s age, although without Maude’s statuesque carriage or her elegant, high-cheeked handsomeness. Maude’s features were boldly stated, her coloring as dramatic as her demeanor. This woman’s appeal was as delicate as it was conventional, delineated in gentle, muted shades, hair a pale ash-brown, golden lashes, eyes a soft, misty blue, eyes that were as clear as spring water and as transparent, giving Maude an unwanted glimpse into the very depths of her woman’s soul. There was pain in the look she now gave Maude, pain and fear and a quiver of hopeless hatred.

  “Welcome to Wallingford, madame,” she said tonelessly. “Welcome to my husband’s home.”

  Stephen felt more than triumph as he watched the castle drawbridge being lowered; he felt a quiet but intense sense of vindication. Judging from the comments he overheard as they rode into the bailey, he knew his men were experiencing emotions no less jubilant and a good deal more vengeful. As much as he’d wanted to take Maude prisoner, he had no desire to see her humiliated, and in that, he was clearly in the minority. His brother in particular was anticipating Maude’s surrender with more pleasure than seemed becoming for a man of God. Stephen hoped Henry would not gloat too openly, but he could not very well say anything. Not only would that infuriate his brother for days and even weeks to come, but it would reinforce the lingering suspicions of his other allies, that he lacked the old king’s implacable will and unforgiving royal memory. It would be a great relief once he no longer had to compete with a ghost; in ending the threat Maude posed, he hoped, too, to put her father to his long-overdue rest.

  Rob d’Oilly was awaiting them upon the steps of the great hall, standing with a tall, burly man whom Stephen recognized as the captain of Maude’s household knights. But there was no sign of Maude, and Stephen’s smile faded. “That is odd,” he said, “I would have wagered any sum that Maude would be the first one we’d see.”

  “It is not so surprising,” the bishop countered. “She is facing utter ruin, confinement for the rest of her days. Little wonder she might want to put off the moment of surrender as long as possible.”

  “After all this time, Henry, do you know Maude as little as that? The greater her defeat, the more determined she’d be to meet it head-on. I do not like this, not at all. Mayhap she is ailing? That might explain her sudden capitulation. In truth, I’d expected
her to hold out until the last morsel of bread had been swallowed.”

  Rob d’Oilly drew a visibly bracing breath. He was obviously not looking forward to this coming confrontation, and that was the true measure of the difference between them, Alexander de Bohun thought, with just a trace of disdain, for he was relishing what lay ahead. His eyes flicked past Stephen to the familiar faces behind him: the cutthroat Fleming, the swaggering Warenne whelp, that sour pickle Northampton, whose smiles always looked borrowed, and Winchester’s ungodly bishop, as smug as a cat with a mouse between its paws. No, he was glad now that his lady had asked him to keep her brother from blundering. He’d not have missed this for all the whores in Babylon.

  Rob d’Oilly’s sin was not in being nervous; it was in letting it be seen. He was determined, though, to follow the proper code of conduct for such occasions, and as Stephen dismounted, he stepped forward stiffly, knelt and formally offered his sword. “Oxford Castle is yours, my liege.”

  Stephen accepted the sword with appropriate gravity and did not keep Rob on his knees any longer than need be. Say what you will about the man, Rob thought, he knew how to play his part. But he did not yet know that Maude had rewritten the ending. And when he did?

  “Where is the Countess of Anjou?” the Bishop of Winchester demanded, and Rob found himself-oddly enough-taking umbrage on Stephen’s behalf, that his partisans should feel so free to usurp his role. He hesitated and was not sure whether to be relieved or resentful when Alexander de Bohun spared him the dangerous duty of revelation.

  “You were expecting to find the empress here?” Alexander queried blandly. “You are in for a disappointment, then.”

  There was a brief moment of stunned silence, and then, uproar. Stephen had to shout to make himself heard above the din. “How witless do you think we are? She must be here-unless she has learned to fly! Now where is she? I’ll have the truth from you,” he warned, adding ominously, “one way or another!”