When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Rob gulped, saying nothing, but thinking all the while of the garrison hanged at Shrewsbury Castle. Alexander was not as easily intimidated; he even smiled. “I do not expect you to take my word for it. See for yourselves.”

  Several of the men seemed ready to fling themselves at Alexander de Bohun and Rob, threatening to beat the truth out of them if need be, and Rob took an involuntary backward step. But Stephen stopped them with a peremptory gesture, “Search the castle,” he commanded. “Take it apart stone by stone if you must, but find her!”

  They took Stephen at his word, all but tore the castle apart. Rob and Alexander de Bohun and the rest of Maude’s men were herded into the great hall under guard. Those who showed too much pleasure in the frantic search were soon nursing bruises and split lips, and Rob warned them hoarsely that prudence was the order of the day. Sidling up to Alexander, he asked softly if they ought not to remind Stephen of his promise to free the garrison. But Alexander shook his head. “No, just stay quiet till their fury burns out. Only once has Stephen sent men to their deaths in a rage, and it is said he later regretted it. I do not doubt Ypres or the bishop would hang the lot of us before breakfast without blinking an eye, but Stephen will not let them take out their anger on us-if we are half as lucky as the empress!” It was sound advice and Rob took it. For the remainder of the search, he and his men kept as low a profile as they could.

  “The bitch is gone,” the Earl of Northampton reported, sounding as if he could not believe his own words. “We’ve looked in every corner and cranny of this accursed place. If she is still here, she is in one of those fresh graves out in the bailey, for we’ve not missed so much as a mousehole.”

  Stephen turned away without answering. His brother was beside him now, ranting in his ear again. Listening to Henry was like pouring salt into an open wound. Swinging about, he headed for the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time up to the chamber he’d been told was Maude’s. His spurs struck sparks against the stone steps, and his heart thudded in rhythm to the dirge echoing in his brain. Gone. She is gone. But how? Christ on the Cross, how?

  Maude’s chamber had been demolished, bedding slashed, coffers spilled open, her clothes strewn about, ripped into rags. William de Ypres had backed a heavyset woman against the wall, pinning her by her wrists. Her hair had been shaken loose, falling over her face in salt-and-pepper dishevelment, and there was blood welling in the corner of her mouth. But she showed no fear, and that seemed to goad the Fleming all the more.

  “Where is she, old woman? You’d best tell me now, whilst you still have a tongue to talk!”

  “I do not know! And if I did, I’d never tell you!” she spat, before calling Ypres a name that sounded German to Stephen, and clearly no compliment.

  “Let her go, William,” he said angrily, and Ypres spun around to protest, but saw something in Stephen’s face that silenced him. Moving to an overturned coffer, he picked up a woman’s chemise, tore it in half, and flung the pieces contemptuously at Minna’s feet.

  Minna expelled an audible breath as Ypres stalked out, watching Stephen warily as he moved about the chamber. “I know who you are,” he said. “You have been with Maude for a long time. It surprises me that she could leave you behind like this. Had she no fear for your safety?”

  “She knew you’d not harm a woman,” Minna said calmly, retrieving the torn chemise and using it to daub at her bleeding mouth.

  “Did she, indeed? I find it passing strange,” Stephen said, with sudden bitterness, “that my enemies value my virtues more than my friends do.”

  Minna continued to watch him closely, rubbing her chafed wrists now that Ypres was not there to see. “I was not lying,” she insisted. “I do not know where my lady is.”

  “I do,” Stephen said, “Wallingford. Where else could she go? But I need to know how she did it. You owe me that much.”

  He did not truly expect her to answer him, but she did, saying readily, “She had us lower her from St George’s Tower, down onto the ice outside the walls.”

  “And then what? She just walked past my army?” Stephen asked incredulously, and she nodded proudly. “I see…so you are telling me she escaped from a besieged castle in the midst of a snowstorm. I suppose I should say that if she could endure such an ordeal, take such a mad risk, then she deserved to get away. But I will not. I cannot,” he said, his voice cracking with rage, and another emotion, one more raw and revealing than anger.

  Minna was folding the bloodied and shredded chemise neatly, as if it were still a whole garment and not a fragment beyond salvaging. “Even if you had captured my lady,” she said, “you would not have won your war.”

  He turned to look at her, and she continued quietly. “You’d only have gained yourself some time. The empress is fighting for her son, and even if you were to confine her in the Tower until she died, men would still see young Henry as the rightful heir.”

  “That may well be,” he said at last. “But Maude had best understand this, that I am fighting for my son, too.”

  At Wallingford, Maude was still enjoying her newfound celebrity status. The garrison could not do enough for her, and on the few occasions when she’d ventured beyond the castle walls, the townspeople flocked around her, the way Londoners had once trailed after her mother, “Good Queen Maude,” on her visits to the city’s lepers and Christ’s poor. Maude was no saint, nor did she want to be one. But she’d been popular with her German subjects, and it had stung her pride when the English acknowledged her so grudgingly, with suspicion and scorn instead of approval. So there was a healing balm in this belated acceptance, even though she knew that nothing had truly changed. Men might praise her courage, admire her intrepid escape, but they were still not willing to obey her.

  The sun was blinding on the snow, so bright that it hurt Maude’s eyes. Some of the younger men were having an exuberant snowball fight, but they waved and held their fire until she’d safely passed by. As soon as she entered the hall, a young page offered to fetch her an almond milk custard from the kitchen, and when she declined, he confided that the cooks were planning a special Christmas Eve subtlety in her honour: they were baking a cake shaped like Oxford Castle, surrounded by sugared snow. Up in her bedchamber, Maude found she’d been given extra pillows, and yet another gown was spread out on the bed, a soft wool in a flattering shade of green. As Maude was too tall to borrow any clothes from Brien’s wife, he had engaged some of the townswomen on her behalf, and to judge by the way her wardrobe was expanding, they must be sewing day and night. Maude had never been treated so well as she had during her stay at Wallingford, and she wanted nothing so much as to get as far away as she could.

  Ranulf was in the solar, decorating it with mistletoe and evergreen boughs. Smiling at sight of his sister, he said “Catch!” and tossed Maude a wafer. It was hot from the oven and filled with honey, the aptly named angel’s bread. “If Robert does not get here soon,” Ranulf confessed, “I’ll not find a horse big enough to bear my weight. I’ve not been able to stop eating, spend more time in the kitchen than the cooks!” He was pleased when she laughed, for he knew she was not as cheerful as she would have others believe. He suspected that her victory had left a sour aftertaste in her mouth, and he thought he knew why. But Maude would never admit it, mayhap not even to herself.

  “I saw Sampson in the stables this morning, Maude. Flying higher than any hawk, is that lad. He says he’s coming with us back to Devizes, sounding like a man offered a post guarding Heaven’s Gate!”

  “Actually, he approached me first, said he had a yearning to see more of the world than Wallingford. I was going to take him with us, anyway, though, for I do not care to think what might have befallen us without him.”

  Sitting down, she helped herself to another wafer. “Ranulf, I’ve been thinking about the ransoms. We might as well send word to Stephen now, find out what we must pay to free Rob and Alexander and Minna and the others. I know Brien wants to wait till Robert arrives, but surely Stephe
n knows by now where I am.”

  Ranulf sat down across from her; so simple an act as sitting in a chair was a pleasure after all those weeks of feeding their furniture into the fire. “You are not worried about your safety here, Maude? There is no need, you know. Robert was already gathering an army to march to your rescue when he got Brien’s message about your escape, and so he should reach us any day now. And you may be sure that Stephen knows he is on his way. But even if Stephen were foolish enough-or furious enough-to assault Wallingford this very morn, he’d have no chance of taking it ere Robert arrives. If the worst happened and he somehow captured the town as he did Oxford, he’d never be able to take the castle. And Brien has his larders well stocked. I’d wager we could hold out at Wallingford till spring and beyond if need be!”

  He’d meant to reassure her, but the look on her face was one of dismay. It was painfully obvious that she found the prospects of a Wallingford siege even more daunting than the dangers she’d braved in escaping from Oxford. She would, he suspected, flee barefoot out into the snow rather than be trapped here with Brien and his wife, and he understood why; thinking of Annora, he understood all too well.

  The door burst open and Hugh reeled into the room. “Riders approach,” he panted, “under a flag of truce!”

  Maude and Ranulf both flew to the window, fumbling with the shutters. For all his bold talk, Ranulf felt a chill that was not caused by the sudden infusion of cold air. Was Stephen making a demand that Brien give Maude up? He leaned out the window, so recklessly that Maude and Hugh grabbed for his belt to anchor him. “I can see them now,” he reported. “They are Stephen’s men, for certes. Either a messenger or an escort-Holy Mother!”

  He was blocking Maude and Hugh’s view, and they could only wait impatiently until he withdrew safely back into the solar. As soon as he turned, they knew his news was good. “It is Minna! Stephen has sent her back to you, Maude!” His grin widened. “And damn me if else, but he threw in my dyrehunds, too!”

  Maude was sitting beside the hearth in her bedchamber while Minna brushed out her long, dark hair. It had been quiet for a while, a comfortable quiet; they were finally talked out. Moving to the table, Minna poured wine for them both, then went back to brushing Maude’s hair.

  Maude sipped the wine without enthusiasm; it was a malmsey, too sweet for her taste. “Did you ask for Ranulf’s dogs?”

  Minna shook her head regretfully. “In truth, I never thought of them,” she admitted. “No, that was Stephen’s doing.”

  Maude set her wine cup down, turning so she could look into Minna’s face. “Did he take it hard…my escape?”

  “Yes,” Minna said, and Maude smiled.

  Another silence settled over the chamber. Minna had begun to hum under her breath, a German song from her youth, and it was like a cat’s purring, proof of Minna’s contentment. “What a Christmas this will be, madame. It would be well-nigh perfect if only Lord Robert were here. Do you know what sort of festivities are planned? I asked that woman, but she was not very forthcoming.”

  Minna’s loyalty was a fierce and elemental force; it took no prisoners. She managed to make the innocuous phrase “that woman” sound as damning as anything Maude had ever heard. She hid a smile in her wine cup, for there was a primitive, sweet pleasure in it, but it was a forbidden pleasure, nonetheless, one she dared not indulge. “You might as well call her what she is, Minna-Brien’s wife.”

  “I know,” Minna said, but she could not resist adding a muttered comment under her breath, which seemed to fault Brien’s wife for an odd sin, indeed, that she shared Maude’s name. Maude said nothing, but she could feel heat rising in her face.

  It had happened on her third night at Wallingford. She’d gone into the solar to retrieve a book, and she was already in the room before she realized she was not alone. They were standing in the shadows, beyond the reach of the cresset lamp. Brien had his hands on his wife’s shoulders; his back was to Maude, and he was speaking too softly for her to hear, but his tone was soothing. His wife’s face was turned up toward his, and it was wet with tears. Maude froze, not wanting to be there, to witness this intimate moment. She’d taken a stealthy backward step when the other Maude’s voice rose, just enough for her words to carry clearly across the solar. “How lucky for you, Brien, that I was christened Maude, for you need never fear crying out the wrong name in bed.” Maude never knew how Brien responded, for she heard nothing after that but the blood pounding in her ears as she slowly retreated toward the door. She could not have borne it had they turned and seen her, but she was spared that, at least. Yet the memory lingered, one she would never share with another soul, not even Minna.

  “I’ve never been able to abide women like that, Minna. The ones who flutter their lashes and coo like doves whenever a man walks by, just the sort of woman Geoffrey would fancy.”

  “Just remember, my lady, what God has given you and denied her. Her marriage is barren, whilst you have three healthy sons.”

  That gave Maude pause. “Sons I never get to see,” she said, and at once regretted it, for even to her ears, that sounded suspiciously self-pitying. “I am so thankful, Minna, to have you back with me. We’ve traveled a bumpy road together, too many miles for us ever to go our separate ways.”

  Minna smiled, began to hum again. Within moments dogs were barking out in the bailey. “That sounds like Ranulf’s wolf pack,” Maude said. The barking did not subside; the other castle dogs were joining in. “Minna…do you think it could be Robert?” Maude was on her feet, re-tying the lacings of her gown, and Minna was brushing her hair back, preparing to pin it at the nape of her neck, when they heard the footsteps on the stairs.

  It was Ranulf and Brien, and Maude knew at once that her hunch had been right. “Robert?” she asked eagerly, and they nodded in unison. Ranulf’s emotions always ran close to the surface; Brien’s did not. Now, though, the same expression was mirrored on both their faces, a look of jubilation and joy that was somehow expectant, too, the sort of inner excitement that hinted at secrets and surprises. But Maude had no time for curiosity, for Robert was coming in behind them, and then she was in his arms, being held in a wordless embrace, one that said what they could not.

  “These narrow escapes of yours,” Robert said, “are becoming the stuff of legend.”

  Maude laughed. “Ah, Robert, I cannot begin to tell you how the sight of you gladdens me!”

  “I have to admit,” he said, “that you truly surprised me with that miraculous midnight escape of yours. But I have a surprise of my own.” He looked back toward Brien then, and nodded.

  Maude watched, puzzled, as Brien pulled the door all the way open. And then she gasped, “Dear God!” for her son was standing in the doorway.

  Henry’s qualms about not being recognized now seemed very foolish to him, for he was suddenly sure that his mother would have known him anywhere, on any street in Christendom. He liked the way her hair fell loose about her shoulders, black and shiny like the polished jet in the hilt of his uncle’s dagger, and he liked it, too, that she did not pounce on him, swooping him up in one of those tearful, perfumed embraces that squeezed the air out of him. He did not want her to act like the mothers of his friends. She said his name, making it sound like the “Amen” that ended prayers, and he was drawn forward into the room, straight as an arrow toward its target.

  “We were coming to rescue you,” he explained, with just a trace of reproach, “and we would have, too. But you were too quick, Mama. You rescued yourself.” Had she known he was on the way, she said, she’d have waited, and she laughed. He laughed, too, and then she was hugging him, and instead of being embarrassed, he found himself hugging her back.

  Henry was not shy, and he was soon settled cross-legged across from his mother in the window seat, talking a blue streak: asking about her trek through the snow, interrupting to brag a bit about his own adventures, then wanting to know if she’d been scared, if she’d gotten lost, if she’d mind that he went to bed later
tonight, since he was not tired at all, and there was so much still to share.

  Minna and the men watched and listened and then, one by one, discreetly slipped away. Brien was the last to go. He’d seen Maude look more beautiful than she did at this moment. Ironically enough, he’d always thought she had never looked fairer than on the day of her wedding to Geoffrey. But never had he seen her look happier. “Merry Christmas, Maude,” he said softly, and closed the door, leaving her alone with her son.

  28

  Devizes Castle, England

  June 1143

  June was a good month for Maude; her son was back at Devizes Castle. His visits were never long enough, left her yearning for more. But boys of Henry’s age did not belong with their mothers. Only a man could teach them the navigational skills they would need to reach the distant shores of manhood. Or so Society and the Church dictated. Maude had reluctantly acquiesced, entrusting Henry into her brother’s keeping, for motherhood could not compete with kingship. No matter what she must do or endure or sacrifice, it would be worth it-on the day her stolen crown was placed upon Henry’s head. That, she did not dare to doubt.

  On this sultry June Saturday, Ranulf and Hugh de Plucknet had taken Henry on a hunt in the royal forest of Melksham, and they did not return till dusk, grimy and sweat-soaked and tired and triumphant. This was Henry’s first hunt, and his enthusiasm was so intense that his audience knew it was witnessing the birth of a lifelong passion. One of his arrows had helped to bring down a hart, and with each telling, the tines on the stag’s antlers grew more numerous and awesome. Maude listened patiently as he relived the hunt for her, praising the lymer hounds and recounting the chase and describing in detail the moment when their quarry turned at bay. But when he started to explain how a skilled tracker could determine a stag’s size by the shape of its droppings, Maude called a halt.