When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “The blood is not mine.” If the priest was surprised to encounter the old king’s son in a town under Stephen’s dominion, he gave no sign of it. “I never thought,” he said, “to see such suffering, to see the innocents struck down in God’s Sight. There was killing even in the churches, where people had fled for refuge.”

  He was far more feeble than Ranulf remembered, and he reached out, put a steadying hand on the priest’s elbow. “When did this happen?”

  “Last night. They came in the night like thieves, but they came to kill. Some of the people were able to get into the castle, but the others…the ones caught in their houses, their beds…” His mouth trembled; he had a priest’s familiarity with death, but not like this.

  “I looked upon evil, Lord Ranulf. We saw the Devil’s work. They showed no mercy, forced householders to divulge where their valuables were hidden, then cut their throats. They plundered St Radegund’s nunnery and raped honest women in front of their husbands. They deliberately burned churches and stole from God. They spared neither the young nor the old nor the weak, and their killing was wanton, done for the sport of it. And when they rode off, they took all our livestock and they loaded carts with their plunder and they carried off women, even some of the nuns. I know war and this was not war. Not even the infidel Saracens could be so cruel, so deserving of damnation…”

  Ranulf, too, had thought he knew war. But never had he seen the sort of savagery the priest had just described. An outlaw army, composed of brigands and felons, the very dregs of the gutter, led by one who feared neither man nor God. And if he’d taken a different road, he and Jennet and Simon might have run right into them. “Who was it?” he said, already knowing what the priest would say.

  “The Devil’s spawn. That son of perdition, Geoffrey de Mandeville.”

  30

  Devizes Castle, England

  January 1144

  The drawbridge was lowered at once for Ranulf, and by the time he’d dismounted, his squire was racing across the inner bailey. “Where have you been, my lord? We’d given up all hope of ever seeing you again!”

  “I had my own doubts, too, Luke. But how did you know I was in trouble? I did not tell my sister when I’d be returning.”

  “The empress had a letter from the Countess of Chester. Lady Maud was uneasy, not having heard from you as promised. And when you missed Christmas, we knew something was wrong. The empress wanted to send men out to search for you, but we did not know where to begin. My lord…may I speak freely? I do not know why you go off on these mysterious journeys of yours, and it is obvious that you do not want me-or anyone else-to know. But I would take your secret to the grave, that I pledge upon my honour and hopes of salvation. In Stephen’s England, life has become too cheap for a man to venture out alone.”

  Ranulf was touched and gave the younger man a quick smile, although he avoided making Luke any promises. “If you’ll take our mounts into the stable,” he said, “I’ll get the children inside where they can thaw out.” At that, Luke abandoned his polite pretense of ignoring his lord’s unlikely traveling companions, but Ranulf deflected his curiosity with a murmured, “I’ll tell you about it once I’ve seen my sister.”

  He led them toward the great hall, Simon and Jennet keeping so close to Ranulf that they were in danger of treading upon his heels. They’d almost reached the door when his nephew came bursting through it. “I knew you’d come back safe! But Mama has been fretting night and day over you, Uncle Ranulf, and she’ll likely scorch your ears for scaring us so. Of course if it was me, I’d have gotten my rump blistered, so you’ll be getting off easy!”

  Ranulf laughed and ushered all three children into the hall. “Over to the hearth,” he directed, before adding, “Harry, I want you to look after Simon and Jennet whilst I seek out your mother.”

  He’d become oddly protective of these orphans of the Fens, but he had no qualms now about entrusting them to Henry. His nephew had his share of swagger and was not one for backing down when challenged; in Bristol, he and Miles’s youngest son, Mahel, had gone from being rivals to outright enemies after a rough-and-tumble game of hot cockles. But as much as Henry liked his own way, he did not take unfair advantage of his privileged position. As young as he was, he seemed to understand that it was no more sporting to bully a servant than it would be to shoot a nesting bird, and Ranulf had concluded that a child was indeed more than the sum of his parents, for he did not associate a sense of fair play with Geoffrey, nor with his sister, either, for all that he loved her.

  “You be on your best behavior with them, Harry, for they’ve never been in a castle before. Nor do they speak any French.”

  “It is lucky then, that I’ve learned a little bit of English.”

  Ranulf was not deceived by the boy’s offhand manner-he could recognize bragging in reverse when he saw it-and he made sure that his nephew got the praise he was craving. Turning then, to Simon and Jennet, he switched over to stilted English. “This is my nephew, the Lord Harry. He’ll stay with you till I get back.” They could not hide their dismay at being separated from him, even briefly, but he knew they’d do as he bade them; they were as trusting as Loth and far more obedient.

  There was no need, though, to hunt for Maude. She was already rushing into the hall, a mantle hastily flung over her shoulders. “Ranulf, thank God! I thought you were dead, too!” A quick, convulsive hug; he could feel her trembling, her tension. She looked exhausted, her skin stretched as taut as her nerves, so pallid she might have just risen from a sickbed. Stepping back, she still held on to his arm, her fingers gripping hard enough to hurt. “Why were you visiting Maud in secret? And why in God’s Name did you go off on your own like that? Where have you been?”

  “Cantebrigge,” he said simply, and she went even paler. Before she could speak, he drew her toward the hearth, appropriating a couple of chairs. “I know we’ve much to say to each other, and I am indeed sorry for worrying you. But first there is a story I must tell you, one I’d hoped to keep to myself. I brought back company-those two scared fledglings Harry has taken under his wing.”

  As concisely as possible, he related then his adventures since encountering Simon and Jennet on the Newark-Grantham Road. “We finally reached Cantebrigge,” he concluded, “on the day after Mandeville’s raid. The town was still smoldering; it was Winchester all over again. And I could find no one who’d even heard of Jonas the tanner. If he’d ever been there, he was long gone.”

  He grimaced in remembered frustration. “So…I took them back with me. What else could I do, Maude? They could never fend for themselves, would soon starve-if worse did not befall them. And the people of Cantebrigge had nothing to spare; the last thing the town needed was more orphans.”

  He was talking faster than usual, partly from embarrassment and partly to keep Maude from interrupting until he was done. So far she’d listened in silence, although she’d occasionally shaken her head at the risks he’d taken. “I thought,” he said, “that we could ask the priests in Devizes and Bristol for help. They might know of a family willing to take Simon and Jennet in, mayhap one who’d lost a son-”

  He stopped in surprise as Maude jumped to her feet. “I cannot talk about this,” she said sharply, “not now!” And before Ranulf could react, she spun away from him, exiting the hall so rapidly that it was almost as if she were fleeing. Ranulf was nonplussed. He’d been braced for gibes and raillery, knowing full well that few would understand his compassion for a runaway serf’s children. But he’d counted upon Maude to be more indulgent, if only because women were taught to be tolerant of male folly. The rebuff stung all the more, then, for being unexpected.

  Staring after Maude, Ranulf started at the sound of “Uncle Ranulf,” for he’d not noticed as Henry edged unobtrusively within eavesdropping range. The boy looked unhappy, much too mature for his years. “Mama is not angry with you,” he said. “She has been grieving ever since we heard, and-”

  “Jesu,” Ranulf breathed, for hi
s sister’s words had suddenly come back to him, taking on a new and sinister significance. “I thought,” she’d cried, “you were dead, too!” Ranulf started to speak, had to swallow first. “Who?” he asked hoarsely. “Who died, lad?”

  “The Earl of Hereford.”

  “Miles?” Ranulf sank back in the chair he’d just vacated. “How? I did not know he was ailing.”

  “He was not. He was slain on Christmas Eve…by mischance. He’d gone hunting in Dean Forest, and one of his companions misfired an arrow. It hit him in the chest and he died there in the woods.”

  “What a meaningless way to die…” It occurred to Ranulf, then, that most deaths seemed meaningless these days; for what greater good had the citizens of Cantebrigge died? “May God forgive his earthly sins,” Ranulf said softly. He’d never shared Maude’s fondness for Miles. But the political ramifications of his death were far-reaching and dangerous. He’d been one of Maude’s most powerful and steadfast supporters, one she could not afford to lose.

  “Uncle Ranulf, there is more. Mama got a letter yesterday from my father. He wants me to come back home.”

  Ranulf sat upright. “And she agreed?” he asked, too surprised for discretion.

  “Not at first. Not until I…I told her that I wanted to go.” Henry’s lashes swept down like shields, but not in time, and Ranulf felt a wrenching pang of pity for the boy. He wanted to assure Henry that missing his father was no cause for guilt, but he knew it was futile; in this war of tangled and torn loyalties, Henry’s conflicted battlefield was his heart.

  Simon and Jennet had trailed timidly after Henry, and Ranulf summoned them over. “You will be staying here for now,” he said, and they nodded solemnly, for they never asked questions, their faith even stronger than their fear. No one had ever shown such utter confidence in him; it was both a great compliment and a great burden.

  Leaving them with Henry, he started to go after Maude. He stopped, though, before he reached the door. He knew now what had sent her fleeing from the hall-his careless talk of “losing a son.” She’d not thank him for following her. She was as shy of showing her pain in public as her ten-year-old son. But Harry would outgrow his emotional skittishness. For his sister, it was too late.

  Stephen hastily gathered an army to put down Geoffrey de Mandeville’s rebellion. But Mandeville refused to do battle and retreated deeper into the Fens. Stephen set about erecting castles in an attempt to contain the bloodshed. He then marched north in the hopes of catching the Earl of Chester’s garrison off guard at Lincoln Castle.

  For most of England, it was neither a happy nor a peaceful spring. Maude’s partisans were still mourning Miles. Stephen’s supporters were troubled by his failure to bring Geoffrey de Mandeville to swift, summary justice. In Yorkshire, the Earl of Chester was pillaging the lands of the rival Earl of York. And in the Fens, the killing continued.

  By May, the royal gardens at Westminster Palace were in bloom, and Constance was able to pick an armful of primroses and daisies and violets, intending to surprise her mother-in-law with the first bouquet of the season. But she was the one who got the surprise, for she found Matilda in tears. Constance froze, jolted by fear. Eustace had gone north with Stephen to Lincoln Castle, having persuaded his father that he was old enough, at fourteen, to witness his first siege. But it never even occurred to Constance that he might be in peril. Dropping the flowers, she ran toward the bed. “Maman, what is wrong? Nothing has happened to Papa Stephen?”

  Matilda sat up, wiping away tears. “No, child, no. The last I heard from Stephen, he and Eustace were quite well, although sorely vexed because the siege was going so poorly.”

  Constance sighed with relief. She might loathe her husband, but she adored her in-laws, felt far closer to them than to her own parents. She’d been just eight when her father died; she remembered only a gross mountain of flesh, a man grown so corpulent that he could no longer ride a horse or fit onto a throne, known to the more irreverent of his subjects as Louis le Gros. Her mother had been a remote, detached figure, seldom seen and soon gone; after quarreling with her lively and willful young daughter-in-law, the dowager queen had conceded the field to Eleanor, withdrawing to her own dower estates and wedding again in unseemly haste. While Constance was fond of her brother, the French king, and dazzled by the siren he’d married, she’d been on the periphery of their hectic, whirlwind lives. She’d not learned what it was like to belong until she’d come as a child bride to this alien land of England.

  Perching on the foot of the bed, she asked shyly, “Why then, are you so sad?”

  “I had bad news this morn. The castle at Rouen surrendered to Geoffrey of Anjou on the 23rd of April.”

  Constance did not know what to say, for surely Matilda must have expected this; the city itself had yielded back in January, and all knew the castle would eventually fall, too. “I suppose,” she ventured, “this means Lord Geoffrey will claim the duchy for himself?”

  “He has already done so, Constance…and with the blessing and full consent of the French Crown.”

  “My brother has agreed to recognize him as duke? But…but why?”

  “Because Geoffrey agreed in his turn to cede Gizors and the Vexin to Louis,” Matilda said, truthfully but tactlessly. She at once regretted her candor, for Constance blushed deeply, as if she were the one shamed by her brother’s diplomatic double-dealing.

  “I…I am so sorry, Maman,” she stammered, and Matilda hastily reached for her hand, giving it a reassuring pat.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, child. I am the one being foolish, for I knew this day was coming. I ought not to have let it disquiet me so. But this bodes ill for England, for any faltering hopes of peace. Even if Stephen were able to drive Maude and all her kith and kin into the sea, that would not end the war…not now. Too many of Stephen’s barons have holdings in Normandy.”

  She did not elaborate, nor did she need to. Constance understood. With England and Normandy now severed, the English barons were confronted with a hard choice. If they recognized Geoffrey as their liege lord in Normandy, they risked having their English estates confiscated by Stephen. But if they balked at acknowledging Geoffrey, that would place their Normandy lands in jeopardy. Loyalty to Stephen kept Matilda from admitting it, but Constance knew what she feared-that men would conclude it was more dangerous to antagonize Geoffrey than Stephen.

  “Do not fret, Maman. Papa Stephen will win his war, for surely the Almighty must favor him over that shrewish woman and her accursed Angevin husband. Back in Paris, all knew the Angevin counts sprang from the Devil’s loins. Papa Stephen will prevail, you’ll see. He’ll have a long and peaceful reign and…and by the time Eustace follows him to the throne, no one will even remember Maude’s name.”

  She’d meant to offer comfort, but Matilda frowned and looked away, and Constance caught her breath, stunned by what she’d seen for an unguarded moment in her mother-in-law’s eyes. She detested Eustace, and Matilda loved him, but they shared the same secret unease, the same unspoken doubts about what kind of king Eustace would be.

  Maude had seen little of Robert and Ranulf that summer; they’d spent most of it in the saddle, chasing after Stephen. After some skirmishing around Malmesbury, Stephen had moved on to lay siege to the nearby castle at Tetbury. Robert and Miles’s eldest son, Roger, had then swooped down upon Tetbury. But Stephen’s outnumbered barons had refused to fight, and he’d broken off the siege, once again thwarting Robert’s hopes of forcing a resolution upon the field of battle.

  After the disappointment at Tetbury, they returned to Gloucester and Maude joined them there during the last week in September. As glad as she was to be reunited with her brothers, she found it strange to be at Gloucester Castle without Miles.

  This was her first visit since Roger had inherited his father’s earldom of Hereford, and he entertained Maude far more lavishly than Miles had ever done, which only underscored the differences between the brusque, frugal, pragmatic father and his ext
ravagant, impulsive, fun-loving son. Roger was as quick-tempered as Miles, and like his father, he was fearless on the battlefield. He had inherited the same russet coloring, too, although he was handsomer than the rough-hewn, freckled Miles. But he lacked his father’s mettle, the flinty force of character that had made Miles such a formidable ally, a man to be reckoned with. The better Maude got to know Roger, the more she liked him-and the more she missed Miles.

  She also missed Rainald and Brien, for she’d seen neither one for months. Rainald was still in Cornwall, fighting a dogged, lonely battle to defend his imperiled earldom. And Brien was equally hard pressed, for since the fall of Oxford, Wallingford had become a beleaguered island in a hostile sea, a target for frequent attacks and sporadic sieges by the king’s men. So far Brien was grimly holding on, but his tenants could no longer till their fields or harvest their crops, and he staved off utter ruin only by seizing the provisions he needed to keep Wallingford going. His loyalty was costing him dearly, and Maude wanted to help him so badly that it was like a hollow, empty ache, but there was little she could do.

  After supper, the conversation focused upon the continuing depredations by Geoffrey de Mandeville and his lawless band. The men had news that Maude had not yet learned: Mandeville had been wounded in late August while besieging Burwell, one of the castles Stephen had thrown up to keep him in the Fens. It was a hot day and when he rashly removed his helmet, he’d been struck by an arrow. But once again he’d had Lucifer’s own luck, Robert reported, for they’d heard the wound was not serious. Mandeville would soon be on the prowl again, unless Stephen took more aggressive action to bring him to bay.

  They were in agreement, though, that Stephen would not do so. Maude put it most trenchantly: “Stephen ought never to have let Mandeville elude him in the Fens. Blockading the marshes with castles was the easy way-ever Stephen’s way. But my father would have followed Mandeville into the very bowels of Hell if need be.” She paused, then, her eyes coming to rest upon her brother. “So would you, Robert,” she said, and he smiled in surprise.