When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I know,” she said softly. “But what if the lesson proves fatal?”

  True to his word, Ranulf departed at dawn the next morning, with an armed escort large enough for safety, not large enough to slow him down. It was close to fifty miles to Wareham and the roads were muddy, for it had been a rainy spring. They still made good time, not stopping for the night until they’d reached Gilbert Fitz John’s manor on the Dorsetshire border. When they left on the morrow, Gilbert rode with them.

  Sunset-tinted clouds were trailing the sun as it started its slow descent toward the western horizon. They were almost upon Wareham; the wind was sharper and damper now as they neared the sea. Riding at Ranulf’s side, Gilbert glanced curiously at his friend’s profile. “What sort of response,” he asked, “do you expect to get from Henry?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ranulf admitted. “Most likely he’ll be defensive, even defiant. Nothing is more tender than youthful male pride.”

  “Remember us at fourteen? You, me, and Ancel-the Unholy Trinity, Annora liked to call us. Not that our tomfoolery could hold a candle to young Henry’s undertaking. Not once did we ever think of invading England!”

  Although it sounded as if Gilbert were just rambling on, Ranulf knew he had deliberately forced Ancel’s name into the conversation. He kept his eyes on the road, saying nothing, but Gilbert was not discouraged by his silence. “Surely you’ll be able to patch things up with Ancel,” he insisted. “The fact that he has not revealed what he knows-do you not think that is a hopeful sign, Ranulf?”

  “He’ll not forgive me, Gib. Nor will he be forgiving Annora, and of all her brothers, he was her favorite…”

  Ranulf said no more, and this time Gilbert took the hint, let the matter drop-for now. He was not about to give up, though, meant to make peace between his friends, no matter how long it took. “Have you figured out another way to meet with Annora? A pity Chester had such a wretched sense of timing. If not for his falling out with Stephen, his wife’s pregnancy would have been a perfect excuse for Annora to stay with her awhile.”

  “Pregnancy?” Ranulf swung around in the saddle. “Maud is with child again?”

  “You did not hear? Ah, but you’ve been off in Cornwall; I forgot. Lady Maud wrote to Earl Robert and Lady Amabel last month. The babe is due in September, I believe.” He grinned suddenly. “So we know how Chester celebrated his release!”

  Under his breath, Ranulf called Chester a foul name; it might not be logical, but he found himself bearing a very personal grudge against the earl whose rebellion had played such havoc with his love affair. “May the Almighty bless Maud with an easy birth and a healthy child,” he said, and then raised his hand to halt his men, for Wareham lay just ahead. “May the Almighty favor me, too, Gib, in my coming talk with my nephew. God Willing, I’ll be able to coax him into sailing with the tide for Normandy.”

  Ranulf was pleased, but surprised, too, by the warmth of Henry’s welcome. He’d been expecting to find a youngster despondent and possibly defiant, in need of some face-saving comfort. But as improbable as it seemed, his nephew appeared to be in high spirits, genuinely glad to see him, and apparently unperturbed to be stranded in enemy territory. He insisted upon personally ushering Ranulf and Gilbert and their men into the hall, very much the young lord of the manor as he directed the castle cooks to prepare a meal for these new arrivals.

  Servants were stoking the fire, for Wareham was near the sea and the spring evenings were still chilly. Settling Ranulf and himself before the hearth with wine and wafers, Henry regarded his uncle over the rim of his wine cup. “So,” he said, “Mama sent you?”

  Ranulf nodded. “Your mother is the most courageous woman I know, Harry. But you’ve managed to accomplish what Stephen and all the might of the English Crown could never do-you’ve scared her half to death.”

  “That was not my intent,” Henry protested, although without heat. He seemed older to Ranulf than fourteen; for better or worse, he was growing up fast-and in a hurry to hasten the process along. Ranulf’s own world had not changed dramatically or drastically in the three years since he’d last seen his nephew; he was still living on hope. But those three years had wrought significant changes in Henry. It was too early to tell if he was going to inherit Geoffrey’s height, but he was already sprouting up, almost as tall as Ranulf and obviously proud of his new stature. He was still in that awkward stage, the perilous no-man’s-land of adolescence; the curve of his cheek was smooth and beardless, but his voice had steadied, and he seemed to have outgrown the coltish clumsiness so common to boys his age. How, Ranulf wondered, was he to deal with this stubborn man-child, too clever for his own good, too young to let loose, too old to rein in.

  Henry took the initiative. “I suppose,” he said, “that you think I’ve gone stark mad?”

  “No…it is understandable and commendable that you’d want to do your own fighting. But Scriptures say that for everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under Heaven-and it was not yet your time, lad.”

  “I know,” Henry conceded, with disarming, cheerful candor. “I botched it badly.”

  “And…and you are not troubled by that?”

  Henry shrugged. “Next time,” he said, “I’ll do better.”

  Ranulf was very relieved that the boy was being so reasonable, and yet something was not quite right about this. Harry was being too reasonable, too complacent in defeat. There was a piece missing from this puzzle, but how to find it? “Your mother is now willing to give you the money you owe your men-provided that you agree to end this campaign and return to Normandy.”

  “That is kind of Mama, but I no longer need her help. I’ve already paid my men.”

  Ranulf stiffened. “Where did you get the money? Harry…you did not turn outlaw?”

  “Of course not, Uncle Ranulf! How could I hope to win the hearts of my English subjects by stealing their purses?”

  “Then I repeat-where did you get the money, lad?”

  Henry’s amusement was unmistakable now; silvery glints of laughter swam in the depths of sea-grey eyes. “You need not fret,” he said, “for I kept it a family matter. After Mama and Uncle Robert refused to help me, I turned to my other kinsman. I got the money from Stephen.”

  Ranulf inhaled his wine, choked, and began to cough. Struggling for breath, he managed to croak out, “Not…joking?”

  Henry grinned. “I am quite serious. I sent a messenger to Cousin Stephen, explaining that I was out of funds and asking for a loan to get back to Normandy. My man said that he read my letter, laughed until he was blinking back tears, and then agreed to give me the money, provided that I not overstay my welcome!”

  Henry laughed soundlessly, eyes alight with both triumph and mischief. But then he took another look at his uncle and became solicitous. “You’re still red as a beet and you’ve spilled all your wine. You sit and catch your breath, Uncle Ranulf, whilst I fetch some more.”

  As soon as Henry went off in search of a servant, Gilbert hastened over. “Ranulf, what is going on? You look poleaxed; what did he tell you?”

  Ranulf was still coughing. “You’ll never believe who is financing this expedition of Harry’s-none other than the man he was attempting to overthrow.”

  Gilbert’s jaw dropped. “Stephen?”

  Ranulf nodded and coughed again. “I’ve always thought of Harry as Maude’s son. But for a moment there, it was as if I’d been given a glimpse of Geoffrey at fourteen. For certes, the lad did not get his sense of humor from my sister! She’ll be appalled when she hears about this, for it is not in her nature to understand it. Nor will Robert. But I daresay Geoffrey will find it hilarious.” He shook his head, but the corners of his mouth were already twitching, and he was soon laughing himself.

  Gilbert could not help laughing, too. “Remember that old joke…the one about the lad who killed his parents and then asked the king’s court to show him mercy because he was an orphan? But whatever possessed Stephen to agree? Other men suffer
from recurring ailments like the ague fever or toothache or boils. With Stephen, it is always these fits of misguided chivalry!”

  Ranulf grinned. “I’ll admit that Stephen would be beguiled by the sheer audacity of the lad’s request. But I suspect that he sees his generosity as common sense, not chivalry. So far Harry has been more of a nuisance than a real threat, and Stephen may have considered the money well spent just to get rid of him. He’s not a man to take a fourteen-year-old foe very seriously, or to wish the boy harm…not until he grows up some. So he probably-”

  Alerted by Gilbert’s expression, Ranulf broke off, but not in time. Henry had heard. “Sorry, Harry. No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” Henry said equably. “I know Stephen gave me the money to get rid of me. I was relying upon that.”

  “And you are going home?”

  Henry nodded. “It would not be fair to take the man’s money and then renege upon our bargain. I am returning to Normandy as soon as I’ve bade my mother farewell.” His pause was deliberate, for as young as he was, he was already developing a sense of timing. “But,” he said, “I will be back.”

  Sharon Kay Penman

  When Christ and his Saints Slept

  35

  Devizes, England

  July 1147

  The foal was the color of cider, wispy mane and tail as fair as flax. It tottered about the stall like a landlubber just getting its sea legs, and the men laughed at its endearing clumsiness, while marveling, too, for they knew that in a few fleeting hours, this hobbled little colt would be able to gallop after its mother as if it had been born with wings. The foal had finally found what it had been instinctively seeking. Nosing its mother’s udder, it began to suckle.

  Reaching over, Ranulf clapped one of the grooms on the shoulder. “Good work, Godric. The empress will be very pleased with you, for she sets quite a store by this mare of hers.”

  Godric smiled bashfully, and mumbled something they couldn’t catch. His shyness always came as a surprise, for people assumed that anyone so big would be aggressive, too. But his rawboned, hefty appearance was deceptive, burly camouflage for a gentle soul. He never shrank from the dirty jobs, was generous in offering his help to those who needed it, whistled softly to himself as he worked about the stables, and Ranulf had concluded he was that rarity, a man utterly content with his lot in life.

  The most persuasive testimony to Godric’s genial nature was the reaction of the other grooms. They might well have been jealous to see him thrust into royal favor. Instead, they were lavish now with their praise, telling Ranulf and Hugh enthusiastically how the foal had been stillborn, “limp as an empty sack,” until Godric had somehow brought it back to life, “kneading the little fellow like he was a lump of bread dough and then blowing air into his nostrils till he began to breathe on his own.” It was, they all agreed, a sight to behold.

  Ranulf and Hugh thought so, too, and heaped more plaudits upon Godric, until he was squirming with pleased embarrassment. He continued to insist that he’d done nothing out of the ordinary, but he became even more flustered when Ranulf seemed about to go.

  “My lord…wait! I…I need to talk to you,” he stammered. “You know that my wife is with child?”

  Ranulf nodded encouragingly, then waited patiently for Godric to find his tongue. “My lord…it is like this. Jennet and me, we talked it over and…and if the babe be a son, we want to name him after you. But…but if you think we’d be getting above ourselves, you just say so…”

  Hugh was snickering. Ignoring him, Ranulf smiled at the groom. “If you and Jennet are sure,” he said, “I would be pleased to share my name with your son.”

  Godric beamed, and Ranulf warned Hugh off with a sideways shake of his head. Hugh shrugged and followed him from the stables. Both men flinched as they stepped out into the sun-scorched bailey. It was only midmorning, but the temperature was already soaring. The air was as heavy as it was hot, and breathing it was like inhaling steam. “Jesu,” Hugh gasped, “we might as well climb into the kitchen’s oven and get it over with! A man could drown out here in his own sweat. So…will you be offering yourself up as godfather to the groom’s whelp?”

  He’d meant it as a joke, and was taken aback when Ranulf snarled, “Just let it lie!” Ranulf was not usually so thin-skinned. It was this accursed heat, Hugh decided and magnanimously forbore to take offense. Ranulf’s continuing involvement in the lives of these lowborn Saxons was a puzzle for certes, but one he was not likely to solve.

  One puzzle led to another, putting him in mind of an odd rumor circulating that summer. “You were recently at Bristol, Ranulf. Is all the talk true about Earl Robert’s double-dealing son? Has he taken the cross to atone for his sins?”

  Ranulf nodded. “Philip was stricken with a mysterious malady at Easter and nearly died. He vowed to make a pilgrimage if God would spare him, and sailed for Normandy as soon as he got his strength back. The French king’s army started for the Holy Land after Whitsuntide, and I suppose Philip hopes to catch up with them. It is well and good to honor the Almighty, but I think it a pity he did not see fit to make peace with his father ere he left.”

  “I daresay Philip was too shamed to face the earl, and if he was not, by God, he ought to be! So…the French king is on his way to Jerusalem? And he truly did take his queen with him? Talk about inviting the snake into Eden! I suppose, though, that if she were mine, I’d not want to leave her behind, either. You think she’s why so many men are clamoring to take the cross? The last I heard, Waleran Beaumont, William de Warenne, and William Peverel, amongst others, had all vowed to join the Crusade. What about you, Ranulf? Are you not tempted to go soldiering for Christ, too?”

  The temptation was greater than Ranulf was willing to admit-to leave England and this bloody, unending civil war and his own troubles behind in the dust and join a bright, shining quest for God, offering adventure and salvation and a chance to see the holy city of Jerusalem. He was spared the need to answer by a sudden shout up on the battlements. Riders were being admitted.

  Hugh’s curiosity had shriveled in the heat, and he continued on toward the hall, only to stop once he realized Ranulf wasn’t following. “Ranulf? You know these men?”

  “One of them,” Ranulf said warily. Why would Ancel be seeking him out? By now, Ancel had seen him, too. Halting his men, he dismounted swiftly. Ranulf started toward him, and they met in the middle of the bailey. “Ancel? Why are you here? Annora is not ailing, is she?”

  “No. She is quite well.”

  Ranulf could think of only one other reason for Ancel to be at Devizes: to make peace between them. There was nothing conciliatory about his demeanor, but apologies had always gone down hard with Ancel. Ranulf was willing, though, to take that first significant step. “I am glad you’ve come, Ancel. Let’s get out of the sun and find a quiet place to talk.”

  “I am not staying, Ranulf. I came only to give you this.” Holding out a sealed parchment. “It is a farewell letter from Annora.”

  Ranulf made no move to take the letter. “I do not believe you.”

  “As I recall, you did not want to believe me, either, when I told you she’d wed Fitz Clement. But you need not take my word. Read it for yourself.”

  This time, when he thrust the letter forward, Ranulf reached for it. The seal was Annora’s and unbroken. “What did you do, Ancel? Did you threaten to go to her husband?”

  “It is not my doing. I would that it were. But she turned a deaf ear to me, did not come to her senses until she got with child.”

  Ranulf was stunned. “Annora is pregnant?”

  “Yes, and she has promised God that she’ll sin no more. She may have been willing to risk her immortal soul for you, but not this babe.” Ancel paused, glanced at Ranulf’s stricken face, and then away. When he spoke again, his voice no longer held such a hard, hostile edge. “Annora insisted that she was as much to blame as you, and I daresay it is true. Fools, the both of you, but I’d not see her hurt. Or you,
either,” he added grudgingly. “Fortunately, Annora’s husband and our family know nothing of her infidelity, and God Willing, they never will. Be thankful for that much, that this dangerous passion of yours wrecked no lives.”

  Ranulf said nothing. The bailey was shimmering in heat, the sky a bleached bone-white, the color of his face. Ancel started to turn away, then stopped. “If you love her, Ranulf,” he warned, “you let her be.”

  Annora’s letter was not as brutally blunt as Ancel had been, but the gist of her message was the same. She told Ranulf that she was with child, the babe due in November, at Martinmas, reminding him-needlessly-that they’d not lain together since Ancel caught them last summer at Chester. She’d not let herself hope at first, she wrote, so afraid she’d miscarry again. But she was into her fifth month now, she could feel the baby moving within her womb, and she did not think God would take this child, too, not if she repented. She’d promised the Almighty and Ancel that she’d not see him again, and she meant to keep that vow. She wanted Ranulf to know that she’d truly loved him, but it was not meant to be. She’d long known that, suspected that he had, too. He must try to understand. She wished him well, and asked him to burn this letter once he’d read it.

  Ranulf did not burn her letter, not at first. Instead, he tormented himself by reading it over and over, until her words were embedded so deeply into his memory that he’d never be able to get them out. How could Annora give up like this? If she loved him, how could she just walk away? What of the baby, though? How could he expect her to abandon her child? And if she could somehow keep the babe, would he be willing to accept Gervase Fitz Clement’s child as his own? But what if she miscarried again? An ugly thought, one that shamed him when it kept coming back.

  He remembered a conversation he’d once had with a soldier wounded at the Battle of Lincoln. The man’s arm had been so badly mangled that the doctors had been forced to amputate it, and he’d told Ranulf that his arm had continued to ache even after it was gone. And after another sleepless night of phantom pain, Ranulf knew what he must do. He had to see Annora. They had to talk. What that would accomplish, he could not say, even to himself. He knew only that it could not end like this.