When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  He gazed down at Brien’s letter, still marveling at his friend’s decision to become a monk. How little, he thought, do we know of the hearts of others. He wondered if Brien’s wife had truly wanted to be a nun, or if she’d sought to find in God what she’d lost in Brien. He wondered, too, what Maude’s reaction had been. Above all, he wished Brien well, hoped fervently that Brien might find what he sought in the austere discipline and cloistered world of the Benedictines: inner peace and salvation.

  Picking up another letter, he said, “This is for your mother in Bristol. Lastly, these are to be dispatched to Normandy, to Maude and young Harry. I also wrote down the names of the Jewish peddlers who came to my aid on the Chester Road. I hoped you might let your brother in Bristol know about them, that I owe them a great favor, indeed.”

  “I’ll tell him, but I cannot see Will’s bestirring himself on behalf of Jews, even ones who saved your life.”

  Ranulf did not disagree; he knew his nephew. Passing strange, that the best of Robert’s manhood lived on in his daughter. Folding the letters, one by one, he reached then for the sealing wax. “Remind me to repay you for the cost of all this-you’ll be sending out couriers to the four winds!”

  She dismissed the expense with a wave of her hand. “You know I like nothing better than spending Randolph’s money. But is that all? No other letters?”

  Ranulf pressed his seal into the soft wax on the last of his letters. “What did you expect…that there would be one for Annora?”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  He slowly shook his head, watching as she poured wine for them both. Holding out a cup, she said, “I heard from her…from Annora. She wrote to me this past spring. She had her baby, a girl, born last November. They named her Matilda, after the queen.”

  Ranulf drank in silence for several moments. “I am glad for her,” he said resolutely. “She…she did seem happy, Maud?”

  “Yes…for now.” She wondered if she ought to warn him. Annora was still caught up in the newfound joy of motherhood, but in a year or two, the novelty of it might well begin to wane, and she might crave excitement again, once more yearn for risk and romance and Ranulf. It was not a good sign that she’d asked, so very casually, if Ranulf had returned to Normandy with the empress. Maud said nothing, though, for each man must find his own way. If Ranulf’s way led back to Annora, she would be sorely grieved. But the choice was his.

  “‘For now,’” he echoed, sounding surprised. “You do not think her happiness will last?” She shrugged, and he leaned back in his chair, studying her pensively. “I thought you liked Annora?”

  She shrugged again. “You loved the woman to distraction. What was I supposed to say-that I thought you could do better?”

  He started to protest, then let it go. She saw the sadness shadowing his face, and she knew Annora was still in the room with them, the ghostly, unseen presence of a lost love, much in need of exorcism.

  “Aunt Maude will want you to join her in Normandy,” she said abruptly. “Uncle Rainald is sure to urge you to come to Cornwall. Your Welsh kindred want you to return to Gwynedd. But there is a voice missing from this debate-yours. What of you, Ranulf? What do you want to do?”

  He was quiet for a few moments, and then gave her a crooked, rueful smile. “That is the trouble, Maud. I would to God that I knew!”

  Ranulf and Padarn had a blessedly uneventful journey and reached Trefriw safely in mid-October. Ranulf had spent lavishly in Chester, and their saddlebags were crammed full of gifts: a slender-bladed dagger for Rhodri, a polished metal mirror for Enid, an ivory comb for Eleri, a vial of Maud’s favorite perfume for Rhiannon, bolts of fine linen and wool. They were all delighted with their presents and made much ado over his generosity and extravagance. But he had the comforting certainty that he would have been welcomed just as warmly as if he’d come back emptyhanded.

  He knew they were planning to celebrate his birthday, and so he had to stay at least through November. It seemed heartless, then, to leave so close to Christmas. And by then it would be foolhardy, indeed, to consider departing in the midst of a Welsh winter. And so the weeks passed into months, December into January, on into February, and then March of God’s Year, 1149, the fourteenth of Stephen’s reign, and Ranulf was still in Wales, continually telling himself he ought to go and always finding reasons to stay.

  As much as Ranulf had come to value his mother’s homeland, he regretted its isolation. Cut off from England by mountains and miles-for it was well over two hundred miles from Trefriw to London-Wales seemed as remote at times as the island kingdom of Ireland. Stephen and the Archbishop of Canterbury had been coaxed by Stephen’s queen into making their peace in November, but word did not reach Owain Gwynedd’s court until December and it did not filter south to Trefriw for yet another month. It had begun to trouble Ranulf that he knew so little of what was occurring in the rest of Christendom, and he sensed that he would soon be ready to return to the other world, his father’s world…and his own.

  The seclusion that Ranulf found so vexing was a source of reassurance to Rhiannon. To her, Trefriw was a refuge, cloistered and sheltered by the cloud-kissed mountain peaks the Welsh called Eryri-“Haunt of Eagles.” It was easy enough to forget there was another world beyond the River Conwy, and easy, too, to believe that because Ranulf seemed content with them, he would always be so. The only times she feared were when the letters came. Ranulf had told them of an ancient Greek legend, of mythical creatures, half woman and half bird, who lured sailors to their doom with their seductively sweet songs. It seemed to Rhiannon that these letters were siren songs, too, trying to beguile Ranulf back across the border, back to his former life.

  There had been three of these letters so far, forwarded by the Countess of Chester to the White Monks at Basingwerk. The first had come from Ranulf’s sister in Normandy, the next from his brother the Earl of Cornwall, and the third from the countess herself, just a fortnight ago, sharing with Ranulf her joy over the birth of her second son. Each time one of these letters came, Rhiannon had waited anxiously to find out if the siren songs would prevail. Each time her relief had been overwhelming when they did not. But on this rain-dark day in late March, her peace was threatened once again by the arrival of a Cistercian brother from Basingwerk.

  The White Monk was welcomed heartily and offered a bed for the night; to the Welsh, hospitality was the Eleventh of the Lord’s Commandments. They gathered around Ranulf then, as he read his letters. Rhiannon tensed when he announced that they were from his sister and nephew in Normandy, for she knew that the empress was her greatest foe. Ranulf read rapidly, exclaiming occasionally to himself in surprise. When he was done, he glanced up, saying, “My nephew Harry is returning to England, so that he may be knighted by the Scots king.”

  It was obvious to them that this was a pretext; if knighthood were all that Henry craved, his father could easily have knighted him in Normandy. “How old is the lad now? Sixteen?” Rhodri asked, and when Ranulf nodded, he said, “It might have been better if he’d waited another year or two. But was there ever a sixteen-year-old who was not eager to play a man’s part?”

  “Especially Harry,” Ranulf said and smiled. “He was eager to do that at age nine! What amazes me is not his boldness, nor that Maude has reluctantly consented to this rash venture of his, for I daresay he gave her no choice. No…it is that the Earl of Chester has agreed to meet Harry at Carlisle and there make his peace with his old enemy, the Scots king. That is not only astounding, it is downright miraculous! I can only assume that as much as Chester loathes King David, he now hates Stephen even more.”

  Ranulf began then to tell them of Chester’s bitter feud with the Scots king, but Rhiannon was no longer listening. Chester’s feuding meant nothing to her. She waited mutely to hear all that did matter-whether or not Ranulf would be leaving them. She could not bring herself to ask outright, but her father soon did. “And will you be joining young Harry at Carlisle?”

  “Ye
s,” Ranulf said. “I must, Uncle. My sister entreats me to look after Harry as best I can. If I stood aside and evil befell the lad, I’d never forgive myself.”

  Rhiannon caught her breath, then deliberately dug her nails into the palm of her hand until she could be sure she’d not cry aloud in protest or pleading. But her sister had less restraint. “You cannot go, Ranulf! We need you here as much as Harry does, for we’re your family, too!”

  Ranulf looked unhappily at his young cousin, not sure what to say. But his uncle said it for him. “You are not being fair, Eleri. Ranulf has to go, for it is a matter of duty and honour. What would you have him do, entrust his nephew’s safety to a knave like Chester?”

  Eleri was more than willing to let Henry fend for himself, but she eventually subsided, on the verge of tears. Only then did Rhiannon reach out and touch Ranulf’s arm. “When,” she asked uneasily, “will you be coming back?”

  She had her answer in Ranulf’s prolonged hesitation. “I do not know, Rhiannon,” he admitted. “I just do not know.”

  Ranulf found it more difficult than he’d expected to bid farewell to his Welsh family. They’d followed him to the gateway to see him off, and were doing their best to be cheerful and matter-of-fact about his departure. But only Padarn’s enthusiasm was real, for he’d talked his father and Rhodri into letting him accompany Ranulf. For the others, Ranulf’s leave-taking was a painful one, and he well knew it. For Rhodri, he’d been a substitute son, a bandage for the wound caused by Cadell’s death. For Eleri, he’d been a big brother and a window to the world, able to give her intriguing glimpses of foreign lands and great cities. And for Rhiannon, he’d been what she needed most-a friend. When he rode away, he’d be leaving a jagged hole in their household, one that would not be easy to mend.

  Spring had come to the Conwy Valley, and the hills were green with new growth and gold with wild gorse. The first butterflies of the season were fluttering about like flying flower petals, and high overhead, Ranulf heard the shrill cry of a kestrel, a soaring shadow against the halo cast by the sun. Never had Wales looked so beautiful, so deceptively peaceful, so hard to leave.

  “I want to thank you all,” he said, “for the best year of my life.” He was embraced, then, by Rhodri, a vigorous, bone-bruising hug that squeezed the air out of his lungs. Enid gave him a languidly lovely smile, a decorous kiss on the cheek, and Eleri hurled herself into his arms, making a feeble joke about Englishmen and their bristly beards; it was, she complained tearfully, like nuzzling a hedgehog. From Rhiannon, he got a brief, heartfelt embrace, delicately scented with a fragrance of the Welsh meadows; it suited her better, he thought, than Maud’s more exotic perfume.

  “God keep you all safe,” he said huskily, “until we are together again.” Padarn was already mounted, impatiently eager to be off. Swinging up into the saddle, Ranulf sent his stallion cantering toward the gate. He waved once, but after that, he did not dare to look back again.

  43

  Yorkshire, England

  July 1149

  On Whitsunday, May 22nd, the King of Scotland knighted his nephew Henry and Roger Fitz Miles, the Earl of Hereford. David then made a public peace with his old enemy the Earl of Chester. Chester agreed to acknowledge David as Lord of Carlisle, and for that concession, he was given the Honour of Lancaster by David. They propped up their precarious alliance with a Sacrament, the proposed marriage of one of Chester’s infant sons to one of David’s young granddaughters. They were then ready to strike at Stephen. After some discussion, they decided to launch a surprise attack upon York, for they hoped the fall of England’s second-largest city would deliver a crippling blow to Stephen’s embattled kingship.

  By the end of the second week in July, they were within striking distance of York. It began to rain as they set up camp for the night, but the men didn’t mind a summer soaking after a hot, dusty day on the road. By the time he’d made certain, though, that the sentries had been posted, Ranulf was drenched. He shared a tent with Henry and Roger Fitz Miles, but the Scots king, his son, and the Earl of Chester had their own tents, and it was toward the former that Ranulf headed. As he expected, he found them all in David’s tent, discussing plans for the morrow’s attack.

  Ranulf had pessimistically predicted that Chester and David would soon be at each other’s throats. Much to his surprise, the tenuous truce seemed to be holding, due in large measure to the youth who was David’s grandnephew and Chester’s first cousin by marriage. Henry showed a deft touch for defusing tension, a skill Ranulf suspected he’d learned in Normandy, caught in the crossfire of his parents’ marital warfare.

  No one noticed Ranulf’s entrance, for they were gathered around the Earl of Chester as he drew for them a map of York’s defenses. The city was protected by two rivers, the Ouse and the Fosse, and high earthen banks, erected over the ancient Roman walls. There were four main gates, all of stone, and two motte-and-bailey castles shielded behind timber palisades and deep ditches. Capturing York sounded like a formidable undertaking to Henry, and he kept interrupting with questions, all of which Chester answered with uncharacteristic patience.

  Ranulf listened in amusement; who would have guessed that Chester, of all men, would have relished the role of tutor? But Henry had disarmed them all with his unabashed, eager curiosity. He’d so far shown none of the defensive bravado that infected so many sixteen-year-olds. He did not bluster; if he did not know something, he asked. He asked often, listened and learned, and he’d soon won over not only his Scots uncle and cousin but even the notoriously irascible Chester.

  Ranulf, who’d always been extremely fond of Henry, now found himself feeling proud of his nephew, too, so much so that he’d begun to wonder if he’d judged Geoffrey too harshly. As far back as he could remember, he’d loathed his brother-in-law, detesting him for the misery he’d caused Maude. But during Henry’s formative years, he’d been in Geoffrey’s care, not Maude’s. If Geoffrey could raise a son like Harry, Ranulf reasoned, he could not be such a worthless wretch, after all. Whatever grief the man had given Maude, he deserved credit for Harry, a fine young king in the making. God Willing, Ranulf added hastily, for he’d learned, at bitter cost, that only fools took victory for granted in a world so fraught with peril.

  The talk had now shifted from York’s defenses to its populace. When Chester and David both agreed that its citizens were almost as loyal to Stephen as the steadfast Londoners were, Henry wanted to know why.

  Chester shrugged; he had no more interest in what motivated other people than he did in the history of the Druids. David was more politically astute, one of the reasons why his had been such a successful kingship for Scotland, and he said promptly, if somewhat pedantically, “Stephen has always had support in the towns, for they think he favors trade. He has been generous in granting them charters and he courts their guilds quite shamelessly. And then, too, York has prospered under Stephen’s reign, for it has been spared the turmoil and lawlessness that have so troubled the southern parts. In contrast to shires like Oxford and Wiltshire and the godforsaken Fens, Yorkshire has seen little bloodshed.”

  “Not since Cowton Moor, anyway,” Chester muttered, unable to resist this snide mention of the Scots king’s calamitous defeat by the English eleven years ago.

  David gave him a cool glance of dismissal, more insulting in its way than outright anger would have been. “Moreover,” he continued, “Stephen has made several visits to York and each time he was open-handed with royal boons. When the hospital of St Peter’s burned down in the great fire of ’37, Stephen and Matilda paid for its repairs, and then founded a leper hospital outside the city. These are the sort of goodwill gestures that people remember, lad.”

  Henry nodded thoughtfully. Ranulf teased him occasionally that he seemed to be storing away information like a squirrel hoarding acorns, and he always laughed, but it was more than a joke and they both knew it. This was a great adventure for him, but it was also an education. He was well aware that he lacked seasoning and
he was even willing to admit it-to a select few-for he had no false pride. But it was a lack he was eager to remedy, and besieging York would make a good beginning.

  There was a sudden commotion outside, and a few moments later, Bennet de Malpas was escorted into the tent. He was soaked to the skin, splattered with mud, and stumbling with fatigue as he hastened forward to greet his lord and the Scots king. But what riveted all eyes upon him was not his haggard, disheveled appearance; it was that he was supposed to be in York, spying for the earl. When he knelt before Chester, the earl said tensely, “You look like a man on the way to his own hanging. Go on, spit it out, Bennet. What do you have to tell us that we’ll not want to hear?”

  “There will be no surprise attack on York, my lord earl. They are expecting us. I do not know if we were betrayed or they just got lucky, but they somehow learned that we were marching on the city.”

  The men exchanged grim looks, and Bennet braced himself to reveal the rest, the worst. “My lords, there is more. The citizens sent an urgent plea to Stephen, seeking his aid. He’s on his way to York with a large force of his Flemish mercenaries, and he moved with such speed that he’s no more than a day away, two at most.”

  Afterward, slogging through the mud back to their tent, Henry was still stunned that their ambitious plans had come to such an abrupt end. The men had raged and cursed and fumed, but none of them, not even the volatile, fearless Chester, objected to David’s morose conclusion-that their campaign was over even before it began. Henry was dismayed that they were letting Stephen chase them off, but he took his cues from his elders and held his peace. These men were all experienced soldiers, men of proven bravery. He would not insult them by questioning their courage. But his disappointment was too sharp to hide, at least from Ranulf.