When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Devizes had not been spared, either. Some of the royal army’s worst depredations had taken place in and about Devizes. The town had been raided a fortnight ago and the castle subjected to several hit-and-run attacks. It was a rare day when Henry and Ranulf could not see smoke from the castle battlements, and their own provisions were dwindling dangerously. It reminded Ranulf of the sieges of Winchester and Oxford, only now England itself seemed under siege.

  The day was coming to a dismal end when refugees arrived from Calne, a small village five miles to the north. They huddled together in the great hall, the most pitiful wretches Henry had ever seen, their clothes shredded and ripped in their flight through the woods, scratched and bruised and still shaking with fright. But they were the lucky ones, the ones who’d gotten away.

  The tale they told was as deplorable as it was-by now-familiar. The Lord Eustace had raided Calne, they reported. His men had killed those few who’d dared to resist, setting fire to their church and then to their fields. They’d watched from hiding as their crops went up in flames, and they wept again as they spoke of it, for there would be no food to feed the village once winter came. Their houses could be rebuilt, but what could they eat? How would they survive until spring?

  They asked Henry these questions, calling him “young lord” and pleading for his help. He wasn’t sure if they knew who he was. They might have been told of his presence at Devizes. Or they might be assuming that he must be someone of importance since he was well dressed and well fed and lived in a castle. He was not even sure that his name would mean anything to them. This war had been ravaging England for ten years. Did these people truly care who ruled over them as long as they were left in peace? He did not know what to say to them. He did not know how to help them. He ordered them fed, and he yearned to assure them that the danger was past. But he feared that would have been a lie.

  He stood it as long as he could. But his pity and anger finally got the best of him, and he bolted the hall, retreating up to the solar with a flagon of wine and a head full of unanswered questions.

  He was not alone for long; Ranulf soon followed. He was relieved to see the flagon was untouched, for he’d known too many men who turned to wine when they needed a crutch, and sixteen was a vulnerable age for learning bad habits. Henry was straddling a chair, resting his chin on his arms as he stared into the fire. He didn’t stir, not even after Ranulf pulled a chair up beside him. Ranulf was content to wait, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the flames crackle in the hearth.

  “I do not understand,” Henry said at last, “why they do not just lay siege to Devizes? I am the one they want. Why do they not try to take me?”

  “I’ve thought about that, too. First of all, they cannot be sure that you are at Devizes. What if they besiege Devizes and it turns out you were at Bristol or Gloucester or Marlborough all the while? None of those castles could be easily taken. Devizes or Marlborough could hold out for months, and Bristol till Judgment Day. And whilst they were laying siege, they’d be vulnerable to attack themselves. That is what happened to Stephen at Wilton. By striking fast and riding on, he avoids becoming a target. By surprise raids, he spreads fear over the entire countryside, for no one knows where he will attack next. And by burning the crops, he takes the food from our table, too, empties our larder.”

  “But the others will starve ere we do,” Henry pointed out. “Castles always have food stored away. The villagers and villeins will go hungry first, and they’ll die first, too. Are they willing to do that, Ranulf? To let so many die for no sin of their own?”

  “I would have said no,” Ranulf said, “had I not seen this suffering for myself.”

  “And yet you claim Stephen is a good man?” Henry sounded hostile, but Ranulf understood that he was not the real target of the boy’s anger. He even welcomed this rage, as proof that his nephew no longer saw all this as a game. He remembered how it was to be that young, to feel invulnerable. Even their wild ride for Bristol had been as exciting as it was urgent, at least to Henry. But this was different. This was war at its ugliest, and no man could look upon it and be unchanged, not if he was of any worth. And so he was sorry for his nephew’s pain, but glad of it, too, for this was a lesson Henry had to learn.

  “That they would resort to such drastic measures tells me that they see you as a very real threat, Harry, so much so that they are willing to wade through blood to eliminate you now, whilst they still can. This savage campaign is an admission that they dare not let you reach full manhood. It also shows us that Eustace is the most dangerous sort of battle commander, the kind who cares not how many die as long as he has the victory.”

  Henry looked skeptical. “Why are you so sure this is Eustace’s doing?”

  “Because this campaign of theirs is both brilliant and brutal…far too brutal for Stephen to stomach on his own. One of Stephen’s worst flaws is that he invariably listens to the wrong people. God help England if he is now listening to Eustace.”

  “If they keep on like this,” Henry said somberly, “they’ll end up ruling over a graveyard. Do they truly think they can starve us into submission?”

  Ranulf nodded grimly. “Or else force us into doing battle.”

  “Hopelessly outnumbered? Thank you, no, Uncle. I like not those odds. I’d just as soon not starve either,” Henry added, striving-with limited success-for flippancy. “Damn them,” he cried suddenly, fiercely, “damn them for killing and not caring! My mother would never have permitted a slaughter like this, never…”

  His hair, short and unruly, gleamed in the firelight like a bright, burnished cap, and his fair skin darkened now with a surge of hot blood. He looked angry and shaken, young and resolute, all at the same time. “What can we do to stop this, Uncle Ranulf?”

  “Nothing,” Ranulf admitted reluctantly. “We can only wait, see what happens. We are going to have to depend upon the Almighty and our allies for our deliverance, lad, for this is one trap we cannot escape on our own.”

  “‘Our allies’?” Henry echoed, and the same thought was in both their minds. John Marshal and the Earl of Salisbury and Roger Fitz Miles and Robert’s son Will were all in the same sorry plight. Rainald was still in Cornwall, Baldwin de Redvers was said to be ailing, and Henry’s parents were in Normandy, unaware of their son’s peril. Robert and Miles were dead, Brien living as a monk. That narrowed the field to two. But by the time the Scots king could muster an army and march into England to their rescue, it would be too late. So “allies” came down to one powerful, self-serving, unpredictable man: Randolph de Gernons, Earl of Chester.

  After a few moments of heavy silence, Henry laughed softly. At Ranulf’s look of surprise, he said with a wry smile, “I was just thinking…When my mother got herself into a tight corner, she could always rely upon Uncle Robert to rescue her. And who do I get-the Earl of Chester!”

  He laughed again, and this time, so did Ranulf. When put that way, what else was there to do but laugh?

  44

  Chester Castle, England

  October 1149

  The letter came at noon, and Chester and his brother retired to his bedchamber to read it. Maud was standing by that door now, unable to wait any longer. She knew Chester would not like her intrusion, but she pushed the door open and entered anyway. William de Roumare and Bennet de Malpas and Ivo de Coventry all glanced up in surprise; her husband was nowhere in sight. The letter lay open upon the table, and she moved forward, picked it up and read rapidly. Her brother-in-law frowned; his own wife would not have dared to meddle like that. He left it to Chester to reprimand her, however; he would not have admitted it, even to himself, but he was never fully at ease with Chester’s high-spirited, strong-willed wife.

  Maud put the letter down, glancing toward the corner privy chamber and then back at her husband’s men. “The rumors are true then,” she said. “My cousin Harry is in grave peril.” When they nodded, she cried impatiently, “And what are you going to do about it? You do mean to go
to his aid, do you not?”

  Bennet de Malpas and Ivo de Coventry were more than willing to defer to Chester’s brother. William de Roumare was irked by this abrupt female interrogation, but he found himself answering as if she’d willed it. “Of course we want to help him, Maud. And indeed we will, if only we can find a way. We cannot meet Stephen on the field, though, for we lack enough men for a pitched battle.”

  “Then stir up trouble for Stephen elsewhere and take the pressure off Harry and Marshal and the others under attack. You must draw Stephen away from Wiltshire ere it is too late!”

  “I assure you we’ve already thought of that,” William de Roumare said stiffly. “But it will not work.”

  “Of course it will! Remember how Baldwin de Redvers attacked Corfe to lure Stephen west whilst my aunt and my father landed at Arundel? And then there was-”

  “You are forgetting Oxford. When Stephen had Maude trapped in the castle there, not even the Lord Christ could have drawn him away, for nothing was more important than capturing his enemy, the empress. You may be sure that he wants her son no less badly, and he’ll let England go up in flames ere he lets the lad get away.”

  Maud stared at him in dismay. He was as cautious as Chester was reckless, the anchor to Chester’s sails, but his argument held the ring of truth. At that moment, her husband emerged from the privy chamber. “I thought I heard your voice,” he said. “Let me guess…you want me to swear a blood oath that I’ll rescue your cousin and uncle, preferably by nightfall.”

  “I cannot jest about this, Randolph, not when the danger is so great. Will says nothing can be done, but surely you can come up with a plan if you keep on trying.”

  “I already have.”

  That got the men’s attention, too. “What mean you to do, Randolph?” his brother asked, sounding perplexed. “If we cannot chase Stephen away and cannot lure him away, what in God’s Name is left?”

  “But we can lure him away,” Chester insisted. “It is just a matter of finding the right bait.”

  He seemed so pleased with himself that Maud knew this was no empty boast. What was he up to? Whatever it was, she did not doubt he’d benefit by it, too, for that was ever his way. And after a moment’s reflection, she knew what he had in mind, a stratagem at once ruthless and vengeful and sure to succeed. The look she gave him then was one she’d rarely bestowed upon any man but her father and never before upon her husband-one of awed admiration. “Lincoln,” she breathed, and Chester grinned raffishly.

  “Just so,” he said. “Lincoln.”

  MEN were gathering outside Stephen’s command tent, eavesdropping upon the quarrel raging within. A newcomer jostled the man next to him, wanting to know what was going on. “That hellspawn Chester has attacked Lincoln, and the townspeople are pleading with the king to come and save them ere the city falls. The king wants to set out straightaway and the Lord Eustace is trying to talk him out of it. If you come closer and keep still, you can hear for yourself.”

  Stephen hated to argue, and Eustace was often able to use that to his advantage. But not this time. His father remained adamant, determined to come to the aid of the besieged Lincolners, and nothing Eustace could say would sway him.

  “Those people suffered dreadfully after the Battle of Lincoln, Eustace. Hundreds drowned when they tried to flee the city and their boats overturned in the flooded river, and countless others were slaughtered by that whoreson, Chester. Through it all, they stayed loyal to me. How can you expect me to ignore their plea for help?”

  “Catching Henry is more important, Papa! If we can get rid of Maude’s whelp, we’ve won our war, and we can deal then with Chester. Why can you not see that?”

  “Because by then it would be too late for the people of Lincoln!”

  “So what?” Eustace was being deliberately, brutally blunt; he prided himself upon his candor, upon daring to say what other men would not, and he hoped that a dose of unsparing honesty might bring his father back to his senses. “So what?” he repeated. “People die all the time, Papa. Why are the Lincolners more important than the Wiltshire villagers who’ll starve this winter? We agreed to do whatever we must to end this war, even if it meant innocent people would die. For England’s greater good, we agreed; for a peaceful land. If that was true yesterday, it is still true today. Let the men of Lincoln fend for themselves.”

  Stephen slowly shook his head. “I cannot do that, Eustace. They trusted me once before and I let them down. I could not help them then, but I can now. I’ll not turn away from them in their hour of need.”

  Eustace’s frustration served now as fuel for his anger, blazing beyond his control. “It is your pride you want to save, not the Lincolners! Ever since your defeat there, you and Chester have been snarling over that wretched city like two dogs over a bone. Go ahead then, abandon our campaign and race north to their rescue. But it will avail you naught. Men will still remember how badly you were beaten at Lincoln!”

  Eustace had meant to wound, and yet he felt an odd pang of remorse when he saw the hurt on his father’s face. He did not know how to make it right, though, for an apology would be an admission of weakness.

  Stephen looked at his son, saying nothing. Eustace could feel his face getting warm. Just when he thought he could endure it no longer, his father brushed past him and lifted the tent flap. “Make ready to depart at first light,” he commanded someone beyond the range of Eustace’s vision. “I will be riding for Lincoln on the morrow.”

  The citizens of Lincoln put up such a desperate defense that they were able to stave off Chester’s attack until Stephen came to the rescue. Chester withdrew his forces, but he did not go far, and the battle shifted from the city to the shire. Lincolnshire became a bloody ground, as the king and his mightiest subject fought a series of inconclusive skirmishes, ambushes, and raids. In the words of the chronicler of the Gesta Stephani, “They alternated betwen success and disaster, never without the greatest injury to the county, never without loss and harm to its people.”

  Stephen’s failure to subdue the rebel earl was observed in other quarters, and the erratic Hugh Bigod was emboldened enough to stir up trouble again in East Anglia. This was his third uprising, but this time he got more than he bargained for. Chester was keeping Stephen busy in Lincolnshire and the task of dealing with Bigod fell to Eustace. He raced north and soon had Bigod in full retreat.

  Henry and his allies were quick enough to take advantage of all this chaos and unrest. He and Ranulf joined the Earls of Hereford and Gloucester and raided deep into Devon and Dorset. They set about making life as miserable as possible for Henry de Tracy, Stephen’s chief supporter in the West Country, with some success. Tracy prudently refused to do battle, though, withdrawing behind the fortified defenses of his castle at Barnstaple. But Henry then bloodied his sword for the first time in the capture of the town and castle at Bridgport.

  Nature showed the southwest of England more mercy that year than Man did, and November, usually the least welcome of visitors, was blessedly mild-mannered. But the reprieve was brief for the homeless and the hungry, and by mid-December, winter was stalking the war-ravaged shires in earnest. In the mornings, the ground was glazed with a killing black frost, the winds soon stripped the trees bare, and ponds and lakes began to ice over.

  The more weather-wise of Henry’s men were keeping a wary eye upon the gathering clouds, for a mottled mackerel sky was a harbinger of rain or snow. They were riding fast, heading back toward Devizes, having gotten word that Eustace was once again on the prowl in Wiltshire. A second warning from John Marshal had alarmed Henry enough to send an advance guard ahead to reinforce the castle garrison. Roger and Will had thought he was being overly cautious. But Henry had insisted, and Ranulf had backed him up, reminding them that Robert had always been one for taking extra precautions, too.

  In supporting one nephew, Ranulf inadvertently offended the other, for Will had become very thin-skinned since his father’s death, twisting any praise of Robert into
an implied criticism of himself. Roger ought to have understood Will’s insecurities if any man could, for Miles had also cast a smothering shadow, but he’d so far shown little patience with Will’s defensive outbursts. And Henry was too young and too confident to comprehend such crippling self-doubts. So it fell to Ranulf to act as peacemaker. He did not mind, for he truly did feel sorry for Will; he knew that men were indeed thinking what Will feared: that the son would never measure up to the sire.

  The wind had picked up as the day wore on, gusting from the northeast, another sign of unsettled weather on the way. They’d halted to give their horses a rest, but it was too cold for the men to enjoy the respite themselves. Ranulf joined Henry in the shelter of a massive gnarled oak. “Are you still uneasy about Devizes, lad? You could not have picked a better man to leave in command than Hugh de Plucknet. He was utterly fearless during our escape through the snow at Oxford. I’ve told you about that, have I not?”

  “Repeatedly,” Henry said, then ducked, laughing, out of range when Ranulf tried to elbow him in the ribs. “You read me all too well, Uncle Ranulf. I was thinking of Devizes…and of war and why some men are so much better at it than others. What makes a good battle commander? Courage alone is not enough. Roger is so reckless that it is downright scary at times, but he does not seem to have a grasp of strategy. So what is it, then? If he’d not been born an earl’s son, Chester would likely have been hanged as a bandit, but men say he is a right able battle commander. And my uncle David is very good, indeed, at governing, but not as good at fighting. Is it not possible to be good at both?”

  Ranulf nodded. “Your uncle Robert was such a man, lad. He was a brilliant battle commander, but he would also have made an excellent king.”