When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  One of Eleanor’s household knights dropped back beside them, presenting Colette with a fragrant sprig he’d just plucked from a flowering blackthorn bush. She thanked him with a coquettish flutter of her lashes, a hinted smile, but after he’d spurred his stallion on, she dropped the blossoms down into the dust, and the softhearted Yolande winced, hoping the knight hadn’t seen.

  As if they’d not been interrupted, Colette resumed the conversation. Yes, she confirmed, they’d still be passing the night at Blois, but in St Lomer’s Abbey, not the castle. Count Theobald had been too importunate for the duchess’s liking. Lady Eleanor thought he’d seemed much too eager for her to accept his hospitality. As for his charm, that was no recommendation. Speaking from her own experience, she’d learned that most charming men were about as trustworthy as Barbary pirates. And no, Count Theobald was the English king’s nephew, not his brother. Yolande had confused the son with the father, Count Theobald of Champagne and Blois, King Stephen’s elder brother, who’d died in January. The eldest son, Henry, had inherited Champagne, and the second son, Theobald, got Blois. Surely Yolande had not forgotten about the plight troth?

  Yolande blushed, for while she did have difficulty keeping track of the various barons and lords and peers of the realm, she ought never to have gotten so muddled about Theobald of Blois. It was less than two months since Theobald’s brother, Henry, the new Count of Champagne, had pledged to wed the little Princess Marie. The plight troth had provoked a sharp quarrel between the French king and Eleanor, for she had not been consulted, and was angry that she’d been given no say in a decision that would shape the entire course of her daughter’s life.

  Yolande’s elder sisters had been married off in that same summary way; her father had conferred with neither her mother nor the prospective brides beforehand. Nor was it likely that she’d be consulted, in her turn. But that was the way of the only world she knew, and it had not occurred to Yolande to object.

  It had occurred to Eleanor, although the French king and his counselors had gone ahead with the plight troth, nonetheless, and six-year-old Marie was now the Count of Champagne’s betrothed. How soon she would become his wife would depend upon her father and husband-to-be, for in that, too, her mother would not be consulted.

  Just as Yolande knew Eleanor would not be heeded when the time came to choose another husband for her. The man would have to meet the French king’s approval, and mayhap the Abbot Bernard’s, too, to be judged as a loyal vassal, one worthy enough to be entrusted with Aquitaine. As to what Eleanor might want, that would not matter much in the councils of power. Yolande had been bedazzled from the first by her glamorous, audacious mistress, and she thought it would break her heart to see her lady snared and earthbound for the rest of her days, wings clipped so she could no longer fly.

  Nudging her mare closer to Colette’s sleek white mule, she said diffidently, “Colette…what does the future hold for our lady?”

  “You need not fret on her behalf, child. This I can tell you for true, that the duchess could teach a cat about landing on its feet.” Colette was frowning into the distance. The sun had set and they were losing the light; they’d soon have to bring out the lanterns. “Look,” she said, “something is afoot.”

  Yolande peered into the gathering dusk, and saw that Colette was right. As a horseman emerged from a grove of trees beside the road, her pulse sped up. Colette was urging her mule forward and she followed hastily. But by now it was evident that the rider was alone and some of her alarm eased. Whatever this was about, at least it was not an ambush.

  Eleanor had reined in her mare. Protectively flanked by Saldebreuil de Sanzay and Geoffrey de Rancon, she watched with wary curiosity as the stranger was led forward. He was young, not much more than twenty, dark as a Spaniard, with bold, admiring eyes and courtly manners that did not jibe with the plain homespun of his garb. His cap was off with a sweep, and the movement gave her a brief glimpse of a sword hilt as his mantle parted. “Madame,” he said, “I’ve been watching for your approach.”

  Eleanor beckoned him closer. “Why?”

  He did not mince words. “To warn you away from Blois,” he said bluntly.

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Count Theobald?”

  He nodded. “If you enter the city tonight, you’ll not find it easy to leave on the morrow. The count was sorely aggrieved, my lady, when you declined to stay at his castle. He means to remedy that, by force if need be. He has it in mind to insist that you lodge with him rather than the monks, and I daresay he has a biddable priest ready and willing to perform a hasty marriage ceremony once you’ve…accepted the inevitable.”

  Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “Accepted the inevitable.” A discreet description, indeed, of abduction and rape. Beside her, Geoffrey de Rancon was swearing under his breath, revealing a command of obscenity that any sailor might have envied. Saldebreuil de Sanzay was more controlled, but no less enraged. They’d known they might run into trouble. They’d not expected, though, that they’d encounter it so soon, within a day of the divorce.

  “So the hunt has already begun, has it?” she said grimly.

  Rancon was still fuming. “We would never have let that whelp take you, my lady-never!”

  “I know that, Geoffrey. But it would have been an ugly clash and likely a bloody one. Men ought not to die because of a boastful lordling’s lust-not my men, by God. They deserve better than that.” Eleanor wasted no more time fulminating upon Count Theobald’s treachery. “Tell the others,” she said, her eyes resting speculatively upon their Good Samaritan. “You’ve done me a service I will not soon forget. I was very fortunate that you somehow became privy to Theobald’s plans, a remarkable stroke of luck…if that is indeed what it was?”

  Even in the fading light, she could see a flash of white as he grinned. “You are quick, my lady, as well as fair. As you guessed, luck had nothing to do with it. As soon as word got out that the Church synod would be convened at Beaugency, we knew you’d have to take this road back to Poitiers. I was sent into Blois a week ago, charged to see to your safety whilst you were in the city. Sometimes a lone man can do more good than an army.”

  “If it is the right man,” Eleanor agreed, and he grinned again.

  “It was not that difficult to root out the count’s acorns. He was careless and one for bragging.” A disdainful shrug. “The Almighty might not look upon clumsiness as a sin, but I do, and it gladdens me greatly that the count will have so much to repent upon the morrow.”

  “I value a man who knows his own worth. I could easily find a place for you in my household if you were interested. But you are not…are you?”

  They smiled at each other in perfect understanding. “No, my lady. I am quite content as I am, serving my lord Duke of Normandy.”

  Rancon and Sanzay exchanged startled glances, even more perplexed when Eleanor showed no surprise at all. “You must thank your lord for me,” she said. “Who knows, mayhap one day I may have the opportunity to thank him myself.”

  He laughed softly, the triumphant laugh of a man who’d acquitted himself well and who would soon be reaping the rewards of it, and then offered to show them a little-used lane that would allow them to detour safely around the city, so they’d be miles away by the time Theobald began to suspect that his scheme had gone awry.

  But as Eleanor started to turn her mare, Sanzay drew her aside for a roadside colloquy, switching from French to their native Provencal. “My lady, I confess to some unease about all this. How can we be sure the Duke of Normandy is acting in good faith? He might well want to thwart Theobald in order to claim you for himself. We’ll be entering his territory once we draw near to Tours. What if this man of his is luring you into a trap?”

  “He can be trusted. You need not fear.”

  Sanzay was puzzled by her certainty, rather than reassured. “How can you be so confident of that?”

  “Because a man need not take by force what is to be given to him freely, Saldebreuil.”

/>   It was so dark now that she could no longer see his face, but she could hear the changed rhythm of his breathing. “Are you saying what I think you are?” he asked at last, and Eleanor laughed.

  “Yes, I am…and now you know just how much I trust you, dear friend. Hold your questions, though, until after we’ve left Blois-and its hungry young count-far behind in the dust!”

  BY riding all night, Eleanor and her entourage reached safety at Tours, the capital of Henry Fitz Empress’s province of Touraine. They arrived at the abbey of St Martin’s in time to attend Palm Sunday Mass, and then collapsed gratefully upon the beds provided for them in the monastery’s guest quarters.

  The next morning, they were on the road again, sending out scouts to reconnoiter the terrain ahead. They’d left the fine weather of Passion Week behind at Tours; the sky was lowering and they were caught in a brief, drenching shower before noon. They were just a few miles from Port-de-Piles, intending to ford the River Creuse there, when one of their scouts came into view, traveling at such a fast gallop that they were alerted even before he’d gotten within shouting range.

  Geoffrey de Rancon and Saldebreuil de Sanzay spurred their horses out to meet him. So did Eleanor, who was never one for waiting. “Bad news, my lady,” Sanzay declared as she drew up alongside them. “There are men lying in wait at Port-de-Piles, and I think we can safely assume that they’re up to no good.”

  Eleanor mouthed an unladylike oath. “They have most peculiar courting customs in these parts.” But her irony was outward camouflage; inwardly, she seethed, outraged that her divorce had of a sudden made her fair game, that there were so many men willing to chase her down like a prize doe. “Do you have any idea who this latest suitor might be?”

  To her surprise, Rancon nodded. “The lad here says it is as maladroit an ambush as he’s ever seen. So sure are they of taking you unaware at the ford that they did not bother to post any guards themselves. He had no trouble getting close enough to look them over, and recognized their leader straightaway. Another young lordling on the prowl, and to add insult to injury, this cub’s but a second son! Passing strange, that the Duke of Normandy should have done you such a good turn at Blois, for his brother now seeks to do you an ill one at Port-de-Piles.”

  “God and His good angels!” Geoffrey Fitz Empress was all of what…seventeen? No, nigh on eighteen. She’d made it a point to learn as much as she could about Henry’s background, and that included his brothers, but she’d certainly not anticipated meeting one of them in an ambush by the River Creuse. She shook her head, marveling at life’s odd twists and turns. “This gives a whole new meaning to the saying, ‘keeping it in the family.’”

  Rancon looked mystified, but Sanzay gave a startled snort of laughter. “You have a wicked tongue, my lady,” he said with a grin, “damn me if you do not!”

  “Someone else said that, too. Abbot Bernard, I believe.” It was drizzling again, and Eleanor pulled up her hood as the raindrops began to splatter about them in earnest. “We’ll have to find another crossing. Does anyone know of one?”

  Rancon did. “There is another ford downstream, not far from where the Creuse and the Vienne flow together.” He laughed suddenly. “With luck, the Fitz Empress stripling will be waiting out in the rain for the rest of the day. I’d love to see his face when he realizes he’s been outwitted. What a surprise the lad is in for!”

  Eleanor winked at Sanzay. “Indeed, he is,” she said blandly, “but you do not know the half of it!”

  SAFE in her own domains, Eleanor lingered for two days at her uncle’s castle at Chatellerault, and on Thursday of Holy Week, she was at last approaching the city she most loved, perched on a bluff overlooking the River Clain, the ancient capital of Poitou-Poitiers.

  The city walls shone in the spring sunlight, graceful church spires reaching up toward the heavens, and as ever, Eleanor’s heart rose at the sight. Of all the loves of her life, her first and last and greatest would always be for this land of her birth. Aquitaine was in her blood; even its air seemed sweeter to her. She could see the turrets of her palace now, rising up into the sky, crowned with clouds, and the joy of her homecoming was tempered somewhat by regret, for marriage to Henry Fitz Empress might well lead to a throne, but it would also lead away from Aquitaine.

  Coming from the north, they crossed the Clain at the bridge called Pont de Rochereuil. It was then that they heard the bells, pealing out across the city, filling the valley with silvery, celestial sound. Eleanor was baffled, for by tradition, church bells were muted during the final three days before Easter, when they would ring in the Resurrection. So why were they chiming now?

  Saldebreuil de Sanzay was the first to comprehend. Turning in the saddle, he smiled at Eleanor. “The bells are for you, my lady,” he said. “They are welcoming you home.”

  50

  Bury St Edmunds, England

  April 1152

  The Black Monks of St Edmund’s Abbey had gathered for their daily chapter meeting. They opened with a prayer to the Blessed St Edmund, whose holy shrine attracted such large and profitable crowds of pilgrims to their monastery. After reading aloud a chapter of their Benedictine Rule, they moved on to more secular concerns: a discussion of finances, the need to find a new tenant for one of the abbey’s manors, the allocation of weekly duties among the monks. When Abbot Ording stepped up to the lectern, his audience expected to hear the familiar words “Let us now speak of matters of discipline,” freeing the brothers to come forward and accuse themselves-or one another-of mistakes, misdeeds, and occasional sins. Instead, Abbot Ording said somberly, “I have news to impart. The king and his son, the Count of Boulogne, will be arriving on the morrow, and they will, of course, expect us to offer them the hospitality of our abbey.”

  A royal visit was never an unmixed blessing, for the cost of entertaining a king’s entourage could strip an abbey’s larders bare, especially if the king chose to linger in their midst. But the dismay that greeted Abbot Ording’s announcement went well beyond economic anxieties. The sad fact was that in this, the seventeenth year of Stephen’s reign, the English king found himself at war with his own Church.

  This latest clash had been the most serious one yet. Stephen had become convinced that the only way to safeguard the throne for his son was to have Eustace crowned in his own lifetime, in accordance with Continental custom. But the Archbishop of Canterbury refused to cooperate and Stephen had at last lost all patience. Early in the year, he’d summoned a Church Council to London and demanded that they agree to anoint Eustace then and there. The archbishop had again balked, but this time his refusal rocked Stephen’s throne to its very foundations, for he claimed to be acting under direct orders from the Pope, who would not recognize Eustace’s right to an ill-gotten crown, one obtained by perjury.

  Never before had the papacy spoken out so boldly against Stephen’s kingship. So great was Stephen’s outrage that he’d taken a very imprudent action, ordering the clerics arrested until Archbishop Theobald agreed to perform the ceremony. But in the confusion, the archbishop managed to slip away and once again fled England, seeking refuge in Flanders. Stephen soon came to his senses, released the clerics, and permitted the archbishop to return. But the rift had not been mended, and as long as Stephen remained at loggerheads with his chief primate, he would find no warm welcome in the abbeys and priories of his realm.

  The monks of Bury St Edmunds did their best, though, to put their grievances aside for the length of the king’s stay. The guest hall was made immaculate, Abbot Ording turned over his own quarters for Stephen’s comfort, and the abbey cook served up a dinner that would have done any king proud: baked lamprey eels, stewed mutton, stuffed capon, custard, applesauce, a spiced chicken broth, and hot bread. The abbot was grateful that the fare was so appetizing, for he took his obligations as a host seriously. He could only hope that the pleasures of the meal would compensate for the stilted and desultory nature of the dinner conversation.

  So much was not s
uitable table talk. Above all, no mention could be made of the nineteen-year-old youth who not only held Normandy, Anjou, Maine, and Touraine, but who now had the blessings of the Pope as he cast his eyes toward England.

  Abbot Ording sighed, for so many names would sink like stones in the conversational waters. The Earl of Chester, who’d dared to defy the Crown and gotten away with it…so far. Hugh Bigod, who was the reason why Stephen had gone north in a show of force, hoping-not very realistically, in the abbot’s opinion-to intimidate Bigod into obedience. Robert Beaumont, who was ostensibly loyal but rarely at Stephen’s court. Rainald Fitz Roy, who was rumored to be in Normandy at the behest of his fellow barons, urging his nephew to invade England as soon as possible. Roger Fitz Miles, who’d recently duped Stephen into believing he was contemplating a switch in loyalties, when in reality, he’d merely been trying to lure Stephen away from his siege of Wallingford Castle.

  No, the list of safe topics was a short one, indeed. Political talk led invariably to Henry Fitz Empress, and discussion of Church matters would only remind them all of Stephen’s feud with the archbishop. Abbot Ording sighed again, not yet desperate enough to comment upon the mercurial spring weather, and then brightened. “Is the Bishop of Winchester still in Rome, my liege?” Although even that was a sensitive subject, for all knew Stephen’s brother had made the arduous journey to the papal court in a foredoomed attempt to regain some of his dwindling influence with the Vatican.

  Stephen sopped up gravy with a bread finger, smiling at his uncomfortable host. “No, he has departed Rome. But I do not expect him to be back in England until the autumn, for he intends to return by way of Spain. He has always wanted to see the holy shrine at Santiago de Compostela.”