When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “You and Aquitaine? Harry, nothing would please me more!”

  53

  Newbury, England

  October 1152

  The town of Newbury was an ancient one, strategically situated on the road that ran north to Oxford and south to Winchester. The site had once been settled by the Romans, then the Anglo-Saxons, and it was here that John Marshal had chosen to erect a castle. On this blustery October Thursday, Eustace was approaching Newbury from the east, along the Reading Road. The siege works were already in sight, encircling the castle and occupied town, when an armed force rode out to challenge him.

  Eustace recognized the Earl of Northampton, the most steadfast of his father’s allies. It took him a moment, however, to identify the man riding beside Northampton, for William de Mohun had not often come to Stephen’s court. Lord of Dunster, Mohun had been granted the earldom of Somerset by Maude, a title Stephen refused to acknowledge. He was a strikingly handsome man, with a reputation as foul as his appearance was fair. He’d deserted Maude after the siege of Winchester and gone over to Stephen’s side, yet his main interest was in feathering his own nest. The war had spawned so many men like Mohun, brigand barons who’d taken advantage of the conflict to rob and extort with impunity. But not after he was king, by God. Eustace knew how he’d rule. Like the old king. Not like his father. Never like his father.

  Mohun’s presence at the Newbury siege was disheartening, for it showed Eustace just how badly his father’s circle of supporters was shrinking if he had to rely upon such untrustworthy self-seekers. Ypres was blind, Warenne dead on crusade, Robert Beaumont well-nigh invisible, Hugh Bigod and the Earl of Chester in the enemy camp. And how many more would be turning traitor once they heard about that Angevin whoreson’s triumph over the French king? Eustace was not a fool. He knew that his father’s kingship was wounded and bleeding. Not hemorrhaging, but even a steady trickle of blood could prove fatal if not stanched. How was he to do that, though? Holy Christ on the Cross, how?

  Halting his men, Eustace rode out to meet Northampton and Mohun. He brushed aside their surprised queries, ignored their curiosity. He knew he’d have to talk about the disastrous Normandy campaign, but the longer he could put it off, the better. Instead, he asked brusquely about the siege.

  John Marshal, they informed him indignantly, was as treacherous as a serpent and as false as Judas himself, may God smite him as he deserved. This was less than illuminating to Eustace, but with some prodding, he got them to begin with the facts. At the start of the siege, Newbury’s castellan had sought a brief truce so that he might warn his lord, John Marshal, of the castle’s peril. Eustace nodded; that was only to be expected. Marshal had then asked for a longer truce, one that would enable him to confer with the empress and her son, for he held Newbury in their names. Again, this was in accordance with the laws of war, and Eustace was hard put to hide his impatience.

  “I assume my father agreed?” His mouth twisted; as if Stephen, the soul of chivalry, would have refused! “But he did demand hostages?”

  “Indeed he did, my lord. Marshal agreed quite readily, yielding up his youngest son, a lad of about four or five. But then he betrayed us-and the boy. He took advantage of the truce to sneak supplies and men into Newbury, enabling them to withstand a long siege.”

  Eustace knew that his youth put him at a disadvantage with his father’s supporters, and to compensate for that, he’d cultivated the world-weary, jaded air of a man who’d seen too much ever to be truly surprised. The pose slipped now, though, and he whistled soundlessly, almost admiringly, for few men would have had the ice-blooded audacity to gamble with such high stakes.

  “Sounds like Marshal has sons to spare,” he joked grimly. “Did my father warn him that the boy’s life would be forfeit?” That was not a question he should have had to ask-not of any king but his father. He was relieved when Northampton nodded somberly.

  “Of course he did, my lord Eustace. He sent a warning yesterday to Marlborough, telling Marshal that the lad will be hanged unless Marshal agrees to yield Newbury.”

  “Marlborough is how far? Twenty miles? So we’ll hear today then,” Eustace said, and smiled. “It seems I shall be just in time for Newbury’s surrender.”

  Dinner was normally served in the morning, but it had been delayed by Eustace’s arrival, and the trestle tables were not set up in Stephen’s tent until noon. The meal was surprisingly good for camp fare-a savory capon stew-and conversation flagged as men concentrated upon their trenchers.

  The faces were all familiar to Eustace. In addition to Northampton and Mohun, their dinner guests included Stephen’s loyal seneschal, William Martel, and a handful of highborn lords. William d’Aubigny, Earl of Arundel, had begun to play a more active role on Stephen’s behalf since losing Adeliza to a Flemish convent and an untimely death. Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford, was Stephen’s chamberlain, but like so many in this war, his past was chequered, for at one time, he’d been allied with Maude. The same was true of Roger Beaumont, Earl of Warwick, a cousin of the Beaumont twins and a former partisan of the empress. Eustace was glad they were eating with such gusto, for it put off their inevitable and intrusive questions about the Normandy debacle.

  Stephen alone had no appetite for the stew; it was growing cold on his trencher as he toyed with a piece of bread. Eustace had not seen him since the spring, and he was taken aback by how much Stephen seemed to have aged. He did think Stephen was old; to twenty-two, fifty-six was tottering on the edge of an open grave. But his father had never looked his age before. Eustace studied Stephen as he ate, not liking what he saw. Mama’s death was a wound that ought to be healing by now. It had been five months, after all. He missed her, too. But Papa could not afford to give in to his grieving. There was too much at stake for that.

  The meal was almost over when the talk turned to the topic Eustace had wanted to avoid, yet knowing all the while that it would come up, that it must be dealt with, for Henry Fitz Empress’s triumph would affect them all. It was the affable, tactless William d’Aubigny who breached the tacit conspiracy of silence. Sopping up gravy with a thick chunk of bread, he looked inquiringly down the table at Eustace. “Now that you’re here, lad, you can tell us what truly happened in Normandy this summer. What with the rumors and gossip, who knew what to believe? Did the French king really get chased all the way back to Paris with his tail between his legs?”

  Stephen glanced up swiftly, frowning. His sympathy stung Eustace as much as Aubigny’s clumsy curiosity, and he said roughly, before Stephen could intercede on his behalf, “If you heard that the French king’s milksop allies fled like rabbits, that is true enough, and may God forgive them, for I never shall. As for my brother by marriage, Louis hardly covered himself in glory, either. He, of all men, had reason to avenge himself upon Maude’s whelp, but he had no stomach for fighting, for-”

  Stephen leaned over. “Eustace…”

  Eustace shook off his father’s hand. He knew he was being dangerously indiscreet, but he no longer cared. “You wanted the truth, did you not? Well, I am giving it to you. Henry Fitz Empress did not win the war; Louis lost it. Twice he balked at doing battle with Henry-twice! No wonder he was not man enough for that wanton wife of his, for I’ve seen snakes with more backbone.”

  There were some involuntary laughs at that, quickly smothered. Eustace ignored them, unable to stop himself now even if he’d wanted to; his rage had been too long pent up. “Once it became clear that this would be no quick and easy war of conquest, Louis’s resolve began to waver like a broken water reed. Instead of confronting Henry at Pacy, he showed his heels. I’d stayed behind to garrison Neufmarche, and by the time I got to Louis, it was too late; all the fight had gone out of him.”

  Pausing to gulp down the last of his wine, Eustace shook his head in angry bafflement. “Louis sees ill omens if he so much as stubs his toe. The botched attack on Pacy was bad enough, but then his cousin died suddenly and after that, he was well-nigh useless, convinced that
all these setbacks must be proof of God’s disfavor. His brother and my craven cousins had already flown the coop for Dreux, Blois, and Champagne, and so this wretched war ended with the King of France stricken with a convenient fever, skulking back to Paris in shame.”

  Stephen agreed with his son’s scornful assessment of the French king’s inept campaign, but he wished Eustace had waited until they were alone to express it, for he knew every embittered word would eventually get back to Louis; the men in this tent could never resist repeating such choice gossip. “When you spoke of Louis’s mourning his cousin, I assume you mean the Count of Vermandois? We heard that he’d died during the campaign.”

  Eustace nodded. “The one besotted with Eleanor’s sister. Louis was right fond of the man, God knows why. In truth, I think he was just looking for an excuse to end the war, and I suppose Raoul’s death was as good a reason as any. Better than that sudden fever, for certes!” He laughed harshly. “So…now you know what ‘truly happened in Normandy this summer,’ my lord of Arundel. It was great fun; a pity you missed it.”

  No one knew what to say. Stephen yearned to console his son, but he realized that any comfort he’d offer would ring false to Eustace. Even if Almighty God were to send an archangel into their midst to absolve Eustace of any blame, it would change nothing. All over England, men would still be talking of Henry Fitz Empress, bedazzled by the apparent ease of his victory over the King of France. When he returned to England, this time he would come as a man of proven prowess on the battlefield, a man dangerous to defy. Already a far greater threat than ever his mother had posed. And who knew that better than Eustace?

  A servant was moving around the table, refilling their wine cups. Stephen took a swallow; it tasted bitter. “I was surprised,” he said, “when Henry did not start gathering another fleet at Barfleur. Do you know why, Eustace?”

  The younger man shrugged. “I heard that he was loath to leave his bride. Judging by his haste in getting back to her bed, all those lurid stories told about her must be true. But no woman can compete with a crown, not for long. Once he gets his fill, he’ll start casting his eyes toward England again. That I do not doubt.”

  Neither did Stephen. “Did you hear any talk about how long he means to stay in Aquitaine? Now that winter is nigh, mayhap he’ll tarry there till the spring?”

  “I expect he will, although I heard nothing about his plans ere I sailed for England. The only gossip coming out of Aquitaine concerned the incident at Limoges.”

  Glancing about the table, Eustace saw no comprehension on the watching faces, only puzzlement and curiosity. “I see you have not heard yet about that. After Henry hurried back to Eleanor, they set off on a progress through her domains. Almost at once, they ran into trouble-at Limoges, where the citizens balked at offering them hospitality. When Henry demanded an explanation, the abbot of St Martial’s pointed out that he and Eleanor were camped on the edge of town and claimed that the Limousins had a duty to provide food for their liege lord only when he actually lodged within the city walls.”

  “This is preposterous!” the Earl of Northampton exclaimed, and the others chimed in, too, equally indignant, for in that moment every man there felt a fleeting sense of solidarity with Henry, briefly seeing him not as an enemy but as one of their own, a highborn lord denied his just due by those who owed him deference and respect. Even Eustace’s voice had a grudging note of approval as he described now the retaliation taken by his hated nemesis upon the recalcitrant citizens of Limoges.

  “That reasoning did not satisfy Henry, either. The accounts I heard say that he treated the Limousins to a display of Angevin rage that they’ll not soon forget. He then ordered the city’s walls razed, so there’d be no such disputes on future visits.”

  This time the murmurs were both appreciative and amused. Stephen alone was dubious. “Surely it was not necessary to take such a drastic measure as that,” he protested, “when a warning would have sufficed.” Reaching for his wine cup, he was bringing it up to his mouth when he realized they were all staring at him in astonishment. “What is it?” he said defensively, for this was not an uncommon occurrence. He’d make an observation that seemed eminently reasonable, only to have his barons react as though he’d suddenly begun to speak a tongue utterly incomprehensible to them.

  “Christ Jesus, Papa, that was an unforgivable insult!”

  “Lord Eustace is right, my liege. Such a deliberate provocation must never go unpunished, for men would see that as weakness, as-”

  “I know that,” Stephen interrupted impatiently. “But in destroying the city walls, that punishment fell upon the innocent as well as the guilty, upon those citizens of Limoges who’d had no say in it, who likely did not even know why Henry was so wroth with them.”

  Stephen stopped then, for it was obvious he was wasting his time and his breath. They did not understand his point of view any more than he understood theirs. A familiar and frustrating sense of isolation swept over him. Did all kings feel so solitary, so alone? What did youths like his son and Maude’s son know about the loneliness of kingship? What did they know about the conflicting claims of justice and mercy? Only one person had ever understood how hard the choices could be. Only Tilda, may God assoil her sweet soul. Only Tilda.

  Servants had cleared away the dishes and were dismantling the trestle tables when the messenger arrived from John Marshal. Ushered into Stephen’s tent, he knelt awkwardly in the cramped space, and held out a sealed parchment. As Stephen broke the seal and began to read, the others watched, glad that this troublesome siege was finally over.

  “Holy Christ…” Stephen’s hoarse whisper was almost inaudible, but they all saw the color drain from his face. “The man is mad,” he said, sounding stunned. “He must be…”

  When they crowded around, clamoring for answers, Stephen handed Marshal’s letter to his son. Eustace scanned it rapidly, his eyes widening. “Marshal says he’ll not surrender the castle. As for our threat to hang his son, he said go ahead, hang him, that he has the hammer and anvil to forge other and better sons.”

  These were men not easily shocked, but John Marshal had managed to do just that. There was silence and then uproar, with all talking at once. Stephen had reclaimed Marshal’s letter; he kept rereading it as if expecting to find there’d been some mistake, for he simply could not believe any man capable of saying of his five-year-old son, “Hang him.”

  “I never thought I’d see such evil as Geoffrey de Mandeville loosed on the Fenlands,” he said, “but even he murdered other men’s children, not his own…”

  “I always heard that Marshal had no nerves at all. Look at the way he held out up in that burning church at Wherwell, willing to risk being broiled alive rather than surrender. But this…Jesu!” Eustace elbowed around the encircling men to reach his father. “Papa…I am truly sorry. I know how hard this will be for you.”

  Stephen had never heard his son sound so solicitous. Raising his eyes from the letter, he saw Eustace was watching him intently. So were the other men. He did not at first understand. When he did, he expelled his breath in an audible rush, as if he’d just taken a blow to the pit of his stomach. “You cannot think,” he said incredulously, “that I am going to do it?”

  “Papa, you have no choice.”

  “Lord Eustace is right, my liege.” Northampton heaved a sound much like a sigh. “I hate this,” he said heavily. “What man would not? But it must be done. You cannot let Marshal defy you like this. You threatened to hang his son if he did not yield Newbury. Now you have to follow through with your threat. You cannot back down, God help you, but you cannot!”

  “No! I will not kill a child just to save face!”

  But when Stephen looked to the other men for support, he found none. One by one, they began to voice their agreement with Eustace and Northampton. Mohun was chillingly composed, contending that the age of the hostage was immaterial. Aubrey de Vere mumbled his assent, as if hoping God would not hear. William d’Aubigny w
anted no part in it, but when forced to declare himself, he condemned the child with tears in his eyes. Shaken by their unexpected unanimity, Stephen turned to his seneschal, for he knew William Martel to be a decent, God-fearing man, one whose judgment he trusted. But Martel, too, argued for the hanging, all the more convincing for his obvious distress.

  Stephen would later look back upon that afternoon as one of the worst of his life. Reeling under their assault, he continued to insist that he’d not execute a child, no matter what the provocation. But they continued to insist that he must, and they had logic and history and political necessity on their side, whereas he had only instinct, an aversion rooted in emotion, heartfelt but not easy to articulate.

  He could not rebut their arguments. All they said was true. Hostages lost their value if there was no risk. Why would a man ever keep faith if he could be sure his hostages would come to no harm? A king’s word must be good. Whether he promised or threatened, he must do what he said he would. If Marshal was allowed to get away with this, other would-be rebels would take heart. Respect was but one side of the royal coin; the other was fear. For unless men feared to cross him, why would they stay loyal? He had a tenuous grip at best upon the allegiance of his subjects, war-weary and yearning for peace. And now he was no longer facing a haughty, irksome woman as his rival for the throne. With Henry Fitz Empress breathing down his neck, he had no margin for error. He could afford to make no more mistakes, to do anything that might cause men to doubt his will, to see him as weak or indecisive.

  They were accustomed to speaking their minds freely with Stephen, and they did not hold back now. They reminded him that his uncle, the old king of blessed memory, had agreed to mutilate his own granddaughters, so important was it that the king’s word could be trusted. They reminded him, too, how he’d gallantly allowed Maude to ride away safe from Arundel, whereas had he taken her captive, the war would have ended then and there. They’d staked their futures upon his kingship. And what of his son? How could he risk Eustace’s birthright upon an impulse of misguided mercy?