When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  It had been a hot summer for England, an even hotter one for Aquitaine. By midmorning, Eleanor’s lying-in chamber was already sweltering and the windows were opened as wide as they could get. Insects soon invaded the room, and as her ladies fanned Eleanor and wiped the sweat from her face, they also had to swat away flies. In late afternoon, thunder rumbled in the distance, a promise of relief that never came. The air remained utterly still, stifling. Eleanor refused to cry out, too proud to lay bare her pain for the world, listening under those unshuttered windows. She held on to her sister’s hand, so tightly that her nails left scratches on Petronilla’s wrist, but the other woman did not complain. Theirs was a sisterhood not just of blood, but of the birthing chamber, too, for Petronilla knew firsthand-as Colette and Yolande did not-what Eleanor was enduring.

  Childbirth was the Curse of Eve, but Eleanor’s curses were directed at her absent husband, at a world in which women must reap what men had sown. The midwife was shocked, but Petronilla grinned and confided that during the most difficult of her three deliveries, she’d vowed to live as chastely as a nun from then on, whether Raoul liked it or not. “But fortunately for the future of mankind,” she quipped, “God has given women flawed memories!”

  Eleanor laughed, to the midwife’s amazement. But then she groaned, biting down on her fist. When the contraction passed, she muttered that if the folklore was true that sons were birthed more easily than daughters, it must be because girls knew what awaited them outside the womb. And again the midwife marveled, for it had been her experience that the birthing chamber was a setting for hope and fear and joy and, too often, peril, but rarely for humor.

  Not until dark did the heat begin to abate. From her bed, Eleanor could see a starlit, ebony sky. When Yolande tilted a cup to her swollen, bitten lips, she swallowed thirstily, too tired even to identify what she was drinking. Deep shadows lurked under her eyes, hollowed her cheekbones, and for the first time, she looked her age to Yolande, a woman of thirty-one, a woman past her first flush of youth, all the glamor and glitter stripped away by her twelve-hour ordeal. But as Eleanor smiled down at the infant in her arms, Yolande felt tears sting her eyes, so great was her regret that her lady’s husband would never see that smile.

  “Ah, madame, if only you could be there when Lord Harry hears!”

  “I wish so, too, Yolande,” Eleanor admitted, “but it was not to be.” Fighting her fatigue, she looked again at her baby, and then up at the women hovering by the bed. “Nor would I have minded being there when Louis and Abbot Bernard hear,” she murmured, and this time her smile was irrepressible, wickedly triumphant.

  Ranulf had been to the Lincolnshire market town of Stanford once before, on his odyssey with the Fenland orphans; he’d had to seek out a barber in St Peter’s Street to yank Simon’s infected tooth. The barber was still there, older and grayer and understandably alarmed by the siege under way up the road, barely a stone’s throw from his small, cramped shop.

  The castle of William Peverel boasted a newly constructed circular stone keep, rising above the meadows of the River Weland. It had held out for the past fortnight under heavy bombardment, the local quarries providing ample ammunition for Henry’s mangonels. But September got off to a promising start; the garrison was offering to talk.

  The Benedictine priory of St Leonard’s, just east of the town, had become Henry’s headquarters, and the Black Monks were making heroic efforts to accommodate not only the Duke of Normandy and his entourage, but a handful of demanding lords, including the notorious Earl of Chester, long the bane of Lincolnshire. On this ominously overcast morning, Ranulf had lingered at the priory to tend to a personal matter; he was sending one of his Welshmen home with a letter for Rhiannon. He’d thought that their separation would get easier with time; the opposite seemed to be occurring. Without even realizing what was happening, he’d given his heart away, and England was now the alien land.

  Padarn was waiting out in the priory garth with their horses, and they headed into the town. By the time they reached the siege, rain had begun to fall. The marketplace adjoined the castle, and would normally have been crowded with stalls and booths, had the siege not utterly disrupted town life. Instead of customers, it was occupied by soldiers, and it was here that Ranulf found his nephew, conferring bareheaded in the rain with Rainald and a visibly irate Earl of Chester.

  Catching sight of Ranulf, Henry beckoned to him, just as the clouds split asunder and a torrent engulfed the marketplace. Men scattered for cover, Ranulf following Henry toward the closest shelter, the alcove of All Saints’ Church. As they waited for the rain to subside, Henry revealed why Chester was so disgruntled, even though the garrison had agreed to surrender.

  “We discovered that William Peverel was never in the castle. It seems he is holed up at Nottingham, so of course that is where Chester wants us to go next. I told him that I’d have to think about it. Helping Chester settle scores with all his enemies could well turn into a lifetime’s occupation!” Henry said and laughed.

  Ranulf laughed, too, pleased to see his nephew in such high spirits. August had not been a good month for Henry, not at first, for he was waiting impatiently for word from his wife, finding it hard to focus all his energies upon the Stanford siege, still vexed that he’d been cheated of a battlefield confrontation with Stephen and Eustace at Wallingford.

  But that had all changed dramatically once they learned of the events at Ipswich on August 17th. Most people seemed convinced that Eustace’s death was divine retribution for his sins, and even more impressive proof that the Almighty favored the Angevin cause. Naturally, Henry did nothing to contradict this view, remarking privately to Ranulf that God could hardly be improved upon as an ally. But whether he owed a debt of gratitude to an unforgiving saint or a lamprey eel, the result was the same: the removal of the last obstacle in his march to the throne.

  Roger Fitz Miles was holding forth on that very subject a few feet away, assuring all within hearing that peace was at hand, it was just a matter now of working out the details.

  “One of which is the Earl of Surrey,” Henry interjected. “You do remember him, Roger-Stephen’s other son? How can you be sure that Stephen will not want him to step into Eustace’s shoes?”

  “No one can see Will as England’s next king, not even Will himself,” Ranulf commented, and then added, sotto voce, for Henry’s ear alone, “You know that, too, Harry. You might as well face it, lad. You’re not going to be able to fight for the crown. You’ll just have to grit your teeth and let us hand it over to you at the bargaining table.”

  But Henry always gave as good as he got. “I think you mean at Stephen’s grave, do you not, Uncle? That is the fly in the ointment, after all. Unless you want me to start sending the man eel pies?”

  “Only as a last resort!” But no sooner were the words out of Ranulf’s mouth than he regretted them, for he had too complicated a history with Stephen to joke comfortably about his demise. Before he could say more, a voice carried across the marketplace, calling out for Henry. A rider was cantering toward the church, close enough now to be recognized as one of Rainald’s household knights.

  Dismounting, he swore lustily as he stepped down into a widening puddle; the churchyard was fast becoming a sea of mud. “My lord duke, I have a message for you. One of the monks was coming to find you, and I told him I’d pass the word on. A courier has ridden into the priory with a letter for your eyes only.”

  “From Aquitaine?”

  While many of Henry’s men knew how anxiously he was awaiting word from his wife, this particular one did not even know Eleanor was pregnant. Surprised by the urgency in Henry’s voice, he nodded, and then stood, gaping, as Henry snatched the reins from his hand, vaulted up into the saddle, and galloped off on his horse.

  By the time Ranulf and Roger got to their own horses and followed, Henry was out of sight. They spurred their mounts along High Street, on toward the priory, arriving onto a scene of jubilation. Henry was standing in the g
uest hall, surrounded by Abbot Thorald’s smiling monks. As soon as he saw Ranulf, he broke away from his well-wishers, strode across the hall, and gave his uncle a wet, joyful hug. “Eleanor has borne me a son!”

  It took a while for a semblance of calm to return to the hall, and Ranulf had to wait to learn that Eleanor was in good health, that the baby had his father’s bright hair, and that she’d christened him William.

  “She claims she named him after my great-grandfather, William the Bastard,” Henry chortled, “but I know damned well she really had her father and her beloved ‘Grandpapa Will’ in mind. I guess I can count myself lucky she did not name the lad after another one of her illustrious ancestors-Charlemagne!”

  “I am gladdened for you, Harry,” Ranulf said, experiencing a sudden longing for his own small son, Gilbert. “Eleanor has given you a great gift, indeed.”

  Roger agreed, although he could not keep from pointing out the political benefits of this birth. “Stephen lost a son, you gained one. The contrast will not escape people, that your fortunes are rising as Stephen’s are plummeting.”

  “Especially once they learn that my son was born on a Monday eve, two days after the Assumption,” Henry said, and nodded as they stared at him in amazement. He was no longer smiling, for that was so uncanny a juxtaposition of life and death, hope and doom, that there could be no joking about it. “On the same day that Eustace was dying at Ipswich, Eleanor was giving birth to William.”

  It took another two months of negotiations to end the war, but an end did come, due in great measure to the patient and persistent mediation of the Church. The eventual agreement was a compromise in the truest sense of the word, in that no one was fully satisfied. Stephen acknowledged Henry’s hereditary right to the English crown, and agreed to accept Henry as his “son and heir.” Henry, in his turn, conceded that Stephen should continue as king for the remainder of his life. Stephen’s surviving son, William, was to receive all those lands and titles that Stephen had held prior to his kingship, and Henry agreed to recognize him as Count of Boulogne and Mortain and Earl of Surrey; as his young Warenne wife was a great heiress in her own right, William would emerge from the peace conference as the richest lord in England, his wealth eclipsed only by that of the king.

  The other provisions of the agreement were aimed at implementing it. The Tower of London and the castles of Windsor, Oxford, Lincoln, and Winchester were to be entrusted to castellans acceptable to both sides. Solemn oaths were to be exchanged to uphold the pact, Henry was to do homage to Stephen, and their barons would then do homage to him as England’s future king. The men disinherited by the war were to have their lands restored. Foreign mercenaries were to be expelled, and castles constructed since the death of the old king were to be razed. Lastly, Stephen agreed to consult with Henry in the governance of the realm, although it was deliberately left vague as to how that would work out in practice, for no one truly knew; they were breaking new ground.

  On November 6th, 1153, almost eighteen years after Stephen had claimed Maude’s crown, he met with her son at Winchester, the city that had suffered more than any other during those desolate, blighted years when it was believed that Christ and all his saints slept. They agreed to the terms hammered out by their go-betweens, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester. Although a formal treaty still had to be concluded in December, the people of England at last dared to hope that peace was within reach.

  Ranulf found it unsettling at first to be back at Winchester. More than twelve years had passed since their catastrophic rout, and while much of the city had been rebuilt, there were still scars of the siege and fire to be found, most of them on the souls of its citizens. His return stirred up memories Ranulf would rather not have relived, yet upon reflection, it seemed appropriate to him that the healing should begin here.

  The gathering in the great hall of the castle was an odd experience, too, for him: fraternizing with men he’d have been crossing swords with had they met on the battlefield. As he watched the awkward interaction, it was obvious that he was not the only one unsure of his footing. There were a few satisfied faces to be found. The Archbishop of Canterbury and Stephen’s brother were basking in their success as peacemakers. But most of those present looked more wary than joyful. It would be a slippery road ahead, for certes, but God Willing, not a bloody one.

  Across the hall, Stephen was mingling with men who’d done their utmost to dethrone him. He was making a gallant attempt to be cordial, with better success than most. But then, he’d never been one for collecting grudges; Ranulf would wager that there were few, indeed, whom Stephen would not be able to forgive. John Marshal. Chester. The latter’s absence was both a puzzle and a blessing. Ranulf could not imagine what might have kept Chester away from Winchester and a chance to gloat, but thank God for whatever it was; even on his best behavior, he’d have muddied the waters enough to splatter them all.

  As Stephen moved toward the hearth, his son trailed after him. He’d not let Stephen out of his sight all day, so plainly in over his depth that Ranulf felt pity flickering. Was Will wounded at being bypassed? It was true that he’d not been raised with the expectation of kingship, as Eustace had. Stephen had consoled himself with that; he’d confided as much to Ranulf earlier in the day. Ranulf wondered if Will had ever indulged in secret dreams of crowns and sceptres. Even if so, no one else seemed to have ever thought of him in regal terms. He was not like Harry.

  Glancing around then in search of his nephew, Ranulf finally located him standing alone in the shadows on the dais. This was the first time all day he’d not been mobbed, for suddenly his world was overpopulated with men eager to ingratiate themselves. Ranulf supposed it was only to be expected, for people always prized tomorrow more than yesterday. Stephen might now be guaranteed that he’d die as a king, but Henry’s favor would be courted more ardently, for he was England’s future. Whether Stephen knew it yet or not, the remainder of his reign had become a death vigil.

  Taking advantage of this rare chance to catch his nephew alone, Ranulf moved swiftly across the hall, up onto the dais. Henry was watching the activity below him with what appeared to be alert interest. But Ranulf recognized that look for what it was, a mask. “What is the matter, Harry? I know you’ve never been one for waiting…” He stopped, for Henry was shaking his head..

  “It is not that. As you said, Uncle, time is on my side, not Stephen’s.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I do think this settlement was best for England. As you also pointed out, there has been far too much bloodshed. I know it will not be easy to make this pact work, but I can rely upon the Church to stave off any double-dealing down the road. Oddly enough, I think I can rely upon Stephen’s good faith, too.” His smile came and went, almost too quick to catch. “Do not tell my mother I ever said that, though!”

  “You still have not told me what is troubling you?”

  “It just seems so…so incomplete, Uncle Ranulf, to have it end like this. This is not the resolution I’d sought, and Stephen is not the enemy I’d thought I’d find. We talked alone for the first time last night, just the two of us. I do not know what I’d expected, but…” Henry frowned impatiently, for he was not accustomed to having such trouble expressing himself. “There was nothing to be said. I could not even hate him as I ought. You know that he has promised to treat me as his son? Well, as crazy as it sounds, it is almost as if he is starting to think of me that way, Ranulf!”

  “Not so crazy if you know Stephen,” Ranulf said. “There is an…an innocence about him, lad, and despite his blundering and the grief he’s brought upon himself and others, it still survives, like a candle that is never quite quenched. I suspect that he’d not find it hard at all to treat you as a son, Harry, for that is the world as he’d like it to be, a world where men are honourable and women comforting, where good deeds are always rewarded and debts paid and Christian kindness prevails-”

  “But his debt is not paid!” Henry
interrupted, with sudden intensity. “Not to my mother!” He caught Ranulf’s arm, grey eyes flashing, as the words came rushing out, no longer measured or even voluntary. “He did her a great wrong. Not all men think so, but you must, Ranulf, for you know what he took from her, more than a crown. I’ve been fighting for the throne, but I was fighting for her, too, to make Stephen pay for all he’d stolen from her. I feel cheated now, if you want the truth. The kingship is mine, or it will be. But I could not redress her grievances, and it was not supposed to be like that!”

  “I know. Nothing on God’s earth will give Maude more pride and pleasure than seeing you as England’s king. But you are right; it is not enough. What she lost, no one could get back for her, not even you, lad. But you are wrong if you think Stephen has somehow escaped payment. He buried his wife. His son died in his arms. He could not secure the throne for his other son. And he will live out his days knowing that men judged his kingship as an abysmal failure.”

  “And one day, he may even die,” Henry said dryly, but he’d begun to sound amused. “Now that you have convinced me, Uncle, it is only fair that you get to come back with me to Rouen and convince my mother!”

  “Sorry,” Ranulf said, grinning, “but as soon as this war is finally pronounced dead and ready for burial, I’m off to Wales, so fast you will not even see my dust. And for at least a year thereafter, I am instructing my niece not to send on any messages or letters. Every time I get a letter from you, lad, I end up packing my saddlebags, sharpening my sword, and sleeping around campfires instead of snug in my wife’s bed!”

  Instead of smiling, Henry gave him a thoughtful look. “There is something I ought to tell you, for I know how fond you are of my cousin Maud. We thought it best to say nothing until this council was over. A few of us know besides me: the archbishop and Stephen and his brother and the Earl of Derby, who found out on his own, being wed to Peverel’s daughter. Everyone has been asking after Chester’s whereabouts. He is at Gresley Castle up in Derbyshire, and not likely ever to rise from his sickbed, if the accounts I’ve heard are true.”