When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Ranulf whistled softly. Chester was such an elemental force that he’d seemed well-nigh invincible, if not downright immortal. “After I saw him survive a blow to the helmet that broke Stephen’s axe but left him with no more than a headache, I’d have wagered on him against Death itself,” he admitted. “As the joke goes, God would not want him and the Devil would not take him. Maud will cope; we need not fret about that. But why the secrecy? Let’s be honest; we’d have to hunt far and wide to find any mourners for Chester’s funeral. And what does Peverel have to do with this? Given how much he hates Chester, he’d like nothing better than to spit into Randolph’s open coffin, but so would half of Christendom!”

  “Spitting would not have satisfied Peverel. He had murder in mind, a poisoned wine that claimed three other lives and so sickened Chester that he is not expected to live.”

  As Ranulf stared at Henry in astonishment, another voice delivered a harsh judgment. Neither one had heard Stephen approach, and they both spun around as he said, “It would be better for England, better for us all that he does not recover. You can be sure, Cousin, that he would give you fully as much trouble as he gave me. A scorpion must sting, for that is its nature.”

  Henry had at last found some common ground with Stephen. “I daresay you are right. I gave him a very ample grant this spring, but it would not have kept him content for long. If he does indeed die, his epitaph should be that his hand, like Ishmael’s, was against every man.”

  Stephen nodded, all the while studying Henry so intently that he finally felt compelled to say coolly, “Cousin? Is there something wrong?”

  Stephen caught himself, and smiled ruefully. “I was staring at you, was I not? Do not take this amiss, but I found myself thinking how very young you are. Not in judgment or maturity, in years. Should God grant you as many winters as I have seen, twenty will seem heartrendingly young to you, too, Cousin,” he explained, and Henry could only look at him in bemusement, sure now that it had not been his imagination; Stephen was regarding him with a benevolence that was indeed paternal. He dared not meet Ranulf’s knowing eyes, lest he laugh at the absurdity of it all, that this war which had lasted for almost all of his life should end, not in bloodshed, but adoption.

  The day was to conclude with a Mass of Reconciliation at St Swithun’s Cathedral. As Henry and Stephen emerged from the shadows of the castle barbican, they drew rein, startled, for High Street was thronged with spectators, men and women and youngsters who’d been waiting patiently in the winter cold for hours, all in hope that peace would be made. At sight of Stephen and Henry riding side by side, a vast roar went up from the crowd, so loud it could almost have been heard in Heaven.

  Henry felt his throat tighten as he looked out upon their faces, some beaming, others streaked with thankful tears. Although this was his first visit to Winchester, he felt a close kinship with its citizens, for he’d grown up on tales of their suffering and their steadfast loyalty to the Angevin cause. Their joy was as contagious as it was rapturous, and he wished passionately that his mother could have been here to witness it.

  As Henry urged his stallion forward, the noise intensified. Hats and caps were tossed into the icy air, parents lifted children so they could see, and Henry heard his name taken up as a chant by the crowd. It was only then that he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Stephen had halted for the moment, a generous gesture but also a realistic recognition that the cheers belonged to Henry.

  57

  Dover-Canterbury Road, Kent, England

  March 1154

  Early in Lent, Henry accompanied Stephen to Dover to meet the Count of Flanders and his wife, Henry’s paternal aunt. On this rain-sodden March Friday, they departed Dover Castle in midmorning, bound for Canterbury. They were still about five miles from the city when the archbishop’s saddle girth began to slip. A hasty examination revealed that the girth buckle was giving way and the royal cavalcade halted while the problem was corrected.

  As the delay lengthened, Henry found it increasingly difficult to hide his impatience. Stephen’s son, Will, and a few of his companions were amusing themselves by galloping their horses across a nearby meadow. Henry was half tempted to join in, but although the rain had stopped, the ground was still muddy and slick, and he was not willing to endanger his stallion just to keep boredom at bay.

  As he fidgeted by the side of the road, watching the races, he was joined by one of the archbishop’s clerks, who reported that the saddle girth was taking longer than expected to repair. When the clerk lingered after delivering his message, Henry was pleased, for he’d found Thomas Becket to be good company.

  At first glance, they seemed too unlike for friendship; Becket was more than twelve years Henry’s senior, having been born a month after the sinking of the White Ship, and they did not share the same affinity for the religious life. But what they had in common mattered more than what they did not: a keen intelligence, a love of learning, unfettered ambition, and an ironic eye for life’s incongruities. Henry thought he could find use for a man of Becket’s talents, looking ahead to that day when England’s government would be his for the shaping. But whether Becket ever became a royal councilor or not, at the moment, he was a welcome diversion, and Henry was in need of one; had he been asked to describe Purgatory, he’d have said it was a place of infernal and endless waiting.

  The past few months had been busy ones for Henry and Stephen: formalizing the agreement they’d struck at Winchester, getting the barons of the realm to do homage to Henry as their future king, issuing orders to demolish those castles judged illegal, preparing to expel foreign mercenaries. Becket knew they’d not been pleasant months for Henry, filled with dawn-to-dusk activity, but not much satisfaction. It was with a touch of sympathy, therefore, that he asked, “Is it true that your uncle has gone back to Wales?”

  Henry nodded. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he reminded me that he’d not seen his wife and son for more than a year. I reminded him in turn that I’d not seen my wife for more than a year, either, and had yet to lay eyes upon my son. But he then pointed out that it was my crown, not his, and that left me with nothing to say except ‘Godspeed.’”

  “How much longer ere you can go back to Normandy?”

  “I would that I knew. Soon, I hope. Others might see me as the heir apparent, the next king. But just between you and me, Thomas, I feel more like the chief mourner at a funeral, waiting around for the ‘deceased’ to take sick. Surely I can put my time to better use than that?”

  “Some men might be content to keep a death watch,” Becket agreed, sounding amused, “but for certes, not you.”

  Henry glanced curiously at the older man. Becket stood high in the archbishop’s favor, and with so illustrious a patron, he could have a promising career in the Church, if he wanted it. But did he? “I know you’ve been in the archbishop’s service for the past eight years. He told me that when the next opening for an archdeacon comes up, he means to appoint you. You’d have to take holy orders, first, of course. And you have not…have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Henry considered that answer, trying to understand how a man could choose of his own free will to give up so much, even for God. “I do not think I’d have made a good priest myself,” he said at last.

  “I suspect you’d have had particular trouble with the vow of chastity,” Becket said dryly, and Henry grinned.

  “I probably would not have done so well with the obedience vow, either,” he conceded. “Fortunately, the qualifications are less stringent for kings.”

  Becket grinned, too. “I understand it helps,” he said slyly, “if a king does not fall off his horse.”

  Henry had heard, of course, of Stephen’s balky stallion. “At least not three times in a row,” he laughed, and then grabbed for Becket, pulling the other man aside just as several of the racers galloped past, spraying mud in all directions.

  Henry’s quick action had saved Becket from a thorough dousing, but the hem of his
mantle had still gotten splattered. He frowned at the splotched wool, then gazed after the riders, shaking his head in disapproval. “What a pity,” he said, “that some men make such poor use of the wits God gave them.” And then, “Jesu!” for as they watched, one of the horses slipped in the mud, scrabbled futilely to retain its footing, and went down.

  Henry had not seen the rider. It was not until he heard Stephen’s anguished cry that he realized it was Will. With Becket a stride or two behind, he hastened toward the fallen stallion. But Stephen got there first, made fleet by his fear. Will was pinned under the horse, and it took several men to pull him free. The hapless stallion was beyond help, doomed by a shattered foreleg, thrashing about in terror until a soldier mercifully put an end to its suffering.

  At first sight, the king’s son did not seem likely to survive his stallion. Will’s face was blanched under a coating of mud, his flaxen hair darkening with blood. His mouth was contorted, blue eyes clouded with fear and pain, and he plucked frantically at Stephen’s sleeve as his father bent over him. “It hurts so…,” he moaned, and Stephen found himself thrust back in time to an August night, hot and humid, watching in horror as Eustace choked to death. Merciful God, not again!

  “Papa…” Will clung to Stephen’s hand as if his father alone could save him. “Do not let me die…”

  “You are not dying, Will,” Stephen promised recklessly. “I swear you are not!”

  But Will did not believe him. “I’ve sinned,” he sobbed, “but I am sorry. Do not let me be damned…”

  Shouting hoarsely for a doctor, Stephen blotted blood away as it trickled down into Will’s eyes. “Lie easy, lad,” he pleaded. “You make it worse for yourself when you move.”

  “I ought to have told you…” Will’s eyes were riveted upon his father’s face. “I did not truly think they’d do it, though. I swear I did not…”

  “I know, lad,” Stephen said soothingly, “I know. Try not to talk.”

  “I must,” the youth insisted weakly, “lest I die ere I am shriven of my sin.” Sweat beaded his forehead, his upper lip. “Murder,” he whispered. “The Flemings…they mean to kill him…”

  “Kill him?” Stephen repeated numbly. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Flemings…” Will’s voice faltered. “They spoke of killing Maude’s son…”

  “Christ Jesus…” Stephen raised his head, appalled by what he’d just heard, only to see Henry standing behind him, so close that he must have heard, too.

  Stephen had been searching all over Christ Church Priory for Henry, finally finding him in the cloisters with Thomas Becket. They fell silent as he approached, Henry’s face giving away nothing of his thoughts-or his intentions. “How is Will?” he asked politely, noncommittally.

  “God is indeed good, for the doctor says he’ll live.” Stephen told them then, about Will’s injuries: a gashed forehead, cracked ribs, and the most serious, a broken thigh bone. His convalescence would be a lengthy one, but he would heal in time. Henry and Becket wished Will a quick recovery, a response dictated by courtesy, not telling Stephen what he needed to know. He’d considered saying nothing, gambling on the off chance that Henry might have missed Will’s mumbled confession. But as his eyes met Henry’s, Stephen realized how foolish that would have been; Maude’s son was not one to be bluffed.

  “Once I was sure that Will’s life was not in danger, I asked him about the Flemings. One of his men speaks Flemish, and he’d overheard some of the Flemish hirelings talking in a Dover alehouse. They were sorely vexed about the peace terms, angry at being cast out of England, and blaming you for their plight, Harry. Will’s servant told him that they were saying it would be for the best if you had a ‘mishap’ of some sort. But Will swears he did not take it seriously. He dismissed it as drunken maunderings, and that is why he said nothing. If he’d believed you to be in real danger, he’d have spoken up straightaway.”

  Stephen sounded earnest, yet uneasy, too. Henry did not doubt his sincerity; he believed in his son. And it could have happened just as Will claimed, for he’d struck Henry as an amiable mediocrity. But even a capon might envy the cock; who was to say?

  “I daresay you are right, Cousin. The foolish babbling of men in their cups. It is not surprising that Will acted as he did.”

  Stephen’s relief was palpable. “I am gladdened that you understand, Harry. It would have been a great pity had Will’s name been tarnished by alehouse gossip. You have no reason to doubt my son’s good faith, that I swear to you.”

  “You need not fret, Cousin, for I’ve taken Will’s measure.”

  Stephen smiled. “Well, I’d best get back. The doctor gave Will a potion for his pain, but I want to be there when he awakens. Archbishop Theobald was kind enough to put Will up in his own lodgings. If you could find time to stop by later, I know it would mean much to Will…?”

  Henry promised that he would, and Stephen was soon striding off buoyantly, intent upon thanking the Almighty for sparing his youngest son. Henry and Becket waited until he’d disappeared into a side door of the cathedral. Only then did they turn away, continuing along the cloister path.

  “I hope you plan to watch your back,” Becket said quietly. “I’ve been told that few knives are sharper than a Fleming’s blade.”

  “So I’ve heard, too.” Henry’s smile held an edge of its own. “You asked,” he said, “when I’d be returning to Normandy. I think the time has come. I would not want to overstay my welcome, after all.”

  On the morning after Henry’s return to Angers, Eleanor awoke with a languorous sense of well-being, which lasted until she realized that she was alone. Sitting up, she brushed her hair out of her eyes. Could Harry not have lingered in bed just this once? No wonder his enemies claimed his energy was demonic. Her clothing lay strewn about the chamber, and the sight brought a soft smile to her lips as she remembered their urgency to reach the bed. Her husband’s scabbard had been hung over a chair and was still there, so at least he was somewhere in the castle. With a sigh, she reached for her bed-robe.

  Opening the shutters, Eleanor stood at the window, breathing in the mild April air. She’d selected one of her favorite gowns, a rich wine-red, and she was about to summon Yolande to help her dress when she heard an odd thumping sound out in the stairwell. She opened the door just in time to admit Henry. He had their son slung over his shoulder and was guiding two servants up the stairs as they struggled with a large, unwieldy burden: a carved oaken cradle.

  “I thought the tadpole might like to swim in our pond for a while.” Henry gestured toward the hearth as the men dragged the cradle across the threshold. “Put it over there.”

  “Harry, you’re holding that child like a sack of flour.”

  “He does not mind,” Henry insisted, and as he turned, Eleanor saw that Will did seem content. Now in his eighth month, he was such a placid, cheerful baby that Eleanor sometimes joked he must be a changeling, and he appeared to have taken in stride being awakened and carried off by a man who was a stranger to him.

  After the servants had departed, Henry settled his son in the cradle, rocking it back and forth as Will yawned and then began to suck contentedly upon a rattle. When Eleanor joined them, the little boy gurgled happily at sight of her and reached up to snatch at the long tresses tumbling over her shoulder. Evading his grasp, she kissed the crown of his head. “I still find myself marveling at those golden curls of his,” she confided, “for Marie and Alix both have dark hair like mine.”

  “Ought he to be putting that rattle into his mouth?”

  “He is teething, Harry. When his discomfort gets too bad, we rub honey on his gums or give him a liquorice root to suck on.” Retrieving her brush, Eleanor retreated to the bed. “Do you intend to keep Will in here with us? I doubt that will work out very well.”

  “Why not? The lad and I have a lot of catching up to do.” Henry was continuing to rock the cradle and Eleanor had to restrain herself from warning that he’d make Will seasick if
he did not ease up. His first efforts at fatherhood might be heavy-handed, but she did not want to discourage him. She was pleased that he was so taken with their son, for too many men treated the nursery as alien territory.

  Henry was laughing, for Will was now trying energetically to capture his feet. “Trust me, Will, even if you somehow got those into your mouth, toes do not taste good. He squirms about like an eel, Eleanor. Is he always this lively?”

  “Ever since we took off the swaddling.”

  “I’ve seen babies swaddled. They look like little caterpillar cocoons. Surely they do not enjoy being wrapped up that way?”

  “I never thought about it,” Eleanor admitted. “But it is for their own good, for it keeps them warm and safe.” Henry was leaning over the cradle again, tickling Will and making him squeal with glee. Eleanor watched, smiling. “I hope you’ll be such an attentive father for our other children,” she teased. “A soothsayer told me that we’d have a baker’s dozen ere we’re done, so you’d best gird your loins!”

  “For you, anytime.” But his smile was fleeting. He looked down at Will, then back at Eleanor, grey eyes guarded. “There is something you need to know. I have another son.”

  Her brush halted in mid-stroke. “Do you, indeed? Do not keep me in suspense, Harry. The ‘why’ is rather obvious. But what of the ‘when’ and ‘where’ of it?”

  “He was born last December, in London. I named him Geoffrey.” Henry was annoyed to hear himself adding needlessly, “After my father.” But he was not as confident as he sought to appear, for he was not sure how Eleanor would react. She was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever met, and while that was a great part of her charm, there were times-like now-when he’d have welcomed a fire that gave off a little less heat.