When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Kings were not accorded privacy; even dying was done in public. Stephen’s chamber was thronged with people: the Archbishop of Canterbury, several doctors, a few priests, William Martel, Abbot Clarembald of Faversham, the Earl of Arundel, Stephen’s grieving son, just recovering from his March accident, now about to be dealt another crippling blow. Will was the only family member present, for Stephen’s brother was coming from Winchester and was not likely to arrive in time. Nor was his daughter, Mary, for she had departed the nunnery in Kent for Romsey Abbey in Hampshire, and seemed destined once again to miss saying her final farewell to a dying parent.

  Becket ushered Ranulf toward the bed and then stepped back so that he might have some small measure of privacy. Ranulf was shocked at sight of Stephen. Until then he’d believed Stephen might still rally, for the bloody flux was not always fatal. But as he looked down into Stephen’s face, he saw there was no hope. Death was not only on the way, it was already in the chamber.

  Stephen’s eyes were sunken back in his head, fever-glazed and bloodshot, but still lucid. As Ranulf bent over the bed, he saw recognition in their depths, and genuine joy that he’d come. Stephen was too weak to talk much, but when Ranulf took his hand, he managed a feeble squeeze, even a shadowy flicker of a smile.

  “Look after Maude’s lad…” Ranulf nodded mutely. Stephen’s mouth was moving again. “Tell Maude…” But he got no further. Ranulf wondered if his strength had given out or he’d just realized there was nothing to be said.

  Stephen’s eyes had closed. His breathing had an audible rasp, and Ranulf was glad he’d been shriven already, for it sounded as if each faltering breath could be his last. Ranulf found himself thinking of his nephew, just a few heartbeats away from becoming England’s king…at twenty-one. Stephen was fifty-eight and could easily have lived another ten or fifteen years. Instead he was dying less than a twelvemonth after they’d come to terms at Winchester. It occurred to Ranulf that mayhap Harry truly did have an ally in the Almighty.

  Stephen’s lashes quivered. “Cousin…” Ranulf leaned closer to catch the whispered words. “I hope the lad gets more joy from his kingship than I did from mine…”

  58

  Rouen, Normandy October 1154

  A squall had blown in from the west soon after Petronilla’s arrival in Rouen. Within the castle, fires were kindled in every hearth and shutters hastily latched, but the solar continued to echo with the sounds of the storm’s fury. The wind’s howling put Eleanor in mind of hungry wolves, and the rain beat a steady tattoo against the slated roof, loud enough at times to intrude upon their conversation.

  Petronilla moved her chair closer to the hearth. “So…how do you like sharing a city with your mother-in-law? I know it did not take you long to vanquish Louis’s mother, but she lacked the Lady Maude’s imperial will. If the empress is even half as formidable as her foes claim, she’d be a match for Barbary pirates, infidels, and Abbot Bernard, too!”

  “Why is it,” Eleanor wondered, “that no one wants to believe Maude and I are on good terms? She is not a meddlesome mother-in-law, for she has far too much dignity for that. As for her ‘imperial will,’ I thanked God for it when Harry was taken so ill last month. When his fever would not break, the doctors began to despair, but not Maude. She fought Death the way she did Stephen-no quarter given-and she won. We took turns nursing him, and kept Death at bay long enough for Harry to rally. And once he was up and about, what did he do? Just as soon as he had the strength to climb into the saddle, he was off to Torigny to besiege the castle of a rebel baron, God save us all!”

  Eleanor shook her head, sounding both amused and exasperated, and then shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Yolande emerged from the shadows, offering a cushion, and Petronilla gave her a sympathetic look. “Is the babe getting restless again?”

  Eleanor grimaced. “Much of the time, I feel as if I’ve swallowed a frog,” she confided, “and February seems so far away…”

  “Men do not know what joys they are missing, do they? I remember complaining to Raoul about one of my pregnancies, for it was hellishly hot and sweltering that summer and I felt like a beached whale. His response? To tell me I should be thankful a woman’s pregnancy lasted only nine months, as he’d read in a bestiary that an elephant carried her calf for nigh on two years!”

  For most of the past year, Petronilla could not talk of Raoul without tears. That she could now jest about her late husband showed Eleanor that even heart wounds could heal, if given enough time. Positioning the cushion behind her aching back, Eleanor smiled at her sister. “Did you hear about Louis?”

  “That he went off on pilgrimage?”

  “Louis has always yearned to visit the holy shrine at Santiago de Compostela, and now he is doing just that. But for once he has more in mind than the salvation of his immortal soul. You see, Petra, the King of Castile has a marriageable daughter, and if she finds favor with Louis-that is, if she is unlike me in all particulars-he will probably return to France with a bride. By a very roundabout route, though,” Eleanor said and grinned. “Rather than ask me for a safe-conduct through Aquitaine, Louis traveled to Castile by way of Toulouse!”

  Petronilla grinned, too. “Louis will have to perform an exorcism to rid his marriage bed of your ghost,” she predicted, “and even then-”

  “My lady!” Yolande had departed the solar only moments before. Now she was back, flushed and breathless. “The empress…she is here! I just saw her ride into the bailey!”

  Eleanor and Petronilla exchanged alarmed looks. What would have brought Maude out in such a storm-except news of dire urgency? Nor were they reassured when Maude was ushered into the solar, for she was soaked to the skin, her mantle muddied and her hair windblown, the first time that Eleanor had ever seen her elegant mother-in-law in such disarray.

  “Good Lord, Maude, you look like a drowned cat! What possessed you to leave the priory in such vile weather? Unless…nothing has happened to Harry?”

  “No,” Maude cried, “oh, no! My news is from England, Eleanor, from the Archbishop of Canterbury.” She paused for breath, and then she smiled, a smile of triumph and joy and vindication, a smile nineteen years overdue.

  “Stephen is dead,” she said, “and England’s crown now belongs to my son. Henry is to be king.”

  Stephen died on October 25th in the year of Our Lord 1154, and was buried with his wife and son Eustace at the abbey he and Matilda had founded at Faversham. It was a quiet end to such a bloody war, and an ironic one, that after almost two decades of a disputed succession, Henry’s accession should be so peaceful and uncontested. So confident was the young king that he even delayed his departure long enough to bring his siege at Torigny to a victorious conclusion.

  Once Henry did take action, he moved with characteristic dispatch. By November 7th, he was at Barfleur, assembling a large fleet. But for all that Henry ruled Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and Aquitaine, and was now to rule the kingdom of England, he had no dominion over the weather. That November saw storm after storm raking the Channel, battering the seaports, churning up towering waves, and making it too hazardous to attempt a crossing. Barfleur’s inns and taverns overflowed with Henry’s entourage, brawls broke out among his bored soldiers, tempers frayed, and anxious eyes scanned the evening skies, searching in vain for signs of clearing. After four weeks of waiting, Henry lost all patience. They would sail on the morrow, he announced, and let the storms be damned.

  A high wind was whipping through the streets of Barfleur, tearing ale poles from their hangings, banging shutters, and discouraging all but the hardiest souls from gathering to watch as the royal fleet got under way. No rain had fallen since dawn, but the sky looked angry, splotched with ominous, leaden clouds, and patches of pale fog hid the horizon. Out in the harbor, the ships were pitching, masts bobbing up and down, queasy passengers huddled at the gunwales for one last glimpse of shore. Anchors were being winched up, sails unfurled, but the king’s ship was still moored at the quay, waiting for Henry
to board.

  The quay was almost deserted. “Watch your step,” Henry cautioned. “The footing is slippery in spots.” Maude nodded, tightening her hand on his arm. He stopped, then, for they’d reached the gangplank. “So…this is farewell, Mama. Unless you change your mind and come with us?”

  She smiled, shaking her head. “We’ve already discussed this, Henry. It is best that I remain here, keeping an eye on Normandy in your absence.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider. Will and my uncles and cousins will be there to witness my coronation, as will Eleanor’s brothers and Petronilla. Even Geoff,” he added dryly, glancing over his shoulder toward the ship, but failing to find his disgruntled brother midst the passengers milling about on the deck. “You ought to be there, too, Mama-you above all others.” He saw, though, that she would not relent, and yielded reluctantly. “As you wish, then. I do not understand your decision, but I will accept it.”

  “Just as I’ve accepted your decision to sail on such a foul day,” she pointed out, “although I like it not.”

  “I could wait no longer, Mama. But you need not fear, for we will outrun the storm. I am just sorry the seas were so rough on St Catherine’s Day. What could have been more fitting than to sail on the same day as the White Ship?”

  She suspected he was joking, yet the very suggestion gave Maude a superstitious chill. “Jesu forfend! That would have been tempting Providence for certes, and had you been foolhardy enough to do so, I very much doubt that anyone would have dared to sail with you!”

  “No?” Henry said and laughed. “I’d wager Eleanor would have!”

  Maude looked across at the ship, soon spotted her daughter-in-law, warmly wrapped in a fur-trimmed red mantle, and nearby, a nurse, holding Maude’s small grandson. “Yes,” Maude conceded, “Eleanor probably would.” For better or worse, her son and his wife were well matched, hawk mating hawk and flying high.

  And then it was time. Stepping forward, she gave him a hasty farewell hug. “God keep you safe, Henry.”

  “He will,” he assured her, “and when next I see you, Mama, I’ll bring back a crown…and another grandson for you.” A quick kiss, haphazardly aimed at her cheek, and he was gone, crossing the gangplank with a swift, confident step, eager to depart, to claim his kingdom.

  Alone on the quay, Maude watched as her son’s ship headed out into the harbor. The sails were billowing, the mast lantern swaying wildly, and she said a brief, silent prayer for her sons, for all those crossing the Channel on this raw December morning, and then, for the souls of the doomed passengers who’d drowned in the wreck of the White Ship.

  Braving the wind, Minna ventured out onto the quay. Maude did not seem aware of her approach, keeping her eyes upon the fleet. But then she said softly, “Henry does not understand why I’d not come. But how could I tell him, Minna? He’d think that I begrudged him his kingship, and nothing could be more untrue than that. I am so proud that he is to be king. It is just that I could not watch as the crown was placed upon his head, for that would have stirred up too many hurtful memories, too many regrets. England is Henry’s kingdom, but it was never mine…”

  Minna said nothing, for between them, there was no need of words. The wind was knifing across the quay, and freezing rain had begun to splatter onto the wet wooden planks. Beyond the harbor, Henry’s fleet was disappearing into the fog.

  Henry’s fleet had scattered in the fog, but all eventually came ashore safely. Henry and Eleanor’s ship dropped anchor in a cove near the New Forest, after fighting raging seas for twenty-four turbulent hours. Without waiting for a royal escort, they rode for Winchester, and within days, were welcomed into London. Coronation plans were rushed forward, and on the 19th of December, Henry and Eleanor were crowned in a splendid ceremony at Westminster’s great abbey. What would become known as the Plantagenet dynasty had begun.

  Westminster Palace was not habitable, for it had been despoiled after Stephen’s death, and Henry and Eleanor were forced to lodge across the river at Bermondsey, in a once-royal manor now owned by the Cluniac priory of St Saviour. Ranulf and Rhiannon had found lodgings at Bermondsey, too, in one of the priory guesthouses. They had very comfortable quarters, for the monks had been lavish with their hospitality. Rhiannon had been puzzled at first by such solicitude, for she’d been slow to comprehend how important her husband now was, as kinsman and close confidant of the young king. And once she did understand, she was frightened, for never had England’s siren songs sounded so tempting, so seductive. How long could Ranulf resist their blandishments?

  She no longer feared losing Ranulf to Annora, or even to England. After nearly five years of marriage, she did not doubt that he loved her. Her fear was of losing Wales. Lying awake on this cold December night, waiting for Ranulf to return from a private meeting with his nephew, she made herself face a troubling truth: that her husband might well want her and Gilbert to live in England now that Harry was king.

  Ranulf did not know how unhappy she was in this alien land, for she’d confided only in the Almighty. How could she complain? His family had tried to make her welcome. Harry and Eleanor, Maud, Amabel, even Rainald, in his bluff, hearty way-they’d all been kind. But there was no acceptance beyond their small, select circle. She knew that to most people, she would always be an oddity, an object of curiosity, pity, and suspicion. Ranulf Fitz Roy’s blind, Welsh wife.

  Across the room, Gilbert mumbled in his sleep, and Rhiannon sat up, listening intently until she was sure he was dreaming. He was not happy in England, either, as homesick as she was. She’d been assuring him that they’d be going home soon, but no longer, for there was no comfort in a lie. Tonight when he’d complained of “missing Grandpapa and Aunt Eleri,” she’d said only, “Me, too, Gilbert, me, too…”

  Tossing and turning in the bed, she tried to imagine what her father and sister would be doing now. Sleeping, most likely. Eleri might still be awake, though, for she’d gotten pregnant within two months of her summer wedding. Where would she be when Eleri’s time was nigh? How could she not be there for her little sister in the birthing chamber?

  Pummeling her pillow, she wondered if Ranulf understood about hiraeth. It translated as “longing,” but meant so much more, the love of the Welsh for their homeland, a sense of belonging, pride in their past, why they did not thrive when uprooted, like plants set down in foreign soil. If Ranulf wanted them to live in England, she would offer no protest, for she would have followed him to Hell if need be. But it would be a life in exile.

  Rhiannon was sure she’d be awake till dawn, but sometime before midnight, she fell into an uneasy doze. Her dream was not a pleasant one, and she awoke with relief, to find her husband in bed beside her. As soon as she moved, he drew her into his arms. “Harry and Eleanor asked after you, Rhiannon. How is your headache?”

  “Much better,” she lied. “How was your evening?”

  “Interesting.” Ranulf tightened his arms around her, breathing in her fragrance, familiar and flower-sweet. “It’s begun to snow,” he murmured, “just in time for Christmas.”

  “Gilbert will be right glad,” she said softly. Their first Christmas away from Wales. How much snow could make up for that?

  “Harry is a whirlwind on two feet, lass. King only four days and already with plans enough to keep him busy for years. He means to name Thomas Becket as his chancellor and Robert Beaumont as a justiciar. To punish William Peverel for poisoning the Earl of Chester, to expel the last of the foreign mercenaries, and reclaim those crown castles which Stephen lost and appoint new sheriffs and make the King’s Peace more than just a hope and a prayer. And all that is just for a start!”

  “I hope he plans to rest on the seventh day.”

  Ranulf laughed. “That is what Eleanor said, too!” Leaning over, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “Harry offered me an earldom tonight,” he said, and Rhiannon went rigid in his arms, for a moment able to hear nothing but the beating of her own heart.

  “I…I thought he would,�
� she managed to whisper at last.

  “I knew he would, too. He takes pleasure in giving, and who can give more than a king? It was no easy task, convincing him that I did not want it-”

  “You turned down an earldom?”

  “You sound like Harry did, love-like you swallowed your tongue! Yes, I did. I told Harry I’d be right pleased to accept as many manors as he can spare, preferably in the Marches, but I’ll be wanting no English earldom. That is why I was late getting back. It took me nigh on two hours to persuade him that I was not drunk!”

  “But…but why?”

  “I think you know, Rhiannon. Our son is three quarters Welsh. I want him to grow up in Wales, to know where he belongs. An English earldom would yoke him to England, whether he willed it or not. When he is of an age to know his own mind, mayhap he might choose that golden yoke. But the choice ought to be his. Until he can make it, though, I must choose for him-and I choose Wales.”

  “Ranulf…are you sure?”

  “Very sure. I just hope our lad finds half the happiness in Wales that I did.” He kissed her again, and tasted tears. “Rhiannon? Have I let you down? Mayhap I ought to have talked it over with you first, but I thought we were in accord on this. You do want us to go back to Wales?”

  “Yes,” she said, “dear God, yes!”

  “Well, then,” he said, “after Christmas, we’ll go home.”

  The January sky was a glazed, boundless blue, and Bermondsey was adrift in a sea of snow, glistening like crystal as the sun rose overhead. The air was cold and clear, the wind stilled. “You’ve a good day for travel,” Henry said. “Take care of my uncle, Rhiannon. Any man who’d turn down an earldom needs looking after!”

  Rhiannon heard laughter, caught an elusive hint of summer roses, and was then enveloped in a brief, perfumed embrace by England’s queen. “Godspeed,” Eleanor said warmly. “Yn iach, Rhiannon.”