When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Geoffrey turned, puzzled, and then forgot about badgering the boy at sight of his wife. Maude had spun back toward the dais, all the color gone from her face, a parchment crumpled in her hand.

  “Christ Jesus, woman, what ails you?” Geoffrey came down the dais steps in two strides, for in seven turbulent years of marriage, he’d never seen Maude look as she did now: vulnerable.

  Ranulf was even faster, reached her first. “Maude, what is it? What did Brien tell you?”

  Maude looked blindly at him, her eyes wide, dark, and dazed. “Stephen…” She stopped, swallowed. “He has claimed the English throne,” she said, with the unnatural calm, the dulled disbelief of one still in shock.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Geoffrey spat out an extremely obscene oath, and Ranulf cried, “No, that cannot be! It must be a mistake, for Stephen would never do that, Maude, never!”

  Maude’s hand clenched into a fist, shredding Brien’s letter with fingers that shook. “But he did,” she said tautly. “God rot him, Ranulf—he did!” She drew a ragged, betrayed breath. “Stephen has stolen my crown.”

  6

  Tower Royal, London, England

  December 1135

  THE storm raged in from the west, assailing London with stinging rain and sleet. Christmas festivities were muted in consequence, for the city was soon swamped in mud, buffeted by frigid, wet winds. All people of common sense were keeping close to their own hearths, and the streets were deserted as a small band of armed horsemen splashed up Cheapside. The woman they escorted was muffled in a dark, travel-stained mantle and hood, attracting no attention from the few passersby they encountered. They would have been startled, indeed, had they known they were looking upon England’s new queen.

  Matilda’s arrival at Tower Royal caused quite a stir; she was supposed to be in Boulogne. Even in crisis, though, she clung to her good manners, for making a scene was her concept of a cardinal sin. Shedding her wet, muddied mantle, she dealt patiently with the flustered servants, saw to the needs of her weary, rain-soaked escort. And then she squared her small shoulders, bracing herself for whatever lay ahead, for whatever Stephen might tell her of his mad, perilous quest for a crown.

  She found her husband in the great hall, surrounded by boisterous, jubilant, joking men. She very much doubted that they were celebrating the birth of the Holy Christ Child, and she drew a sharp, shallow breath, one of relief mingled with unease and a twinge of regret. So Stephen had won! She was suddenly sure of that, for she knew these men—highborn lords all, not ones to link themselves to a losing cause.

  Waleran and Robert Beaumont, sprawled by the hearth like two huge, lazy mastiffs, good-natured until they caught the scent of blood. The ever-elegant Geoffrey de Mandeville, sitting aloof in the shadows. Hugh Bigod, boastful and wine-besotted. Simon de Senlis, a man who’d let a family betrayal sour his outlook and his life. He was the stepson of the Scots king, and David had claimed—with the connivance of his wife, Simon’s mother—the English earldom that should have been his, that of Huntingdon; by throwing in with Stephen so soon, he no doubt hoped to recoup some of his lost lands at David’s expense. And conspicuously close by Stephen’s side, the Bishop of Winchester, his brother.

  As always, the sight of them together made her think of changelings, of babies switched at birth, so unlike were they. Her Stephen, tawny-haired and long-legged, utterly at ease in his own body, looking at least a decade shy of his thirty-nine years, years he’d somehow shrugged off onto Henry, who was paunchy and stoop-shouldered, pale hair already starting to recede. Henry, who lacked Stephen’s grace and easy charm, but whose wits were as sharp as any to be found in Christendom. Henry, whose ambitions soared higher than hawks, far above his brother’s earthbound dreams. The Kingmaker.

  It was Geoffrey de Mandeville who noticed Matilda first; he was not a man to miss much. “I thought,” he said, “that you left your lady wife behind in Boulogne.”

  “I did,” Stephen said. “I could not put Matilda’s safety at risk, so we agreed she would wait until I knew if my claim would prevail. Why?” But as he glanced toward Mandeville, he saw his wife standing in the doorway. “Matilda?” Astonishment kept him in his seat for a moment or so, and then he was on his feet, crossing the hall in several strides to sweep Matilda into his arms.

  “I could wait no longer,” she confessed. “I had to come, Stephen, had to find out for myself what was happening.”

  Stephen’s smile was more expressive than any words could have been, revealing not only his triumph and pride but his sense of wonder, too, that it had been so easy. But he was denied the privilege of telling her himself, for his brother was quicker, saying with a smile, “Your womanly fears were for naught, Matilda, my dear. You are now looking upon God’s anointed. Stephen was crowned at Westminster three days ago.”

  Matilda gasped. “So fast as that?” she blurted out, and then blushed when the men laughed, feeling like a fool. Speed was essential, after all, in a race for a disputed throne. “With your permission, my lord husband,” she said softly, taking refuge in a familiar role, “I’d best change these wet clothes.”

  The men watched approvingly as she departed the hall, for Matilda was their society’s embodiment of female perfection, a great heiress who was also pretty, fertile, sweet-tempered, and submissive. But the bishop had no high regard for wives, perfect or not, and his eyes, an odd smoky shade neither blue nor grey, narrowed upon Matilda’s slim, fragile figure as she disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell.

  “Amazing,” he said slowly, “truly amazing. Most men would have balked at a winter Channel crossing. I am astounded, Stephen, that the lass dared to take such a risk, and yes, dismayed, too, for such foolhardiness does not bode well for the future. I think you ought to take her to task—gently, of course—for acting on her own like that. Trust me, that is not a habit you’d want her to cultivate. Women can be headstrong, foolish creatures, especially if they lack a firm male hand on the reins.”

  He raised a few eyebrows; a man would have used that supercilious tone with the old king but once. Stephen now showed himself to be more tolerant than his royal uncle; he seemed more amused than offended by the lecture. “What astounds me, Brother Henry, is how a man so learned can have such glaring gaps in his education. You speak at least three languages fluently, and yet you can understand women in none of them! Now…I’m sure you gentlemen can amuse yourselves quite well without me. As much as I enjoy your company,” he said, grinning, “I much prefer the company of the lady awaiting me above-stairs.”

  Waleran Beaumont waited until Stephen was out of hearing range, then leaned confidentially toward the bishop. “Is it wise, my lord bishop, to apply the spurs so soon? A clever rider lets the horse get accustomed to his weight in the saddle first.”

  “I’ll not deny that I shall be offering my advice freely to my brother the king, and indeed, I trust mine will be a voice he heeds, as I speak for the Holy Church.”

  “And of course you would not want any rivals for the royal ear, least of all one who shares the king’s bed. I daresay you gave her nary a thought until now, but suddenly the timid little wife does not seem quite so timid or so trifling, does she? But then, what would a priest know of pillow talk? And if you do, by all that’s holy, you’d best not own up to it!”

  Waleran guffawed at his own jest. So did his brother, and the bishop blistered a glance between the two of them. He had long harbored contempt for Waleran and Robert Beaumont, privately dubbing them the “Norsemen,” for they were as fair-haired and brash and bold as the Viking raiders of ancient lore, men of loud laughter, coarse humor, and earthy pleasures. But his disdain had led him astray; he saw that now, saw how it had distorted his judgment. Waleran Beaumont was brazen and self-seeking, but he was not stupid—far from it. He would bear watching, he and his churl of a brother. Stephen must be guarded, lest he fall prey to Beaumont snares. “I am sure the queen would never think to meddle in matters of state. I would that I cou
ld say as much for you, my lord!”

  Waleran’s good humor was no pose; his temper was not easily kindled. He found it hard, therefore, to understand men like the bishop, prickly and readily provoked; as puffed up, he thought, as any barnyard cock. A pity the bishop was so greedy, for there were spoils enough for all. But if this conniving priest thought he’d cheat the Beaumonts out of their fair share, he’d soon regret it. Stephen was—thankfully—a different sort of man altogether, not one to forget his friends.

  “Meddling,” he said cheerfully, “is much like whoring, one of those sins too sweet to forswear!” Waleran and his brother both laughed at that; the bishop did not.

  “I will not permit you to take advantage of the king’s goodwill, his trusting nature,” Henry warned, his voice cutting enough to pierce the Beaumont complacency. Waleran scowled, but before he could retort in kind, Geoffrey de Mandeville began to laugh.

  “Just out of idle curiosity, my lord bishop, how do you mean to do that?” he queried, turning upon them glittering dark eyes full of mockery. “We might as well be candid. Our choice was between Maude, who listens to no one, and Stephen, who will listen to anyone. As to which flaw be worse, only time will reveal, but I can tell you now which one is like to be the most profitable,” he said and laughed again.

  He laughed alone, though. The other men were all glaring at him. A suspicious, tense silence settled over the hall as Stephen’s first Christmas as king drew to an uneasy end.

  MATILDA had not permitted any of her ladies-in-waiting to accompany her, as she had not known what might await her in England. With no one to help her undress, she had difficulty unfastening the wet lacings of her gown. Finally freeing herself from its sodden folds, she dragged a chair close to the fire, began to unbraid her hair with fingers that shook. She was exhausted, for it had taken almost three days to cover the seventy mudrutted miles from Dover, but she couldn’t go to bed yet, not until Stephen came to her. When he did, she gave him no chance to speak first. “Are you angry with me for not waiting in Boulogne?”

  “Angry? My darling, I am delighted!” Taking her hands in his, he smiled down at her with so much pride that she felt tears prick against her eyelids. “I only wish, sweetheart, that you’d gotten here three days ago, in time to be crowned with me. But no matter, you’ll have your own coronation, Tilda, as splendid as I can make it, that I promise. What of Easter? Would that please you?”

  She’d just been offered a crown, but her dreams had never been of thrones. “Stephen, why did you not tell me?”

  “Tilda, there was no time. I had to sail with the tide for England; even a single day’s delay could have tipped the scales against me.”

  She shook her head, unwillingly remembering that dreadful scene in their bedchamber at Boulogne, remembering her disbelief, her scared sense that the world had suddenly gone spinning out of control, listening as Stephen hurriedly explained that his uncle the king was dead and he was departing for England within the hour, that he meant to claim Maude’s crown for himself. “I am not talking of that…that day. Why did you keep your intent from me? You obviously laid your plans long before the old king’s death, yet you said nary a word to me—me, your wife! Why, Stephen, why?”

  “We decided it was best that you not know beforehand.” He saw her face change and said hastily, “Of course I trusted you, Matilda! But I knew how you’d worry, and I wanted to spare you that if I could.”

  She could not help thinking that he’d kept silent, too, lest she try to talk him out of it. “‘We decided,’” she echoed. “I assume you are not using the royal ‘we,’ so who, then? Your brother the bishop?”

  Stephen stared at her, for that was as close as she’d ever come to sarcasm. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “Henry felt from the first that our uncle ought to have named me as his heir. I do not say this to disparage Maude, for I’m sure she would have done her best. But no woman could rule as a man must. My uncle was mad to insist upon Maude. Scriptures tell wives to submit themselves unto their husbands, tell women to keep silent in the churches. So how could it ever be God’s Will that a woman should wield royal power?”

  The words were Stephen’s, but she knew whose voice she was really hearing. “And so you and Henry were ready when the king died…?”

  He nodded. “Three weeks from my uncle’s death to my coronation; that is all it took, just three weeks. Surely that says much, Matilda, about the mood of the realm. No one wanted Maude to rule, sweetheart, you know they did not. There was no great rush into Anjou after my uncle died, was there? A number of lords at once sought out my brother Theobald, though, and I think it is safe to assume they had more in mind than telling him of the king’s death. The sainted Robert was with them, by the way, when they got word that they were too late, that I had been recognized as king. Some of them, I heard, had even urged Robert to claim the crown himself!”

  He left unsaid that Robert had turned the offer down. Matilda bit her lip, waiting until she was sure she, too, would leave it unsaid. “And…and did it all go as planned? When I landed at Dover, I was told there had been trouble at the castle…?”

  “Indeed, there was. They refused me entry, and so did the garrison at Canterbury. Not so surprising, I suppose, since they’re Robert’s castles, but still not the most auspicious beginning to my quest.” Stephen’s smile was rueful. “Thank God for the Londoners! If not for their heartfelt support, the warmth of their welcome, my hopes might well have withered right on the vine. From London I rode to Winchester, where Henry was waiting with my uncle’s justiciar. They recognized the validity of my claim and handed over the royal treasury. That left but one hurdle to overcome: the qualms of the Archbishop of Canterbury, for he, too, had sworn that oath to Maude.”

  “So you reminded him that the Church does not enforce oaths sworn under duress.” It was easy enough to hazard such a guess, for what other argument could he have made? “You pointed out that none of you gave those oaths freely, that the old king would brook no refusal. And obviously you convinced him.”

  Stephen surprised her then, by shaking his head. “No,” he said slowly, “not at first…” His reluctance was painfully apparent, but she was prepared to wait as long as necessary. Their eyes met, briefly, before his slid away. Faint patches of color suddenly stood out across his cheekbones. “It was Hugh Bigod who persuaded him,” he said at last. “He told the archbishop that he’d been with the king at Lyons-la-Forêt, that the king named me over Maude as he lay dying.”

  Matilda was shocked. “Was it true?”

  The color was more noticeable in his face now. “Why should it not be true? All know how he’d quarreled with Maude ere he died.” He gave her one quick, sharp glance, frowned at what he found, and then admitted tautly, “I do not know, did not ask.”

  “Oh, Stephen…” Matilda could not hide her dismay, for perjury was a far greater sin than a disavowed oath. “What have you done?”

  She’d not meant to speak the words aloud, but there was no calling them back. He flinched, and then stepped forward, grasping her by the shoulders and compelling her to look up at him.

  “What have I done? I have spared England a disastrous reign, one that was likely to end in bloodshed! Can you truly imagine men like Chester and the Beaumonts submitting to a woman’s whims, obeying a woman’s commands? They’d have defied her with impunity, for what could she do—take the field against them? Can you tell me in all honesty, Matilda, that you wanted to see Maude as England’s queen?”

  “No,” she whispered, “you know I did not…” It was an unfinished sentence, but he did not seem to notice. His grip eased on her shoulders, and some of the tension left his face.

  “I will be a good king, Tilda,” he said, “that I do swear to you upon the life of our son, our son who will be king after me. Tell me you believe that.”

  She nodded mutely, with no hesitation, for as much as she cherished honour, she cherished Stephen more, and she understood now his need, his own inner doubts about wha
t he’d done. Such doubts could not be left to fester; like proud flesh, they must be cut away. That much she comprehended of power and the conscience of kings.

  Sliding her arms up his back, she rested her cheek against his chest. “I love you,” she said, not knowing what else to say. But it was what he needed to hear, and his arms tightened around her. She almost told him then of her own news, that she was with child again. She would be conjuring up a ghost if she did, though—Baldwin, their firstborn, who would never know his father had been crowned as England’s king. She clung to Stephen, thinking of her dead son and the baby now growing within her body, a secret she chose to keep to herself for a while longer, to keep safe.

  Stephen was stroking her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “I bear Maude no ill will,” he said. “I understand her disappointment and her anger and blame her not, for the fault lay with my uncle, who ought to have known better. It is my hope, Tilda, that Maude will come to accept my kingship, and when she does, I shall make her most welcome at my court, shall do all in my power to mend the rift between us.”

  Matilda tried to imagine Maude’s humbling herself to Stephen—tried and failed. “Do you truly think Maude will ever accept your kingship, love?” she asked dubiously, and Stephen gave her a quizzical smile.

  “What other choice,” he asked, “does she have?”

  NORMANDY’S lower capital was swathed in a wet February fog. It clogged the narrow, muddied streets, obscured the skyline of soaring church steeples, and muffled the normal noonday sounds, so that Caen seemed like a city asleep, as if night had somehow come hours before its time. From his vantage point in an upper-story window of the castle keep, Ranulf should have had a sweeping view of the town and its twin rivers, but when he jerked back the shutters, all he got was a surge of cold air, a glimpse of grey.