When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “For certes, it would please the Lady Maude,” the bishop said acidly, “as you know right well, my lord!”

  By now the hall was in turmoil, each man attempting to voice his opinion, to make himself heard above the din. Only two held their peace, Geoffrey de Mandeville and Brien Fitz Count. The former looked faintly amused by the uproar, the latter pained. It was not that Brien did not want to see the condemned prisoners reprieved, for he did. In Brien’s eyes, they were not rebels, and they did not deserve to die for keeping faith with their queen. For Maude was the rightful sovereign, not Stephen, and God forgive him, but he ought never to have disavowed his oath, for in saving his lands, he’d sacrificed his honour.

  But still Brien kept silent, unable to encourage Stephen’s folly, as Miles was doing with such zest. If Stephen had determined at the outset to spare the Shrewsbury garrison, as he had spared the garrisons at Exeter and Hereford, he’d have done himself no good for certes. However much mercy might be admired in saints, Brien mused, it made men most uneasy when encountered in kings. But to condemn the prisoners and then relent, that would be sheer madness. He might stand aside and watch as Stephen cut his own throat. He could not bring himself to offer Stephen a dagger.

  Stephen was under siege, being assailed from all sides by insistent voices. His head had begun to ache. Why did a crown complicate matters so? As Count of Mortain and Boulogne, he’d done what he pleased, and an easier life it had been, too. He glared at his brother the bishop. How dare Henry speak to him like this, as if he were a green stripling without a grain of sense! Well, he’d best learn to content himself with Winchester, for by all that’s holy, he’d never get his grasping hands upon Canterbury. If only Tilda were here. But she was at Dover and his only allies a weakling abbot and that crafty tame fox of Maude’s. If Miles was urging clemency, it must be wrong. So why, then, did it feel right?

  “Enough!” he said angrily, flinging up his hand for silence. “You chatter at me like a flock of hungry magpies, and for naught. I never said I intended for certes to pardon those men. It was idle talk, no more than that.”

  They subsided, relieved. Eventually conversation resumed, men drifted away from the dais, talk turned again to the humiliation of the Scots king, the likely whereabouts of William Fitz Alan, the need to appoint a new sheriff in his place, and out upon the castle battlements, men continued to die.

  A GHOSTLIKE swirling fog had wafted in from the Channel, shrouding the chalky cliffs usually visible for miles. The night air was damp, uncommonly cold for September, and a sea-salted wind chilled victors and vanquished alike as the gates of Dover Castle slowly swung open to admit the Queen of England.

  The sight that met Matilda’s eyes was an eerie one: a circle of flickering flames, yellow beacons of light stabbing through the fog. As she drew nearer, she realized that she was looking upon the flaring torches of her own guards, for they’d insisted upon entering the castle first, intent upon making sure that there would be no surprises, no eleventh-hour change of heart by the castellan. Her nervousness eased somewhat as she rode toward their beckoning glow, wondering if sailors felt this way upon catching the reassuring glimmer of Dover’s light tower.

  Blessed Lady Mary, how lucky she had been and how well served! It had been her vassals’ duty to respond, of course, once she’d called upon them. But she’d gotten from these men of Kent and Boulogne more than grudging service. Rank seemed not to matter, for she’d found champions in equal numbers among her knights, serjeants, and men-at-arms. She still did not understand how she’d managed to touch their calloused soldiers’ hearts, could only be grateful for it.

  She was grateful, too, for the man riding at her side. She was convinced that the arrival of Robert de Ferrers, fresh from his triumph over the Scots, had marked a turning point in the siege. How good of Stephen to send her such a stalwart knight. He’d be well rewarded; she and Stephen would see to that.

  “There he is, my lady. Walkelin Maminot, who held the castle for Robert Fitz Roy, and waits now to deliver it into your hands.” Reining in his stallion, Robert de Ferrers swung to the ground, then reached up to help Matilda dismount.

  Approaching her was one of the largest men she’d ever seen, towering over her like a massive oak. To look up into his face, she had to tilt her head back so far that her veil started to slip. She grabbed for it awkwardly, more uneasy than she cared to admit.

  “I yield to you, my lady.” The giant had a surprisingly gentle voice. His face was grave, but unafraid, for he’d been assured there would be no bloody reprisals taken against his men, as at Shrewsbury. Drawing his sword from its sheath, he held it out to her, hilt first, and as she timidly took it, he sank to his knees before her. “Madame, Dover Castle is yours.”

  “I accept it in the name of my lord husband, the king,” Matilda said as loudly as she could; she well knew that her whispery little-girl’s voice did not carry far, and it was important that all should hear. Turning, she handed the sword to Robert de Ferrers, glad to be rid of it, and then motioned Walkelin Maminot to raise. At that, her men raised a cheer, for the siege of Dover Castle was over.

  “My lady, may I escort you back to the priory guesthouse?”

  She nodded, and took Ferrers’s arm, letting him lead her toward her mare. “Sir Robert, thank you. If not for you, Dover Castle would not have surrendered. You may be sure I will not forget.”

  He shrugged off her praise with a smile. “I talked some sense into Walkelin, no more than that. It would have been foolhardy for him not to listen, in truth, what with him wed to my daughter!”

  “This is an evil war,” Matilda sighed. “I know that is a woman’s belief and not one you’d be likely to share. But this war is more accursed than most, Sir Robert, for it is tearing families asunder.”

  “God Willing, it shall soon be over now. The loss of Dover Castle is a grievous blow to Maude’s hopes. But you give me too much credit and yourself too little, my lady. It was your fleet that blockaded Dover’s harbor, was it not? Those were your captains directing the siege, your men vowing to hold fast, through the winter if need be. They were fighting for you, my lady. You came often to the camp, you fetched a priest for the dying, you comforted the wounded. Believe me, madame, this victory was yours, too.”

  Matilda almost argued with him, so strong was the force of habit. But then she smiled, a smile of sudden realization and startled reassessment. “Yes,” she said proudly, “it truly was!”

  9

  Nottingham, England

  April 1139

  HIGH white clouds dappled a sapphire-colored sky, and a brisk wind rippled the tall marsh grass, giving an occasional glimpse of sun-silvered water. As days go, this one was well nigh perfect, Stephen thought, with the best yet to come. The creature perched upon his fist was equally expectant, its hooded gaze turning instinctively toward the sky, talons digging into the leather of his gauntlet. The greyhounds and their handlers were in position by now, downriver. It was time, and Stephen signaled for his men to flush their prey. As they moved in, the reeds parted, there was a flash of grey, and a large crane flew upward, powerful, beating wings taking it into the air over their heads.

  Stephen removed the hood without haste, and by the time he cast the gerfalcon off, the crane was well on its way toward the River Trent. The gerfalcon rose higher and higher into the sky, white and sleek and silent, as if racing the clouds rather than the crane. But then, with sudden and terrible speed, it was diving, a deadly streak of light swooping down upon its quarry. They collided in midair, the gerfalcon striking with such force that the larger bird could not break free, and they plummeted together to earth in a flurry of bloodied feathers.

  Stephen gave an exultant shout, echoed by the other men, for hawking was a universally shared passion, even though the best birds were reserved for those of high birth. The dogs had been set loose, and were racing toward the struggling crane. Greyhounds were favored for heron hunting, as there was always a danger that a falcon might be injure
d by so large a bird; cranes and herons were not its natural prey. Stephen waited tensely, his view blocked by the high marsh grass. But then one of the dog handlers rose up, gesturing triumphantly, and Stephen turned back to his companions, saying with a relieved grin:

  “All is well. Come, let’s not keep her waiting for her reward.” As he started to dismount, though, his attention was drawn by approaching riders, already within recognition range: the brothers Beaumont, Waleran and Robert and their younger brother Hugh, newly named as Earl of Bedford.

  “Were you in time to see the kill? That was Diana, as fine a Greenland falcon as you’ll find on English shores. Did you see her stoop? Faster than any arrow ever launched!”

  They had indeed witnessed the gerfalcon’s strike, and were not stinting in their praise. Waleran was unusually well read for a nobleman—many of his rank scorned reading as a clerk’s skill—and he was knowledgeable enough to appreciate the aptness of the gerfalcon’s name. But he was curious as to how Stephen had learned of a pagan goddess of the hunt, well aware that the king neither knew nor cared about the religious beliefs of ancient Rome. When Stephen explained that the gerfalcon had been a gift from his brother the Bishop of Winchester, Waleran laughed aloud, pleased to have solved the puzzle with such ease.

  “Mind her well,” he said jovially, “for you’ll be getting no more hawks from that one, not with his hopes as dead as Diana’s crane!”

  Stephen did not join in the laughter, for his breach with his brother was no joking matter. But neither did he chide Waleran for his plain speaking, as he’d only said what they all knew—that the bishop had been nursing a mortal grudge since December, when a church synod had elected Theobald, Abbot of Bec, as the new Archbishop of Canterbury.

  Dismounting, the Beaumonts followed Stephen and William de Ypres toward the river. By now, it was all over; the crane had been killed, the gerfalcon retrieved, and the greyhounds rewarded. The crane’s heart had been cut out, saved for Stephen, and he was feeding it to Diana when Geoffrey de Mandeville rode up. He at once urged Stephen to fly the gerfalcon again, complaining that his own falcons were already in moult. Stephen had intended to return to the castle, still visible in the distance, for it had been built upon a towering rock of red sandstone high above the meadows of the Rivers Leen and Trent. It was filling rapidly with highborn guests, summoned to attend his Easter court, and he knew he ought to be getting back. But when the Beaumonts added their voices to Mandeville’s, he let himself be persuaded, and they were soon heading downriver in search of fresh prey.

  As they rode along, Stephen boasted of the coming festivities. Virtually every peer of the realm would be at Nottingham to witness his ratification of the treaty Matilda had negotiated at Durham with the Scots king’s envoys. She was due to arrive any day now, and bringing with her young Harry, David’s son and heir. The lad was to be treated as an honoured guest, Stephen said, but with a sly smile, for they all knew he was also a valuable hostage, a pledge of his father’s good faith, and when Waleran wondered aloud how Matilda had ever coaxed the Scots king’s consent, Stephen laughed.

  “My little bird,” he said proudly, “has begun to try her wings, to fly farther and farther from the nest. It was her own suggestion that she be the one to meet with the Scots. Maude was not David’s only niece, she said, and it was time she reminded him of that. I ask you, Waleran, who could have guessed how much fulfillment she’d get from besieging a castle? Women are truly the most mysterious of the Almighty’s creations, and beyond the puny powers of mortal men to comprehend!”

  He laughed again, a soaring sound of pure pleasure, the laughter of a man utterly content with his wife, his hawks, and his world on this mild Thursday in Holy Week.

  The Beaumonts did not share Stephen’s admiration for Matilda’s newfound fortitude. They feared few rivals at the king’s court, but they well knew the queen could pose a formidable threat should she begin meddling in matters of statecraft. What did it avail them to have the king’s ear whilst in the hall or on the hunt? As long as Matilda held sway in the royal marriage bed, the last word would always be hers. They were too canny to criticize her directly, though, contenting themselves now with expressing qualms about the Scots treaty. Was there not a risk that men might think the king had been overly generous in its terms?

  Stephen was not troubled by their doubts. “I know men will like it not,” he conceded. “The talk in alehouses and taverns would scorch my ears off! And I’ll not deny that I paid a high price for peace with the Scots. But I had no choice, not if I was to avoid fighting two wars at once. How could I hope to drive Maude and Robert Fitz Roy into the sea if all the while, I had to keep watching my back? We know what happens to grain when it is caught between two millstones: it is pounded into grist. So if I must buy David’s millstone, I will, and not begrudge the cost, for that frees me to repel Maude’s invasion, if and when it ever comes.”

  “Why do you say that, my liege?” Robert Beaumont asked. “Think you that Maude will lose heart now that her appeal to the Pope has come to naught?”

  He sounded so dubious that Stephen had to chuckle. “No, Rob, I do not, however much I’d like to. If I’ve learned nothing else in these past three years, it is that Maude’s stubbornness runs wider and deeper than the River Thames. One of God’s own angels could appear before her in a blaze of light, tell her that it was the Almighty’s Will that she abandon this doomed quest of hers, and she’d not listen. But she is still stranded in Normandy, and that is not likely to change in the foreseeable future. I control all the ports now, save only Bristol, and Robert would never let her attempt a Bristol crossing, for it would be much too dangerous to sail all the way around Cornwall. So let her plot and scheme and lust after my crown to her heart’s content, just as long as she does it from a distance!”

  The Beaumonts exchanged speculative glances, in which they silently agreed that Stephen was deluding himself if he truly believed Maude was safely “stranded in Normandy.” But they agreed, too, that there was no reason to dispute his delusions, not today. Waleran guided his stallion closer to Stephen’s handsome roan, saying quietly, “Indeed, I hope you are right, my liege, for we have enemies enough in our midst, scheming not ‘from a distance’ like Maude, but ofttimes in your very presence.”

  “You mean the Earl of Chester, I suppose. I’ll not deny that he’ll be enraged once he learns the terms of the Scots treaty. Nor will I deny that he’ll ne’er forgive me for granting the Honour of Carlisle to David’s son. We did not trust him anyway, though, so naught has been lost. He’s one for blustering and ranting to get his way, but outright rebellion—I think not.”

  “You know I like Chester not, my lord king. But we face a more dangerous foe than he, one protected by powerful armor, indeed—the trappings of Holy Church.”

  Stephen reined in his mount, turning to stare at the younger man. “My brother? I’ll grant you that I’ve never seen him so wroth. He blames you, too, since the new archbishop comes from Bec, which has benefited handsomely from Beaumont largesse. But even if he truly believes we’re guilty of a sinister conspiracy to deprive him of his just due, I do not think he’d betray me.”

  “I was not speaking of your brother, the Bishop of Winchester. It is the Bishop of Salisbury whom I fear.”

  “Why?” Stephen was not surprised, though, for he’d long harbored his own suspicions of his uncle’s justiciar.

  “No subject of the king should wield the power that Salisbury does. He has more kinsmen at Westminster than a dog has fleas. Just consider how far and wide he has cast his nets. His nephew Nigel is your treasurer and Bishop of Ely. Another nephew, Alexander, is Bishop of Lincoln. His bastard son is your chancellor. And God alone knows how many more cousins and lackeys are underfoot, eager to do his bidding. The Chancery is his and so is the Exchequer. He holds your government in the palm of his hand, and if that were not troubling enough, he controls, as well, some of the best fortified castles in the realm. Sherborne, Devizes, Malmesbury, New
ark, Sleaford, and Salisbury. Jesú pity us, my liege, if those strongholds were to fall into Maude’s hands!”

  “You have reason to fear that they would?”

  “Indeed, I do. My informants tell me that Salisbury and his nephews have begun to stock the larders of those castles, to garrison them with Breton and Flemish mercenaries. They never venture out these days without a large armed bodyguard. If they are innocent, why are they preparing for war?”

  “You truly believe they are conspiring with Maude?” Stephen asked, and Waleran nodded solemnly. “Have you any proof of their treachery?”

  “No…not yet. But if we wait till we have the evidence in hand, it may be too late.”

  By now William de Ypres and Geoffrey de Mandeville had reined in their horses, too, and were listening intently. When Waleran admitted that evidence was lacking, Stephen’s disappointment was so obvious that Geoffrey de Mandeville saw his opportunity. “Proofs can always be…found,” he said significantly.

  That was a miscalculation. “No,” Stephen said sharply, “I’ll have no forgeries foisted upon me!”

  Geoffrey de Mandeville was a proud man. For a moment, his courtier’s mask slipped, and he came close—dangerously close—to reminding Stephen that his kingship was based upon a lie: Hugh Bigod’s convenient claim that he’d heard the old king’s deathbed repudiation of Maude. He caught himself just in time, and by then Waleran Beaumont had control of the conversation again.

  “No one said anything of forgeries, my liege. There is another way. I understand that Bishop Roger has refused to attend your Easter court…a suspicious refusal, in truth. Summon him again to your court, and this time make it a royal command.”

  Stephen frowned, for he was still irked with Geoffrey de Mandeville, and vexed, too, by his failure to follow Waleran’s thinking. “And if I did? What then?”