When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Bishop Roger and his nephews will come—reluctantly, but they’ll come. We can also be sure that they’ll arrive with an armed escort. All know how hot-tempered the Flemings are, how quick to brawl, especially once wine starts to flow. If trouble breaks out at your court, you’d have every right to demand that the bishops yield their castles to the Crown, for it is a serious offense to breach the King’s Peace.”

  Stephen was silent for several moments. “Yes,” he said at last, “I would have the right, just as you say. But what if the bishop’s men cause no trouble?”

  “You may be sure, my lord king,” Waleran said blandly, “that there will be trouble.”

  DURING the first week of July, Normandy was battered with gale-force winds and drenching rains, and it seemed drearily appropriate to Maude that the storm should have swept in from the south, from Geoffrey’s Anjou. By Friday, the squall had blown over, but summer had not yet reclaimed its lost territory, and all evening the servants had been stoking a fire in the open hearth. The scene in Argentan Castle’s great hall was one of familiar and reassuring domestic tranquillity—deceptively so, for strain and disappointment and splintered hopes were not always visible to the casual eye.

  The women were stitching patterns, later to be pieced together into a vast and intricate wall-hanging, an ambitious undertaking that Amabel meant to rival the famous tapestry of Bayeux, depicting William the Bastard’s English invasion. Maude alone had declined to contribute to Amabel’s creation. She was a very proficient needlewoman, easily Amabel’s equal, for she was that most driven of beings, a perfectionist, compelled to excel even at pastimes that gave her no pleasure. But she cared little for female companionship and even less for traditional female pursuits, preferring instead to challenge Robert to a game of chess.

  Robert was a skilled player, his game flawed only by an excess of caution, but because he made his moves with the protracted deliberation that men usually reserved for life-or-death decisions, Maude had ample opportunities to observe the other inhabitants of the hall.

  Their brother Rainald was dozing in the closest window seat. Maude envied him that ability to catnap at will; he never seemed to let their troubles diminish the zest he took in satisfying hungers of the flesh, be they for food, ale, women, or sleep. He was as rash as Robert was circumspect, headstrong and easily angered, but he did not lack for courage and he could be boisterous, exuberant good company. He’d been quick to follow Robert’s lead, and Maude had found it easier to welcome him back into the fold, for she’d never expected as much from him as she had from Robert.

  Robert was still contemplating the chessboard, and she turned to check upon her son. Henry should have been abed with his brothers, and the command was forming on her lips. But the scene that met her eyes was so engaging that she smiled, instead.

  That spring Ranulf had bred his dyrehunds, resulting in a litter of five furry little whirlwinds. Now that they had reached their eighth week, Ranulf had promised Henry his pick, and the boy was rolling about in the floor rushes, fending off pink tongues and cold noses and nipping milk teeth. Ranulf was sprawled beside him, as if he and Henry were both of an age, keeping an eye upon Cinder, the wary mother. As Maude watched, Henry lost the battle and the puppies swarmed over him like a pack of pocketsized wolves, making him shriek with laughter.

  “I can see where this is going,” Maude said ruefully. “What do you wager that Henry will want them all?”

  Robert looked up blankly, still intent upon the game. And it was then that the castle dogs began to bark, Ranulf’s dyrehunds joined in, and a servant hastened into the hall to announce the arrival of Maude’s husband.

  The temperature in the hall had dropped dramatically by the time Geoffrey strode through the doorway. He paused just long enough to register the sudden chill in the air, and then faced them with the cocksure, beguiling smile his wife had long ago learned to hate. Maude got slowly to her feet. Robert was already rising. But Henry was quicker.

  “Papa!” Abandoning the puppies, he raced across the hall and flung himself joyfully at his father. Geoffrey pretended to stagger backward, an old game between them, and then swung the little boy up into the air, high enough to make Henry squeal with delight. Maude’s mouth tightened. She’d tried to convince herself that Geoffrey’s fondness was feigned, just another of his stratagems—more subtle than most—in their marital warfare. But his playful patience was too convincing; even Geoffrey was not that good an actor. No, as baffling and out of character as it seemed to her, Geoffrey was a genuinely attentive father, a very real rival for the affections of their sons…and of all the wrongs he’d done her, that was the greatest wrong of all.

  Setting his son back on the ground, Geoffrey started across the hall, and Maude had no choice but to meet him halfway. Their union had been rockier than usual in recent months, for she’d been bitterly disappointed by his Normandy campaign. When Waleran Beaumont and William de Ypres had thwarted his siege of Falaise, that was all the proof Maude had needed to confirm her direst suspicions. Geoffrey wanted Normandy, that she did not doubt, but not enough to bleed for it. And in that aggrieved state of mind, she’d brought their sons to Angers for his Easter court, only to discover one of his concubines in residence.

  His adultery came as no surprise. She knew he’d sired at least three children out of wedlock, for he was conscientious about claiming them as his own. But she had neither expected nor desired fidelity. Let him seek his pleasures in any bed but hers—as long as he was discreet about it. At Easter he had not been discreet, and her rage and lacerated pride had fueled one of the most heated quarrels of their marriage. Yet now that he was here at Argentan, once again she found herself compelled to patch up their tattered flag of truce, for pride demanded that they make a public pretense of marital harmony, even before her brothers, who knew better.

  “Are you hungry, Geoffrey?” she asked, for a wife was expected to care about her husband’s comforts. “I can rouse the cooks if so. And I’d best send servants to make a chamber ready for you. If only you’d sent us word of your coming—”

  “I’ve no need of my own bed, dear heart, not when I can share yours.” Smiling, he pulled her into his arms, bringing his mouth down upon hers in a wet, probing kiss, and Maude knew then that his anger had not abated in the weeks since Easter, that it still burned at full flame.

  Keeping his arm around his rigid, unresponsive wife, Geoffrey offered jaunty greetings to her brothers. Robert’s reply was civil, if unenthusiastic. Ranulf and Rainald didn’t even manage that much. But their grudging attempts at courtesy seemed to amuse Geoffrey enormously.

  Releasing Maude, he turned then toward the other women, engaging in a round of gallant hand-kissing. Amabel accepted his attentions with aplomb, but several of the women blushed and giggled. One in particular, the youngest and prettiest of her ladies, seemed much too receptive for Amabel’s liking, casting Geoffrey a long-lashed sideways glance that did not speak well for her discretion. Or her common sense, Amabel thought, promising herself a long and frank talk with Dame Agnes at the first opportunity. She could not blame the lass for looking, though; Geoffrey of Anjou was a sight to fill any woman’s eyes. Of course he was also false and perverse, and had he been her husband, she’d have been sorely tempted to flavor his wine with hemlock. But she knew, too, with just a trace of smugness, that she’d have handled him much better than Maude.

  “Papa!” Henry was jerking impatiently at Geoffrey’s sleeve. “Come see my puppies!” Geoffrey obliged, was soon teasing his son about “this pack of meagre, mangy whelps.” Maude ordered wine, then sat down again at the chessboard, reaching for a chessman, a display of composure that might have been more convincing had the rook not been Robert’s.

  “Let’s leave this till the morrow,” he said quietly, and when Geoffrey sauntered back, he spoke out before Maude’s silence could become conspicuous. “So…tell us, Geoffrey, what news are you bringing from Anjou?”

  “I do have news,” Geoffrey
said, “but from England, not Anjou.” Claiming a wine cup, he settled himself in a high-backed chair, turning a vibrant smile upon Dame Agnes when she demurely offered a cushion. “Did you hear about Stephen’s heroic feat at Ludlow? Whilst he was besieging the castle, the garrison swung a large grappling hook over the wall and caught a very big fish, indeed—none other than the Scots king’s son! They’d begun to reel him in when Stephen galloped up, grabbed the hook, and pulled their fish free!”

  “That is already known to us,” Rainald said, so brusquely that it bordered upon rudeness.

  Geoffrey ignored the interruption. “What with Stephen’s saving the lad from capture, mayhap that treaty of Matilda’s will last, after all. Your little cousin has had quite a remarkable year, dear heart. First taking Dover Castle and then coaxing David over to Stephen’s side. I’d not be surprised if she deserves credit, too, for the Pope’s finding in Stephen’s favor!”

  Maude took the bait, hook and all. “That is not so,” she snapped. “The Pope did not decide my appeal on the merits. As for Matilda’s meddling, it matters little, for she can do us no harm. Calling a wren a merlin does not make her a hawk, Geoffrey. It merely raises doubts about the soundness of your judgment.”

  Geoffrey’s smile held steady, but his eyes reflected the light like shards of blue ice. “Now who could blame me, Maude, for admiring such a loyal, loving little wife? So few men are lucky enough to wed a Matilda, after all.”

  Maude fought back a barbed rejoinder, with an effort obvious to them all. Her brothers were struggling with their own indignation, Ranulf and Rainald glaring as balefully as hawks, Robert showing his displeasure with more subtle signals, but easily read by his wife. Amabel would have been hard put to say which one vexed her more, Geoffrey or Maude. They were worse than children, she fumed, for marriage was a serious matter, a Sacrament. Did these fools think contentment was ladled out onto their trenchers just for the asking? But no, they could not make their peace like sensible souls, and she’d say “So be it” if not for the fact that they kept miring Robert down, too, in this matrimonial swamp of theirs. One more exchange of insults and that hothead Rainald would be lunging for Geoffrey’s throat, with Ranulf not far behind, and her Robert having to mop up the blood, as always.

  “Well,” she said abruptly, “unless you have other news to share, Geoffrey, I think it time we bid one another a good night. Of a sudden I am weary beyond words.”

  “Ah, but I do have more news,” Geoffrey said, “news sure to startle.” He paused then, deliberately, to ask Dame Agnes if she might pour him another cupful of wine. “There was a great scandal when Stephen’s council met last month at Oxford. It began with a brawl at the dinner table, ended with Stephen’s chancellor and the Bishops of Salisbury, Lincoln, and Ely in disgrace, arrested as enemies of the Crown.”

  Geoffrey got the response he was aiming for: exclamations of shock, giving way almost at once to a barrage of sharp questions. But he was in no hurry to relinquish center stage, and he drew out his account in provocative, provoking detail, telling them how the bishops had been summoned to attend Stephen’s council, how the Earl of Richmond’s men had gotten into a squabble with retainers of Bishop Roger of Salisbury, how swords were drawn, a mêlée breaking out that left one knight dead and several sorely wounded. Stephen had blamed the bishops, demanded that they surrender their castles, as “pledges of their good faith,” Geoffrey reported, drawling out the phrase with ironic relish.

  “If it was the castles Stephen wanted, why were they then arrested?”

  “The Bishop of Ely was loath to ‘pledge his faith’ and fled Oxford, taking refuge behind the walls of Devizes Castle. When Stephen followed with an army, Bishop Nigel still refused to yield, even when Stephen threatened to hang his cousin Roger…so much for family fondness. But the old bishop’s concubine could not abide the sight of her son with a hempen rope about his neck, and she prevailed upon the garrison to surrender. Lucky that some women are so tenderhearted, is it not?”

  “Stephen must have gone mad,” Robert marveled, “for the Church will never forgive him for this. They insist upon the sole right to punish their own.”

  “That seems to have occurred to Stephen, too,” Geoffrey agreed, “for he is claiming that he acted against these men in their capacity as ministers of the Crown, not as shepherds of the Church’s flock. I rather doubt whether that particular hawk will fly, but to give credit where due, it’s a devilishly clever argument.”

  “Too clever by half,” Maude said caustically, “all of it. Stephen could no more hatch a scheme like this than he could hatch an egg! I’d wager the whole concoction was brewed up elsewhere and then spoon-fed to Stephen, with enough sweetness added to conceal any sour aftertaste.”

  “You do ‘know thine enemy,’ dear heart,” Geoffrey conceded. “The verdict amongst the English echoes yours—that Stephen is not guileful enough to spring a trap like this on his own. Stephen may have fostered this crafty offspring, but it was most likely sired by a Beaumont.”

  Geoffrey’s guess hit its target dead-on, and there were knowing nods of agreement. Their resentment of Geoffrey was muted for the moment, and they began feverish speculation as to how they could turn the Oxford events to Maude’s benefit, for they were all sure that Stephen had blundered badly. It was Ranulf who unwittingly fanned the flames again, for the hostility between Maude and Geoffrey never fully died out, and there were always a few smoldering embers waiting to catch fire. The spark this time was a seemingly innocuous question. “When,” Ranulf wondered, “did all of this happen?” And Geoffrey’s casual response, “Midsummer’s Day,” drew murmurs of surprise.

  Even Maude was looking at Geoffrey with reluctant respect. “The 24th? And you had word in less than a fortnight? I was not aware, Geoffrey, that you had such reliable English sources of information.”

  “Unfortunately, I do not,” he said, favoring her with one of his most disarming smiles. “But you do, dear heart, and I had the good luck to encounter his messenger at the city gates. The man was hesitant at first to yield up his prize, but as you can see”—pulling a letter from his tunic—“I persuaded him to see reason.”

  Maude drew a breath sharp enough to hurt. “You took my letter? Who was it from?”

  “Who was it from?” he echoed. “Now why cannot I remember the name? Was it Bertram? No…Barnabas? Mayhap Brien?”

  “You did not have the right!”

  “Of course I did, Maude. I had a husband’s right. If I did not read it, how could I be sure it was not a love letter?”

  “Damn you, Geoffrey!” Maude was white with fury, her hands knotted against her skirt, clenched into fists to stop herself from snatching at the letter, for she knew he’d just jerk it away, and she would not give him that much satisfaction. She’d not let him strip her of her dignity, too. For the same reason, she dared not demand the letter. He’d only refuse, and what could she do then? For God rot him, but he did have the right, and not even her brothers would deny it.

  Her brothers did indeed believe that a man had the right to read his wife’s mail, for she—and all she owned—was his. But that was theoretical, a belief easy to argue in the abstract. In the raw reality of Argentan’s hall, Ranulf found that he could not stomach it, and he took a threatening step toward his sister’s husband. “Give her the letter—now.”

  It was a reckless, foolhardy thing to do, and Maude loved him for it. But Geoffrey reacted as she’d known he would, smiling coldly and saying, “I think not.” Rainald was on his feet now, too, for if there was going to be bloodshed, he meant to make sure it was Geoffrey’s rather than Ranulf’s. Robert was already in motion, though, reaching out and grasping Ranulf’s arm.

  “Think, lad, what you may be starting,” he cautioned.

  “It is easy enough to stop. He needs only to turn over her letter,” Ranulf retorted, and Robert found himself staring at his youngest brother in dismay, suddenly seeing not a malleable youth but a man grown, a man who was not going t
o back down.

  Rapidly reassessing, Robert decided to gamble upon a show of unity. “You’ve read the letter, Geoffrey,” he pointed out, “so you have no reason to hold on to it. Why not give it to Maude?”

  Geoffrey was no longer smiling. “Because,” he said, “I choose not to.”

  Maude alone was not surprised by his refusal. Ranulf pulled free of Robert’s grip, not yet sure what he was going to do, but determined to get Maude’s letter, one way or another.

  Amabel had jumped to her feet, hissing at Maude, “Stop this whilst you still can!” And as if coming to her senses, Maude did stretch out her arm, seeking to catch Ranulf’s sleeve. But the one who stopped it was the one they’d all forgotten, Maude and Geoffrey’s six-year-old son.

  Henry had been playing with the puppies, oblivious at first to the angry adult voices; his was a household in which raised voices were the norm. But his mother’s choked cry of “Damn you, Geoffrey!” jerked his head up, set his heart to pounding. He did not understand what was wrong, but the fury in the room was frightening. He’d often heard his parents quarrel, and hated their quarrels, sometimes even hated them, too, for the way their quarreling made him feel—as if he was lost, surrounded by strangers, with no familiar landmarks to guide him home.

  This time their fighting was worse than usual, for his uncle Ranulf and his uncle Robert were caught up in it, too, all of them against his father. It was not fair, and he wanted to go to his father, to let Papa know he was not alone. But he could not, for then he’d be hurting Mama. When he could endure the conflicting urges no longer, he snatched up the fire tongs and began to jab furiously at the logs burning in the hearth. The flames shot upward, and embers and sparks were soon flying about, beginning to smolder in the floor rushes. The heat was hot on his face and his eyes were stinging, but he kept on thrusting into the fire, again and again, not even hearing his name, not at first.

  “Henry! Henry, stop it!” His mother’s voice sounded scared to him, muffled and scratchy. But he shook his head, continued to prod the flames, sending up another shower of cinders. His eyes were blurring and he blinked hard. When he looked up again, they were clustered around the hearth, Mama and Papa and Uncle Ranulf and Uncle Robert and Aunt Amabel, and they were all talking at once, urging him away from the fire. Instead, he moved even closer, glaring at them, biting down on his lower lip as it started to quiver. Jabbing with the fire tongs, he dislodged a burning brand, and his mother cried out as it whizzed by his cheek, thudding into the floor rushes in a sizzle of sparks.