When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  They were demanding that he get away from the hearth, but they made no move to grab him, and he knew why. They were afraid he’d struggle and get burned. He was already closer than he wanted to be, for his skin felt scorched, and he could smell something burning…the floor rushes! But Aunt Amabel had seen it, too, was pouring wine into the smoking reeds. That was clever. His father was telling him to put down the fire tongs, and he wanted to, he truly did. But all he could do was shake his head again, mutely, gulping back tears. And then Uncle Ranulf was kneeling so their eyes were level, telling him about the puppies.

  “Lad, you’re scaring them. They fear fire. Look at them, see for yourself.”

  Henry glanced over at the puppies, cowering down by their mother, whimpering, and then let the fire tongs clatter to the floor. A moment later, he was caught up in his mother’s arms. He wasn’t sure if she was going to hit him or hug him, and she may not have been sure, either, but then she embraced him tightly, until he had to squirm to breathe. He knew he was going to be severely punished, for he’d done something dangerous and then defied them, not sins adults were likely to forgive.

  But once he’d nerved himself to look up into their faces, Henry realized, with a jolt of bewildered relief, that there would be no punishment, after all. His father was mussing his hair, saying he was well roasted by now, ready for carving. He smiled at that, for Papa liked him to laugh at his jokes. But it did not seem funny to him, none of it, not even when Aunt Amabel doused the fire with wine. A silence had fallen, and he shifted uneasily, fearful that they might start fighting again. He saw, then, that they were watching his father, for he’d turned away to retrieve a letter, dropped into the floor rushes.

  No one moved. All eyes followed Geoffrey on his way back to the hearth, where he held out the letter to his son. “Here, lad,” he said, “give this to your mother.”

  THE hall was still and shadowed, like an empty stage. Henry had gotten a parental escort up to bed, for Geoffrey had surprised the men and earned himself a bit of credit with Amabel by promising his son a bedtime tale about a ravening pack of killer dyrehunds. Amabel had dismissed her wide-eyed, spellbound ladies, knowing full well they’d soon set the entire castle abuzz with embellished accounts of all they’d witnessed this night. Now she sat with Robert and his brothers around the hearth, finishing up the wine in a morose silence.

  “I hope you realize that you only made a bad situation worse, Ranulf.”

  Robert was frowning, but it did not have the desired effect; Ranulf remained noticeably unrepentant. “I’m sorry about the part I played in scaring the little lad. But for the rest, no. Why should I be sorry for speaking up for my sister? We ought to have done it sooner, Robert, for as long as we keep silent, he’ll keep on maltreating her.”

  “You mean well, Ranulf, but you’ve much still to learn. No man is going to take it well if you seek to meddle in his marriage. What do you gain by angering Geoffrey? He’ll just turn that anger onto Maude, and there is little you can do about it, for you can act as her champion in the great hall, but not in the bedchamber.”

  Ranulf nearly spilled his wine. “If he hurts her, I swear to Christ that I—”

  “What?” Robert asked impatiently. “What could you do? Kill him?”

  “Not so fast,” Rainald protested. “Why does Ranulf get to do it? What about me? At the very least, we ought to dice for the chance!”

  “This is no joking matter, Rainald!”

  Rainald gave a mock sigh. “There is nothing under God’s sky that cannot be joked about, Robert. How is it that you reached such a respectable age without learning that? Look, we all agree that Geoffrey had the right to read Maude’s letter. But did he also have the right to taunt her with it? I agree with the lad. She deserves better than she gets from him, and I for one am heartily sick of it.”

  “What would you have me say, Rainald? I do not deny that Maude is miserable in her marriage. But antagonizing Geoffrey does her no service. Bluntly put, we need him. Until we can find a safe English port, Normandy is the battlefield for our war, and we cannot hope to win it without Geoffrey’s support. So the next time you two get the urge to make Maude a widow, bear in mind that your gallantry might cost her a crown.”

  That silenced both Ranulf and Rainald, at least for the moment, and Amabel seized the opportunity to bolster Robert’s argument. “You’ll not like what I have to say; I’d have you hear me out, nonetheless. I am not defending Geoffrey, but Maude is not blameless, either. She puts me in mind of a woman who salts a well and then complains when the water is not fit to drink. A few smiles and some honeyed words might work wonders in that marriage!”

  Ranulf was already shaking his head in sharp disagreement. “What I most admire about Maude is her lack of pretense. Her ship never flies under false colors. She is honest even if it hurts her, and that is a rare trait, indeed.”

  Amabel was not won over. “A blade that cannot bend will eventually break, my lad. All I am saying is that women have no easy time of it in this world, and a woman who scorns to use the only weapons at her command makes her life more difficult than it needs be.”

  Now it was Robert’s turn to shake his head. “I doubt that smiles or flattery could redeem Maude’s marriage, Amabel. Geoffrey does not strike me as a man who could be coaxed against his will, no more than I could—”

  Amabel’s grin stopped him in midsentence, and he seemed so genuinely perplexed that Ranulf and Rainald could not help laughing, laughter that was cut off abruptly by Geoffrey and Maude’s return to the hall.

  They all tensed, but soon saw the crisis was over; Geoffrey and Maude’s anger had burned itself out. They looked tired and subdued and, to Amabel’s critical eye, somewhat ashamed of themselves. She’d have liked to believe that the lesson would take, but she thought it more likely that they’d just blame each other all the more; she’d never known two people so unwilling or unable to learn from their mistakes. Aloud, she asked about Henry, wanting to know if he slept.

  “For now,” Maude said, “but I’ll look in upon him later. Robert”—avoiding Geoffrey’s eye, she held out Brien Fitz Count’s letter—“I’d like you to read this.”

  Geoffrey crossed to the table, where he poured the last of the wine into two cups, giving one to Maude. Robert passed on the letter to his brothers, and they read it together. The tension was back in the hall, feeding upon silent echoes, all that must be left unsaid.

  Robert was studying his sister, troubled by her pallor. There was a brittle edge to her beauty, shadows lying like bruises under her eyes and in the corners of her mouth, and it occurred to him that shadows lay deep, too, in the corners of her life—a thought that startled him, for it seemed much too fanciful to have been his. He could not banish her shadows, but there was something he could offer, a need he could fill. He could give her hope, and he said forcefully:

  “I’m much heartened by Brien’s letter. It is indeed as Scriptures say, ‘I was wounded in the house of my friends.’ Of course the Beaumonts cannot take all the blame for Stephen’s folly; he chose to heed them of his own free will. He has made more than his share of mistakes since seizing your throne, Maude, but this breach with the Church might well be the fatal one. We’ll be able to sow dissension with ease, and God Willing, we’ll reap enough support to harvest a crown.”

  That was bold talk for Robert, a man who measured his words with such scrupulous care that he could put a lawyer to shame, and Maude gave him a grateful smile; tonight of all nights, that was what she needed to hear. Ranulf and Rainald were chiming in with eager assurances of their own. But Geoffrey’s voice cut through their confidence with knifelike clarity.

  “Are you not putting the cart before the horse?”

  Maude’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine cup. “What do you mean by that, Geoffrey?” she asked warily, and he shrugged.

  “You may well be right about the seriousness of Stephen’s blunder. But even if he has set chaos loose upon his land, how does it b
enefit you? Unless you find a way to cross the Channel, Stephen’s government can be unraveling like a ball of yarn and it will avail you naught.”

  They were all glowering at him, but for once Geoffrey’s tone was free of mockery. As hard as it was to give him the benefit of any doubt, it did seem as if he’d not meant to be malicious this time. He was right, of course, too, for nothing could be done until they broke Stephen’s stranglehold upon the English ports. They could not, in fairness, fault him merely for speaking the truth, however unpalatable or ill-timed. And so they held their peace, and as always, Maude thought wearily, Geoffrey got the last word.

  ON a sunlit Friday four weeks later, Ranulf led his horse from the stables. He was about to swing up into the saddle when his eye was drawn to a blaze of vivid red color. Maude might scorn embroidery and needlework, but she did enjoy gardening, and her roses were in spectacular scarlet bloom. Detouring across the bailey, Ranulf hitched his stallion and set about helping himself to some of his sister’s damask roses. He picked only a few, though, before the screaming started.

  Two small boys were rolling about in the dirt near the stable door. By the time Ranulf reached them, Henry looked to be the winner, straddling Geoffrey while his brother kicked and screeched. Grabbing his tunic, Ranulf yanked Henry to his feet, and then caught Geoffrey before he could flee. “Enough! What is this squabbling about?”

  “He stole my sword,” Henry panted, “and then broke it!”

  “I did not!” Geoffrey was just as breathless and just as indignant. “It was mine!”

  The disputed sword lay a few feet away, its wooden blade snapped off near the hilt. One glance was all Ranulf needed to give his verdict. “That was not your sword, Geoffrey,” he said, with such conclusive certainty that his nephew stared up at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed.

  “How…how did you know?”

  Ranulf concealed a smile. “Because,” he said gravely, “I made that sword myself, and gave it to your brother on his birthday last March. So you owe Henry an apology. Go on, tell him you are sorry.”

  Geoffrey mumbled a “Sorry” that did not sound very convincing, but it seemed to satisfy Henry, and Ranulf sent them off to play again with a promise to make wooden swords for them both. Henry came running back a moment later, though. “Uncle Ranulf…will you make my sword bigger?”

  “Well…” Ranulf pretended to ponder the request, but Henry caught the glint in his eye, and they grinned at each other. The boy spun around then, to chase after Geoffrey, and Ranulf, laughing softly to himself, headed back to retrieve his horse and his roses.

  He did not need to go far. Gilbert Fitz John was coming toward him, leading the stallion and carrying the flowers. “So…did you get the lads to make their peace?”

  “At least until supper.”

  Gilbert laughed, playfully jerking the flowers out of Ranulf’s reach. “What is your hurry? And why the roses? Ah…you’re going courting again! The goldsmith’s daughter?”

  “Who else? Lora sent me word that her father left this morning to deliver a chalice to the monks at St Martin’s. Since he’ll not be back to Argentan till late, I thought I ought to stop by, keep her from getting lonely.”

  “How good-hearted of you! Will that be after you visit with the widows and orphans?”

  Ranulf laughed, jabbed Gilbert in the ribs, and snatched back his flowers. But as he reached for the reins, Gilbert put a restraining hand upon his arm.

  “Ranulf, wait. I’ve a letter that you’ll want to see—from Ancel.”

  They’d not heard from Ancel in almost two years, not since his return to England, and as soon as Gilbert produced the letter, Ranulf grabbed for it eagerly. Gilbert was explaining that Ancel had found a man going on pilgrimage to the Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela, and he’d persuaded the man to stop at Argentan. “I promised him a seat at supper in the great hall and a bed for the night. But what he really wants is to talk with you, Ranulf. That was how Ancel coaxed him into taking the letter, offering him a chance to meet a king’s son—even one born on the wrong side of the blanket!”

  But Gilbert’s banter was wasted, for Ranulf was no longer listening. After rapidly scanning the letter, and not finding what he sought, he turned aside, swearing softly.

  “Ranulf?” Gilbert followed, puzzled. “What is amiss?” And then he understood. “Annora? Good God, Ranulf, is that wound still sore?”

  “No,” Ranulf said curtly, “it is not. But I still have a fondness for her, wish her well. Why should that surprise you? I simply wanted to know if she is content, and if Ancel ever used the brains God gave him, he’d have understood that! But no, nary a word about her—”

  “What did you want him to tell you? That her husband dotes on her and she goes about her days singing? Or that she has grown thin and wan and weeps in secret?”

  Ranulf whirled, eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “I said I wanted only to know if she was well!”

  “If she were ailing, Ancel would have told you. But her happiness is no longer your concern. She is a married woman, and by now, it’s likely she has a babe in the cradle and another on the way—”

  “I know full well that Annora is another man’s wife, do not need to have you throw it in my face!”

  Gilbert was not perturbed by Ranulf’s anger, for he knew his friend’s rages were fast-burning and soon over, sooner forgotten. What troubled him was the reason for Ranulf’s flare of temper. He’d truly believed that Ranulf’s feelings for Annora were—like Annora herself—part of his past. “I am sorry about the sermon, Ranulf. I guess I’ve been spending too much time with my cousin the priest.”

  “Indeed you have,” Ranulf agreed coolly, although the corners of his mouth were quirking. “But what I cannot understand, Gib, is why I’m still here with you when I could be in Master Jehan’s house with Lora.” And Gilbert grinned, stepped back, and waved him on.

  Ranulf had gotten no farther than the gatehouse when he heard his name being shouted behind him. He reined in, then sent his stallion cantering back toward Gilbert. “What now?”

  “Lady Maude and Lord Robert…they want you to come back straightaway!” Gilbert was gasping for breath; he’d sprinted all the way across the inner and outer baileys so he could catch Ranulf in time. “A courier came for her soon after that pilgrim brought Ancel’s letter. I heard men say he bore a message from your father’s queen. Her news…it must be very good or truly terrible, Ranulf, if Lady Maude is so intent upon finding you!”

  Maude had never found many friends among her own sex, but the Lady Adeliza was the exception. She and Maude had taken to each other from the moment of Maude’s forced return from Germany. Not so surprising, perhaps, for they shared much in common. Adeliza was German by birth, Maude by choice. They were the same age, a young queen in a land not her own, a young widow no longer at home in England, and both childless, although that would change, Maude bearing Geoffrey the sons she’d not borne for the emperor, and Adeliza—whose barren marriage had altered so many lives, especially Maude’s—now in her second year with a new husband and said to be great with child. But if their circumstances had radically changed over the years, the bond between the two women had held fast, and Ranulf, ever the optimist, had no trouble convincing himself that Adeliza’s news was good.

  Gesturing for Gilbert to mount behind him, Ranulf headed back toward the inner bailey. Maude and Robert were too impatient to wait for him within the castle keep, and were on the outer stairs. As soon as Ranulf’s horse came into view, Maude lifted her skirts and ran lightly down to him, calling out his name.

  Ranulf flung himself from the saddle. “No one,” he said, “is ever in such a tearing hurry to share bad news. So we must have reason for rejoicing?”

  “Indeed we do! Adeliza has offered us a safe landing in the south of England.”

  Ranulf gasped. “At Arundel? She’d truly do that for you? Jesú, Maude, Arundel Castle is almost as formidable as Bristol!”

  “Stephen thinks he has
locked us out of England, but now we have the key. No more waiting, Ranulf—the time has finally come to reclaim my stolen crown!”

  A sudden high-pitched yell floated across the bailey, a sound rarely heard off the hunting field. Rainald was standing in the doorway of the keep, cupping his hands to shout, “Get in here, Ranulf, so we can start to celebrate in earnest!”

  Ranulf was too busy hugging his sister to pay Rainald any heed. By the time Maude broke free, laughing and breathless, Robert had reached them, with Amabel close behind. Rainald ducked back into the keep, reemerged brandishing a wine flagon. “If you’re all so set upon holding the festivities out in the bailey, at least I can provide fuel for the fire!”

  After that, it got very chaotic for a time. Ranulf was kissed by Maude and Amabel, shared smiles with Robert, had wine spilled on him by Rainald, and was knocked to the ground by his dyrehunds, who’d bolted from the great hall at their first opportunity. Midst much laughter, Ranulf was helped to his feet and dusted off. It occurred to him that he ought to send Lora a message, not wanting her to worry when he failed to appear, and he glanced about for Gilbert. But then Maude drove all thoughts of the goldsmith’s daughter from his head, for she was saying with a fond smile:

  “We have so much to do and not enough time. But this I vow to you, Ranulf—ere we sail for England, I will see to it that you are knighted.”

  “Maude…thank you,” Ranulf stammered, at a rare loss for words, and they all laughed again. Maude happened then to notice Robert’s squire, standing a few feet away, still holding the reins of Ranulf’s horse.