When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Thank God he did,” Ranulf retorted, so fervently that she smiled.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “Maude must feel truly blessed by the Almighty’s Favor, for nothing less than a miracle got her safe away from Arundel. So why then is she not rejoicing in it?”

  Ranulf gave her a surprised look; after all this time, how little she still understood Maude. “Because the Almighty’s Favor comes disguised as Stephen’s, and Maude would starve ere she’d take crumbs from Stephen’s table. It is well nigh killing her to owe her deliverance to his forbearance.”

  Amabel marveled she hadn’t seen that for herself. “I wonder,” she mused, “what they said to each other…”

  Ranulf wondered, too, and riding by Maude’s side later that afternoon, he seized his first opportunity to ask her. She glanced toward him, then back to the road ahead. “Stephen said, ‘Any debt I may have owed you, Cousin Maude, is now paid in full.’”

  Ranulf stared at her. “So he does have an unease of conscience about you!” he exclaimed, and discovered then that he was glad it was so, glad that the Stephen who was his cousin and the Stephen who was king were not such strangers, after all.

  “His conscience be damned! He owes me more than a debt. He owes me a crown,” Maude said grimly, and they rode on in silence.

  ON an overcast afternoon five days later, Robert rode out to meet his sister on the Bristol-Bath Road, so that her entry into Bristol could be a triumphant one. At sight of the approaching riders, Maude reined in her mare. “Well, my lords, it seems this onerous duty of yours has been discharged. You are welcome to accompany us to Bristol if you so choose. I am sure we can find a comfortable night’s lodging for you within my city.”

  Waleran smiled sourly. “I would rather,” he said, “beg my bread by the roadside.”

  Maude matched Waleran’s smile with an acerbic one of her own. “Keep to your present course and you very well may,” she said, to Waleran’s fury and the bishop’s amusement. He cut off Waleran’s wrathful reply, saying smoothly that he would indeed accept her hospitality.

  Waleran choked on an extremely virulent obscenity, and the bishop swung around to admonish the other man, only to find Waleran staring past him in dismay. Turning in the saddle, he saw why. A number of the men riding with Robert were familiar; he recognized Rainald Fitz Roy and Baldwin de Redvers and Shrewsbury’s rebel baron, William Fitz Alan, and Robert’s eldest son, William, who’d been holding Bristol Castle for him. But it was the identity of the two men flanking Robert that had unleashed Waleran’s strangled profanity: Miles Fitz Walter and Brien Fitz Count, come to Bristol to pledge faith to their queen.

  Maude saw them now, too, and laughed, suddenly, joyfully. Waleran slowly shook his head. “God forgive you, Stephen,” he muttered, “for what have you loosed upon us?”

  STEPHEN wasted no time in besieging Brien’s castle at Wallingford. Leaving an armed force to continue the siege, he moved on to attack Trowbridge, held by Miles’s son-in-law. While Stephen was occupied at Trowbridge, though, Miles outflanked the royal army, raced for Wallingford, and broke the siege. He and Robert then turned their fire upon Waleran, newly named by Stephen as Earl of Worcester.

  At daybreak on November 7th, they assaulted Worcester, breaking through its defenses on the north side of the city. Fires were set, looting was widespread, and a number of the luckless citizens were taken hostage back to Bristol. Waleran arrived in his plundered town three weeks later, and in the words of the Worcester Chronicle, “When he beheld the ravages of the flames, he grieved, and felt that the blow had been struck for his own injury, and wishing to revenge himself for this, he marched with an army to Sudely,” whose lord was an ally of Robert Fitz Roy. There his men pillaged and burned, and, again in the words of the Worcester Chronicle, “returned evil for evil.”

  And so began for the wretched people of England, a time of suffering so great that they came to fear “Christ and his saints slept.”

  11

  Bristol Castle, England

  July 1140

  FOR Stephen and Maude both, it was to be a frustrating year, one of advances and retreats, thwarted victories and inconclusive defeats, check and mate. Matilda scored a diplomatic coup in those early winter months; sailing to France, she negotiated a marriage for her eldest son, Eustace, with Constance, young sister of the French king. But that good news was soured for Stephen by a rebellion in the English Fenlands, instigated by the Bishop of Ely, who’d been nursing a grudge since the Oxford ambush. Stephen raced north, and the bishop fled south, taking refuge at Bristol.

  More trouble was already flaring for Stephen. William Fitz Richard, the sheriff and greatest landholder in Cornwall, declared for Maude, and sealed his new allegiance within the sacrament of marriage, offering his daughter, Beatrice, to Maude’s brother Rainald. After wedding and bedding his bride, Rainald joined his father-in-law and they set Cornwall ablaze. Stephen hastened west, and soon had them on the run. He had the greater resources, those of the Crown, and could put more men into the field than any of his enemies. But he’d begun to feel much like the “crazed firefighter” of his brother’s taunt; no matter how he struggled to quench these flames, embers still smoldered, and the acrid smell of smoke hung low upon the horizon, with no end in sight.

  The strife continued. Miles Fitz Walter captured Hereford and burned Winchcombe. Waleran Beaumont torched Robert Fitz Roy’s favorite manor at Tewkesbury. Caught in the crossfire, the English people could only pray for deliverance. At Whitsuntide, there was a brief flicker of hope. Stephen’s brother Henry decided it was up to him to act as peacemaker, and he summoned both sides to Bath. The conference was quite civil, for Maude had sent her brother Robert, and Stephen his queen. But nothing was accomplished. The war went on.

  IF Stephen still held sway in much of the country, Maude’s writ ran in the west, with Bristol her de facto capital. But she herself preferred to dwell in Miles Fitz Walter’s riverside city of Gloucester, for there she was the mistress of her own household, whereas at Bristol, she was Amabel and Robert’s guest. Since less than forty miles separated the two strongholds, Ranulf divided his days between Gloucester and Bristol. On this humid, hot Saturday in late July, he was at Bristol Castle, although not for long. After saddling his horse, he was leading it from the stables when Gilbert burst in to bar his way.

  “So it is true then, what your squire said? You are going off on your own with nary a word to anyone?”

  Ranulf had already had this same argument with his anxious squire, was in no mood to have it again with Gilbert. “Luke is worse than a broody hen. I am quite able to fend for myself.”

  “Luke has enough sense to see the danger in roaming about the countryside in the midst of a war. A pity I cannot say the same for you! What are you up to, Ranulf?”

  “I have a private matter to take care of, will be back in a few days. You are making much ado about nothing, Gib.”

  Gilbert scowled, for he knew that stubborn set of Ranulf’s jaw all too well. Following Ranulf out into the summer sun, he watched as the other man swung into the saddle, and then reached up, clamping his hand on Ranulf’s boot. “At least tell me where you are going,” he insisted. “If we have to search for your body, we need a place to start!”

  Ranulf looked down thoughtfully at his friend. “You have a point,” he said grudgingly. “If you must know, I’m bound for Shrewsbury.”

  “Shrewsbury? That shire is closely held by Stephen’s sheriff, and he’d like nothing better than to have Maude’s brother blunder into his nets! For Christ’s Pity, Ranulf, why Shrewsbury? What could be worth the risk?”

  Ranulf hesitated, but could not resist the temptation. “I am going to Shrewsbury’s fair,” he said, quite truthfully, and with the memory of Gilbert’s incredulous face to enliven his journey, he spurred his stallion forward, rode laughing out of Bristol and onto the road north.

  THE abbey of St Peter and St Paul was not enclosed within Shrewsbury’s protective bend of the River Severn.
It lay just to the east of the town, close by the red-grit sandstone span known as the English Bridge. It was not among the largest of the Benedictine monasteries, but it was a thriving one, owing a measure of its prosperity to the royal charter that permitted it to hold a fair in honour of its patron saint, Peter ad Vincula.

  The fair opened each year on August 1st, lasting until sundown on the third day, and attracted merchants from Bristol and Chester and Coventry, some from as far away as London. People flocked to fairs, as much for the entertainment as for the opportunity to buy goods not available elsewhere, and Ranulf found the abbey already overflowing upon his arrival. The hospitaller squeezed him into a corner of the guest hall, though, and he spread his bedroll, made ready to pass the night.

  But sleep would not come. Although he’d dismissed Gilbert’s fears as if they were of no account, he knew better. His danger was real. Moreover, Maude and Robert would be furious when they found out what he’d done. Since he was unwilling to lie to them, he could only refuse to answer their irate questions, and that would fuel their fire even higher. No, he was in for a rough patch when he returned—if he returned. He had more to fear than Stephen’s sheriff. The roads were full of bandits, masterless men seeking to take advantage of these troubled times, and a lone traveler was a tempting target for ambush or assault. Fortunately he’d thought to bring his dogs along, but he’d still have to keep his wits about him. Lying awake and fretful in the abbey hall, Ranulf had to admit that he was risking a great deal—and for what? Conjecture, surmise, an arrow shot in the dark.

  It had taken him several months of discreet investigation, but he’d eventually found out what he wanted to know—that Gervase Fitz Clement’s favorite manor was located in Shropshire, west of Shrewsbury. Once he knew “where,” he set about figuring out “how,” and it soon came to him: St Peter’s Fair. He was gambling, though, and he knew it—gambling that the Fitz Clement household was currently in residence at the Shropshire manor, that Fitz Clement himself would have been summoned to Stephen’s service, and, last, that the fair would be a powerful enough lure to draw Annora into Shrewsbury. What could happen then, he did not know. But they’d left too much unsaid between them, not even farewell. He had to see her again…no matter what it might cost.

  The morrow promised summer at its best: sun-drenched warmth, an easterly breeze, and an iris-blue sky, feathered by wispy white clouds. Sauntering through the monastery gatehouse, Ranulf turned right along the Abbey Foregate, heading for the fairground. As early as it was, the street was crowded with his fellow fairgoers, and with others who had less innocent aims than a day of fun at the fair—pickpockets and prostitutes and tricksters mingling with the tradesmen and goodwives and eager-eyed children. Ranulf forgot his sleepless qualms, and his spirits soared. Annora would be here today; suddenly he was sure of it.

  The fairground was teeming with activity. It was as if a temporary town had sprung up overnight, row upon row of wooden stalls and booths, streets of trodden grass, already thronged with the customers that were its citizens. Had Ranulf not been watching for Annora with such hungry intensity, he would have enjoyed himself enormously. There was enough variety to satisfy the most jaded appetite. There were booths offering cloth of all kinds, fresh and salted fish, wine, honey, spices, crockery, gemstones, needles, canvas, finely tanned leather, perfume, soft felt hats, mirrors of polished metal, holy relics, and hooded hunting birds, merlins and goshawks tethered to wooden perches, while off to the north, horses were being put through their paces and cattle and oxen paraded before would-be buyers. Looking upon this bustling, colorful scene, Ranulf felt much heartened, for how could Annora resist such a beguiling temptation as the St Peter’s Fair?

  Ranulf wandered among the booths, pausing now and then to watch the fair’s numerous forms of entertainment. There were archery contests and bouts with the quarterstaff, acrobats, jugglers, and strolling musicians strumming lively tunes on lyre, lute, and gittern. There was cock-fighting and a small spotted dog trained to balance upon a moving ball, and an occasional brawl, quickly broken up by the sheriff’s men. The fair offered all the attractions a fairgoer could wish for—save only Annora de Bernay.

  By dinnertime, the fair was at its busiest. Ranulf jostled a path toward a crowded cook-stall, bought a hot pasty stuffed with spiced pork, marrow, and cheese for himself and a plain pork pie for his dogs, washing his meal down with ale. It was getting hotter; the breeze had died down. Shortly before noon, he decided to check out the horse fair, where a race was soon to get under way. And it was then that he saw her.

  He caught only a glimpse as she moved between booths, but it was enough. He heedlessly trod upon a portly merchant’s heels as he sought to keep her in view, spilling the last of his ale, his breath quickening with each lengthening stride. He had her in sight again. She’d paused at a draper’s stall, examining samples of samite and linen as the merchant hovered close at hand, hopeful of making a sale. She was not alone, of course, attended by a gangling groom and a young maidservant, both of whom appeared delighted by this escort duty. The girl was quite pretty, but Ranulf saw only Annora.

  She was clad in a vividly red gown, with full hanging sleeves in a lighter shade of rose, a green silk cord belted at the hip, her dark hair demurely hidden away beneath a soft circular veil. She looked just as Ranulf had envisioned her in dreams and daylight yearnings these four years past, but he’d not expected her to seem so contented, so comfortable in her role as Fitz Clement’s wife.

  He stood, rooted, watching as she browsed from booth to booth. The merchants were very deferential, and she took it as her due, the hoyden he remembered suddenly transformed into the lady of the manor. She selected a pair of scissors and a length of green ribbon, turning her purchases over to her groom to carry. And then she stopped so abruptly that she stumbled, staring after the black-and-silver wolf-dog that streaked across her path, in pursuit of a spitting, hissing cat. Her face changed, her expression both wistful and regretful, and Ranulf knew in that moment exactly what she was thinking—of him and what they’d lost. He took a tentative step forward just as Annora turned and saw him.

  Annora went white, and the combs she’d been appraising spilled into the grass at her feet. Ranulf swiftly closed the space between them, bent down and gathered up the combs; they were ivory and decorated with delicately carved flowers. “I think these are yours, my lady,” he said, and Annora nodded mutely. Her eyes seemed black and bottomless, dilated in disbelief. Her groom was looking toward them, wanting to be sure his lord’s wife did not need him to defend her honour. He was young enough to relish such a confrontation, and he’d soon be strutting their way, as challenging as any barnyard cock. Annora had not yet moved, and Ranulf held out the combs, saying softly, “Where can we meet?”

  As Ranulf had feared, the groom was bearing down upon them. Annora snatched up the combs, so hastily that her fingers just grazed his. Thrusting the combs toward the disappointed merchant, she beckoned to her servants and moved on, toward a silversmith’s booth. But Ranulf had heard her whispered words, barely more than a breath: “St Alkmund’s Church.”

  RANULF found St Alkmund’s with no difficulty; the town’s weekly market was held in its churchyard. But the churchyard was deserted now, as were the streets. The fair had turned Shrewsbury into a ghost town, for its merchants were not permitted to compete with the monks, and their shops were shut down for the duration of the fair. St Alkmund’s was made of stone and the interior was shadowed and cool; summer’s heat seemed to stop at the church door. Ranulf walked up the nave, then continued on into the choir. Logic told him that she would not follow him right away, but he was already straining for sounds of her entry. He convinced himself so often that he heard her steps, only to find the nave empty and silent, that when she finally did arrive, she took him almost by surprise.

  Ranulf had moved toward the candlelit High Altar, and when he turned back, Annora was there, framed in the arched doorway of the roodscreen. Her face was flushed;
even in such dimmed lighting, he could see the color staining her cheeks and throat. He yearned to touch that hot skin, had to remind himself that he no longer had the right. Fumbling for words—any words—to break this smothering silence, he asked, “How did you get rid of your servants?”

  “I did not. I told them to await me in the churchyard.” Annora sounded out of breath. “When I saw that dog, I thought at once of Shadow. But I…I never imagined it was really him! And when I turned around and saw you…”

  Ranulf was absurdly pleased that she’d remembered the name of his dyrehund. “I had to come, Annora,” he said, and she looked at him, wide-eyed, for an unbearably long moment before saying, quite simply:

  “I’m so glad.”

  Thinking back upon it much later, Ranulf could never be sure which of them had taken that first fateful step. But suddenly she was in his arms, and they were clinging tightly, with such urgency that further words were forgotten. They fused together, in an embrace so impassioned, so intoxicating, and so desperate that their return to reality stunned them both. It was the slamming of a door, a sound harmless in itself, but for Ranulf and Annora, fraught with the dread of discovery. There was a violence in their recoil, a tearing-away that left them momentarily bereft, unable to respond to their danger. Ranulf recovered first, flattened himself against the roodscreen and jerked his head toward the door. Annora drew a shaken breath, then stepped out to intercept the intruder.

  The sight of a priest jolted Annora’s conscience back to life, reminding her that sinning in a church had to be one of those wrongs God could not forgive. At the same time, she was thankful that it was not her groom or her maid, for they knew her well enough to notice her agitation. But the priest was beaming, quite oblivious of anything untoward. “Lady Fitz Clement, this is indeed a pleasure. Your man told me you were within, and I did not want you to slip away ere I paid my respects.”