When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Ranulf laughed, for now he knew that Gwern was not just telling him what he wanted to hear. He had indeed known Angharad, for she’d been that rarity, a Welshwoman as fair as any Norse maid, with sun-streaked tawny hair that she’d passed on to her son. “I know nothing of her kin,” he confided. “Does she still have family in…that valley?”

  Gwern was shocked by Ranulf’s self-confessed ignorance, for to the Welsh, nothing mattered more than bloodlines. “Indeed so, lad. Her father was long dead, of course, when the English king took her, and mayhap just as well. Now poor Emlyn died of a fever ten years back, and Math was slain in a border skirmish soon after. But Rhodri is hale as can be…your uncle, lad, and a good man he is. In fact, his firstborn was set upon coming with Cadwaladr…Cadell, your cousin. But Rhodri got wind of it in time. He’d buried two sons already, was not about to risk a shallow English grave for Cadell.

  “I called him a good man, and God’s Truth, he is, but he is an unlucky one, too. Two boys dead ere they reached manhood, a wife gone to God just two years back, a babe smothered in her cradle, another daughter who’ll never find a husband…he’s borne more than his share of sorrows. Small blame to him for wanting to keep Cadell close by the hearth!”

  Ranulf was startled by the rush of sympathy he felt for this unknown uncle of his. “Rhodri,” he echoed, and a forgotten memory revived. “He was younger than my mother, was he not?”

  Gwern nodded vigorously. “If my memory serves, there were two years between them. He was barely thirteen at the time, and none blamed him for being unable to play a man’s part, but he blamed himself, for he was right fond of Angharad. Wait till he hears I met her son!”

  Ranulf was no longer smiling. “I see,” he said flatly. “So her family thought she’d shamed herself by running off with the king.” And although he could hardly blame Angharad’s menfolk for thinking so, he resented it, nonetheless, on his mother’s behalf.

  Gwern’s dark eyes flickered in surprise. “The shame was not hers, lad. How could she be blamed when it was not her doing? We Welsh are fairer to our women than that.”

  Ranulf stared at him. “Are you saying my father took her against her will?”

  Gwern shrugged. “Well, he did not truss her up and throw her across his saddle. But neither did he ask for her yea or nay.” He saw that Ranulf was truly shocked, and added, by way of comfort, “Kings are never ones for asking, though, are they?”

  Ranulf said nothing. He’d been thinking that mayhap he might bring Annora into Wales once they were wed and Maude’s England at peace again, for the idea was an appealing one, making a leisurely pilgrimage to this Conwy Valley to seek out his newfound uncle and cousins. But that would have been a fool’s quest. What reason would they have to welcome him, the seed sprung from an enemy’s lust? And after that, he avoided Gwern as much as possible, no longer at ease with the affable Welshman.

  ON the first day of February, the citizens of Lincoln awoke to slate-colored skies and icy rain. Cursing and coughing, Stephen’s soldiers grimly manned his siege machines. Slipping in the mud, they loaded heavy stones into the mangonels, sent them crashing into the castle bailey. Others labored upon the belfry, hammering out their frustrations upon the wet wood, dropping nails as they blew upon their chapped hands to ward off the cold. They had not yet begun covering the tower in the vinegar-soaked hides meant to repel fire-arrows, but unless the weather took an even nastier turn, by midweek the belfry would be ready to be wheeled up to the castle wall. Each of its four stories would shelter men, crouching within while bowmen on the top level drove the castle defenders off the wall. The belfry drawbridge would then drop down onto the battlements, they would scramble across, and the final battle for Lincoln Castle would begin.

  For Stephen’s soldiers, it could not come a day too soon, especially now that rumors were sweeping the city of an approaching enemy army. They wanted this accursed siege over and done with; winter warfare was, for most men, a frigid foretaste of Hell.

  The rain slackened by noon, but the sky stayed dark and foreboding. Stephen did not return to his lodgings at the Bishop of Lincoln’s palace until dusk. It had been an awkward arrangement at first, for Bishop Alexander’s memories of the Oxford ambush were still sharp enough to rankle. He had not forgiven Stephen for his disgrace, the downfall of his uncle and cousins. But once the Earl of Chester seized Lincoln Castle, Stephen’s sins began to dwindle in the bishop’s eyes, and he was determined to do whatever he could to root out Chester’s evil influence from his city and his see.

  Supper was neither festive nor memorable, for the bishop’s cooks were restricted to a Saturday fish menu. Afterward, none strayed too far from the open hearth. Stephen and the bishop began to play a game of chess; at least that spared them the need to make polite, stilted conversation. Waleran Beaumont was in a morose mood, nursing a chest cold and bored with Lincoln, Stephen, and the siege. Next time, he vowed, he’d be the one to tend to Beaumont interests in Normandy; brother Robert could have the dubious pleasure of flushing out rebels from their ratholes. He perked up a bit, though, when William de Ypres suggested a game of hasard. Although gambling was frowned upon by the Church, the bishop’s guests knew he was too worldly to take offense, and once a pair of dice was found, Waleran and the Fleming took on the Earls of York and Pembroke. Pembroke’s younger brother Baldwin, the Earl of Northampton, William Peverel, and Hugh Bigod soon came over to watch, bedeviling the players and making side wagers of their own.

  There was talk of the belfry, and then some speculation about the Earl of Chester’s whereabouts, for rumors had begun to circulate that he was no longer holed up in the castle. By the time Gilbert de Gant joined the group, conversation had shifted to the new serving-wench at the alehouse in Danesgate Road.

  Few topics were of greater interest to Gilbert than women, especially wanton ones; he was by far the youngest lord there, still in his teens. But for once he had other, more pressing matters on his mind. He wanted to discuss the rumors, for he did not understand why Stephen and his battle captains had given them so little credence. He was hesitant, though, to be the one to bring the subject up, for he was a battlefield virgin and these men were veterans. He waited until the first game ended, and while the men were summoning servants for wine and ale, he drew Baldwin de Clare aside. No matter how green or foolish his questions, Baldwin would not laugh, for his own military experience was limited to a disastrous expedition against the Welsh.

  “Why is it, Baldwin, that no one believes the report of an army being sighted in Nottinghamshire? Why could it not be true?”

  “I can give you one hundred and seventy or so reasons, Gilbert—the miles stretching between Lincoln and Bristol.”

  “Does it have to be the Earl of Gloucester? What about the Earl of Chester? Mayhap he did escape…?”

  “No matter, for Cheshire is nearly as far. An army on the march in the dead of winter would be lucky to cover eight miles a day. Then you have to allow for all the time it would take to raise an army. We were able to head north so fast because Stephen’s Flemish hirelings were on hand; that is what he pays them for, after all. But I’d wager it would take the Earl of Gloucester a month to muster up enough men. When you then consider time for word of the siege to get out, you’ve now accounted for all of January and most of February. There is no way under God’s sky that an enemy army could be nearing Lincoln, not unless Robert Fitz Roy taught his troops to fly!”

  Gilbert was very glad he hadn’t asked in front of the others; he’d have been teased about his “phantom flying army” for days to come. He looked so abashed that Baldwin took pity on him. “Come on, lad,” he said, “let’s go find ourselves some fun.”

  Gilbert grinned, ran to fetch his mantle, hoping that Baldwin’s idea of fun was a bawdy-house. But before they could start their search, one of the bishop’s servants was hastening into the hall. A man had just ridden in with an urgent message for the king. Should he be admitted?

  Stephen welcomed the interrupt
ion; he was losing. Pushing away from the chessboard, he said, “Send him in.”

  As the man entered the hall, the bishop leaned toward Stephen. “I know him,” he said. “That is Torger of Hunsgate, a local mercer.” In answer then, to Stephen’s unspoken query, he nodded. “Yes, he is reliable.”

  The merchant came forward, knelt before Stephen. “I bring grievous news, my liege. Those rumors of an army—Lord help us, for they were true.”

  The hall was immediately in turmoil, as men pushed in to hear, the dice game forgotten. Stephen silenced them, then tersely ordered Torger to continue. Drawing a steadying breath, he did.

  “I was on my way to Newark, for I’d agreed to buy some woolens and silks and could not lose the deal just because the weather was foul. But I never reached Newark, my liege. I was only halfway there when I heard sounds ahead of approaching horses and men. I barely had time to get off the road and into the woods ere they came into view. They did not see me and passed on by, banners sodden in the rain, more men than I could count, mounted and on foot, heading up the Fosse Way toward Lincoln.”

  “You saw their banners?”

  The mercer nodded. “It was the Earl of Chester. I recognized him straightaway. And the Earl of Gloucester. I saw his banner, saw his face. It was Robert Fitz Roy, my liege, I’d stake my life on it.”

  There was a flabbergasted silence. “How far were they from Lincoln?” Stephen asked in disbelief.

  “They are less than ten miles away, my lord king,” Torger said bleakly, and spoke for them all when he added, “Thank God that the rains have made the river and the fosse too dangerous to cross!”

  ROBERT’S men passed a nervous, uncomfortable night camped just to the southwest of the city. The temperature plunged, and as they burrowed into their blankets in a futile search for warmth, they feared they might face snow on the morrow. But when Candlemas Sunday dawned, the sky had been swept clear of clouds by a gusting, northerly wind. Ice glazed the browned winter grass, glinted ominously midst the reeds of the soggy marshland that lay between them and Lincoln. The city was protected by the River Witham and the Fossedyke, an ancient canal of Roman origin, restored by the old king twenty years past. The river was impassable, running at flood tide. Robert hoped, though, to cross the Fossedyke at a ford known to his scouts, Lincolnshire men he’d sent out at first light. But they were soon back with disheartening news. The ford was being guarded by some of Stephen’s men. The marshes along the Fossedyke were knee-deep in runoff from the storm, and the canal’s water level was much higher than normal, surging with the spillover from the rain-swollen river.

  Those listening were dismayed—all but Robert, who said calmly, “If we must cross this marsh, then we will,” and that was enough for most of his men, who were learning to take his word as gospel. After all, they reminded one another, he’d promised the empress that he’d raise an army within a fortnight, and by Corpus, he had. He’d said that they’d meet Chester at Claybrook on the 26th, and they had. They’d seen pig wallows less muddy than the roads of these shires, and had there been any more rain, they’d have needed an ark, and they’d gotten enough saddle sores and blisters to last a lifetime, but they’d covered more than ten miles a day, and it was the earl’s doing. So if he said they’d get through this quagmire, then they would, they agreed among themselves, and they made haste to obey his order to break camp.

  Their optimism lasted until they saw the fenlands for themselves, for the flooding was more extensive than any of them had expected. Robert gave them no time to reconsider and they were soon splashing through cold, murky marshwater, linking arms for leverage, coaxing recalcitrant horses, complaining that they were wetter than drowned cats, swearing when the mud threatened to suck off their boots, and shouting in triumph when they caught a dull grey gleam through the waist-high rushes ahead.

  The waters of the Fossedyke ran fast and cold, surging west toward the River Trent. On the opposite bank, Stephen’s sentries sat their horses in astonishment, staring across at these wet, muddied apparitions as if doubting their own senses. Robert and his battle captains drew rein at the canal’s edge, trying to gauge its depth. It was, they agreed, not as shallow as it should be. But the ford must still be there, else Stephen would not have posted guards.

  “Well,” Robert concluded, to no one’s surprise, “there is but one way to find out.” But he then startled them all by saying, “It is only fair that I be the one to test it. If I seem likely to make it across, I’d welcome some help on the other side,” he added dryly, and drawing his sword from its scabbard, he spurred his stallion forward into the water.

  Chester was the first to react. His flaws might be beyond counting, as his enemies alleged, but none had ever accused him of timidity. “What are we waiting for?” he challenged, and charged into the Fossedyke after Robert.

  Ranulf and Brien were quick to follow, but it was the Welsh prince Cadwaladr who made sure that no man would dare balk. “Come on, lads,” he called out cheerfully in Welsh, “let’s show these pampered English that they need not fear getting their feet wet!” And laughing as if he relished nothing more than a winter’s soaking in icy waters, he plunged into the Fossedyke. The Welsh needed no further urging, scrambled down the bank and splashed into the canal.

  After that, they all had to cross over, even those who most feared drowning, for they could not let themselves be shamed by these “misbegotten Welsh churls,” and they waded into the Fossedyke, shivering and cursing at the first shock of frigid water on their legs. Fortunately the storm-fed current was still not too deep at the ford, and by the time they reached the opposite shore, there was no need to fumble for weapons. Stephen’s vastly outnumbered guards were already in retreat, fleeing with a frantic warning for Stephen, that the enemy would soon be at the city gates.

  FEBRUARY 2ND was a holy day of special significance, the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, commonly known as Candlemas. Stephen heard Mass in the great cathedral of St Mary, and dozens of anxious citizens crowded into the church to hear the bishop celebrate the Eucharist and to study the king for clues, for some indication as to what he meant to do. They already knew he was being advised to withdraw, to leave behind enough men to hold Lincoln until he could return with a larger army. That rumor had raced through the city, faster than any fire and just as frightening, for the men and women of Lincoln would feel safe only as long as Stephen was personally taking charge of their defense.

  It was not surprising, therefore, that they reacted with such alarm when Stephen’s candle suddenly snapped in half as he held it out to the bishop. A simple mishap…or a sinister portent? Judging from the murmuring he heard sweeping the church, Stephen well knew which explanation seemed more likely to the congregation. During the remainder of the Mass, he could not keep his thoughts upon the Almighty as he ought, distracted by his anger and his disappointment. For if they were so sure that a broken candle was an ill omen, their faith in his kingship must be wavering.

  Once the Mass was done, Stephen headed toward the transept door leading out into the cloister garth, waving his companions away when they started to follow. He was given only a brief respite, though, only a few moments of quiet and solitude, for Waleran soon grew impatient and barged out into the cloisters after him, with the Earls of Northampton and York close behind.

  “We need to talk, my liege,” Waleran insisted, “for we’ve settled nothing. As I told you last night, we ought not to let them force us into any rash action. We’d be foolish to take the field without enough men to make sure victory would be ours.”

  Stephen had heard all this before, until the early hours of the morning. “And as I told you, Waleran,” he said testily, “I will not run from rebels.”

  “Stay here in Lincoln, then. But call up the shire levies, let us summon our own vassals—” Waleran broke off in exasperation, for Stephen was no longer listening. Turning to find out why, he saw William de Ypres striding up the walkway toward them. Ypres had scandalized the
bishop by missing the Candlemas Mass, instead riding off to judge for himself the immediacy of the danger posed by Robert Fitz Roy’s army. One look at his face now was enough to warn them that they’d not like what they were about to hear.

  “If you’re all still debating what to do,” Ypres said grimly, “I can make it easy for you. We’re running out of choices, for we’ve run out of time. That flooded quagmire everyone was so sure could not be crossed? Well, someone neglected to tell Robert Fitz Roy it was impassable.”

  There were exclamations at that, for by now all of Stephen’s battle commanders were crowding into the cloister garth, along with the bishop and more and more of the town’s apprehensive citizens. But Stephen ignored their clamoring.

  “So they got across the marshes,” he said, not bothering—as some of the others were—with futile denials. It mattered little if every living soul in Christendom would have sworn it could not be done; if William de Ypres said it was so, Stephen did not doubt him. “And the Fossedyke?” he asked, although he was already anticipating what the Fleming would say.

  “They crossed at the ford, whilst your guards fled like women. By the time I got there, they were lighting fires to thaw themselves out. What they do next depends upon you, my liege—whether you come out to give battle or force them to besiege the city.”

  “Are we outnumbered?”

  “As far as I could tell, but not by much. And you have the more seasoned soldiers under your command. The Welsh are worthless on the field, will break and run at their first chance. As for the Cheshiremen…who knows what they’ll do when put to the test? If you are asking me, my liege, if we can win, I’d say you can. But I’m no soothsayer, cannot promise you victory.”

  “Just so,” Waleran said emphatically. “Why should we risk defeat when there are other roads still open to us? I say we hold fast within the town, then send for an army that can give us certain victory. It makes no sense to take the field unless we can be sure of the outcome, and for that, we will need more than God’s Favor and the good wishes of the townspeople.”