When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “And why is that, Master de Cornhill?”

  Gervase blinked. “Madame?”

  “I asked why the city coffers are so bare. No, you need not fumble for an answer. I already know. For the past five years, your money has been propping up Stephen’s monarchy. Dare you deny it?”

  Gervase shifted from foot to foot, hoping she was posing a rhetorical question. When he saw that she was not, he said haltingly, “Madame, he…was the king. What choice did we have?”

  “Oh, indeed you had a choice. When he sought to usurp my crown, you could have barred the city gates to him!”

  “Madame, that was not for us to do. We are not kingmakers.”

  “Since when?” Geoffrey de Mandeville queried, and Gervase tensed, for he knew from personal experience that the earl’s smile was never so disarming as when he was about to draw blood. “Your sudden modesty is commendable, Master de Cornhill. But if my memory serves, that is exactly what you and your cohorts claimed, that it was the Londoners who’d brought Stephen’s kingship into being. And you in particular have been remarkably loyal to the man. Not only have you been urging your fellow citizens to keep faith with him, you’ve been doing some interesting almsgiving: to the Lady Matilda down in Kent.”

  Gervase wasn’t the only one taken by surprise; so was Maude. “What?” she exclaimed, turning to stare at her new ally. “Are you sure of this, my lord of Essex?”

  “Quite sure, madame. Master de Cornhill has been generously aiding Stephen’s wife in her efforts to engage Flemish hirelings…for what purpose we can only speculate about. Unless he’d care to tell us?”

  “Madame, that is not so! It was not at all as the earl makes it sound. I agreed to lend the queen a sum of money, and she pledged one of her Cambridgeshire manors as collateral. It was purely a business transaction.”

  “How very reassuring. Knowing that your treason was done for profit and not principle certainly sets my mind at ease!”

  “Treason? Madame, I did not—”

  “Yes, Master de Cornhill, you did. You are accomplices in Stephen’s usurpation, all of you Londoners who aided and abetted him in his treacherous quest for my crown. If not for your disloyalty, he’d never have become king. You rejoiced in his theft, and supported his outlaw kingship without conscience qualms. Even after God’s Judgment had been passed upon him at Lincoln, you still balked at recognizing me as England’s true sovereign. I ought to have been crowned months ago, but you made that quite impossible. And now you dare to ask me to remit your taxes? Better you should seek out Stephen in his Bristol prison, for you’ll get no such reprieve from me!”

  “Madame, I entreat you to be fair, to—”

  “I’ve heard you out. That is fairer than you deserve. Go home, Master de Cornhill, and tell your friends that a bill has come due, five years late, payable upon demand.”

  THEY’D gathered to hear Ranulf’s report of his reconnaissance mission into London. He was relishing the attention, and spun out for them a vivid account of his reconnoitering. “I think I might have a promising career as a spy,” he boasted, “for I was able to mingle freely without arousing any suspicion. But it is just as you feared, Robert. I wandered about the marketplace; I tarried in alehouses and taverns and the cookshop down by the river. I even paid a visit to the Friday horse fair at Smithfield. No matter where I went, the talk was of Maude and it was blistering hot. They are angry and fearful and some of them are defiant, too. They accuse Maude of being overweening and unwomanly, of seeking to bleed them white and destroy their commune. They are even quoting from Scriptures, that ‘The Lord will be a swift witness against those that oppress’ and ‘All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman.’ I’ve never seen London in such a furor. Maude has stirred up a hornet’s nest for true this time.”

  “I know,” Robert conceded. “This is why I’ve asked you all here. We have a problem for certes. Maude seems set upon doing herself grievous harm, and we must find a way to limit the damage. We have to act, for she is losing the Church, the Londoners—”

  “Her mind,” Rainald said acerbically, and Robert glared at his brother.

  “This is no time for joking, Rainald.”

  “Who is joking? I think she has gone stark, raving mad! How else explain it? It cannot always be her time of the month, can it? But what do you propose, Robert? I see no means of silencing her, shy of stuffing a gag in her mouth, and she pays you no more heed these days than—”

  “This serves for naught,” the Scots king interrupted impatiently, and Rainald yielded, grudgingly deferring to the other man’s greater age and rank. “I am not here to mock my niece, but to determine why she has gone astray and figure out how to correct her course.”

  “I was thinking,” Ranulf said pensively, “that it might be that her first taste of power has gone to her head. She has never had any, after all, not until now. Wine always hits a man harder if he is not one for drinking. Mayhap it is like that for Maude…” He trailed off, a little shy before the Scots king, and was pleased when Brien concurred.

  “I know I am not her kinsman, as the rest of you are, but I think Ranulf might well be right. Lady Maude has always been compelled to obey, as a daughter and a wife, even as a widow. If you cage an animal up from birth, it takes time to adjust once it is finally set free.”

  “What are you both blathering about?” Rainald was scowling. “We all have to obey our betters. You think I have always done just as I please? My father kept me on a tight lead, I assure you! But I did not go helling about like a lunatic after he died, did I?”

  “No,” Brien said coolly, “but then no one ever told you that one of your ‘betters’ was to be a lad of fourteen.”

  Rainald showed signs of pursuing the argument, but David headed him off. “I think the true problem is that Maude was not schooled in kingship. She seems to believe that royal power is absolute, and her father ought to have taught her better than that. It was not enough merely to name her as his heir. She needed guidance as much as she did a husband, and she did not get it. In a sense, we are paying now for Henry’s shortsightedness.”

  There was a moment of circumspect silence, none of them wanting to say what they were all thinking—that David’s heavy-handed clash with the monks of Durham had not helped any, either. “We seem to be in agreement,” Robert said, “that something must be done. But what? It occurred to me that we ought to summon Miles back from the Marches. Maude respects his opinion.”

  “She respects you, too, Robert,” Ranulf insisted, and Robert shrugged.

  “Mayhap so, but she is not listening to me much these days.”

  Rainald reached across the table for the wine flagon. “Well, I think Brien ought to be the one to talk to Maude. Come now, Brien, you need not look so surprised. It makes sense, after all. Anyone with eyes to see knows you fancy her, so Maude must know it, too. If you—”

  He stopped abruptly, for Brien had just jerked the wine flagon out of his reach. “Let it be,” he said, in a voice low-pitched and dangerous, “or you’ll have reason to regret it.”

  It was suddenly very tense. Ranulf was fascinated, for although it was almost universally agreed that Brien was a man of uncommon honour, he’d heard others say, too, that he made a bad enemy. But he’d not seen that side of Brien. Not until now.

  “Rainald, not another word! Do you ever think ere you talk? At times I’d swear your tongue and brain cannot possibly be connected!”

  “The man just threatened me, Robert! I’m supposed to ignore that?”

  Robert leaned over and grasped the younger man’s wrist. “You heed me and heed me well. Nothing is easier to start and harder to stop than rumors of scandal. I do not ever want to hear you slander our sister’s good name again. Is that understood?”

  Rainald was accustomed to giving his temper free rein. But the hostility was repressive, walling him in on all sides. “I can see I am not wanted here,” he said, and shoved his chair back. No one tried to stop him as he stalked towa
rd the door and pulled it open. Almost at once, he recoiled. “Maude!”

  “However did you know I was outside, Rainald? I’d not even knocked yet…” But Maude’s smile wavered as she stepped into the room. For the men, it was like watching a shield crack after taking an unexpected blow, for in the instant that her defenses were down, they saw with unsparing clarity her surprise, her suspicion, and her hurt.

  “You are getting forgetful, Robert. You neglected to let me know we’d convened a council for this afternoon. Is it not lucky,” she said tonelessly, “that I happened by?”

  Robert got slowly to his feet. “I asked them here, Maude. I am troubled by your recent actions and I thought it best to tell them of my qualms ere I sought you out.”

  “That is true,” David agreed, “as far as it goes. But I cannot let him take all the responsibility upon himself. I share his qualms, too, lass. I suspect we all do.”

  “I see. So…now that you’ve had a chance to tally up my shortcomings, have you reached any conclusions? Is there any hope for me at all, or should I just abdicate at the first available opportunity?”

  “You cannot abdicate until after your coronation,” Rainald muttered, “and if you stay true to form, you’re likely to offend the Archbishop of Canterbury so mortally that you’ll end up having to crown yourself!”

  “I am sorry that you find my behavior so shameful, Rainald. But you’ve not always been so critical, have you? As I recall, you said nary a word of protest when I bestowed the earldom of Cornwall upon you!”

  Rainald flushed, but before he could retaliate, Robert said swiftly, “Maude, we need to talk about this. I’ve tried to tell you of my concern, but you seem to have defective hearing these days. I labored long and hard to win the Londoners over, and in one angry audience, you undid all my efforts. They are now convinced that having you as queen will be putting a cat amongst the pigeons, and it need not have come to that. You are making enemies faster than I can count them, and I do not understand why!”

  “No, you do not understand…none of you do!”

  But when she would have turned away, Ranulf stopped her. “Tell us, then,” he entreated. “Make us understand. Maude, we are not the enemy. Surely you know that?”

  She looked at him, and then nodded. “Yes,” she admitted, “I know…” The anger had drained out of her voice, but so had the animation. As they watched, she walked to the window, stood staring out at the regal silhouette of Westminster Abbey. “If Stephen had taken me prisoner at Arundel, all resistance would have ended within hours of the word’s getting out. You’d have been loath to do it, but you’d have made your peace with him. What else could reasonable men do?”

  She swung back to face them, and was reassured by what she saw, for they were listening intently. “But what happened after Lincoln? Stephen and I had submitted our claims to trial by combat, and I prevailed. That should have been enough…but it was not. Still men balked, still they refused to recognize my right. How many of Stephen’s barons have come to my court? Where are these craven souls who abandoned Stephen at Lincoln? Robert Beaumont hastened to make a truce in Normandy—with Geoffrey. But neither he nor Waleran has made any peace overtures to me. Neither have the Earls of Northampton or Surrey or Pembroke. Even Chester’s brother has kept his distance, and that after you saved his skin at Lincoln!”

  “Maude, I know they have been slow to submit to you, but they will in time. You must have patience—”

  “Robert, I have been patient for more than five years. And where has it gotten me? When my Norman barons learned of Stephen’s defeat at Lincoln, did they rush to acclaim my victory? You know better—they offered my crown to Stephen’s brother Theobald! And what did he do? He tried to strike a deal with Geoffrey. If Geoffrey’d accept Theobald’s claim to Tours and agree to set Stephen free, Theobald would then recognize him as Duke of Normandy and King of England—Geoffrey, not me!”

  “But Maude, Geoffrey did turn Theobald down!”

  “For the love of God, Rainald! Are you so blind that you cannot see? How do you think that makes me feel? How many times do they get to spit in my face? Stephen was crowned within three weeks of my father’s death. More than four months have passed since our victory at Lincoln, and I am still waiting for my coronation. That is four more months away from my sons…or did you never think of that? Henry is old enough to make the journey, even if the younger lads are not. I wanted him to be here for my coronation, to watch the archbishop set upon my head the crown that will one day be his. But the Londoners have denied me that. And yet you wonder, Robert, why I love them not? Just put that question to my eight-year-old son if you truly need an answer!”

  “Maude, I do understand,” Robert said. “I do not begrudge you a moment of your anger. I am simply saying that you cannot always act upon that anger. You’ve proven that you have the courage and perseverance and will to rule England. Now you must show the English that you have the discipline, too.”

  Maude said nothing, but her silence was a concession of sorts, and they took heart from it. She’d made mistakes—too many, in truth—but she’d learn from them. Encouraged, Robert crossed the chamber and kissed his sister’s hand with deliberate formality, subject to sovereign. Ranulf came over, too, only his was a brotherly kiss upon her cheek. “You’ll see,” he said. “It will get easier once you are crowned.”

  Maude gave him a weary smile. “I hope so, Ranulf,” she said, “for there has been precious little joy in this queenship so far.”

  EMERGING from his tent, the Earl of Northampton stood motionless for a few moments, gazing upon Matilda’s encampment. Newly hired mercenaries mingled with Matilda’s vassals, William de Ypres’s Flemings, and the earl’s own men. Not quite a month had passed since he’d offered his services to Stephen’s queen. He’d have come much sooner had he not dreaded facing her. Cynics might assume that he was motivated by the arrival at Maude’s court of his stepfather and hated rival, the Scots king. But it was more complex than that, for he’d been deeply shamed by his flight at Lincoln. He was a proud man, one who’d been held up to public ridicule, and his disgrace was a gnawing cancer in his vitals. He owed Stephen a debt of honour, and he was here in the lush Kent countryside in an attempt—however ill advised—to repay it.

  Matilda had made it easy for him; her need was too great to indulge in the luxury of reproaches or recriminations. But if his welcome was warmer than he deserved, the position he was expecting to fill—Matilda’s mainstay—was already occupied.

  The earl found it baffling that William de Ypres had not offered his sword to the highest bidder. He was equally astonished to see how high the Fleming had risen in Matilda’s estimation. They made the oddest pair imaginable. There was no question, though, of her trust, and he had to admit that Ypres seemed to accord Matilda what he’d rarely shown other women—respect. But if Matilda had faith in the Fleming, Northampton did not, and he was determined to watch over Stephen’s queen, whether she wanted such protection or not.

  Stopping a soldier, he asked about Matilda’s whereabouts, and it was no surprise to be told that “She is conferring with the Fleming, my lord.”

  Matilda and Ypres were walking together not far from her tent, heads down, so intent upon their discussion that they did not at once notice the earl’s approach. When they did, Matilda greeted him gravely, looking so pale and tired that he felt a prickle of unease. “Have you heard anything, madame? No word about the king?” For that was his secret fear; he marveled sometimes that there had been no regretful announcement from Bristol Castle, breaking the sorrowful news that Stephen had been stricken by a mysterious mortal ailment.

  “No…no word. I’ve had just the one letter from Stephen, nothing since then.” Matilda looked toward the Fleming, back to Northampton. “Willem thinks the time has come.”

  The intimacy of the Flemish “Willem” vexed him, but the earl did not hesitate. “I think that he is right, my lady. You’ve sought to reason with the woman. You promised her that
Stephen would abdicate, and pledged castles and hostages as surety. What more could you offer?”

  “She did not believe me,” Matilda said sadly. “And mayhap she was right, for I could not be sure Stephen would have agreed.”

  “Nonetheless, you did try to avoid bloodshed, my lady. Not only did she spurn your plea, she would deny your son his just inheritance. Ypres is right, and surely you know that. So why do you hesitate?”

  Soldiers had begun to move closer, straining to hear. Some of them glanced away shyly as their eyes met Matilda’s; others grinned and doffed their hats. Neither Ypres nor Northampton would understand her reluctance. Even if she’d tried to tell them, they’d not comprehend, for they knew war and accepted its consequences and its casualties. It was not that easy for her. It was a sobering realization, that men would die because of her decision, and her husband might well be one of them. She fumbled at her throat for the reassuring feel of her crucifix. Thy Will be done. But how did she know if it was God’s Will…or her own?

  “So be it,” she said. “I agree, Willem. Tomorrow…at first light.”

  GERVASE DE CORNHILL was one of London’s wealthiest merchants, as his Bishopsgate Street house unblushingly proclaimed. It was newly built and of stone, which made it a rarity in a city of wood and timber, constructed after the fashion of a lord’s manor, with a spacious great hall, a private solar, even a privy chamber instead of the usual outdoor latrine. When the men began to arrive, they were welcomed by a young maidservant and offered not ale but wine, the beverage of the gentry. If some of them thought that Gervase was getting above himself, others were impressed by his affluence, and all hoped that good might come out of this urgent evening conclave.

  Rohese was not supposed to be in the hall, but she was too curious to keep above-stairs. She was afraid that she might be sent home if London’s troubles were as bad as her cousin Gervase feared, and she did not want to go; life was infinitely more interesting since she’d been chosen to attend Gervase’s wife, Agnes. She’d not been sure at first just what “attending” meant, but it turned out to be easy enough: assisting with Agnes’s grooming, taking care of her clothes, accompanying her in public, and keeping her company in private, just as young women of good birth did for the queen and ladies of rank. No, Rohese definitely did not want to lose so agreeable a sinecure, and so she lingered in the shadows, intent upon eavesdropping, for her future and London’s had become one and the same.