When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “If Gervase sees you, he’ll send you above-stairs straightaway,” Agnes warned, but she was an indulgent mistress, and instead of banishing Rohese to the bedchamber, she soon found herself answering the girl’s eager queries about their influential guests. It was indeed a gathering of distinction, she said proudly. There were several former sheriffs, some past and present aldermen, a magistrate, John Fitz Ranulf, and three members of the powerful Buccuinte family.

  “Oh!” Rohese was staring at two newcomers to the hall. “By the saints,” she hissed, “who is he?”

  “That is Osborn Huitdeniers, no friend to Gervase, but too important not to include. He is a justiciar like Gervase and—”

  “No, not the balding, stout one! The other, the young one!”

  Agnes laughed. “Oh, you mean Thomas! He is a kinsman of Osborn’s, and his new clerk. He was studying in Paris, but came home last year when his mother died, and his father then got him this position with Osborn. That is his father over there, Gilbert Becket, one of the former sheriffs I mentioned. He was quite prosperous once, but lost most of his property in the great fire a few years back and never recovered…”

  But Rohese was no longer listening, for she had no interest whatsoever in the sire, only in the son. Snatching a platter from the maidservant, she swayed gracefuly across the hall. Up close, she found Thomas Becket even more attractive, tall and elegant, with fair skin and gleaming dark hair. Favoring him with her most seductive smile, she offered him wine, but to her disappointment, he politely declined. She was not so easily discouraged, though, was mustering her forces for a counterattack when Gervase happened to glance her way, and that was that for her flirtation with Master Thomas Becket.

  “I thank you all for coming,” Gervase said, striding to the center of the hall, “and I’ll waste no time getting to the heart of the matter. I fear for our city under that spiteful woman’s reign. London will be no more than a royal milch cow, milked dry for the Queen’s Exchequer, and that will be the least of our troubles. Geoffrey de Mandeville is looking for any excuse to avenge the slaying of his wife’s father, and when we complain to our new queen, I can assure you that it will be Mandeville she heeds, not us. Let me speak bluntly. London will suffer untold hardships if the empress ever sits upon Stephen’s throne, for she—”

  “Have you God’s Ear, Gervase? You know something the rest of us do not? Why do you use words like if and ever when you speak of her queenship? I’d say that is no longer in doubt. The Bishop of Winchester has already proclaimed her as ‘Lady of the English.’ Her coronation is but a formality, and an inevitable one at that.”

  “Inevitable? I think not, Osborn. That is why I have summoned you here tonight, to remind you that she has not been crowned yet. It is not too late to save our city…if we have the courage to act and act now.”

  There were murmurings at that, and Osborn Huitdeniers said forcefully, “I did not come to hear talk of treason!”

  “How can it be treason to support our lawful king? Stephen is God’s anointed, not Maude. I say we keep it that way. She cannot be crowned if the city rises up against her. So there is still time—”

  “You think we want that alien woman as our queen? I do not, for certes. But still less do I want to see bloodshed.”

  “Sometimes, John, there is no other choice. Maude reminded me that her father was called the Lion of Justice. Well, let me tell you about the justice he meted out to Luke de Barré. Most of you may not know of this, for it happened in Normandy. Some of the old king’s barons had rebelled against him, and it took months ere he was able to put the rising down. Waleran Beaumont was amongst the rebel prisoners. He was young, though, not yet twenty, and the king was persuaded to take pity upon him; he was eventually set free and even restored to favor. But Luke de Barré was not so lucky, for the king commanded that his eyes be put out with red-hot awls. Men thought this was unjust, as Luke de Barré was not one of the king’s vassals and thus was not forsworn, not guilty of treason. But he was a poet, and he had offended Henry by his mocking, scornful verses. Even the Count of Flanders pleaded on his behalf, to no avail. The king would not yield; Barré had made men laugh at him, he said, and there could be no forgiveness for that. As it happened, the sentence was never carried out…because the poor wretch preferred death to blindness and beat his head against the wall of his dungeon until he died. But the king did not relent. And this I can tell you for true, that Maude is his daughter. We’ll get no more mercy from her than Luke de Barré did from Henry.”

  His story seemed to have the desired effect. Men shifted uneasily in their seats; a few blessed themselves as inconspicuously as possible. Osborn felt a chill; the sheep, did they not see that Gervase was leading them right to the cliff’s edge?

  “What does the fate of a Norman lord have to do with us?” he demanded. “I do not deny that the empress is a vexing and overweening woman. But she is not going to destroy our city. That is for us to do—if we heed reckless men like Gervase de Cornhill! What will happen to us if we do rise up, as he urges? She will retreat, only to come back with an army and lay siege to London. How long could we hold out? Who is going to come to our aid? I do not suppose that Stephen commands too many men from his prison chamber at Bristol!”

  “I admit there is a risk, but if we take a stand, others will join us. No one wants that woman as queen, and men would be heartened by our defiance. They would rise up, too, would—”

  “And if they did not? What would befall us then? If the empress is even half as vengeful as Gervase claims, she would exact a dreadful price for our rebellion. Let Gervase talk about long-dead Norman poets. I say we talk about history closer to home—Lincoln! Is there a man here who does not know what that city suffered after it was taken by the empress’s army? Do you truly want to see London reduced to the same pitiful straits?”

  The spectre of the ravaged ruins of Lincoln was a powerful deterrent. Although Gervase continued to argue, he soon saw that he was swimming against the tide. He’d wager that most of the men agreed with him, but they needed more than hope ere they’d commit to such a perilous course. He subsided, slumping down in his chair as the discussion ebbed and flowed around him. If the fools would not listen, what more could he do?

  Thomas Becket had taken no part in the debate, listening intently but voicing no opinion of his own. When it was clear that Osborn’s arguments were going to carry the day, he asked his clerk to fetch him more wine. Thomas rose obligingly, and it was then that he saw the monk being ushered across the hall toward Gervase. He paused to watch, sensing something out of the ordinary was occurring.

  “Silence!” Gervase shouted suddenly. “I’ve just gotten an urgent message from Bermondsey Priory, and it changes everything. It seems there is a new player in this game. Brother Anselm here has come at the behest of Prior Clarembald to bear witness. He says that Queen Matilda and William de Ypres have led an army out of Kent, and they are ravaging and burning south of the river!”

  That announcement unleashed brief pandemonium. “Quiet!” Gervase cried, over and over until he got his way. “Let Brother Anselm tell us what he knows.”

  “It is true,” the monk said calmly; he alone seemed untouched by the chaos permeating the hall. “They spared our priory, but others were not so fortunate. If it were not full dark, you could see the smoke along the horizon. And by the morrow, they’ll be in Southwark.”

  “As I said,” Gervase repeated triumphantly, “this changes everything. The queen is sending us an unmistakable message—that we have as much to fear from her wrath as we do from Maude’s.”

  “It is so unfair! How can people hope to survive, trapped between two armies! What can we do?”

  “Is it not obvious? We ally ourselves with the queen, we keep faith with Stephen, and we show Maude the mettle of true Londoners!”

  This stirring declaration set off a burst of cheering. Osborn shuddered, seeing his rental houses and his luxurious Thames Street home going up in flames, a lifetime’s
work lost, and for what? “Let’s not be hasty! We must think this through, must—”

  “What was it you’d asked, Osborn—who would come to our aid? Well, now we know—Queen Matilda! I say we send word to her straightaway!” And this time Gervase prevailed. Agreement was swift and almost unanimous. On this Midsummer’s Eve, London cast its fate with Stephen’s queen.

  JUNE 24TH, the Nativity of John the Baptist, was also known as Midsummer’s Day. It was a popular festival, celebrated with bonfires and flowering garlands and torch-lit processions. Westminster’s great hall was hung with St John’s wort, rue, roses, and vervain. The palace cooks had been laboring all morning to produce a truly spectacular meal, a trial run for Maude’s coronation banquet, and the air was redolent with the aromas of simmering venison stew and roast swan and freshly baked bread. As noon approached, the guests were escorted into the hall, then to their designated seats at the linen-draped trestle tables, while youths hurried to offer lavers of scented washing water and hand towels.

  It was not until the first course was served—a savory rabbit soup—that Maude had the opportunity to question Robert about the Bishop of Winchester’s conspicuous absence. “When you saw him this morn, Robert, did he tell you he’d not be attending? What excuse did he offer?”

  “I did not see him, Maude. He has left Westminster.”

  “Without a word to me? Where did he go?”

  “I do not know. I have to admit, Maude, that I’m troubled in this disappearance of his. I know you do not like hearing it, but we have to make our peace with the man…and it will not be easy if we cannot even find him.”

  Maude set her spoon down. “Most likely he’s gone off to one of his manors to brood, waiting to be coaxed back. I understand that was his usual routine whenever he did not get his own way with Stephen. I never expected to be in sympathy with Stephen, but I can well imagine what he must have gone through after denying Henry that archbishop’s mitre he so craved. It amazes me that he had the backbone to hold fast…”

  She waited until a server had removed her soup bowl before turning back toward her brother. “Now…what of the rumors about Ypres? Is it true that he plundered and burned manors and villages south of the river? Have you been able to verify that yet?”

  “My scouts have not returned, but Geoffrey de Mandeville says it is true enough, and he ought to know.” Robert lowered his voice, for the Earl of Essex had been given a seat of honor at the high table. “I’ve heard it claimed that half the whores in Southwark spy for him, and I’d not be surprised, for little gets past him.”

  Maude found it difficult to admit she’d so misjudged Stephen’s queen. She was baffled, too, for she would never have expected Matilda to put Stephen’s life at risk. But this was neither the time nor the place to discuss Matilda’s astonishing metamorphosis, and she contented herself with saying only, “I thought Matilda had more common sense.”

  The conversation at their table was now focusing upon the continuing saga of the Earl of Chester’s lordly banditry. He’d claimed proprietary rights over most of the prisoners captured at Lincoln, and those unlucky souls had been bled for exorbitant ransoms, not always in money. Young Gilbert de Gant had been compelled to wed Chester’s niece as the price of his freedom, and William Peverel had been forced to yield Nottingham Castle. But if the table talk was true, it seemed that Chester had pulled off an even more outrageous coup. He’d lured his old enemy the Earl of Richmond into an ambush, cast the man into one of his dungeons, and neglected to feed him until he’d agreed to turn over Galclint Castle.

  As usual, Chester’s utter indifference to public opinion stirred amazement, amusement, disapproval, and possibly even envy. Maude’s feelings were not so ambivalent, though; her response was anger, pure and simple. Once her coronation was over and she could concentrate upon matters of state, she meant to teach the outlaw earl a sharp lesson in the powers of the Crown. He seemed to think he was above the laws of the land, and for that, she blamed Stephen. Her father would never have tolerated such arrant breaches of the King’s Peace, and neither would she.

  She glanced down the table now toward her niece. Maud was giggling at something Ranulf had just said. If she was distressed on her husband’s behalf, she was concealing it remarkably well. Maude still thought it prudent to divert the conversation away from Chester’s manifold misdeeds, and she signaled for silence.

  “I have good news to share. I received a letter this morn from my husband. He writes that the city of Caen has yielded to him, as have Verneuil and Nonancourt, and he predicts that by summer’s end, he will control all of Normandy west of the River Seine.”

  Audible ripples of approval and relief eddied about the hall. All were war-weary and impatient for the succession dispute to be settled. Maude was not the only one who resented Stephen’s barons for their stubborn reluctance to come to terms with political realities.

  The venison stew was being ladled onto trenchers when a flustered youth was admitted to the hall, insisting that he had an urgent message for the Earl of Essex. Geoffrey de Mandeville rose at once, and Maude watched with interest as they conferred. So did Robert, for it had occurred to them both that Mandeville’s spy system might have unearthed information about Matilda’s whereabouts or intentions. When the earl turned around, they knew at once that whatever he’d just learned was calamitous, for the color had faded from his face, and he was not a man to be easily shaken.

  Striding swiftly back to the high table, he said, “The Londoners are rising up against you, madame. They are massing in the streets, making ready to march on Westminster.”

  “No…they would not dare!”

  “Yes,” he said flatly, “they would. You can believe it or not as you choose, but I do. This lad’s master is a local merchant, a man who’s given me reliable information in the past, and he is not likely to make a mistake of this magnitude.”

  Osborn Huitdeniers’s servant had trailed the earl to the dais, and he nodded vigorously. “It is true, my lady, I swear it,” he assured Maude solemnly. “By the time I reached Ludgate, the church bells had begun to peal throughout the city, calling men to arms. Listen…can you not hear?”

  Maude and Robert tilted their heads, and indeed, they could hear the distant, muted chiming of church bells. As stunned as Maude was, she rallied fast and got hastily to her feet, still clutching her napkin. “Thank God for the warning! But we’ll have to act at once if we hope to repel them. Robert, the command is yours—”

  “What command?” Geoffrey de Mandeville snapped. “We’re facing a mob, not an army. That is not a fight we can win. But we ought to be able to get away ere they—”

  “Run?” Maude was flabbergasted. “Never!”

  Robert was on his feet, too. “Maude, he is right. Not only are we outnumbered, but our wives and daughters are with us. If we’d been able to reach the Tower…but we could never hope to keep them out of Westminster and Christ pity us if we try!”

  By now those at the high table knew of their peril. Men were pushing their chairs back. Ranulf had already reached Maude’s side, with Brien just a stride slower. Maude’s niece was leaning over Rainald’s wife, coaxing her to rise, but Beatrice seemed incapable of moving; she’d begun to make soft whimpering noises, sounding eerily like a mewing kitten. Maude saw the truth of Robert’s words in their stricken faces, but her every instinct fought against flight. “Is there not some way that we can resist?”

  Robert shook his head. “Even if we could hold them off for a time, there is another army on the loose, just across the river. How long do you think it would take the Londoners to open their gates to Matilda and Ypres? No, Maude, if we stay, we doom ourselves.” He glanced around at the hall, now in a state of spreading confusion. Fear stood poised to strike, and nothing was more contagious, as he well knew. If they hoped to head off utter panic, they’d have to act swiftly. “I will tell them,” he offered, “if you wish.”

  “No,” Maude said, “it is for me to do.” Wondering how she
would ever find the words, she moved toward the edge of the dais. “Be silent so you may hear me,” she urged, “for there is something I must say.”

  THE retreat from Westminster was done “without tumult and with military order” according to a chronicle favorable to Maude’s cause. One much more sympathetic to Stephen described a “panic” and a “disorderly flight.” The truth lay somewhere in between.

  Maude and her coterie got away safely to Oxford, but some of her adherents veered off on their own. The Londoners surged into a ghost palace: food still heaped on trenchers in the deserted great hall, chairs overturned, doors oddly ajar, open coffers, burning candles and silence. A few of the angry citizens were disappointed to have won by default; most were relieved. They celebrated by ransacking the palace, carrying off clothes and bedding and belongings left behind, and some sat down to enjoy Maude’s interrupted meal. As word spread into the city, people flocked into the streets again, to cheer and hug and marvel at the ease of their triumph, while church bells were rung with joyful exuberance, until all of London reverberated with the clamorous, silver-toned sounds of victory.

  THEY had gathered at Eastcheap to wait. At this time of day, the marketplace ought to have been thronged with people looking for bargains, moving from stall to stall, examining the fresh fish, choosing the plumpest hens, buying candles and pepper and needles. The stalls were open, but the fishmongers and cordwainers and butchers were doing no business, despite the growing crowd. The sun was hot, flies were thick, and the odors pungent; no one complained, though. They talked and gossiped among themselves, strangers soon becoming friends, for the normally fractious and outspoken Londoners had forgotten their differences, at least for a day, united in a common purpose and determined to revel in their triumph, for they were pragmatic enough to understand this might be their only one. Now they joked and swapped rumors and waited with uncommon patience, and at last they heard a cry, swiftly picked up and echoed across the marketplace: “She is coming!”