When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  BRIEN FITZ COUNT was standing upon the battlements of Oxford Castle, watching as the day died away. The sun was haloed in brightness, deepening from molten gold to a fiery copper-red, and seemed to have set the river on fire. Gazing down at that shimmering, sunset-tinted current, Brien found himself thinking of past battles, remembering rivers that had run red with the blood of the wounded and the slain.

  He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he did not at once hear his name being called. By the time he did, Maude was coming up the battlement wall-walk toward him. “I’ve been searching all over for you,” she said. “I’m glad I finally thought to look up!”

  He made room for her at the embrasure and together they watched as the sun disappeared beyond the distant hills. “Did you arrange matters with Geoffrey de Mandeville’s vassal?” he asked, and Maude nodded.

  “Yes, a man named Hugh d’Ing. Mandeville is sending him to Normandy to obtain Geoffrey’s approval of our pact, and then on into Anjou to get my son’s consent. Henry will enjoy that,” Maude said with a smile, “for this will be his first official act as heir to the throne.”

  By now the vivid sky was past its peak, the colors beginning to fade. Brien turned away from the embrasure, focusing all of his attention upon Maude. “Did you say you were looking for me, my lady?”

  “Yes…I wanted to talk to you about an earldom.”

  Brien smiled. “In all the years I’ve known Miles, I’ve never seen him so joyful. Is all ready for the ceremony?”

  “Yes…on the morrow I will confer upon Miles the earldom of Hereford. It is no more than he deserves, for he has been amongst my most stalwart supporters. But so have you, Brien. It would give me great pleasure to grant you an earldom, too. Will you not reconsider?”

  When he shook his head, still smiling, Maude moved closer, looking up intently into his face. “But why, Brien? You have been steadfast, a loyal ally and as dear a friend as I could hope to have. Why will you not let me reward you as I’ve done the others?”

  Brien was no longer smiling. “I want no reward for serving you. If I can offer you nothing else, I can give you this—the certainty that I seek only to help you claim the crown that is your birthright.”

  As their eyes met, Maude found she could not look away. “Ah, Brien,” she said, almost inaudibly, “I begin to think you could be more dangerous to me than Stephen.” Her words seemed to surprise her as much as they did Brien, for color suddenly burned its way up into her face and throat. He drew a sharp breath and then reached for her hand, bringing it up to his mouth. To anyone watching, it was a perfectly proper gesture of respect, but Maude knew better, and she freed her hand from his clasp. She did not draw away, though, not until a sudden shout echoed from the West Gate: “Riders coming in!”

  Maude and Brien moved back to the battlements, peering down through the gathering dusk at the approaching horsemen. They were still some distance away, just crossing the bridge, but Maude recognized the rangy grey stallion in the lead, for it was her brother’s favorite mount.

  “It is Robert!” she exclaimed. “I do not like this, Brien. Such a rapid return from Winchester does not bode well for us.”

  ROBERT soon confirmed the worst of Maude’s forebodings. In a solar poorly lit by smoldering cresset lamps, he told them that his mission had failed. The Bishop of Winchester was, he reported, as slippery as any eel, impossible to pin down without a forked stick. The bishop had refused to return with him to Oxford, but he’d denied conniving with Matilda to restore Stephen to the throne. He’d insisted that his only concern was the welfare of Holy Mother Church, disclaimed any ambitions of his own, contended that he bore Maude no grudge for her intemperate behavior, provided that she kept faith in the future, and, Robert concluded bleakly, “I believed none of it.”

  “I daresay the bishop knows far more of Scriptures than I do,” Maude said, “and I am not sure if this comes from the Book of Matthew or Luke, but the message itself is beyond dispute: ‘He that is not with me is against me.’”

  She paused, her gaze sweeping the solar, moving from face to face. She found what she sought: a unity of purpose and a grim resolve to do what must be done. What had been lost in London would be recouped at Winchester.

  “Stephen’s kingship died at Lincoln,” she said. “I agree with Miles, that burial is long overdue. Well, God Willing, we shall hold the funeral in Winchester.”

  19

  Winchester, England

  July 1141

  WILLIAM DE CHESNEY finally located his brother Roger in a shabby alehouse on Gold Street, in unseemly proximity to the Church of All Saints. “What sort of peculiar folk do you have in this town? I stopped a monk on the street, asked him the whereabouts of the bishop’s palace at Wolvesey, and damn me if else, but he spat into the dirt at my feet!”

  Roger laughed. “There is a sea of bad blood between the bishop and the brothers of Hyde Abbey. For more than six years, he has been blocking their election of a new abbot. Why, you ask? Very simple, lad. As long as they lack an abbot, Bishop Henry gets to control their revenues.”

  Will shook his head ruefully. “If men only knew how easy it was to commit legal larceny, banditry would be cut in half overnight. That fits, though, with what I’ve heard about Bishop Henry, that he loves money overly well. I came to Winchester seeking a position in his household as you suggested. But first I ought to ask you this: Is he miserly with those in his service? If so, I’d rather look elsewhere.”

  “You need not fret about that. He is tightfisted for certes, but he is also shrewd enough to understand that a man gets only what he pays for in this life. Serve him well and he will reward you as you deserve. Let him down and you get no second chance. So…what say you?”

  Will shrugged. “If I’m going to sell my sword, it might as well be to the Church. Mayhap the bishop will put in a good word for me come Judgment Day!”

  His brother laughed again, scattered a few coins onto the table, and they sauntered out into the sunlight. This was Will’s first visit to Winchester, and Roger insisted upon acting as his guide, keeping up a running commentary as they ambled along High Street, also known as Cheap or Cheapside. The castle was situated in the southwest corner of the city, and had supplanted the old palace as a royal residence. Bishop Henry had sweet-talked Stephen into turning the palace over to him—“back in the days when they were still talking,” Roger said with a grin. He also held the bishop’s palace at Wolvesey, off to the southeast, and had embarked upon an ambitious building project to make Wolvesey the wonder of Winchester.

  Will liked what he saw: a city prosperous and thriving. While Roger didn’t know the exact population, he estimated it to be between six and eight thousand, which made it one of England’s larger cities. It had its own fair, its own saint, and a proud history, for it was once a Roman settlement, later the capital of the Saxon kingdom of Wessex, and several English kings had tombs within the great cathedral. So many bells were chiming that it sounded as if there were a House of God on every corner, and indeed there were too many parish churches to count, Roger reported, as well as the priory of St Swithun, the nunnery of St Mary, and just beyond the walls, Hyde Abbey. “But,” he added, “there are alehouses and bawdy-houses, too, lad, and I might be coaxed into taking you on a sinner’s search after dark!”

  They bought apples from a peddler, fended off a tenacious street beggar, then stopped to watch as several small boys threw mud upon a man in the pillory. He raged and cursed, but could not defend himself from the onslaught, for once a man’s hands and head were locked into the wooden frame, he was effectively immobilized. The Chesney brothers saw no reason to spoil the boys’ fun, but when a drunkard was attracted by the commotion and started scrabbling around for good-sized rocks, they sent him reeling on his way. Shaming a prisoner was permitted, even encouraged, but stoning was not, for the pillory was a punishment for petty crime; serious offenders could expect the gallows out on Andover Road. The entertainment over, Roger and Will continued ea
st along High Street, past the royal palace that was now the bishop’s stronghold, where they lingered to flirt with a pretty girl strolling by. It was midday, therefore, by the time they reached the Water Gate that gave entry into the precincts of Wolvesey Palace.

  Their leisurely afternoon ended abruptly, though, upon their arrival at Wolvesey. The atmosphere was charged with tension, and Roger de Chesney was ushered at once into the bishop’s private quarters in the West Hall. No one challenged his brother, and so he followed, too. Will was expecting luxury—the bishop’s lavish lifestyle had long provided fuel for gossip—and the chamber furnishings did not disappoint. The walls were hung with rich embroiderings; the bed was vast in size, piled with feather-filled pillows and silk coverlets; a polished oaken table held gleaming silver candlesticks, an ivory chess set, and several leather-bound books. What startled Will was not the elegant surroundings, but the man standing in the midst of them: a thin, nondescript figure clad in the anonymous black habit and cowl of a Benedictine monk.

  “My lord?” Roger seemed baffled by the monk’s presence, too; he sounded very dubious.

  “Of course it is me,” the bishop said impatiently, jerking back the hood of his cowl. “Why did you take so long to answer my summons?” He gave Roger no chance to respond. “Never mind, for we’ve no time to waste. That accursed woman is approaching Winchester with an army.”

  Roger drew a quick, comprehending breath. “You’ll not be waiting around to welcome the empress into the city, then?”

  The bishop frowned; he could never understand why so many men insisted upon joking about matters of life-or-death urgency. “Why else would I be wearing this monk’s cowl? It will enable me to slip out of the city undetected, and by the time Maude reaches the East Gate, I ought to be well on the way to my castle at Waltham. I will then seek aid from my own vassals, from my sister-in-law and the Fleming. But it will be up to you, Roger, to hold Wolvesey and the palace until we can break their siege. Can I rely upon you?”

  Roger nodded. “I will do my best, my lord bishop.”

  “Good man.” Turning aside, the bishop unlocked a small casket and tossed a pouch toward Roger. He caught it deftly; it had a reassuring heft and clinked loudly as he tucked it away.

  “My lord…this is my brother William. He wishes to serve you, too.” The bishop glanced over at Will, nodded briefly. But before he could dismiss them, Roger said hastily, “Your Grace…wait. I must be clear about what you expect of me. You once told me that if we found ourselves under siege, I was to take whatever measures I must to hold out. Is that still your wish?”

  The bishop gave him a level look. “‘Silent leges inter arma.’ That was said by a great man, Roger, a Roman statesman named Cicero. ‘In time of war, the laws are silent.’”

  UPON her arrival in Winchester, Maude took up residence in the castle. She then summoned the bishop to her presence. The bishop’s men stalled for time, sending forth the bishop’s response, that he “would prepare himself.” Once they were certain that his delay was in fact defiance, Robert dispatched one of his men with a formal challenge. He sent a spear thudding into the gate of Wolvesey Palace, and the siege of Winchester began.

  ON Saturday noon, the second day of August in the Year of Christ 1141, Waleran Beaumont, Count of Meulan and Earl of Worcester, arrived in Winchester to make his peace with the Empress Maude. Waiting with two of his household knights to be admitted into the castle’s great hall, he sought to sound jaunty and nonchalant. “Well, here I go…into the she-wolf’s den. Say a prayer for my pride, which is about to be shredded into salad and served up to Maude for dinner.” There was too much truth in the joke for humor, though; this was an ordeal he was dreading.

  To his surprise and relief, he discovered that his anticipated submission had been more painful than the actual event proved to be. It was not an experience he’d want to repeat. He felt that Maude kept him too long on his knees, and she made no effort to conceal her satisfaction. But he’d expected to be bleeding profusely by now, knowing what a lethal weapon her tongue could be. He remembered—in disheartening detail—telling Maude that he’d beg his bread by the roadside ere he’d acknowledge her as queen, and he well knew that Maude also remembered. So as grateful as he was for her unlikely restraint, he marveled at it, too.

  Mayhap those Londoners had done the country a good turn, scared some sense into her. But no…it would not last. If ever there was a woman unable to learn from her mistakes, it was this one for certes. No more than Stephen could. If the Lord God plucked him out of his Bristol prison on the morrow and restored him to power at Westminster, nothing would change. He’d still go on forgiving men he ought to hang, promising more than he could deliver, failing to keep the King’s Peace. Maude and Stephen, a match made in Hell. What was it Geoffrey de Mandeville had once said—a lifetime ago? Ah, yes, that Maude would listen to no one and Stephen to anyone. Had there ever, he wondered, been a war like this? Was there a single soul—not related to them by blood or marriage—who truly wanted to see either one of them on England’s throne?

  Maude interrupted his morose musing with a pointed query. “Are you here, my lord earl, to assist in the siege of the bishop’s strongholds?”

  “No, madame, I am not,” Waleran admitted. “I shall be returning to Normandy straightaway.” Forcing himself to add a politic “With your permission, of course. I promised your lord husband that I would aid in his campaign.”

  Geoffrey or Maude—that was verily like choosing Sodom over Gomorrah. How much the old king had to answer for! If only he’d named Robert of Gloucester as his heir, how much grief and misery they all could have been spared. Being born out of wedlock seemed a minor matter indeed when compared with Maude’s unwomanly ways, Geoffrey’s perverse humors, and Stephen’s well-meaning weakness. No, by the Rood, he’d had enough. He’d do what he must to safeguard his holdings in France, but if he never saw these English shores again, so much the better.

  He knew Maude would make him pay for his past allegiance to Stephen, and so he was not surprised when she demanded that he turn over to her the Worcestershire abbey of Bordesley, for it had been founded on royal desmesne lands given to Waleran by Stephen, and Maude refused to recognize Stephen’s right to make such grants. Waleran yielded with what grace he could muster, which wasn’t much.

  “As you will, madame,” he said grudgingly. “I shall inform the abbot that—” He got no further, for Maude was staring past him, half rising from her seat on the dais. Turning, he saw her brother striding up the aisle toward them.

  “Maude…” Ranulf was laboring for breath; he’d come on the run. “The window,” he panted, “look!”

  Maude darted down the dais steps, with her uncle David and Waleran close behind. The shutters were open wide. Maude leaned out and then gasped, for the blue summer sky was sullied by an ominous cloud of billowing black smoke.

  HIGH STREET was thronged with agitated people, some running toward the fire, others fleeing it. Ranulf and Gilbert realized almost at once that they should not have taken their horses. They had to keep reining in to avoid trampling the men and women surging into their path, and as the scent of smoke reached the animals, they began to balk. After his mount shied and Gilbert banged his head against an overhanging alehouse pole, Ranulf signaled for a halt.

  “We’ll make better time on foot,” he said, swinging from the saddle. He was handing the reins to his squire when he heard the screaming. The crowd was scattering, people ducking into doorways of the shops lining both sides of the street. Ranulf followed their example, but then he saw her: a young girl sprinting toward them, her hair streaming out behind her, her skirts smoldering.

  Several people were shouting, telling her to roll on the ground, but she was too terrified to heed them; Ranulf doubted that she even heard. A woman tried to catch her arm as she ran by, her fingers just falling short. Ranulf had better luck. Flinging himself forward, he sent the girl sprawling, then scooped her up and dropped her into the closest horse
trough. She thrashed about wildly, drenching Ranulf, too, and when he lifted her out, sputtering and choking, she clung to his neck and sobbed. She was even younger then he had first thought, only ten or so, her entire body shuddering with every breath she took. Her wet hair was in his face, had an unpleasant burnt smell, but he couldn’t tell if she was trembling from fear or pain or both.

  By now several would-be samaritans had gathered around, and when he asked, a gangling youth in a bloodied butcher’s smock identified her as “Aldith, the wainwright’s lass.” His squire was standing a few feet away, having somehow managed to keep their frightened horses from bolting, and Ranulf entrusted the weeping child into his care. “Take her back to the castle, Luke. This lad here will help you and then find her family…right?” The butcher’s apprentice nodded shyly, and the crowd parted to let them through.

  The royal palace was just a few streets ahead. Already, Ranulf could feel the heat, could see the flames shooting skyward along the north side of High Street. Several shops and houses were ablaze, and the fire was moving with deadly speed. Even as he watched, flames leapt across the narrow width of the closest side street and ignited a thatched roof. When he reached the siege site, he stopped in shock, unable to credit what he was seeing. Firebrands were being shot from the palace walls, launched from mangonels in a sizzle of sparks and cinders, raining death down indiscriminately upon citizens and soldiers alike.

  The scene meeting his eyes was chaotic. Men were shoving and cursing, coughing whenever smoke blew their way, loading mangonels with heavy stones as archers sought to drive the enemy off the battlements. In the midst of so much urgent activity, it took him some time to find Robert. His brother’s face was streaked with soot and sweat, his eyes red-rimmed, his voice hoarse from shouting orders. At sight of Ranulf, he said wearily, “Can you believe it? Those whoresons set fire to their own city.”