When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  John Marshal slashed and cut his way toward the church. “Take shelter inside!” he shouted, shoving aside the priest who tried to block the doorway. Flinging themselves from their horses, his men sprinted after him into the church. Ranulf had just traded blows with a young Fleming, their swords coming together with numbing force, clashing in a shiver of sparks. When the Fleming’s horse stumbled, Ranulf spurred his mount toward the church, too.

  He never made it. A dog lunged toward them, barking ferociously. The stallion reared, lost its footing, and went down. When Ranulf tried to throw himself clear, his spur caught in the stirrup. He hit the ground hard enough to drive all the air out of his lungs, yanked desperately to free his spur, and rolled away from the horse’s flailing hooves. Before he could regain his feet, a soldier was standing over him, wielding a bloodied mace. His helmet took the brunt of the blow, undoubtedly saved his life. But the impact was still strong enough to stun. His vision blurred, and he saw the mace start to descend again through a wavering red haze, powerless to deflect it. The blow never landed. Someone grabbed his assailant’s arm, spoiling his aim. “Do not kill this one, you fool! Look at his horse! He’ll be able to pay a goodly ransom!”

  RANULF’S arms were pinned behind his back, bound with leather thongs. He and the other prisoners, those judged worthy of ransoming, had been dragged over to the almonry, shoved against the wall, and held under guard. Ranulf’s head was throbbing so wildly that his slightest move set the world to whirling around him. He closed his eyes tightly until the dizziness subsided. When he opened them again, he could think only of those ancient Roman circuses, for the comic and the tragic had merged into a scene as bizarre and compelling as any he’d ever witnessed.

  Bodies lay sprawled at odd angles. Horses milled about in panic. Convent dogs barked hysterically. Plundering had already begun. Soldiers had broken into the abbess’s dwelling and the guesthouse in search of valuables. Others were ransacking the buttery for wine. Not far from Ranulf, two youths were squabbling good-naturedly over a lute, while a third staggered under the weight of a massive coffer. When he broke the lock, revealing neatly folded veils, wimples, and habits, his friends roared with laughter at his chagrin. There was an almost festive air about the looting, but sporadic fighting still continued. John Marshal and the men with him had managed to barricade the church, and some of the Flemings were attempting to force their way inside. And through it all, there echoed the screams of the nuns and children.

  Ranulf tugged at his bonds, to no avail. He’d have to concoct a false identity, for if they learned he was Maude’s brother, he’d not have a prayer in Hell of being ransomed. Mayhap he could claim to be a knight of her household; that would explain why she’d be willing to buy his freedom. It was hard to think clearly, though, when his head was pounding like a drum. As he tried to contrive an alias, one that would alert Maude as to his true identity, more riders rode through the gateway. As they passed Ranulf and the other prisoners, his heart skipped a beat, for he recognized William de Ypres, and he did not doubt that the Fleming could also recognize him.

  Ypres beckoned to several of his captains. After conferring briefly with them, he started toward the church. He’d not ridden far before a nun ran out to intercept him. She was an elderly woman, barely five feet tall, plump and pink-cheeked, as unlikely a foe as he could imagine. But she displayed no fear whatsoever, boldly blocking his horse’s path, and when Ypres reigned in, she cried fiercely, “God will curse you forever if you do not stop this from occurring!”

  Ypres assumed that she was blaming him for shedding blood in God’s Acre. But when she warned that “There is no greater sin than to defile one of His daughters!” he understood. “Where?” he said, and she pointed toward the stables.

  The horses had already been led from the barn, for they were among the most prized of all plunder. It was not empty, though. In a shadowy back stall, two men crouched over a struggling, thrashing figure. One was kneeling on the girl’s outstretched arms, a hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her screams, while his partner was tearing away her habit. They were so intent upon their prey that they did not at once realize they had an audience. Their recoil was almost comical, therefore, when Ypres queried, “I trust I am not interrupting anything of importance?”

  They whirled, groping for their weapons, weapons that went untouched as soon as they recognized the identity of this intruder. They knew Ypres on sight—and by reputation—every man in his army did. The young nun gasped for breath, then pleaded with Ypres to help her, but he kept his eyes upon the men.

  Ypres seemed in no hurry, gazing down at them impassively. “She is a pretty bit, what I can see of her. So…if she’s what you want, go to it. In all fairness, though, you ought to know this. The last time one of my men raped a nun, I cut off his cock and fed it to him.”

  The nun understood none of this, for Ypres spoke in Flemish. “Please,” she sobbed, but without hope, for this cold-eyed man on a grey stallion did not have the look of a saviour. It seemed miraculous to her, therefore, when her assailants suddenly let her go, scrambled to their feet, and fled the stables. Her relief gave way almost at once to a new jolt of fear; what if this foreign knight meant to finish what his men had begun? She clutched at her ripped garments, and when she dared to look up again, she started to weep in earnest, no longer doubting her deliverance, for Ypres was gone.

  As he rode out of the stables, Ypres was met by one of his captains and the elderly nun, now gripping a pitchfork, much to his amusement. “Your lamb is within, Sister,” he said, “scared but unsullied.” She gave him a hard, hostile look, then brushed past him into the stables. Ypres laughed. “That old lady,” he said, “loves us not.”

  His captain grinned. “I truly thought she was going to run those fools through!”

  “No loss if she had. When you can buy a woman for a fistful of coins, why do these dolts have to muck about with nuns? Now…what is happening in the church?”

  “Some of them have holed up inside, refusing to surrender. Marshal is amongst them, and that one will hold out till we’re all too old and feeble to fight.”

  “Patience,” Ypres said, “is a nun’s virtue, not mine. Let’s make it easy on us all, Martin. Find some kindling.”

  Ranulf had tensed as Ypres emerged from the stables, fearing that at any moment, the Fleming would glance his way. He was not close enough to hear the orders being given, but he soon saw what they meant to do, and began to struggle frantically against his bonds, until one of his guards came over and threatened to slice off an ear if he did not keep still. Ranulf slumped back, for by now it was too late. Ypres’s soldiers had flung blazing torches onto the porch, were shooting fire arrows into the shutters, up onto the roof shingles. Ranulf watched in horror as the church began to burn, for he was sure that Gilbert was one of the men trapped inside.

  WHEN he’d raced into the church, Gilbert had thought Ranulf was right behind him. By the time he discovered his mistake, the other men were hastily barring the doors and latching the shutters, dragging altars over to blockade the entrances. With daylight cast out so suddenly, the church was plunged into darkness. It was hot and uncomfortable inside, crowded with anxious men and two terrified nuns, who’d had the bad luck to be in the chancel when John Marshal seized control. The atmosphere was grim, for they knew they could not hold out for long. Their only hope was to offer so much resistance that their attackers would decide it was not worth the effort to overcome them. Under John Marshal’s command, they managed to beat back two assaults. But one of the doors was beginning to split under repeated blows, and when they opened a shutter for their crossbowmen to fire out, a torch was tossed through into the nave. They were able to quench it, but they could still smell smoke, and they soon discovered why—the church was afire.

  WHEN John Marshal ripped up an altar cloth and soaked it in the holy water font as protection against the smoke, Gilbert did the same. And when the smoke and flames became too intense, he followed Marshal�
�s lead again, and they retreated up the stairs to the dubious shelter of the bell tower. He was not long in regretting it, not long in realizing he’d made the greatest mistake of his life. The heat was getting unbearable. Smoke was seeping up into their sanctuary, and they could hear the crackle of the flames below; it sounded to Gilbert as if half the church were ablaze. “My lord,” he said, “if we stay up here, we’ll die for certes. We’d best surrender whilst we still can.”

  John Marshal blotted sweat from his forehead with a corner of the altar cloth. Raising his head, he stared at Gilbert. “You take a step toward that door, and I’ll kill you myself. We are not going to surrender.”

  Gilbert’s mouth dropped open. Was the man serious? Marshal was regarding him with unblinking, inscrutable eyes. “What are you saying, that it is better to be roasted alive than surrender?”

  “I have no intention of being roasted,” Marshal said calmly. “That door ought to keep out the worst of the smoke for now. This church is stone, will take a while to burn. We can wait them out—as long as we do not panic. I cannot speak for you, Fitz John, but I’m not one for panicking.”

  Gilbert had never doubted his own courage, but he was not willing to dice with Death, not like this. He’d watched from one of the tower windows as men reeled out of the flames, coughing and choking. Some were spared, some were not. But a quick sword thrust was not the worst of ways to die. Being trapped in a burning building with a lunatic suddenly seemed a far worse fate. “We’ll be doomed if we stay up here!”

  “No,” Marshal said, “we will not,” and to Gilbert’s dismay, he sounded faintly amused. “God favors risk-takers. He’ll not let us burn.”

  Gilbert was speechless. He watched warily as Marshal moved toward a window, having made up his mind to bolt for the door at the first opportunity. But then Marshal gave a triumphant cry. “What did I tell you? They are riding off!”

  “Truly? God be praised!” Gilbert darted over, joining Marshal at the window. The older man was leaning out recklessly, laughing. But then he screamed and stumbled backward. Gilbert was stunned, not sure what had happened. Had he been hit by an arrow? There was a sudden stench; although he’d encountered it only once, the night the man in the pillory had died, he’d never forget it—the smell of burning flesh. Marshal had dropped to his knees, making no sound now, rocking back and forth in agony. When Gilbert bent over him, he got his first look at Marshal’s face, and his stomach heaved. “Christ,” he choked. “Your eye…it is gone!”

  NUNS had rushed from hiding in a futile attempt to save their church. Ypres’s soldiers held them back, and they watched in despair as flames swept through the nave. When the roof collapsed, they wept and then prayed. But their prayers went unheeded, for the wind was swirling fiery embers up into the sky. A shower of cinders drifted down into the cloister garth, and some of them landed upon the dorter roof, setting the shingles afire.

  By then the enemy was gone. William de Ypres saw no reason to tarry any longer in the ravaged abbey. He was disappointed that John Marshal was not among the men who’d fled the flames, but the whoreson was probably halfway to Hell by now, he said, for no one was getting out of that inferno alive. Halting the looting, he dispatched some of his men back to camp with their wounded and dead, their prisoners, their captured horses and booty. The others he took with him, for the town of Andover lay just a few miles up the road, too tempting a target to resist. They’d reached the river ford when they heard the bells pealing in the distance. His men were puzzled as to the source of the sound, but Ypres merely laughed. “Do you not know what that is?” he said. “Those are funeral bells, tolling for Winchester!”

  RANULF’S balance was still unsteady and he stumbled frequently. But his emotional equilibrium was even more precarious. He no longer cared about his own peril. He realized that Winchester was now doomed, but it did not seem to matter anymore. There was but one image filling his brain: a burning church. He’d watched Gilbert die, as hideous a death as he could imagine, and a needless one. If he’d not been so stubbornly set upon taking part in this lunacy, Gilbert would still be alive.

  Surrounded by other prisoners and guards, Ranulf was alone with his grief and his remorse. He trudged along in a daze, not noticing when he was prodded to keep pace. When a knight reined in beside him, he paid the man no heed. Not even the sound of his own name could cut through his fog.

  “Ranulf! Christ Jesus, have you gone deaf? Ranulf!”

  Ranulf stopped, but the sun was in his eyes. The man’s face was dark and sharply sculptured and familiar. “Ancel?”

  Ancel slid hastily from the saddle. “I want a word with this man,” he said curtly, waving away the closest of the guards. “I could not trust my eyes at first,” he confessed, pitching his voice now for Ranulf’s ears alone. “Why would you risk your neck like this? Did you truly expect to take us by surprise? A starving city is a natural breeding ground for spies! You ought to—Ranulf? What ails you? Do you even hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  Ancel’s narrow black eyes probed Ranulf’s face, then roamed over his hauberk in search of blood, finally finding it encrusted along Ranulf’s temple, half hidden by the tousled blond hair. “More fool I,” he said. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “I am not the one…” Ranulf swallowed with difficulty. “Gilbert is dead. He was in the church.”

  Ancel paled, then spun around to stare at the distant smoke billowing up behind them. When he turned back, his eyes glistened with unshed tears and his hands had balled into hard fists. “God rot them all!” he spat. “Stephen and Ypres and yes, that precious sister of yours!”

  Ranulf blinked. “Annora?”

  “Not my sister,” Ancel hissed, “Yours! Just how clouded are your wits? Can you fend for yourself?”

  Ranulf started to nod and winced. “I think so…why?”

  Instead of answering, Ancel turned his attention to his horse. He seemed to be adjusting the girth strap, but Ranulf soon saw what he was really about: he’d moved so that his stallion now blocked the closest guard’s view. “Hold still,” he said, and Ranulf felt his bonds giving way. Ancel swiftly stooped, slid his dagger into the top of Ranulf’s boot. He gave Ranulf no chance to respond, swung up into the saddle, and urged his stallion on, not looking back.

  Ranulf lagged farther and farther behind, biding his time. His chance came as the road dipped, for the ground fell away to the right, and he crouched, then slid down into the hollow. Some of the other prisoners saw him go. He did not think, though, that they’d give him away. Had any of the guards noticed? But his fear of capture was soon forgotten, for his head was spinning again. Long after his enemies had moved on, he lay there in the hollow, his cheek pressed into the grass, his fingers digging into the dirt as he prayed for the pain to pass.

  IT was almost dark by the time Ranulf was within sight of the walls of Winchester. Maude’s men still controlled the fields within arrow-shot of the city, and he approached the North Gate without fear. He was admitted at once, and it was like plunging down into a well, for the citizens had heard of their calamitous defeat at Wherwell, and they were understandably terrified. They trailed Ranulf to the castle, but when they sought his promise that his sister would not abandon them, he had no assurances for them, only a heart-wrenching and exhausted surge of pity.

  Maude came running down the steps of the great hall, flung her arms around Ranulf. Even through his numbed fatigue, he was surprised, for he’d never known her to be so unrestrained in public. “Thank God,” she cried, “oh, thank God…” Stepping back, she sought to compose herself, gave up the struggle, and embraced him again. “We were so afraid you were dead!”

  By then, Robert had reached them. “I do not know,” he said, “when I have ever been so glad to see anyone as I am to see you, lad.” Turning, he called to a man just coming through the doorway of the hall, “Fetch Lord Rainald! Tell him his brother is alive!” After a second, closer look at Ranulf, he added, “And find the doctor!”
>
  “I have no need of a doctor,” Ranulf insisted, even as he wondered where he’d find the strength to climb those few steps into the hall. “You know, then, what happened?”

  “We know,” Maude said, and while her words might have referred only to the ambush, Ranulf could see in her eyes what they truly encompassed—her anguished acknowledgment that Wherwell was a devastating setback for her queenship claims and for Winchester, possibly a death blow.

  “A few men were able to get back to Winchester,” Robert said, “like you. But there are not many survivors. Most are either prisoners or slain. What of John Marshal, Ranulf? Do you know what befell him?”

  “He is dead.” Ranulf’s voice thickened. “So is Gilbert,” he said, “and it should have been me.”

  THE dream was fragmented, foreboding, and filled with dark undercurrents more frightening than overt menace. Ranulf awoke with relief, which lasted only until memory came flooding back. Waking or sleeping—he was no longer sure where lurked the worst nightmares. The room was shadowed; it seemed to be night, and for a troubling moment, he could not remember which night it was. Wednesday…it had to be Wednesday, for Tuesday night he did remember. The doctor had given him a potion to ease his pain, but he’d drunk little of it and tossed and turned restively till dawn. Maude had sat up with him; that he remembered, too. Stretching out, he tried to will sleep to return, and when it did not, he sought to coax it along with a flagon of wine. Eventually he did sleep again, a shallow, uneasy doze instead of the dreamless stupor he craved. And then it was morning, and his guilt-ridden grieving began anew.

  He’d gotten up and dressed, but although his earlier bouts of nausea had abated, he still had no appetite, and when his squire brought him bread and cheese for breakfast, he left it untouched. Luke hovered nearby, eager to serve, but Ranulf wanted no comfort, no solace, wanted only to be alone.