When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “No.” She bit her lip. “No…”

  His fingers brushed her cheek, her forehead. “You’re feverish, and little wonder, after all you’ve been through these three days past—”

  “Why did you not tell us you were ailing, Maude?”

  Maude blinked and Rainald’s face came into focus over Brien’s shoulder. “You said it was too dangerous to stay any longer at Devizes—”

  “Yes, but I had it in mind to get you to Gloucester alive!” Rainald patted her shoulder, awkwardly tender. “No matter, though, for we’ve gone only a few miles. I’ll send back to Devizes for a horse litter.”

  A horse litter was used only by the aged and the infirm, the helpless. Maude’s flush deepened. “You risked your lives for me,” she said huskily, “and I’ve let you down…”

  “Maude, that is not so!”

  “I agree with Brien, Sister. You’ve done right well for a woman. And that,” Rainald added hastily, “is but a joke!”

  “Rainald…thank you for seeing to my safety.”

  He shrugged, then smiled. “I reckoned it was time I started earning my earldom. Brien, make sure she stays put whilst I see about the horse litter.”

  Maude did lie still as he moved away, although her compliance was due to exhaustion. “Brien,” she said, so softly that he had to lean closer to hear, “I thank you, too. I owe you more than I could ever repay, mayhap even my life. You’ve been so loyal, and I…I did not even give you an earldom like Rainald!”

  Her smile was hesitant, her jest no less tentative. But Brien knew what she was really asking—why he’d been so loyal. He even knew what she would never let herself ask—why he cared. Reaching out, he entwined the tip of her long black braid around his fingers, remembering the way her hair had looked in John Marshal’s bedchamber, tumbling loose and lush and free about her shoulders. “I admire courage above all else,” he said, “and you are as brave as you are beautiful, as brave as any man and braver by far than most. Loyalty is the least that you deserve.”

  To Maude’s horror, tears filled her eyes. “What will I do, Brien, if Robert is dead?”

  “You will grieve for him, and then you’ll go on.”

  That was a lie, for Robert was their linchpin; without him to hold it together, her cause would falter, fall apart like her army at Winchester. But she was grateful to Brien for believing that she was strong enough to survive without Robert. “He is alive,” she insisted. “Robert and Ranulf and Miles…they are all alive. I am sure of that, Brien.” And if that was a lie, too, it was one they both needed to believe.

  SLEEP had always come easily to Stephen. He could catnap at a moment’s notice and it was a rare night when the day’s troubles invaded the safe shadow-realm of his dreams; even in sleep, he was not one for violating sanctuary. But that had changed abruptly in mid-July. The irons clamped upon his wrists had done more than chafe his skin and shrink his space; they also clanked loudest at night. Dragged down by their weight, he snatched what sleep he could, never more than skimming the surface. And so it took only the slightest sound—a stealthy footfall muffled in the floor rushes—to bring him upright in the bed, wide awake and wary. Before he could speak, though, a shadow flitted forward. “Make no noise, my lord, for I cannot be caught here. It is me—Edgar.”

  Stephen’s eyes were adjusting rapidly to the dark. “For you to come calling in the middle of the night, Edgar, you must have news that is very good or very bad. Which is it, lad?”

  Edgar hesitated. “In truth, my lord, it could be either.” Squatting in the floor rushes by the bed, he said, “You must know what I overheard in the hall. Lady Amabel got word tonight from the empress.”

  “From Winchester?”

  Edgar shook his head. “Winchester has fallen to your queen. The empress fled the city on Sunday morn, and escaped by the Grace of God and a fast horse. She reached Gloucester last night, weary unto death but luckier than many, for her army’s retreat turned into a wild rout. Men lost their weapons and shed their armor and hid themselves howsoever they could. Lord Miles and the Scots king and the Earl of Devon and Lord Ranulf—they are all unaccounted for, their whereabouts unknown.”

  Stephen was quiet, taking it all in. “You omitted one name from that list of missing men. What of Robert Fitz Roy?”

  Edgar’s voice hoarsened. “No one knows…not yet. He did not run like the others, fought off the Flemings until they trapped him at the River Test. But in giving the empress time to escape, he may well have doomed himself, and she fears the worst. So does his wife. Poor lady, I heard her in the chapel, weeping as if her heart would break—”

  “Are you sure it was Amabel? I’d have thought she had more sense than that. Tears are a woman’s weapons and she ought not to squander them needlessly.”

  Edgar was shocked by the levity, enough to venture a timid reproach. “A widow’s grief ought not to be mocked, my lord. God would not approve.”

  “Amabel is no widow, lad. Robert is not dead. They’d have been loath to see him even bruised, much less mortally hurt. They took him alive, you may be sure of that, for Robert is my ransom…a king’s ransom,” Stephen said and laughed suddenly, jubilantly.

  “I hope so, my lord. Indeed, I do hope so,” Edgar said, sounding so dubious that Stephen gave him a quizzical look.

  “I’d not blame you if you did not, lad. I understand that you are loyal to Robert—”

  “Oh, no, my lord, it is not that! I wish the earl well, admire him mightily. But…but if I had money enough, it would be your freedom I’d buy, not his.”

  Hearing what he’d just blurted out, Edgar blushed, shamed by his disloyalty to Robert. He owed his lord better than that. And Stephen was the enemy, the possessor of a stolen crown. Yet none of that mattered, not anymore. “Earl Robert is my lord,” he said softly, “but you are my king.”

  Stephen smiled. “Should you not be glad, then, for me? You do understand what this means? To gain Robert’s freedom, Maude will have to give me mine. She’ll like it not, but she’ll do it, for she’ll have no choice.”

  Edgar nodded solemnly. “I know that, my lord. But…but what if the earl was not taken alive? What if he was struck down in the battle?”

  “Then Maude’s queenship hopes were struck down, too. She cannot win without him.”

  Edgar squirmed uneasily. “But…well, people without hope…they might…”

  “What are you so shy of saying, lad…that I might soon follow Robert to the grave? I have more faith in Maude than that. If she were capable of outright murder, I’d have been dead months ago.”

  Edgar was not reassured. He knew Stephen was more worldly than he, but he suspected that he’d had far more experience with desperation than ever Stephen had. “What if the empress was not consulted beforehand? What if some of her men took it upon themselves to rid her of her only real rival? If you were dead, my lord, I daresay most men would accept her as queen.”

  Now that he’d finally confessed his fears, Edgar looked up quickly to catch Stephen’s reaction. To his amazement, Stephen seemed quite unperturbed, almost amused. “It does not pay to borrow trouble, lad. If you do, you’re sure to end up with more than your share. I am not going to be smothered in my sleep or poisoned or take a convenient tumble down the stairs.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I believe in happy endings! If the Almighty had meant for me to die, I’d have died at Lincoln. What would be the purpose of my confinement if I were slain now, with vindication just within my reach? No, lad, the Almighty would never be so cruel.”

  Edgar didn’t argue, although Stephen’s benevolent Deity did not sound at all like the one he’d been taught to revere and fear, Jehovah, God of Wrath. He had a multitude of reasons for envying Stephen—his health and high birth and handsome face and devoted wife—but he found himself envying above all else Stephen’s utter certitude, his sunlit faith in what he’d just jokingly called a “happy ending.” Edgar could not imagine what it would be lik
e to dwell in a world so free of shadows. But then his own world was one in which he was known—to all but Stephen—as Scarecrow.

  “I’d best go,” he said, “ere I am missed. I’ll not see you on the morrow, my lord, for it is not my turn to guard you. But if I hear anything more about Earl Robert or the battle, I’ll find a way to get word to you.”

  Stephen shoved his pillow behind his shoulders, knowing he’d never be able to get back to sleep. He had long, wakeful hours ahead, but they would be a gift, a private time alone in which to rejoice, to thank the Almighty, and to anticipate a reunion with his wife. “Edgar…think you that you might like to see London one day? If so, you need only seek out my steward, William Martel, and identify yourself. You’ll have a place in my household waiting for you as long as I am king. You have but to come and claim it.”

  Edgar was mute, awed by the offer and all it encompassed. Reaching the door, he opened it cautiously, glanced back over his shoulder, grinned, and then was gone. The memory of that rapt, shining smile lingered, though, for it was the first time that Stephen had seen Edgar smile without bringing up his hand to shield his cleft lip.

  FROM the castle solar, Matilda could catch a glimpse of Winchester’s streets. People were out and about, the city slowly getting back to normal. But the damage done by the siege was even more extensive than she had first feared. On this sun-warmed September morning, she found herself dreading the coming of winter, knowing what suffering it would bring to Winchester.

  Turning from the window, she studied the men seated at the solar’s table. They were tense, expectant—except for Robert. He seemed quite calm; she suspected that he’d gotten a better night’s sleep than she had, and her anger flared without warning. If not for Robert, Maude’s claim would have flickered out by now, a candle quenched and cast aside. But anger was a luxury she could not afford, not yet. Instead she smiled; she was learning to use smiles as shields.

  “I trust you’ve thought about our last conversation?” she queried, pointedly but still polite. Robert smiled, too, a noncommittal smile that was as meaningless as her own, saying nothing, and her brother-in-law stirred impatiently.

  “What is there to think about? We’ve made you a remarkable offer, Robert. You need only renew your allegiance to Stephen and take your rightful place in the government—as his second-in-command. How could you even contemplate turning down an opportunity like that?”

  Robert glanced from the bishop to Matilda, then over at Ypres. They’d promised to give him a vast amount of power. He wondered impersonally if they meant it, if it was bribe or hoax. “As you say, Cousin Henry, a ‘remarkable offer.’ But it is not one I can fairly judge under the present circumstances. Set me free and I shall give it the consideration it deserves.”

  He saw their faces change as they absorbed his answer, saw their disappointment and anger and—from Ypres—a grim glimmer of amusement. “I will not betray my sister,” he said quietly. “You ought to have known that.”

  Matilda’s eyes narrowed. “I will not apologize for trying to halt this needless, bloody war. I am sorry, Robert, that you cannot see the harm you are doing, sorrier than I can say. But so be it.”

  “I think you made a fool’s choice,” the bishop said brusquely, “but you are the one who’ll have to live with it. So…let’s talk of a trade: your freedom for Stephen’s. That should be simple enough to arrange. There is a pen and inkwell on the table, and plenty of parchment. The sooner you write to your sister, the sooner you—”

  “I cannot do that.”

  They stared at him. “Why not?”

  “I cannot agree to a trade on those terms. I am but an earl, whilst Stephen is a consecrated king. I would have an inflated sense of my own worth, indeed, were I to believe I was a king’s equal. If Stephen is to be freed, it is only fair that the men taken prisoner with me at Le Strete should be freed, too.”

  There was an astonished silence, broken by Ypres. “Set them free, without ransoms? Never whilst I draw breath!”

  He sounded so indignant that Robert knew at once he must have captured one or more highborn prisoners himself. “Those are the only terms that I can accept.”

  “I hardly think you are in a position to dictate terms!” the bishop snapped. “I think it is time for some plain talking. You’ve been very well treated so far, Cousin, but that can change. We know that Maude clapped Stephen in irons. I daresay we can find some for you, too, if it comes to that.”

  Robert remained impassive. “We all do what we must.”

  Ypres leaned across the table. “You’d do well to remember that I am no friend to you, Fitz Roy. Moreover, I’ve always looked upon mercy as a character flaw.”

  “Willem!” Matilda confined herself to that involuntary objection, not willing to reprimand Ypres in Robert’s presence. The bishop had no such scruples, and aimed a withering look in the Fleming’s direction.

  “You are but wasting your breath and our time, Ypres. He knows full well that we’ll not be torturing him to break his will. Matilda would never abide it, nor would I. Let’s talk, instead, of confinement. Not the kind you’d enjoy, Cousin. And not in England, either, where you might find friends foolhardy enough to attempt a rescue. No…if you force us to it, we’ll send you to Matilda’s lands in Boulogne. I’d advise you to think on that prospect long and hard: a lifetime alone in the dark, with no hope of escape.”

  Robert was not intimidated. But neither was he defiant. Sounding eminently reasonable, as if he were merely pointing out a hitherto overlooked fact, he said, “And whilst I was rotting away in a Boulognese dungeon, what do you think would be happening to Stephen?”

  AMABEL picked up a pen without enthusiasm. She’d been taught to read and write in her youth; lacking a son, her father had lavished unusual care upon the education of his daughters. Writing was a clerk’s task, though, and she’d had little practice at it. But this was not a letter she dared dictate to a scribe; she no longer trusted her own discretion.

  To my daughter Maud, Countess of Chester, greetings:

  I would that I had word for you of your father’s fate, but it has been three days now since I joined Maude at Gloucester, and we’ve heard nothing. I fear I shall go stark mad if we do not soon

  Reconsidering, she scratched out that last sentence. Gripping the pen again, she wrote:

  Miles Fitz Walter reached us yesterday, in a sorry state indeed—bruised and bleeding and hungry and dispirited, having made his way alone to Gloucester after his command shattered. And last night a message arrived from Gilbert Foliot, the abbot of the Benedictine monastery here. He was one of the churchmen with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and reports they were ill used, their horses stolen, their belongings rifled; those impious knaves even robbed the archbishop of a silver cross. But they were not harmed, and Abbot Gilbert vows to bring Minna back with him as soon as he can provide a safe escort—you remember Minna, that dour German woman of Maude’s? We still do not know, though, what befell Ranulf or the Scots king; pray God they were able to escape as Miles did.

  Her pen hovered above the parchment as her attention wandered, and ink dripped down onto the letter. She could not seem to control her thoughts anymore; every road led her back to Robert and that wretched river crossing at Le Strete.

  Your brothers Will and Philip are back at Bristol, keeping a close watch upon Stephen, but I brought Roger with me. He is so sure that Robert is alive and unhurt, but a priest would not be likely to lack faith, would he?

  She got no further. Her head came up, the pen slipping from her fingers. Her maid had heard it, too. Casting aside her sewing, she said, “Something is amiss below-stairs.” But by then Amabel was already halfway to the door.

  The great hall was lit by smoking torches and an open hearth fire. Coming from the dark of the stairwell, Amabel squinted at the sudden brightness. Maude and Rainald and Brien and Miles were clustered in a circle, utterly intent upon a new arrival. She could tell only that he was of middle height, for her view was b
locked by those crowding around him, but her heart leapt in a sudden, desperate surge, a hope that plummeted as Rainald moved aside, revealing the man in their midst. She thought Ranulf looked ghastly, his face bloodless and haggard, dark eyes glazed and unfocused—until he glanced her way.

  “You are a welcome sight—” she began as he strode toward her, but Ranulf cut her off, as if his safety were of no matter.

  “Robert was taken prisoner at Le Strete,” he said. “But he was not harmed, Amabel, I swear he was not.”

  “Be sure what you say, Ranulf. For God’s Pity, be very sure!”

  “I am sure,” he insisted. “I was there. I saw him surrender.”

  “You were there?” she echoed blankly. “And you left him? You just rode off and left him? Jesus wept, how could you?”

  His face twitched, as if he’d taken a blow. “It…it was too late,” he stammered, “was all over by the time I got there…”

  He sounded as wretched as he looked, and somewhere in the back of her brain, she perceived his pain, acknowledged her own unfairness. But she did not want to be fair, not anymore. Robert had toiled his entire life striving to be fair, and where had it gotten him? “He would never have abandoned you,” she cried, “never! You know he—”

  “How dare you!” Maude’s voice was choked, so great was her fury. “Ranulf would have given his life for Robert! If you must blame someone, blame me, then. But not Ranulf, damn you, not Ranulf!”

  “You are right—for once. The blame does belong to you, Maude, and I’ll not cheat you of any of it!”

  Maude stepped closer, grasped Amabel’s arm. “I care not if you make a fool of yourself. But Robert would. You owe him better than this.”

  The realization that Robert would indeed have disapproved of her behavior only stoked Amabel’s rage all the higher. “You are right again,” she said, with a tight, brittle smile. “Twice in a row—a record for certes.” She pulled free of Maude’s hold then, so violently that she stumbled backward, and when she felt a steadying hand upon her arm, she started to lash out at this new enemy. It was only when she heard his indrawn protest of “Mama” that she glanced up at his face, recognized her youngest son.