When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  They were soon spotted by sentries up on the city walls, who hurried to sound the alarm. But by then it was too late. Rob d’Oilly’s men were not expecting a flank attack on their own side of the river. They recoiled in confusion, and as Rob and his captains frantically tried to regroup, the main body of Stephen’s army came charging across the causeway and into the fray. Assailed from two sides, the defenders broke rank and sought to retreat back into the town. But when the guards up on the walls opened the South Gate to admit them, Stephen’s soldiers surged in, too, and the battle for Oxford was suddenly being fought in the streets of the city.

  FROM the keep battlements, Ranulf and Hugh de Plucknet and the others had watched helplessly as Stephen and Ypres bore down upon Oxford’s defenders. Racing to aid their beleaguered comrades, they were halfway down Pennyfarthing Street when the first fugitives from the battle fled into the town. Warned by the noise ahead, Ranulf slowed his stallion. The men with him reined in their mounts, too, just as the wind brought to them one of the most dreaded of all cries: “Fire!” As soon as they saw the smoke swirling up from the direction of Southgate Street, Ranulf and Hugh looked at each other in appalled understanding. “Christ, they are in the city!”

  Swinging their mounts about, they galloped back to the castle. There was no need for words; they all knew what must be done if they hoped to survive Stephen’s assault. Fortunately, Maude had anticipated disaster, and servants were already heating water in huge cauldrons. Once it reached the boiling point, they carried it up onto the wall-walk on either side of the gatehouse, knowing they’d have no margin for error and but one chance.

  Oxford was in chaos. The citizens had no training in the skills of war, and many of them panicked now, fleeing from Stephen’s pursuing soldiers instead of defending themselves. Stephen’s men were throwing torches into shops and onto roofs, and people were soon stumbling out of their barred and shuttered houses, coughing and choking. Some tried to take refuge in St Frideswide’s Priory, clambering over the monastery walls when the monks refused to open their gate. Knights on war-horses rampaged through the streets, and a few unlucky souls were trampled when they fell under the plunging hooves.

  There was some resistance offered, and the fighting was bloodiest in Great Bailey Street, where Rob d’Oilly and his knights were attempting an ordered retreat back to the castle. Once they were within sight of its walls, the drawbridge was lowered and they sprinted desperately for safety. When the enemy followed, seeking to rush the castle gates as they had the town’s gate, the men up on the walls poured scalding water down into their midst. There were terrible screams, most scattered, and several rolled on the ground in agony. Before the attackers could try again, the castle defenders raised the drawbridge.

  Rarely had a city been captured with such ease. Stephen could afford to be magnanimous, and sent some of his men to help put out the fires they had set, thus sparing Oxford the massive fiery destruction that had devastated Winchester. But when a town was taken by storm, it was turned over to the victorious army for their sport. Knowing what to expect, some of Oxford’s women had fled, hiding themselves in the woods or seeking refuge in the nearby nunnery at Godstow and the priory at Osney. Oxford’s shops were located mainly in Northgate Street and High Street, and these neighborhoods were pillaged first. Private homes could be plundered, too, and often were, for crimes were not crimes if committed in war. The townsmen concealed their valuables as best they could, feared for their wives and daughters, and prayed for Oxford.

  Not all the citizens were so distraught, of course. Some were relieved, for the suffering of those trapped in a besieged city could be terrible. Now at least they need not fear starvation. And the alehouses and brothels in Gropecunt Lane would thrive under the occupation.

  They were in the minority, though, and most of Oxford passed a nervous, wakeful night, the quiet broken by the brawling of celebrating soldiers, by laughter and cheerful cursing and, occasionally, a woman’s screams. In the morning, the city reeve, the prior of St Frideswide’s, and several members of the merchant’s guild made their way to the king’s encampment and pleaded for an audience with Stephen. When they finally returned, they brought comforting news for their anxiously waiting colleagues. The king had assured them that he held no ill will for the citizens of Oxford, and as long as they cooperated fully with his army, they’d not be harmed. All he wanted was the castle and the woman trapped within.

  MAUDE stood at the open window in the upper chamber of the castle keep, looking out at her cousin’s army. It was three years, almost to the day, since she’d gazed out upon a similar scene at Arundel Castle. But there were deadly differences between that siege and this one. Robert would have been able, then, to come to her rescue. Now he was in Normandy and unaware of her peril. Nor was Stephen going to set her free, send her safely on her way in another act of mad gallantry. Oxford was not Arundel. This time there would be no reprieve.

  26

  Cérences, Normandy

  November 1142

  WINTER came early that year to Normandy. Upon his arrival at Cérences, the latest Norman stronghold to yield to his father, Henry was delighted to find a dusting of snow upon the ground. He’d spent several hours collecting enough to build a snow fort and two days later, it remained intact out in the bailey, not yet melted. Although a blazing fire burned in the open hearth, the great hall still held a chill. Henry had a wax tablet propped up on his knees, and a bone stylus clutched in his fingers. He was supposed to be practicing his declensions of Latin nouns and adjectives, for he’d promised that his brief visits to his father’s sieges would not disrupt his studies, but he’d gotten no further than amicus magnus and amici magni.

  He knew what came next—amico magno—but instead he scratched Bastebourg into the wax, followed by Trevieres, Villiers-Bocage, Briquessard, Aunay-sur-Odon, Plessis-Grimoult, Vire, Tinchebray, Teilleul, St Hilaire, Mortain, and Pontorson. He had just space enough to add Cérences. He’d not made a conscious effort to memorize his father’s conquests, but he’d followed the campaign so closely that he now knew the names of the captured castles as well as he did the names of the servants who tended to him back in Angers.

  They were getting easier, these victories. Cérences had surrendered at once. Glancing across the hall, Henry studied his father and uncle as he should have been studying his Latin. He knew about their quarreling; all of Normandy knew. One more castle. It was always one more castle. They would triumph and then they would argue and his father would make Robert more promises, promises few thought he had any intention of keeping. Henry did not understand the rules about lying. His tutor said that lying was a grievous sin. But his father often joked that life without sinning was like food without salt, pure but tasteless. As far as Henry could figure, some lies were harmless, some were necessary, and some were unforgivable. But what if people could not agree which was which?

  Men kept coming into the hall, seeking shelter from the frigid November wind. Some of them Henry knew from past visits to siege sites. Fulk and Hugh de Cleers were rarely far from his father’s side. But his uncle Hélie was usually as far away from Geoffrey as he could get; men jested grimly that they could teach Cain and Abel about brotherly rivalry.

  Tonight Hélie was dicing with Henry’s cousin Philip. Philip’s family ties were tattered, too, these days; Henry hoped his father would never look at him the way he’d caught Robert looking at Philip, with disappointment too deep for words. Henry did not like Philip; he was moody and sarcastic and insisted upon calling Henry “Nine and Eight” after hearing Henry explain that he was nine years and eight months old. Henry didn’t mind being teased—his father teased him all the time—but he did mind being mocked; to his thinking, those eight months mattered.

  He did like the man watching the dice game, one of his uncle’s knights. He’d been put off at first by Gilbert Fitz John’s odd appearance, for he had but one eyebrow and no eyelashes. But Gilbert never failed to smile at sight of Henry, he’d patiently
answered Henry’s questions about the fire at Wherwell nunnery, and Henry no longer even noticed his scars.

  Geoffrey was usually the focal point of all eyes; that was a role he relished. Tonight he was sharing center stage with a new arrival, a man unfamiliar to Henry, a tall, fair-haired lord with a loud laugh and a tendency to run roughshod over any conversation but his own. Men seemed willing to listen to Waleran Beaumont, though, for he’d just come from Paris and was well informed about the great scandal sweeping the French court.

  Henry already knew about the scandal, for they’d been gossiping about little else back in Anjou. The Queen of France’s younger sister, Petronilla, had fallen in love with the Count of Vermandois. Count Raoul de Péronne was the French king’s cousin and his seneschal. He was fifty to her nineteen, an age that seemed vast indeed to Henry, but it was not the age difference that troubled people; it was not so uncommon for men to take much younger wives. The problem was that Raoul already had a wife. Petronilla would have him, though, wife or no, and she’d gotten her sister the queen on her side. Eleanor in turn had won over her husband, and to please her, King Louis set about finding a way to get rid of Raoul’s unwanted wife. The Bishop of Noyon, who happened to be Raoul’s brother, declared himself willing to dissolve the marriage on the grounds of consanguinity, and Louis found two other compliant bishops to go along with him. The marriage was invalidated, the countess and her children packed off to her uncle, and Petronilla and Raoul married before the ink was dry upon his annulment decree.

  Unfortunately for the newly wedded pair, Raoul’s repudiated wife was not without allies of her own. Her uncle was none other than Count Theobald of Blois and Champagne, Stephen’s brother and long a thorn in the French king’s side. Theobald had promptly appealed to the Pope, and the verdict was now in. According to Waleran Beaumont, the papal legate had reaffirmed the validity of Raoul’s marriage, excommunicated the guilty lovers until Raoul agreed to take back his lawful wife, and suspended the three bishops who’d been so overly eager to please their king.

  The news created a sensation, for it was sure to have dramatic repercussions. Yet none doubted the accuracy of Waleran’s account, for he was kin to the love-stricken count; Raoul de Péronne was his uncle. And when he added that the French king was so enraged by Theobald’s meddling that he was swearing upon Christ’s Cross to take a bloody vengeance upon the count’s lands in Champagne and Blois, none doubted that, either, for it would not be the first time Louis had gone to war on his wife’s behalf. Just a year ago, Louis had led an assault upon Toulouse, which Eleanor claimed through her grandmother. The claim was questionable, and the campaign so ill planned and poorly executed that it soon resulted in Louis’s ignominious retreat back to Paris, nursing a nasty wound to his pride.

  It was clear to Henry that these men held the French king in no high esteem, and he tucked his newfound fact away for future reference: that a man ought not to love his wife overly well, for if he did, other men would laugh at him. The rules about men and women were just as confusing as the code about lying. Wives were supposed to obey their husbands, but not all of them did. Not his mother, for certes! But the French queen not only did as she pleased, she got her husband to do what she wanted, too. That was a trick his mother had never learned; Papa begrudged her so much as a smile. Henry wondered why the French king was so eager to do his wife’s bidding, and he found himself suddenly curious about Eleanor, this woman who seemed to play by her own rules and get away with it. Once he was old enough, that was what he meant to do, too.

  The men were still joking about the scandal, but the festive mood ended abruptly when Waleran asked Geoffrey which castle would be assailed next. “Avranches,” Geoffrey said promptly. He did not look at Robert as he spoke, though, and Henry tensed, for he was learning to read storm signals in faces as well as cloud formations. Papa and Uncle Robert were on another one of their collision courses. He kept hoping that eventually Uncle Robert would wear Papa’s resistance down; either that or they’d run out of castles to besiege. But each time they clashed, he feared that their quarreling would flame out of control, end with his uncle’s giving up in disgust. And that must not happen. Papa had to agree. For Mama to ask for his help, her need must be dire.

  He was watching them uneasily for signs that trouble was brewing when servants ushered a stranger into the hall. Henry had never seen anyone look so bedraggled; his face was reddened and chapped by the cold, his clothing torn and filthy. But he was no beggar, for as his mantle parted, Henry glimpsed a sword riding low on his hip. He sat up hastily, understanding the significance of what he’d just seen. This pitiful wretch was a courier, one bearing a message worth risking his life, health, and horse for.

  Geoffrey had already pushed his chair back, getting to his feet. But the man never even glanced his way. Stumbling forward, he sank to his knees before Maude’s brother. Robert’s first, fervent hope was that this messenger was from Maude, for he was becoming more and more worried by the silence echoing across the Channel. The seal on the letter, though, was not hers.

  “You come from Brien Fitz Count?” he said, and the man nodded numbly.

  “I swore to him that I’d get to you as quick as I could, but my ship was caught in a gale and blown off course. We finally came ashore in Flanders. And then I did not know where you were campaigning—” He stopped, realizing he was rambling, putting off the moment of revelation. “The empress is in grave peril, my lord. Three days before Michaelmas, Stephen swooped down on Oxford, forced his way into the city, and lay siege to the castle.”

  Robert stared at him, appalled, then tore the letter open and read rapidly. When he looked up, his face was flushed with outrage. “They left her? Miles and Baldwin de Redvers and the others…those fools just rode off and left her to fend for herself?”

  The messenger nodded again, bleakly. “Stephen lured them off by raiding Cirencester, all but Ranulf Fitz Roy and my lord Brien at Wallingford. But he lacks the men to break the siege.”

  Robert already knew that; Brien’s letter had been brutally honest about the gravity of the danger Maude was facing. “Michaelmas,” he said, and then, “Jesus God!” for that meant Maude had been under siege for six weeks. The castle could fall to Stephen any day now—if it had not already fallen. Swinging around, he pointed an accusing finger at Maude’s husband. “This is your fault, too! If not for your damnable delays and excuses, I’d have been back in England in time to keep this from happening!”

  “And just what do you think we’ve been doing here—playing chess with real castles? We have been waging a campaign to conquer Normandy for my son, and I’d say that matters as much as your endless and futile skirmishings in England!”

  Robert made an enormous effort to master himself, clenching his teeth until his jaw muscles ached. “How much time will you need to make ready?”

  “More time than you can afford to spare. I am not about to break off this campaign and go chasing off to England on a misguided mercy mission. There are too many malcontents eager to take advantage of my absence,” Geoffrey said with a pointed glance in his brother Hélie’s direction. “You’d best sail on your own, Robert, and I’ll join you when and if I am able.”

  “If you are able?” Robert echoed scathingly, no longer bothering to mask his contempt. “Your wife is facing a lifetime’s confinement and you cannot even bestir yourself to ride a mile on her behalf? Just out of curiosity, is there anyone in Christendom whom you’d risk your selfish skin for—anyone at all?”

  “Not for that bitch at Oxford,” Geoffrey snapped. “And spare me your self-righteous wrath. The last I heard, men pray to God for expiation of their sins, not to the Earl of Gloucester. If I must choose between Maude and my son, that is as easy a choice as any man ever made. Normandy is Henry’s legacy, and I am going to see that he gets it, which is more than I can say for Maude and her pitiful efforts to claim the English throne. You dropped the crown at her feet after Lincoln, and she had only to pick it up. But she thr
ew it away, and I might forgive her for that—if it were not Henry’s crown, too. So whatever trouble she is in, she brought it upon herself, and not even you can deny it, not if you’re half as honest as you claim to be.”

  “I’ll not deny that Maude made some serious mistakes. But she shows more honour and courage in a single day than you can hope to find in a lifetime!”

  “You’ve overstayed your welcome, Brother-in-law,” Geoffrey said, and there was a quiet menace in his voice that was more daunting than threats or bluster. Robert did not look in the least daunted, though, and the men began to crowd in closer, some to intervene if need be, others to get a better view. But they soon moved aside, for Henry had shoved his way into their midst, using his elbows like weapons, kicking his uncle in the shins when Hélie did not let him through. Hélie let out a startled oath and grabbed for the boy, but Henry ducked under his outstretched arm and flung himself forward. Fists clenched at his sides, chin up, and head high, he stepped between his father and uncle, his defiant stance all the more poignant for the glimmer of blinked-back tears.

  “You need not go, Papa,” he said tautly. “Let Uncle Robert take me.”

  There were murmurings at that, pity and surprise and a few suppressed smiles. Hélie, his ankle still smarting from Henry’s blow, laughed outright. “I can just see you, sprout,” he gibed, “toting a sword taller than you are!” and Geoffrey turned upon him in a fury.

  “You are the last one in Christendom qualified to give my son lessons in manhood!” he snarled, and Hélie gave an indignant gasp. But before he could retaliate, Henry urged again:

  “Let me go, Papa.” It was not a demand, but neither was it an entreaty, and Geoffrey reached out, putting his arm around the boy’s rigid shoulders.

  “Come over here, lad, where we can talk. The rest of you men find some other way to entertain yourselves,” he said sharply. Steering a resistant Henry toward the comparative privacy of a window seat, Geoffrey was uncertain what to say next; it wasn’t often he found himself so thoroughly discomfited. “You were not meant to hear what you did. We did not realize you were in the hall. I know you are confused, lad, but you’re too young to understand what can go wrong between a man and his wife—”