When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Ranulf could not help smiling, thinking they made an odd sight, indeed: muffled in mantles up to their ears, their breath frosting the air as they searched for seats; the castle’s chairs, benches, and stools had long ago gone up in smoke. Rob d’Oilly was the last one to arrive. As a rule, Maude did not like to be kept waiting. Tonight, though, she seemed quite tolerant of Rob’s tardiness, which confirmed Ranulf’s suspicions—his sister had something in mind, and he’d wager the surety of his soul that it was not surrender.

  “I have been giving thought to what you said, Rob, and I have decided that you are right. Our men have put up a gallant defense, but they have endured enough. The time has come to put an end to this. If you offer to surrender the castle, you ought to be able to get generous terms from Stephen, a promise that the garrison goes free.”

  Rob looked relieved, the other men stunned. “Maude, no!” Ranulf exclaimed. “It may seem hopeless, I’ll not deny that. But you cannot give up. If you surrender, you’ll be shut away from the world for the rest of your life. Stephen will never let you go!”

  “I am not giving up, Ranulf. And I have no intention of surrendering to Stephen. But it is obvious by now that we have no reasonable hopes of being rescued. Robert would never abandon me. If he has not come to my aid, it is because he cannot. So it is up to me to save myself—if I can—by escaping from the castle.”

  “My lady, I doubt neither your resolve nor your enterprise, and for certes, not your courage. But this time I fear you are well and truly trapped. You cannot very well fly over the castle walls, and every gate is watched night and day by Stephen’s sentries, even the little postern in the west wall.”

  “No, Hugh, I cannot fly over the wall,” Maude agreed, with just the hint of a smile. “But I could be lowered down from St George’s Tower onto the iced-over moat. The marshes must be frozen solid by now, and the river, too. If I am right, I ought to be able to cross in safety. If I am wrong…” A slight shrug. “As I see it, I do not have much to lose.”

  She did, of course. She was putting up the highest of all stakes—her life. But Ranulf would have made the same wager, had he been the one facing a lifetime’s imprisonment. “You are proposing, then, to walk right through Stephen’s lines? That is without doubt the maddest idea I’ve ever heard. When do we try it?”

  Maude looked at him and laughed. “Tonight…after it is full dark.”

  “Would it not be safer to wait until the snow stopped? To be out and afoot on such a night…you’d have as much to fear from the weather, Maude, as from Stephen’s men.”

  Marveling at his slowness, Maude said patiently, “What better cover could I have, Rob, than a snowstorm? Stephen’s guards will not be able to see beyond the noses on their own faces, and they’ll be too cold and wretched to be showing much zeal for sentry duty. With but a bit of luck, we ought to be well-nigh invisible. Show them, Minna.”

  Even as Minna reached into the closest coffer, Ranulf had a sudden epiphany. “The sheets!” he cried, bursting into enlightened laughter. Hugh began to laugh, too. The others remained perplexed—until Minna straightened, holding up her handiwork for them to see: a hooded mantle as white as milk…or newly fallen snow.

  By now they were all laughing. Maude passed the white cloaks around for their admiring inspection. “I count four of these remarkable garments,” Hugh said, “and since two are already spoken for, I hereby lay claim to the third. Who gets the last one?”

  Alexander de Bohun looked irked that it should even be open to question. But before he could speak, Maude headed him off. “I would like you to remain at the castle, Alex, so you might assist Rob in striking a deal with Stephen.” The words themselves were bland; the real message was relayed as their eyes met. They’d been together long enough to read each other without difficulty, and Alexander understood at once what Maude was telling him—that she wanted him to keep Rob from making any costly errors in the negotiations with Stephen. He did not like it any, but he did not argue; he shared her doubts about Rob’s judgment.

  “The fourth man has to be a local lad,” Ranulf pointed out, “someone who knows every lane and deer track in the shire. Stephen’s sentries are not going to be the only snow-blind ones out there. Without a truly trustworthy guide, we’re likely to wander around out in the woods till we freeze to death.”

  Their eyes all turned toward Rob, who was quiet for a few moments, his brow furrowed in thought. And then he smiled. “I know just the man you need. He was born and bred in Berkshire, could probably find his way to Wallingford in his sleep. And he is cocky enough to jump at the chance to show off his tracking skills. Moreover, he has a brother or a cousin—I’m not sure which—who took vows at St Mary’s Abbey. You will be heading for Abingdon first?”

  Maude nodded, moved to the coffer chest, and drew out a small leather-bound book. “Rob, I want you to keep this safe. There are two letters hidden in the binding, one to Robert, telling him that this was my doing and my choice, and one to my sons…just in case.”

  They looked at one another, the edgy laughter stilled, acknowledging in their sudden silence the magnitude of the risk and the slim likelihood of success.

  THEY gathered in an upper chamber of St George’s Tower shortly before midnight. The only light was a flickering oil lamp, and when they were ready to unlatch the shutters, Minna prudently blew upon the sputtering wick, for darkness was their only defense, the continuing snowfall their only hope.

  Their preparations had been made. Hugh had a small sack filled with dried meat, Ranulf carried flint and tinder, Maude a pouch in which coins had been wrapped in cloth to keep them from clinking, and the men had wineskins hooked to their belts. The farewells had already been said, and Maude had coached Rob in how to deal with Stephen’s demands. “Tell him,” she instructed, “that you ask nothing on my behalf, that your concern is for the safety of the garrison. That way he cannot accuse you of lying later, once he learns I am gone.”

  Their guide was a skinny, undersized youth, barely twenty, with an unkempt shock of fair hair, so blond it looked white, and as incongruous a name as they could imagine: Sampson. At first glance, he seemed an unlikely candidate for such a dangerous mission. But his slender build was deceptive; he was as lean and lithe as a greyhound and as eager to hunt. “Are we ready?” he queried jauntily, sounding for all the world as if they were embarking upon a grand adventure instead of attempting to cross through enemy lines in the midst of a snowstorm. “I’ll go first,” he offered, swinging his legs over the window ledge. A moment later, he was gone, climbing down the rope so rapidly that he made it look easy.

  Ranulf was the next to go. “If any of you whoresons eat my dogs once I’m gone, I’ll come back from the grave if need be to make you pay,” he warned, and launched himself out into space to the accompaniment of joking threats about dyrehund stew. His trip was a lot rougher than Sampson’s had been; buffeted by the wind, he was bumped bruisingly against the tower, and slid the last few feet, leaving rope burns on his palms.

  Hugh was already shinnying down the swaying rope. Alexander and Rob were to lower Maude slowly once the men had climbed down, and Ranulf and the others watched nervously now as she started the perilous descent. The wind tugged at her cloak, blew back her hood, and at one point, the rope jerked, plummeting her briefly toward the ground before the men above were able to brace themselves again. By then she was close enough for Ranulf and Hugh to catch. She leaned against Ranulf, struggling to regain her breath as Hugh cut away her rope harness. No one spoke—they dared not risk it—but the same thought was in all their minds. It was not a comfortable feeling, being on the wrong side of the castle walls.

  Their first test of faith was the castle moat. With Sampson in the lead, they stepped out gingerly onto the ice, and when it held, they shared tense smiles. It was bitterly cold, but the wind was not constant. A sudden gust would send snow swirling across their path, stinging their eyes and skin, but then it would subside. If not for the castle wall rising up at t
heir backs, Ranulf would have been utterly disoriented, for all recognizable landmarks were camouflaged or buried. But Sampson showed no hesitation, striking out boldly as if following the King’s Highway. Peering into the impenetrable blackness ahead, he whispered, “We’re coming up on the millstream.” Ranulf and the others could not see a foot in front of their faces, so dark was it. They could only put their trust in Sampson, and they trailed after him out onto the ice again, for the millstream was just where he’d said it would be.

  Off to the east and west, they could now see smoke rising, and Sampson plotted a course that would take them between these enemy campfires. They had agreed that Stephen’s sentries would not likely be patrolling on a night like this; for certes, any man with sense would be keeping as close to the fire as he could get. They felt sure they had logic on their side. But they knew, too, that gambles are won by luck as much as logic.

  The drifts were deep, and it was more tiring than any of them had anticipated, their pace a slow and laborious one. The marshes were hidden under a blanket of soft snow, but the ground was frozen so hard that it was difficult to remember these same meadows had been under water when the siege began.

  They crossed a second stream with encouraging ease. Ranulf guessed they had come no more than half a mile, but already the castle had disappeared into the darkness. Visibility was so poor that Hugh walked straight into a tree, a mishap that might have been comic if not for the fact that he gashed his cheek on a splintered branch, just missing his eye, more proof—as if they needed it—of how vulnerable they were out here, for any mistake was likely to be lethal.

  Sampson was in the lead, with Ranulf and Hugh close behind, breaking a trail for Maude, who was hampered by her skirts. When Sampson stopped abruptly, flinging up his hand in warning, they froze as a rider materialized out of the night. His stallion’s hoofbeats made no sound upon the snow; moving with a ghostly grace, it seemed more like a phantom spirit than a flesh-and-blood animal, an illusion enhanced by its odd color, the shade of pale smoke. The rider was enveloped in a dark mantle, his face shadowed by a peaked hood, and he seemed no more real than his mount. There was a fey, dreamlike quality to the encounter—until he turned his head and looked in their direction.

  No one moved. No one even blinked. For seconds that lasted longer than years, he seemed to be staring right at them. And then he shook his head, like a man trying to clear cobwebs from his brain, made a sketchy sign of the cross, and rode on. No one spoke for another eternity. Had he decided he could not possibly have seen what he’d first thought? Had he concluded that these spectral white shapes were but a figment of his imagination? Or had he only sensed a presence, instinct overruled, then, by reason? They would never know.

  As soon as they dared, they pushed on, blessing Maude’s foresight, her camouflaging white cloaks. They’d not gone far when they saw a gleam through the trees up ahead. Quickening their steps, resisting the urge to keep looking over their shoulders, they halted on the riverbank, staring in silence at the icy grey surface of the Thames.

  The moat and millstream had been obstacles to be overcome, but the Thames would be their grave if Maude’s gamble failed, if the ice was not solid. Trying not to think of the depth and power of that frigid current, trying not to remember how unusual it was for the Thames to freeze over, they clasped hands and slowly ventured out onto the ice. As they moved farther from shore, they could hear snapping sounds as the ice settled, and first one and then another would pause, eyes straining for cracks. Each footstep was an act of hope, an expenditure of courage. They had almost reached the far bank when Ranulf’s boot skidded. In the fragmented instant before his body hit the ice, they all saw it break under his weight, pitching them into the ink-black water. There was a thud that could surely have been heard back in Oxford, and then…nothing. The ice held firm, and a few moments later, they had achieved a rare distinction: they would be able to say in all honesty that they had crossed the River Thames without even getting their feet wet.

  “That was fun,” Maude said faintly, and caught the flicker of shaken grins. By common consent, they sought the shelter of a massive oak. Hugh pulled out his wineskin and passed it around. Maude drank so deeply that she choked; the wine was heavily spiced, burned its way down her throat, but she welcomed the heat, for never in her life had she been so cold. She’d not expected to be so tired so soon. She estimated they’d come about a mile or more. Which meant they had at least another five miles ere they reached Abingdon. “I am rested,” she lied. “Let’s go on.”

  The ground was sloping upward, and the snow was knee-deep in spots. It was like trying to run through water. The wind had shifted, was coming now from the south, and seemed intent upon blowing them back to Oxford. They stumbled repeatedly, clutching at one another to keep from falling. The trees were glazed in ice; branches broken off by the weight of the snow crunched underfoot and occasionally sent one of them sprawling. Hugh’s hands were growing numb; he tucked them into his armpits in an attempt to warm them, deciding that gloves might not be such an effete fashion, after all, even if they were worn only by women and princes of the Church. Panting and shivering, they struggled on, until at last they reached the crest of the hill.

  “Look,” Maude said softly, pointing back down the hill. The blowing snow was already drifting across their trail; soon all signs of their tracks would be gone, blotted out as if they’d never passed this way.

  “By God,” Hugh murmured, sounding awed, “we just might make it!”

  “You did not think we would?” Maude asked, and he shook his head with a grin.

  “Not a chance in Hell,” he admitted cheerfully, and Maude turned away hastily, moved almost to tears by their fealty and their reckless, rash gallantry. And there in the December darkness on this snow-clouded, silent hill, she beheld a glimmer of illuminating light, the realization that such loyalty could only be earned, not commanded, no matter who claimed England’s crown.

  It took them another six hours to reach Abingdon, and by the time they were within sight of the abbey walls of St Mary’s, they were in danger of losing the night. Leaving Ranulf and Maude to hide in the woods, Sampson and Hugh trudged out to seek admittance from the porter at the gate. Maude and Ranulf were both acquainted with Abbot Ingulph, had dined with him at Oxford Castle that summer, and Maude did not want to implicate him in her escape; while Stephen was not usually given to searching for scapegoats, it was difficult to predict what a man might do when reeling from the blow Stephen was about to take.

  So they had concocted a cover story for Sampson and Hugh, which explained their urgent need for horses without stirring up suspicions. Sampson was going to claim that he’d left Rob d’Oilly’s employ before the siege began, and now served Hugh, who’d taken on Bennet de Malpas’s name for the occasion, Ranulf’s sardonic contribution to the fable. Sampson’s cousin, Brother Joseph, would know better, of course, but Sampson swore he’d not say so, and they were fast learning to accept whatever the slight young soldier said as gospel, for he’d gotten them this far, had he not?

  The snow had stopped several hours ago, but began again as soon as Hugh and Sampson were out of sight, and this time the flakes were not soft and lazy, floating wisps of white lace. This dawn snowfall was wet and icy, pelted against their skin like sleet. Hugh and Sampson had shed the white cloaks that had so effectively disguised their mantles, and Maude and Ranulf made a little tent of them, huddling together in a futile search for warmth. They took turns talking, keeping each other awake, for exhaustion was on their trail, even if Stephen was not. And they could not be sure of that, either. Discovery and capture were still very real threats. That sentry might have reevaluated what he’d seen and decided to give the alarm. Or they could have the bad luck to run into one of Stephen’s patrols, now that daylight was nigh. Or Hugh and Sampson might fail, be unable to buy or borrow horses. There were any number of ways disaster could descend upon them, and between them, Maude and Ranulf thought of them all, seeking to scare
away sleep.

  The last night-shadows were in retreat and the wind was picking up as they heard approaching horses. Ranulf unsheathed his sword, drawing Maude in behind him. Moments later Sampson and Hugh rode into the clearing, mounted upon matching bay geldings, grinning from ear to ear. They’d agreed that it would be too suspicious to seek four horses, and now Sampson swung nimbly from the saddle, tossing Ranulf the reins. As soon as he’d assisted Maude up behind her brother, he vaulted onto Hugh’s mount, and confidently pointed out the direction they were to take. Putting spurs to their horses, they set off at as fast a pace as the weather and their double burdens would allow, leaving in the snow for the villagers to find and puzzle over, four hooded white cloaks.

  Wallingford Castle was nine miles away, so close and yet so far. Sampson was taking no chances, though, and steered clear of the Abingdon-Wallingford Road in favor of a safer cross-country route that he followed as unerringly as a bloodhound on the scent of prey. So it was almost noon before the castle at last came into view.

  Wallingford was one of the best-defended strongholds in England, and they were challenged as soon as they came within bow range of its massive walls. “Open up,” Ranulf shouted, “for the empress!” a claim so unexpected and so startling that the guard forgot all about caution and popped up to peer over the wall embrasure.

  “The empress is trapped at Oxford,” he shouted back. “What sort of lunatic trick is this?”

  Maude’s teeth were chattering too much for speech. Reaching up impatiently, she pulled back the hood of her mantle so the skeptical guard could see her face. There was a strangled sound up on the battlements, which might have amused her had she not been so very, very cold. She would later realize that Brien’s men had acted with impressive dispatch, but now it seemed to take an extraordinarily long time before the drawbridge began to lower and the gate swung open to admit her.