When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Stephen scowled, and so did Matilda and William Martel. But the gibe did find an appreciative audience of one: a laugh floated from the window seat, where William de Ypres was comfortably sprawled, whittling upon a stick of white beech. His amusement seemed genuine, but his blade flashed all the while, paring the wood down to splinters.

  “Had you betrayed only me,” Stephen said, “I might have forgiven you. But you wronged my wife and Constance, and there can be no forgiveness for that.”

  Geoffrey de Mandeville said nothing, merely glanced toward Matilda and then away. But that look, brief as it was, was chilling in its intensity, its malevolence, for until that moment, Matilda had not known what it was like to be an object of hatred.

  “If I pleased myself, I’d keep you caged here at the Tower till you rotted. But you are luckier than you deserve,” Stephen said coolly, “for a number of your fellow barons have argued for clemency. And so I have decided to offer you a choice. If you cooperate, I will set you free.”

  Mandeville shifted awkwardly, for Stephen had not given him permission to rise and his calf muscles were cramping. “And what will this…cooperation of mine cost?”

  “You’ve already yielded the Tower. Surrender as well your castles at Pleshy and Saffron Walden and I’ll give you your freedom.”

  Mandeville took time to think it over, as if seeking to convince someone—if only himself—that there was an actual decision to be made. When he nodded, Stephen gestured and the guards jerked him to his feet. “I’ve a word of warning for you,” he said, “and you’d best take it to heart. You’ll be getting no second chances.”

  Mandeville paused at the door, balking when the guards would have pushed him through. “You may be sure,” he said to Stephen, “that I will remember.”

  Once Mandeville was gone, Stephen took Matilda’s hand and steered her toward the settle. “A pity Henry was not here to see that,” he said, surprising them all, for he did not often express a yearning for his brother’s company.

  But the bishop had made possible Geoffrey de Mandeville’s downfall, and Stephen was grateful. In a maneuver as guileful as it was adroit, Henry had contrived to have the hostile Bishop of Ely charged with Church irregularities, thus compelling him to journey to Rome to defend himself. With the Bishop of Ely absent from England, Stephen no longer needed Mandeville to keep peace in Bishop Nigel’s Fenlands, and he’d at last been able to punish the earl as he deserved.

  The reckoning had been no less gratifying for being so belated, and Stephen knew his brother would have enjoyed it immensely. But Henry, too, was now on the way to Rome, seeking to persuade the new Pope to reappoint him as a papal legate.

  An even more unlikely source now echoed Stephen’s regrets. “I wish the bishop were here, too,” William de Ypres said, “for I’d wager that he’d have agreed with me—that Geoffrey de Mandeville ought not to have seen the light of day again in this lifetime.”

  “Are you still fretting about that, Will?”

  “I am, my liege. I know you think you’ve pulled his fangs by taking the Tower and his strongholds away from him. But a defanged snake is still a snake, and my experience says you kill it when you can; you do not let it slither away just because all the other snakes are pleading for mercy.”

  Stephen slanted an amused glance in the Fleming’s direction. “I do not think my barons would like your calling them snakes, Will—scales and forked tongues notwithstanding!”

  “I am not jesting, my lord king. Why do you think Hugh Bigod and the others were so keen to speak up for Mandeville? You think any of that lot would truly care if you hanged him higher than Haman? They do not want you to punish Mandeville too harshly because they fear that the next time, it might be one of them whose double-dealing comes to light.”

  “Your view of mankind is bleak enough to disturb even the Devil,” Stephen joked. “I am not denying that there is some truth in what you say; even Mandeville’s Vere and Clare kindred do not seem overly fond of him. And I’ll not deny, either, that they get downright disquieted at the prospect of one of their own being treated like any other felon or brigand. But no man ever died from the bite of a toothless snake, Will. What trouble could he stir up now? He cannot go crawling off to Maude, not after his betrayal at Winchester. That lady is far less forgiving than I am, and all of Christendom well knows it!”

  “I cannot argue with anything you’ve said,” Ypres admitted. “I can only tell you that when I first learned to hunt, I was taught that if you go after dangerous prey—like wild boar—you never strike unless you are sure your blow can kill.”

  “Sometimes it is enough,” Matilda interjected, “for a blow to maim, Willem,” and the Fleming did not demur. But neither was he convinced, and because they knew that, the disgraced earl’s presence seemed to linger on in their midst, long after he’d been returned to his prison cell.

  NATURE that year was unrelenting. An arid, sweltering summer had brought a poor harvest to a land already ravaged by four years of war, and to add to the miseries of the English people, winter came early. Even for November, the weather was unusually wretched: day after day of icy downpours, gusting winds, and sleet. By early December, the first snow of the season had blanketed half the country, and Annora was thankful when the walls of Lincoln at last came into view, for there a hot meal, a soft bed, and a lover’s embrace awaited her.

  RANULF had been awake since dawn, cocooned in coverlets, blissfully content to lie abed on this frigid December morn, watching the young woman asleep in his arms. It was easy to pretend they were snowbound, that the world beyond the boundaries of his chamber did not exist, easy to convince himself that their love affair was a secret from even the castle servants, for Annora’s bed was in Maud’s chamber and who but Maud would know where she really slept? It was always easy to hold on to his hopes while holding on to Annora, too. It was even possible to forget the living, breathing impediment to their union, Annora’s husband—almost.

  Annora stirred eventually, giving him a sleepy smile. “I love waking up with you,” she murmured, leaning over to claim a kiss. “But I almost did not get to come, for Gervase was uneasy about my being out on the roads, even with Maud’s escort.”

  Ranulf frowned; any mention of her husband, however fleeting or casual, was sure to sour his mood. “Because of Geoffrey de Mandeville’s arrest?” he asked, and when she nodded, he drew her in against him, propping pillows behind their heads.

  “It is passing strange, Annora. Stephen reached manhood at my father’s court, had ample opportunities to learn the lessons of kingship from a master. Whatever his other failings, Papa understood the uses and perceptions of power, and his mistakes were few, indeed. He knew how to handle men, whereas Stephen…with the best will in the world, he just lurches from one blunder to another.”

  “Because he arrested Mandeville at his court, the way he did with the Bishops of Ely, Salisbury, and Lincoln? I grant you that does make him a dubious host,” Annora teased, “but why is that so damaging to his kingship?”

  “Because it makes men think he cannot be trusted, because it makes him look weak—”

  “Be fair, Ranulf! No one—not even your sister—could fault Stephen’s courage.”

  “Nor do I. I said men think him a weak king, not a cowardly one. I am not saying that Mandeville did not deserve to be arrested, but there was something sly about the way it was done. That might not matter if men respected Stephen as they did my father. But they do not, Annora, for they do not fear him…and fear and respect are horns on the same goat.”

  Annora was rapidly regretting ever having brought the topic up, for she had no interest in hearing Ranulf hold forth upon the flaws in Stephen’s kingship; she got enough of that from her husband, who was increasingly disillusioned with his king’s failure to end the war. “Can we not talk of something besides politics? I would much rather hear about the doings in Winchester, for,” she added hopefully, “was there not some sort of scandal involved?”

 
The recent calamity in Winchester was a sore subject with all of Maude’s partisans. But Ranulf knew how much Annora loved gossip, and so he overcame his reluctance, told her the rather sad and sordid story of William Pont de l’Arche, his young, fickle wife, and the Flemish mercenary, Robert Fitz Hildebrand. The former castellan of Winchester’s royal castle had taken advantage of the Wilton debacle to regain control of the stronghold, and then appealed to Maude and Robert for aid. They’d dispatched Hildebrand—to their eternal regret—for welcomed as an ally by William Pont de l’Arche, he’d promptly set about seducing the latter’s wife, and with her connivance, his men overpowered the castle garrison, cast the cuckolded husband into his own dungeon, and then struck a deal with the bishop and Stephen. All in all, it was a sorry tale, a deplorable commentary upon the way this war was unraveling the country’s moral fabric, and Annora found it highly entertaining.

  “How do you know this Robert Fitz Hildebrand seduced the castellan’s wife? Mayhap she was the one seduced him,” she suggested impishly, and then demonstrated that she was not lacking in seduction skills herself. They kissed and rolled, laughing, to the very edge of the bed, where they kissed again. But then Annora bolted upright and let out a piercing scream. “A rat! Ranulf, a rat bit my hair!”

  As he started to look, she grabbed his arm. “Wait—get your sword first!” she insisted, and then, indignantly, “Ranulf! Why are you laughing?”

  “Because,” he said, “you’re about to meet a rare Norse rat,” and she peered cautiously over the edge of the bed, frowning at sight of the dog looking gravely back at her.

  “I knew no rat would dare venture into the chamber with Loth here. He’s the best hunter of Shadow’s sons. I once saw him take down a deer all by himself,” Ranulf bragged, reaching out to ruffle the dyrehund’s thick fur. “When your hair swung down, he probably thought you were playing with him.”

  “Tell him, please, that I was playing with you, and three are not wanted in this game.” Annora frowned again; she liked dogs, but there was something unnerving about this one’s unblinking stare. “What did you call him—Loth? Wherever did you get an outlandish name like that?”

  She was at once sorry she’d asked, for she’d unwittingly given Ranulf an opportunity to expound upon one of his more peculiar passions—his love of reading. It was called The History of the Kings of Britain, he informed her, written by an Augustinian canon named Geoffrey of Monmouth, and dedicated to Robert. The book was the most remarkable one he’d ever read, tracing English history back through the ages. He’d especially fancied the story of Arthur, King of the Britons, the people known today as the Welsh. He’d gotten Loth’s name from the book, he explained; Loth was Arthur’s brother-in-law, and with Arthur’s help, he’d become King of Norway. So what better name for a Norwegian dyrehund?

  Annora agreed politely that Loth was indeed an inspired choice, only half listening, for she neither shared nor understood Ranulf’s enthusiasm for books. Her brothers had been taught to read and write—against their will—for her father had an almost monkish respect for education. When she’d wanted to learn, too, jealously intent upon following in her brothers’ footsteps, he’d indulged her, as always, even though their priest had insisted that women had no need for worldly knowledge. She’d soon lost interest, would not have persevered had Ranulf not come into her life when he did, Ranulf who truly took pride in being able to wield a pen like a common clerk. Now, of course, Annora was thankful for her education, scanty as it was, for her rudimentary skills enabled her to write to Ranulf and to read his letters. But as he continued to extol the virtues of this Geoffrey of Monmouth’s book with its oddly named heroes—Brutus, Arthur, Merlin, Loth—her eyes glazed over and her jaw began to ache from the yawns she was suppressing.

  Not wanting Ranulf to know he was boring her, she took diversionary measures, with such success that they soon attracted Loth’s attention. Puzzled and protective, the big dog rose to his feet, head cocked to the side as he tried to make sense of the strange noises coming from the bed, not moving away until he had satisfied himself that all this sudden thrashing about did not put his master in peril.

  RANULF and Annora’s idyllic stay at Lincoln Castle came to an abrupt end the next day with the unexpected arrival of Maud’s husband. Their unease was soon dissipated, though, for it was apparent that Chester had no recollection of ever having met Annora before. Ranulf, of course, he did remember, greeting the younger man with a caustic “You here again? It is well that you are Maud’s uncle or else I might start wondering why you seem to be underfoot all the time.” But the insult was offhand; he had weightier matters on his mind than baiting Ranulf. “Set the servants to packing what you need,” he instructed his wife, “for I am taking you back to Cheshire, and I want to depart on the morrow.”

  Ranulf and Annora were dismayed, Maud irked. “Why?” she demanded, and Chester scowled.

  “It ought to be enough for you that I say so.” His complaint was perfunctory, though, for he was in suspiciously high spirits. Maud regarded him warily, knowing from past experience that he was never so cheerful as when contemplating the troubles of others. And indeed, his black eyes were agleam with the perverse pleasure that people so often take in being the bearer of bad news. “Like ancient Egypt, we have a plague loosed upon us,” he declared dramatically. “Geoffrey de Mandeville has rebelled.”

  His revelation was fully as explosive as he’d hoped, and he found himself fending off questions faster than arrows. “If you’ll all stop talking at once,” he protested, “I’ll tell you what I know. Mandeville took advantage of Bishop Nigel’s absence to seize the Isle of Ely and capture Aldreth Castle. He then advanced upon Ramsey, drove the monks out, and took over their abbey.”

  “Do you truly think he’d dare to lay siege to Lincoln Castle, Randolph?” Maud asked skeptically and he shook his head.

  “Not likely. But until Stephen tracks the whoreson down, there’ll be a lot of bodies found floating in the Fens. It is an outlaw’s Eden, a murky, deadly maze of salt marshes and quagmires and bogs. If Stephen goes in after Mandeville, he’ll never come out,” Chester predicted and smiled at the thought.

  “Well, I am flattered,” Maud murmured, half mockingly, half flirtatiously, “that you were so concerned about my safety.”

  “No one takes what is mine,” he said, “be it a lamb, a wife, a sack of flour from my mill, a felled tree from my woods. Let Mandeville steal and plunder all he pleases on his way to Hell, but if he makes me his enemy, he is an even greater fool than Stephen. No, lass, better you should keep to Cheshire and away from the Fens. Until Mandeville’s body is rotting on a gallows for all to see what befalls rebels, there will be no peace in these parts, nothing but blood and tears and the wailing of widows.”

  It was a phrase that seemed to echo out of Scriptures, trailing a whiff of fire and brimstone. But what startled Ranulf was not that Chester was prophesying ruin and perdition, it was that he appeared to relish the prospect. Ranulf felt repelled when he realized why: that the Earl of Chester saw Geoffrey de Mandeville’s mad, doomed rebellion as an opportunity in bloody guise, a chance to set his own snares and pursue his own prey while Stephen hunted in the Fens.

  THE next day, Chester and the women departed at first light with a formidable armed escort. But Ranulf was not among them, for a messenger had arrived soon after Chester did, bearing urgent word for Annora. Her husband had heard, too, of Mandeville’s rebellion, and Lincoln was too close to the Fenlands for his peace of mind. If the Countess of Chester would be good enough to provide Annora with an escort again, Gervase would meet her along the route. Maud dispatched a courier to let Gervase Fitz Clement know that she and Annora would be heading west in the earl’s company, suggesting that they rendezvous at Coventry. Gervase’s letter vexed Ranulf even more than his disappointment at having their tryst cut so short. It was as if the man had reached across the miles to claim Annora as his own, and he had to stand aside and let it happen.

  Nor
could he accompany them on their westward journey, for he dared not risk Gervase’s learning that he’d been in Annora’s company. Even the most complacent, trusting husband would not accept “happenchance” as the explanation upon finding his wife with the man she’d been pledged to wed.

  Annora and Maud were both uneasy about his striking out on his own, but Ranulf had a more potent armor than his chain-mail hauberk—the invincibility of youth—and he’d assured them that he’d keep to the main roads, take no needless risks, and send word straightaway upon his safe arrival at Devizes. He set out the day after their departure, taking the Fosse Way toward Newark. There he would follow the road south to Grantham, where he would swing off onto the cross-country road that would take him through Leicester, Coventry, and on to Gloucester.

  The roads were even worse than he’d expected, for temperatures had plunged and treacherous ice patches were not always noticeable until it was too late. It had taken Ranulf a full day to travel the fourteen miles to Newark, and as he left the town behind the following morning, the sky was overcast, as leaden and bleak as his mood. More snow seemed in the offing, but he hoped he’d be able to reach Grantham before the weather turned truly foul.

  Even in winter, there should have been travelers on the road, but it was virtually deserted; he covered more than five miles without seeing another soul. Loth had ranged off into the bushes, having caught an enticing scent, and Ranulf halted his palfrey, giving it a rest until the dog returned. Gazing at the empty stretch of road, he found himself worrying just how serious this rebellion of Geoffrey de Mandeville’s was. Fear was clearly on the prowl.