When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  For most of England, it was neither a happy nor a peaceful spring. Maude’s partisans were still mourning Miles. Stephen’s supporters were troubled by his failure to bring Geoffrey de Mandeville to swift, summary justice. In Yorkshire, the Earl of Chester was pillaging the lands of the rival Earl of York. And in the Fens, the killing continued.

  BY May, the royal gardens at Westminster Palace were in bloom, and Constance was able to pick an armful of primroses and daisies and violets, intending to surprise her mother-in-law with the first bouquet of the season. But she was the one who got the surprise, for she found Matilda in tears. Constance froze, jolted by fear. Eustace had gone north with Stephen to Lincoln Castle, having persuaded his father that he was old enough, at fourteen, to witness his first siege. But it never even occurred to Constance that he might be in peril. Dropping the flowers, she ran toward the bed. “Maman, what is wrong? Nothing has happened to Papa Stephen?”

  Matilda sat up, wiping away tears. “No, child, no. The last I heard from Stephen, he and Eustace were quite well, although sorely vexed because the siege was going so poorly.”

  Constance sighed with relief. She might loathe her husband, but she adored her in-laws, felt far closer to them than to her own parents. She’d been just eight when her father died; she remembered only a gross mountain of flesh, a man grown so corpulent that he could no longer ride a horse or fit onto a throne, known to the more irreverent of his subjects as Louis le Gros. Her mother had been a remote, detached figure, seldom seen and soon gone; after quarreling with her lively and willful young daughter-in-law, the dowager queen had conceded the field to Eleanor, withdrawing to her own dower estates and wedding again in unseemly haste. While Constance was fond of her brother, the French king, and dazzled by the siren he’d married, she’d been on the periphery of their hectic, whirlwind lives. She’d not learned what it was like to belong until she’d come as a child bride to this alien land of England.

  Perching on the foot of the bed, she asked shyly, “Why then, are you so sad?”

  “I had bad news this morn. The castle at Rouen surrendered to Geoffrey of Anjou on the 23rd of April.”

  Constance did not know what to say, for surely Matilda must have expected this; the city itself had yielded back in January, and all knew the castle would eventually fall, too. “I suppose,” she ventured, “this means Lord Geoffrey will claim the duchy for himself?”

  “He has already done so, Constance…and with the blessing and full consent of the French Crown.”

  “My brother has agreed to recognize him as duke? But…but why?”

  “Because Geoffrey agreed in his turn to cede Gizors and the Vexin to Louis,” Matilda said, truthfully but tactlessly. She at once regretted her candor, for Constance blushed deeply, as if she were the one shamed by her brother’s diplomatic double-dealing.

  “I…I am so sorry, Maman,” she stammered, and Matilda hastily reached for her hand, giving it a reassuring pat.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, child. I am the one being foolish, for I knew this day was coming. I ought not to have let it disquiet me so. But this bodes ill for England, for any faltering hopes of peace. Even if Stephen were able to drive Maude and all her kith and kin into the sea, that would not end the war…not now. Too many of Stephen’s barons have holdings in Normandy.”

  She did not elaborate, nor did she need to. Constance understood. With England and Normandy now severed, the English barons were confronted with a hard choice. If they recognized Geoffrey as their liege lord in Normandy, they risked having their English estates confiscated by Stephen. But if they balked at acknowledging Geoffrey, that would place their Normandy lands in jeopardy. Loyalty to Stephen kept Matilda from admitting it, but Constance knew what she feared—that men would conclude it was more dangerous to antagonize Geoffrey than Stephen.

  “Do not fret, Maman. Papa Stephen will win his war, for surely the Almighty must favor him over that shrewish woman and her accursed Angevin husband. Back in Paris, all knew the Angevin counts sprang from the Devil’s loins. Papa Stephen will prevail, you’ll see. He’ll have a long and peaceful reign and…and by the time Eustace follows him to the throne, no one will even remember Maude’s name.”

  She’d meant to offer comfort, but Matilda frowned and looked away, and Constance caught her breath, stunned by what she’d seen for an unguarded moment in her mother-in-law’s eyes. She detested Eustace, and Matilda loved him, but they shared the same secret unease, the same unspoken doubts about what kind of king Eustace would be.

  MAUDE had seen little of Robert and Ranulf that summer; they’d spent most of it in the saddle, chasing after Stephen. After some skirmishing around Malmesbury, Stephen had moved on to lay siege to the nearby castle at Tetbury. Robert and Miles’s eldest son, Roger, had then swooped down upon Tetbury. But Stephen’s outnumbered barons had refused to fight, and he’d broken off the siege, once again thwarting Robert’s hopes of forcing a resolution upon the field of battle.

  After the disappointment at Tetbury, they returned to Gloucester and Maude joined them there during the last week in September. As glad as she was to be reunited with her brothers, she found it strange to be at Gloucester Castle without Miles.

  This was her first visit since Roger had inherited his father’s earldom of Hereford, and he entertained Maude far more lavishly than Miles had ever done, which only underscored the differences between the brusque, frugal, pragmatic father and his extravagant, impulsive, fun-loving son. Roger was as quick-tempered as Miles, and like his father, he was fearless on the battlefield. He had inherited the same russet coloring, too, although he was handsomer than the rough-hewn, freckled Miles. But he lacked his father’s mettle, the flinty force of character that had made Miles such a formidable ally, a man to be reckoned with. The better Maude got to know Roger, the more she liked him—and the more she missed Miles.

  She also missed Rainald and Brien, for she’d seen neither one for months. Rainald was still in Cornwall, fighting a dogged, lonely battle to defend his imperiled earldom. And Brien was equally hard pressed, for since the fall of Oxford, Wallingford had become a beleaguered island in a hostile sea, a target for frequent attacks and sporadic sieges by the king’s men. So far Brien was grimly holding on, but his tenants could no longer till their fields or harvest their crops, and he staved off utter ruin only by seizing the provisions he needed to keep Wallingford going. His loyalty was costing him dearly, and Maude wanted to help him so badly that it was like a hollow, empty ache, but there was little she could do.

  After supper, the conversation focused upon the continuing depredations by Geoffrey de Mandeville and his lawless band. The men had news that Maude had not yet learned: Mandeville had been wounded in late August while besieging Burwell, one of the castles Stephen had thrown up to keep him in the Fens. It was a hot day and when he rashly removed his helmet, he’d been struck by an arrow. But once again he’d had Lucifer’s own luck, Robert reported, for they’d heard the wound was not serious. Mandeville would soon be on the prowl again, unless Stephen took more aggressive action to bring him to bay.

  They were in agreement, though, that Stephen would not do so. Maude put it most trenchantly: “Stephen ought never to have let Mandeville elude him in the Fens. Blockading the marshes with castles was the easy way—ever Stephen’s way. But my father would have followed Mandeville into the very bowels of Hell if need be.” She paused, then, her eyes coming to rest upon her brother. “So would you, Robert,” she said, and he smiled in surprise.

  “You are right about our father,” he agreed. “He’d never have allowed a rebel to escape his wrath, no matter how long it took to track him down. But Stephen has the attention span of a summer dragonfly. He alights, begins a siege, loses interest, and flits away in search of a new target. Only twice has he mustered up enough patience to flush out his prey—when he lay siege to Baldwin de Redvers’s castle at Exeter and then at Oxford, when he thought he had you trapped, Maude. I suppose we ought to be thankful,
though, that he is so easily distracted, else Wallingford—and mayhap even my castle at Bristol—might have fallen to him by now.”

  In the past, Ranulf would have defended Stephen. Even if he’d not spoken up, he’d have wanted to. But that was before he’d ridden into the smoking ruins of Cantebrigge. Rising abruptly, he glanced about for Loth, found the dog scratching in the floor rushes under the table, hoping to unearth a dropped morsel or discarded bone. Whistling for the dyrehund, Ranulf let him out into the castle bailey.

  When he returned to the hall, the gathering had broken up into smaller groups. Amabel was conversing with Roger’s young wife, Cecily, and Sybil, Miles’s widow. Robert and Maude were talking with Gilbert Foliot, the abbot of Gloucester’s great monastery of St Peter’s. Across the hall, Roger was sharing a joke with Hugh de Plucknet, or so Ranulf assumed, for they were laughing. Closer at hand, Gilbert Fitz John had begun a game of tables with Alexander de Bohun, and Ranulf wandered over to watch his friend play. It was not long, though, before Hugh was beckoning to him.

  “How would you fancy a foray into the town?” Hugh asked as soon as he and Ranulf were alone in the window seat. “Earl Roger says there is a new bawdy-house on Here Lane, just beyond the North Gate. You want to come with us after the women and Abbot Gilbert go up to bed?”

  Ranulf raised an eyebrow, for he believed a husband owed his wife discretion, if not fidelity, and chasing after whores within shouting distance of Roger’s own castle seemed a foolproof way to set the entire town gossiping, gossip sure to find its way back to Cecily’s ears. He could not help glancing across the hall at Cecily, a plump, pretty girl with a throaty giggle, not yet twenty and already six years a wife. Although Ranulf would never shame Annora like this once they were finally able to wed, he decided that Roger was old enough—at twenty-one—to master his own conscience.

  “Why not?” he said, and when he next caught Roger’s eye, he nodded to convey his interest in taking a tour of Gloucester’s best whorehouse. Roger grinned and began to drop such heavy-handed hints about the lateness of the hour that Ranulf and Hugh dared not look at each other, lest they burst out laughing.

  Fortunately, indications were pointing to an early evening. Robert had begun to yawn and once Amabel noticed, she’d shepherd her sleepy husband up to bed. Cecily was still much too bright-eyed and chipper, but Maude was more promising, for a messenger had just arrived from Devizes, bearing a letter. She seemed so pleased that Ranulf knew the letter must be from her son or Brien, and as she excused herself to read it, he signaled to Roger and Hugh that they’d soon be on their way.

  And indeed, Sybil was already bidding her family and guests goodnight. Robert and Amabel were starting to follow when Maude cried out, turning all heads in her direction. “Do not go, Robert, not yet. I’ve news you must hear.” Maude glanced again at the letter in her hand. “Geoffrey de Mandeville is dead.”

  As they all crowded in close to hear, she told them what Brien had written. “Brien says that either Mandeville’s wound was more serious then he claimed or it festered. Whichever, that was an arrow directed by God, for he died a fortnight ago.”

  There was a somber silence after that, for damnation was much more fearful than death, even when the man deserved it as much as Geoffrey de Mandeville did. He’d died excommunicate, and even a deathbed repentance was denied him, for the Bishop of Winchester had decreed in his waning days as a papal legate that only the Pope could absolve a man guilty of crimes against the Church.

  They all knew, of course, that an excommunicate could sometimes escape his dreadful fate, for Miles had. He, too, had died accursed by the Church, cast out after a bitter clash with the Bishop of Hereford. But he’d had a powerful advocate in his cousin Gilbert Foliot, and after he was struck down on that ill-fated Christmas Eve hunt, the monks of Gloucester had quarreled with the canons of Llanthony Priory over which House would have the honour of burying him.

  But they all knew, too, that there would be no such reprieve for Geoffrey de Mandeville. No priest would speak up for him. None would offer prayers for his salvation. His body would lie unclaimed, unable to be buried in consecrated ground. His title and lands would be forfeit, his family shamed. His name would be anathema, a curse to frighten children. And his soul would be forever lost to God, damned to the hottest flames of perdition.

  No one spoke for a time. It was left to Ranulf to pronounce Geoffrey de Mandeville’s epitaph. None of them had ever heard him sound as he did now, implacable and unforgiving. “Even if Mandeville burns in Hell for all eternity,” he said, “that would not be long enough to atone for his sins.”

  31

  Chester, England

  June 1145

  THE Benedictine abbey of St Werbergh held a three-day fair every year upon the Nativity of St John the Baptist. It was not a gainful time for the merchants of Chester; they were not allowed to sell their wares for the duration of the fair. But the monks profited handsomely from the rental of the booths and stalls set up in front of the abbey’s Great Gate, and people flocked to the fair from all over Cheshire.

  The Earl of Chester was not present to open the fair, but his countess acted in his stead, and was warmly welcomed by the monks, for the earl was a generous benefactor to the religious houses in his domains. His enemies jeered that Chester knew his only hope of ever getting to Heaven was to buy his way in, but whatever his motives, the monks were appreciative of his bounty and lavished enough courtesy upon Maud to satisfy a queen.

  Maud reveled in the attention, chatting with the merchants, making an occasional purchase as she wandered among the booths, scattering alms to the beggars and children following in her wake, and appearing not to notice as Ranulf and Annora lagged farther and farther behind.

  They were attracting stares, too, for Ranulf was trailed by his canine bodyguard, and Annora was proudly showing off her new pet. Pausing to allow two small boys to admire the silvery-grey puppy, she gave Loth a bite of her meat pie; she’d become the dyrehund’s biggest fan since learning how he’d come to Ranulf’s rescue on the Newark-Grantham Road. After explaining to the curious children that the pup was Loth’s son, she picked the little dog up, laughing as he licked her cheek. “I’ve thought of a name for him,” she announced. “Since you gave him to me on the Feast of St John the Baptist, I shall call him John.”

  Ranulf made a face. “That is no fitting name for a dog!”

  “This from the man who burdened one of God’s beasts with a name like Loth?” Annora gave the dyrehund the rest of her pie and slipped her arm through Ranulf’s. “Where did your squire go?”

  “He’s over there, watching that bout with the quarter-staff.” Although she’d voiced no objections to Luke’s presence, Ranulf felt compelled to add, “I finally had to promise Maude that I’d not go off on my own again. She knows about us, Annora, or at least suspects. You might say we’ve entered into an unspoken pact. She does not ask what she’d rather not know for certes, and I agree to take Luke with me.” He shrugged apologetically, but Annora surprised him.

  “You think I mind? I only wish you had a dozen Lukes to keep you out of trouble. Or better yet, a dozen Loths! If not for him, I shudder to think what might have befallen you and those poor waifs. Were you ever able to find a home for them?”

  “I thought I had. A Southampton merchant heard about them whilst in Bristol to buy wine and offered to take them in. He seemed worthy and had a heartrending story about a stillborn baby and a grieving wife. But it was all lies. He was no vintner, Annora. He ran a bawdy-house on the Southampton docks, and he meant to sell Jennet’s maidenhead to the highest bidder, then force her to whore for him whilst he put Simon out on the street to beg. He’d probably have crippled the lad first, since a lame beggar makes more—”

  “Jesú, Ranulf, they did not—”

  “No, praise God, but only because the man was careless. Thinking the children were asleep in the back of his cart, he talked freely to his servant about what awaited them in Southampton. J
ennet heard and she and Simon fled at their first chance. Fortunately they’d not gone far, and they were able to get safely back to Devizes, scared out of their wits, and who can blame them?”

  He shook his head grimly. “After that, I was wary of trusting to the kind hearts of strangers. But Robert’s chaplain eventually found a brewer and his wife who had no children, and since he spoke well of them, I agreed.”

  “But you do not sound like a man relating good news,” Annora said, and he shook his head again.

  “I was in Bristol a few weeks later, and I stopped by to see how they were getting along. They were toiling away in the brewery like galley slaves, free labor for the good brewer. He could not understand why I was so wroth. Surely I had not expected him to treat a villein’s children like his own blood?”

  “So you took them back to Devizes.” Annora was frowning in thought. “Surely there must be something we can do. What if you offered a corrody for the lass?” Almost at once, though, she saw the flaw in that. “But then, no nunnery would accept a villein’s daughter, would it?”

  “No, not likely. Besides, they ought not to be separated. All they have is each other.”

  “And you,” Annora pointed out. “How long ere they start calling you Papa?”

  Ranulf called her a brat, but he did not mind her teasing, for it was just that—teasing. Annora was one of the few people who not only understood but approved of his efforts on the orphans’ behalf. To others, the fact of the children’s low birth was all that counted. But to Annora, what mattered was their youth and their need. Ranulf had never known anyone so protective of children as she. She was not indiscriminate; she had met children she’d not liked. But she’d never met a child she would not help. “I wish I could take them,” she said, and sighed regretfully. “I know I could find a place for them on our Shropshire manor. But we cannot risk it. All we’d need would be for my husband to hear them chattering about the heroic Lord Ranulf, who catches arrows in his teeth and walks on water!”