When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Ranulf’s attention was immediately caught and he nodded vigorously. “On Easter Sunday at Vézeley, in Burgundy, the Abbot of Clairvaux read a papal bull urging all Christians to rescue the Holy Land from the infidel. Thousands thronged to hear him speak, and the French king was amongst the first to take the cross.”

  “A pity Stephen was not stricken, too, with crusading fever,” Maud said wryly. “In truth, I can think of any number of lords whose souls would benefit from a sojourn in the Holy Land. I am surprised, though, that Louis is so keen to go. The last time Randolph’s brother was in Paris, he said Louis could not bear to have Eleanor out of his sight. How will he cope once a thousand miles stretch between them?”

  “Fortunately for Louis,” Ranulf said with a grin, “his beautiful queen has taken the cross, too.”

  Maud was startled, but not astounded, for women had participated in the First Crusade. Some had been loyal wives, others less reputable, for even God’s army had attracted its share of camp followers. As a girl, Maud had loved to hear tales of these female pilgrims, women braving hardships and danger for the same mixed motives that drew men to the Holy Land—the curious and the devout, the daring and the pious, the wanton and the faithful, seeking God’s Grace or gold, salvation or adventure. Maud could not say which of these categories Eleanor of Aquitaine fit into. She knew only that she felt a sharp surge of envy, a hunger to leave the familiar behind, to strike out boldly toward the unknown as the young French queen meant to do.

  Annora’s reaction was far different: disbelief and then painful disappointment. She’d long idealized Eleanor, the only woman who seemed able to hold her own in a man’s world. They were almost of an age—Eleanor just two years younger—and she’d reveled in Eleanor’s triumphs, admired her independent spirit, and when faced with difficult decisions, she’d silently ask herself what Eleanor would have done. This was the first time that her idol had let her down, and she frowned at her cooling stew, her appetite gone. “But Queen Eleanor just had a baby last year,” she pointed out plaintively, half hoping the reminder would prod Ranulf into admitting this was another of his dubious jests.

  Her lover gave her a questioning smile, and she saw her point had eluded him. “Her baby,” she repeated, more forcefully. “Eleanor has an infant daughter now. I would not think she’d want to leave her babe so soon, not after so many years of a barren marriage…”

  This elicited only a shrug, more male incomprehension. Nor did Maud seem to understand, either, for she laughed when Ranulf quipped that he doubted Eleanor could find the nursery without a map. Annora knew, of course, that queens were not expected to be doting mothers; circumstance and protocol and practicality all conspired to distance a royal mother from her child. The babe would be suckled by a wet nurse, swaddled and comforted and cuddled by servants, a royal pawn to play in the marriage game, for daughters were often betrothed before they could walk, bred to be brides for foreign princes. Annora supposed it was possible that a queen might prefer not to get too attached to a child she was soon to lose. But she’d still expected more from Eleanor, the same devotion she would have given to a babe of her own.

  Neither Ranulf nor Maud noticed her preoccupation, and were soon talking about the Bishop of Winchester’s latest feud, this one with no less a personage than the Archbishop of Canterbury; Bishop Henry blamed the latter for the Pope’s refusal to reappoint him as a papal legate. Annora spooned her stew listlessly, paying the conversation no mind until she heard her own name.

  A servant was nearing their table, announcing that a man had just ridden in, asking to see Lady Fitz Clement. As her eyes met Maud’s, Annora nodded, but she felt a sudden unease, for only her husband knew she was at Chester, and she’d been gone less than a week, not long enough for him to be writing to her—not unless something was wrong. Borrowing some of Ranulf’s optimism, she sought to convince herself that all was well with her father, brothers, stepchildren, husband, and dog in the endless interval before the servant ushered the new arrival into the hall.

  Maud was signaling for the final course of fruit-filled tarts as she caught her first glimpse of Annora’s visitor. One glimpse was all she needed, so strong was the family resemblance. Even before she heard Annora’s strangled cry of “Ancel!” she’d realized that this enraged, swarthy stranger was Annora’s brother, and she hastily sought Nicholas’s eye, sending him a surreptitious message to be on the alert for trouble.

  Ranulf and Annora sat, frozen in their seats, as Ancel strode toward the high table. After one burning glance at Ranulf, Ancel aimed his accusing gaze at his sister. Ignoring Maud and the others in the hall, he said abruptly:

  “I had business in Shrewsbury for my lord earl and thought to surprise you. I was the one who got the surprise, though, for your husband informed me that you were off visiting your ‘dear girlhood friend,’ the Countess of Chester. I found that puzzling, for as far as I knew, you’d never even laid eyes upon the woman. But as I was sitting there, listening to that poor fool Gervase boast that you and the countess were closer than sisters, one of your stepsons came running into the hall, chased by a Norwegian dyrehund.”

  Ancel’s eyes flicked then, to Ranulf. “Did you think I’d forgotten about those accursed dyrehunds of yours? Outside of Norway, that is a beast as rare as the unicorn. But I still fought against facing the truth. All the way to Chester, I kept trying to convince myself that I was wrong, that my suspicions were unjustified. In my heart, I knew I was befooling myself, but I…” His mouth twisted, he took a great gulp of air, and then lashed out, “I did not want to believe that my little sister was a whore!”

  “Ancel, enough!” Ranulf pushed his chair back, coming swiftly around the table toward the other man. “We need to talk,” he said, “but not here. Let’s find some privacy—”

  He got no further; it was then that Ancel lunged at him. Caught off balance, Ranulf reeled backward, crashing into the table. He would later figure out that he hit his head upon one of the trestle legs. Now, dazed and bleeding, he knew only that he was thrashing about in the floor rushes, trying to keep Ancel from throttling him.

  The table had gone over, spilling food into the laps of the startled diners, setting off so much screaming and swearing that the entire hall reverberated with angry clamor. Loth had been scavenging under the table for scraps. With a muffled roar, he fought his way clear of the tablecloth’s smothering folds. Fortunately for Ancel, though, Maud had enough presence of mind to grab the dog’s collar as he erupted from the wreckage. Annora had been splashed with hot gravy, but she did not yet realize she’d been burned, so intent was she upon reaching Ranulf and Ancel.

  By the time she did, it was over. Nicholas and several of Maud’s household knights had pounced upon Ancel, pried his fingers from Ranulf’s throat, and dragged him away. Annora gasped at her first sight of Ranulf, for he was bleeding profusely. Snatching up a napkin, she pressed it to his gashed forehead. By now Luke was there, too, and between the two of them, they helped Ranulf to his feet.

  “Are you bad hurt?” Maud paused only long enough to assure herself that Ranulf’s cut was superficial before launching her assault upon Ancel. “How dare you force your way into my home and attack my kinsman? Just who do you think you are—an avenging angel from Hell? This is none of your concern—”

  “My sister is shaming our family! But what would you know of dishonour? No decent woman would make herself an accomplice to adultery. Only another slut would—”

  Ancel never saw the blow coming. Nicholas moved in, quick as any cat, burying his fist in Ancel’s midsection. As Ancel groaned and doubled over, Nicholas brought his knee up, with lethal aim. It was as brief and efficient and brutal a beating as Ranulf had ever seen, over before he could react, before many in the hall even knew what was happening. It confirmed all of Ranulf’s suspicions about Nicholas, made him wonder what such a man was doing in his niece’s service.

  But as Ranulf turned toward Maud, he found her quite unmoved by the violence. She wa
s watching with grim satisfaction as Ancel sank to his knees, choking for breath, and Ranulf saw her for the first time as Chester’s wife, not Robert’s daughter. “You may be thankful that I am forgiving of the half-witted,” she said scathingly, “else your folly would have cost you your tongue.”

  Ancel’s beating had unbalanced Annora’s loyalties, and she flew to his defense now, glaring at Maud and Nicholas as she warned, “Do not threaten him!” When she tried to help him up, though, he shoved her away.

  Ignoring Ancel’s cursing, Ranulf reached down and jerked him to his feet. “You are such a fool, Ancel. You know I love your sister. If you’d given me a chance, I’d have told you that I mean to make her my wife.”

  Ancel spat out a mouthful of blood, then called Ranulf a misbegotten bastard, a foul Judas, a false friend. But what chilled Ranulf was seeing in Ancel’s eyes such utter, implacable hatred.

  Ancel swung away, starting unsteadily for the door. When Annora’s protest went unheeded, she hurried after him. As Ranulf started to follow, Maud caught his arm. “He is in no mood to listen to you,” she said. He knew she was right. But as soon as she was done daubing away his blood, he hastened from the hall.

  He found Annora standing alone out in the bailey, watching as her brother rode away without looking back. When Ranulf reached her, she turned with a sob, buried her face in his shoulder, and wept. He comforted her as best he could, reassuring her that he loved her—which was true—and that Ancel would calm down and see reason, which was not.

  “He’ll never forgive me,” she wept, “never. He said so, said my disgrace would break our father’s heart…and he is right, Ranulf, it would!” She sobbed again, then shuddered. “What if he tells my husband? What if he tells Gervase?”

  Ranulf did not know what to say. He’d just lost a lifelong friend, had seen a twenty-year friendship die in the span of seconds. But he feared now that he was losing far more.

  33

  Northampton, England

  August 1146

  “WHAT sort of knavery is Chester up to now?”

  Stephen had just come from a lengthy private audience with the earl, but he had to admit, “I do not know, Henry…not yet. I can tell you what he has asked of me—that I accompany him on an expedition against the Welsh—but I am not sure if he has something more nefarious in mind.”

  If Stephen had doubts about Chester’s intentions, the others had none at all. “You cannot go into Wales with that evil man,” Matilda cried, at the same time the bishop protested, “Utter madness!” and William de Ypres blistered the air with Flemish obscenities.

  “Should I interpret that as two ‘nays’ and one ‘undecided’?” Stephen asked, smiling faintly, but he was the only one who found the joke funny. “I did not agree,” he said defensively. “I said that I’d have to think about it.” And before they could object again, he told them of Chester’s proposal. The earl’s lands had been coming under attack by the Welsh, and he wanted Stephen’s aid in restoring peace to the Marches. If Stephen would agree, he’d provide the men and supplies, insisting that the king’s presence would be enough to intimidate the Welsh.

  Ypres snorted. “From what I’ve heard, the only king likely to overawe those Welsh lunatics would be the King of Heaven—not England.”

  For once, Stephen’s brother was in full accord with the Fleming. “If Chester is having Welsh troubles, let him sort them out with his new kinsman,” Henry said skeptically. “He’s just betrothed his niece to that renegade Welsh prince who marched with him against Lincoln, so let him turn to Cadwaladr for help, assuming he really needs it—which I doubt.”

  “You are not seriously considering it, Stephen?” Matilda moved to her husband’s side, gazing up anxiously into his face. “Relying upon Chester’s honour would be like taking the Devil on faith. You cannot do that Stephen, you dare not!”

  “Sweetheart, do not distress yourself so. Whilst I do not think I ought to dismiss his request out of hand, I have no intention of riding into an ambush with nothing to protect me but Chester’s goodwill.”

  “It gladdens my heart to hear you say that,” Matilda confided. “I know we must do what we can to keep Chester content, but not at the risk of your safety. If he wants your help in Wales, he must be willing to do his part. Let him agree to provide hostages—men whose lives matter to him—and mayhap then I’ll believe this Welsh campaign of his is an honest endeavor, not some sort of treacherous snare.”

  The bishop nodded approvingly; although he still felt Matilda exercised undue influence over his easygoing brother, he was willing to admit that she was more sensible than most of her sex. “Let him yield Lincoln Castle, too,” he said, “as he ought to have done months ago.”

  As Stephen glanced toward William de Ypres, the mercenary shrugged. “I doubt that I’d trust Chester even if the Archangel Gabriel himself vouched for the man. But it cannot hurt to put him to the test. I agree with Madame Queen and the bishop. Let Chester offer up proof of his good faith, and then we’ll see.”

  Stephen nodded, heartened by such unanimous agreement. “It is settled, then,” he said. “We’ll tell Chester our terms on the morrow. After that, it is up to him.”

  AS the Earl of Chester strode into the castle hall the following morning, Bennet de Malpas and several members of his entourage hastened to intercept him. He was walking into a lion’s den, they warned. Northampton was aswarm with his enemies, and they were stirring up the hive by ranting about the dangers of his Welsh expedition, for word had gotten out that he wanted the king to go into Wales.

  As he listened to Bennet and Ivo, the castellan of his castle at Coventry, Chester was surveying the hall. They had not exaggerated; it was thronged with men who’d thank God fasting for a chance to do him harm. The Earl of York, whose lands he’d repeatedly ravaged. Gilbert de Gant, who’d been forced to wed his niece after being captured at Lincoln. William Peverel, Lord of Nottingham and cousin to Stephen, a man with a temper to rival that of his fiery royal grandsire, William the Bastard. That poisonous Fleming Ypres. Friends of the absent Earl of Richmond, who’d starved in one of Chester’s dungeons until he agreed to yield Galclint Castle. The Earl of Northampton, dragging his disapproval around like an anchor. Even Robert Beaumont, who’d been rarely at Stephen’s court since his twin came to terms with Maude and Geoffrey.

  Die-hard foes, the lot of them. Only one of the barons was likely to offer any support: the Earl of Hertford, his sister’s son. Most men would have been daunted by such odds. Not Chester, though; he relished turmoil, thrived on controversy, and he was looking forward to imposing his will upon these men who hated him so.

  “It is getting on toward noon. Why are we delaying dinner? And where is the meddlesome little bitch?” He had no need to be more specific. They knew he meant Matilda, for every man in his service was aware of the grudge he bore Stephen’s queen; he was not one to forgive a public humiliation, especially at the hands of a woman. They explained now that Matilda had been called away when one of her ladies was taken ill. The pale, shy lass, Bennet disclosed, the one who had fits, but Chester was no longer listening; his interest in the Cecilys of this world was nonexistent. Beckoning them to follow, he headed for the dais, where he offered Stephen a perfunctory obeisance.

  “I understand we are holding dinner for the queen. We have time, then, to discuss our Welsh expedition. How soon can Your Grace be ready to go? The sooner the better, for Wales turns into a quagmire once the autumn rains begin.”

  Stephen frowned. He could hear troubled murmurings from those within earshot, and he wanted to assure them that it was not so; it nettled his pride that anyone should think—even briefly—that he might be Chester’s dupe. But they’d all agreed that the confrontation should be private, for Chester was too volatile to be trusted in a public setting. His brother was already nudging him, silently mouthing the warning words “Not now.” Annoyed by the reminder, Stephen said brusquely:

  “We have much to talk about, but I prefer to wai
t until a time of my choosing.”

  “Why wait? We can settle it right quickly,” Chester insisted. “Just tell me when and I’ll take care of the rest. As I told you, I’ll provide the men.”

  The mutterings were louder now, and distinctly alarmed. Men were pressing in around them, Chester’s enemies in the forefront. “The king would not accompany you across the hall, much less let you lure him into Wales so you could ambush him!” Few would have dared to accuse Chester so openly, but William Peverel had never lacked for nerve. Seeing that some thought he’d overstepped himself, he said angrily, “Why not say it? It is what we are all thinking!”

  “Why should I care what you think?” Chester sneered. “Your opinion is not important enough to matter to anyone, least of all to me. And as usual, you’re wrong, for the king is coming into Wales. Tell them, Your Grace,” he demanded, swinging around on Stephen. “Let them hear it from you if they doubt me!”

  “What would you have me say? I did not agree to go, merely to talk further—”

  “You did agree! By God, you did!”

  “Indeed I did not!”

  Both men sounded equally indignant, equally sincere. Most simply assumed that Chester was a convincing liar, but the bishop suspected it was more complicated than that, for he knew how hard it was for Stephen to turn people down. Even with one he disliked as heartily as he did Chester, he’d still temporize, hear the applicant out with the affable courtesy he denied to no man, be he baron or blacksmith. He’d left the door ajar, whether he meant to or not; the bishop would wager any amount on it. And for a man like Chester, who tended to hear only what he wanted to, that cracked door would beckon wider than Heaven’s Gate. “We’d best discuss this in private,” Henry said hastily, but it was already too late. Fueled by grievances and fanned by suspicions, Stephen and Chester’s accord was going up in flames.