When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “You are a wealthy man, Willem. Surely you did not fear that your estates would be forfeit if you were no longer able to fight for Stephen?” she said, although she well knew that was precisely what he’d feared. “You’ve earned whatever we’ve given you. Speaking for myself, I could lavish royal favors upon you from now till Judgment Day and I would still be in your debt. You gave me back my husband!”

  As she spoke, he’d retreated into the shadows. No longer able to see his face, she reached out, took his hand between her own, and held tight.

  But later that night, she lay awake and fretful in Stephen’s bed. Her husband slept peacefully beside her, snoring slightly, for he’d turned onto his back. She’d told him nothing of her conversation with Ypres; the Fleming was not yet ready to reveal his secret, even to one as sure to be sympathetic as Stephen. Matilda tucked the covers more securely about Stephen’s chest, then gently smoothed his hair; it was well streaked with silver. Her own hair was beginning to go grey, too, for she was forty-one now. Tonight, though, she felt as if she were much older, burdened with more troubles than she could even count.

  Lying next to Stephen, she closed her eyes tightly, but the images would not go away. Ypres in the chapel. Eustace as he knelt to receive knighthood, his face upturned and eager. And Chester, a dark presence in the shadows, malevolent and unforgiving. Surely Chester could not be indifferent to the fate of his hostages, one of them his own kinsman? Would he truly risk his nephew’s life by rebelling? Stephen insisted that not even Chester could be so reckless, so ruthless. But what if he was?

  AS soon as Stephen withdrew, the Earl of Chester launched a fierce attack upon the city of Lincoln. But Stephen had left a strong garrison behind, and with the help of the citizens, they were able to beat back the earl’s assault.

  Thwarted at Lincoln, Chester then attempted to recapture Coventry. Stephen hastened to break the siege, was wounded in the fighting that followed, and had to withdraw. But he soon returned and put Chester to flight, the earl narrowly escaping with his life. Although hard pressed by Stephen, Chester continued his rebellion, and was accused by the chronicle Gesta Stephani of exercising “the tyranny of a Herod and the savagery of a Nero.”

  34

  Devizes, England

  May 1147

  STEPHEN gave Chester’s chief hostage a choice: gain his freedom by surrendering his castles. The Earl of Hertford reluctantly yielded the strongholds and once free, joined his uncle’s rebellion. Chester was the young man’s maternal uncle; his paternal uncle, the Earl of Pembroke, argued that his nephew’s forfeit castles should have gone to him. When his claim was denied, he withdrew from court and made plans to seize the disputed castles. Stephen struck faster than the disaffected earl, captured his castles at Leeds and Tonbridge, then laid siege to the earl himself in his seacoast fortress at Pevensey. Once again Stephen had demonstrated his abilities as a soldier, but his political skills were less impressive: by alienating the influential Clare family, he threw more logs onto the fires set by Chester.

  Chester’s rebellion was to have far-reaching consequences for a number of people, Ranulf and Annora among them. Now that Chester was an outright enemy of the king, Annora’s husband refused to allow her to continue her visits to the Countess Maud. Ranulf and Annora were still able to use Maud as a conduit for their letters, but there were no more trysts; that well had dried up. They would need to find another reliable go between. So far, though, Ranulf’s ruminations had yielded no candidates. When Rainald asked for his help in Cornwall, he was quite willing to join his brother’s Cornish campaign, if only to take his mind off his trouble with Annora. He was gone more than two months, would have remained longer, but a messenger caught up with him after Easter, bearing an urgent summons from his sister. Maude needed him back at Devizes as soon as possible—if not sooner.

  AS Ranulf dismounted in the inner bailey of Devizes Castle, Hugh de Plucknet hurried out to greet him. “Thank God you’ve come! The empress has been as fretful as a wet cat, awaiting your return. In all the years I’ve known her, never have I seen her so disquieted, not even when we were trapped at Oxford.”

  “What has Stephen done?”

  “Not Stephen—Lady Maude’s son.”

  “MAUDE? Hugh had some cock-and-bull story about Harry coming over here to fight Stephen! Surely that cannot be true?”

  “I would to God it were not!” Maude said fervently. “But alas, it is. Henry got it into his head that it was time for him to play a more active part in our efforts to overthrow Stephen. So he found a few young Norman and Angevin lords eager for adventure, hired some Breton mercenaries, and set sail for England—”

  “Geoffrey let him do this?” Ranulf interrupted incredulously, and Maude shook her head.

  “Geoffrey knew nothing of it, no more than Robert or I did. No, this mad escapade was Henry’s doing and his alone. He landed at Wareham, sent a messenger to Devizes with his greetings, and then began his war.”

  “Good God Almighty,” Ranulf murmured. His nephew was all of fourteen.

  “They attacked Cricklade first, were easily driven off. They then tried to lay siege to a castle at Purton, again failed. It was only to be expected: a raw lad, not enough men, no siege weapons. But it quickly got worse, for he’d paid his soldiers with promises, and they were growing impatient. What money he had was soon spent, and he had no choice but to appeal to Robert and me for aid. It was then that I fear I made a greivous mistake, Ranulf.”

  “Why? What did you do?”

  “We ordered Henry to cease this foolishness and return to Normandy. That affronted his newfound manhood and he balked like a mule, flatly refusing to go home. Robert was furious and persuaded me that we dared not indulge him, that he must be brought to heel straightaway. We would not give him so much as a farthing, but instead of bringing him to his senses, we only goaded him into further defiance. Off he went in a prideful rage, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I could not very well hold him prisoner here. He’d never have forgiven me.”

  “No, probably not,” Ranulf agreed. “What happened then?”

  “That is just it, Ranulf—I do not know what is happening! We heard that Henry’s men had begun to abandon him, that his mercenaries were clamoring for payment. What if they all forsake him? Or even worse, if he is betrayed and turned over to Stephen? What if—”

  “Maude, stop scaring yourself. This serves for naught. You and Robert did only what you thought was best for the lad, what would get him safely back to Normandy. And with most fourteen-year-olds, it would have worked.” Honesty compelling him to add, “Of course most fourteen-year-olds would not be out hiring mercenaries or assaulting castles. I assume you want me to go after him?”

  She swallowed, nodded, then swallowed again. He found it astonishing that a woman so indifferent to her own safety, whose bravery had so often bordered upon recklessness, was coming undone now at the mere thought of danger to her son. “Do you know where he is?”

  “He went back to Wareham. He has always been fond of you, Ranulf. I think he’ll listen to you—he must! Tell him that I will get the money he needs to pay off his men, but he must sail for Normandy straightaway.”

  “I’ll leave at first light,” he promised. “Now you must stop blaming yourself, Maude. You were just trying to teach the lad a lesson, one he badly needed to learn.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “But what if the lesson proves fatal?”

  TRUE to his word, Ranulf departed at dawn the next morning, with an armed escort large enough for safety, not large enough to slow him down. It was close to fifty miles to Wareham and the roads were muddy, for it had been a rainy spring. They still made good time, not stopping for the night until they’d reached Gilbert Fitz John’s manor on the Dorsetshire border. When they left on the morrow, Gilbert rode with them.

  Sunset-tinted clouds were trailing the sun as it started its slow descent toward the western horizon. They were almost upon Wareham; the wind was sharper and dam
per now as they neared the sea. Riding at Ranulf’s side, Gilbert glanced curiously at his friend’s profile. “What sort of response,” he asked, “do you expect to get from Henry?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ranulf admitted. “Most likely he’ll be defensive, even defiant. Nothing is more tender than youthful male pride.”

  “Remember us at fourteen? You, me, and Ancel—the Unholy Trinity, Annora liked to call us. Not that our tomfoolery could hold a candle to young Henry’s undertaking. Not once did we ever think of invading England!”

  Although it sounded as if Gilbert were just rambling on, Ranulf knew he had deliberately forced Ancel’s name into the conversation. He kept his eyes on the road, saying nothing, but Gilbert was not discouraged by his silence. “Surely you’ll be able to patch things up with Ancel,” he insisted. “The fact that he has not revealed what he knows—do you not think that is a hopeful sign, Ranulf?”

  “He’ll not forgive me, Gib. Nor will he be forgiving Annora, and of all her brothers, he was her favorite…”

  Ranulf said no more, and this time Gilbert took the hint, let the matter drop—for now. He was not about to give up, though, meant to make peace between his friends, no matter how long it took. “Have you figured out another way to meet with Annora? A pity Chester had such a wretched sense of timing. If not for his falling out with Stephen, his wife’s pregnancy would have been a perfect excuse for Annora to stay with her awhile.”

  “Pregnancy?” Ranulf swung around in the saddle. “Maud is with child again?”

  “You did not hear? Ah, but you’ve been off in Cornwall; I forgot. Lady Maud wrote to Earl Robert and Lady Amabel last month. The babe is due in September, I believe.” He grinned suddenly. “So we know how Chester celebrated his release!”

  Under his breath, Ranulf called Chester a foul name; it might not be logical, but he found himself bearing a very personal grudge against the earl whose rebellion had played such havoc with his love affair. “May the Almighty bless Maud with an easy birth and a healthy child,” he said, and then raised his hand to halt his men, for Wareham lay just ahead. “May the Almighty favor me, too, Gib, in my coming talk with my nephew. God Willing, I’ll be able to coax him into sailing with the tide for Normandy.”

  RANULF was pleased, but surprised, too, by the warmth of Henry’s welcome. He’d been expecting to find a youngster despondent and possibly defiant, in need of some face-saving comfort. But as improbable as it seemed, his nephew appeared to be in high spirits, genuinely glad to see him, and apparently unperturbed to be stranded in enemy territory. He insisted upon personally ushering Ranulf and Gilbert and their men into the hall, very much the young lord of the manor as he directed the castle cooks to prepare a meal for these new arrivals.

  Servants were stoking the fire, for Wareham was near the sea and the spring evenings were still chilly. Settling Ranulf and himself before the hearth with wine and wafers, Henry regarded his uncle over the rim of his wine cup. “So,” he said, “Mama sent you?”

  Ranulf nodded. “Your mother is the most courageous woman I know, Harry. But you’ve managed to accomplish what Stephen and all the might of the English Crown could never do—you’ve scared her half to death.”

  “That was not my intent,” Henry protested, although without heat. He seemed older to Ranulf than fourteen; for better or worse, he was growing up fast—and in a hurry to hasten the process along. Ranulf’s own world had not changed dramatically or drastically in the three years since he’d last seen his nephew; he was still living on hope. But those three years had wrought significant changes in Henry. It was too early to tell if he was going to inherit Geoffrey’s height, but he was already sprouting up, almost as tall as Ranulf and obviously proud of his new stature. He was still in that awkward stage, the perilous no-man’s-land of adolescence; the curve of his cheek was smooth and beardless, but his voice had steadied, and he seemed to have outgrown the coltish clumsiness so common to boys his age. How, Ranulf wondered, was he to deal with this stubborn man-child, too clever for his own good, too young to let loose, too old to rein in.

  Henry took the initiative. “I suppose,” he said, “that you think I’ve gone stark mad?”

  “No…it is understandable and commendable that you’d want to do your own fighting. But Scriptures say that for everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under Heaven—and it was not yet your time, lad.”

  “I know,” Henry conceded, with disarming, cheerful candor. “I botched it badly.”

  “And…and you are not troubled by that?”

  Henry shrugged. “Next time,” he said, “I’ll do better.”

  Ranulf was very relieved that the boy was being so reasonable, and yet something was not quite right about this. Harry was being too reasonable, too complacent in defeat. There was a piece missing from this puzzle, but how to find it? “Your mother is now willing to give you the money you owe your men—provided that you agree to end this campaign and return to Normandy.”

  “That is kind of Mama, but I no longer need her help. I’ve already paid my men.”

  Ranulf stiffened. “Where did you get the money? Harry…you did not turn outlaw?”

  “Of course not, Uncle Ranulf! How could I hope to win the hearts of my English subjects by stealing their purses?”

  “Then I repeat—where did you get the money, lad?”

  Henry’s amusement was unmistakable now; silvery glints of laughter swam in the depths of sea-grey eyes. “You need not fret,” he said, “for I kept it a family matter. After Mama and Uncle Robert refused to help me, I turned to my other kinsman. I got the money from Stephen.”

  Ranulf inhaled his wine, choked, and began to cough. Struggling for breath, he managed to croak out, “Not…joking?”

  Henry grinned. “I am quite serious. I sent a messenger to Cousin Stephen, explaining that I was out of funds and asking for a loan to get back to Normandy. My man said that he read my letter, laughed until he was blinking back tears, and then agreed to give me the money, provided that I not overstay my welcome!”

  Henry laughed soundlessly, eyes alight with both triumph and mischief. But then he took another look at his uncle and became solicitous. “You’re still red as a beet and you’ve spilled all your wine. You sit and catch your breath, Uncle Ranulf, whilst I fetch some more.”

  As soon as Henry went off in search of a servant, Gilbert hastened over. “Ranulf, what is going on? You look poleaxed; what did he tell you?”

  Ranulf was still coughing. “You’ll never believe who is financing this expedition of Harry’s—none other than the man he was attempting to overthrow.”

  Gilbert’s jaw dropped. “Stephen?”

  Ranulf nodded and coughed again. “I’ve always thought of Harry as Maude’s son. But for a moment there, it was as if I’d been given a glimpse of Geoffrey at fourteen. For certes, the lad did not get his sense of humor from my sister! She’ll be appalled when she hears about this, for it is not in her nature to understand it. Nor will Robert. But I daresay Geoffrey will find it hilarious.” He shook his head, but the corners of his mouth were already twitching, and he was soon laughing himself.

  Gilbert could not help laughing, too. “Remember that old joke…the one about the lad who killed his parents and then asked the king’s court to show him mercy because he was an orphan? But whatever possessed Stephen to agree? Other men suffer from recurring ailments like the ague fever or toothache or boils. With Stephen, it is always these fits of misguided chivalry!”

  Ranulf grinned. “I’ll admit that Stephen would be beguiled by the sheer audacity of the lad’s request. But I suspect that he sees his generosity as common sense, not chivalry. So far Harry has been more of a nuisance than a real threat, and Stephen may have considered the money well spent just to get rid of him. He’s not a man to take a fourteen-year-old foe very seriously, or to wish the boy harm…not until he grows up some. So he probably—”

  Alerted by Gilbert’s expression, Ranulf broke off, but not in time.
Henry had heard. “Sorry, Harry. No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” Henry said equably. “I know Stephen gave me the money to get rid of me. I was relying upon that.”

  “And you are going home?”

  Henry nodded. “It would not be fair to take the man’s money and then renege upon our bargain. I am returning to Normandy as soon as I’ve bade my mother farewell.” His pause was deliberate, for as young as he was, he was already developing a sense of timing. “But,” he said, “I will be back.”

  35

  Devizes, England

  July 1147

  THE foal was the color of cider, wispy mane and tail as fair as flax. It tottered about the stall like a landlubber just getting its sea legs, and the men laughed at its endearing clumsiness, while marveling, too, for they knew that in a few fleeting hours, this hobbled little colt would be able to gallop after its mother as if it had been born with wings. The foal had finally found what it had been instinctively seeking. Nosing its mother’s udder, it began to suckle.

  Reaching over, Ranulf clapped one of the grooms on the shoulder. “Good work, Godric. The empress will be very pleased with you, for she sets quite a store by this mare of hers.”

  Godric smiled bashfully, and mumbled something they couldn’t catch. His shyness always came as a surprise, for people assumed that anyone so big would be aggressive, too. But his rawboned, hefty appearance was deceptive, burly camouflage for a gentle soul. He never shrank from the dirty jobs, was generous in offering his help to those who needed it, whistled softly to himself as he worked about the stables, and Ranulf had concluded he was that rarity, a man utterly content with his lot in life.