When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  As she’d hoped, that got his attention. “That is not so,” he said hotly. “I do not blame Luke!”

  “I know,” she said. “You blame yourself.” She closed the space between them, reaching for his arm. “Ranulf, listen to me. It was not your fault. How could you know that Gilbert would follow you to Shrewsbury? What befell him was tragic, but it was an accident. It could as easily have happened on the Bristol Road—”

  “But it did not.” The words were wrenched from Ranulf, against his will. He at once repudiated them, saying huskily, “Maude, just let it be.”

  She studied his face, and then reluctantly loosed her hold upon his arm. “I want you to go to Bristol,” she said. “I want you to find out how Robert’s plans are progressing for our new offensive against Stephen.”

  He frowned. “Why me? Why not send Hugh or Alexander?”

  “Because,” she insisted, “I want to send you.” At the door, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “If you cannot talk to me,” she said, “mayhap you can talk to Robert.”

  MAUDE was wrong. Robert was the last one Ranulf could have confided in. What could he say, that because of his adulterous affair with another man’s wife, his best friend was dead? Even if he no longer deserved it, he could not lose Robert’s respect. He despised himself, though, for his moral cowardice. He’d not been able to bring himself to face Gilbert’s widow, Ella, and now he could not bear for Robert to know the truth about him. What was that if not the worst sort of cowardice?

  But Ranulf’s shattered spirits flickered and the ache in his chest eased somewhat as the walls of Bristol came into view. Even if he could not unburden himself to his brother, just being with Robert would be a comfort. He could cling to Robert’s abiding calm like a shipwrecked sailor, like so many others in need. Robert was always there for them all, a refuge for the lost and the disheartened and the damned. Mayhap Maude had known what she was about, after all, in sending him to Bristol.

  The east gate of the castle swung open as soon as Ranulf identified himself. He and his men dismounted in the bailey, and he handed the reins of his stallion to Luke. “If you’ll unsaddle him for me, lad, I’ll seek out my brother and see about getting us all fed.”

  That sounded good to his tired and hungry men, and they headed for the stables, eager to get this final task over with. Luke nodded and followed, cheered by Ranulf’s smile; he’d not seen it for weeks. The bailey was oddly empty, no servants in sight. But Ranulf knew the layout of Bristol Castle well enough to find his way blindfolded; for the past eight years, it had been his second home. The stone tower of the keep rose up against the western sky, crested by sunset clouds, the most likely place to find his brother. He was halfway there when a familiar figure appeared in the doorway, cried out his name, and then started toward him at a run.

  Puzzled, Ranulf quickened his pace. “Will?”

  By the time Robert’s firstborn reached him, he was flushed and panting, badly winded by even so short a sprint, for he was as indulgent in his habits as his father was sparing, and he’d begun to develop a paunch while still in his twenties. He was in his thirties now, several years Ranulf’s senior, cheerful and gregarious but not redoubtable, a sapling stunted by his sire’s formidable shadow. Ranulf had rarely seen him so flustered, for he’d inherited Robert’s equable temperament, if not his capacity for command. “How did you get here so fast?” he demanded. “We just sent a man out this morn. Where is Aunt Maude? She did come with you? Christ Jesus, surely she understood—”

  “Understood what? Will, you’re raving. Start over—at the beginning.”

  Will gulped in a great lungful of air. There was an autumn chill in the bailey, but beads of sweat had broken out upon his forehead. “You got no message, then? No, of course you did not. What was I thinking of? No man could get to Devizes and back in but a day—”

  “Will! Name of God, man, what is wrong?”

  “It is my father. It came upon him without warning, a sudden fever…” Will’s mouth trembled and he struggled to blink back tears. “Christ pity us all, Ranulf, for the fool doctors…they say Papa is dying!”

  RANULF was slumped in a window seat of his brother’s bedchamber, his muscles cramped and stiff from so many hours of immobility. He’d lost track of the days, could not have said how long he’d been at Bristol. He measured time differently now; nothing mattered but the dwindling number of Robert’s labored breaths. Night had fallen again, but the chamber was still crowded; men who’d come to bid their dying lord farewell lingered as long as possible, loath to let go.

  Baldwin de Redvers stumbled away from the bed, blowing his nose in a napkin. William Fitz Alan was the next to go, head down, face wet. Each day brought more of them, Robert’s friends and vassals. Robert had insisted that longtime servants be admitted, too, and men-at-arms who’d bled for him and would have died for him now if given the chance.

  The men usually withdrew at sunset; that was the family’s time. Ranulf knew the priests would not go far, though—just in case. Few kings had so many clerics at their deathbeds, but Robert had been one of the Church’s most generous benefactors. He’d founded a Benedictine priory in Bristol, established a Cistercian abbey at Margam in South Wales, and he’d shown particular favor to the abbeys of Tewkesbury and Gloucester and Neath. Gilbert Foliot and Abbot Roger of Tewkesbury were in daily attendance, praying first for Robert’s recovery and then, when the doctors could not bring down his fever, for his immortal soul.

  Ranulf had seen fever scramble a man’s wits, but so far, Robert remained conscious and coherent. After he’d been shriven of his earthly sins, he’d made his will, provided for alms to the poor, asked to be buried at his Bristol priory, and sought promises from his liegemen that they’d be as loyal to his son as they’d been to him. He was dying, Ranulf thought, as he’d lived, competently and quietly and with dignity, and Holy God Above, what would they do without him?

  Amabel was sitting on the bed beside her husband, his hand clasped in hers. When she was not bending over to whisper private endearments or encouragements, she was watching his heaving chest, almost as if she were willing his every breath. She was younger than Robert, who’d celebrated his fifty-seventh birthday that summer, but she seemed to have aged years in a matter of days. Ranulf could not look long upon her face, so naked was her grief.

  Maude was standing by the bed. Silent tears were spilling over again; she made no attempt to wipe them away, did not even seem to notice. Robert’s children were clustered at the foot of the bed, as if afraid to stray too far. Roger’s pallor was accentuated by his dark priestly garb, but it was the son, not the priest, who occasionally choked back a sob. Hamon’s eyes were red-rimmed, his shoulders hunched and fists knotted in a futile defiance of Death. And Will sat, frozen, upon a coffer he’d dragged near the bed. He was about to come into his own, into great wealth and power. But he looked dazed, like a man soon to be cast adrift with no land in sight.

  There were missing faces in the circle, loved ones whose absence grew more ominous as Robert’s strength waned. Brien was under siege again at Wallingford. Robert’s second son, Richard, was in Normandy, Rainald in Cornwall. Maud was on her way from Wales. And they all took great care not to mention Philip.

  The room was shuttered against the cooling evening air, but Ranulf could still hear a muffled pealing in the distance. The churches of Bristol were tolling passing bells for their stricken lord on this All Hallows’ Eve. Getting wearily to his feet, he approached the bed. Robert had been sleeping for much of the day. Ranulf knew he should be glad, for Robert’s sake, that they were so close to the end, but he also knew he’d have done whatever he could to gain Robert more time, even if it prolonged his suffering. His brother’s face was gaunt, burning with false, feverish color, his hair soaked in sweat. A thin white scar angled up into his hairline. Passing strange, but Ranulf could not remember ever noticing it before. How could he have missed it? Now he’d never know how Robert had gotten it. Why that should matte
r so much, he could not explain, but suddenly it did—enormously.

  Reaching over, he gently touched Amabel’s shoulder. As their eyes met, she drew a shuddering breath and covered his hand with her own; her skin was hot and her fingers had a perceptible tremor. When they looked back toward the bed, Robert’s eyes were open.

  “Are you thirsty, love?” It was not so much a question as entreaty, so great was Amabel’s need to do something for him. When he nodded, Maude turned swiftly toward the table, poured hastily, and thrust a dripping cup into Amabel’s hand. Ranulf watched as Amabel helped Robert to drink, tears filling his eyes. Robert saw and when his whisper drew Ranulf closer, he said, faintly but distinctly:

  “Not…not just my little brother…”

  The others may not have understood, but Ranulf did and his throat closed up. Robert was saying what they’d both always known, that the bond between them was more than brotherly. He could have been one of Robert’s own sons, and he would mourn Robert all his days, as he’d never mourned his father.

  Swallowing tears, he sought in vain to steady his voice enough to respond. Robert’s eyelids were drooping again and when Maude whispered wretchedly, “Ranulf, we’re losing him,” he could only nod wordlessly. It was then that the door burst open.

  A mantled, hooded figure flew toward the bed. “Papa? Papa, it’s me!” Jerking back her hood, Maud turned a white, anguished face toward her mother. “For the love of God, Mama, tell me I’m not too late!”

  She sank to her knees by the bed as Robert’s lashes flickered, searching for his hand midst the coverlets. He no longer had the strength to talk, but his eyes sent her the only message that mattered—one of recognition. Maud sobbed in relief, then cried out sharply, “Randolph, hurry!”

  That turned all heads toward the door. So intent were they upon the bedside drama, they’d not noticed that the Earl of Chester had followed his wife into the chamber. Dressed in somber colors, his demeanor no less decorous, he greeted Amabel gravely, then stepped forward to pay his respects to his dying father-in-law.

  His courtesy was flawless and so rarely seen that his audience could not help marveling at it, for he was not a man to care about propriety. Ranulf and Maude exchanged speculative glances, never doubting that his wife’s grief was not enough motivation to get him to join in Robert’s deathbed vigil. There had to be more to it. And when he turned then, toward Maude, kissing her hand with ostentatious deference, they knew what it was. This was Chester’s dramatic declaration of good faith, public proof that he was now dedicated to the Angevin cause, an ally to be trusted in the war against Stephen.

  Maud tore herself away from the bed to embrace her mother. “Randolph,” she repeated urgently, “where is she?” Still playing the role of the attentive husband, he jerked the door open and a moment later ushered a young woman from the stairwell. Maud reached out and when the wet nurse placed a small, swaddled bundle into her arms, she swung back toward the bed. “Look, Papa,” she pleaded, “look at your first grandson!”

  Robert did, and even as she saw the light dimming in his eyes, Maud was sure that he’d understood and died trying to smile at her son.

  NOVEMBER swept October away in a deluge of early-winter rain, which did not slacken as the week wore on. London began to resemble a city under siege by nature; its citizens ventured out-of-doors only when they had no choice, the streets soon looked like deserted swamps, and the rain-swollen Thames became the enemy in their midst, threatening to flood with each high tide.

  A fire roared in the hearth of the king’s chamber in the uppermost story of the Tower keep, but it could not banish the damp, only held it briefly at bay. Although it was midafternoon, the sky was smothered in so many rainclouds that the day’s dull light was already ebbing away, and Stephen, his wife, and William de Ypres had pulled their chairs close to the fire.

  “I took care to mention no names, Will, but I’ve been consulting physicians about your…” Stephen paused tactfully. “…your problem.”

  “No need for such delicacy, my liege. Say it straight out, that I’m fast going blind.” Ypres smiled as he spoke, but it was a smile to make both Stephen and Matilda wince.

  “But that is just it, Will,” Stephen said earnestly. “There might be hope for you. According to the doctors, there is a means of treating your sort of eye ailment. You’re losing your sight because a film is forming over your eyes, like a cloud passing across the sun. By taking a needle—preferably a gold one—and sticking it into the white part of the eyeball, on the edge of what they call the…the cornea, it is possible to pierce the film. And once the pupil becomes black again, you’ll regain your sight.”

  Stephen had carefully memorized what the doctors had told him, so that he might properly explain it to Ypres. But he saw now that his efforts had been wasted. Matilda could not repress a squeamish shudder, and Ypres was shaking his head with another of those ghastly, grimacing smiles.

  “I’ve heard about that procedure,” he said. “It is usually performed by traveling doctors, who go from town to town offering their services to those in need of miracles. Sometimes it even seems to work and the patient can see again—at least long enough for the doctor to collect his fee and move on. No, my liege, it was good of you to bother on my behalf, but I’d have to be crazed as well as blind ere I’d let any man plunge a needle into my eye.”

  “I’ll admit it sounds stomach-churning, Will, but I wish you’d at least talk to the doctors. We could send to Arundel for Adeliza’s physician, a man named Serlo, said to be as good a healer as you’ll find in all of England. Or there is Robert Beaumont’s physician, known as Peter the Clerk—”

  “No.”

  Even then, Stephen would have persevered had he not caught Matilda’s eye. “As you wish,” he said reluctantly. “There is just one more thing I want to say, and then we’ll speak no more on it. I value your counsel, Will, no less than your sword-arm. There is probably not a man alive who knows more than you do about battle lore and siege warfare. When you first revealed your ailment, you said you might go back to Flanders. I would hope that you’ll stay here, where you are so needed.”

  It was one of the few times they’d seen the Fleming with his defenses down, reacting without the jaded cynicism that served so well as his shield. He cleared his throat, faked a cough, and muttered gruffly that he’d stay, then. Matilda rose, let her hand rest lightly on his shoulder for a moment, smiling over his head at her husband.

  The door banged open without warning, so loudly that they all jumped. “I’ve been looking all over the Tower for you, Papa!”

  “Eustace! We thought you were staying in Winchester for another week, lad.”

  “I was, but—”

  “Eustace, you’re soaked clean through! Come over to the fire and dry off.”

  Eustace frowned impatiently but allowed his mother to steer him toward the hearth. When she insisted then that he remove his wet mantle, Stephen intervened with a grin. “I think the lad has something to tell us, Tilda, for he looks about to burst. Go on, Eustace, give us your news.”

  “Did you hear about Robert Fitz Roy?”

  “That he is ailing?” Stephen nodded. “Yes, we heard, but—”

  “He is dead,” Eustace interrupted, unable to wait any longer. “Papa, he is dead!”

  They did not react as he’d hoped. Instead of being jubilant, they seemed dubious. “Are you sure, lad?” Stephen asked slowly. “When I was stricken with that fever at Northampton, rumor had me dead and buried about twice a day till I recovered, and—”

  “This is no rumor. Uncle Henry sent a spy to Bristol to find out if his malady was life-threatening, and he well-nigh rode his horse to death getting back with his news. Robert died on Friday last, the 31st of October, soon after Compline. The entire town is in mourning, people weeping in the streets and grieving as if they’d lost their Holy Saviour—the fools!”

  “I’ll be damned,” Ypres murmured; he and Robert were of an age, and the sudden death of hi
s old adversary was an unwelcome reminder of his own mortality. Shaking it off, he forced a laugh. “And it was not even my birthday!”

  Eustace laughed, too. “I’ll get us wine,” he offered, “so we can celebrate in proper fashion.” On balance, he was disappointed by their tepid response to such momentous news. His mother was making the sign of the cross, and his father had yet to say a word. Eustace glanced gratefully at Ypres; at least he understood. Raising his cup, he said, “Let’s drink to Robert Fitz Roy…and his speedy descent into the hottest depths of Hell!”

  “Robert is not likely to go to Hell, lad,” Stephen said. “For all our differences, he was a man of honour.”

  “Honour?” Eustace echoed indignantly. “What honour is there in trying to steal our throne? Jesú, Papa, do you never speak ill of anyone? I suppose you’d even find some good to say of the Devil!”

  Stephen lowered his wine cup to stare at his son. “I’d hardly equate Robert Fitz Roy with the Devil,” he objected, sounding more hurt than angry. “A man can be our enemy, Eustace, and still be a decent sort.”

  Eustace’s lip twitched. He seemed about to retort when Ypres said coolly, “Fitz Roy was a worthy foe. We can be glad that he is dead without making a monster of him.” Eustace flushed and gulped the rest of his drink. Matilda could not help noticing that he was stung by Ypres’s rebuke, not Stephen’s, and she sighed softly.

  “That poor woman,” she said, and her son looked at her in disgusted disbelief.

  “Not you, too, Mama! Jesus God, how can you muster up even a shred of pity for Maude after all she—”

  “Watch your tone when you speak to your mother!”

  Matilda reached over, putting her hand on her husband’s arm. “I do not think Eustace realized how rude he sounded…did you, Eustace?” she said evenly, waiting until he gave a shamefaced shake of his head. “As it happens, I was not speaking of Maude. I was thinking of Robert’s widow. After forty years as the man’s wife, she must be utterly bereft.”