When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  A strained silence filled the room. Stephen glanced from one to the other, not liking what he found. His wife looked very pensive, a sure sign she was troubled; Ypres was deliberately noncommittal, and Eustace was sullen. Stephen’s eyes lingered on his son. Without meaning to, they’d let the lad down. He’d come hell-for-leather from Winchester with his news, thinking he was bringing them a wonderful gift, only to have them not even bother to unwrap it.

  “This is a day we’ll always remember,” he said, as heartily as he could. “Your news changes everything, lad. Chester’s defection no longer matters now, for Maude is burying the one man she could not afford to lose. Her claim to the English crown breathed its last when Robert did. It is over. At long last, it is over.”

  37

  Devizes, England

  January 1148

  “SO it is over…just like that? No regrets, no looking back, sail off into the sunset—what a simple way to end a war! A pity we did not think of this ere so many men died for you, but better late than—”

  “Ranulf, enough!” Maude was livid. “I did not say it was over. It will never be over, not as long as I draw breath, and you, of all men, ought to know that. But we can no longer remain in England, and you ought to know that, too. Dear God, Ranulf, do you think I want to go? Back to Normandy, back to Geoffrey? What more proof can you have of my resolve than this—that I am forcing myself to do something so repugnant? This is a strategic retreat, not an abdication.”

  “You can talk all you want about continuing the fight from Normandy, but that is what it is—just talk. If we flee England, we are conceding defeat, conceding the crown to Stephen!”

  “That is not so! I would never abandon my son, never!”

  “Harry has Geoffrey to fight for him in Normandy. He needs you to fight for him in England! But you’ve grown weary of war, tired of the struggle.”

  “No!”

  “Then why are you using Robert’s death as an excuse to give up, to run away? If you do that, then what has it been for—the sacrifices and the battles and the dying—all for what?”

  Maude was stunned by the attack. She’d never seen him like this, all nerve ends and raw rage. “You are not being fair, Ranulf! Whether you want to admit it or not, Robert’s death changed everything!”

  “Mayhap for you, but not for me.” When she would have argued further, he flung up his hand. “There is nothing more to be said. If you are set upon deserting those who fought and bled for you, I cannot stop you. But do not expect me to follow you, and do not expect me to forgive you.”

  She stared after him in shock, too angry and hurt to call him back.

  RAINALD was still groggy, for he’d not slept well the night before. “Maude, you’re not making sense. You say he is gone? Gone where?”

  “If I knew that,” she said impatiently, “I’d not need your help. After you went up to bed last night, Ranulf and I had a terrible argument. I told him that I dared not remain in England now that Robert was dead. The dangers are so obvious; it never occurred to me that he might not understand. But he flared up in a wild rage, accused me of betrayal and cowardice and God knows what else, and then slammed out of the room as if it were on fire.”

  Rainald blinked sleepily. “You’re still not making sense. Ranulf has always had a good head on his shoulders. Surely he sees how precarious your position has become. I like Will well enough, but he could no more fill Robert’s shoes than he could get himself elected Pope. Brien has a plateful of his own troubles, and that whelp of Miles’s is too green to be much help in fending off Stephen. Ranulf knows all that, not being a fool. So why is he balking?”

  “Ranulf…is in a lot of pain,” Maude said reluctantly; she did not feel she had the right to give away Ranulf’s secrets.

  Rainald nodded knowingly. “He always did think Robert could walk with the angels. But why are you so distraught about all this? So you quarreled and he went off in a sulk. He’ll be back once his temper cools and then—”

  “No,” Maude interrupted, “I do not think he is coming back. He said nary a word to me. He just rode away at first light, was long gone by the time I sought him out to make our peace.”

  “What makes you think he is not coming back?”

  “He gave his dogs away.”

  Rainald sat up abruptly. “Are you sure about that, Maude?”

  “He gave his breeding pair to Hugh de Plucknet and his young bitch to Luke. He took only Loth, and rode away without a backward glance. Now you tell me, Rainald. Does that sound like a man who’s just gone off to sulk?”

  “No,” he admitted, “no, it does not. Well…what we must do is figure out where he is likely to have gone. You gave him several manors here in Wiltshire, so we ought to send a man there first. What about that friend of his, Gilbert Fitz…whatever? Ah, no, he was killed; I forgot. Wait—I have it! I’ll wager that we’ll find him at Chester with Maud.”

  “And if he is? What then?”

  “I go and bring him back, of course.” After a moment to reflect, though, Rainald realized how impractical that would be. “I guess I cannot drag him back by the scruff of the neck,” he conceded. “So…what do you want to do?”

  “There is not much I can do, Rainald. If we can find him, I can write and entreat him to return. Otherwise, I can only hope he’ll come back of his own accord.”

  “You dare not wait too long, Maude.”

  “I know,” she said, “I know…”

  MAUDE stood on the battlements of Arundel Castle, watching as Rainald rode away. A grey February fog had rolled in from the sea, and he and his men were soon swallowed up in it. Maude did not move, though, until Adeliza tugged at her arm, urging her back inside.

  MAUDE had chosen to sail from Arundel so she might bid Adeliza farewell. It was also a closing of the circle, a means of punishing herself for her failure, ending up where she had begun.

  Adeliza was embroidering as they talked, her needle flashing in the firelight. Maude had offered to help, but now her own sewing lay forgotten in her lap. The more she studied Adeliza, the less she liked what she saw. The other woman was pale, even for February, and alarmingly thin; always inclining toward the voluptuous, she seemed almost gaunt now. Maude’s first reaction was to ascribe these troubling changes to the travails of the birthing chamber. In the eleven years since she’d wed William d’Aubigny, she’d been almost constantly pregnant, giving birth to seven surviving children and two stillborn.

  “You are not with child again, are you?” Maude asked uneasily, for at Adeliza’s age—her own forty-six—childbed was all too often a woman’s deathbed, too. Adeliza cast her an oddly secretive, sideways look, then shook her head. “But you are ailing,” Maude persisted, and this time she got no denial. Adeliza sewed in silence for several moments while Maude waited to see if more information would be forthcoming. When it was not, she reached over and touched the other woman’s wrist. “I’ll not pry,” she promised, “but whatever you choose to tell me will never leave this chamber.”

  Adeliza continued to stitch, but color had risen in her cheeks. They were speaking German, the language of their youth, and the words themselves called up memories of an old intimacy. “Did I ever tell you, Maude, about the Flemish monastery founded by my lord father? It is at Affligham, near Alost, has a house for monks and one for nuns. My brother has written to me that he is thinking of taking holy vows there. It is my heartfelt wish to do the same.”

  Maude was speechless, so great was her surprise. It was not at all uncommon for widows to retire to a convent to end their days. But Adeliza was a wife and a happily wedded one, or so Maude had thought. And if she renounced the world, she’d be renouncing her children, too, the youngest still a babe in her cradle, the oldest not yet nine. Maude could easily understand a woman’s urge to abandon the marital bed. So, too, could she comprehend the appeal of the cloister, so orderly and serene and reassuring in its very simplicity. But she could never have turned her back upon her children—not even for God
.

  Floundering for words, she said hesitantly, “What does Will think of this, Adeliza? You would have to get his permission ere the Church could accept you, would you not?”

  “Yes.” Adeliza kept her eyes upon her work, a cushion adorned with delicately drawn roses. “He thinks it is a foolish female whim, one that will pass. But it will not.”

  “Are you truly sure this is what you want, Adeliza? You seemed so contented with Will.” Maude paused, but Adeliza ignored the hint. Maude watched her in bafflement, then tried again. “And what of your children? They are so young, little more than babies…”

  “I am a queen, not a cotter’s wife. There are more than enough hands to tend to their needs, to see that they want for nothing. Do not make it sound as if I am forsaking my family, Maude. I have been as good a wife and mother as I know how. I did no less for your father, as his consort and his queen. And I was a dutiful daughter, marrying as my father bade me. I have always done what was expected of me. Now—in the time remaining to me—I would follow my own heart.”

  “I was right, then. You are ill.”

  “Yes,” Adeliza said calmly. “But you must not grieve for me, Maude. Death is just the door to Life Everlasting.”

  Maude frowned, struggling with her pain and her rebellious instincts; she knew nothing of surrender. “You are very dear to me,” she said at last, “and you must let me help you.” Her mind was racing, although not fast enough to outrun her grief. A doctor—she would find Adeliza the best doctor in all of Christendom. But almost at once she remembered Master Serlo, Adeliza’s personal physician; if he could not help her, no mortal healer could. “Do you want me to talk with Will? Mayhap I could persuade him to let you take the veil…”

  Adeliza concealed a smile, for Maude had hardly endeared herself to Will, would probably be the last one he’d be likely to heed. “It helps,” she said, “to know that you understand,” and then raised her head inquiringly, for a servant was hovering in the doorway.

  “There is a visitor,” he said deferentially, “for the empress,” and Maude’s lacerated heart took a sudden, joyful jump. Ranulf! But the man eventually ushered into the chamber was Brien Fitz Count.

  IT was the first time that they’d been alone in a long while. Maude wished that she’d had some warning, wished that she’d had time to prepare herself, wished that she were not wearing this drab dark gown. “You got my letter, then?” she asked, and at once felt foolish, for why else would he have come to Arundel?

  “Yes, I did,” he said, just as needlessly. “Did Ranulf come back?”

  “No, and we had no luck in finding him. Rainald and Maud have promised to let me know if they hear from him. I’d be grateful if you would, too.”

  “Of course I will.” He looked tired and sounded dispirited. “I do not understand about this falling-out with Ranulf. It does not seem like him at all.”

  “Ranulf gave up a great deal to support my claims to the English crown. And now…now he fears it was all for nothing.”

  “No,” he said, “it was not for nothing.” Removing his mantle, he moved toward her. “You saw Maud,” he said, “and Rainald, and you’ve come to Arundel to bid Adeliza farewell. But you were going to leave without seeing me.”

  Maude swallowed. She could feel her face getting hot, but she owed him the truth—this once. “I could not, Brien. It would have been too painful.”

  “Are you sorry, then, that I came?”

  “No,” she said softly, “no…”

  “I have something for you.” Reaching into his tunic, he drew out a soft pouch. It was finely stitched in her favorite shade of green, with silken drawstrings. Nestled within was a small coin, threaded upon a delicate gold chain. Maude’s eyes misted as she gazed down at the keepsake, a silver penny minted at Bristol in her image, with her name and title engraved in Latin around the rim. Lady of the English, the queen who might have been.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Brien.”

  He hesitated and then gave her one last gift—his jealousy. “Are you going back to Geoffrey?”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Not if I can help it.” Her fingers clenched around the silver coin. “I have no choice, Brien, but to go. When Robert died, it all started to crumble. It was only a matter of time until I’d have fallen into Stephen’s hands, and what good could I do Henry from an English prison? I was even in danger of losing Devizes. We’d seized it from Stephen, but he’d taken it from the Bishop of Salisbury, and the new bishop is now demanding its return to the Church. Ranulf accused me of losing heart, but I did not, I swear I did not. I am not giving up.”

  “I know that. So does Ranulf. You are doing what you must—for your son’s sake. There is nothing you’d not sacrifice for Henry.” The corner of his mouth curved in a melancholy smile. “Who would understand that better than me?”

  Maude shook her head. “Do not make me sound heroic, Brien. There is nothing heroic in defeat, nothing admirable in failure.”

  “You did not fail, Maude.”

  “No? Then why am I fleeing this accursed country like a thief in the night? More than eight years and God alone knows how many deaths, and what have I to show for it all?”

  “Normandy,” he said succinctly. “And do not tell me that was Geoffrey’s doing, for you made it possible. You kept Stephen so busy defending himself that you gave Geoffrey the time he needed to win Normandy. That was as much your triumph as it was Geoffrey’s. Do not let him tell you otherwise.”

  She summoned up an unconvincing smile. “I was never one for listening to Geoffrey,” she said. “Thank you…for your abiding friendship and your faith in me, your faith in Henry. He is not old enough, not yet. But he will come back. He’ll lay claim to our crown. And he will prevail.”

  “I never doubted that,” he said, “for what son of yours could ever lack courage or fortitude? He’ll be back for certes. But you will not…will you?”

  “No,” she admitted, “I will not. England may not have broken my spirit, Brien, but it did break my heart.” It was a feeble attempt at a joke, holding too much truth for humor, and to her dismay, she found she could no longer blink back her tears. When he reached for her, she did not pull away, and they stood for a long time in a wordless embrace, while the fire burned down and the shadows advanced, for night was coming on.

  SLEET was pelting the beach, and the ship rocked from side to side as Adeliza’s men pushed it out of the shallows, then splashed hastily back to shore. Maude clung to the gunwale, with a white-faced Minna standing resolutely at her side. Alexander de Bohun, William Marshal, and the others were already heading for the canvas tent, and Maude now insisted that Minna seek shelter, too. “Go on,” she urged. “It looks like a rough crossing.”

  Waves were starting to break over the bow. Back on the beach, the wind was blowing sand about and buffeting the onlookers, most of them servants from the castle and curious villagers. They soon were in retreat, until only three hardy souls remained: Brien and Adeliza and Hugh de Plucknet, who’d wed an English heiress but insisted upon seeing Maude safely to Arundel. She would miss Hugh. So many she would miss. So many she mourned.

  The sky was as grey as the sea, splattered with clouds. The sleet stung her face and her eyes blurred as the shore started to recede. Adeliza and Hugh were trudging toward their horses, but Brien still stood at the water’s edge, staring after the ship. Maude was trembling with the cold, but she stayed there on the pitching deck until the blue of Brien’s mantle was no longer visible and England began to fade into the distance.

  38

  Canterbury, England

  March 1148

  MATILDA knelt before the High Altar in the cathedral church of the Holy Trinity and prayed for peace. The choir was chilled and damp, but she stayed on her knees until her back began to ache. She should have been happy, for fortune seemed to be favoring Stephen at last. There were rumors, as yet unconfirmed, that Maude was preparing to leave England. Matilda herself was
fulfilling a long-cherished desire; she’d acquired thirteen acres of land from the canons of Holy Trinity, Aldgate, so that she could establish a hospital to treat London’s poor and pray for the souls of her dead children. And she and Stephen had finally been able to go ahead with their plans to found a Cluniac abbey at Faversham. But her satisfaction was shadowed by Stephen’s continuing quarrel with the Archbishop of Canterbury, a clash of will made all the more ominous by the new Pope’s obvious sympathy for the Angevin cause.

  Archbishop Theobald’s intransigence was all the more infuriating to Stephen because he saw it as rank ingratitude; he and Matilda had done their utmost to secure the See of Canterbury for him, at Stephen’s brother Henry’s expense. Stephen had long insisted that Theobald was much too quick to acknowledge Maude after the Battle of Lincoln, and he’d soon convinced himself that Theobald was a secret Angevin partisan. Theobald was, after all, once the Abbot of Bec, the monastery that Maude favored above all others, and when Theobald had hastened over to Paris last May to meet with the Pope, Geoffrey of Anjou had just happened to be there, too. Coincidence or conspiracy? Stephen was sure he knew the answer.

  Matilda had been less suspicious, loath to think ill of so pious and godly a churchman. But she was no longer so willing to give the archbishop the benefit of every doubt, not since the furor over the York See. The Pope had deposed the current Archbishop of York, Stephen’s nephew, and then chose his own candidate, who thus became the first English archbishop ever to be consecrated without the consent of the king. To Stephen, it was a slap in the face—and Theobald had delivered it, for he’d supported the Pope wholeheartedly, exercising his considerable influence on behalf of the Pope’s man.