When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  A watering hole just off a main road was a bandit’s dream come true, an ideal place to ambush thirsty travelers…and Ranulf should have known that. He did know that, but his hangover had dulled his caution as well as his senses. Oblivious of his surroundings, he did not notice as the men emerged stealthily from hiding. Only when his stallion snorted in alarm did he look up, and by then, it was too late. They were almost upon him, and before he could get to his feet, one of them lunged forward, an upraised cudgel poised to strike.

  Ranulf flung himself sideways, and the cudgel missed by inches, so close that he felt a rush of air on his face as it plunged downward. Kicking out, he was lucky enough to rip the other man’s leg with his spur, and the man jumped backward with a startled oath. That gave Ranulf enough time to regain his feet, but not to draw his sword. It was only halfway out of the scabbard when the second bandit struck. The blow was hard enough to stagger him, but he felt no pain, and did not realize at first that he’d been stabbed, not until he saw the bloodied blade of the outlaw’s dagger.

  There were three of them, and they knew what they were about. One grabbed for the reins of Ranulf’s horse; the other two closed in on Ranulf. He yelled for Loth, then grappled with the man brandishing the cudgel. A deadly sort of dance ensued, in which he struggled with one assailant while trying at the same time to keep the man’s body between him and the knife-wielder.

  For a few frenzied moments, he actually managed it, immobilizing the one man in a bear hug, fending off the other’s thrusting dagger. The third man was still trying to stop the frightened stallion from bolting, but he’d soon join the fray, too. Desperation had lent Ranulf strength, but there was blood on both men, his blood, and he was being forced away from the pond, exposing his back to the knife. The second bandit saw his chance and moved in for the kill.

  The light was fading and Ranulf did not see what happened next. The man seemed to trip, for suddenly he was not there anymore. Ranulf heard a scream, snarling, and then the sounds of a wild struggle, as the outlaw and Loth thrashed about in the shadows. But Ranulf’s reprieve was brief. He was weakening fast, and when his boot slipped in the mud, he went over backward into the pond.

  His assailant landed on top of him. He’d lost his cudgel in the fall, but wasted no time groping for it in the shallows. Instead, he grabbed Ranulf’s hair and shoved his head under the water. Ranulf fought frantically to get free, but each time he gulped a lungful of air, he was pushed under again. The water was rapidly turning red, and then black, and he was spiraling down into that darkness, unable to break his fall.

  He was almost unconscious when the killer’s grip slackened, but his body fought to survive even as his brain clouded, and he battled his way back to the surface, back to life. Gasping for breath, he had no strength to resist when he was seized again. As easy to drown as a newborn kitten, he choked and sputtered and sucked in as much air as he could in the moments he had left. But he was not being pushed down into the pond’s depths. Another bandit had waded into the water, was dragging him toward the shore. It made no sense to him. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself rolling clear, scrambling to his feet, getting away. Instead, he vomited weakly into the wet grass, bracing for the bite of steel as the outlaw’s blade found his throat.

  “Easy, man, easy.” The voice was friendly, the words French. He’d heard his attackers as they sought to subdue him, their speech guttural and oath-laden and unmistakably English. Making an enormous effort, Ranulf turned over onto his back.

  The bandits were gone. In the deepening dusk, he could make out the blurred outlines of a peddler’s cart, blocking the road. A muscular youth stood several feet away, a hefty club in one hand, a chain in the other; at the end of the chain was one of the most fearsome dogs Ranulf had ever seen, as broad-chested as a mastiff, as black as the darkening sky. A second stranger was kneeling by Ranulf’s side. As their eyes met, he repeated:

  “Easy now. You’ve swallowed half the pond and you’re bleeding badly. But the danger is past. Those craven knaves took off like rabbits. I’d like to think the mere sight of my brother and me was enough to strike fear into their evil souls, but I suspect it was Cain there who put them to flight!” He chuckled and then gave an exclamation of dismay. “What are you doing? Just lie still, get your breath back.”

  Ranulf ignored him. “My dog…where is my dog?”

  The youth in the shadows moved forward as Ranulf struggled to sit up. “Over there,” he said, pointing off toward his right. “There is naught you can do for him, though. He’s dead.”

  “No,” Ranulf exclaimed, “no!” Unable to rise, he crawled over to his dog. Loth lay on his side, tongue protruding, the fur on his chest matted and dark with blood. Ranulf’s rescuers had followed, were urging him away from the body. Ranulf never heard them. Cradling Loth’s head in his lap, he buried his face in the dog’s ruffled fur and wept.

  RANULF awoke to pain and a wrenching sense of loss. He remembered at once: the ambush by the pond, his panic as his lungs filled with water, bursting for air. Loth’s death. But that was his last memory, holding the dyrehund’s limp, lifeless body in his arms. After that, nothing.

  Opening his eyes, he squinted up into midday sunlight. He was outdoors, wrapped in blankets before a smoking fire, wrapped, too, in makeshift bandages. The pain had begun to recede, but never had he felt so weak. He willed himself to move again, propping up on his elbow so he could look around. His movement attracted immediate attention: a low growl, disturbingly close at hand, a quick “Down, Cain!” and then, “Josce, he’s awake!”

  Last night’s Good Samaritan was bending over him. He looked to be about Ranulf’s own age, in his late twenties, with a pleasant, bluff face, thick sand-colored hair, and uncommonly green eyes. “Well, you’re back with us at last. How are you feeling? Never mind, foolish question. You look puzzled. Do you not remember what happened?”

  “Only some of it. Did I…pass out?”

  His benefactor nodded. “You were set upon burying your dog, even if you bled to death doing it. We tried to talk some sense into you, for you were hardly in any condition to be digging graves and there was always the chance those swine might come back. But I’ll say this for you; once you get an idea into your head, you plough that furrow, no matter what. Fortunately you then swooned dead away—bad choice of words—ere we had to bury you with the poor beast. So we bundled you into the cart, stopped your bleeding as best we could, and set up camp once we’d gone far enough to feel safe from pursuit.”

  Raising his voice, he beckoned to his brother. “Josce, fetch the man some of our dinner. You need to eat, even if you have to force it down. Ah, I almost forgot—we found your horse. And…and I did bury the dog for you. You set such store by him…” He paused, sounding the way men often did when caught out in a kindness—somewhat embarrassed. “I thought you might want this,” he said, holding up Loth’s leather collar.

  Ranulf took it, squeezing back tears. When he looked up again, the youth called Josce was offering a wineskin. Ranulf swallowed and discovered it held a pungent, tart cider. Josce watched him drink, then said, “From what we saw, your dog chewed up that wretch something fierce ere he got stabbed. That one’ll be limping off to Hell, and feeling those teeth ripping into him every time he hears a dog howl.”

  “Loth saved my life,” Ranulf said, “and so did you. I’d have drowned for certes if you had not come to my aid. I thank Almighty God for you both. May He bless you with His Bounty for the rest of your days.”

  Josce smiled oddly, as if at a private joke Ranulf could not be expected to understand. He was the younger of the two brothers, no more than twenty, and none would have taken them for kin. He was taller, leaner, far more intense, as taut as a notched bow and as ready to fire. “I wonder,” he said, “if the memory of your blessing will soon catch in your throat like a fish bone, gagging you whenever you remember making it.”

  Ranulf frowned. “Why should it? I owe you both my life. How could I not be grateful?”r />
  Josce shrugged. “You’d best give credit where due, to my softhearted brother. If it had been up to me, I might well have ridden by, keeping my eyes on the road.”

  “No, you would not,” his brother contradicted. “Never in this lifetime.”

  Josce shrugged again. “Mayhap not,” he conceded. “Kill a weasel and every man’s chickens sleep safer at night. I might even have fished you out of that pond. But after that, I’d have left you to fend for yourself. It was my brother’s foolhardy notion to load you into our cart, to tend your wounds as if you were our own kin. So if thanks are owed, you pay them to him, not me.”

  “I see,” Ranulf said, although he did not. Josce seemed to be going out of his way to be belligerent. Why?

  Josce’s brother was no longer smiling. “Josce feared that if you died of your wound and were found in our cart, men would blame us for your death,” he explained somberly, but Ranulf still did not understand.

  “Why would you be blamed? Because you are…peddlers?”

  Josce smiled, without humor. “No…because we are Jews,” he said, and laughed bitterly then, at Ranulf’s involuntary recoil. “From your look of horror, I assume you’ve never been in the company of…what do you Gentiles like to call us? The Devil’s minions? Servants of Satan?”

  He was not far wrong, for Ranulf had never had any dealings with Jews. He knew of them, of course. They’d come over to England from Normandy after the Conquest. Most were moneylenders, for they were not permitted to join the craft guilds. They were often accused of usury, of coin-clipping, and sometimes suspected of profaning the Eucharist, stabbing the Host till it bled. Four years ago in Norwich, an even more unspeakable accusation had been made, that they had crucified a Christian child in an unholy mockery of the Passion of Christ. The Norwich sheriff had not believed the charge, taking the town’s Jews into the castle to shelter them from a mob’s fury. But his skepticism had not stopped people from flocking to the church where the boy was buried, or from proclaiming him a sainted innocent, a martyr to the True Faith.

  Ranulf had not believed the Norwich accusation, either. He’d never shared the view so many did, that the Jews were Christ’s enemies in their midst, doing the Devil’s bidding to corrupt unwary Christians. For if they were truly so evil, he reasoned, his father would not have protected them. And the old king had, granting them a charter which gave them the right to live freely in England, to hold land, to have recourse to royal justice. If his father, a man so quick to suspect the worst, had not feared the Jews, why should he?

  And yet…and yet, they were still aliens and infidels. They might look like their Christian neighbors, speak French as well as any Norman baron, but the fact remained that they were dangerously different. They rejected the concept of Original Sin. They did not believe in the Holy Trinity. They denied the divinity of Our Lord Christ. They faced the horror of Eternal Damnation without flinching, without fear for their immortal souls.

  For an unnerving moment, Ranulf felt an instinctive unease; he was, after all, utterly at their mercy. But then common sense reasserted itself. These men had saved his life. They had chased after his horse, bandaged his wound, even buried his dog. What more proof did he demand of their goodwill?

  “I have my vices,” he said, “but ingratitude is not amongst them. I admit I was taken aback, merely because I’ve never known any Jews. But if it did not matter last night, it ought not to matter today.” He smiled wryly. “I do not remember your asking if I was a Jew ere you came to my aid. I am deeply grateful to you both, owe you a debt I can never repay.”

  The elder of the brothers smiled, too. “I’ll settle for a name. I am Aaron of Bristol. Josce, as you know, is my brother. What do men call you?”

  “Ranulf…Ranulf Fitz Henry.” Ranulf’s new identity was not assumed for their benefit. He’d stopped calling himself the king’s son the day he rode away from Devizes.

  AARON and his brother were indeed peddlers, as Ranulf had guessed. Filling their cart with woolens imported from France, with needles and thread and metal mirrors, they routinely made the perilous journey from Bristol up to Chester. They were on their way back to Bristol when they’d stumbled onto the ambush, and Aaron insisted that Ranulf ride with them till he recovered his strength. They’d cleansed his wound with honey, applied a plantain poultice to stop his bleeding; they were, of necessity, knowledgeable in the healing arts and well supplied with life-saving medicinal herbs. But he still needed a doctor’s care, Aaron stressed, for the danger of infection was always hovering close at hand. Fortunately, the knife blade seemed to have missed any vital organs. Ranulf had been amazingly lucky, Aaron concluded, and Ranulf heartily concurred.

  Ranulf slept through most of the day and the night that followed. The next morning they made him as comfortable in their cart as they could, and headed for home. They were both Bristol-born and-raised, and very thankful that Bristol had so far been spared the suffering of Winchester and Oxford and Lincoln and the other English cities caught up in this accursed civil war. Aaron had a wife and young son awaiting him at home, and he cheerfully passed the time extolling the virtues of his Belaset and their two-year-old Samuel. Josce walked alongside the wagon, brusquely declining Ranulf’s offer to ride his stallion, leaving it to his brother to carry the conversational burden.

  Aaron was happy to oblige, and Ranulf found himself being given a rare glimpse into a hitherto hidden world; what surprised him the most was that it was, in so many ways, a familiar world, too. Aaron’s concerns were those of any Bristol citizen: pride in his son, worry over the war, anxiety lest the new Earl of Gloucester not prove himself to be the man his father was, for Bristol’s continuing safety depended upon his strength.

  Slowly, though, distinctly Jewish details began to emerge. Ranulf learned that Jews did not eat pork, which was considered unclean. The Jewish Sabbath was not Sunday as in the Christian faith, but sundown to sundown, Friday to Saturday. And dogs were not often found in Jewish households; their formidable Cain was an object of curiosity back in the Bristol Jewry. Although Aaron didn’t say so, Ranulf was sure that the dog’s name had come from Josce, a sardonic swipe at those who claimed all Jews bore the Mark of Cain.

  Ranulf had never ridden in a cart before. It was an experience he could have done without, so jolting and rough a ride that he soon scrambled out to walk beside Josce, fearing that the constant jouncing might break his wound open. After that, Aaron insisted upon pausing frequently, ostensibly to rest their horse, and Ranulf gained new appreciation for his tact.

  As they grew more comfortable with Ranulf, the brothers began to talk more frankly of politics. Aaron praised the old king for keeping the peace and putting his Jewish brethren under the protection of the Crown. Josce pointed out, though, that the king profited handsomely from the presence of the Jews in his realm. “Think of us,” he said sarcastically, “as a herd of milch cows, which the king alone has the right to milk.”

  Aaron’s opinion of Stephen was one Ranulf had often heard voiced in the Christian community, too, that he was “good-hearted, but as easily swayed as a weather vane.” On the whole, he said, Stephen was favorably disposed toward the Jews, but he could be most unfair when his pride was pricked by the Lady Empress, his foe. And he told Ranulf of the experience of the Oxford Jews. When the empress held the city, she’d imposed a levy upon the Jews there, and when Stephen recaptured Oxford, he demanded that they pay three and a half times the amount of her levy, as punishment for obeying her unlawful command. Ranulf remembered when Maude had decided to impose that levy; it had seemed a good way to raise much-needed money. He’d never given a moment’s thought to Oxford’s hard-pressed Jews. Listening now to Aaron, he wished that he had.

  They did not debate theology; that was too inflammatory a subject. Aaron said only that Jews and Christians shared a belief in the same God, the God of Israel, and by unspoken consent, they ventured no further. But as Josce slowly thawed toward Ranulf, he could not resist regaling him with facts su
re to startle.

  It was eye-opening to Ranulf to learn that Jews were by their own laws forbidden to break bread or drink wine with Gentiles. Obviously this was not strictly enforced, for the brothers had been sharing their meals with him for two days now. But it was disconcerting, nonetheless. He was surprised, too, by Josce’s revelation that English Jews, no matter where they lived, could be buried only in the Jewish cemetery in London; he had to admit that seemed like an undue burden to impose upon people already mourning a loved one.

  What Ranulf found most astonishing, though, was Josce’s mischievous description of the Rite of Abraham, which involved snipping away the foreskin from the most vulnerable part of the male anatomy. By now he’d discovered that Josce’s humor was as perverse and unpredictable as Geoffrey of Anjou’s, and he half suspected that he was being teased, until Aaron confirmed that they did indeed circumcise their young sons. It was, Ranulf decided, one more reason to be thankful he’d been born into the True Faith, but he did not let himself pursue that line of thought. He did not want to think of Aaron and Josce as Jews, for he did not want to think of them as doomed, forever lost to God’s Grace.

  It was a strange interlude for Ranulf, the first time in two months that he’d formed any bond with another human being, other than an occasional tumble in a harlot’s bed. It did not seem real somehow, that so much could have happened—have changed—in such a brief time: that he’d come so close to death, that he’d lost Loth, that a good Christian could look upon Jews with respect, even friendship. The respite ended that night, though, as they made ready to bed down by the fire. It was then that Aaron mumbled sleepily that with luck, they might be able to reach Shrewsbury on the morrow.

  Ranulf jerked upright, brought back to reality with a jolt. “I cannot go to Shrewsbury!”

  They sat up, too, regarding him curiously in the flickering firelight. “Ranulf, I’ve told you from the first that you need to have that wound tended by a doctor. There is one in Shrewsbury, also a monk at their abbey said to be skilled in the use of healing herbs. But we’ll not find another one till we reach Hereford or Gloucester, and it would not be wise to wait that long.”