When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  She had her answer in Ranulf’s prolonged hesitation. “I do not know, Rhiannon,” he admitted. “I just do not know.”

  RANULF found it more difficult than he’d expected to bid farewell to his Welsh family. They’d followed him to the gateway to see him off, and were doing their best to be cheerful and matter-of-fact about his departure. But only Padarn’s enthusiasm was real, for he’d talked his father and Rhodri into letting him accompany Ranulf. For the others, Ranulf’s leave-taking was a painful one, and he well knew it. For Rhodri, he’d been a substitute son, a bandage for the wound caused by Cadell’s death. For Eleri, he’d been a big brother and a window to the world, able to give her intriguing glimpses of foreign lands and great cities. And for Rhiannon, he’d been what she needed most—a friend. When he rode away, he’d be leaving a jagged hole in their household, one that would not be easy to mend.

  Spring had come to the Conwy Valley, and the hills were green with new growth and gold with wild gorse. The first butterflies of the season were fluttering about like flying flower petals, and high overhead, Ranulf heard the shrill cry of a kestrel, a soaring shadow against the halo cast by the sun. Never had Wales looked so beautiful, so deceptively peaceful, so hard to leave.

  “I want to thank you all,” he said, “for the best year of my life.” He was embraced, then, by Rhodri, a vigorous, bone-bruising hug that squeezed the air out of his lungs. Enid gave him a languidly lovely smile, a decorous kiss on the cheek, and Eleri hurled herself into his arms, making a feeble joke about Englishmen and their bristly beards; it was, she complained tearfully, like nuzzling a hedgehog. From Rhiannon, he got a brief, heartfelt embrace, delicately scented with a fragrance of the Welsh meadows; it suited her better, he thought, than Maud’s more exotic perfume.

  “God keep you all safe,” he said huskily, “until we are together again.” Padarn was already mounted, impatiently eager to be off. Swinging up into the saddle, Ranulf sent his stallion cantering toward the gate. He waved once, but after that, he did not dare to look back again.

  43

  Yorkshire, England

  July 1149

  ON Whitsunday, May 22nd, the King of Scotland knighted his nephew Henry and Roger Fitz Miles, the Earl of Hereford. David then made a public peace with his old enemy the Earl of Chester. Chester agreed to acknowledge David as Lord of Carlisle, and for that concession, he was given the Honour of Lancaster by David. They propped up their precarious alliance with a Sacrament, the proposed marriage of one of Chester’s infant sons to one of David’s young granddaughters. They were then ready to strike at Stephen. After some discussion, they decided to launch a surprise attack upon York, for they hoped the fall of England’s second-largest city would deliver a crippling blow to Stephen’s embattled kingship.

  BY the end of the second week in July, they were within striking distance of York. It began to rain as they set up camp for the night, but the men didn’t mind a summer soaking after a hot, dusty day on the road. By the time he’d made certain, though, that the sentries had been posted, Ranulf was drenched. He shared a tent with Henry and Roger Fitz Miles, but the Scots king, his son, and the Earl of Chester had their own tents, and it was toward the former that Ranulf headed. As he expected, he found them all in David’s tent, discussing plans for the morrow’s attack.

  Ranulf had pessimistically predicted that Chester and David would soon be at each other’s throats. Much to his surprise, the tenuous truce seemed to be holding, due in large measure to the youth who was David’s grandnephew and Chester’s first cousin by marriage. Henry showed a deft touch for defusing tension, a skill Ranulf suspected he’d learned in Normandy, caught in the crossfire of his parents’ marital warfare.

  No one noticed Ranulf’s entrance, for they were gathered around the Earl of Chester as he drew for them a map of York’s defenses. The city was protected by two rivers, the Ouse and the Fosse, and high earthen banks, erected over the ancient Roman walls. There were four main gates, all of stone, and two motte-and-bailey castles shielded behind timber palisades and deep ditches. Capturing York sounded like a formidable undertaking to Henry, and he kept interrupting with questions, all of which Chester answered with uncharacteristic patience.

  Ranulf listened in amusement; who would have guessed that Chester, of all men, would have relished the role of tutor? But Henry had disarmed them all with his unabashed, eager curiosity. He’d so far shown none of the defensive bravado that infected so many sixteen-year-olds. He did not bluster; if he did not know something, he asked. He asked often, listened and learned, and he’d soon won over not only his Scots uncle and cousin but even the notoriously irascible Chester.

  Ranulf, who’d always been extremely fond of Henry, now found himself feeling proud of his nephew, too, so much so that he’d begun to wonder if he’d judged Geoffrey too harshly. As far back as he could remember, he’d loathed his brother-in-law, detesting him for the misery he’d caused Maude. But during Henry’s formative years, he’d been in Geoffrey’s care, not Maude’s. If Geoffrey could raise a son like Harry, Ranulf reasoned, he could not be such a worthless wretch, after all. Whatever grief the man had given Maude, he deserved credit for Harry, a fine young king in the making. God Willing, Ranulf added hastily, for he’d learned, at bitter cost, that only fools took victory for granted in a world so fraught with peril.

  The talk had now shifted from York’s defenses to its populace. When Chester and David both agreed that its citizens were almost as loyal to Stephen as the steadfast Londoners were, Henry wanted to know why.

  Chester shrugged; he had no more interest in what motivated other people than he did in the history of the Druids. David was more politically astute, one of the reasons why his had been such a successful kingship for Scotland, and he said promptly, if somewhat pedantically, “Stephen has always had support in the towns, for they think he favors trade. He has been generous in granting them charters and he courts their guilds quite shamelessly. And then, too, York has prospered under Stephen’s reign, for it has been spared the turmoil and lawlessness that have so troubled the southern parts. In contrast to shires like Oxford and Wiltshire and the godforsaken Fens, Yorkshire has seen little bloodshed.”

  “Not since Cowton Moor, anyway,” Chester muttered, unable to resist this snide mention of the Scots king’s calamitous defeat by the English eleven years ago.

  David gave him a cool glance of dismissal, more insulting in its way than outright anger would have been. “Moreover,” he continued, “Stephen has made several visits to York and each time he was open-handed with royal boons. When the hospital of St Peter’s burned down in the great fire of ’37, Stephen and Matilda paid for its repairs, and then founded a leper hospital outside the city. These are the sort of goodwill gestures that people remember, lad.”

  Henry nodded thoughtfully. Ranulf teased him occasionally that he seemed to be storing away information like a squirrel hoarding acorns, and he always laughed, but it was more than a joke and they both knew it. This was a great adventure for him, but it was also an education. He was well aware that he lacked seasoning and he was even willing to admit it—to a select few—for he had no false pride. But it was a lack he was eager to remedy, and besieging York would make a good beginning.

  There was a sudden commotion outside, and a few moments later, Bennet de Malpas was escorted into the tent. He was soaked to the skin, splattered with mud, and stumbling with fatigue as he hastened forward to greet his lord and the Scots king. But what riveted all eyes upon him was not his haggard, disheveled appearance; it was that he was supposed to be in York, spying for the earl. When he knelt before Chester, the earl said tensely, “You look like a man on the way to his own hanging. Go on, spit it out, Bennet. What do you have to tell us that we’ll not want to hear?”

  “There will be no surprise attack on York, my lord earl. They are expecting us. I do not know if we were betrayed or they just got lucky, but they somehow learned that we were marching on the city.”

  The m
en exchanged grim looks, and Bennet braced himself to reveal the rest, the worst. “My lords, there is more. The citizens sent an urgent plea to Stephen, seeking his aid. He’s on his way to York with a large force of his Flemish mercenaries, and he moved with such speed that he’s no more than a day away, two at most.”

  Afterward, slogging through the mud back to their tent, Henry was still stunned that their ambitious plans had come to such an abrupt end. The men had raged and cursed and fumed, but none of them, not even the volatile, fearless Chester, objected to David’s morose conclusion—that their campaign was over even before it began. Henry was dismayed that they were letting Stephen chase them off, but he took his cues from his elders and held his peace. These men were all experienced soldiers, men of proven bravery. He would not insult them by questioning their courage. But his disappointment was too sharp to hide, at least from Ranulf.

  “I know you are unhappy about this, Harry. We all are. But it would be foolhardy to continue on. We were relying upon surprise to carry the day. Now our foes are not only forewarned, but they’ll outnumber us. Remember what I told you about Stephen—that he may not know how to rule, but he knows full well how to fight.”

  Henry nodded glumly. It seemed to him that there were three Stephens, so contradictory were the stories circulating about him. There was Stephen the man, good-hearted and well meaning and generous. There was Stephen the king, inept and easily led astray, with no political sense whatsoever. And there was Stephen the battle commander, tough-minded and fast-acting and dangerous. The men in Henry’s world grudgingly liked the first Stephen and scorned the second, but they all respected the soldier.

  “How did Stephen assemble an army so rapidly?” he asked, and Ranulf explained that by calling upon his Flemish mercenaries rather than his vassals, Stephen was able to respond with lethal speed, for he need not send out a summons to his barons and then wait for them to gather their own men. It was costly to keep an armed force always on hand, Ranulf conceded, but they were ready to march at the king’s command. This was an interesting argument, that hired soldiers were a more effective way of fighting than the traditional reliance upon the king’s vassals, and ordinarily Henry would have been intrigued, eager to explore it further. Now, though, he asked no more questions, trudging on in silence.

  The rain was still pelting the camp, and so many men and horses had soon churned the soaked grassy ground into a muddy quagmire. Until the storm passed, fires could not be lit, and the soldiers were sheltering themselves as best they could. For supper, they’d had to content themselves with dried beef and bread; for beds, they had soggy blankets. The moors were often chilly after dark, even in high summer, and if the rain kept on, they faced a shivery night in wet, clammy clothes. And all for nothing, Henry thought, for on the morrow, they would turn tail and retreat, never having gotten within sight of York’s walls.

  “Uncle Ranulf, I’ve a question for you. I want to know if there is another reason for our retreat. Are you all seeking to protect me?”

  “I’ll not lie to you, Harry. That was a consideration,” Ranulf admitted, and Henry came to a sudden stop.

  “I knew it!” he accused. “I am not a child, Uncle Ranulf, and I will not abide being treated like one. I did not come to England to be coddled!”

  “If your parents wanted to coddle you, lad, they’d have kept you in Normandy. Of course we care for your safety! You are England’s future. Should evil befall you, what hope would we have of overthrowing Stephen? Yes, you have brothers, but you are the one who has been groomed for the throne. You are the one whom men know. So we are not going to let you come to harm if we can help it. Plainly put, a king’s life is worth more than the lives of other men.”

  Henry was quiet after that. “I just want to do my fair share,” he said unhappily. “I am not afraid to take risks and I need to show men that, to prove to them that I would be a king worth fighting for.”

  “You will, lad. Your very presence here is sending a message, that you do not lack for courage. Show men that you have common sense, too, and they will rally to you as they never did to your mother. But there is one thing you must understand, Harry, for your life might well depend upon it.”

  “What is it?” Henry asked, impressed by his uncle’s sudden gravity.

  “Stephen did not take you seriously two years ago. But from now on, he will, lad. If you fall into his hands, this time he will not be paying for your return to Normandy.”

  THEY broke camp at dawn the next day. The Scots king and his son made for Carlisle, Chester for Cheshire, and Henry and Ranulf and Roger Fitz Miles for Bristol. Upon his arrival in York, Stephen was welcomed enthusiastically by its reprieved citizens. He was furious, though, to find the enemy gone, and sent men off in pursuit. But he realized they did not have much chance of overtaking their quarry, and a fast-riding courier was soon racing for Oxford with an urgent message for Stephen’s nineteen-year-old son. Eustace was to stop Henry from reaching Bristol.

  RANULF and Henry rode fast to outdistance pursuit, but once they reached Hereford in safety, they eased their pace and their vigilance. From Hereford, they continued on to Roger’s stronghold in Gloucester. They were only two days now from Bristol, and Henry was irked when Roger insisted upon accompanying them south, for he was still sensitive about their overprotectiveness, especially now that he was sure the danger was past. His confidence was confirmed when they rode into Dursley Castle without incident the following afternoon.

  Roger de Berkeley was Dursley’s castellan, and he made them welcome, but without much enthusiasm. Ranulf did not take it personally, for he doubted that Roger de Berkeley would show enthusiasm even if he were being seduced by Eleanor of Aquitaine. He was the most melancholy man Ranulf had ever met; even when he smiled, no one could tell.

  Anyone so doleful was not good company, and Henry, Roger, and Hugh de Plucknet had soon found reasons to excuse themselves. Ranulf remained, for he felt sorry for Berkeley, who’d been ruined by a war not of his making. He’d not really cared who was king, but he’d had the bad luck to hold a very strategic stronghold, Berkeley Castle, which controlled the Gloucester-Bristol Road. A few years ago, he’d been lured into an ambush by Roger Fitz Miles’s ruthless younger brother Walter, and threatened with hanging if he did not yield Berkeley Castle. Walter had gone so far as to string Berkeley up and cut him down just in time, but Berkeley had refused to turn over the castle, gambling on his kinship to the Fitz Miles family to save his life. In the end, it had. But he’d still lost Berkeley Castle, for he’d had to renounce his allegiance to Stephen to gain his freedom, and Stephen then seized the castle for himself.

  Berkeley was miserly with words and left it for Ranulf to keep the conversation going. Ranulf soon ran out of topics to talk about and suggested a chess game until he could politely make his escape. But they’d just set up the board when the castle steward announced that a man was pleading to see Sir Roger straightaway. Berkeley seemed to be a man without normal curiosity, for he was inclining toward a refusal when the steward said, “I recognized him, my lord. It is Malcolm, from the Berkeley garrison.”

  The man was thin and balding and obviously agitated. Kneeling before Roger de Berkeley, he stammered, “It…it is me, Sir Roger…Malcolm. I had to warn you, for you were right good to me whilst you held the castle. We got word today from the king’s son. Lord Eustace found out that the empress’s son would be staying the night at Dursley, and he means to see that Lord Henry never reaches Bristol. He’ll be here by dawn, mayhap sooner, and he wants our garrison to lay ambushes on the Bristol Road, just in case Lord Henry gets away from him at Dursley.”

  Roger Fitz Miles and Hugh de Plucknet had been drawn by the noise, returning in time to hear the last of Malcolm’s warning. As Roger de Berkeley rewarded Malcolm, Ranulf and the other two men huddled together for a quick conference. They agreed with Ranulf’s conclusion, that Dursley was not likely to withstand a siege, and Roger volunteered to fetch Henry, revealing his concern by th
e alacrity with which he started for the stairwell. Ranulf sent Hugh off to the stables to order their horses saddled. “I know this part of the country fairly well,” he told Berkeley, “but not well enough. We need a man who knows every lane and byway and trail betwixt here and Bristol, for we’ll have to avoid the main roads. Do you have a man like that, Sir Roger?”

  Berkeley assured Ranulf that he did, with much more animation than he usually showed; Ranulf could well imagine his relief at not being caught up in a dangerous siege, one that would have imperiled the only castle he had left. He’d do whatever he could to make sure they were long gone by the time Eustace got here, and Ranulf couldn’t blame him a bit. But it was then that Roger Fitz Miles came hastening back into the hall. “Harry is gone,” he panted. “I cannot find him anywhere!”

  When a search of the castle grounds turned up no traces of Henry, the men’s anxiety rapidly gave way to outright alarm. At a loss, they regrouped in the great hall to decide what to do next. And it was then that Ranulf remembered how friendly his nephew had become with his squire. It had not surprised him that Henry should seek out seventeen-year-old Padarn’s company, for he was rarely allowed the privilege of acting his age. Even in childhood, he’d been expected to show a maturity beyond his years, and he rarely disappointed. But Ranulf had come to realize that there must be times when his nephew just wanted to have fun. “Padarn,” he said abruptly. “He may know where Harry has gone.”

  “That Welsh squire of yours?” Roger sounded as dubious as Hugh and Berkeley looked, but they were willing to grasp at any straw, and followed nervously after Ranulf as he went off in search of his squire.

  They found Padarn in the stables. He was a wiry, lean youngster, very Welsh in appearance; it had taken Ranulf a while not to think of Ancel—and Annora—each time he glanced at Padarn’s raven hair and black eyes. Padarn looked so guilty now that Ranulf knew his suspicions were correct. “Where is Harry?” he demanded, brushing aside the boy’s unconvincing attempts at denial. “Padarn, we have no time for games. Harry’s life could be forfeit if you do not speak up. Eustace is riding for Dursley, and if we do not get away soon, we’ll not get away at all.”