When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Padarn had a Welshman’s innate suspicion of authority, but in the past year he’d learned to trust Ranulf’s judgment. “Harry slipped out the postern gate at dusk and went into the town.”

  What to the Welsh youth was a “town” was to the men barely more than a hamlet, a church and a handful of cottages clustered in the protective shelter of the castle. “That makes no sense,” Roger insisted. “There is not even an alehouse!”

  Ranulf was remembering, though, what it was like to be sixteen. “A girl?”

  Padarn nodded. “We saw her by the church as we rode in. She had hair the color of moonlight, and she gave Harry a ‘come back’ smile. You ought not to blame him, my lords,” he added bravely. “Had he known about Eustace, he would not have gone.” The Welsh were notorious for “not knowing their place,” and at another time, Padarn was likely to have earned himself a reprimand for that familiar use of “Harry.” But now the men had no time for breaches of protocol; they were hurrying to catch up with Ranulf as he headed back out into the bailey.

  Once there, Ranulf snatched a lantern from a passing servant. “Let me try to find him first,” he said. “Eustace could have men watching the village for all we know. If a crowd goes chasing out into the street, raising the hue and cry, that will be a sure sign that something is amiss.” They agreed reluctantly, and Roger promised to have them mounted and ready to ride as soon as Ranulf and Henry returned. No one mentioned their secret, shared fear: that if Eustace did have spies about, Henry might well have been found already—by the wrong men.

  The village was half hidden in the haze of a deepening turquoise twilight, but its inhabitants were still up and about, both apprehensive and excited by Henry’s presence in their midst. Dogs were barking; somewhere a child was wailing. Aware of eyes following him as he moved down the dusty street, Ranulf was trying to think like a sixteen-year-old again. What would a youth most want after finding himself a lass with a “come back” smile? Privacy, of course. There was a small pond beyond the church, screened by yew trees and white willows. What better place for a tryst? Weaving his way between the moss-covered tombstones behind the church, he heard soft, smothered laughter as he approached the pond, merriment so quickly cut off that he knew they’d either heard him or spotted his lantern’s glow. “Harry?” he said quietly into the silence. “You’d best come out, for I am not going away.”

  There was a rustling sound, the willow’s cascading silvery camouflage parted, and his nephew emerged from the shadows. The girl stayed where she was; Ranulf caught only a fleeting glimpse of disheveled bright hair as Henry stepped forward into the light cast by Ranulf’s lantern. “How did you know where to look for me?” He sounded both defiant and defensive. “I was not lost, Uncle Ranulf, am quite capable of finding my way back to the castle by myself.”

  Ranulf’s relief found expression in anger. “You’re lucky I did find you,” he snapped, “instead of an irate father or a jealous husband!”

  “You’re my uncle, not my confessor,” Henry snapped back, “though you are suddenly acting more like a gaoler than a kinsman…and I like it not. I do not need a wet nurse!”

  “No,” Ranulf agreed, “but you do need a bodyguard, lad. You’re going to have to learn to live with that, Harry. Kings cannot wander off as they please. That is the price they pay for the power they wield. There is always a price. I just thank God and His Saints that you did not pay it tonight in blood.”

  Henry was still frowning, but he was more uneasy now than angry, for Ranulf was not given to hyperbole. “Is something wrong?” he asked warily, sensing that this was the question he should have asked first.

  “Well, Eustace is about to attack Dursley, the Berkeley garrison is busy laying ambushes for us in the unlikely event we escape, whilst we pass the time playing hide-and-seek with you instead of riding for our lives.”

  Even in the flickering lantern light, Ranulf could see the color crimsoning across his nephew’s cheekbones. “I am sorry,” Henry said. “I did not know. It is not too late, is it?”

  Henry’s heartfelt apology only made Ranulf regret his sarcasm all the more. “No, lad, we still have time,” he assured the boy quickly. “My nerves are on the raw, that’s all. We feared, you see, that Eustace might have an assassin or two on the prowl.”

  Henry’s eyes widened, for this had never occurred to him. “Stephen would not do that,” he said, his tone nowhere near as certain as his words.

  “Eustace would,” Ranulf said flatly. “Never doubt that, Harry, not if you want to live to make old bones. Now…I suggest you bid your lass farewell, for we have a long, hard ride ahead of us.”

  The girl had ventured out from beneath the sheltering willow. Padarn had been right; her hair did have a silvery sheen. She would have been very pretty, indeed, if not for her pout. Arms akimbo, little chin jutting out, she was clearly losing patience fast. But then Henry came swiftly back to her side, took her in his arms, and kissed her with a boy’s exuberance and a man’s passion. When he finally released her, she looked dazed. Kissing her hand gallantly, he said, “Someday, sweetheart, you’ll be able to tell your children that you once kissed a king!”

  “Eustace and God Willing,” Ranulf said dryly, amused in spite of himself, and Henry grinned.

  “I hope you are not suggesting that the Almighty and Eustace are allies? I’d not presume to answer for Our Lord God, but I’m willing to wager that I can hold my own against Eustace.”

  His cockiness was contagious and Ranulf grinned, too. “I do believe, lad, that you will. Now…are you ready for the ride of your life?”

  Henry nodded. “I say we race the Devil and Eustace to Bristol, winner take all!”

  EUSTACE and his men arrived in Dursley before daybreak, but they were too late. Enraged that his prey had eluded him, Eustace set out in hell-bent pursuit. But Henry evaded the ambushes, outran Eustace, and managed to reach Bristol safely. Eustace chased him almost to the gates of Bristol. He did not have enough men, though, to besiege the city and reluctantly withdrew, laying waste to the countryside as he retreated back to Oxford.

  STEPHEN had been forced to remain in Yorkshire that summer, for as long as the Scots king was at Carlisle, York was not safe. He put up several countercastles and did all he could to encourage his supporters and dishearten his foes, but it was not until September that he was able to return to London. He soon joined his son at Oxford, and Eustace set about convincing him that Henry had presented them with an opportunity that might not come again. Was it not better, he argued, to put an end to this accursed war once and for all? So persistent and persuasive was he that Stephen overcame his misgivings and reluctantly agreed to wage war with such ferocity that their enemies would be compelled to surrender—or starve.

  EVEN the pro-Stephen chronicle, Gesta Stephani, was shocked by the campaign conducted that autumn by the English king and his son: “They took and plundered everything they came upon, set fire to houses and churches, and, what was a more cruel and brutal sight, fired the crops that had been reaped and stacked all over the fields, consumed and brought to nothing everything edible they found. They raged with this bestial cruelty especially round Marlborough, they showed it also very terribly round Devizes, and they had in mind to do the same to their adversaries all over England.”

  THE day had begun with trouble and it got steadily worse. In midmorning a messenger from John Marshal had reached Devizes with disturbing news. Marshal reported that he was being hard pressed by the king and Eustace. They had launched several lightning raids upon the town and castle, doing considerable damage before they were driven off. They’d laid waste to the nearby farms and manors, and when Marshal had attempted to bring in a supply convoy, they’d ambushed it and burned what they did not take away with them. John Marshal was the least likely man to panic, as Ranulf well knew. For him to admit that he did not know how he was going to feed his people through the winter, he had to be in dire straits, indeed.

  Ranulf and Henry had gotten similar
complaints from Marshal’s brother-in-law Patrick Fitz Walter, Earl of Salisbury, and from the castellan of Trowbridge. Even Roger Fitz Miles had been harassed at Gloucester. Ghost villages were springing up all over Wiltshire and Gloucestershire, as terrified families fled to the towns for safety. Salisbury and Gloucester and even Bristol were flooded with refugees, people with nowhere to go and no money to buy food. Charred ruins were becoming commonplace throughout the desolated countryside, an acrid, burning smell was carried for miles on the October wind, and what had once been fertile farmlands were now scorched, blackened earth. Oddly enough, never had the roads been so free of bandits, though, for even the outlaws had fled from Stephen’s marauding army.

  Devizes had not been spared, either. Some of the royal army’s worst depredations had taken place in and about Devizes. The town had been raided a fortnight ago and the castle subjected to several hit-and-run attacks. It was a rare day when Henry and Ranulf could not see smoke from the castle battlements, and their own provisions were dwindling dangerously. It reminded Ranulf of the sieges of Winchester and Oxford, only now England itself seemed under siege.

  The day was coming to a dismal end when refugees arrived from Calne, a small village five miles to the north. They huddled together in the great hall, the most pitiful wretches Henry had ever seen, their clothes shredded and ripped in their flight through the woods, scratched and bruised and still shaking with fright. But they were the lucky ones, the ones who’d gotten away.

  The tale they told was as deplorable as it was—by now—familiar. The Lord Eustace had raided Calne, they reported. His men had killed those few who’d dared to resist, setting fire to their church and then to their fields. They’d watched from hiding as their crops went up in flames, and they wept again as they spoke of it, for there would be no food to feed the village once winter came. Their houses could be rebuilt, but what could they eat? How would they survive until spring?

  They asked Henry these questions, calling him “young lord” and pleading for his help. He wasn’t sure if they knew who he was. They might have been told of his presence at Devizes. Or they might be assuming that he must be someone of importance since he was well dressed and well fed and lived in a castle. He was not even sure that his name would mean anything to them. This war had been ravaging England for ten years. Did these people truly care who ruled over them as long as they were left in peace? He did not know what to say to them. He did not know how to help them. He ordered them fed, and he yearned to assure them that the danger was past. But he feared that would have been a lie.

  He stood it as long as he could. But his pity and anger finally got the best of him, and he bolted the hall, retreating up to the solar with a flagon of wine and a head full of unanswered questions.

  He was not alone for long; Ranulf soon followed. He was relieved to see the flagon was untouched, for he’d known too many men who turned to wine when they needed a crutch, and sixteen was a vulnerable age for learning bad habits. Henry was straddling a chair, resting his chin on his arms as he stared into the fire. He didn’t stir, not even after Ranulf pulled a chair up beside him. Ranulf was content to wait, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the flames crackle in the hearth.

  “I do not understand,” Henry said at last, “why they do not just lay siege to Devizes? I am the one they want. Why do they not try to take me?”

  “I’ve thought about that, too. First of all, they cannot be sure that you are at Devizes. What if they besiege Devizes and it turns out you were at Bristol or Gloucester or Marlborough all the while? None of those castles could be easily taken. Devizes or Marlborough could hold out for months, and Bristol till Judgment Day. And whilst they were laying siege, they’d be vulnerable to attack themselves. That is what happened to Stephen at Wilton. By striking fast and riding on, he avoids becoming a target. By surprise raids, he spreads fear over the entire countryside, for no one knows where he will attack next. And by burning the crops, he takes the food from our table, too, empties our larder.”

  “But the others will starve ere we do,” Henry pointed out. “Castles always have food stored away. The villagers and villeins will go hungry first, and they’ll die first, too. Are they willing to do that, Ranulf? To let so many die for no sin of their own?”

  “I would have said no,” Ranulf said, “had I not seen this suffering for myself.”

  “And yet you claim Stephen is a good man?” Henry sounded hostile, but Ranulf understood that he was not the real target of the boy’s anger. He even welcomed this rage, as proof that his nephew no longer saw all this as a game. He remembered how it was to be that young, to feel invulnerable. Even their wild ride for Bristol had been as exciting as it was urgent, at least to Henry. But this was different. This was war at its ugliest, and no man could look upon it and be unchanged, not if he was of any worth. And so he was sorry for his nephew’s pain, but glad of it, too, for this was a lesson Henry had to learn.

  “That they would resort to such drastic measures tells me that they see you as a very real threat, Harry, so much so that they are willing to wade through blood to eliminate you now, whilst they still can. This savage campaign is an admission that they dare not let you reach full manhood. It also shows us that Eustace is the most dangerous sort of battle commander, the kind who cares not how many die as long as he has the victory.”

  Henry looked skeptical. “Why are you so sure this is Eustace’s doing?”

  “Because this campaign of theirs is both brilliant and brutal…far too brutal for Stephen to stomach on his own. One of Stephen’s worst flaws is that he invariably listens to the wrong people. God help England if he is now listening to Eustace.”

  “If they keep on like this,” Henry said somberly, “they’ll end up ruling over a graveyard. Do they truly think they can starve us into submission?”

  Ranulf nodded grimly. “Or else force us into doing battle.”

  “Hopelessly outnumbered? Thank you, no, Uncle. I like not those odds. I’d just as soon not starve either,” Henry added, striving—with limited success—for flippancy. “Damn them,” he cried suddenly, fiercely, “damn them for killing and not caring! My mother would never have permitted a slaughter like this, never…”

  His hair, short and unruly, gleamed in the firelight like a bright, burnished cap, and his fair skin darkened now with a surge of hot blood. He looked angry and shaken, young and resolute, all at the same time. “What can we do to stop this, Uncle Ranulf?”

  “Nothing,” Ranulf admitted reluctantly. “We can only wait, see what happens. We are going to have to depend upon the Almighty and our allies for our deliverance, lad, for this is one trap we cannot escape on our own.”

  “‘Our allies’?” Henry echoed, and the same thought was in both their minds. John Marshal and the Earl of Salisbury and Roger Fitz Miles and Robert’s son Will were all in the same sorry plight. Rainald was still in Cornwall, Baldwin de Redvers was said to be ailing, and Henry’s parents were in Normandy, unaware of their son’s peril. Robert and Miles were dead, Brien living as a monk. That narrowed the field to two. But by the time the Scots king could muster an army and march into England to their rescue, it would be too late. So “allies” came down to one powerful, self-serving, unpredictable man: Randolph de Gernons, Earl of Chester.

  After a few moments of heavy silence, Henry laughed softly. At Ranulf’s look of surprise, he said with a wry smile, “I was just thinking…When my mother got herself into a tight corner, she could always rely upon Uncle Robert to rescue her. And who do I get—the Earl of Chester!”

  He laughed again, and this time, so did Ranulf. When put that way, what else was there to do but laugh?

  44

  Chester Castle, England

  October 1149

  THE letter came at noon, and Chester and his brother retired to his bedchamber to read it. Maud was standing by that door now, unable to wait any longer. She knew Chester would not like her intrusion, but she pushed the door open and entered anyway
. William de Roumare and Bennet de Malpas and Ivo de Coventry all glanced up in surprise; her husband was nowhere in sight. The letter lay open upon the table, and she moved forward, picked it up and read rapidly. Her brother-in-law frowned; his own wife would not have dared to meddle like that. He left it to Chester to reprimand her, however; he would not have admitted it, even to himself, but he was never fully at ease with Chester’s high-spirited, strong-willed wife.

  Maud put the letter down, glancing toward the corner privy chamber and then back at her husband’s men. “The rumors are true then,” she said. “My cousin Harry is in grave peril.” When they nodded, she cried impatiently, “And what are you going to do about it? You do mean to go to his aid, do you not?”

  Bennet de Malpas and Ivo de Coventry were more than willing to defer to Chester’s brother. William de Roumare was irked by this abrupt female interrogation, but he found himself answering as if she’d willed it. “Of course we want to help him, Maud. And indeed we will, if only we can find a way. We cannot meet Stephen on the field, though, for we lack enough men for a pitched battle.”

  “Then stir up trouble for Stephen elsewhere and take the pressure off Harry and Marshal and the others under attack. You must draw Stephen away from Wiltshire ere it is too late!”

  “I assure you we’ve already thought of that,” William de Roumare said stiffly. “But it will not work.”