When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Eustace was well aware that these men liked him not. But he harbored no goodwill toward most of them, either. While he’d always been on civil terms with the French king, he could not respect a man so weak-willed. Louis’s blustery brother the Count of Dreux he disliked heartily, an antagonism Robert returned in full measure. Nor did he think much of Louis’s dissolute kinsman Raoul de Péronne. Raoul’s courtesy too often held a hidden sting, a hinted smugness that Eustace found infuriating, coming as it did from a man who’d made a fool of himself over a slut young enough to be his daughter. He had no reason to think badly of the Templar, Thierry Galeran, and he did not know Hugh de Champfleury, Louis’s new chancellor. As for Waleran Beaumont, the less said of him, the better; Eustace would never forgive him for going over to Maude. And these were the men whose voices Louis most heeded? If so, no wonder his brother-in-law seemed to lurch from one blunder to another, like a ship with no rudder.

  “Did you bring Constance with you?” Louis queried politely as Eustace turned away from the window. Eustace shook his head, started to say that Constance had remained behind to tend to his father, whose grieving was still raw. He caught himself in time, for that would only stir up another flurry of commiserations. He’d already accepted their condolences, wanted no more. If he would rather mourn his mother in private, that was betwixt him and God and no concern of theirs.

  What he really wanted to discuss with Louis was the calamitous mistake he’d made in coming to terms with Maude’s whelp. Henry Fitz Empress could not be trusted; what Angevin could? Not for nothing did men call Anjou the Devil’s birthplace. Sooner or later Louis would realize how badly he’d erred. Eustace hoped to make it sooner. But he preferred to wait for a more opportune moment. He had a better chance of convincing Louis if they were alone.

  Since Eustace seemed to feel no obligation to stoke the conversational fires, it fell to the ever-courteous king to perform that task for him. It was not easy going, for so many subjects held pitfalls. Fortunately, Louis got some help from the affable Raoul, who was a past master at social discourse, the sort of talk that was lively and smooth-flowing and said nothing of any consequence. But Louis was not enjoying himself and it was a relief to be summoned away by Adam Brulart, his secretary, hovering anxiously in the doorway.

  “Well, what shall we talk about now?” Raoul asked Eustace. “I can always tell you the story of my life. I daresay you’ve been awaiting that with bated breath.”

  Eustace stared suspiciously at the older man, sure that Raoul was mocking him, but not sure what to do about it. Humor was the weapon he most mistrusted, for it was one he’d never learned to handle with any skill. But he was spared the need to reply. Glancing about the chamber, Raoul frowned, then rose from his seat. “Cousin? Is something amiss?”

  By now other heads were turning toward Louis, too. He did look sickly, Eustace conceded, for he had no more color than a corpse candle and an odd, glazed stare, as if he were not seeing any of them. Filled with foreboding, Eustace started toward him. Raoul and Robert were already there, asking questions that Louis did not seem to hear.

  It fell to Adam Brulart to tell them. After a troubled look at his king’s ashen face, the clerk said reluctantly, “The King’s Grace has just learned that the Lady Eleanor and the Duke of Normandy were wed in Poitiers on Whitsunday.”

  As the unhappy clerk had known it would, his news created a furor. Voices rose as men struggled to make themselves heard. Eustace finally prevailed, for he’d had much practice in shouting others down. “Is it true?” he demanded of Louis. “Just tell me if it is true!”

  Louis swallowed. “A mistake,” he said. “It must be a mistake. Eleanor would not do that to me. I know she would not…”

  He was a minority of one in that belief. Several of the men had begun to curse. Raoul had paled; clutching his royal cousin’s arm, he said urgently, “I did not know, Louis. I swear by the Holy Cross that I did not know!” Louis said nothing, for he was not listening. Neither was Eustace. Turning away, he rested his palms flat against the wall, standing motionless, arms outstretched, head down. Normandy, Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and now Aquitaine, too—Blood of Christ! Without warning, he balled his fist, hammered it into the wall repeatedly, leaving a smear of blood behind. In the confusion, no one noticed.

  The French king continued to insist plaintively that it must be a mistake. He was Eleanor’s liege lord. She had no right to wed without his consent. And never would she have wed Henry Fitz Empress. Had she not wanted to annul their marriage because their kinship was an affront to the Almighty? It had gnawed away at her peace. She’d told him so—often. But she was even more closely akin to Henry than she was to him. So such a marriage could never be. She would not mock God’s Law like that. She would not mock him. But his protests carried less and less conviction and at last he slumped down in a chair, too stricken to keep up the pretense any further.

  Gradually the other men quieted and a discomfited silence filled the chamber. Watching Louis bleed was painful for them, too, but none knew how to treat a heart wound. After much shuffling of feet and clearing of throats, they seemed to have reached an unspoken consensus that the greatest kindness they could do their king would be to leave him alone. They began to mumble regrets, to murmur vaguely of duties elsewhere, putting Eustace in mind of the hushed, unnatural voices of the mourners at his mother’s funeral. Crossing the chamber swiftly, he planted himself directly in front of his brother-in-law’s hunched figure, arms folded across his chest, legs spread, impossible to ignore.

  “What mean you to do about this?”

  Louis looked up blankly, a man roused from his own private hell, blinking as if surprised to find the men still here. “What can I do? They are already wed.”

  “But you are not going to let them get away with it, are you? They had no right to wed and well they knew it. If it is too late to prevent the marriage, it is not too late to punish them for it. If you do not, others will think that they, too, can defy you with impunity.” Eustace’s mouth twisted and for a moment, he thought of his father. “You have no choice,” he said, “but to make an example of them, one that others will not soon forget.”

  He’d struck a common chord. For once, he did not lack for allies, and they all agreed that Eleanor and Henry must be held to account for their treachery. There must be a reckoning. If Thierry Galeran was spurred on by his known hatred for Louis’s queen, that could not be said of Louis’s chancellor, and Hugh de Champfleury argued somberly, too, for retribution. When at last eyes turned toward Raoul, he did not hesitate for long. His fondness for Eleanor was genuine, but his position was precarious enough as it was. No, in this case, she was on her own. “A man does what he must,” he said carefully. “You must think of the Crown, my liege.”

  Such unanimity was rare in Louis’s royal councils. He knew they were right. So great a betrayal could not be ignored. It must be avenged. She’d lied to him from the first, with her talk of conscience and God’s Will. Mayhap this had even been planned from the onset, as far back as last summer’s peace conference with the Angevins. Mayhap that was why Count Geoffrey and his spawn had become so reasonable of a sudden? That suspicion twisted the knife almost beyond bearing. How she must be laughing at him, lying in bed with the Angevin stripling, congratulating themselves for having made such an utter fool of the King of France. Well, let her beloved Aquitaine be overrun by French troops, let her watch as Poitiers burned, let her see then if she still felt like laughing.

  “I shall summon them both to my court,” he said abruptly, “to answer a charge of treason.”

  They approved, nodding grimly. Raoul glanced around at their faces, wondering if he was the only one who thought it unlikely that the guilty pair would obey the summons. He knew his sister-in-law better than any of them, and he could not see her submitting meekly to a judgment of the French court. Ah, Eleanor, he thought bleakly, what have you done? For such a clever lass, how had she gotten herself into such a predicament? What had posse
ssed her to put her world at risk like this, with nothing between her and disaster but luck and a cocky nineteen-year-old?

  As satisfied as Eustace was with this outcome, he still harbored a few qualms. Louis sounded steadfast enough now, but how long would that last? “What happens,” he said, “if they dare to defy the summons?”

  Louis raised his head. His eyes held a blue-ice glitter that Eustace had never seen before, that he found very heartening. “Then,” Louis said, “it will be war.”

  52

  Fontevrault Abbey, Anjou

  June 1152

  THE sun was high overhead, filling the cloisters with brilliant white-gold light. Eleanor and the Abbess Mathilde were sauntering along the walkway, in such animated conversation that they did not notice when Yolande lagged behind, tugging at Colette’s sleeve to attract her attention. “Did you hear that? The abbess called our lady’s new husband ‘Harry.’ How does a nun know the duke so well?”

  Colette’s black eyes held an amused glint. “That is a scandalous suggestion,” she chided, and Yolande blushed brightly.

  “I did not mean there was anything improper betwixt them!”

  Colette sighed. “I was but teasing you, child. The abbess is Lord Henry’s aunt, his father’s elder sister, so it is hardly surprising that she calls him ‘Harry.’ You do not know of her history, then? If not for a drunken helmsman and a hidden reef in Barfleur Harbor, she would have been Queen of England, for she’d been wed as a child to the English king’s only lawfully begotten son, the one who drowned in the wreck of the White Ship.”

  Although it had been more than thirty years since the sinking of the White Ship, its tragic fate continued to haunt the imagination, its story to find new audiences. Yolande might be ignorant of English politics, but she knew every one of the legends that had sprung up around the White Ship, and she stared after the abbess with avid curiosity. “Truly? How unlucky she was!”

  “Oh, I’d say she was very lucky, indeed, for she could have been on the White Ship, too. But fortunately for her, she’d sailed with the old king. Far better to be widowed than drowned, Yolande, even if it does mean forfeiting a crown!”

  They’d not been as discreet as they’d believed; their voices carried across the garth. Eleanor gave her new kinswoman an apologetic smile, but the abbess shrugged, unperturbed. “I fully expect,” she said dryly, “that as I lie on my deathbed, I’ll still hear whispers about the White Ship. Who knows, even the Almighty’s angels may have a question or two to put to me!”

  Eleanor laughed. She’d expected to encounter one of God’s holy lambs, for Mathilde had lived most of her life within Fontevrault’s sheltering walls. Instead she’d found a handsome woman of forty or so, one who ruled her cloistered domains with competence, pragmatic piety, and wry good humor. Eleanor thought those were admirable qualities for abbess and queen alike. “I remember,” she said, “a childhood riddle that my sister fancied: What can never be outrun? The answer was supposed to be my shadow, but it could as well have been gossip and rumor, too.”

  “We’ve both been the quarry in that hunt,” Mathilde said candidly, but Eleanor took no offense, for she knew none was intended. She should have realized that Geoffrey’s sister would have her share of Angevin spice; whatever might be said of her husband’s family, no one could ever accuse them of being bland. Smiling, she followed the abbess down the shallow steps into the church.

  Almost at once, Eleanor stopped in surprise. She’d often wondered why churches were invariably filled with shadows and solemnity instead of ablaze with God’s light and joy. Here in this Benedictine nunnery of the Blessed Lady Mary, she’d finally found a church to gladden her heart and dazzle her eyes. Sun spilled into the chancel from ten soaring windows, the frescoed walls of the nave glowed with vibrant color, and the floor, a gleaming white marble, shimmered like glazed ice.

  Eleanor had always been intrigued by Fontevrault, for it had been founded upon the precept of the Lord Christ to St John, “Son, behold thy mother.” At Fontevrault, women reigned supreme; even the adjoining community of monks was subject to the authority of the abbess. That alone would have endeared Fontevrault to Eleanor. The fact that it had once given sanctuary to her grandmother and was now ruled by her husband’s aunt made it all the more appealing, and she’d been pleased to grant the abbey a charter confirming their existing privileges. She’d also made a generous donation of five hundred sous to the convent’s coffers. But as she gazed admiringly now upon the sunlit splendor of the Great Minster, she wished she’d given more.

  Dipping her fingers into the font of holy water, Eleanor dutifully made the sign of the cross. “Did you see much of Harry as he was growing up?”

  “Not as much as I would have liked. He’s always been my favorite nephew, although I suppose I ought not to admit that? Tell me, is it true that the French king ordered you both to his court to defend yourselves against a charge of treason?”

  Eleanor nodded. “We got the summons just as Harry was about to depart for Barfleur. He told Louis’s messenger that it was not convenient for him to visit Paris this summer, but he’d let Louis know when he had some free time.”

  Mathilde joined in her laughter. “That sounds like Harry. Bless him, it sounds like Geoffrey, too. But might it not have been wiser to seek to placate Louis?”

  “Possibly,” Eleanor conceded, “but it would not have been as much fun,” and the abbess concluded that her nephew and his beautiful, controversial bride were a well-matched pair, indeed.

  When Eleanor began to ask about Henry’s childhood, Mathilde was pleased, seeing Eleanor’s curiosity as a promising proof that their marriage would prosper, for only a contented wife would be interested in her husband’s boyhood misdeeds. Since Henry had never lacked for imagination, she did not lack for stories, and she was quite willing to acquaint Eleanor with some of Henry’s more memorable escapades: the time he found a fox cub and smuggled it into the castle, hoping to tame it, only to have it eat his mother’s pet magpie; the time he tried to climb from his bedchamber, using sheets knotted together, and fell into the moat; the time he sneaked blue woad dye into his brother Geoff’s bath.

  They were still laughing over that last prank when they heard the footsteps out in the nave. Turning, they saw an elderly nun hastening toward the chancel, at a pace rapid enough to compromise her dignity. “Holy Mother,” she panted, “there are men come to see the duchess. We wanted to escort them to the guest hall, explaining that males may not roam about in a nunnery at will, but they refused to wait, insisting upon seeking out the duchess for themselves.”

  “Did they, indeed?” the abbess said, sounding to Eleanor more like Geoffrey facing down Abbot Bernard than one of Christ’s Brides. “Just who are these ill-bred intruders, Sister Pauline?”

  “The duchess’s kinsman, the Viscount of Châtellerault, and her seneschal, Reverend Mother. They were most rude—” The banging of the church door cut off the remainder of her complaint, and she spun around with an indignant cry. “There they are!”

  Eleanor’s uncle Hugh de Châtellerault had always been volatile, given to emotional outbursts and dramatic posturing. She saw nothing significant or sinister in his discourtesy, for he was quite capable of forcing his way into a nunnery on a whim. But Saldebreuil de Sanzay was another sort of man altogether, rarely riled, the most levelheaded of all her counselors. And Eleanor had never seen him look as he did now—thoroughly alarmed.

  Neither man responded to the abbess’s sharp challenge, not even hearing her. At sight of his niece, the viscount quickened his stride. “Christ Jesus, Eleanor,” he erupted, hoarsely accusing, “what have you brought upon us?”

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, moving dismissively from her uncle to Sanzay. “Saldebreuil? What has happened?”

  “War, my lady,” he said grimly. “A French army has gathered on the Norman border, poised to strike.”

  Eleanor caught her breath. Could she have so misread Louis? She’d expected him to rant and rave a
nd even to bluster and threaten, but not to back up those threats with force. His nature was pacific and passive, not at all martial. He was never belligerent or combative, not unless goaded to it—as at Antioch. She should have guessed there would be those to goad him at Paris, too.

  “Louis is not being a gracious loser, is he?” she said, with more coolness than she felt. “And as always, his sense of timing is deplorable. If he’d just waited another fortnight, Harry would have been in England when he attacked.”

  The viscount gave a snort of disbelief. “You truly think your young lordling will be our salvation?”

  Her coolness was no longer feigned. “That is not the first time you’ve spoken of my husband with disdain. Let it be the last, Uncle. Harry is more than a match for Louis, as he’ll soon prove.”

  Her seneschal slowly shook his head. “You do not know all of it, my lady, nor the worst of it. The French king has assembled a formidable coalition, allying himself with his brother, the Count of Dreux, Count Eustace of Boulogne, the Counts of Champagne and Blois…and Lord Henry’s younger brother, Geoffrey Fitz Empress.”

  Eleanor paled. Beside her, the Abbess Mathilde gasped; Fontevrault was close enough to the border of Poitou for her to have picked up sufficient langue d’oc to understand the gist of what Sanzay had just said, that her nephew had been betrayed by his own brother. There was a moment or two of stricken silence as Eleanor admitted to herself just how badly she and Henry had erred, utterly underestimating the furor their marriage would create. But then she rallied and smiled scornfully. “Harry is a match for any of them, too.”

  Her uncle started to scoff, but daunted by her warning, he thought better of it just in time. Sanzay looked at her in somber sympathy. “Mayhap he would be a match for any of them,” he agreed politely, “but for all of them?”