When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Yes!” Eleanor glared at them defiantly. “You do not know Harry. I do. He will prevail against them, that I can assure you.”

  Neither man looked convinced, but neither dared to contradict her. “I hope your faith in the duke is not misplaced, my lady,” Sanzay said bleakly, “for this will not be a war you can afford to lose. You see, the French king has promised his allies that your domains will be carved up between them like a Michaelmas goose.”

  “The French king,” Eleanor echoed acidly, “can promise them half of Heaven for all the good it will do him. Louis was ever one for promising more than he could deliver, and his greedy accomplices will learn that soon enough. We’ll see no blood spilled on our soil, for they’ll never get that far. Nonetheless, it behooves us to take all sensible precautions. We’d best return to Poitiers straightaway, for there is much to be done.”

  The men were in full agreement with that, if with nothing else she’d said. Her vassals must be warned, men summoned for military duty, castles made ready to withstand sieges, patrols sent out to guard their borders. These were familiar activities, and for that reason, reassuring to Eleanor’s uncle and seneschal, much more so than her conviction that the Angevin youth she’d wed would be able to defeat a vengeful king, his most implacable enemy, his own brother, and three highborn and land-hungry lords, all eager to turn Normandy and then Aquitaine into a smoldering wasteland of razed castles and plundered towns.

  Reaching out, Eleanor took Mathilde’s hands in hers, bade her farewell, and promised to return to Fontevrault once the war had been won. The abbess kissed the younger woman lightly and approvingly on both cheeks. “Bear in mind,” she said, “what Scriptures tell us, that David prevailed over the Philistine with but a sling and a stone. I think we can safely say that Harry will be far better armed.”

  Eleanor smiled and they embraced briefly. It was only then that the abbess realized how much of Eleanor’s impressive aplomb was sheer bravado, for she whispered, softly and urgently, in Mathilde’s ear, “Pray for us.”

  IN July, the French king invaded Normandy and laid siege to the castle Neufmarché. On the 16th, Henry led an armed force from Barfleur, riding hard for Neufmarché. But he was too late. By the time he got there, the castle had already fallen to the French. At Henry’s approach, Louis pulled back, and a battle was averted. When Louis withdrew toward Chaumont, Henry followed and the skies over the Vexin were soon smoke-blackened. Then in August, Louis suddenly crossed the Seine again. Henry broke off his harrying campaign in the Vexin and raced for Verneuil, Louis’s likely target. But on a sweltering-hot Monday, the French army appeared before William de Breteuil’s castle at Pacy.

  FROM the battlements at Pacy, William de Breteuil looked out upon a scene that fulfilled all his expectations of the netherworld. Darkness was falling and torches had begun to flare in the enemy encampment. Bodies still lay sprawled beneath the castle walls, for it was too risky to come within arrow range merely to retrieve the dead. The assault had been a bloody one, fiercely fought on both sides. The defenders had been able to repel the first attack, although at a high cost. They’d lost more men than they could spare, and when the onslaught resumed on the morrow, William doubted that they could hold out for very long.

  Moving stiffly, for he’d suffered a leg wound in the assault, William clambered down a rope ladder and limped across the bailey. A few of their dead still lay unclaimed, where they’d fallen from the battlements, but most had been dragged into the great hall, which was doing double duty as charnel house and hospital. As he sent men to relieve their comrades up on the walls, William found himself wondering how many of them would be among the wounded and dead at this time tomorrow.

  He fully expected to be one of them, for he would never yield. He’d fought too long and too hard to gain Pacy ever to relinquish it, not if he still had breath in his body. He knew the odds were against him, but that had been true all his life. He ought never to have gotten Pacy for his own; it was also claimed by the powerful Beaumont family. But the strife over the English crown had offered opportunities for men wise enough or lucky enough to choose the winning side, and in 1141, Count Geoffrey of Anjou had granted him all he’d ever wanted, the honour and castle of Pacy sur Eure. He would rather die defending it than surrender and have to watch as the French king turned it over to Waleran Beaumont.

  He found his wife in the great hall, tending to the wounded. Bending over a youth who’d been burned when a fire arrow ignited his clothing, she was applying goose grease and fennel to his raw, blistered arm, so intent upon her task that she did not notice her husband’s approach, not until he said, “Emma,” very low.

  She looked exhausted, her skin sallow in the smoky rushlight, her eyes shining with blinked-back tears. There were bloodstains on her skirt and her hair had been pulled back severely, caught up in an untidy knot at the nape of her neck, her veil long gone. He’d never seen her so disheveled or so indifferent to her appearance. Moving away from the moaning man at her feet, she let William lead her toward a window seat.

  “It is so ungodly hot,” she said, but she did not suggest that the window be unshuttered. She knew better; while night attacks were rare, they were not unheard-of. Her husband had slumped into the seat beside her, his chin sunk down on his chest. She could see dried blood in his beard and hoped it was not his. She knew, though, that he’d been in the midst of the hand-to-hand fighting up on the wall. Just as she knew he’d be there on the morrow, swinging a sword as long as he had the strength to wield it. After a while, he bestirred himself and began lying to her again, saying what he thought she needed to hear, assuring her that they’d be able to stave off the next assault, that they’d be able to hold out until the duke arrived.

  Emma wanted desperately to believe him. But the duke had been heading for Verneuil, and they could not be sure that their man had reached him with their urgent plea for aid. And even if he had, even if the duke at once swung about and rode for Pacy, it was nigh on forty miles between the two strongholds. Pacy would suffer the same fate as Neufmarché, and by the time the duke got there, it would be too late.

  “Will…” She got no further. It would do no good to urge him to surrender. She’d never known a man so stubborn, so prideful, for there was no pride as fierce as that of an outsider, one whose birthright was tainted by the Bar Sinister. William’s father had been a Fitz Osborn, an only son, but born out of wedlock. He’d spent his life in an embittered struggle to claim the honours of Breteuil and Pacy, and her William had then taken up the quest, too. No…God help him, but he would never yield, not with his father’s vengeful ghost dogging his every footstep. “Come abovestairs,” she said wearily, “and let me put some fresh plantain leaves on your wound, Will.”

  They were just entering the stairwell when they heard the shouting. William spun around so hastily that he tripped. Emma grabbed his arm to help him regain his balance, and held tight, for they shared the same fear—that the French king had decided not to wait until the morrow, was attacking now.

  As they hurried back into the hall, one of William’s knights came bursting through the door. “My lord, come quick! Something strange is happening in the French camp!” Laboring for breath, he leaned upon a chair for support and startled them then with a sudden smile. “It is going to sound mad, I know, but it looks like they are pulling out!”

  William did not believe it, not until he stood on the battlements and saw for himself the confusion and turmoil in the French camp. “Jesú,” he breathed, awed beyond words at God’s Goodness, for the French army was indeed in retreat, breaking camp with such urgency that he knew there could be but one explanation. They’d gotten warning of another army’s approach. “Tell my wife,” he directed joyfully, “to go to the chapel, thank the Almighty and the duke for our deliverance!”

  As the Pacy garrison watched and cheered and hooted from the battlements, the French army made a hasty retreat, leaving behind bodies and tents and smoking campfires. Soon afterward, riders cam
e into view. The horses were caked with lather, and the men looked as though they’d been bathing in dust. But their smiles shone triumphantly on begrimed, drawn faces, and when the drawbridge was lowered to admit them into the castle, they were mobbed by the grateful garrison. The youth on a rawboned grey stallion was just as fatigued and filthy as the others, but the word soon spread among them that this was their duke, and Henry rode into the most heartfelt and heartening welcome of his life.

  Shoving his way toward Henry, William de Breteuil had a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders and was brandishing a wineskin in jubilant celebration. “Drink, my lord,” he urged, sloshing the wineskin upward. “All that I have is yours for the asking.” And to the men crowding to get closer, “For the love of God, give the duke some room! How can he dismount with you coming at him from all sides?”

  “I cannot stay,” Henry interjected, reaching gratefully for the wineskin. “We have not a hope in Hell of overtaking them, not after the way we’ve had to use our horses. But we ought to make sure that they are in full retreat. We’ll be back, though, so start breaking out your wine casks!”

  “Your men can drain every last one,” William promised, “and with my blessings. If I had all the wine in Christendom at my disposal, I’d pour it out like a river for your troops and never count the cost. You saved us from certain defeat, my lord, and I still do not know how you did it. You could not have gotten here faster if your horses were winged. In all honesty, I never expected you to reach us in time.”

  Henry took another deep swallow from the wineskin, and then grinned down at his beaming vassal. “Neither,” he said, “did Louis!”

  MAUDE was a woman with a keen sense of injustice, one who neither forgave nor forgot her grievances. She’d not thought there was anything more she could learn about betrayal, for she’d been wronged so often. Her father had betrayed her by naming her as his heir and then failing to safeguard the succession for her. Stephen had betrayed her trust and stolen her crown. The English had betrayed her by refusing to accept her as queen, despite Stephen’s decisive defeat at Lincoln. Geoffrey’s betrayals were beyond counting. By her stringent standards, even Robert had betrayed her at first, by acquiescing in Stephen’s illicit kingship. But nothing had prepared her for the pain of her son’s betrayal.

  She was both infuriated and horrified that her second son could have played into their enemy’s hands like this. What had ever possessed Geoff to behave so treacherously? Was he truly so jealous of Henry that he could rejoice in his brother’s downfall? Or was he so foolish that he did not even realize they meant Henry’s ruin? She’d never had any doubts about how to deal with disloyalty, nor had she ever had any mercy to spare for those who knowingly sinned against God and man. But this sinner was her son, flesh of her flesh. As angry as she was with Geoff, she could not help fearing for him, too.

  But her greatest fear was for Henry. She’d never have thought she could regret Geoffrey’s death so deeply. If only he were still alive to come to Henry’s aid! Why had the Almighty chosen to take Robert and Brien, too, when her son had such need of them now? Night after night, she paced the floor of her bedchamber, for when she slept, her dreams were dreadful. She’d never feared to risk her own life. But Henry’s life was far more precious to her, his death the one loss she could not have survived.

  Maude was preparing for bed when her son arrived at the priory. With Minna’s help, she hastily rebraided her hair, made herself as presentable as she could in the brief span before he was ushered into her chamber. Until he entered, she was not sure which son to expect. Hoping against hope that it might be a contrite Geoff, come to his senses, she felt a surge of relief, nonetheless, at sight of her youngest.

  “Will, where have you been? Did you not realize how worried I would be when I did not hear from you?”

  He looked surprised and then sheepish. “No,” he admitted, “I did not. I am sorry, Mama, but you need not have fretted. At sixteen, I’m old enough to take care of myself. I’ve been with Harry, of course. Where else would I be?”

  “That had occurred to me,” she conceded, “for I know you’ve always gotten along better with Henry than with Geoff. But I needed to know for certes, Will!”

  “No one gets along with Geoff.” Will almost added, “except the whores who’re paid to put up with him,” remembering in the nick of time that he was speaking to his mother. “Harry or Geoff—that was an easy choice, Mama.” He startled her then, though, by saying matter-of-factly, “After all, Harry is going to be King of England one day.”

  She studied his sunburned, freckled face, the guileless blue eyes. Who would have guessed that her last fledgling, so cheerful and forthright, had such a practical core? “Are you so sure then, that Henry will win this war?”

  He seemed puzzled by the question, that it need even be asked. “Mama, he is already winning! Did you not hear about Pacy?” When she nodded, he straddled a chair, leaning forward eagerly. “A pity you could not have been there to see it; you’d have been so proud of Harry. We half killed ourselves racing for Pacy, and we did lose some of our horses. But we got there in time to save the castle and scare off the French. This is the second time, too, that the French king has refused to do battle with Harry. How does he expect to win this war if he keeps skulking away whenever Harry gets within a mile of the French army?”

  “I daresay quite a few men are asking themselves that same question. What happened after you rescued the lord of Pacy? I heard that Henry then invaded Dreux. Is that true?”

  Will nodded vigorously. “That is why I am here, Mama, to let you know what has been occurring. Harry thought you ought to hear it from me,” he explained and grinned. “He probably reckoned that a brother would boast of his exploits more than a courier would. But he has earned the right to do a bit of bragging, Mama, and I’m happy to do it in his stead. After the French retreated, Harry said it was time to teach Louis’s allies that this war was going to be a costly one for them, too. We crossed into the Count of Dreux’s lands, burned Brezolles and Marcouville, and Harry demanded hostages from the count’s vassal, Richer de l’Aigle. After that, we took and burned his castle at Bonmoulins. The local people were right glad to see it burn, saying it was a brigand’s castle, a veritable den of thieves.”

  Minna approached then with a brimming wine cup, and Will interrupted himself long enough to accept it with a beatific smile. It was becoming obvious to Maude that her youngest son saw this dangerous and needless war as a grand adventure. “Where is Henry now? Where did he go after destroying the castle at Bonmoulins?”

  “He is garrisoning all his castles along the Norman border, and once he is sure that Normandy is no longer threatened, he said he’ll be able to quell the rebellion in Anjou.” Will stifled a huge yawn. “I have much more to tell you, Mama, but I think I’d best save the rest for the morrow. My men are bedding down in the priory guest hall, and with your permission, I’ll join them, for it’s been a long ride, a long day.”

  “Of course.” Maude bade her son goodnight, kissed him on a smooth, beardless cheek, and agreed to meet him for Morrow Mass the following morning. But once he departed, all her energy seemed to have gone with him, and she sat down wearily upon a coffer chest. After a time, she felt Minna’s hand on her shoulder. For Minna understood, too, why Henry had sent Will to Rouen. He’d done it for her, Maude knew. So that her youngest would not be present when Henry dealt with his faithless brother.

  ELEANOR awakened with a start. The chamber was dark, save for a single night candle. Colette, a sound sleeper, lay motionless on her pallet by the bed, but Eleanor’s greyhound had begun to whine, and Yolande was fumbling with her bed-robe as she stumbled sleepily toward the door. The knocking continued, louder now. When Yolande opened the door, Eleanor recognized the voice seeking entry: Jordan, her clerk. Why would he be awakening her in the night unless the news was dire? She was grabbing for her bed-robe when Yolande spun around, eyes wide with shock. “My lady, it is your husband!”
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  Eleanor went cold. “He is not dead?”

  “No, my lady, no! Jordan says he is here!” Opening the door wider, Yolande cried, “Jordan, tell her!”

  “It is true, madame. The duke has just ridden into the bailey.” As if realizing how unlikely this sounded, Jordan insisted, “I saw him dismounting with my own eyes, my lady, I swear I did!”

  “Has he been wounded?”

  “No, my lady, not judging by what I saw.”

  While Jordan’s assurance dispelled Eleanor’s fears about Henry’s safety, her unease persisted. She was optimistic by nature, as all gamblers are, but it was difficult to be sanguine about her husband’s midnight arrival. Why would Harry break off his campaign and return without warning to Poitiers? She could think of only one reason: the war’s tide had turned against him, so badly that Aquitaine itself was now threatened with invasion. By all accounts, he’d been more than holding his own. But she knew fortune was never so fickle as on the battlefield. What else could it be?

  By now, Colette was up, too, hastily pulling on her chemise as Yolande shooed Jordan back outside while they dressed. Slipping into her bed-robe, Eleanor was searching in the floor rushes for her shoes when they heard the voices out on the stairwell. Eleanor forgot about her shoes, started for the door as it burst open again, and a moment later, she was in her husband’s arms.

  “I am so glad to see you,” she said once he’d stopped kissing her, somewhat surprised herself by just how glad she was. “But I do not understand why you are here. Is the war about to spill over into Aquitaine?”

  Henry smiled and shook his head. “No, love,” he said. “The war is over.”

  BELOW in the great hall, it was chaos. Henry’s men were tired and hungry and triumphant, in need of food and wine and well-deserved accolades, all of which the palace inhabitants were more than willing to provide. For once, the cooks did not mind being roused from their beds to prepare a late-night meal. As word spread that their duchess’s young husband had routed their enemies and protected Aquitaine from invasion, people began to crowd into the hall, eager to share in the excitement, and a boisterous celebration was soon in progress.