When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Up in the Maubergeon Tower, a private celebration was already under way. Eleanor and her ladies could not do enough for Henry, and despite his exhaustion, he found himself enjoying all the attention, joking that this was every man’s dream come true, to be waited upon by three fair women. Was he thirsty? Yolande flew downstairs to fetch a flagon of spiced hippocras. Was he hungry? Colette was happy to send to the kitchen for venison stew and hot bread and honeyed wafers. When he expressed a need for a bath, one was swiftly arranged. Eleanor unbuckled his scabbard, assisted him in removing his muddied boots, and insisted that he settle himself comfortably upon the bed while he awaited the arrival of his food and bath. Propped up by pillows, basking in female admiration, Henry told them about the war.

  “Louis has offered a truce and gone back to Paris to nurse a fever and his bruised pride,” he related, with a sardonic smile that could not hide his jubilation. “His stouthearted accomplices had already made themselves scarce, for this war did not turn out to be as much fun as they’d expected. After I raided into Dreux, Stephen’s nephews decided they were urgently needed at home, lest I pay a visit to Champagne or Blois next. They were always more keen on the spoils of war than the war itself. All save Eustace, who’s like to be sore crazed with rage at such spineless allies.”

  Henry paused then, as Yolande came rushing back into the chamber with several precariously balanced wine flagons. Pouring a cup of hippocras, Eleanor carried it over to the bed and sat beside him as he drank. “What of your brother, Harry? What happened in Anjou?”

  “Geoff’s rebellion sputtered out like a dying candle. The malcontent lords he’d lured to his banner scattered to the winds as soon as I crossed into Anjou. I had no trouble convincing Geoff’s castellans at Mirebeau, Loudun, and Chinon that it was in their interest to yield the castles to me. Geoff and those of his followers not already in hiding holed up in Montsoreau. I laid siege to it and captured it easily enough to embarrass Geoff, who had no choice then, but to seek my forgiveness.”

  “I see.” Eleanor did not expect him to cast his brother into a dungeon and let him rot. But she feared that if he was too lenient with Geoff, other would-be rebels might learn the wrong lesson from his forbearance. “And did you? Did you forgive him?”

  “Yes,” Henry said, “I did.” He drank, watching her all the while. “But first I took away his castles.”

  Eleanor’s smile was dazzling. “Men will be talking about this war for years to come,” she predicted. “You humbled the French king, put the fear of God into his lackeys, thwarted your chief rival for the English throne, chastened your brat of a brother—and you did all that in less than two months.” Leaning toward him, she murmured, “After such a remarkable campaign, the least I can do is give you an equally memorable welcome home.”

  Her breath was warm on his skin, her eyes a luminous cat-gold, and Henry wondered if he’d ever learn to take her beauty for granted, if he’d ever look at her without feeling his pulse jump. “That is a most intriguing offer, Eleanor. Could you be more specific?”

  Eleanor laughed softly. “All in good time.” Colette was beckoning from the doorway and she slipped off the bed to confer. Colette reported that the food was almost ready, and the bathwater was being heated, would be brought up after the meal.

  “Yolande and I will sleep elsewhere tonight,” she said, smiling, and without waiting to be asked, she began to unfasten Eleanor’s night plait; Colette knew enough of men to be sure that Henry would want his wife’s hair loose and free-flowing for their lovemaking. With deft strokes, she brushed Eleanor’s hair until it felt like silk and looked like fire-lit sable. “How perfect it would be,” she whispered, “if tonight you conceived a son.”

  Eleanor’s throat tightened, so great was her desire to bear Henry an heir. He had proved himself, and in spectacular fashion, to her and to the world. But her battlefield would be the birthing chamber, and if she could give him the son God had denied to Louis, that would be her joy, her triumph, and her vindication.

  “God Willing, Colette,” she said, and turned back toward Henry, only to come to a surprised stop. When Colette started to speak, she shook her head, putting her finger to her lips as Colette joined her beside the bed.

  Colette thought Henry looked very appealing and unguarded in sleep; she’d never noticed before that he had such long golden lashes. “Do you want me to send the food up later?”

  “No…let him sleep. Lord knows, he has earned a night’s rest.” Eleanor eased herself onto the bed, but Henry didn’t stir. Gesturing for Colette to hand her a blanket, she gently tucked it around him, then slid under the covers. Blowing out all the candles but one, Colette quietly withdrew. At the door, she paused. Eleanor was propped up on her elbow, gazing down at her sleeping husband. Colette would have expected to find indulgent amusement in her face, and did. But as she watched, the amusement gave way to a different sort of smile, one like a caress, surprising and revealing. Smiling, too, Colette closed the door.

  HENRY did not at once remember where he was; it had been weeks since he’d slept in such a soft bed. Half asleep, he wondered why he was still dressed, especially since there seemed to be a female form beside him in the bed. Yawning, he leaned over to get a look at his bedmate, admiring the bare shoulder emerging from the sheets. As he did, he caught a beguiling, familiar fragrance. Eleanor’s perfume? Jesus God! Wide awake now, he sat bolt upright as it all came back to him. How could he ever have fallen asleep in Eleanor’s bed?

  His movement had shaken the mattress, and her lashes were beginning to flutter. Hoping she wasn’t too vexed with him, he was framing an apology as she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. Captivated by the sudden appearance of her dimple, he had a powerful urge to kiss it, and from there, it seemed only natural to move to her mouth. He would later swear to Eleanor that he’d not meant to make love to her yet, not until he’d washed off the dust of the road, but she kissed him back with enough ardor to blur his good intentions. And so what happened next was not only predictable, it was inevitable.

  RAISING up on his elbow, Henry grinned, for his discarded tunic had been flung across the room and landed atop Felice, Eleanor’s greyhound. It seemed to have snagged on her collar, for it was draped over her like a tent as she sniffed about in the floor rushes. Shifting so he could slide his arm around Eleanor’s shoulders, he smoothed her hair back from her face. Her throat was reddened, chafed by his beard, and he stroked the soft skin with his fingers, saying ruefully, “I really did plan to take a bath first. But you’re too tempting for your own good, love.”

  Eleanor yawned, then gave him a smile of drowsy contentment. “I’m not complaining…”

  “No,” he conceded, “you’ve been very good-natured about all of this. Are you always going to be such an obliging wife?”

  “Not likely,” she said and laughed. “At the moment, I’m inclined to deny you very little. But that mood is sure to pass, so you’d best take advantage of it whilst you can.”

  Henry laughed, too, and pulled her still closer. She traced the freckles on his throat with the tip of her tongue, her fingers playing pleasurably with the hair on his chest, gently scraping his skin with her nails. “I just noticed something. Your hair and beard are sort of a copper color, and your chest hair is golden. But down here,” she said, trailing her fingers across his belly, toward his groin, “the hair is bright red!”

  He wouldn’t have thought she could arouse him again so soon, but his body was telling him otherwise. “Flames are always reddest where the fire burns hottest. Did you not know that?”

  “If your fire burned any hotter,” she teased, “all of Poitiers would have gone up in flames.” Leaning over, she kissed him gently. No longer playful, she looked intently into his face. “Ah, Harry,” she said, softly and quite seriously, “I am so proud of you.”

  What surprised Henry was not her words, it was his response to them. He already knew that he’d waged an extraordinary campaign, one that men would not soon forget,
not in France nor England. While he was pleased by all the plaudits he’d reaped, he did not need this acclaim to understand the full magnitude of what he’d accomplished. Never had the English crown been so close, and his one regret was that his father had not lived to see his triumph. He’d not expected Eleanor’s praise to mean so much to him, for he’d not realized until now just how much her opinion had begun to matter. Instead of jesting, he said simply, “I’m glad.”

  “I want to give a great feast for you,” she said, “one so lavish and bountiful that people will talk of it in awe. I know you do not care much for such revelries, but trust me—this one you will enjoy, Harry. You and I will sit at the high table, eating porpoise and swan, whilst we watch my male kinfolk eating humble pie!”

  “You are right,” Henry said, laughing. “I daresay I would enjoy that!”

  “I suppose I ought to summon a servant, for you must be starved.” But Eleanor could not bring herself to move. A pity she and Harry could not spend the entire day in bed, the door bolted, the world shut out. “Passing strange,” she said, “for we’re into our fourth month of marriage and we’ve had only a fortnight together so far. I suppose England is already beckoning, too. How long can you stay this time?”

  “As long as you want.”

  She sat up, staring at him. “Are you serious?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. If England has survived for nigh on seventeen years under Stephen, it can muddle through for another few months. And so…I have decided to put off my invasion for a while. I thought I’d let you show me Aquitaine instead?” Despite himself, his voice rose questioningly, for they were still, in so many ways, intimate strangers, and he could not be sure that she’d not be disappointed by the delay, craving the English crown more than his company. He saw at once, though, that he need not have worried. Kneeling naked before him on the bed, her eyes sparkling and her hair in wanton disarray, she looked of a sudden very young, giving him a glimpse of the girl who’d gone off with such high hopes to wed the French king.

  “You and Aquitaine? Harry, nothing would please me more!”

  53

  Newbury, England

  October 1152

  THE town of Newbury was an ancient one, strategically situated on the road that ran north to Oxford and south to Winchester. The site had once been settled by the Romans, then the Anglo-Saxons, and it was here that John Marshal had chosen to erect a castle. On this blustery October Thursday, Eustace was approaching Newbury from the east, along the Reading Road. The siege works were already in sight, encircling the castle and occupied town, when an armed force rode out to challenge him.

  Eustace recognized the Earl of Northampton, the most steadfast of his father’s allies. It took him a moment, however, to identify the man riding beside Northampton, for William de Mohun had not often come to Stephen’s court. Lord of Dunster, Mohun had been granted the earldom of Somerset by Maude, a title Stephen refused to acknowledge. He was a strikingly handsome man, with a reputation as foul as his appearance was fair. He’d deserted Maude after the siege of Winchester and gone over to Stephen’s side, yet his main interest was in feathering his own nest. The war had spawned so many men like Mohun, brigand barons who’d taken advantage of the conflict to rob and extort with impunity. But not after he was king, by God. Eustace knew how he’d rule. Like the old king. Not like his father. Never like his father.

  Mohun’s presence at the Newbury siege was disheartening, for it showed Eustace just how badly his father’s circle of supporters was shrinking if he had to rely upon such untrustworthy self-seekers. Ypres was blind, Warenne dead on crusade, Robert Beaumont well-nigh invisible, Hugh Bigod and the Earl of Chester in the enemy camp. And how many more would be turning traitor once they heard about that Angevin whoreson’s triumph over the French king? Eustace was not a fool. He knew that his father’s kingship was wounded and bleeding. Not hemorrhaging, but even a steady trickle of blood could prove fatal if not stanched. How was he to do that, though? Holy Christ on the Cross, how?

  Halting his men, Eustace rode out to meet Northampton and Mohun. He brushed aside their surprised queries, ignored their curiosity. He knew he’d have to talk about the disastrous Normandy campaign, but the longer he could put it off, the better. Instead, he asked brusquely about the siege.

  John Marshal, they informed him indignantly, was as treacherous as a serpent and as false as Judas himself, may God smite him as he deserved. This was less than illuminating to Eustace, but with some prodding, he got them to begin with the facts. At the start of the siege, Newbury’s castellan had sought a brief truce so that he might warn his lord, John Marshal, of the castle’s peril. Eustace nodded; that was only to be expected. Marshal had then asked for a longer truce, one that would enable him to confer with the empress and her son, for he held Newbury in their names. Again, this was in accordance with the laws of war, and Eustace was hard put to hide his impatience.

  “I assume my father agreed?” His mouth twisted; as if Stephen, the soul of chivalry, would have refused! “But he did demand hostages?”

  “Indeed he did, my lord. Marshal agreed quite readily, yielding up his youngest son, a lad of about four or five. But then he betrayed us—and the boy. He took advantage of the truce to sneak supplies and men into Newbury, enabling them to withstand a long siege.”

  Eustace knew that his youth put him at a disadvantage with his father’s supporters, and to compensate for that, he’d cultivated the world-weary, jaded air of a man who’d seen too much ever to be truly surprised. The pose slipped now, though, and he whistled soundlessly, almost admiringly, for few men would have had the ice-blooded audacity to gamble with such high stakes.

  “Sounds like Marshal has sons to spare,” he joked grimly. “Did my father warn him that the boy’s life would be forfeit?” That was not a question he should have had to ask—not of any king but his father. He was relieved when Northampton nodded somberly.

  “Of course he did, my lord Eustace. He sent a warning yesterday to Marlborough, telling Marshal that the lad will be hanged unless Marshal agrees to yield Newbury.”

  “Marlborough is how far? Twenty miles? So we’ll hear today then,” Eustace said, and smiled. “It seems I shall be just in time for Newbury’s surrender.”

  DINNER was normally served in the morning, but it had been delayed by Eustace’s arrival, and the trestle tables were not set up in Stephen’s tent until noon. The meal was surprisingly good for camp fare—a savory capon stew—and conversation flagged as men concentrated upon their trenchers.

  The faces were all familiar to Eustace. In addition to Northampton and Mohun, their dinner guests included Stephen’s loyal seneschal, William Martel, and a handful of highborn lords. William d’Aubigny, Earl of Arundel, had begun to play a more active role on Stephen’s behalf since losing Adeliza to a Flemish convent and an untimely death. Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford, was Stephen’s chamberlain, but like so many in this war, his past was chequered, for at one time, he’d been allied with Maude. The same was true of Roger Beaumont, Earl of Warwick, a cousin of the Beaumont twins and a former partisan of the empress. Eustace was glad they were eating with such gusto, for it put off their inevitable and intrusive questions about the Normandy debacle.

  Stephen alone had no appetite for the stew; it was growing cold on his trencher as he toyed with a piece of bread. Eustace had not seen him since the spring, and he was taken aback by how much Stephen seemed to have aged. He did think Stephen was old; to twenty-two, fifty-six was tottering on the edge of an open grave. But his father had never looked his age before. Eustace studied Stephen as he ate, not liking what he saw. Mama’s death was a wound that ought to be healing by now. It had been five months, after all. He missed her, too. But Papa could not afford to give in to his grieving. There was too much at stake for that.

  The meal was almost over when the talk turned to the topic Eustace had wanted to avoid, yet knowing all the while that it would come up, that it must be dealt with, for Henry Fi
tz Empress’s triumph would affect them all. It was the affable, tactless William d’Aubigny who breached the tacit conspiracy of silence. Sopping up gravy with a thick chunk of bread, he looked inquiringly down the table at Eustace. “Now that you’re here, lad, you can tell us what truly happened in Normandy this summer. What with the rumors and gossip, who knew what to believe? Did the French king really get chased all the way back to Paris with his tail between his legs?”

  Stephen glanced up swiftly, frowning. His sympathy stung Eustace as much as Aubigny’s clumsy curiosity, and he said roughly, before Stephen could intercede on his behalf, “If you heard that the French king’s milksop allies fled like rabbits, that is true enough, and may God forgive them, for I never shall. As for my brother by marriage, Louis hardly covered himself in glory, either. He, of all men, had reason to avenge himself upon Maude’s whelp, but he had no stomach for fighting, for—”

  Stephen leaned over. “Eustace…”

  Eustace shook off his father’s hand. He knew he was being dangerously indiscreet, but he no longer cared. “You wanted the truth, did you not? Well, I am giving it to you. Henry Fitz Empress did not win the war; Louis lost it. Twice he balked at doing battle with Henry—twice! No wonder he was not man enough for that wanton wife of his, for I’ve seen snakes with more backbone.”

  There were some involuntary laughs at that, quickly smothered. Eustace ignored them, unable to stop himself now even if he’d wanted to; his rage had been too long pent up. “Once it became clear that this would be no quick and easy war of conquest, Louis’s resolve began to waver like a broken water reed. Instead of confronting Henry at Pacy, he showed his heels. I’d stayed behind to garrison Neufmarché, and by the time I got to Louis, it was too late; all the fight had gone out of him.”