When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  But all was not lost. His brother still needed him, and so did England. It had been a year of mourning, first their brother Theobald and then Stephen’s Matilda. And Stephen would soon be facing the gravest threat yet to his embattled kingship. Stephen might be clinging to the shreds of a lifetime’s optimism, but the bishop was too realistic to underrate the danger. They dared not hold Maude’s son too cheaply. The French king had already learned that, to his cost.

  “I hear your men finally captured Newbury?”

  Stephen nodded, watching his brother warily. But the bishop continued to sip his mulled wine; if he, too, was critical of Stephen’s handling of the Newbury siege, he was keeping it to himself. Stephen was grateful for that; too many others had faulted him for sparing John Marshal’s son. “I sent the little lad to Constance in London,” he said, waiting for a negative response. Again, he was reprieved; the bishop merely nodded.

  “Is it true that Eustace has crossed the Channel again?”

  “Yes. He wants to hire more mercenaries, whilst keeping a hawk’s eye on Maude’s son. And he heard that the French king was threatening to break the truce, so I suspect he also hopes to prod Louis into another war, if he can.”

  Stephen did not sound as if he expected Eustace to succeed. Neither did the bishop. The French king could not be eager to take on Henry Fitz Empress again. And even if Eustace did talk him into another campaign, Louis had proved he was no match for Henry on the field. It was their accursed luck, the bishop thought morosely, that Maude’s son would be one of those blessed few born with a flair for command.

  Stephen seemed to have read his brother’s sour musings, for he said suddenly, “Normandy is lost to us. If we are to defeat Maude’s lad, it must be here—on English soil. That is why the fall of Wallingford matters so much. It has become a symbol of Angevin defiance, the castle the king could not win. Twice I tried to take it by force, twice I failed. And because that is so, its surrender will daunt our foes and hearten our supporters beyond measure.”

  The bishop forgot his aching back, his frozen feet, and chilblained hands, for this was news of consequence, indeed. “Wallingford is going to yield to you?”

  “They have no choice,” Stephen said, “for they are running out of food. The castellan asked to be allowed to send an urgent message to Henry Fitz Empress, advising him that unless he can come to their aid, they will be forced to yield.”

  While to the uninitiated that might have sounded suspiciously like John Marshal’s ruse at Newbury, the bishop knew that was strictly in accordance with the laws of war, for such an appeal allowed a besieged garrison to surrender with honour if help was not forthcoming. And for Wallingford, it would not be. Not only was it the dead of winter, but Henry was not even in the country, still dallying with his new wife in far-off Aquitaine. Rejuvenated and revitalized, the bishop gave Stephen the rarest sort of smile, one of unqualified approval. “Well done, Stephen! The fall of Wallingford could be a turning point in your kingship.”

  “God grant it so,” Stephen said fervently, “for I cannot lose this war. I cannot let my son down.”

  HENRY and Eleanor’s return to Poitiers was a hectic one, with vassals awaiting them in the great hall, petitioners seeking audiences, and a vast pile of letters accumulated in their absence, for not all of their correspondents had been able to track them on their progress through Aquitaine. After two days of continuous chaos, Eleanor decided they both could use some quiet time together, and surprised Henry with a candle-lit supper for two up in their bedchamber. Henry joked that he’d never heard of a man’s having a secret tryst with his own wife, but he was pleased, for privacy was a scarce commodity in their lives.

  Over an Advent meal of herring and pike, they enjoyed a rare luxury—a conversation overheard by no others. Eleanor was able to confide her concern about her widowed sister. Petronilla had recently suffered another blow, for the French king had awarded the wardship of Petronilla and Raoul’s young son to Waleran Beaumont. Henry in turn complained about his vexing brother Geoff, having just found out that Geoff had been pestering their aunt, the Abbess Mathilde, entreating her to intercede with Henry on his behalf to get his forfeited castles back.

  “Why Mathilde?” Eleanor asked. “Surely your mother would be the natural choice to mediate betwixt you?”

  “Geoff would not dare approach our mother,” Henry said, with a scornful smile. “He has yet to face her, according to her last letter. My aunt said she blistered his ears, but that is nothing to what Mama would have done!”

  He told her, then, of the other news in his mother’s letter: Stephen’s clash of wills with John Marshal at Newbury.

  Eleanor was riveted by the tale. “How could any man be so indifferent to his own child?”

  “Marshal is a gambler, willing to take great risks even if the odds are not in his favor. He proved that when he was trapped in a burning bell tower at Wherwell Abbey; I told you that story, love, remember? I’m guessing that he was gambling again at Newbury, this time upon how well he knew Stephen.”

  “A diabolic wager, for certes,” Eleanor said, shaking her head incredulously, “with his son’s life as the stakes…”

  “He judged Stephen rightly, though,” Henry pointed out, “but at what a cost if he had not!”

  “I cannot help wondering,” Eleanor said, “how the boy’s mother felt about it. Henry…you would not have hanged the child?”

  “No,” Henry said, leaning over to pour them both more wine, “I would not. But neither would I have threatened to hang him, as Stephen did. That was his great mistake. No man ought to make a threat he is not willing to carry out, especially a king—”

  They were interrupted then by the arrival of a courier from England, bearing an urgent message for Henry. Excusing himself, he hastened down to the great hall. He was gone longer than Eleanor had expected; the servants had cleared away the dishes and brought up a bowl of costly imported oranges before he returned. Eleanor had been peeling an orange for him, but she set the fruit aside at sight of her husband’s face. “The news was not good?”

  He shook his head. “A desperate appeal from William Boterel, the castellan of Wallingford Castle. They have been under siege for months, and they doubt that they can hold out much longer. Stephen has seized the bridge, so they no longer have a way of getting supplies into the castle and their larders are well-nigh empty.”

  “This Wallingford…is it an important castle, Henry?”

  “Yes, for it controls the Upper Thames Valley. But it has more than tactical significance. The man who held it, Brien Fitz Count, was the most steadfast of my mother’s supporters. It was to Wallingford that she fled when she made that miraculous escape from Oxford. Wallingford…well, it came to signify resistance, our hope for victory…” He’d begun to pace. Halting before the hearth, he stood for several moments, gazing into the flames.

  Watching him, Eleanor already knew what he would do. “You are going to Wallingford’s rescue,” she said. “You are going to brave a January crossing of the Channel and launch a winter campaign. You do realize, Harry, how mad that sounds?”

  “Of course I do,” he said, and smiled wryly. “That is why I’ll take Stephen utterly by surprise.”

  THE hearth had burned low, and embers glowed in the shadows, visible from the bed. Henry leaned over and kissed his wife’s throat, just below her ear. “Why are you not asleep yet?”

  “I’ve a lot to think about,” she said, “much of it troubling. I intend to invite my sister to stay with me once you’ve gone. She still mourns for Raoul, and now her son has been taken away from her…Where is the justice in that?”

  “Well…in fairness to Louis, he probably meant to reward Beaumont, not to punish Petronilla. After all, how often are women given wardships?”

  “Precisely my point,” she retorted. “Women are the ones who must bear children, suffering the travails of the birthing chamber, and indeed, often dying to give life. And yet we have no say about what happens to the
child afterward. It would never even have occurred to John Marshal to consult his wife ere he dared Stephen to hang their son. No more than Louis cared how he grieved Petra by putting her children’s future into the hands of a self-seeking lout like Waleran Beaumont. It is so unfair, Harry, so outrageously unfair.”

  Henry had honestly never given the matter of wardships much thought. His views about women were conflicted, as the son of a strong-willed, defiantly independent woman in a world that taught him females were inferior, meant to be ruled by men. Following neither the well-traveled road of tradition nor the rocky, lonely trail Maude had blazed, he’d found his own path, not challenging their society’s concept of male dominance, but acknowledging individual accomplishments in women like his mother—or his wife.

  “There is some truth to what you say,” he conceded, made cautious because they were venturing into unmapped territory; until now, they’d rarely discussed her daughters. “You are talking, too, about Marie and Alix…are you not?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose I am…”

  Henry propped himself up on his elbow, but it was too dark to see her face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If I could get them back for you, Eleanor, I would. But it is beyond my power, and not even a crown will change that.”

  “I know,” she said. “Why do you think I mention them so seldom? Because they are lost to me. Louis will never allow me to see them, and there is nothing I can do about it.” She turned toward him in the dark, seeking his embrace. “He’ll teach them to hate me, Harry, and there is nothing I can do about that, either.”

  Henry tightened his arms around her. “It is not as easy as people think to poison a child’s mind. During my mother’s years in England, there were few at my father’s court to speak well of her. God knows he did not. Your Marie is older than I was when my mother left us, old enough to hold fast to her own memories—as I did.”

  “Yes, but you knew your mother had not abandoned you. Abandonment will be the least of my maternal sins.”

  “I’ll not deny that they’ll hear slanderous stories about you. But your notoriety might well work to your benefit, for you’ll not be like other discarded wives, Eleanor, to be cast aside and forgotten. Your daughters will grow up knowing that you are the Duchess of Aquitaine and Normandy and, God Willing, Queen of England. How can your girls not be curious about you? And once they are old enough, I think they’ll want to find out for themselves what sort of woman you are.”

  “Jesú, Harry, what comfort can I take in that? The chance of a reunion twenty years from now?” But almost at once, Eleanor regretted her sharpness. “I am not being fair, am I? Had you offered me empty promises, vowed to win them back, then I’d have blamed you for lying to me. My nerves are on the raw tonight, more so than I realized.”

  Henry kissed her gently. He could not ease her yearning for her daughters. But he did have a parting gift for her. “When you write to your sister, ask her to join you at Angers, not Poitiers.”

  “Why?”

  “I shall ask my mother to watch over Normandy in my absence. And of course you will continue to govern Aquitaine. But I would also have you act on my behalf in Anjou.”

  As he’d guessed, that pleased her immensely. “Do you trust me as much as that, then?”

  “Why not? You have sound political sense and good judgment, too…for a woman,” he teased, and pretended to wince when she nipped his neck. How he was going to miss sharing her bed in the months to come. “With you and my mother keeping vigil for me, I’ll not have to worry about my fool brother stirring up another revolt. Without Geoff to distract me, I’ll have a better chance of avoiding a heroic, martyr’s death on some godforsaken English field.”

  “Do not jest about that,” she chided, with a gravity that he found quite flattering. She quickly lapsed back, though, into the bantering levity that was the coin of their marital realm. “I do not want you to take any needless risks, Harry. I would hate to have to start husband-hunting all over again.”

  “I doubt that you’d have to hunt very hard,” he said dryly. “Most likely you’d find yourself fending off suitors at my wake.” Yawning, he drew her into an even closer embrace, and soon after, fell asleep. When he awoke, it was almost dawn. The fire had gone out and the chamber was cold and damp. But Eleanor’s body was warm against his, her skin soft to his touch, and fragrant with her favorite perfume, one that she said put her in mind of summer roses and moonlight and honey-sweet sins.

  Why was it sinful, though, to lay with his wife? Henry could not understand the Church’s reasoning. Why was celibacy so holy, carnal lust so sinister? Even in wedlock, it remained suspect, for he’d heard priests claim that a man sinned if he loved his wife with too much passion. If that was true, he was putting his immortal soul in peril about twice a night. Laughing softly to himself, Henry reached for Eleanor.

  Eleanor awoke with reluctance, for she’d been dreaming that she and Henry were making love, alone in a secluded meadow, with scented clover for their bed and a sapphire-blue sky for their ceiling. She’d never done that, never made love out in the open under a hot summer sun, and her first thought upon awakening was a drowsy regret for all she’d missed. And then she smiled, understanding why her dream had veered off into that meadow.

  “Now you’re seducing me in my dreams, too,” she murmured, and laughed when he said that was passing strange, for in his dreams, she was always the temptress. She knew that their honeymoon harmony was not likely to last. They were both too self-willed not to clash occasionally, and she did not doubt that they would sail into rough seas at times. But she felt quite confident that their marriage bed would always be a safe harbor. Whether they called it lust or passion or even love, what they found together in bed was rare and real and had nothing to do with crowns or kingships. She understood how lucky they’d been, hoped that he did, too.

  He’d begun to stroke her thighs, and wherever his fingers touched, her skin seemed to burn. The frigid December dawn receded, and she was back in her dream, their bodies entwined, aware only of each other, the urgency of their need, and then, the shared intensity of their release.

  Lying, slaked and spent, in a tangle of sheets, they soon discovered that sexual heat did not linger, and they dived, shivering, under the coverlets, where they got into a playful tussle when Henry tried to warm his cold feet against her legs. That led to the first pillow fight of their marriage, which ended abruptly when Eleanor’s greyhound decided to join in the fun.

  After evicting the dog, they settled back against the pillows, and Eleanor told Henry about her erotic dream. He promised that he’d find them a private meadow, provided that she was willing to wait for the spring thaw. But then they looked at each other, their laughter stilled, remembering that he would be in England in the spring, fighting a war.

  Eleanor was quiet for a time after that. Once he rode away from Poitiers, who could say how long they’d be apart? She dared not wait, would have to tell him now. “Harry…do you think there is any chance that you might be back by August?”

  “I do not know,” he admitted. Shifting so he could see her face, he gave her a quizzical look. His birthday was in March, hers in June, their anniversary in May. What significance did August have in their lives? True, they’d met for the first time in August, but he knew his wife was not sentimental. “Why August?” he asked, and then caught his breath. “Eleanor?”

  Eleanor had known he’d guess the truth; he was nothing if not quick. “Yes,” she said, “I think I am with child.”

  INDIFFERENT to gossip, they remained abed for most of the morning. Henry was as solicitous as he was jubilant, summoning servants to light the hearth and fetch cider and honeyed bread for their breakfast, promising Eleanor that he’d not be gone a day longer than necessary, promising, too, to bring back a crown for their babe to play with. He was so delighted by the prospect of fatherhood that he was quite unfazed when she confessed that she could not be utterly certain yet, having missed only one flux so
far. He blithely insisted that she was right to tell him now, that this was news to be shared in bed, not to be imparted in a letter. He even did his best to assure her that he’d not be disappointed if their first child was a girl, with such conviction that she almost believed him.

  “Did you never doubt that I would give you a son?”

  “No,” he said emphatically, “never,” and this time she did believe him.

  Reaching for his hand, she laced their fingers together. “Harry…do you not think it is time we owned up to it?”

  As cryptic as that might have sounded to others, he understood. She saw comprehension in his eyes, and a certain wariness as he considered his response. Not surprisingly, he settled upon humor. “You first.”

  Eleanor was never one to resist a dare. “All right,” she agreed, “I will. When I began to confide in my sister about you, Petra listened and then exclaimed, ‘You fancy him!’ She was right, I did. I did not realize how much, though, until we were alone in the garden. You do remember what happened when we kissed?”

  Henry’s mouth quirked. “Till my dying day.”

  “I was caught by surprise, for fires usually have to be stoked ere they flame up like that. I remember telling Petra that you and I might be getting more than we’d bargained for. And the same can be said for our marriage.” She flashed a sudden smile, at once mischievous and tender, too. “I discovered on our wedding night that setting a fire in a rainy garden was child’s play, compared to the conflagration you could kindle in bed. But even then, I did not expect to fall in love with you…certainly not so quickly and completely. You were supposed to be satisfied with my body, not lay claim to my heart, too!”

  Henry leaned over swiftly, seeking her mouth. She returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but when it ended, she said, “Your turn.”

  “You already know,” he protested. “You would not have been so candid were you not sure of me.”

  That was a shrewd thrust, and she acknowledged it as such. “Pride is a shield as well as a sin. You’re right, I would not have been so quick to put it down had I not been convinced I’d not need it. I know that you care, Harry. You prove that, in bed and out. But I would like the words, too.”