When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  So commanding was his self-assurance that she rarely remembered his youth. But now she found herself being reminded that he was not yet twenty, for he’d begun to look distinctly uncomfortable. She was not offended by his reluctance, for she could understand why he might be leery of letting down his own defenses, caught too often in the crossfire of his parents’ war. But she’d spoken no less than the truth. She did need the words, especially now that she faced months of separation and anxiety, a lonely pregnancy under the constant threat of widowhood. “Louis was not so tongue-tied,” she gibed sweetly, and Henry grimaced.

  “That was a low blow,” he complained. “I am utterly besotted with you, woman, as anyone with eyes to see could tell. Is that not enough for you?” She said nothing, greenish-gold eyes never leaving his face, and he capitulated with a smothered oath. “I do love you, Eleanor.” Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her again. “God help me, but I do…”

  Generous in victory, she forbore to tease, although the temptation was considerable, for his declaration of love had sounded almost like a confession. It might not be polished or even voluntary, but it was heartfelt, that she did not doubt. She’d known from the first that he would never be a man for romantic gestures or pretty speeches. So be it, then. What he could give her mattered far more than the superficial and studied gallantries of courtly love.

  Sliding his hand between their bodies, he rested it upon her belly, so flat and taut that he could not easily envision it swollen with new life. “I would that I could promise to be back for the birth,” he said regretfully, “but I cannot.”

  “I know,” she reassured him, “I do. I ask only that you promise to take care, Harry, to remember that your life belongs to me now, too.”

  AFTER a hurried trip to Rouen to bid his mother farewell and to borrow the vast sum of seven thousand pounds from moneylenders, Henry set sail from Barfleur on Epiphany Eve. By dawn, his ships were within sight of the Dorset coast. Entering the River Frome, Henry’s fleet anchored at Wareham, after a crossing so rough that the men would have gladly kissed the ground—had a raw, sleet-laden wind not been blasting across the harbor.

  Unloading soldiers and horses was never easy, and in weather like this, it became a logistical nightmare. By the time the first of Henry’s army came ashore, men from the castle were hastening down onto the docks. Turning at sound of his name, Henry found himself enveloped in a hearty avuncular embrace.

  “Holy Rood, but you feel like a block of ice, lad!” Stepping back, Rainald beamed at his nephew. “We could not believe it when we first spotted sails on the horizon. This must have been the voyage to Hell and back!”

  “Close enough,” Henry admitted. “I am right glad to see you here, Uncle, but surprised, too, since you had to come all the way from Cornwall. How were you able to get to Wareham so fast?”

  “My usual good luck. I happened to be at Bristol with Will when he got his summons.” As Rainald glanced back, Henry saw that his cousin Will was coming toward him, with another familiar figure at his side: Roger Fitz Miles. Henry greeted them both warmly, but he could not help feeling a regretful twinge, too, for although Will was his kinsman and Roger his friend, he knew neither one of them could hold a candle to their deceased fathers. What he would not have given to be waging this campaign with his uncle Robert!

  Henry remained on the docks for a while, supervising the landing. The others kept close by, hunched deep in their mantles and cursing the cold as they gave him their news. They expected the Earls of Chester and Salisbury and Ranulf and John Marshal to be awaiting him at Devizes Castle. Ranulf might be delayed, since getting word into Wales had been no easy feat; why he’d chosen to live in the back of beyond, Rainald would never understand. Baldwin de Redvers would be answering the summons, too, his health permitting, and Chester’s brother, William de Roumare, was likely to appear as well.

  That was heartening news to Henry, for his thirty-six ships held only one hundred forty knights and three thousand foot soldiers, not a large force to overthrow a king. He made a mental note to find out how many men had sailed with his great-grandfather when William the Bastard had invaded England in God’s Year 1066, and then strode down to the water’s edge to shout a warning, for a young soldier was attempting to unload a horse without blindfolding it first.

  The sleet was giving way to hail, and Henry finally allowed his kinsmen to escort him up to the castle. As loath as he was to admit it, he was exhausted, very much in need of a blazing fire and a few hours’ sleep. But as they approached the castle, pealing church bells began to echo on the stinging sea air, calling Christ’s faithful to hear Mass on this, the holy feast of the Epiphany.

  The Earl of Gloucester at once drew rein. “We ought to give thanks to God for guiding you safely through that storm, Harry.” While Henry was in agreement that the Almighty deserved his gratitude, he’d have preferred to tender it after he’d been fed and thawed out. But he could think of no graceful way of refusing, for what sort of impious wretch did not have time for God? And so he did not object as his cousin led them into the small Benedictine priory east of the castle. Dismounting in the garth, they slipped in a side door of the nave, left open for latecomers.

  The church was crowded, monks kneeling in the choir, townspeople in the nave. A few heads turned at their entrance, but most kept their eyes upon the priest as he solemnly intoned the introit for the Mass. “Behold, the Lord the ruler cometh, and the kingdom is in his hand.”

  Henry’s head came up sharply. The response of his companions was far more dramatic. They looked at one another in astonishment, and then, at Henry, with something approaching awe.

  “God’s Word on High,” Will said softly, crossing himself.

  “What…divine prophecy?” But Henry’s skepticism merely glanced off Will’s certainty, and he nodded earnestly.

  “Most men will think so.” Rainald grinned jubilantly, for if his one nephew interpreted the priest’s words as holy writ and the other as fortuitous happenchance, he saw them as a political windfall. “Maude must have told you about Stephen’s ominous mishap ere the Battle of Lincoln, Harry. When his candle broke in his hand during the Mass, a shiver of foreboding swept through the entire congregation, so sure were they that this was an evil omen for a man about to go forth and do battle. But that was a puny portent, indeed, when compared to this!”

  So intent were they upon the amazing aptness of God’s Word that they had forgotten for the moment that they were in God’s House. As their voices rose, people were turning to stare in their direction, with disapproving frowns and puzzled mutterings. Wareham’s castle had long been an Angevin stronghold, though, and the three earls were known on sight to some of the parishioners. Those who’d recognized the earls soon guessed Henry’s identity, too, and once they did, their priest’s words took on a new and fateful significance. As they enlightened their neighbors, the church was soon in a state of excitement and disquiet.

  Henry watched the turmoil in fascination. His uncle had been right! Leaning over, he murmured to Roger, “This is a tale to grow with each telling, and by the time it reaches Stephen’s ears, people will be swearing that an Angel of the Lord appeared to me in the midst of a burning bush!”

  55

  Siege of Wallingford

  January 1153

  STEADY rain had turned Stephen’s siege encampment into a morass. Knowing how wretched the roads were, Stephen was amazed to see William de Ypres ride into the camp, for after his sight had begun to fail, the Fleming rarely traveled beyond his own estates. But whatever had motivated Ypres to venture so far from Kent, Stephen was delighted that he had, for the gaunt, grizzled old soldier brought back memories of a happier time, memories of Matilda.

  Horse litters were used only by the aged and the infirm and, sometimes, women. Most people would have agreed that a blind man could travel in a horse litter without shame. But pride was the only crutch William de Ypres would permit himself, and he’d continued to ride, as always, although hi
s vision had now deteriorated to such an extent that he’d reluctantly agreed to let his mount be led. Theirs was an age in which the blind were too often condemned to a beggar’s fate, but Ypres was a very wealthy man, able to hire men to act as his eyes, and to judge by the conscientious way they watched over him, he paid them handsomely. The ground was treacherous, glazed and pitted, and even with their assistance, Ypres stumbled several times and once almost lost his footing altogether. But by then Stephen was there, guiding him into the shelter of his command tent.

  “You remember my son?” Stephen said, beckoning his youngest forward to greet the Fleming. “Eustace is here, too, and will be right glad to see you. He always did think you walked on water, Will!”

  Ypres was trying in vain to warm his hands over the brazier. “Eustace is in England?” he asked, surprised. “I heard he’d crossed over to France again.”

  “He did, but he came back as soon as he got word that Henry Fitz Empress had sailed from Barfleur.”

  “So it is true then? Maude’s son has come in answer to the Wallingford garrison’s plea? I was not sure if the rumors could be trusted.”

  “It has been my experience,” Stephen said wryly, “that rumors and falsehoods are kin more often than not. But this time they speak true, Will.”

  “Well,” Ypres said after a brief silence, “the lad does not lack for backbone, does he?”

  “He comes by it honestly,” Stephen said generously, “for I’ve known few men who could match Maude’s grit. But grit alone is not enough, as her son is about to learn. All his strongholds are in the west, which means he’ll have to make a long and dangerous march clear across England, in the midst of winter, through shires hostile to him, whilst lugging along food for his army, since he’ll not be able to live off the land. And if and when he does reach Wallingford, I’ll be waiting for him. God Willing, I’ll be able to end this accursed war at last.”

  There’d been a time when Stephen would have sounded jubilant in predicting victory. Now, he just sounded tired. “God Willing,” Ypres echoed, knowing that they were both thinking of Matilda, cheated of what she’d most wanted—to see peace finally come to her husband’s realm.

  Stephen tilted his head, listening, and then rose. “I’ll be back,” he announced, and ducked under the tent flap. Riders were dismounting, stumbling toward the closest fire. “I thought I heard your voice,” Stephen said, moving toward his eldest son. “You found nothing out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing. We circled the entire camp, spoke with all the sentries. They’re as edgy as bridal-night virgins, flinching at shadows, as if they expect Fitz Empress to come charging over the hill at any moment.”

  “It’ll get worse ere it gets better. Come back with me to the tent. You’ll not believe who rode into camp this afternoon—none other than Will de Ypres!”

  Stephen was startled by the look that crossed his son’s face, one of dismay. “Eustace? I thought you’d be pleased. You always seemed so fond of him?”

  Eustace shrugged. How could he explain that he was loath to see Ypres for that very reason, because the man had once loomed so large in his life? It was painful to see what he’d been reduced to, this man who’d once been feared by so many. It was like looking upon a lamed stallion, able only to hobble about when once it could race the wind. He glanced at his father’s puzzled face, then away, fumbling for an excuse to avoid the Fleming. But then he heard the shouting.

  Stephen heard it, too, and felt a sudden unease. A lone rider was coming in, much too fast.

  WITHIN the tent, Ypres found himself alone with Stephen’s younger son. The Fleming had never had any dealings with Will, whose childhood had coincided with Ypres’s tenure as the king’s mainstay, the queen’s confidant. Doing some mental math, he concluded that Will was nigh on nineteen, although he seemed younger, untested. Ypres had heard it said that he’d inherited a goodly measure of Stephen’s affability. He hoped the lad had gotten some of Matilda’s mettle, too.

  “May I ask you something?” Will spoke up suddenly, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Can you see anything at all?”

  The question was oddly childlike, direct and without artifice, and Ypres answered in kind. “In one eye, nothing. In the other, I can still distinguish light and shadow…for now.”

  Will nodded solemnly. But then he stiffened. “Did you hear that yelling? I’d best find out what it’s about.”

  Straining to hear, Ypres could make out only a babble of rising voices. Once he would have been in the midst of the action. Now he must wait until someone remembered to return and tell him what was happening. It felt at times as if the very center of his world had become hollow, and try as he might to fill it with faith, the emptiness lingered. He was not sure why his faith was not enough, although he suspected that it was because it had come to him so late in life. If he were God, he’d look askance, too, at deathbed conversions. No matter what the priests might tell him, piety must lose some of its lustre when it was not altogether voluntary.

  It was Will who eventually brought Ypres the news that had set the camp in such an uproar. “Malmesbury Castle is under siege,” he reported breathlessly. “The castellan sent my father an urgent plea for aid, saying the town has fallen to Henry Fitz Empress, and the castle is like to fall, too, unless the king comes to their rescue.”

  Ypres showed no surprise; he’d been half expecting something like this. “I see,” he said laconically, and Will looked at him in bemusement.

  “Well, I do not,” the youth admitted. “It sounds to me like Papa and the others are going to abandon the siege, and I do not understand why. I thought Wallingford mattered!”

  “It does. Its fall would be a severe blow to the Angevins. The trouble is, lad, that Malmesbury’s fall would be a great setback, too—for us. It is the only royal stronghold of note left to Stephen in the west. Losing it would hurt us fully as much as Wallingford’s loss would hurt Henry Fitz Empress.”

  Will frowned. “Well…would not the loss of the one offset the other? We take Wallingford, let them take Malmesbury…check and mate.”

  “Unfortunately, it is not that simple. You see, the king cannot afford to ignore a challenge to his authority, lest others see that as weakness. If he did, he’d risk losing more than Malmesbury.”

  “But that is not fair! If Henry makes Papa come to him, we’ll forfeit all the advantages we would have had at Wallingford.” When Ypres nodded, Will edged closer.

  “My lord Ypres…do you think my father is a good battle commander?”

  “Indeed he is,” Ypres agreed, reassuring Will by how readily he answered. “He is one of the best I’ve seen.” Leaving unsaid his private conviction that if Stephen were not, his kingship would never have survived this long, given how inept he’d proved to be at statecraft.

  Will hesitated. “What of Henry Fitz Empress? Is he a good battle commander, too?”

  “Yes, lad,” Ypres said grimly. “It is beginning to look as if he is.”

  DESPITE the wet, frigid weather and the washed-out roads, Stephen responded to Malmesbury’s peril with commendable speed. Accompanied by those barons still loyal to him, he approached Malmesbury from the north, along the Cirencester Road. His scouts had warned Stephen that the River Avon was running high, but by the time his army made camp, darkness had fallen over the frozen Wiltshire countryside, and it was not until the morning that he discovered the full extent of the flooding.

  The February dawn was storm-darkened, sleet and gusting winds assailing the king’s men with unrelenting ferocity as Stephen rode out to inspect the River Avon.

  The Tetbury branch of the Avon narrowed as it flowed around Malmesbury, and was usually as easily forded as any stream. Despite the warning by his scouts, Stephen was unprepared for the sight that now met his eyes. The heavy rains had transformed the placid Avon into a churning cauldron, wide and deep and dangerous. Spilling over its banks, it swallowed up adjoining fields, sweeping uprooted trees along on its current as if the
y were twigs. Occasionally the men glimpsed a half-submerged body: drowned rabbits and badgers, an exhausted, foundering deer, a dog’s bloated corpse.

  Stephen reined in his stallion, gazing out upon the floodwaters with consternation. Beside him, he heard men cursing. The wind was stinging, iced with sleet, and they soon turned back toward their camp.

  FORTUNATELY, the wind muffled the sounds of altercation coming from Stephen’s tent, for he would not have wanted this dissension to be overheard by his soldiers. He was stunned by the resistance he was encountering; it had never occurred to him that he might have to battle Henry Fitz Empress, Nature’s fury, and his own barons, too.

  But that was proving to be the case. Led by Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, they were arguing against launching an attack upon Malmesbury. The Earls of Derby and Arundel were most vocal in Beaumont’s support, but the Earls of Oxford and Warwick were murmuring muted agreement, too. Only Eustace and the Earl of Northampton showed any zeal for the upcoming battle. William de Martel and Stephen’s younger son took no active part in the discussion; they would do whatever Stephen willed. And in the shadows, William de Ypres listened in silence to the discord swirling about him.

  “It would be folly to attempt an assault upon Malmesbury under these circumstances,” Robert Beaumont insisted calmly. He had none of his twin’s flamboyance, had always been overshadowed by Waleran, and had seemed content that it was so. But in the years since Waleran’s self-imposed exile from England, Robert had come into his own, and his sober, reasoned argument was falling on receptive ears.

  Sensing that, Eustace focused his energies and his anger upon Beaumont, saying scornfully, “Just why do you think we marched on Malmesbury, my lord? To admire the winter countryside?”