When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  WHEN the Bishop of Winchester and the Earl of Arundel were ushered into William de Ypres’s tent, he dismissed his attendants so they could confer in private. Not that there were any secrets left to guard; there was not a man in the camp still unaware of what had happened that afternoon. Stephen had been thrown from his horse, not just once, but three times in succession. As Stephen was known to be a skilled rider and his mount was a well-trained and battle-seasoned stallion, those who’d witnessed the king’s mishap were at a loss to explain it—except as an ominous portent of disaster.

  What the bishop and the earl had come to tell Ypres, he already knew, for his men had been canvassing the camp for hours, seeking to gauge the level of unease. And so when the bishop said that Stephen’s odd accident had spooked his soldiers fully as much as the stallion, Ypres interrupted impatiently.

  “Let’s get to the heart of the matter. That skittish horse is not the reason why our men are balking. It is merely an excuse. The king’s men were already loath to fight for him.”

  He’d half expected the bishop to argue with him, but Stephen’s brother surprised him, showed that he could hear the truth without flinching. “What you mean,” he said, “is that they are loath to fight against Henry Fitz Empress, against the man they want as their next king.”

  And there it was, out in the open at last. His shoulders slumping, the bishop sat down wearily on Ypres’s coffer. The Earl of Arundel hovered by the tent’s entrance, fidgeting with the hilt of his sword. Ypres did not need to see his face to envision his discomfort, for he knew William d’Aubigny to be an essentially decent man, but one without imagination or initiative, caught up, like so many others, in a civil war not of his making. A war that had bled England white for far too many years. It was time to put an end to it. Ypres knew that was what Matilda would have wanted. But would she have understood that peace could not come without sacrificing her son?

  The bishop roused himself at last, glancing first at the edgy Arundel, and then at the impassive Fleming. “How are we going to convince Stephen?”

  STEPHEN had retired to his tent to nurse his bruises, puzzled and embarrassed by his stallion’s erratic behavior, but not alarmed, for it had not occurred to him that men might find dire significance in his triple fall. He was utterly unprepared, therefore, for the message his brother and William de Ypres were attempting to deliver—that there could be no battle on the morrow.

  “I dare not fight because a horse threw me?” he said incredulously. “You cannot be serious!”

  “I am hardly noted for my humor, now am I?” Bishop Henry said irritably. “Stephen, I assure you that never have I been more serious. I am going to be brutally blunt about this, for I know no other way to do it. You’ve always liked your truth and your wine sweetened, but all the sugar in Christendom could not make this easier for you to swallow. Your barons do not want to fight Henry Fitz Empress, and if you force them to follow you into the field, I very much fear you’ll have reason to regret it.”

  Stephen stared at his brother, stunned by what he was hearing. “They think I have been such a bad king?”

  For all of the bishop’s bold talk of “brutal bluntness,” he could not bring himself to give Stephen an honest answer to that question. He chose to dodge the blow, deferring to Ypres. The Fleming displayed a soldier’s skill at deflection, for he did not answer Stephen’s plaintive query, either. Instead, he said, “My liege, do you not see? You won your war against Maude. The fight is now over the succession. In the past, your barons have fought and bled and died to keep you on the throne. But they are not willing to risk death for Eustace. They fear the sort of king he would be…and in truth, so do I.”

  That was a truth, though, that Stephen could not accept. He immediately launched into an impassioned defense of his son, with such vehemence that they suspected he was attempting to quell his own inner doubts about Eustace’s fitness to rule.

  But neither the bishop nor the Fleming would relent, not with so much at stake. They took turns pointing out to Stephen just how precarious his position was. Henry enjoyed the support of the Church; the Archbishop of Canterbury was even now in his siege encampment. Unlike Stephen, he had the wholehearted support of his barons and vassals, including the Earls of Chester, Leicester, Gloucester, Hereford, Salisbury, and Cornwall. And more and more, public opinion was shifting in his favor. People had heard about the Epiphany Day prophecy. Men claimed that at Malmesbury, even the wind had been Henry’s ally. Was it surprising, then, that soldiers would react with superstitious dread when Stephen was unhorsed three times before doing battle with his rival? Need they remind him that men who expected to be defeated usually were? Need they remind him of Lincoln?

  When they’d exhausted all their other arguments, Ypres and the bishop were forced to make the most painful one of all. Men did not yet know Henry Fitz Empress all that well, but what they’d so far seen of him, they liked. They did know Eustace, and liked him not. Throughout England, he’d earned himself a reputation for courage, but also for cruelty and arrogance and vengefulness. Men might have accepted him as king had they been given no choice. But they would not fight to make him king.

  Eventually, Stephen stopped arguing with them. No matter what they said, though, he kept repeating stubbornly, “I will not betray my son.” And nothing seemed likely to break the impasse, for Stephen’s paternal instincts were stronger than those for self-preservation.

  Surprisingly, it was the Earl of Arundel who found a solution. He and the Earl of Northampton had entered the tent in answer to the bishop’s summons; he’d hoped that Stephen would be swayed by the realization that even the steadfast Northampton would rather negotiate than fight. But Northampton’s gruff plea had fallen on deaf ears. It was Arundel who saw what these men more clever than he had not, that Stephen would grasp at any alternative which avoided an outright repudiation of his son.

  “We are not asking you to make peace with Henry Fitz Empress, my liege. We seek only a truce, no more than that. So many lives have already been lost. Would it not be better to talk rather than bleed—just this once? If the talks come to naught, what have we lost?”

  It was a disingenuous argument, for to seek a truce would be a damaging admission of weakness on Stephen’s part. But it offered Stephen what he so desperately needed—a reprieve, however brief, time in which to try to find a way to save his son’s kingship.

  “So be it,” he said dully. “But what makes you think Henry will agree to a truce?”

  His brother was not about to give Stephen a chance to change his mind. “Let’s find out.”

  ALTHOUGH some moments had passed since Henry had stalked out in a fury, the impact of his anger still smoldered. It was the first time that most of the men had seen Henry’s temper at full blaze, and they’d found it to be a sobering sight. Only the Earl of Chester was impervious to the heat, for he’d been on the safe side of the fire; like Henry, he’d wanted to scorn the offer of a truce and seek a battlefield resolution. But the others had all counseled caution, urging Henry to agree to the truce and enter into negotiations, arguing that there’d been enough killing. Unable to make any inroads or win any converts, Henry finally lost patience and departed, leaving behind dismay and disquiet.

  When Henry’s cousin Will suggested tentatively that one of them must follow after Henry and make him see reason, there were murmurings of agreement, but no volunteers. “I will talk to him,” the Archbishop of Canterbury said resolutely, feeling it was only fair, for no one had pressed Henry harder to make peace than he.

  “Nay, my lord archbishop, let my brother go.” Rainald nudged Ranulf with his elbow, then winked. “We can spare him easier than you!”

  Ranulf jabbed back, but he did not object to being offered up as a sacrificial lamb, for he knew his nephew better than that. “I’ll go,” he agreed, “but not yet. It’ll be better if he comes around on his own to our way of thinking.”

  The archbishop looked suddenly hopeful. “Are you so sure that h
e will?”

  “Yes,” Ranulf said, “I am. You see, our future king has a hot temper but a cool head!”

  When he did seek Henry out later, he found his confidence had not been misplaced. Henry was inspecting a partially constructed belfry tower, intended to be used in the assault upon Crowmarsh’s outer walls; work upon it had been suspended at the approach of Stephen’s army. From the way Henry was bantering with the soldiers, it was clear to Ranulf that the crisis was past. “Do I need a white flag?”

  Henry shook his head. “Did you all draw lots to see which one got to soothe my ruffled feathers?”

  “I insisted upon the honour. You know I’ve always been a glutton for punishment,” Ranulf said, and fell in step beside his nephew, following Henry away from the belfry, out of earshot of the soldiers.

  “Can you understand, Uncle Ranulf, why I wanted to fight?”

  “Of course I can. If you defeat Stephen on the field of battle, the crown is yours for the taking—here and now. No concessions, no compromises, no waiting. But a lot more blood.”

  “You’re supposed to twist my arm,” Henry objected, “not break it. I know we must accept their offer of a truce. I am not convinced that I can bargain for the crown instead of fighting for it, but at least we have to try.”

  “I was sure that you’d agree,” Ranulf admitted, “but I am right glad to hear you say so, lad!”

  “With the Church and common sense on your side, what else could I do?” Henry smiled tightly, without much humor. “Uncle…you know Stephen as well as any man alive. Do you truly think he will agree to disinherit his son?”

  “Not willingly, no. But he cannot fight you and his brother and barons, too. It may take a while, but I think he’ll eventually be forced to it.”

  “I would never agree,” Henry said, thinking of his unborn child. In less than a fortnight, Eleanor’s lying-in would begin. But not only could he not be with her, he’d have to wait weeks to find out if she’d borne him a son, if she and the babe were well. More women died in childbed than men did on the battlefield. Eleanor was strong and healthy, but so was his mother, and she’d almost died giving birth to Geoff. Frustrated and thwarted, compelled to do what he most hated in all the word—wait—he swore suddenly, with feeling.

  “I tell you this, Uncle, that I’d pawn my soul to the Devil for a chance to shed blood on the morrow, provided that it was Eustace’s. Nor would I be loath to see some of Stephen’s spilled, too. But it seems it is not to be…not yet.”

  Ranulf sympathized, for he knew that his sister and nephew saw this bloody and ruinous civil war in stark and simple terms—as evil that had sprouted from one poisonous seed, the usurpation of their crown. To others, it might matter that Stephen had been consecrated as England’s king, anointed with the sacred chrism that forever set a king apart from other men. That alone was enough to make some reluctant to see him deposed. But to Henry, it counted for nothing, as a fraud born of a theft. The urge to avenge his mother’s wrongs raced in tandem with his own mettlesome ambitions, and it could not be easy to rein in either of them. Ranulf felt enormously proud of his nephew now, that he was willing to try.

  “No more talk about pawning souls, though,” he joked, “not in the archbishop’s hearing, anyway. You do not want to remind him that the Devil’s daughter roosts in a branch of your family tree, do you?” That got a grin from Henry, and Ranulf reached out, clouting the man fondly on the shoulder. “You are twenty and Stephen fifty-seven. Time is your ally, Harry, not his. And as unhappy as you are with this truce, just think how Eustace must feel!”

  “EUSTACE, wait! Stay and hear me out. It is true that I agreed to ask for a truce, but only because they gave me no choice. I have no intention, though, of bargaining with Maude’s son, that I swear to you, lad, upon your sweet mother’s soul!”

  “Do not besmirch Mama’s memory with your lies!” Eustace was drunk on despair; the very ground seemed to be shifting under his feet and all he had to hold on to was his rage. “You betrayed me, admit it! I know you mean to make a deal with that Angevin hellspawn! But what sort of man would disown his own son?”

  “Will you listen to me? I agreed to a truce, nothing more! I would never betray you. Our men have lost heart for further fighting, but we can remedy that. Together, we can find a way, Eustace, to restore their faith in you. But you must trust me, for I cannot do it alone—”

  “Trust you? What a sour joke that is! You’d give your last coin to a beggar by the roadside, even if it meant your own would starve! By the time Maude’s accursed son is done with you, you’ll be plucked clean and thanking him for leaving you a chamber pot to piss in, old man! But you’ll not barter away my birthright, by all that’s holy, you will not! I’ll see you both in Hell first!”

  Stephen caught his arm as he swung away, but Eustace jerked free, and within moments, he’d disappeared into the darkness beyond Stephen’s tent. Badly shaken, Stephen deemed it best not to follow; they both needed time to calm down before their healing could begin. It was a sensible decision, but one he would soon come to lament. For in the morning, he discovered that Eustace was gone. He had ridden off in the night, leaving Stephen with an anguished regret, that his son’s last words to him had been a curse.

  THE Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester negotiated a fortnight’s truce, under terms beneficial to Henry. Stephen and Henry agreed to lift the sieges of Wallingford and Crowmarsh. Stephen also consented to raze his castle at Crowmarsh, and Henry permitted its eighty-man garrison to march out, unharmed. But the preliminary efforts to end the war by mediation did not progress well. Eustace cast a long shadow.

  Eustace soon made his presence felt in a far more ominous way. Gathering a large band of mercenaries, he rode north into Cambridgeshire, and began to pillage and rob. Whether he was simply venting his own fury and frustration or seeking to bait Henry into coming after him, no one knew for certain, possibly not even Eustace himself. But the skies over Cambridgeshire were once again darkening with smoke, as in the wretched days when Geoffrey de Mandeville had rampaged through that unhappy shire.

  THE monks of Bury St Edmunds knew that Eustace’s army was on the prowl and getting closer, for panicked refugees had been streaming into the monastery for days. Abbot Ording continued to hope, though, that his abbey would be spared, for St Edmund’s tomb was England’s most sacred shrine. Surely the king’s son would not allow his brutal hirelings to desecrate such holy ground? He’d held to that hope right up to the moment that a terrified lay brother stumbled into the Chapter House, crying out that Eustace’s men had been sighted on the Cantebrigge Road, heading for their abbey.

  When Eustace rode into the abbey precincts, he found Abbot Ording waiting for him. Flanked by his prior and hospitaller, with the other brothers huddled a few steps behind, the abbot sought to ward off disaster with a wan welcoming smile. They were indeed honoured, he said, to have the Count of Boulogne as their guest again, and he’d already given orders to prepare his own quarters for the count’s comfort, just as he’d done at the count’s visit last year with his lord father, the king. Their cook was busy making a dinner sure to be to the count’s liking: fresh pike from their fish pond and a special delicacy, rabbit stew.

  Eustace seemed taken aback, and the abbot prayed that their feeble defense—hospitality—would hold. Was it too much to hope for, that if Eustace was treated as a guest, he’d act like one? But this Eustace bore little resemblance to the privileged, unhappy youth the abbot remembered. Unkempt and almost gaunt, blue eyes bloodshot and suspicious, this was no pampered king’s son. The abbot had seen men like this before, men haunted and hunted, some of them brigands and bandits, others merely victims of bad luck, but all of them with nothing left to lose.

  “Thank you, my lord abbot. I would be pleased to dine with you and your brethren.” But if Eustace had been surprised into civility, he had not been dissuaded from his purpose. “But first we have a matter of money to discuss. I am running short of funds to p
ay my troops. I am sure, though, that I can rely upon the generosity of your abbey.” He named a sum, then, that caused the monks to gasp.

  The abbot had gone ashen. “My lord, that…that is a vast amount of money!”

  Eustace smiled, chillingly. “You are too modest, my lord abbot. So prosperous an abbey could easily spare that much. In fact, I’d say it was a bargain, indeed, in view of what you’d be gaining—the favor of a future king.”

  “My lord count, I swear that you’ve been misled. Even if our revenues were twice what they are, we would not be able to raise such a sum!”

  A muscle twitched in Eustace’s cheek and his smile became a grimace. “Think you that I am some green, callow stripling, to be put off with soft words and honeyed lies? All know that you Black Monks have even more money than the Jews!”

  “I entreat you—” the abbot began hoarsely, but his prior could no longer keep silent. Well past sixty, too old to be intimidated, he glowered at this intruder in their midst, his high, reedy voice cracking with indignation, not fear.

  “There can be no greater crime than to steal from Almighty God. Look to your immortal soul, son of Stephen, ere it is too late!”

  The prior might have lacked the majestic presence of an Abbot Bernard, but he did make an impressive sight, tonsured silver hair streaming down onto the somber black cowl of the Benedictine order, cobalt-blue eyes aiming at Eustace like arrows, a clenched fist upraised as if to invoke the Almighty’s intercession.

  For a brief moment, Eustace looked at the aged monk, and then he turned in the saddle, saying to his men, “Take whatever we need, whatever you want.”

  At first, the monks offered no resistance, watching in appalled silence as Eustace’s soldiers plundered and despoiled their abbey. The stables were hit first, and then the storehouses. Abbot Ording’s lodgings, too, were stripped bare. The guest hall, the monks’ dorters, the kitchen and bakehouse and buttery, even the infirmary—all were ransacked.