When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Dismounting, he swore lustily as he stepped down into a widening puddle; the churchyard was fast becoming a sea of mud. “My lord duke, I have a message for you. One of the monks was coming to find you, and I told him I’d pass the word on. A courier has ridden into the priory with a letter for your eyes only.”

  “From Aquitaine?”

  While many of Henry’s men knew how anxiously he was awaiting word from his wife, this particular one did not even know Eleanor was pregnant. Surprised by the urgency in Henry’s voice, he nodded, and then stood, gaping, as Henry snatched the reins from his hand, vaulted up into the saddle, and galloped off on his horse.

  By the time Ranulf and Roger got to their own horses and followed, Henry was out of sight. They spurred their mounts along High Street, on toward the priory, arriving onto a scene of jubilation. Henry was standing in the guest hall, surrounded by Abbot Thorald’s smiling monks. As soon as he saw Ranulf, he broke away from his well-wishers, strode across the hall, and gave his uncle a wet, joyful hug. “Eleanor has borne me a son!”

  It took a while for a semblance of calm to return to the hall, and Ranulf had to wait to learn that Eleanor was in good health, that the baby had his father’s bright hair, and that she’d christened him William.

  “She claims she named him after my great-grandfather, William the Bastard,” Henry chortled, “but I know damned well she really had her father and her beloved ‘Grandpapa Will’ in mind. I guess I can count myself lucky she did not name the lad after another one of her illustrious ancestors—Charlemagne!”

  “I am gladdened for you, Harry,” Ranulf said, experiencing a sudden longing for his own small son, Gilbert. “Eleanor has given you a great gift, indeed.”

  Roger agreed, although he could not keep from pointing out the political benefits of this birth. “Stephen lost a son, you gained one. The contrast will not escape people, that your fortunes are rising as Stephen’s are plummeting.”

  “Especially once they learn that my son was born on a Monday eve, two days after the Assumption,” Henry said, and nodded as they stared at him in amazement. He was no longer smiling, for that was so uncanny a juxtaposition of life and death, hope and doom, that there could be no joking about it. “On the same day that Eustace was dying at Ipswich, Eleanor was giving birth to William.”

  IT took another two months of negotiations to end the war, but an end did come, due in great measure to the patient and persistent mediation of the Church. The eventual agreement was a compromise in the truest sense of the word, in that no one was fully satisfied. Stephen acknowledged Henry’s hereditary right to the English crown, and agreed to accept Henry as his “son and heir.” Henry, in his turn, conceded that Stephen should continue as king for the remainder of his life. Stephen’s surviving son, William, was to receive all those lands and titles that Stephen had held prior to his kingship, and Henry agreed to recognize him as Count of Boulogne and Mortain and Earl of Surrey; as his young Warenne wife was a great heiress in her own right, William would emerge from the peace conference as the richest lord in England, his wealth eclipsed only by that of the king.

  The other provisions of the agreement were aimed at implementing it. The Tower of London and the castles of Windsor, Oxford, Lincoln, and Winchester were to be entrusted to castellans acceptable to both sides. Solemn oaths were to be exchanged to uphold the pact, Henry was to do homage to Stephen, and their barons would then do homage to him as England’s future king. The men disinherited by the war were to have their lands restored. Foreign mercenaries were to be expelled, and castles constructed since the death of the old king were to be razed. Lastly, Stephen agreed to consult with Henry in the governance of the realm, although it was deliberately left vague as to how that would work out in practice, for no one truly knew; they were breaking new ground.

  On November 6th, 1153, almost eighteen years after Stephen had claimed Maude’s crown, he met with her son at Winchester, the city that had suffered more than any other during those desolate, blighted years when it was believed that Christ and all his saints slept. They agreed to the terms hammered out by their go-betweens, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester. Although a formal treaty still had to be concluded in December, the people of England at last dared to hope that peace was within reach.

  RANULF found it unsettling at first to be back at Winchester. More than twelve years had passed since their catastrophic rout, and while much of the city had been rebuilt, there were still scars of the siege and fire to be found, most of them on the souls of its citizens. His return stirred up memories Ranulf would rather not have relived, yet upon reflection, it seemed appropriate to him that the healing should begin here.

  The gathering in the great hall of the castle was an odd experience, too, for him: fraternizing with men he’d have been crossing swords with had they met on the battlefield. As he watched the awkward interaction, it was obvious that he was not the only one unsure of his footing. There were a few satisfied faces to be found. The Archbishop of Canterbury and Stephen’s brother were basking in their success as peacemakers. But most of those present looked more wary than joyful. It would be a slippery road ahead, for certes, but God Willing, not a bloody one.

  Across the hall, Stephen was mingling with men who’d done their utmost to dethrone him. He was making a gallant attempt to be cordial, with better success than most. But then, he’d never been one for collecting grudges; Ranulf would wager that there were few, indeed, whom Stephen would not be able to forgive. John Marshal. Chester. The latter’s absence was both a puzzle and a blessing. Ranulf could not imagine what might have kept Chester away from Winchester and a chance to gloat, but thank God for whatever it was; even on his best behavior, he’d have muddied the waters enough to splatter them all.

  As Stephen moved toward the hearth, his son trailed after him. He’d not let Stephen out of his sight all day, so plainly in over his depth that Ranulf felt pity flickering. Was Will wounded at being bypassed? It was true that he’d not been raised with the expectation of kingship, as Eustace had. Stephen had consoled himself with that; he’d confided as much to Ranulf earlier in the day. Ranulf wondered if Will had ever indulged in secret dreams of crowns and sceptres. Even if so, no one else seemed to have ever thought of him in regal terms. He was not like Harry.

  Glancing around then in search of his nephew, Ranulf finally located him standing alone in the shadows on the dais. This was the first time all day he’d not been mobbed, for suddenly his world was overpopulated with men eager to ingratiate themselves. Ranulf supposed it was only to be expected, for people always prized tomorrow more than yesterday. Stephen might now be guaranteed that he’d die as a king, but Henry’s favor would be courted more ardently, for he was England’s future. Whether Stephen knew it yet or not, the remainder of his reign had become a death vigil.

  Taking advantage of this rare chance to catch his nephew alone, Ranulf moved swiftly across the hall, up onto the dais. Henry was watching the activity below him with what appeared to be alert interest. But Ranulf recognized that look for what it was, a mask. “What is the matter, Harry? I know you’ve never been one for waiting…” He stopped, for Henry was shaking his head..

  “It is not that. As you said, Uncle, time is on my side, not Stephen’s.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I do think this settlement was best for England. As you also pointed out, there has been far too much bloodshed. I know it will not be easy to make this pact work, but I can rely upon the Church to stave off any double-dealing down the road. Oddly enough, I think I can rely upon Stephen’s good faith, too.” His smile came and went, almost too quick to catch. “Do not tell my mother I ever said that, though!”

  “You still have not told me what is troubling you?”

  “It just seems so…so incomplete, Uncle Ranulf, to have it end like this. This is not the resolution I’d sought, and Stephen is not the enemy I’d thought I’d find. We talked alone for the first time last night, just
the two of us. I do not know what I’d expected, but…” Henry frowned impatiently, for he was not accustomed to having such trouble expressing himself. “There was nothing to be said. I could not even hate him as I ought. You know that he has promised to treat me as his son? Well, as crazy as it sounds, it is almost as if he is starting to think of me that way, Ranulf!”

  “Not so crazy if you know Stephen,” Ranulf said. “There is an…an innocence about him, lad, and despite his blundering and the grief he’s brought upon himself and others, it still survives, like a candle that is never quite quenched. I suspect that he’d not find it hard at all to treat you as a son, Harry, for that is the world as he’d like it to be, a world where men are honourable and women comforting, where good deeds are always rewarded and debts paid and Christian kindness prevails—”

  “But his debt is not paid!” Henry interrupted, with sudden intensity. “Not to my mother!” He caught Ranulf’s arm, grey eyes flashing, as the words came rushing out, no longer measured or even voluntary. “He did her a great wrong. Not all men think so, but you must, Ranulf, for you know what he took from her, more than a crown. I’ve been fighting for the throne, but I was fighting for her, too, to make Stephen pay for all he’d stolen from her. I feel cheated now, if you want the truth. The kingship is mine, or it will be. But I could not redress her grievances, and it was not supposed to be like that!”

  “I know. Nothing on God’s earth will give Maude more pride and pleasure than seeing you as England’s king. But you are right; it is not enough. What she lost, no one could get back for her, not even you, lad. But you are wrong if you think Stephen has somehow escaped payment. He buried his wife. His son died in his arms. He could not secure the throne for his other son. And he will live out his days knowing that men judged his kingship as an abysmal failure.”

  “And one day, he may even die,” Henry said dryly, but he’d begun to sound amused. “Now that you have convinced me, Uncle, it is only fair that you get to come back with me to Rouen and convince my mother!”

  “Sorry,” Ranulf said, grinning, “but as soon as this war is finally pronounced dead and ready for burial, I’m off to Wales, so fast you will not even see my dust. And for at least a year thereafter, I am instructing my niece not to send on any messages or letters. Every time I get a letter from you, lad, I end up packing my saddlebags, sharpening my sword, and sleeping around campfires instead of snug in my wife’s bed!”

  Instead of smiling, Henry gave him a thoughtful look. “There is something I ought to tell you, for I know how fond you are of my cousin Maud. We thought it best to say nothing until this council was over. A few of us know besides me: the archbishop and Stephen and his brother and the Earl of Derby, who found out on his own, being wed to Peverel’s daughter. Everyone has been asking after Chester’s whereabouts. He is at Gresley Castle up in Derbyshire, and not likely ever to rise from his sickbed, if the accounts I’ve heard are true.”

  Ranulf whistled softly. Chester was such an elemental force that he’d seemed well-nigh invincible, if not downright immortal. “After I saw him survive a blow to the helmet that broke Stephen’s axe but left him with no more than a headache, I’d have wagered on him against Death itself,” he admitted. “As the joke goes, God would not want him and the Devil would not take him. Maud will cope; we need not fret about that. But why the secrecy? Let’s be honest; we’d have to hunt far and wide to find any mourners for Chester’s funeral. And what does Peverel have to do with this? Given how much he hates Chester, he’d like nothing better than to spit into Randolph’s open coffin, but so would half of Christendom!”

  “Spitting would not have satisfied Peverel. He had murder in mind, a poisoned wine that claimed three other lives and so sickened Chester that he is not expected to live.”

  As Ranulf stared at Henry in astonishment, another voice delivered a harsh judgment. Neither one had heard Stephen approach, and they both spun around as he said, “It would be better for England, better for us all that he does not recover. You can be sure, Cousin, that he would give you fully as much trouble as he gave me. A scorpion must sting, for that is its nature.”

  Henry had at last found some common ground with Stephen. “I daresay you are right. I gave him a very ample grant this spring, but it would not have kept him content for long. If he does indeed die, his epitaph should be that his hand, like Ishmael’s, was against every man.”

  Stephen nodded, all the while studying Henry so intently that he finally felt compelled to say coolly, “Cousin? Is there something wrong?”

  Stephen caught himself, and smiled ruefully. “I was staring at you, was I not? Do not take this amiss, but I found myself thinking how very young you are. Not in judgment or maturity, in years. Should God grant you as many winters as I have seen, twenty will seem heartrendingly young to you, too, Cousin,” he explained, and Henry could only look at him in bemusement, sure now that it had not been his imagination; Stephen was regarding him with a benevolence that was indeed paternal. He dared not meet Ranulf’s knowing eyes, lest he laugh at the absurdity of it all, that this war which had lasted for almost all of his life should end, not in bloodshed, but adoption.

  THE day was to conclude with a Mass of Reconciliation at St Swithun’s Cathedral. As Henry and Stephen emerged from the shadows of the castle barbican, they drew rein, startled, for High Street was thronged with spectators, men and women and youngsters who’d been waiting patiently in the winter cold for hours, all in hope that peace would be made. At sight of Stephen and Henry riding side by side, a vast roar went up from the crowd, so loud it could almost have been heard in Heaven.

  Henry felt his throat tighten as he looked out upon their faces, some beaming, others streaked with thankful tears. Although this was his first visit to Winchester, he felt a close kinship with its citizens, for he’d grown up on tales of their suffering and their steadfast loyalty to the Angevin cause. Their joy was as contagious as it was rapturous, and he wished passionately that his mother could have been here to witness it.

  As Henry urged his stallion forward, the noise intensified. Hats and caps were tossed into the icy air, parents lifted children so they could see, and Henry heard his name taken up as a chant by the crowd. It was only then that he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Stephen had halted for the moment, a generous gesture but also a realistic recognition that the cheers belonged to Henry.

  57

  Dover-Canterbury Road, Kent, England

  March 1154

  EARLY in Lent, Henry accompanied Stephen to Dover to meet the Count of Flanders and his wife, Henry’s paternal aunt. On this rain-sodden March Friday, they departed Dover Castle in midmorning, bound for Canterbury. They were still about five miles from the city when the archbishop’s saddle girth began to slip. A hasty examination revealed that the girth buckle was giving way and the royal cavalcade halted while the problem was corrected.

  As the delay lengthened, Henry found it increasingly difficult to hide his impatience. Stephen’s son, Will, and a few of his companions were amusing themselves by galloping their horses across a nearby meadow. Henry was half tempted to join in, but although the rain had stopped, the ground was still muddy and slick, and he was not willing to endanger his stallion just to keep boredom at bay.

  As he fidgeted by the side of the road, watching the races, he was joined by one of the archbishop’s clerks, who reported that the saddle girth was taking longer than expected to repair. When the clerk lingered after delivering his message, Henry was pleased, for he’d found Thomas Becket to be good company.

  At first glance, they seemed too unlike for friendship; Becket was more than twelve years Henry’s senior, having been born a month after the sinking of the White Ship, and they did not share the same affinity for the religious life. But what they had in common mattered more than what they did not: a keen intelligence, a love of learning, unfettered ambition, and an ironic eye for life’s incongruities. Henry thought he could find use for a man of Becket’s talents, l
ooking ahead to that day when England’s government would be his for the shaping. But whether Becket ever became a royal councilor or not, at the moment, he was a welcome diversion, and Henry was in need of one; had he been asked to describe Purgatory, he’d have said it was a place of infernal and endless waiting.

  The past few months had been busy ones for Henry and Stephen: formalizing the agreement they’d struck at Winchester, getting the barons of the realm to do homage to Henry as their future king, issuing orders to demolish those castles judged illegal, preparing to expel foreign mercenaries. Becket knew they’d not been pleasant months for Henry, filled with dawn-to-dusk activity, but not much satisfaction. It was with a touch of sympathy, therefore, that he asked, “Is it true that your uncle has gone back to Wales?”

  Henry nodded. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he reminded me that he’d not seen his wife and son for more than a year. I reminded him in turn that I’d not seen my wife for more than a year, either, and had yet to lay eyes upon my son. But he then pointed out that it was my crown, not his, and that left me with nothing to say except ‘Godspeed.’”

  “How much longer ere you can go back to Normandy?”

  “I would that I knew. Soon, I hope. Others might see me as the heir apparent, the next king. But just between you and me, Thomas, I feel more like the chief mourner at a funeral, waiting around for the ‘deceased’ to take sick. Surely I can put my time to better use than that?”

  “Some men might be content to keep a death watch,” Becket agreed, sounding amused, “but for certes, not you.”