When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Henry glanced curiously at the older man. Becket stood high in the archbishop’s favor, and with so illustrious a patron, he could have a promising career in the Church, if he wanted it. But did he? “I know you’ve been in the archbishop’s service for the past eight years. He told me that when the next opening for an archdeacon comes up, he means to appoint you. You’d have to take holy orders, first, of course. And you have not…have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Henry considered that answer, trying to understand how a man could choose of his own free will to give up so much, even for God. “I do not think I’d have made a good priest myself,” he said at last.

  “I suspect you’d have had particular trouble with the vow of chastity,” Becket said dryly, and Henry grinned.

  “I probably would not have done so well with the obedience vow, either,” he conceded. “Fortunately, the qualifications are less stringent for kings.”

  Becket grinned, too. “I understand it helps,” he said slyly, “if a king does not fall off his horse.”

  Henry had heard, of course, of Stephen’s balky stallion. “At least not three times in a row,” he laughed, and then grabbed for Becket, pulling the other man aside just as several of the racers galloped past, spraying mud in all directions.

  Henry’s quick action had saved Becket from a thorough dousing, but the hem of his mantle had still gotten splattered. He frowned at the splotched wool, then gazed after the riders, shaking his head in disapproval. “What a pity,” he said, “that some men make such poor use of the wits God gave them.” And then, “Jesú!” for as they watched, one of the horses slipped in the mud, scrabbled futilely to retain its footing, and went down.

  Henry had not seen the rider. It was not until he heard Stephen’s anguished cry that he realized it was Will. With Becket a stride or two behind, he hastened toward the fallen stallion. But Stephen got there first, made fleet by his fear. Will was pinned under the horse, and it took several men to pull him free. The hapless stallion was beyond help, doomed by a shattered foreleg, thrashing about in terror until a soldier mercifully put an end to its suffering.

  At first sight, the king’s son did not seem likely to survive his stallion. Will’s face was blanched under a coating of mud, his flaxen hair darkening with blood. His mouth was contorted, blue eyes clouded with fear and pain, and he plucked frantically at Stephen’s sleeve as his father bent over him. “It hurts so…,” he moaned, and Stephen found himself thrust back in time to an August night, hot and humid, watching in horror as Eustace choked to death. Merciful God, not again!

  “Papa…” Will clung to Stephen’s hand as if his father alone could save him. “Do not let me die…”

  “You are not dying, Will,” Stephen promised recklessly. “I swear you are not!”

  But Will did not believe him. “I’ve sinned,” he sobbed, “but I am sorry. Do not let me be damned…”

  Shouting hoarsely for a doctor, Stephen blotted blood away as it trickled down into Will’s eyes. “Lie easy, lad,” he pleaded. “You make it worse for yourself when you move.”

  “I ought to have told you…” Will’s eyes were riveted upon his father’s face. “I did not truly think they’d do it, though. I swear I did not…”

  “I know, lad,” Stephen said soothingly, “I know. Try not to talk.”

  “I must,” the youth insisted weakly, “lest I die ere I am shriven of my sin.” Sweat beaded his forehead, his upper lip. “Murder,” he whispered. “The Flemings…they mean to kill him…”

  “Kill him?” Stephen repeated numbly. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Flemings…” Will’s voice faltered. “They spoke of killing Maude’s son…”

  “Christ Jesus…” Stephen raised his head, appalled by what he’d just heard, only to see Henry standing behind him, so close that he must have heard, too.

  STEPHEN had been searching all over Christ Church Priory for Henry, finally finding him in the cloisters with Thomas Becket. They fell silent as he approached, Henry’s face giving away nothing of his thoughts—or his intentions. “How is Will?” he asked politely, noncommittally.

  “God is indeed good, for the doctor says he’ll live.” Stephen told them then, about Will’s injuries: a gashed forehead, cracked ribs, and the most serious, a broken thigh bone. His convalescence would be a lengthy one, but he would heal in time. Henry and Becket wished Will a quick recovery, a response dictated by courtesy, not telling Stephen what he needed to know. He’d considered saying nothing, gambling on the off chance that Henry might have missed Will’s mumbled confession. But as his eyes met Henry’s, Stephen realized how foolish that would have been; Maude’s son was not one to be bluffed.

  “Once I was sure that Will’s life was not in danger, I asked him about the Flemings. One of his men speaks Flemish, and he’d overheard some of the Flemish hirelings talking in a Dover alehouse. They were sorely vexed about the peace terms, angry at being cast out of England, and blaming you for their plight, Harry. Will’s servant told him that they were saying it would be for the best if you had a ‘mishap’ of some sort. But Will swears he did not take it seriously. He dismissed it as drunken maunderings, and that is why he said nothing. If he’d believed you to be in real danger, he’d have spoken up straightaway.”

  Stephen sounded earnest, yet uneasy, too. Henry did not doubt his sincerity; he believed in his son. And it could have happened just as Will claimed, for he’d struck Henry as an amiable mediocrity. But even a capon might envy the cock; who was to say?

  “I daresay you are right, Cousin. The foolish babbling of men in their cups. It is not surprising that Will acted as he did.”

  Stephen’s relief was palpable. “I am gladdened that you understand, Harry. It would have been a great pity had Will’s name been tarnished by alehouse gossip. You have no reason to doubt my son’s good faith, that I swear to you.”

  “You need not fret, Cousin, for I’ve taken Will’s measure.”

  Stephen smiled. “Well, I’d best get back. The doctor gave Will a potion for his pain, but I want to be there when he awakens. Archbishop Theobald was kind enough to put Will up in his own lodgings. If you could find time to stop by later, I know it would mean much to Will…?”

  Henry promised that he would, and Stephen was soon striding off buoyantly, intent upon thanking the Almighty for sparing his youngest son. Henry and Becket waited until he’d disappeared into a side door of the cathedral. Only then did they turn away, continuing along the cloister path.

  “I hope you plan to watch your back,” Becket said quietly. “I’ve been told that few knives are sharper than a Fleming’s blade.”

  “So I’ve heard, too.” Henry’s smile held an edge of its own. “You asked,” he said, “when I’d be returning to Normandy. I think the time has come. I would not want to overstay my welcome, after all.”

  ON the morning after Henry’s return to Angers, Eleanor awoke with a languorous sense of well-being, which lasted until she realized that she was alone. Sitting up, she brushed her hair out of her eyes. Could Harry not have lingered in bed just this once? No wonder his enemies claimed his energy was demonic. Her clothing lay strewn about the chamber, and the sight brought a soft smile to her lips as she remembered their urgency to reach the bed. Her husband’s scabbard had been hung over a chair and was still there, so at least he was somewhere in the castle. With a sigh, she reached for her bed-robe.

  Opening the shutters, Eleanor stood at the window, breathing in the mild April air. She’d selected one of her favorite gowns, a rich wine-red, and she was about to summon Yolande to help her dress when she heard an odd thumping sound out in the stairwell. She opened the door just in time to admit Henry. He had their son slung over his shoulder and was guiding two servants up the stairs as they struggled with a large, unwieldy burden: a carved oaken cradle.

  “I thought the tadpole might like to swim in our pond for a while.” Henry gestured toward the hearth as the men dragged the cradle acros
s the threshold. “Put it over there.”

  “Harry, you’re holding that child like a sack of flour.”

  “He does not mind,” Henry insisted, and as he turned, Eleanor saw that Will did seem content. Now in his eighth month, he was such a placid, cheerful baby that Eleanor sometimes joked he must be a changeling, and he appeared to have taken in stride being awakened and carried off by a man who was a stranger to him.

  After the servants had departed, Henry settled his son in the cradle, rocking it back and forth as Will yawned and then began to suck contentedly upon a rattle. When Eleanor joined them, the little boy gurgled happily at sight of her and reached up to snatch at the long tresses tumbling over her shoulder. Evading his grasp, she kissed the crown of his head. “I still find myself marveling at those golden curls of his,” she confided, “for Marie and Alix both have dark hair like mine.”

  “Ought he to be putting that rattle into his mouth?”

  “He is teething, Harry. When his discomfort gets too bad, we rub honey on his gums or give him a liquorice root to suck on.” Retrieving her brush, Eleanor retreated to the bed. “Do you intend to keep Will in here with us? I doubt that will work out very well.”

  “Why not? The lad and I have a lot of catching up to do.” Henry was continuing to rock the cradle and Eleanor had to restrain herself from warning that he’d make Will seasick if he did not ease up. His first efforts at fatherhood might be heavy-handed, but she did not want to discourage him. She was pleased that he was so taken with their son, for too many men treated the nursery as alien territory.

  Henry was laughing, for Will was now trying energetically to capture his feet. “Trust me, Will, even if you somehow got those into your mouth, toes do not taste good. He squirms about like an eel, Eleanor. Is he always this lively?”

  “Ever since we took off the swaddling.”

  “I’ve seen babies swaddled. They look like little caterpillar cocoons. Surely they do not enjoy being wrapped up that way?”

  “I never thought about it,” Eleanor admitted. “But it is for their own good, for it keeps them warm and safe.” Henry was leaning over the cradle again, tickling Will and making him squeal with glee. Eleanor watched, smiling. “I hope you’ll be such an attentive father for our other children,” she teased. “A soothsayer told me that we’d have a baker’s dozen ere we’re done, so you’d best gird your loins!”

  “For you, anytime.” But his smile was fleeting. He looked down at Will, then back at Eleanor, grey eyes guarded. “There is something you need to know. I have another son.”

  Her brush halted in mid-stroke. “Do you, indeed? Do not keep me in suspense, Harry. The ‘why’ is rather obvious. But what of the ‘when’ and ‘where’ of it?”

  “He was born last December, in London. I named him Geoffrey.” Henry was annoyed to hear himself adding needlessly, “After my father.” But he was not as confident as he sought to appear, for he was not sure how Eleanor would react. She was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever met, and while that was a great part of her charm, there were times—like now—when he’d have welcomed a fire that gave off a little less heat.

  “You intend to recognize him as your own?”

  “He is mine, Eleanor. How could I turn away from him?”

  “And the mother?”

  “She meant nothing to me. If she’d not gotten with child, I’d have long since forgotten her name.”

  It was an unchivalrous answer, but the one Eleanor wanted to hear. “Well, then,” she said, “I suppose I should offer my congratulations.”

  He did not respond at once, searching her face for sarcasm. “You truly mean that, Eleanor?”

  “Why not? I do not begrudge you your joy in this child, and I would not attempt to talk you into shirking your obligations to him. It is all too easy for men to walk away afterward. I find it rather refreshing, Harry, that you did not.”

  He was quiet for a moment, marveling. “You never fail to surprise me. It does not vex you that I bedded another woman?”

  “More than one, I’d wager,” she said, with a sardonic smile. “It is not as if this comes as any surprise. You were gone nigh on sixteen months, after all. I’d not have expected you to refrain from eating until you could get home to dine with me, so why would I expect you to abstain from other hungers?” She shrugged significantly, then reclined back against the pillows, letting her bed-robe slip open enough to reveal a glimpse of thigh. “It goes without saying, though, that your dining out had best be done at a distance, Harry.”

  Henry grinned. “You need not worry about that, love. Given a choice, I’d eat all my meals at home!” As he moved away from the cradle, Will whimpered in protest, but he didn’t notice; at the moment, his wife was claiming all of his attention. “You are the most amazing woman, Eleanor. I have to admit that I was not expecting you to be so understanding.”

  “I’ve always understood men,” she said blandly, “and I’ve always tried to be tolerant of their failings. I’d like to think that you’d be as tolerant, too, Harry…should the need ever arise.”

  He stopped abruptly, halfway to the bed. “If you’re suggesting…”

  “You sound upset. Why is that?”

  “Infidelity is not the same sin for men and women,” he said tautly, “for it puts a child’s paternity into question. You’re clever enough to realize that, Eleanor, to know—”

  He cut himself off in midsentence, and she said encouragingly, “Know what? Do go on, Harry.”

  By now, though, he’d caught on. But mixed in with his relief was a genuine anger, for he was not accustomed to being laughed at. “Damn you,” he said softly, and her eyebrows arched upward in feigned surprise.

  “Why, Harry,” she murmured, “are you trying to seduce me again?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched in involuntary amusement. “What would you have me say, Eleanor? That I am sorry?”

  She shook her head impatiently. “I do not care if you tumbled an English harlot, Harry. I am not about to get jealous because you scratched an itch—as long as that is all it was.”

  He thought he saw now where he’d erred. Crossing to the bed, he threw the covers back, seating himself beside her. “If I said I’d never stray, I’d be lying, and we both know it. But you have my heart, not to mention my crown. Surely that matters more than an occasional trespass?”

  “A crown, you say?” She pretended to ponder it, and then reached out, inviting his embrace. As her arms slid up around his neck, she kissed him with incendiary effect. Finally getting his breath back, he murmured against her throat,

  “That kiss was hot enough to leave a brand. If that is indeed what you intend, you might want to aim somewhat lower.”

  She laughed and drew him deeper into the bed. But as he started to strip off her robe, she caught his hand in hers. “Promise me that you’ll remember what I am about to tell you, Harry. Whenever you’re tempted to ‘trespass’ in the future, just bear in mind that I am willing to be reasonable—but not saintly.”

  “I’ll promise anything on earth, love, if it’ll keep you from ever getting saintly.” After that, they did not talk, concentrating upon ridding him of his clothes. They were making progress when an indignant wailing blared from the cradle. His face red, mouth puckered, and eyes tearing, their small son was venting his outrage at being ignored, loudly and persistently.

  Henry shot up in the bed. “Christ Almighty, is all that noise coming from him?”

  “I did warn you,” Eleanor said, beginning to laugh, “that having Will sleep with us might not be one of your better ideas. Welcome to fatherhood, Harry!”

  SOON after his return from England, Henry found himself forced to deal with some of Eleanor’s rebellious barons. This he did with such dispatch that by the end of June, he was able to take his wife and son to Rouen for their first meeting with his mother.

  HENRY was unable to sit still; he kept getting up and prowling aimlessly about the chamber, all the while keeping a wary eye up
on the women in his life. They were making polite conversation, seemingly at ease, but he could not enjoy the lull, constantly scanning the skies for approaching clouds. The only one more obviously uncomfortable than Henry was his brother Geoff; he was slouched down in his seat, twitching nervously every time his mother glanced his way. Will at last took pity upon them both and suggested that they adjourn to the stables to see his new roan stallion. His brothers accepted his offer with alacrity, and retreated in unseemly haste.

  Watching them go, Eleanor shook her head. “Men are not usually so squeamish about bloodshed.”

  Maude blinked, looking at Eleanor so blankly that she wondered if she’d made a mistake. But then the older woman smiled. “Men do not know nearly as much about women as they think. Geoffrey was sure that I’d not approve of you, but I’d hoped that Henry would have more sense.”

  Eleanor had decided beforehand that honesty was the only weapon likely to penetrate her mother-in-law’s defenses. “It just matters so much to Harry that we get along. I’ll admit that I was somewhat uneasy myself about this meeting. If you believed even half of what’s been said of me, you’d have good reason to fear for Harry’s immortal soul!”

  “Gossip,” Maude said dismissively. “The world is full of mud, and unfortunately there is no shortage of people eager to splatter it about, with women the targets of choice. You need not have fretted about your reception, Eleanor. I can think of at least three compelling reasons why I should want to welcome you into my family. The first and foremost one is sitting on your lap,” she said, gesturing toward Will, balancing on Eleanor’s knee.

  “Would you like to hold him?” Eleanor suggested, and Will switched laps with aplomb. “And the other reasons?”

  “You make my son happy. And then of course,” Maude said with a faint smile, “there is Aquitaine.”

  Eleanor returned the smile. “I appreciate your candor. As it happens, there is a fourth reason, too. We were not going to say anything until I could be certain, but I’d like you to know. I may be pregnant again.”