When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “So soon? That is indeed blessed news!” Maude detached her grandson’s clutching fingers from the rosary at her belt. “No, Will, not the Pater Noster. You said that you are not sure yet, Eleanor?”

  “I’ve missed just one flux so far. But yes…yes, I am sure. Sometime in Lent, by my calculations, I hope to give Harry another son.”

  “Two pregnancies in two years of marriage, possibly two sons.” After a moment, Maude smiled, saying with satisfaction but some pity, too, “Poor Louis.”

  OCTOBER that year was an idyllic month, mild and dry, with clarion blue skies and mellowed golden sunlight. Londoners were determined to make the most of this respite before the winter freeze, and the Friday horse fair at West Smithfield had drawn a large, boisterous crowd. A race was in progress across the meadow, and most of the bargaining had been suspended so people could watch. Although neither Ranulf nor Padarn had wagered on the outcome, they found themselves cheering as loudly as the other spectators, caught up in the excitement. The winner, a rangy bay, edged out a lathered chestnut in a rousing finish that satisfied all but the chestnut’s backers. Ranulf was turning toward a piebald filly that had taken his eye when he heard his name called out behind him.

  Bearing down upon him was a ghost from his past: Fulk de Bernay, Annora and Ancel’s elder brother. Once greetings had been exchanged, Fulk clapped Ranulf heartily on the shoulder. “What are you doing in London? We’d heard that you’d gone off to live on top of a Welsh mountain.”

  Ranulf was accustomed by now to jokes about his adopted Welsh homeland, and had learned to shrug them off. “Since the peace seems to be holding, I decided this would be a good time to show England to my wife and son. We went to Chester first, collecting my niece Maud, her sons, and her mother, who happened to be visiting. We’ve been to Coventry, Woodstock, Oxford, and my father’s tomb at Reading, and for the past week, we’ve been enjoying the sights of London. From here we go on to Canterbury and then Dover to meet the king, and on our way back to Wales, we hope to stop at Bury St Edmunds to see St Edmund’s shrine.”

  Ranulf was not normally so loquacious, but the words just kept cascading out, as if of their own will. This unexpected encounter had unnerved him somewhat, stirring up memories he’d as soon forget. Fulk looked eerily like Ancel and his gleaming dark eyes could have been Annora’s. But it was reassuring that he was being so friendly, for there could be no better proof that Ancel had not shared his secret; at least Annora’s family had been spared that ultimate rupture.

  Fulk was regarding Ranulf with evident puzzlement. “It just goes to show,” he said, “how outlandish rumors can get. Do you know what we heard, Ranulf? As crazy as it sounds, that this Welsh wife of yours was blind!”

  He laughed; Ranulf did not. “Rhiannon is blind,” he said evenly, and embarrassed color flooded into Fulk’s face.

  “I…I am sorry,” he stammered. “But you said you were showing her the sights and I…I just assumed…How could she…That is…”

  Ranulf let him flounder on like that for a few moments more. He wanted to ask Fulk why he thought the blind were bereft of their other senses, too. Rhiannon was enthralled by the pealing chimes of St Paul’s Cathedral. She could hear her footsteps echoing across the marble tiles as she approached its High Altar, she who’d never known any church but the small, secluded chapel at Llanrhychwyn where they’d been wed. When he’d led her out onto London Bridge, she’d felt the life-force of the Thames, surging against the wooden pilings. And when he walked with her on the beach below Dover’s white cliffs, she would experience the sea, hearing the waves break upon the wet sand, the gulls shrieking overhead, feeling the salt spray on her face, sensing the vastness that she could not see. But he knew Fulk would never understand, and so he said only, “No offense meant, so none taken.”

  Fulk was fumbling his way out of the pit he’d dug for himself. “You said you have a son?”

  “Yes…Gilbert will be three next month.”

  Fulk smiled in surprise. “Passing strange, for Ancel named his firstborn Gilbert, too. I expect to see him at Martinmas. Shall I give him a message from you?”

  “Tell him…tell him I wish him well.” Ranulf hesitated. “How is Annora?”

  “She seems content enough. She has a little lass of her own, and Gervase still dotes upon her every whim—” Fulk caught himself, with a self-conscious laugh. “It does not bother you to hear me say that? I know you two were plight-trothed, but that was such a long time ago…?”

  “You are right,” Ranulf agreed politely. “It was a long time ago.” He started to excuse himself then, with a polite smile. “I promised my niece that I’d buy her a mare this afternoon, so I’d best get to it—”

  “Ranulf, wait. I’ve a question to put to you. I heard that Henry Fitz Empress has been taken gravely ill. Can that be true? The word in the alehouses is that he might not live. But surely that is just idle tavern talk?”

  “There is some truth in it, Fulk. My nephew was stricken with a high fever last month and was ill enough to give us all a scare. But he recovered fully and the last I heard, he was dealing with a troublesome vassal in the Vexin.”

  “Thank God,” Fulk said, with such fervor that Ranulf stared at him, for Fulk had been one of Stephen’s most steadfast supporters. It was heartening to realize that even Harry’s former foes now saw him as England’s only hope for a lasting peace.

  WHEN she awoke, Rhiannon could not at once remember where she was. “Ranulf?” She called out again, quietly, in case the others were still sleeping, for they’d been sharing their chamber for most of this trip with Olwen, Gilbert, and Gwen, his young nurse. She heard nothing, though, not even the soft sounds of breathing. By now her memory was awakening, too. They were at Canterbury, in a guest chamber of the royal castle. But where was Ranulf?

  He entered as she was fumbling for her bed-robe. “So you’re finally awake, love. You were so tired yesterday that I thought it would do you good to sleep in this morning. I’ve got breakfast here for two, and whilst we linger over it, Maud is taking Gilbert and her lads to the marketplace. With luck, we might actually have an entire hour or two all to ourselves.”

  “Bless her,” Rhiannon said happily, making room for Ranulf in the bed. Between sips of cider and bites of honeyed bread, they exchanged sticky kisses. “Did you remember to give Gwen money in case Gilbert sees something he wants to buy at the market?”

  “I did,” he said, “and told Gwen that he could have whatever he wanted, provided it was not alive. I asked him this morning what part of the trip he’d enjoyed most, thinking he’d pick the royal menagerie at Woodstock or mayhap the ferry ride across to Southwark. But do you know what he said? What he liked best was when Maud bought him a pasty at the cookshop by the river!”

  Rhiannon laughed. “Does that surprise you? This is the child, after all, whose first complete sentence was ‘Feed me!’” Ranulf shared the last of the bread with her and she settled back into his arms. “I truly like Maud, even more than you predicted I would. It will be a year in December since she was widowed, so she’ll soon be able to consider marrying again. Do you think she will?”

  “She says no…though she puts it more colorfully than that. I’m very fond of Maud, too, Rhiannon, but I’d rather not be discussing her marriage prospects right now. I’m sure we can put this time to better use,” he suggested and set about proving it.

  But within moments, there was a loud, insistent knocking on the door. “Ranulf? Let me in!”

  Ranulf swore softly; so did Rhiannon. When the pounding persisted, they reluctantly drew apart and he swung off the bed, opening the door to his niece. “Maud? What are you doing back so soon? You promised you’d keep the children away at least until—”

  “I am sorry,” Maud panted, “but as soon as we got to the marketplace, we heard…People were talking of nothing else. Last night an urgent message arrived for the Archbishop of Canterbury, summoning him to Dover. Stephen has been stricken with the bloody flux, and the
doctors fear the ailment is mortal. Ranulf…he is said to be dying.”

  THE royal castle of Dover was unnaturally still. At midday the bailey would normally have been bustling with activity. Now it was all but deserted. The few men to be seen moved hurriedly about their tasks, hasty, almost furtive in their movements, as if fearful of calling attention to themselves. As soon as he rode through the gateway, Ranulf felt a chill of familiar foreboding. Bristol Castle had looked like this, too, as Robert lay dying.

  “You take our horses to the stables,” he told Padarn. “Then meet me in the hall.”

  Padarn nodded. “Will you be able to see him?”

  “I do not know,” Ranulf admitted, relieved when Padarn asked no further questions. Nor had Rhiannon. He was grateful for that, as he could not have explained even to himself why he felt such an urgent need to see Stephen before he died. For Rhiannon, though, no explanation was necessary. She’d sent him off with a quiet “Godspeed.”

  The great hall was crowded, and Ranulf’s entrance went unnoticed. Almost at once, he spied a familiar face, one of the archbishop’s clerks, and as soon as he could, he caught Thomas Becket’s eye.

  Becket had risen in the world since they’d last met; he’d been appointed that past June as the new archdeacon of Canterbury. Now he greeted Ranulf with the somber courtesy befitting the occasion, but with just enough warmth to indicate his pleasure at seeing Ranulf again. It was adroitly done, and confirmed Ranulf’s earlier impression of Becket as a man who had the makings of a superior diplomat, skilled at conveying nuances and shadings, while keeping his own secrets safe. Taking Ranulf aside, he quietly confided the worst, that Stephen was not expected to see another sunrise.

  BECKET had gone to arrange Ranulf’s admission into the royal sickroom. Waiting by the hearth, Ranulf happened to notice William de Ypres, sitting alone in a window seat. On impulse, he walked over. “Do you remember me? I’m Ranulf Fitz Roy.”

  Squinting up at him, the Fleming said, “Well, well, if it is not the empress’s brother. Although I suppose you’ll soon be known as the king’s uncle.”

  “Why are you all so sure that Stephen is dying?”

  “He has begun to pass clotted blood. I’d say that’s as good a sign as any to send for the priest.”

  Ranulf winced. “Is he in much pain?”

  “More than he’ll admit.” After a moment, Ypres said, “Do you know why he was in Dover? He was meeting the Count of Flanders again, discussing their plans to go on crusade. God love him, a crusade!”

  Ranulf’s throat constricted. “He’d have made a fine crusader,” he said softly, and the Fleming nodded.

  “A better crusader than a king, for certes.”

  “I know,” Ranulf agreed. “So why did we both race to his deathbed, then?”

  Ypres shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said flippantly, but Ranulf knew better. The Fleming would never admit it, but they’d come to Dover for the same reason—to mourn.

  KINGS were not accorded privacy; even dying was done in public. Stephen’s chamber was thronged with people: the Archbishop of Canterbury, several doctors, a few priests, William Martel, Abbot Clarembald of Faversham, the Earl of Arundel, Stephen’s grieving son, just recovering from his March accident, now about to be dealt another crippling blow. Will was the only family member present, for Stephen’s brother was coming from Winchester and was not likely to arrive in time. Nor was his daughter, Mary, for she had departed the nunnery in Kent for Romsey Abbey in Hampshire, and seemed destined once again to miss saying her final farewell to a dying parent.

  Becket ushered Ranulf toward the bed and then stepped back so that he might have some small measure of privacy. Ranulf was shocked at sight of Stephen. Until then he’d believed Stephen might still rally, for the bloody flux was not always fatal. But as he looked down into Stephen’s face, he saw there was no hope. Death was not only on the way, it was already in the chamber.

  Stephen’s eyes were sunken back in his head, fever-glazed and bloodshot, but still lucid. As Ranulf bent over the bed, he saw recognition in their depths, and genuine joy that he’d come. Stephen was too weak to talk much, but when Ranulf took his hand, he managed a feeble squeeze, even a shadowy flicker of a smile.

  “Look after Maude’s lad…” Ranulf nodded mutely. Stephen’s mouth was moving again. “Tell Maude…” But he got no further. Ranulf wondered if his strength had given out or he’d just realized there was nothing to be said.

  Stephen’s eyes had closed. His breathing had an audible rasp, and Ranulf was glad he’d been shriven already, for it sounded as if each faltering breath could be his last. Ranulf found himself thinking of his nephew, just a few heartbeats away from becoming England’s king…at twenty-one. Stephen was fifty-eight and could easily have lived another ten or fifteen years. Instead he was dying less than a twelvemonth after they’d come to terms at Winchester. It occurred to Ranulf that mayhap Harry truly did have an ally in the Almighty.

  Stephen’s lashes quivered. “Cousin…” Ranulf leaned closer to catch the whispered words. “I hope the lad gets more joy from his kingship than I did from mine…”

  58

  Rouen, Normandy

  October 1154

  A SQUALL had blown in from the west soon after Petronilla’s arrival in Rouen. Within the castle, fires were kindled in every hearth and shutters hastily latched, but the solar continued to echo with the sounds of the storm’s fury. The wind’s howling put Eleanor in mind of hungry wolves, and the rain beat a steady tattoo against the slated roof, loud enough at times to intrude upon their conversation.

  Petronilla moved her chair closer to the hearth. “So…how do you like sharing a city with your mother-in-law? I know it did not take you long to vanquish Louis’s mother, but she lacked the Lady Maude’s imperial will. If the empress is even half as formidable as her foes claim, she’d be a match for Barbary pirates, infidels, and Abbot Bernard, too!”

  “Why is it,” Eleanor wondered, “that no one wants to believe Maude and I are on good terms? She is not a meddlesome mother-in-law, for she has far too much dignity for that. As for her ‘imperial will,’ I thanked God for it when Harry was taken so ill last month. When his fever would not break, the doctors began to despair, but not Maude. She fought Death the way she did Stephen—no quarter given—and she won. We took turns nursing him, and kept Death at bay long enough for Harry to rally. And once he was up and about, what did he do? Just as soon as he had the strength to climb into the saddle, he was off to Torigny to besiege the castle of a rebel baron, God save us all!”

  Eleanor shook her head, sounding both amused and exasperated, and then shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Yolande emerged from the shadows, offering a cushion, and Petronilla gave her a sympathetic look. “Is the babe getting restless again?”

  Eleanor grimaced. “Much of the time, I feel as if I’ve swallowed a frog,” she confided, “and February seems so far away…”

  “Men do not know what joys they are missing, do they? I remember complaining to Raoul about one of my pregnancies, for it was hellishly hot and sweltering that summer and I felt like a beached whale. His response? To tell me I should be thankful a woman’s pregnancy lasted only nine months, as he’d read in a bestiary that an elephant carried her calf for nigh on two years!”

  For most of the past year, Petronilla could not talk of Raoul without tears. That she could now jest about her late husband showed Eleanor that even heart wounds could heal, if given enough time. Positioning the cushion behind her aching back, Eleanor smiled at her sister. “Did you hear about Louis?”

  “That he went off on pilgrimage?”

  “Louis has always yearned to visit the holy shrine at Santiago de Compostela, and now he is doing just that. But for once he has more in mind than the salvation of his immortal soul. You see, Petra, the King of Castile has a marriageable daughter, and if she finds favor with Louis—that is, if she is unlike me in all particulars—he will probably return to France with a br
ide. By a very roundabout route, though,” Eleanor said and grinned. “Rather than ask me for a safe-conduct through Aquitaine, Louis traveled to Castile by way of Toulouse!”

  Petronilla grinned, too. “Louis will have to perform an exorcism to rid his marriage bed of your ghost,” she predicted, “and even then—”

  “My lady!” Yolande had departed the solar only moments before. Now she was back, flushed and breathless. “The empress…she is here! I just saw her ride into the bailey!”

  Eleanor and Petronilla exchanged alarmed looks. What would have brought Maude out in such a storm—except news of dire urgency? Nor were they reassured when Maude was ushered into the solar, for she was soaked to the skin, her mantle muddied and her hair windblown, the first time that Eleanor had ever seen her elegant mother-in-law in such disarray.

  “Good Lord, Maude, you look like a drowned cat! What possessed you to leave the priory in such vile weather? Unless…nothing has happened to Harry?”

  “No,” Maude cried, “oh, no! My news is from England, Eleanor, from the Archbishop of Canterbury.” She paused for breath, and then she smiled, a smile of triumph and joy and vindication, a smile nineteen years overdue.

  “Stephen is dead,” she said, “and England’s crown now belongs to my son. Henry is to be king.”

  STEPHEN died on October 25th in the year of Our Lord 1154, and was buried with his wife and son Eustace at the abbey he and Matilda had founded at Faversham. It was a quiet end to such a bloody war, and an ironic one, that after almost two decades of a disputed succession, Henry’s accession should be so peaceful and uncontested. So confident was the young king that he even delayed his departure long enough to bring his siege at Torigny to a victorious conclusion.