When Christ and His Saints Slept

11

Bristol Castle, England

July 1140

For Stephen and Maude both, it was to be a frustrating year, one of advances and retreats, thwarted victories and inconclusive defeats, check and mate. Matilda scored a diplomatic coup in those early winter months; sailing to France, she negotiated a marriage for her eldest son, Eustace, with Constance, young sister of the French king. But that good news was soured for Stephen by a rebellion in the English Fenlands, instigated by the Bishop of Ely, who’d been nursing a grudge since the Oxford ambush. Stephen raced north, and the bishop fled south, taking refuge at Bristol.

More trouble was already flaring for Stephen. William Fitz Richard, the sheriff and greatest landholder in Cornwall, declared for Maude, and sealed his new allegiance within the sacrament of marriage, offering his daughter, Beatrice, to Maude’s brother Rainald. After wedding and bedding his bride, Rainald joined his father-in-law and they set Cornwall ablaze. Stephen hastened west, and soon had them on the run. He had the greater resources, those of the Crown, and could put more men into the field than any of his enemies. But he’d begun to feel much like the “crazed firefighter” of his brother’s taunt; no matter how he struggled to quench these flames, embers still smoldered, and the acrid smell of smoke hung low upon the horizon, with no end in sight.

The strife continued. Miles Fitz Walter captured Hereford and burned Winchcombe. Waleran Beaumont torched Robert Fitz Roy’s favorite manor at Tewkesbury. Caught in the crossfire, the English people could only pray for deliverance. At Whitsuntide, there was a brief flicker of hope. Stephen’s brother Henry decided it was up to him to act as peacemaker, and he summoned both sides to Bath. The conference was quite civil, for Maude had sent her brother Robert, and Stephen his queen. But nothing was accomplished. The war went on.

IF Stephen still held sway in much of the country, Maude’s writ ran in the west, with Bristol her de facto capital. But she herself preferred to dwell in Miles Fitz Walter’s riverside city of Gloucester, for there she was the mistress of her own household, whereas at Bristol, she was Amabel and Robert’s guest. Since less than forty miles separated the two strongholds, Ranulf divided his days between Gloucester and Bristol. On this humid, hot Saturday in late July, he was at Bristol Castle, although not for long. After saddling his horse, he was leading it from the stables when Gilbert burst in to bar his way.

“So it is true then, what your squire said? You are going off on your own with nary a word to anyone?”

Ranulf had already had this same argument with his anxious squire, was in no mood to have it again with Gilbert. “Luke is worse than a broody hen. I am quite able to fend for myself.”

“Luke has enough sense to see the danger in roaming about the countryside in the midst of a war. A pity I cannot say the same for you! What are you up to, Ranulf?”

“I have a private matter to take care of, will be back in a few days. You are making much ado about nothing, Gib.”

Gilbert scowled, for he knew that stubborn set of Ranulf’s jaw all too well. Following Ranulf out into the summer sun, he watched as the other man swung into the saddle, and then reached up, clamping his hand on Ranulf’s boot. “At least tell me where you are going,” he insisted. “If we have to search for your body, we need a place to start!”

Ranulf looked down thoughtfully at his friend. “You have a point,” he said grudgingly. “If you must know, I’m bound for Shrewsbury.”

“Shrewsbury? That shire is closely held by Stephen’s sheriff, and he’d like nothing better than to have Maude’s brother blunder into his nets! For Christ’s Pity, Ranulf, why Shrewsbury? What could be worth the risk?”

Ranulf hesitated, but could not resist the temptation. “I am going to Shrewsbury’s fair,” he said, quite truthfully, and with the memory of Gilbert’s incredulous face to enliven his journey, he spurred his stallion forward, rode laughing out of Bristol and onto the road north.

The abbey of St Peter and St Paul was not enclosed within Shrewsbury’s protective bend of the River Severn. It lay just to the east of the town, close by the red-grit sandstone span known as the English Bridge. It was not among the largest of the Benedictine monasteries, but it was a thriving one, owing a measure of its prosperity to the royal charter that permitted it to hold a fair in honour of its patron saint, Peter ad Vincula.

The fair opened each year on August 1st, lasting until sundown on the third day, and attracted merchants from Bristol and Chester and Coventry, some from as far away as London. People flocked to fairs, as much for the entertainment as for the opportunity to buy goods not available elsewhere, and Ranulf found the abbey already overflowing upon his arrival. The hospitaller squeezed him into a corner of the guest hall, though, and he spread his bedroll, made ready to pass the night.

But sleep would not come. Although he’d dismissed Gilbert’s fears as if they were of no account, he knew better. His danger was real. Moreover, Maude and Robert would be furious when they found out what he’d done. Since he was unwilling to lie to them, he could only refuse to answer their irate questions, and that would fuel their fire even higher. No, he was in for a rough patch when he returned-if he returned. He had more to fear than Stephen’s sheriff. The roads were full of bandits, masterless men seeking to take advantage of these troubled times, and a lone traveler was a tempting target for ambush or assault. Fortunately he’d thought to bring his dogs along, but he’d still have to keep his wits about him. Lying awake and fretful in the abbey hall, Ranulf had to admit that he was risking a great deal-and for what? Conjecture, surmise, an arrow shot in the dark.

It had taken him several months of discreet investigation, but he’d eventually found out what he wanted to know-that Gervase Fitz Clement’s favorite manor was located in Shropshire, west of Shrewsbury. Once he knew “where,” he set about figuring out “how,” and it soon came to him: St Peter’s Fair. He was gambling, though, and he knew it-gambling that the Fitz Clement household was currently in residence at the Shropshire manor, that Fitz Clement himself would have been summoned to Stephen’s service, and, last, that the fair would be a powerful enough lure to draw Annora into Shrewsbury. What could happen then, he did not know. But they’d left too much unsaid between them, not even farewell. He had to see her again…no matter what it might cost.

The morrow promised summer at its best: sun-drenched warmth, an easterly breeze, and an iris-blue sky, feathered by wispy white clouds. Sauntering through the monastery gatehouse, Ranulf turned right along the Abbey Foregate, heading for the fairground. As early as it was, the street was crowded with his fellow fairgoers, and with others who had less innocent aims than a day of fun at the fair-pickpockets and prostitutes and tricksters mingling with the tradesmen and goodwives and eager-eyed children. Ranulf forgot his sleepless qualms, and his spirits soared. Annora would be here today; suddenly he was sure of it.

The fairground was teeming with activity. It was as if a temporary town had sprung up overnight, row upon row of wooden stalls and booths, streets of trodden grass, already thronged with the customers that were its citizens. Had Ranulf not been watching for Annora with such hungry intensity, he would have enjoyed himself enormously. There was enough variety to satisfy the most jaded appetite. There were booths offering cloth of all kinds, fresh and salted fish, wine, honey, spices, crockery, gemstones, needles, canvas, finely tanned leather, perfume, soft felt hats, mirrors of polished metal, holy relics, and hooded hunting birds, merlins and goshawks tethered to wooden perches, while off to the north, horses were being put through their paces and cattle and oxen paraded before would-be buyers. Looking upon this bustling, colorful scene, Ranulf felt much heartened, for how could Annora resist such a beguiling temptation as the St Peter’s Fair?

Ranulf wandered among the booths, pausing now and then to watch the fair’s numerous forms of entertainment. There were archery contests and bouts with the quarterstaff, acrobats, jugglers, and strolling musicians strumming lively tunes on lyre, lute, and gittern. There was cock-fighting and a small spotted dog trained to balance upon a moving ball, and an occasional brawl, quickly broken up by the sheriff’s men. The fair offered all the attractions a fairgoer could wish for-save only Annora de Bernay.

By dinnertime, the fair was at its busiest. Ranulf jostled a path toward a crowded cook-stall, bought a hot pasty stuffed with spiced pork, marrow, and cheese for himself and a plain pork pie for his dogs, washing his meal down with ale. It was getting hotter; the breeze had died down. Shortly before noon, he decided to check out the horse fair, where a race was soon to get under way. And it was then that he saw her.

He caught only a glimpse as she moved between booths, but it was enough. He heedlessly trod upon a portly merchant’s heels as he sought to keep her in view, spilling the last of his ale, his breath quickening with each lengthening stride. He had her in sight again. She’d paused at a draper’s stall, examining samples of samite and linen as the merchant hovered close at hand, hopeful of making a sale. She was not alone, of course, attended by a gangling groom and a young maidservant, both of whom appeared delighted by this escort duty. The girl was quite pretty, but Ranulf saw only Annora.

She was clad in a vividly red gown, with full hanging sleeves in a lighter shade of rose, a green silk cord belted at the hip, her dark hair demurely hidden away beneath a soft circular veil. She looked just as Ranulf had envisioned her in dreams and daylight yearnings these four years past, but he’d not expected her to seem so contented, so comfortable in her role as Fitz Clement’s wife.

He stood, rooted, watching as she browsed from booth to booth. The merchants were very deferential, and she took it as her due, the hoyden he remembered suddenly transformed into the lady of the manor. She selected a pair of scissors and a length of green ribbon, turning her purchases over to her groom to carry. And then she stopped so abruptly that she stumbled, staring after the black-and-silver wolf-dog that streaked across her path, in pursuit of a spitting, hissing cat. Her face changed, her expression both wistful and regretful, and Ranulf knew in that moment exactly what she was thinking-of him and what they’d lost. He took a tentative step forward just as Annora turned and saw him.

Annora went white, and the combs she’d been appraising spilled into the grass at her feet. Ranulf swiftly closed the space between them, bent down and gathered up the combs; they were ivory and decorated with delicately carved flowers. “I think these are yours, my lady,” he said, and Annora nodded mutely. Her eyes seemed black and bottomless, dilated in disbelief. Her groom was looking toward them, wanting to be sure his lord’s wife did not need him to defend her honour. He was young enough to relish such a confrontation, and he’d soon be strutting their way, as challenging as any barnyard cock. Annora had not yet moved, and Ranulf held out the combs, saying softly, “Where can we meet?”

As Ranulf had feared, the groom was bearing down upon them. Annora snatched up the combs, so hastily that her fingers just grazed his. Thrusting the combs toward the disappointed merchant, she beckoned to her servants and moved on, toward a silversmith’s booth. But Ranulf had heard her whispered words, barely more than a breath: “St Alkmund’s Church.”

Ranulf found St Alkmund’s with no difficulty; the town’s weekly market was held in its churchyard. But the churchyard was deserted now, as were the streets. The fair had turned Shrewsbury into a ghost town, for its merchants were not permitted to compete with the monks, and their shops were shut down for the duration of the fair. St Alkmund’s was made of stone and the interior was shadowed and cool; summer’s heat seemed to stop at the church door. Ranulf walked up the nave, then continued on into the choir. Logic told him that she would not follow him right away, but he was already straining for sounds of her entry. He convinced himself so often that he heard her steps, only to find the nave empty and silent, that when she finally did arrive, she took him almost by surprise.

Ranulf had moved toward the candlelit High Altar, and when he turned back, Annora was there, framed in the arched doorway of the roodscreen. Her face was flushed; even in such dimmed lighting, he could see the color staining her cheeks and throat. He yearned to touch that hot skin, had to remind himself that he no longer had the right. Fumbling for words-any words-to break this smothering silence, he asked, “How did you get rid of your servants?”

“I did not. I told them to await me in the churchyard.” Annora sounded out of breath. “When I saw that dog, I thought at once of Shadow. But I…I never imagined it was really him! And when I turned around and saw you…”

Ranulf was absurdly pleased that she’d remembered the name of his dyrehund. “I had to come, Annora,” he said, and she looked at him, wide-eyed, for an unbearably long moment before saying, quite simply:

“I’m so glad.”

Thinking back upon it much later, Ranulf could never be sure which of them had taken that first fateful step. But suddenly she was in his arms, and they were clinging tightly, with such urgency that further words were forgotten. They fused together, in an embrace so impassioned, so intoxicating, and so desperate that their return to reality stunned them both. It was the slamming of a door, a sound harmless in itself, but for Ranulf and Annora, fraught with the dread of discovery. There was a violence in their recoil, a tearing-away that left them momentarily bereft, unable to respond to their danger. Ranulf recovered first, flattened himself against the roodscreen and jerked his head toward the door. Annora drew a shaken breath, then stepped out to intercept the intruder.

The sight of a priest jolted Annora’s conscience back to life, reminding her that sinning in a church had to be one of those wrongs God could not forgive. At the same time, she was thankful that it was not her groom or her maid, for they knew her well enough to notice her agitation. But the priest was beaming, quite oblivious of anything untoward. “Lady Fitz Clement, this is indeed a pleasure. Your man told me you were within, and I did not want you to slip away ere I paid my respects.”

Annora faked a smile that would have fooled only an elderly cleric with dimming eyesight and a celibate’s innocence. “Yes, I…I wanted to light a candle for the king’s success.”

The priest nodded approvingly. “I was deeply dismayed to hear of Hugh Bigod’s rebellion, for he was amongst the most stalwart of the king’s men. Truly, the Devil is on the loose these days, ever ready to lead the unwary astray. Your lord husband…he is with you?”

“No,” Annora said, too abruptly, but she could not bear to talk of her husband in Ranulf’s hearing. “He is still in the North with the king.”

“And will return safe to you in God’s good time, daughter, never fear. Now…may I escort you back to the fair?”

“I should be delighted for your company.” Annora would have agreed to follow the priest to Hades and back at that moment, so frantic was she to keep him from entering the choir and finding Ranulf. “Father John, could you tell my man that I’ll be returning with you, and he and Joan can go ahead and meet us there, at the cook-stall? I’ll be out straightaway; I left my pater noster in the choir.”

She did not move until the priest started up the aisle, not returning to Ranulf until she was sure Father John was out of earshot. Even then, they waited for the sound of a closing door. Ranulf reached for her hard and pressed a kiss into her palm, silently mouthing a one-word question: Where?

Annora was at a loss, for privacy was as scarce as sightings of unicorns. “I do not…,” she began dubiously, and then brightened. “Of course, the leper hospital at St Giles!”

Ranulf’s brows shot upward. “A lazar house?” he echoed in delighted disbelief, and began to laugh.

“Do hush!” Annora’s fingers flew to his mouth to still his laughter, but lingered to trace the curve of his lip. “I do not mean we should meet there, for pity’s sake! Just follow the Foregate until you get to St Giles. When you reach the fence, cross the road to your right and enter the woods. You’ll soon come to a canal, the runoff from the abbey mill. Wait there for me.”

She took his assent for granted, and hastened from the choir. But when she reached the door in the roodscreen, she paused, giving him a dazzling smile over her shoulder, so full of love that his breath stopped.

Before going to St Alkmund’s, Ranulf had tethered his dogs in the abbey garth, much to their indignation. He freed them upon his return, for they’d make useful sentinels for his rendezvous with Annora. Heading back to the fairground, he bought a wicker basket, a tablecloth, a wineskin, a loaf of freshly baked bread, a pot of jam, apples, and a single red rose, the same shade as Annora’s gown.

With the dogs at his heels, he walked briskly along the Foregate toward St Giles. The lazar house was situated just as Annora had said, where the road forked off toward London and Wenlock. The hospital buildings and cemetery were enclosed by a wattle fence, but several of the unhappy inhabitants were squatting by the roadside, for they were not permitted to beg within the town. The sight of their ravaged flesh and hooded cloaks would have been an unwelcome reminder to the fairgoers of their own mortality, a grim spectre of stalking Death in its most grisly guise, not what the merchants had in mind for fair entertainment.

Ranulf’s steps lagged as the lazar house came into view. To a man about to violate one of God’s Commandments, any encounter with lepers was bound to be chilling, for many believed that leprosy was a sinner’s disease. The Church sought to combat this bias by calling leprosy a “sacred malady,” but Scriptures stigmatized the leper as “defiled” and “unclean,” and most people were more inclined to see leprosy as divine punishment than as a manifestation of God’s Grace.

Ranulf’s gaze was drawn inexorably to those hunched figures, and then he strode toward them, dropped coins into their alms cups, and wished them as cordial a “Good morrow” as he could manage. Their hoarse expressions of gratitude, as much for his civility as for his charity, followed after him as he crossed into the woods, and Ranulf felt pity’s taste in his mouth, as bitter as gall.

He soon reached the millrace, where he sprawled in the grass by the surging current, and tried not to think about St Giles and the poor wretches in need of its sanctuary. The sun rose higher in the sky, the dogs foraged in the underbrush for mice or moles, and eventually he heard the snapping of twigs, the muffled echoes of woodland steps.

Ranulf jumped to his feet as Annora emerged from shade into sunlight. There was a moment or two of awkwardness, but then Ranulf gave her the rose and they smiled at each other. When he asked how she’d escaped her “keepers,” she looked quite pleased with herself. “I told them that I wanted to give alms at St Giles. The very thought of getting within shouting distance of a lazar house turned them greensick with fright. They started babbling that even a leper’s glance was dangerous, and when I agreed to let them await me at the fair, I thought they’d both kiss the hem of my gown!”

Ranulf took her hand in his and they began to walk. They did not talk; there was no need. Without haste, they followed the millrace as it curved toward the south, leading them farther and farther from the road. The sun spangled the water, and all about them were the soothing sounds of the summer forest. They soon turned away from the millrace, moved deeper into the woods until they found a secluded, quiet clearing, shaded by trees, screened by flowering shrubs of wild holly.

Ranulf spread out the tablecloth and Annora unpacked the food, but they knew they’d not eat it. Instead, Annora removed her veil, and then slowly and deliberately began to unwind the hair neatly coiled at the nape of her neck. When she removed the last pin, she shook it loose about her shoulders, and they both understood that to be a pledge of intimacy, for only a husband or lover ever saw a woman’s hair flowing free down her back. When Ranulf reached for her, she came eagerly into his arms. Her hair felt like silk; so did her skin. Her mouth was warm and sweet, her perfume scenting his every breath. It went to his head like wine. The clearing might have been crowded with their ghosts-her absent husband, all the women he’d bedded and forgotten afterward. But none of that mattered, not now. For Ranulf, there was no world beyond this cloistered glade, no woman but this one, only Annora, and when she cried out, shuddering and gasping his name, he found her climax even more satisfying than his own.

Afterward, he held her close, brushing butterfly kisses against her temples, her eyelids, the hollow of her throat, kisses so tender that tears began to seep through her lowered lashes. He tasted the salt on her skin, and was stricken by the realization that she was weeping, that he may have seduced her into a mortal sin. “Annora? Have you regrets?”

Sitting up, she flung back her hair, swiped impatiently at the tears streaking her face. “How can you even ask that? My God, if my regrets were raindrops, we’d both be in danger of drowning!”

When he reached for her this time, she pulled away. “How could we have been such fools? But no, you had to cling to Maude like a limpet, and I had to marry straightaway, so I could show you I no longer cared-Ranulf, how can you laugh?”

She glared at him, quite indignant, but Ranulf merely laughed all the more. “Because,” he said, “I thought you regretted this-our lovemaking!”

“Oh, no,” she cried, and threw herself back into his arms. “How could I ever regret this? Ranulf, this is a memory I shall have to live on for the rest of my life!”

“No,” he said, “that is not so. This is not an ending, love, but a beginning, that I promise you.”

She studied his face intently, and then got slowly and reluctantly to her feet. “Ranulf…if you are asking me to run away with you, I cannot do that.” Tears were glinting again on her lashes. “I love you,” she said. “I’ve loved you since I was old enough to know what that word meant, and I daresay I shall still love you as I draw my last breath. But I cannot be your concubine. I cannot shame my father and brothers like that. They do not deserve that, and…and neither does Gervase, for he is a decent man. I have the children to consider, too, and they-”

That had been Ranulf’s secret dread, a festering fear that he’d dealt with by denial, an option now no longer available to him. “Have you borne this man a child, Annora?”

“No,” she said, “oh, my darling, no!” She started toward him, but he was faster and caught her to him in an emotional embrace. Annora raised her face for his kiss, and then said, so softly as to be almost inaudible, “I miscarried in our second year of marriage, but I have not quickened again…” Although she attempted to sound dispassionate, Ranulf heard echoes of an old grief. She had mourned the child she’d lost, Fitz Clement’s child, and he did not know what to say, for he could feel only thankfulness that this accursed marriage of hers was barren. He stroked her hair gently, before saying quietly:

“What children do you mean, then, love?”

“Daniel and Lucette, my stepchildren. The other lad is older, but they are just babes, and they love me well. I would not have them think of me as a…a wanton.”

“I would not have a single soul in Christendom think you a wanton, Annora…and they will not. There will be no shame in our union, for it will be blessed by the Church and God, within holy wedlock.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What sort of daft talk is that? Lest you forget, I have a husband already, and one is all the law and Church allow!”

“Hellcat,” he said fondly. “Well, then, we’ll just have to get you shed of him, will we not?”

“What do you have in mind?” she said testily. “Murder?”

“Not unless you insist.” His teasing had always been able to fire her temper, and he grinned, for there was a reassuring, familiar feel to their squabbling. But he relented then, for she was getting truly angry. “I am speaking of a plight troth, Annora-yours and mine. Because we did not have the words said over us by a priest or put down in writing, your father did not bother to forswear it, I’d wager the surety of my soul on that. But the Church requires only that a man and woman pledge their vows, and we did. Which means that your marriage was not valid, for you were not free to wed anyone but me.”

She was looking at him in wonderment. “Oh, Ranulf, if only that could be!” Her hope deflated almost at once, though, and she frowned again. “You know better than that. The Church will annul a marriage for princes, but rarely for the rest of us. My father and husband both stand in high favor with the king. He would never agree to annul my marriage, for what would he gain by it?”

“No, most likely Stephen would not,” Ranulf agreed. “But Maude would.”

Annora exhaled a ragged breath. “Be sure, Ranulf,” she pleaded, “be very sure of what you say, for if it does not come to pass, my heart would surely break.”

“When Maude is queen-and she will be queen, never doubt that-I shall ask her to aid us in declaring your marriage void, and then we shall be wed. This I swear to you, my love, upon the life of our firstborn son.”

He was not jesting now; never had she heard him sound so serious, and she no longer doubted. “Tell me,” she said, “tell me how it will be,” and he laughed, drew her back into his arms, and between kisses, promised her love and lust and a lifetime in which to enjoy them. They soon sank down upon the tablecloth that served as their bed, and found in each other such passionate pleasure that it no longer mattered if it was outlawed. When they were wed, their sins would be forgiven by God; they’d already forgiven themselves.

IT was very late when Ranulf reached Gloucester. Fortunately he was known on sight by now, and was allowed to pass into the city. He was admitted into the castle with equal ease, and was relieved to learn that Maude had already gone to bed, putting off their reckoning till the morrow. He paused briefly in the great hall to exchange greetings with a few friends, deftly parried their curiosity about his absence, and then headed for his own chamber, where he was given an effusive welcome by his squire, but given, too, news not to his liking.

“Earl Robert summoned you, Sir Ranulf, just two days after you’d ridden off. He was wroth not to find you at Gloucester, for he and Lord Miles were seeking to capture Bath, and he wanted you to ride with them. Their campaign came to naught, though, for the city was well defended and they were beaten back. Lord Robert said he wants you to come to Bristol to explain yourself, and Lady Maude…I fear she is sorely vexed with you, too, Sir Ranulf,” the boy concluded apologetically, sounding as if he and not Ranulf were the one at fault. “Ah, but I do have happier news. Sir Gilbert is here, awaiting your return.”

“I’m glad you warned me, Luke. At least I’ll be braced now when the storm breaks over my head! I know it is late, but I’m well-nigh starved. Think you that you could fetch me some wine from the buttery and then raid the kitchen for me?”

Luke promised to be back in a trice with food in plenitude, and Ranulf did not doubt he would, for Luke was just fifteen and overly eager to please. It still seemed odd to Ranulf, getting the sort of wholehearted devotion from Luke that he and Gilbert had given Robert. But then he would remember: he was one and twenty now, no longer a squire, Maude’s mainstay. “Prop of the throne,” he said aloud, liking the sound of that, and then set about unpacking his saddlebags, whistling a tune he’d picked up at St Peter’s Fair, finding it as easy as that to shrug off his coming confrontation with Robert and Maude. A man caught out in a summer squall might get drenched to the skin, but the sun would soon get him dry again. Angry words seemed a small price to pay for the miracle he’d wrought in Shrewsbury.

When the door opened, he turned in surprise, not expecting Luke back so soon. But it was Gilbert. Without waiting to be asked, he strode into the chamber, sat down on a coffer, and subjected Ranulf to a scrutiny that was far from friendly. “I was going to ask if you’d seen her,” he said, “but clearly you did.”

“Saw whom?”

“Annora Fitz Clement. Did you truly think I’d not figure it out? Once I put my mind to it, I knew Annora had to be at the root of your folly. So I asked Miles Fitz Walter if Gervase Fitz Clement has a manor in Shropshire. It would not surprise you, I am sure, to learn that he does.”

Ranulf shrugged. “What of it?”

“Do not try to lie, Ranulf; I know you too well. You went to Shrewsbury to seek Annora out, and you got what you wanted from her. Do not bother to deny it, for I can see it in your face.” Gilbert’s accusations had been delivered in flat, dispassionate tones, but then his outrage broke free. “Christ Jesus, Ranulf, how could you do it? How could you make a whore out of Ancel’s sister?”

Ranulf had been listening in a stony silence, but at that, he took a warning step toward Gilbert, dark eyes blazing. “Watch what you say! I mean to make her my wife!”

Gilbert started to rise, then slumped down again on the coffer. This was even worse than he’d expected. “You cannot be serious,” he said, but with no conviction. “Ranulf, have you lost what wits you have left? The girl has a husband!”

“Not for long,” Ranulf shot back triumphantly. “Annora may have been locked into a loveless marriage, but I have the key to set her free: our prior plight troth.”

Now that his first flash of anger was over, he was glad that Gilbert had guessed the truth. Having a trustworthy confidant was a luxury he’d not expected, and he gave his friend a discreetly edited account of his reunion with Annora, confided their hopes, and dwelled at length upon all the tomorrows they would share, time enough to recompense them for these lost years, a lifetime in which to wed and love and beget children and pledge fealty to his sister the queen. Gilbert listened and feared for them both. But he kept his qualms to himself, for he knew Ranulf would not have heeded them.

Night had claimed Geoffrey of Anjou’s capital city of Angers, and the castle was asleep. Sometime after midnight, Henry sat up suddenly in bed, jolted awake by a remembered sin. Papa’s dagger! He’d been playing with it all day, but he’d not gotten his father’s permission, and then he’d gone off to bed and forgotten to sneak it back where it belonged. Instead he’d left it in a window seat of the great hall, where it was sure to be found in the morning by one of the servants. And his wooden sword was down there, too, so all would know he was the culprit.

He was already in disgrace, all because of that fight he’d had with his brother Geoffrey. He still did not think it had been his fault. Geoffrey had deserved his nosebleed for the way he’d been badgering Will. Will could not help being scared of the dark; he was only four. From the superior vantage point of his seven years, that seemed very young to Henry, and he felt protective of his baby brother. When Will had begun to wake up screaming in the night, their father had given his consent for a small candle to be kept lit. That made sense to Henry, but Geoffrey could not resist teasing Will about his fears, and eventually he threatened once too often to snuff out the candle so Will could be carried off by the werewolves waiting in the dark. Henry wasn’t at all sorry for hitting Geoffrey; that memory was still very satisfying. But he could not be caught in another misdeed so soon after their squabble, not after he’d promised to be good.

Well, there was no help for it, he’d have to go get the dagger. Taking care not to disturb his brothers, he edged out of bed, fumbling about in the dark until he found his tunic. It took him longer to locate his shoes, but it was October and the stone stairs were too cold for bare feet. Both of his dogs were awake by now, eager to join in the fun. He was sorry he had to shut them up in the bedchamber, but dyrehunds always seemed to bark at just the wrong time.

Henry was not afraid of the dark, not really. Anyone would be nervous creeping down a winding stairwell blacker than any cave. He kept on going, and sighed softly when he reached the great hall, for it was dark, too, but there were people here, sleeping on pallets and benches and blankets. Much to his relief, the dagger was still in the window seat, half hidden by a cushion. Now if he could just get it back to Papa’s bedchamber without getting caught…To his surprise, he was beginning to enjoy himself, for this midnight quest was an adventure, with suspense and risk and even a worthy prize, a crusader’s dagger with a ruby hilt.

Hoping that the hinges wouldn’t squeak, he slowly pushed open the door of his father’s bedchamber. A reassuring sound met his ears, the snoring of his father’s squires. The hearth had burned low, the firelight dying down to a feeble glow. His father’s favorite wolfhound, a massive beast the size of a pony, raised her head, then tipped her tail in drowsy greeting. Leaving the door ajar, Henry moved toward the coffer at the foot of the bed. He was cautiously lifting the lid when his father’s voice suddenly cut through the darkness: “Just what are you looking for?”

Henry froze, shock robbing him of all speech. Before he could stammer out a response, a woman’s voice came floating from the bed. “I do believe I’ve found it, my lord. I was but browsing. Now, though, I think I’d like to buy!”

Henry was stunned and, for a too-brief moment, joyful. Almost at once, though, he realized his mistake, one foolish enough to make him blush. How could he have thought Mama had come home? If she were back, all would know it. Crouching down behind the coffer, he tried to make sense of this. Why was a strange woman in Papa’s bed? She was speaking again, an unfamiliar voice, sounding young and eager to please. Papa was laughing at what she’d said. Henry didn’t like it, not at all, that Papa should be laughing in bed with this unknown woman. He wanted to go away, to forget what he’d heard. But he was trapped, unable to move until they went back to sleep. And to his horror, he now heard his father say, “Fetch me that wine cup on the table, Nan.”

The bed curtains parted and a woman’s tousled head poked through. She had tumbled masses of unruly flaxen curls, and Henry could not help thinking of his mother’s glossy, neat braids, black as a raven’s wing. Having assured herself that the squires slept, the girl swung her legs onto the floor, scampered over to the table, and snatched up a goblet. Henry had a lively curiosity about women’s bodies. Not only were they formed differently than males, but people acted as if there was something sinful about female nakedness, and he still remembered a puzzling sermon he’d heard that summer, in which the priest had railed about daughters of Eve and whores of Babylon and Satan’s lures. Now, though, he averted his eyes, did not look up until the woman had climbed back into bed.

“Good lass. You cannot imagine how pleasant it is to have a biddable bedmate for a change.”

The girl giggled. “Your lady wife would not have fetched you wine?”

“Not unless she’d poisoned it beforehand.”

Another giggle. “Surely she could not be as bad as all that? I have to admit, though, that I was right glad when she left. She could stab someone with her eyes, God’s Truth! Do you think, my lord, that she will be gone long?”

“If God is merciful,” Geoffrey said wryly. “No, you need not fret about my she-wolf of a wife, Nan. She’s like to be bogged down in that English quagmire for years, and even if she does manage to defeat Stephen, her victory might not be worth much after she and Stephen get done with their crown-clipping.”

“I…I do not understand.”

“You do know about coin-clipping?”

“Is that not what the Jews do?”

“Not just the Jews, anyone with a sharp eye for turning a profit. They file the edges off the coin, and melt the clippings down to make a counterfeit coin. Anyone caught clipping coins in my domains does not live to regret it. But just as the clipped coins are worth less, so is a tarnished crown. For proof of that, we need look no further than the double-dealing by Hugh Bigod and Robert Fitz Hubert. Think you that either one would have dared to defy the old king like that? When pigs fly!”

The first name was vaguely familiar to Nan, the second name not at all. “This Hugh Bigod…was he not the king’s man?”

“More than that, lass. He perjured himself to God and the Archbishop of Canterbury, claiming that Maude’s father had repudiated her upon his deathbed. But he came to feel cheated, for he believed Stephen owed him more than he’d gotten, and this past June he rebelled. Stephen swooped down on him and seized one of Bigod’s castles, but freed Bigod to wreak more mischief if he chose. He did, and rebelled again in August. This time Stephen decided to buy his loyalty. Can there be a better reason for rebelling?”

Raising his voice, Geoffrey launched without warning into a mimicry of a peddler’s spiel. “Are you discontented with your lot in life? Has your barony begun to seem paltry and insignificant? Do you yearn for your own deer park, wine from Cyprus, oranges from Spain? Well, then, do not delay. Defy the king, gain yourself estates, castles, mayhap an earldom!”

Nan joined in his laughter, even though the humor eluded her. She laughed at all of Geoffrey’s jokes, whether she understood them or not. “What of the other man, this Fitz…Herbert?”

“Fitz Hubert. He was one of Stephen’s Flemish hirelings, mayhap the worst of a bad lot. Last October he turned on Stephen and seized Malmesbury Castle. Stephen snatched it back, but-surprise of surprises-he then agreed to let Fitz Hubert go. It seems he was a kinsman of William de Ypres, and he prevailed upon Stephen to show his cousin some undeserved mercy.”

“Was that the end of it?”

“Of course not. Fitz Hubert promptly hied off to Maude at Bristol. But he soon saw he could do better on his own and by a ruse, succeeded in getting hold of Devizes Castle. When Righteous Robert-my saintly brother by marriage-sent his son to take command, Fitz Hubert drove him off. Using Devizes as a refuge, he and his brigands set about terrorizing the countryside, plundering and raping and burning as they pleased. It then occurred to him that if he’d done so well with one castle, how much better he could do with two, and he set his eyes upon Marlborough. But he overreached himself there, for Marlborough was held by a man named John Marshal, and that one could teach the Devil himself about guile.”

Nan clapped her hands, like a child hearing a bedtime story. “What happened then?”

“Marshal pretended to believe Fitz Hubert’s cock-and-bull tale about forging an alliance, lured our greedy Fleming to Marlborough, and cast him into the castle’s dungeon. He then agreed to turn Fitz Hubert over to Brother Robert for five hundred marks. Robert dragged the Fleming back to Devizes, where he swore to hang him if he did not order the garrison to surrender. But Fitz Hubert balked and Robert, ever a man of his word, hanged him outside the castle walls. Meanwhile, the garrison had decided they did not truly need Fitz Hubert, and so they spurned all demands for surrender. Instead, they waited until Robert’s forces withdrew, and then yielded the castle to Stephen, for a right goodly profit!”

Geoffrey and Nan laughed so loudly that Henry feared they’d awaken the squires. He huddled against the coffer, holding his breath, but those blanketed forms by the hearth didn’t stir.

“So you see, sweet, it is every man for himself in England these days. And it’ll get worse ere it gets better. Stephen and Maude have opened the floodgates, and all they can do is let the tide carry them along, whilst trying to keep their heads above water. Not that it would break my heart if the lady drowned! But whether she survives or not, she’ll not be coming back to bedevil me. Now…enough of these English lunatics. We’ve more interesting matters to discuss. When are you going to make good your offer?”

“Offer?” Nan echoed coyly. “What offer was that, my lord?”

Henry did not hear his father’s murmured response, only the woman’s laugh. There was an intimacy to their conversation now that was different and disquieting. Making no further attempts at concealment, Henry got to his feet. He no longer cared if he was caught or not. With a deliberation that verged upon defiance, he turned away from the bed, started toward the door.

His father had once told him that ice could burn. He hadn’t believed it; now he did. The coldness within him was numbing, seemed to have seeped into the very marrow of his bones. He’d never felt like this before, did not even know how to describe it. The word desolate was not yet in his seven-year-old’s vocabulary. There was anger, too, but it was unfamiliar anger-not hot, more like the ice that burned. He had not comprehended all that he’d overheard, but he had understood what mattered. His mother was not coming back.