When Christ and His Saints Slept

14

Lincoln Castle, England

February 1141

More than men had died at Lincoln. It seemed to Stephen that reality was a casualty, too, for nothing made sense anymore. What was he doing here in the solar of Lincoln Castle, bleeding all over the Earl of Chester’s wife?

“I’m sorry,” he said, but Maud was quite unfazed by the blood splattering her bodice.

“A good reason to get a new gown,” she said cheerfully, continuing to daub at his gashed forehead with a wet cloth. “I think it is clean enough to bandage now. But a doctor ought to tend to it as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” he said politely, although he knew his were wounds no doctor could hope to heal. He had claimed a crown, been consecrated with the sacred chrism that set him forever apart from other men, for a king was God’s anointed on earth. He had believed in his right. So why, then, had he lost? Had his kingship been counterfeit from the very beginning? Had he wronged Maude and sinned against the Almighty by thwarting His Divine Will?

“All done,” Maud murmured, stepping back to inspect her handiwork. Not only had her bandage stanched Stephen’s bleeding, but she thought it looked rather rakish, too. Reaching for a flagon, she poured Stephen wine, relishing the incongruity of it, that she should be treating him as an esteemed guest when her husband would have cast him into the castle’s darkest dungeon. But he was not here to object, and so she was taking a perverse pleasure in honouring his enemy-until it stopped being a game, until she noticed that Stephen had not touched the wine, that his blue eyes were blind and his hands clenched upon the arms of his chair as if it were all he had left to hold on to.

“I’ll be back…” She hesitated, not knowing what to call him, for etiquette was conspicuously silent upon the subject of captive kings. She settled upon “Cousin Stephen” before giving him the only comfort she could at that moment: privacy.

Crossing the solar, she joined Stephen’s gaoler in the window seat, and answered his unspoken query with a sigh. “He is in pain,” she said softly, and Ranulf frowned.

“A city the size of Lincoln must have at least one damned doctor! Why is it taking so long to fetch him?”

“He’ll be here soon,” Maud said soothingly, and was unable to resist adding a playful “Uncle,” for it amused her enormously, that she should have an uncle so close in years to her own age. “But in all honesty, I doubt that a doctor can ease what ails him, Ranulf.”

“I know,” he conceded quietly. “Nothing leaves so bitter an aftertaste as betrayal, not even wormwood and gall.” He shook his head, still shocked by the flight of Stephen’s earls, for he’d been taught that men of high birth were more courageous, more steadfast and honourable than the rest of mankind. “Ah, but you should have seen him, Maud! Men were flinging themselves at him without pause, for all the world as if he were a castle under siege, and he kept beating them back, wielding his axe like a scythe-”

Ranulf’s admiring account of Stephen’s defiance went no further, for he’d just remembered that Maud’s husband was amongst those mowed down by that Danish axe of Stephen’s. Upon their arrival at the castle, he’d informed Maud and Chester’s brother of his injury, assuring them that he was not badly hurt. William de Roumare had rushed off to see for himself, leaving Maud to tend to their royal prisoner. If she was fretting about her husband’s health, she hid it well, and when Ranulf now provided additional details, she listened with a faint, enigmatic smile.

“And by the time Robert bade me to get Stephen safely into the castle,” he concluded, “the earl was already regaining his senses. He’s like to have a god-awful headache in days to come, but he was indeed lucky, for if Stephen’s axe haft had not broken, his helmet might not have saved him.”

“Thank God for that hard head of his!”

Ranulf grinned, but he could not help hoping that Annora would not be so nonchalant should he ever be hit on the head with a battle-axe. He started to tease Maud about her unwifely insouciance, but she was twisting around on the seat, fumbling with the shutter. “I thought so,” she cried triumphantly. “It is my father!”

Robert had ridden in through the postern gate in the west wall, bypassing the town just as Ranulf and Stephen had done. He was dismounting in the bailey when his daughter shot through the doorway of the keep, flew down the stairs, and into his arms. Robert hugged her tightly; of all his children, this one was his secret favorite, for Maud’s cheeky, blithe spirit never failed to stir up memories of a young Amabel. “You were not harmed, lass?”

“Indeed not, Papa. In truth, I was not even scared,” she confided, and it was not bravado, for she’d known Stephen would have seen to her safety had the castle fallen to him.

“I’d wager she even enjoyed herself,” a new voice now chimed in, and Maud turned to grin at her elder brother Will, then stuck out her tongue as if she were still his pesky little sister and not an earl’s wife.

“We will be departing on the morrow,” Robert said, “and I want you to come back with us, Maud. Your mother will not believe you are truly safe and well until she sees you with her own eyes.”

“Of course I’ll come back with you! Do you think I’d miss being there when Aunt Maude learns that we’ve won?” Maud sounded so excited that Robert smiled. He knew that even among those who’d become disillusioned with Stephen’s rule, the news of the Battle of Lincoln would be greeted with ambivalence, with both expectation and unease. But at least one of his sister’s subjects had no doubts whatsoever. Maude’s niece and namesake was utterly delighted that her aunt was-at long last-to be England’s queen.

This was the first time that they’d been alone since the battle. Ranulf hesitated, then rose and crossed the chamber to Stephen’s side. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, sounding as awkward as he felt. He’d not expected this, to be caught up in a treacherous tide of memory and regrets. He’d not expected to feel Stephen’s pain as if it were his own. “Stephen? Did you hear me?”

Stephen jerked at Ranulf’s touch, looked up at his cousin with clouded eyes. Making an obvious effort, he focused upon the dried blood caking the sleeve of Ranulf’s hauberk. “You’re hurt, lad.”

Ranulf shrugged. “A scratch, although I hope it’ll leave a scar I can brag about.” His humor was forced, for he did not know what to say, wanting to offer Stephen comfort, realizing there was none. He opened his mouth to reassure Stephen that his life was in no danger, only to stop, defeated. What solace could Stephen derive from the promise of a lifetime’s confinement? For how could they ever let him go?

Ranulf was still groping for words when the door opened and Robert entered, followed by Maud, her brother Will, and Brien Fitz Count. Stephen started to get to his feet, only to discover that his abused muscles were cramped and constricted, beginning to stiffen. Robert saw his involuntary grimace and waved him back into his chair, seating himself on the other side of the table. “I am sorry it is taking so long to find you a doctor,” he began, but Stephen was indifferent to his own injuries.

“I ask nothing for myself,” he said. “But I do for my wife and children. Have I your word, Robert, that they’ll not suffer for any sins of mine?”

Robert’s response was as prompt as it was predictable. “Of course,” he said. “No harm will come to them, I promise you. Nor need you worry about your son’s right to inherit the county of Boulogne, since that is Matilda’s legacy.”

Matilda’s legacy. That was all Eustace had left now, for his paternal legacy was to have been England’s crown. Nothing in Stephen’s past had prepared him for this moment, for he’d been born with an infinitely deep reservoir of hope, and he’d never before experienced the sort of suffocating, dark despair that engulfed him now. It was more frightening even than the final moments of the battle, for war he knew, but desperation was an alien emotion to him. He could not give in to it, though, not here, not before these men. Grabbing for his forgotten wine cup, he drained it in several deep swallows, and then raised his head defiantly.

They were watching him intently, but he did not find in their faces what he’d dreaded-mockery or, Jesu forfend, pity. “What of Baldwin de Clare?” he asked huskily. “William Peverel and the lad, Gilbert de Gant? What befell them?”

“Baldwin de Clare suffered some grievous wounds. Peverel? That I know not, but I’ll find out for you. The Gant stripling was lucky, for his injuries are trifling.”

“And the townspeople?” Stephen made himself ask, although he already knew what Robert would say.

“There will be looting,” Robert said matter-of-factly. “It is a soldier’s right and we cannot cheat them of it. I’ve not been into the city yet, but I heard that many of the townsmen fled to the wharves and sought to escape on the river. They panicked and overloaded the boats, which quickly sank in those flood-tide currents. I was told that hundreds may have drowned.”

“Christ pity them,” Stephen said softly. He’d failed them, too, these wretched citizens of Lincoln, whose only sin was believing he could protect them. He slumped back in the seat, shading his face with his hand. How many others were going to suffer for his mistakes?

The door whipped back, banging into the wall with such force that they all jumped. The Earl of Chester’s head was swathed in a wide white bandage, and his face was drawn and pinched, his skin ashen. But his dark eyes were smoldering, reflecting enough rage to prevail over any bodily infirmities, even those inflicted by a Danish axe. His gaze flicked from Stephen’s face to his bandage, down to his wine cup, back to his face again. “How very civilized,” he said acidly, “the victors sitting around and sharing wine with the vanquished.” Striding forward into the chamber, he gave Ranulf a derisory glance in passing. “Forget whose side you were fighting on, did you, boy?”

Ranulf bristled, but Robert was close enough to put a calming hand on his arm, and he quieted. Stephen pushed away from the table, got slowly to his feet as Maud moved between them, favoring her husband with her most solicitous smile.

“You look dreadful, love, and must feel even worse, after all you’ve been through this day. Why not go up to our bedchamber and get yourself some well-earned rest? I’ll fetch a potion for your head and-”

“I do not need to be coddled! I’m neither enfeebled nor infirm, and if I wanted a potion, woman, I’d damned well say so!”

Maud was accustomed to her husband’s temper tantrums. But she did not like being reviled in front of her father and Stephen, and she snapped back, “Next time you nearly get your head split open, I will not even mention it, I promise!”

“I did not get my head split open! I took a glancing blow, and a paltry one at that!”

“Enough of this foolishness,” Robert said testily, and Ranulf joined in with an unsolicited, sardonic comment about Chester’s helmet, “flattened out like a Shrove Tuesday pancake.” But it was Stephen who put an abrupt halt to Chester’s marital quarrel.

“Do not blame your wife because you could not best me on the field. The failure was yours, not hers,” he said, with such scorn that Chester’s face flamed and his hand clenched on the hilt of his sword.

“You’re an even bigger fool than I suspected,” Chester said scathingly. “You ceased being a threat to the Lady Maude several hours ago. Now you are merely an inconvenience, and I daresay I’m not the only one thinking it a pity that you were not slain on the field. But even a minor battle wound can prove fatal afterward…if need be. I’d bear that in mind if I were you.”

Stephen felt no fear, for at that moment, the prospect of living with defeat and disgrace was more daunting to him than death. “You’ll have to rely upon your Welsh hirelings for the killing,” he jeered, “since you proved that you are not man enough to do it yourself.”

“You are a dead man, I swear it!”

“No, by God, he is not!” Robert’s hand had dropped to his own sword hilt. Only Amabel and Maude knew him better than those in this solar, but none of them had ever seen him so outraged, or even thought him capable of such fury. “This man is my prisoner, not yours. Whatever our differences, he is still a consecrated king. And were he but a cotter’s son, he’d deserve our respect for the courage he showed on the battlefield this day. Do not threaten him again.”

Chester glared at Robert, but his father-in-law was one of the few men he could not intimidate and he knew it. “So be it,” he said grudgingly. “But if we would hang a man for stealing a loaf of bread, why should we honour him for being ambitious enough to steal a crown? You’d do well to think on that, for I’d wager the Lady Maude sees it as I do.” He did not wait for a response, shoved past his brother, who was just entering the solar, and stalked out in disgust.

His brother caught up with him at the bottom of the stairs, trailed him out into the bailey, asking questions Chester did not want to answer. He was still seething, and his head was throbbing so wildly now that he felt queasy. The bailey was fast filling with men: wounded in need of treatment, prisoners to be confined until they could ransom themselves, soldiers in search of food and ale, castle servants sent out to retrieve bodies and round up stray horses. Chester’s brother had been waylaid by an irate Baldwin de Redvers, who was berating him loudly for using his sister as bait for their trap. William de Roumare was shouting back, reminding Baldwin that Hawise was his wife and he had the right to use her as he saw fit. Chester paid them no heed, and as men glanced his way, they prudently cleared a path for him.

He’d almost reached the great hall when he heard his name called out. He turned as the Welsh prince Cadwaladr reined in beside him. “Why do you look so sour? I know English customs can be right peculiar,” the Welshman gibed, “but surely you do celebrate your victories? You won the day for us, so why are you not reaping your reward?”

Why not, indeed? Chester’s eyes had narrowed. He looked past Cadwaladr, toward the east gate and the town. These accursed Lincoln churls had defied his authority, sent for Stephen, and joined in his siege of the castle. “You are right, Cadwaladr,” he said grimly. “This town owes me a debt, and now is as good a time as any to collect it.”

From the twelfth-century Norman chronicle of the monk Orderic Vitalis: “The Earl of Chester and his victorious comrades entered the city and pillaged every quarter of it like barbarians. As for the citizens who remained, they butchered like cattle all whom they found and could lay hands upon, putting them to death in various ways without the slightest pity.”

The wind carried into the castle hall the sound of bells, for Gloucester’s churches were chiming Compline. Maude raised her head, listening until the echoes faded away. She had a book open upon her lap, but she could not focus her thoughts on its pages. This February Friday night seemed endless to her, as had each of the nights in the past month. During the daylight hours, she could keep busy enough to ignore her inner voices, but they grew louder and more insistent as soon as the sky started to darken.

Had they reached Lincoln yet? The wretched roads and winter rain were sure to have slowed them down. And once they got there, what if Stephen refused to do battle? If they had to besiege Lincoln, it could drag on for weeks, even months. How would she ever be able to endure the suspense without going as mad as Rainald’s poor wife?

The hall was the heart of every great household, but at Gloucester Castle, it was beating with a sluggish, uneven rhythm these days. Maude’s servants and retainers had been infected with her unease, and the other women had just as much at stake as she did, for they were wives who might become widows if fortune favored Stephen, and several-like Amabel and Sybil Fitz Walter-had sons at risk, too.

There had been a brief respite earlier in the week, when Amabel arranged a surprise celebration for Maude’s birthday, but tonight the mood was somber. Maude wasn’t the only one finding it difficult to concentrate upon mundane chores or idle pastimes, and when Adelise de Redvers pricked her finger and bled onto her embroidery, her outburst did not seem odd or excessive to the other women, for they understood her need to swear and fling cushions about.

Ranulf’s dyrehunds had been dozing by the hearth. They jumped up suddenly and dashed for the opening door, nearly knocking down Drogo de Polwheile, Maude’s chamberlain. He sidestepped just in time, and as they plunged past him, he hastened toward Maude. “My lady! Your brother has ridden in!”

“Rainald? But I thought he was still in Cornwall-”

“Not Rainald, my lady…Lord Ranulf!”

Maude’s book tumbled down unheeded into the floor rushes. Ranulf? Jesu, what did it mean? Amabel had heard, too, and she paled visibly, stricken with the same fear, for it was too soon. What had gone wrong?

Within moments, Ranulf was coming through the doorway, with his welcoming dyrehunds at his heels and Gilbert Fitz John just a stride behind. They were both mud-splattered, and as Ranulf unfastened his wet mantle, he revealed an arm cradled in a sling. But it was his smile that Maude would long remember, the jubilant, joyful smile of a man bearing gifts of surpassing wonder, with a miracle or two stuffed into his saddlebags, mayhap even a crown.

“Robert sent us on ahead. He said I’d earned the right, that I ought to be the one to tell you-”

“We…we won?”

“Must you sound so surprised?” he teased, beginning to laugh. “Yes, we won! We reached Lincoln on Candlemas Eve, caught Stephen off guard, and fought the next day. We gained a great victory, Maude, by the Grace of God and the justice of our cause, with a bit of help from Stephen’s craven barons.”

“And Stephen?”

“He was taken prisoner, is on his way to Gloucester with Robert. Unless the weather worsens, they’ll be here by Monday.”

Maude had risen to meet Ranulf. Now she sat down abruptly in the nearest chair. Ranulf was assuring Amabel that Robert and her sons had come out of the battle unhurt. The other women were crowding around, excited and anxious, asking about their husbands. Ranulf was able to reassure them, too, and then Amabel wanted to know what he’d meant by “craven barons.” He and Gilbert were quite happy to elaborate, taking turns lambasting the fugitive earls. But Ranulf soon realized that his sister was having very little to say. “Maude?”

She smiled up at him, then got to her feet. “It is late,” she said, “and you must be bone-weary. Gilbert, too. I think we all could benefit from a good night’s sleep.”

Ranulf’s jaw dropped. As he stared at her in astonishment, she leaned over, kissed his cheek. And then she was gone, disappearing so quickly and inconspicuously that the others in the hall did not at once notice she’d left. But Gilbert had overheard their exchange and pulled Ranulf aside. “I do not understand, Ranulf. You told her that she has won her war, that she is to be queen, and she was as calm as if she had crowns to spare. I thought we’d be celebrating till sunrise, and yet off she goes to bed, as if it were any other night!”

Ranulf was just as puzzled as Gilbert. “I expected more, too,” he admitted, unable to mask his disappointment. “Mayhap it does not seem real to her yet…”

The hearth fire had burned low and there was a decided chill in the air. Maude sat down on the edge of the bed, almost at once got up again. Five years and two months. Stephen had stolen more than her crown. He had taken those years, too, and she could not get them back. She had not seen her sons for more than sixteen months, and that also was Stephen’s doing. She would never forgive him, never.

She moved to the hearth, for she’d begun to shiver. She’d thought of this moment so often, during all those nights when she couldn’t sleep and hope dwindled down to bedrock despair, seeking to convince herself that it would truly come to pass, that she would prevail. Only now could she admit just how deep her doubts had gone, seeping into every corner of her soul.

“I won,” she said aloud. “Despite Stephen and Geoffrey and even you, Papa, I did it, I won…” She would bring her sons to England. She need not set foot again in Anjou. And she would never again need a father’s permission, a husband’s consent. She was no longer just a daughter, merely a wife. She would be England’s queen and Normandy’s duchess-and then, the mother of a king.

The door opened quietly behind her. “Madame? You left the hall so suddenly…?”

“I had to, Minna.” She turned, then, for she need not hide her tears now, not from Minna. “I did not want them to see me cry.”

London got its first heavy snow of the season on the same evening that Ranulf reached Gloucester. The city awakened the next morning to deep snow drifts, a sky the shade of pale smoke, and random glimmerings of a pallid winter sun. Matilda’s children were delighted, and dressed with record speed, spurning breakfast in their haste to plunge into the Tower’s glistening, snow-shrouded bailey. Matilda followed at a more sedate pace with Beatrix, the children’s nurse, was soon joined by Cecily de Lacy, her newest lady-in-waiting.

Cecily was a slender young woman in her early twenties, and still unmarried, which was highly unusual for a baron’s daughter. But her father was long dead and her brother seemed unable or unwilling to provide a marriage portion of sufficient size to attract a husband, for although Cecily was appealing in a delicate, subdued sort of way, she also suffered from the “falling sickness,” was subject to occasional seizures that had so far frightened off serious suitors. If she remained unwed, her brother would eventually pressure her into using her meagre marriage portion to buy her way into a nunnery, for those were a woman’s choices-unless she was fortunate enough to be befriended by England’s queen. Upon hearing of Cecily’s plight, Matilda had taken the girl into her household, and she’d promised herself that she’d see Cecily wed to a man able to accept her affliction, for Matilda was beginning to enjoy exercising some of the prerogatives of power.

The snow was no longer pristine and unsullied, bore multiple tracks of paw prints and small feet. Eustace had coaxed or coerced his eleven-year-old wife and his six-year-old brother into helping him build a massive snow fortress; even four-year-old Mary was part of the construction crew, happily scooping out their moat. Matilda’s spaniel, Stephen’s greyhound, and several of the stable dogs were playing a canine version of tag. Matilda was seated on a mounting block, watching the antics of her children and dogs. She smiled at sight of Cecily, sliding over to make room on the block. “Be warned,” she said, “for Eustace is likely to press us into service, too. He has his heart set upon building the biggest snow castle in all of Christendom.”

“I liked playing in the snow when I was a little lass.” But Cecily did not like Geoffrey de Mandeville, and it was with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that she now reported, “I glanced out the window ere I followed you downstairs, and I saw the Earl of Essex riding toward the Tower.”

Matilda looked puzzled, and then smiled sheepishly. “Stephen has created so many earldoms that I’ve lost count of them, and I forgot for a moment that he’d bestowed one on Geoffrey de Mandeville! I do not suppose we could sneak back inside the keep ere he arrives?”

Cecily grinned, warmed by the indiscretion, proof positive of Matilda’s trust. “I fear not, my lady,” she said regretfully, “for the gates are already opening. But he is constable of the Tower, so mayhap he is not here to see you.”

“He’ll still want to pay his respects, for the man’s manners are always impeccable, Cecily. He has given me no reason to be ill at ease with him, and yet I am. I wish I had not promised Stephen we’d stay at the Tower whilst he besieges Lincoln Castle. Every time I encounter my lord Geoffrey de Mandeville, Earl of Essex, I feel as if I’m the tenant and he’s the landlord and I’ve fallen behind on the rent!”

Cecily gave a surprised giggle, for Matilda joked almost as rarely as she allowed herself to show anger. “Brace yourself then, madame,” she said, “for our landlord is heading this way, and by the look of him, he has eviction in mind!”

Geoffrey de Mandeville did indeed look grim, and the good manners Matilda had admired were nowhere in evidence. “There is no way to sweeten what I have to tell you,” he said abruptly, “so I’d best say it straight out. On Sunday a battle was fought at Lincoln. Your husband’s barons deserted him, and the victory went to the Earls of Gloucester and Chester.”

For a merciful moment, Matilda felt nothing, only a stunned sense of disbelief. “That…that cannot be true,” she faltered. “It must be a mistake-”

“Yes, and Stephen made it! If he’d waited for reinforcements, if he’d not been set on playing the hero-”

“For God’s sake, stop! Just tell me what happened to Stephen! Does…” Matilda swallowed hard. “Does he still live?”

“He survived the battle and was taken prisoner. But-”

“No!” Eustace had moved within earshot, unnoticed by the adults until now. “You lie!” he cried, and flung himself upon Geoffrey de Mandeville, fists flailing, kicking and yelling “Liar” over and over, as if it were the only word he knew.

The man shoved Eustace away, none too gently. The boy stumbled, regained his footing, and spat out an oath that was not at all childlike. But before he could lunge forward again, Matilda pulled him into her arms. “No, Eustace, no! He is not to blame, and hurting him will not help, will change nothing!”

Eustace twisted suddenly, breaking free. He backed up, panting, and glared at his mother as if she were now the enemy, too. “You believe him!” he accused. “But I know it is not true! Papa would not lose to those men!”

“Ah, Eustace…” But Matilda got no further. Her heart was beating so fast that she feared she would faint, and she could not seem to catch her breath. Cecily saw her lose color, darted forward to slip a supportive arm around her waist. By the time she’d gotten back her balance, the bailey was reverberating with shrieks and wailing, for Eustace had turned his rage upon himself. He was destroying his castle, trampling its towers and battlements, kicking snow onto his sobbing little sister and brother, screaming curses at Constance and his nurse when they tried to stop him, until at last he sank to his knees in the snow, choking on his own sobs.

Matilda had reached him by then, knelt and held him as he wept. But he soon stiffened and pulled away, angrily swiping at his tears with the back of his hand. When he scrambled to his feet, she let him go. “No, Beatrix,” she said when the nurse would have followed as he bolted across the bailey toward the stables. “Let him be, at least for now.”

“He survived the battle.” Geoffrey de Mandeville’s words were still echoing in Matilda’s ears, fraught with menace. Would they dare put Stephen to death? She felt as if her head were filled with silent screaming, but she could not let herself think of Stephen’s peril, not yet. Her younger children needed her. They were weeping, clutching at her skirts, terrified by her distress, their brother’s frenzy. Matilda held them close, murmuring soothing sounds until they quieted, clung less frantically. Constance was hovering nearby, trembling and on the verge of tears, in need of comfort, too. And Eustace…she’d have to find Eustace once he calmed down.

But then what? No one would help Stephen if she did not. But how? Dear God, what was she to do?