When Christ and His Saints Slept

24

Devizes, England

March 1142

The Countess of Chester arrived the day after her aunt and father held an urgent council at Devizes Castle. Maud needed to take but one meal in their company to conclude that something was amiss, for her senses were finely attuned to emotional undercurrents. As soon as she could, she lured her mother away, and after some bantering about the tedium of the Lenten menu, she demanded to know why “Aunt Maude and Papa and the others look like mourners at a particularly dreary wake.”

Amabel settled herself in the window seat. “They have cause, child, for they have had to swallow their pride, and that goes down much harder than salted fish. They have decided to send envoys to Maude’s husband, asking Geoffrey to aid them in overthrowing Stephen.”

Maud’s eyes widened. “Were they sober at the time? I cannot believe they’d turn to Geoffrey!”

“Well, they did. Which proves, I suppose, just how desperate they are.”

Maud was still incredulous. “I would have sworn upon my very soul that Aunt Maude would never have agreed, no matter how great her need!”

“For herself, I daresay she would not. But there is very little she would not do for her son.”

Maud sat down abruptly, suddenly realizing the full magnitude of what her aunt had lost at Winchester. “It is not fair, Mama. She ought to have been queen!”

“Most people thought otherwise.”

Amabel’s tone had an edge sharp enough to slice bread, or so Maud thought. She was sorry that her mother and her aunt were so often at odds, for they were the two women who mattered most to her, but she was insightful enough to understand why it was so, and pragmatic enough to accept it. Diplomatically steering the conversation away from hidden family reefs, she said, “I understand now why Uncle Ranulf was in such a black mood. He trusts Geoffrey even less than he likes him, and he once told me that if he was given a choice between befriending Geoffrey and trying to tame a polecat, he’d take the polecat every time!”

“Do you remember that Bristol goldsmith’s son, Maud…the wretch who was caught setting all those fires? When he was asked why, he said he just liked to watch things burn. Well, Geoffrey likes to set tempers afire, and he does it right well. But Ranulf’s ‘black mood’ cannot be blamed on Geoffrey’s coming, for he has been troubled for some weeks now. Even Robert commented upon it, and men are usually blind to any wound that does not bleed.”

Maud’s curiosity was piqued. She was quite fond of Ranulf, no less fond of intrigue, and later that afternoon she set herself a dual task-to ferret out Ranulf’s secret and to console him if she could.

She was halfway up the stairs to Ranulf’s chamber when she bumped-quite literally-into her uncle’s young squire. Luke recoiled, stammering incoherent apologies, for his natural shyness became almost paralyzing in the presence of self-assured, flirtatious young women like Maud. Eventually, though, he managed to suggest that this would not be a good time to seek out Lord Ranulf.

“Has he a woman with him?” she asked, and when he blushed at her bluntness but shook his head, she gave him a bewitching smile and continued on up the stairs. In his haste to escape, Luke had left the door ajar. She was about to knock when she heard the voices, as angry as they were audible.

“I swear by the Rood, Ranulf, that you’ve gone utterly daft! Let’s suppose you are able to evade bandits and the king’s men and get safely to Shrewsbury. What then? How are you going to contact Annora? Hope she comes into town ere the year is out? Or do you just intend to ride out to her husband’s manor and ask him if you can borrow his wife for a bit?”

“Damn you, Gilbert, this is none of your concern!”

“Someone has to keep you from dying so young and so needlessly!”

“I’ve had enough of your meddling!” Ranulf jerked the door open, only to find himself nose to nose with his niece. “Maud! What are you doing out there?”

“I should think it would be obvious. I was eavesdropping, of course.” She stepped forward into the room and winked at Gilbert. “My turn to talk some sense into him.”

“Good luck,” he muttered, giving the door a satisfying slam on his way out.

“I want no lecture, Maud,” Ranulf warned, but his rudeness fazed her not at all. Perching on the edge of the bed, she arranged her skirts decorously and then smiled sweetly.

“Sermons are for church. I’d much rather talk about your tryst with…Annora, was it? The girl to whom you were once plight trothed? Such fidelity is rare indeed in our world and must be rewarded. First of all, I need to know what she is like. My husband-and most men, if truth be told-seem far more interested in what is between a woman’s legs than between her ears, but-”

“Maud!”

“Since when are you offended by plain speaking? Just tell me if this lass of yours has a brain in her head. Does she have the wits to read between the lines of my letter?”

“What letter?”

“The one I plan to write to her husband, telling him how much I miss my dear friend Annora and how I yearn to have her visit me. Is she clever enough to need no further prompting?”

“Yes,” Ranulf said slowly, “she is. But what of your husband, Maud?”

“Ah…so Annora’s husband supports Stephen, then? That should pose no problem, though, for Randolph is taking no part in the war these days. His creed at the moment seems to be, ‘May the pox take Stephen and the plague take Maude.’ He may be no friend to Stephen, but he is still the most powerful lord in the realm. Annora’s husband will be greatly flattered that the Countess of Chester is so fond of his wife, and when I suggest that I send an armed escort to bring Annora safe to Chester Castle for a visit, he’ll snap at the offer like a starving trout! Nothing is so alluring,” she added playfully, “as a crown of some sort.”

“You make a most convincing argument,” Ranulf conceded, “but when I asked about your husband, I was not thinking of his political affinities. I was wondering how he’d react upon learning that yours was the guiding hand behind our…tryst, did you call it?”

She waved away his objection with a graceful, airy gesture of dismissal. “What makes you think he’d even be there? As soon as he heard that Stephen had gone north to forbid a tournament at York, he became more nervous than a treed cat, fearing that Stephen might try to reclaim Lincoln Castle whilst he was in the neighborhood. He and his brother have been holed up at Lincoln since the beginning of Lent, making sure the castle could withstand an assault. But even if he were at Chester, he’d be no hindrance to us. Randolph brings great passion to what interests him, utter indifference to what does not. He’d never even notice your dalliance-not unless you were indiscreet enough to make love in the great hall!”

Ranulf sat down beside her on the bed. “It means more than I can say, that you do not pass judgment upon us, that you have offered to help. But if I let you do it, we’d be ensnaring you in our sin.”

Maud laughed. “I assure you that I’ll have so many sins of my own to answer for come Judgment Day that any secondary sins will count for very little!”

He shook his head, laughing, too, in spite of himself, and said again that he could not accept her help. Maud merely smiled, knowing that he would.

Annora supposed she should have been nervous as the distant walls of Chester came into view. She was, after all, answering a mysterious summons from an utter stranger, and intending to commit adultery if she was right about the real reason for the Countess of Chester’s sudden avowal of friendship. But she was not nervous at all, so sure was she that she would find Ranulf waiting for her in Chester.

People stopped to watch as she rode through the hamlet of Hand-bridge, recognizing the Earl of Chester’s badge upon the sleeves of her escort, impressed and curious. Annora liked the attention, and she smiled graciously when they stared and pointed, playing the great lady with zest-Eleanor, Queen of France and Duchess of Aquitaine, on her way to a rendezvous with a royal lover.

Crossing the wooden bridge that spanned the River Dee, Annora entered the city through Bridge Gate, and rode into the castle bailey. The Countess of Chester was awaiting her on the steps of the great hall, coming forward to greet her as Annora was assisted from her mare. Annora recognized Maud at once, so strongly did she resemble her aunt, the empress. She hastily dropped a respectful curtsy, and was then enveloped in an affectionate, perfumed embrace.

“Dearest Annora, how good of you to come!” Maud was enjoying herself enormously. Linking her arm in Annora’s, she led the other young woman across the bailey, giving such a flawless performance that none would ever have doubted she’d just been reunited with a cherished childhood friend. “I see you brought no maid,” she observed, adding a soft, approving “clever lass” before assuring Annora that her own maid would be pleased to be of service.

“I may have forgotten to mention in my last letter that a dear kinsman of mine might be visiting. I am sure you will remember him,” she said blandly, but Annora was no longer listening. At that moment, there was no one in her field of vision-or her world-but Ranulf, just emerging from the great hall out into the daylight, blond hair gleaming in the sun, dark eyes shining with excitement, triumph, and such tenderness that Annora’s own eyes misted and she moved to meet him with a light step and a secret smile.

Making sure they were unobserved, Ranulf and Annora ducked into the stairwell. They had discovered, by trial and error, that the one place where they could be ensured privacy during the daylight hours was in Maud’s bedchamber. As soon as they were inside, Ranulf slid the door’s bolt into place, an act that never failed to give him pleasure, for it was-however briefly-a means of shutting out the world.

Annora wrapped her arms around his neck, tilting her face up until her mouth was temptingly close to his own. It was not an invitation he could resist. Between kisses, they backed toward the bed, where Ranulf pulled her onto his lap. Turning her head so he could kiss her throat, she sighed. “How could a week go by so quickly, Ranulf? I said I’d be away just a fortnight, so our time together is already half over…”

“This time,” he corrected. “There will be other visits, sweetheart. And we can write to each other, for Maud has offered to pass on your letters. That well nigh drove me mad, not being able to contact you. But with Maud on our side, it will be much easier for us from now on.”

“But how long must we wait, Ranulf? I know you say we’ll be together eventually. And I know, too, that you’d not lie to me. Yet I cannot help wondering if you’re not lying to yourself. Maude had her chance and botched it. In this life, how many people get a second chance?”

“We already have,” he reminded her, “when we found each other again at Shrewsbury’s fair. And Maude will have another chance, too. I told you that Geoffrey will be crossing the Channel, bringing us enough men to keep Stephen on the defensive until he can be defeated. Once that happens, you and I can share our lives, as it was meant to be. You must believe that, Annora; you must not lose hope.”

“You have enough hope for both of us,” Annora gibed, but she was smiling. “Whatever do I see in you? No one else can make me as angry as you do. You are impulsive and impractical and so stubborn that-”

Ranulf stopped her words, effectively and pleasurably. When Annora got her breath back, she gave a low, shaken laugh. “You ought not to have interrupted me, for I was going to admit that I am utterly besotted with you, for better or worse.”

“Are you? Prove it,” Ranulf challenged, and she set about convincing him, with such success that he was soon unfastening the lacings of her gown. She was reaching up to unbraid her hair, knowing how he loved it loose and free-flowing, when they were jarred by a sudden, sharp knocking on the door. Sitting up, they hastily adjusted their clothing, waiting to see if the knocking would stop.

It did not. “Ranulf, it is me-Maud. Let me in.”

As soon as Ranulf unbarred the door, Maud swept into the chamber. She never just entered a room; she made an entrance. This one was more dramatic than usual, for her face was flushed and her dark eyes were flashing. “Men,” she exclaimed, “are the most vexing creatures in Christendom-never around when you want them, always underfoot when you do not. My husband, who is supposed to be at Lincoln, has ridden into the bailey.”

Ranulf and Annora’s instinctive alarm passed as soon as they saw that Maud was irritated, not fearful. They hurriedly smoothed the rumpled bedcovers, were making a final check for incriminating evidence when they heard Chester’s voice blaring in the stairwell, loud enough to rival any hunting horn. “Maud? Where the Devil are you?”

Like his wife, Chester never simply entered a room, instead hurling himself across the threshold as if he were about to launch an assault. But he was not in a rage; quite the contrary. Taking hold of Maud’s hands, he grinned down at her cheerfully. “Glad to have me home, girl?” Not waiting for her response, he kissed her exuberantly, bending her backward in a passionate embrace, one that seemed likely to lead straight to their bed-had he not caught movement from the corner of his eye and realized they were not alone.

“Who are you?” he asked, staring at Annora in surprise; he’d yet to notice Ranulf.

“This is Annora Fitz Clement, Randolph, one of my oldest friends. I am sure you must remember how often I’ve talked about her in the past.”

“Of course I remember,” Chester insisted, his eyes flickering over Annora, without any real interest. “I trust you are enjoying your visit with Maud,” he added politely, if unenthusiastically, and then swung around as Ranulf stepped forward.

They knew no reason why Chester should look so startled at sight of Ranulf, for he was Maud’s favorite uncle. But it was quite clear to them all that Chester did not expect to find Ranulf here. “Why are you not with Maude, now of all times?” he demanded. “It is an incredible stroke of luck, for certes, but she must act swiftly if she is to take full advantage of-Why are you looking at me so oddly? Unless…you do not know, do you? You’ve not yet heard about Stephen!”

“I heard he went north,” Ranulf said warily. “What else should I know?”

Chester shook his head impatiently. “Stephen left York after Easter. He’d gotten as far as Northampton when he was stricken with a fever, the kind that burns hotter than any fire, that consumes a man like kindling.” Chester saw Ranulf’s shock and he smiled, grimly, with infinite satisfaction. “He is said to be dying.”

Stephen had never been trapped in a nightmare like this one, for it would not end. Somehow he knew it was a dream, and he kept trying to wake up. But it was as if he were caught in a riptide, being dragged farther and farther from shore and safety. He would not give up, though, and struggled on toward the light.

When he finally broke free, he found himself in a stranger’s bed in an unfamiliar bedchamber. Even his body seemed to belong to someone else, for the coverlets were weighing him down like lead and his lungs wheezed and heaved as if he were starved for air. He wanted to say that he was thirsty; the words stuck in his throat. When he tried again, they emerged as the thinnest and weakest of whispers.

“Stephen? Thank God All-merciful! Henry…Henry, come quickly!” This voice was a woman’s. The face bending over him was pale and tear-marked. “My love, do you know me?” Matilda pleaded, and when he mouthed her name, she fumbled in the blankets for his hand. “You’ve been so ill,” she said, almost inaudibly. “The doctors despaired. Do you…remember?”

“I think so…” His lips were chapped and raw, blistered by fever. “You kept calling to me,” he said hazily. “I followed the sound…”

And then his brother was there, shouldering Matilda aside in his urgency. “Stephen, listen to me. You’ve not been shriven, for you’ve been out of your senses with the fever. You must make your confession to me now, so you can go to God cleansed of your sins.”

“Am I dying?”

Matilda made an involuntary movement, quickly checked. But the bishop did not flinch. “I hope not,” he said, “I truly hope not. But we cannot put your immortal soul at risk, for we are all in God’s Hands, and I would not be so presumptuous as to promise you what only He can decree.”

“I agree.” Stephen’s voice was slurred and scratchy, and when Matilda put a cup to his lips, he drank gratefully, greedily. “I want to be shriven. But not by you, Henry.” He looked up at his brother, the corner of his mouth curving as he added, “You already know…too many of my guilty secrets…”

The bishop was not amused. “Very well,” he said stiffly, “if that is your wish. I shall fetch your confessor straightaway.”

Matilda saw that half-smile of Stephen’s through a blur of tears, for she was suddenly hearing her own words, so often directed at her lighthearted husband in gentle, bemused reproach, that he’d be jesting verily upon his deathbed.

“Tilda.” Stephen cut his eyes toward the cup she still held, and she helped him to drink again. “Thank you,” he said, and then, softly, “Do not be afraid. I am not going to die.”

She swallowed. “You promise?”

“Yes,” he said, and squeezed her hand before giving her another ghostly shadow of a smile. “It would give you too much pain and my enemies too much pleasure.”

Maude’s shrinking circle of partisans had been summoned back to Devizes Castle on a wet, warm day in mid-June. As they gathered in the great hall, waiting for the council to begin, there were gaps in their ranks, missing faces. The Scots king had elected to remain on his own side of the border. Rainald was still in Cornwall, trying to save his imperiled earldom. More dubious allies like Hugh Bigod and Geoffrey de Mandeville’s brother-in-law the Earl of Oxford were keeping their distance. But Miles Fitz Walter was there. So were Baldwin de Redvers and the exiled lord of Shrewsbury, William Fitz Alan. From Wallingford had come Brien Fitz Count, and from Marlborough, John Marshal, the worst of his wounds hidden behind a rakish eye patch.

As they waited for Maude and Robert to join them, they swapped stories about the dangers of the road these days. Roving bands of outlaws were springing up like dragon’s teeth, for there was no more fertile soil for banditry than a realm in the throes of civil war and anarchy. They then shared the latest rumors about Stephen’s health. By now they knew the worst-that those early reports of his death had been regrettably premature. While he’d been laid up at Northampton for the entire month of May, word filtering south was that he was expected to recover. They indulged in some grim, gallows humor at Stephen’s expense, but their jests were labored, for Stephen’s death would have won them a kingdom. Few in this war-battered and bleeding land would have had the stomach to continue the struggle on behalf of Stephen’s young son Eustace.

And so they cursed Stephen’s luck and sheer stamina, and cursed, too, the doctors who’d tended to him and the priests who’d prayed for him. But by common consent, they did not discuss the reason for their presence at Devizes on this Trinity Sunday-to hear Geoffrey’s answer. It had taken three months for Maude’s envoys to bring back her husband’s response, and they did not think that boded well for their cause.

When Robert and Maude entered, with Ranulf following a step behind, their faces were somber enough to confirm the worst. Miles was the one to put it into words, saying with a soldier’s bluntness, “Geoffrey balked at coming, did he not?”

To their surprise, Maude shook her head. “No, he did not refuse,” she said, but then added reluctantly, “…outright. He says he is loath to break off his campaign in Normandy, for he has met with considerable success. He is willing, though, to consider it, if we can convince him that his presence in England could truly mark a turning point in our war to overthrow Stephen. But he says the only opinion he can trust is Robert’s, and so he insists that Robert come back to Normandy to discuss it in person.”

“A long and dangerous trip,” Robert said morosely, “and most likely a futile one. Geoffrey does not want my counsel, he wants my help in his war. Too many Normans view Angevins as spawns of the Devil. With me riding at his side, some of them might be more willing to accept his lordship. I do not doubt that he’ll be lavish with his promises, but I do doubt that we’ll ever see him set foot on English soil.”

It was unlike Robert to be so imprudent; speaking out so harshly in public about a man they needed to win over was impolitic at best. There could be no more convincing proof of Robert’s discontent than this uncharacteristic outburst, and the men exchanged disappointed glances, seeing yet another opportunity slipping away from them.

Once again it was Miles who gave voice to their misgivings. “I daresay you are right, Robert, to suspect the man’s good faith. But a reed-thin chance is still better than none, and if you do not even try to persuade him, we’ll never know if you might have prevailed or not. I urge you to think again ere you refuse.”

“There is no need for that,” Maude said, sounding very tired. “Robert has agreed to go.”

“Yes,” Robert said tersely, making no effort to hide his frustration. “Geoffrey has left me no choice. So…I will sail for Normandy and I will do my utmost to gain his support. But I expect-nay, demand-something from all of you in return. Whilst I am gone, I want your sworn oaths that you will see to the safety of my sister, let her come to no harm.”

They responded without hesitation, promising to protect Maude in Robert’s absence. Maude said nothing, but hot blood scalded her face and throat. Ranulf noticed, understood, and sympathized, for he knew how she hated any reminder of her special vulnerability as a woman. He was impressed now by her restraint, for it was not so long ago that she would have rebuked Robert sharply for shaming her by his unwanted solicitude, however well meant. But she was not the same woman who’d blundered so badly that she’d gotten herself chased out of her own capital city. She had learned from her mistakes. It seemed bitterly unfair to Ranulf that she had learned too late. They could not give up, though. It might be too late for Maude, but not for her young son. They must do whatever it would take to claim the English crown for Henry-even if that meant doing the bidding of Maude’s hated Angevin husband.

Matilda was very glad to be back in London; more and more, it seemed a haven from the troubles besetting the rest of her husband’s realm. On this morning in early July, she was performing one of her more pleasurable duties as queen: bestowing largesse upon the neediest of her subjects. Her servants loaded a cart with jars of honey, sacks of flour, baskets of eggs, loaves of bread, woolen blankets, even a few toys-whipping tops and balls. Matilda then mounted her favorite white mule, and she and Cecily and her escort set out to deliver her bounty to London’s two hospitals.

St Giles in the Fields was a leper hospital just outside the city walls, founded by a queen, Maude’s mother. Matilda felt great pity for those poor souls afflicted with such a fearful malady, although she found it exceedingly difficult to look upon their dreadful deformities. But she forced herself to smile and show none of her revulsion when they came forward to thank her, and afterward she confided to Cecily her awed admiration for Maude’s mother, who had kissed lepers and washed their ulcerated sores with her own hands to demonstrate they were still beloved by God.

Cecily agreed that such a woman well deserved to be known as Good Queen Maude, although she could not help adding mischievously that it explained much about the Empress Maude, child of such a disparate mating-a notorious lecher and an earthly saint. Matilda laughed, commenting that Stephen’s parents were surely an oddly matched pair, too, but then her smile faded, for she found herself thinking of yet another incompatible couple-her brash young son Eustace and Constance, his timid French bride.

From St Giles, Matilda continued on to the hospital of St Bartholomew, situated next to the Augustinian priory of the same name in West Smithfield. St Bartholomew took in the needy and orphans as well as the sick, and it was for the orphans that Matilda had brought tops and balls. Her own children had puppets and wooden swords and dolls and whistles. But toys were a luxury, and she knew the skinny, solemn youngsters at St Bart’s were unlikely to have had any but makeshift playthings-scraps of rope and stones and hollow reeds. She was warmly welcomed by the hospital’s master and nuns, but the memory she took away with her was of the shrieks and laughter of boys playing with their first real ball, a pig’s bladder filled with dried beans.

They reentered the city through Cripplegate, headed back toward the Tower. Matilda’s progress was a slow one, for people flocked to her as she passed by, seeking to find out if the king was fully recovered from his near-fatal fever. If the questions directed at her were occasionally intrusive or overly familiar, Matilda did not object; had the Londoners not been so forthright and cocky, they never would have dared to defy Maude. And so she waved and smiled and assured them that the king was on the mend, of good cheer, and eager to take up the reins of kingship again.

Just how eager Stephen was, she was soon to discover. Upon her arrival at the Tower, she hastened up to the royal apartments on the top floor of the soaring, whitewashed keep. There she found her husband sitting around a table with his brother and William de Ypres and William Martel, his steward. They had a large map spread out before them, but that was not what caught Matilda’s attention; it was the charged atmosphere, one of barely suppressed excitement. “You look,” she said, “like foxes who’ve just found a way into the hen roost. What has happened that I do not yet know about?”

There was a time when she would never have spoken up so boldly, but now she did not even hesitate, taking it for granted that she had earned the right to share in their decision making. And of the men, only the bishop thought her candid curiosity was unseemly, but even he held his tongue, tacitly acknowledging that Matilda would not be retreating back into the shadows. For better or worse, he conceded, hers had become a voice to be heeded.

“We have gotten some very interesting news, Tilda.” Stephen leaned back in his chair, smiling at her. “Maude’s brother has gone to Normandy to meet with Geoffrey. Robert sailed for Barfleur a week ago.”

“Leaving the hen roost unguarded,” William de Ypres said happily. “I never thought I’d owe Geoffrey of Anjou such a debt of gratitude!”

Matilda’s first reaction was unease. Stephen might be ready for the rigors and risks of an active campaign, but she was not; her memories of his Northampton illness were still too raw. But she did not confess her qualms, for fear was a wife’s burden, to be borne alone. “What are you planning?” she asked, and Stephen beckoned her toward the map.

“Robert sailed from there-from Wareham-putting his firstborn in command. But the son is not the man his father is, and he promptly went back to the greater comforts of Bristol, leaving the castle poorly garrisoned. If we capture it, we can deny Robert a safe port for his return.”

“Where is Maude now…still at Devizes?”

“No, she is back at Oxford Castle, with Miles Fitz Walter, Baldwin de Redvers, and Ranulf, amongst others, keeping a close watch upon her. Robert seems to have been so worried about her safety that I’d almost think he had second sight!”

Matilda did not share Stephen’s smile. “That does not sound like an unguarded hen roost to me.”

“No…not yet. Maude is well served at the moment. That is why I do not plan to besiege Oxford after we capture Wareham. No, there is our next target,” he said, “Cirencester. For however devoted Maude’s men are to her, they’re not likely to stay cooped up at Oxford if their own lands in the west are threatened. My raid on Cirencester will draw them away from Oxford, and then,” Stephen said, with a grim resolve he’d not often shown, “we take Maude captive and end this accursed war once and for all.”