When Christ and His Saints Slept

29

Tower of London

October 1143

Geoffrey de Mandeville had lost track of time, could not be sure how long he’d been held as a prisoner in the stronghold that had so recently been his. On those rare occasions when his rage receded enough for calculation, he thought it must be nigh on a fortnight, for it had been Michaelmas week when he’d arrived at St Albans for the king’s council, unsuspecting that he was riding into an ambush.

He still felt a sense of disbelief, remembering that moment when the king had turned upon him without warning, ordering his arrest. He’d not even been able to resist, for Stephen had managed to separate him from his men before springing the trap. Of course Stephen was now in trouble with the Church, for the arrest had taken place within the abbey grounds, and the outraged abbot had viewed this as sacrilege. But he could take little consolation from that, for he’d been dragged off to London in chains, forced to order his garrison at the Tower to submit, and then thrown into one of his own dungeons. And now he waited, alone in the darkness, for the king to decree his fate, his world in ruins, and nothing to sustain him but his hatred.

When he was brought before them, dirty and unkempt, blinking like a barn owl in the sudden surge of sunlight, Matilda was taken aback; could this pitiful wretch of a prisoner and the elegant, prideful Earl of Essex be one and the same? What shocked her even more than how far he’d fallen was the joy she took in it. Moving to her husband’s side, she stared coldly at Geoffrey de Mandeville as he was shoved to his knees before them.

Stephen was experiencing the same unfamiliar emotion: satisfaction in an enemy’s suffering. “You do not look as if you’ve enjoyed your stay here at the Tower, my lord earl. But then I doubt that my daughter-in-law enjoyed her stay, either.”

Mandeville’s eyes were gradually adjusting to the light, and when he blinked now, it was in surprise. “Is that what all this is about-the little French lass? No harm came to her, I saw to that. So I imposed my hospitality upon her for a while…what of it? That seems a minor sin, indeed, when compared to some of the other betrayals you’ve forgiven, including those of your own brother. You’d need a tally stick to keep count of all the times he has switched sides!”

Stephen scowled, and so did Matilda and William Martel. But the gibe did find an appreciative audience of one: a laugh floated from the window seat, where William de Ypres was comfortably sprawled, whittling upon a stick of white beech. His amusement seemed genuine, but his blade flashed all the while, paring the wood down to splinters.

“Had you betrayed only me,” Stephen said, “I might have forgiven you. But you wronged my wife and Constance, and there can be no forgiveness for that.”

Geoffrey de Mandeville said nothing, merely glanced toward Matilda and then away. But that look, brief as it was, was chilling in its intensity, its malevolence, for until that moment, Matilda had not known what it was like to be an object of hatred.

“If I pleased myself, I’d keep you caged here at the Tower till you rotted. But you are luckier than you deserve,” Stephen said coolly, “for a number of your fellow barons have argued for clemency. And so I have decided to offer you a choice. If you cooperate, I will set you free.”

Mandeville shifted awkwardly, for Stephen had not given him permission to rise and his calf muscles were cramping. “And what will this…cooperation of mine cost?”

“You’ve already yielded the Tower. Surrender as well your castles at Pleshy and Saffron Walden and I’ll give you your freedom.”

Mandeville took time to think it over, as if seeking to convince someone-if only himself-that there was an actual decision to be made. When he nodded, Stephen gestured and the guards jerked him to his feet. “I’ve a word of warning for you,” he said, “and you’d best take it to heart. You’ll be getting no second chances.”

Mandeville paused at the door, balking when the guards would have pushed him through. “You may be sure,” he said to Stephen, “that I will remember.”

Once Mandeville was gone, Stephen took Matilda’s hand and steered her toward the settle. “A pity Henry was not here to see that,” he said, surprising them all, for he did not often express a yearning for his brother’s company.

But the bishop had made possible Geoffrey de Mandeville’s downfall, and Stephen was grateful. In a maneuver as guileful as it was adroit, Henry had contrived to have the hostile Bishop of Ely charged with Church irregularities, thus compelling him to journey to Rome to defend himself. With the Bishop of Ely absent from England, Stephen no longer needed Mandeville to keep peace in Bishop Nigel’s Fenlands, and he’d at last been able to punish the earl as he deserved.

The reckoning had been no less gratifying for being so belated, and Stephen knew his brother would have enjoyed it immensely. But Henry, too, was now on the way to Rome, seeking to persuade the new Pope to reappoint him as a papal legate.

An even more unlikely source now echoed Stephen’s regrets. “I wish the bishop were here, too,” William de Ypres said, “for I’d wager that he’d have agreed with me-that Geoffrey de Mandeville ought not to have seen the light of day again in this lifetime.”

“Are you still fretting about that, Will?”

“I am, my liege. I know you think you’ve pulled his fangs by taking the Tower and his strongholds away from him. But a defanged snake is still a snake, and my experience says you kill it when you can; you do not let it slither away just because all the other snakes are pleading for mercy.”

Stephen slanted an amused glance in the Fleming’s direction. “I do not think my barons would like your calling them snakes, Will-scales and forked tongues notwithstanding!”

“I am not jesting, my lord king. Why do you think Hugh Bigod and the others were so keen to speak up for Mandeville? You think any of that lot would truly care if you hanged him higher than Haman? They do not want you to punish Mandeville too harshly because they fear that the next time, it might be one of them whose double-dealing comes to light.”

“Your view of mankind is bleak enough to disturb even the Devil,” Stephen joked. “I am not denying that there is some truth in what you say; even Mandeville’s Vere and Clare kindred do not seem overly fond of him. And I’ll not deny, either, that they get downright disquieted at the prospect of one of their own being treated like any other felon or brigand. But no man ever died from the bite of a toothless snake, Will. What trouble could he stir up now? He cannot go crawling off to Maude, not after his betrayal at Winchester. That lady is far less forgiving than I am, and all of Christendom well knows it!”

“I cannot argue with anything you’ve said,” Ypres admitted. “I can only tell you that when I first learned to hunt, I was taught that if you go after dangerous prey-like wild boar-you never strike unless you are sure your blow can kill.”

“Sometimes it is enough,” Matilda interjected, “for a blow to maim, Willem,” and the Fleming did not demur. But neither was he convinced, and because they knew that, the disgraced earl’s presence seemed to linger on in their midst, long after he’d been returned to his prison cell.

Nature that year was unrelenting. An arid, sweltering summer had brought a poor harvest to a land already ravaged by four years of war, and to add to the miseries of the English people, winter came early. Even for November, the weather was unusually wretched: day after day of icy downpours, gusting winds, and sleet. By early December, the first snow of the season had blanketed half the country, and Annora was thankful when the walls of Lincoln at last came into view, for there a hot meal, a soft bed, and a lover’s embrace awaited her.

Ranulf had been awake since dawn, cocooned in coverlets, blissfully content to lie abed on this frigid December morn, watching the young woman asleep in his arms. It was easy to pretend they were snowbound, that the world beyond the boundaries of his chamber did not exist, easy to convince himself that their love affair was a secret from even the castle servants, for Annora’s bed was in Maud’s chamber and who but Maud would know where she really slept? It was always easy to hold on to his hopes while holding on to Annora, too. It was even possible to forget the living, breathing impediment to their union, Annora’s husband-almost.

Annora stirred eventually, giving him a sleepy smile. “I love waking up with you,” she murmured, leaning over to claim a kiss. “But I almost did not get to come, for Gervase was uneasy about my being out on the roads, even with Maud’s escort.”

Ranulf frowned; any mention of her husband, however fleeting or casual, was sure to sour his mood. “Because of Geoffrey de Mandeville’s arrest?” he asked, and when she nodded, he drew her in against him, propping pillows behind their heads.

“It is passing strange, Annora. Stephen reached manhood at my father’s court, had ample opportunities to learn the lessons of kingship from a master. Whatever his other failings, Papa understood the uses and perceptions of power, and his mistakes were few, indeed. He knew how to handle men, whereas Stephen…with the best will in the world, he just lurches from one blunder to another.”

“Because he arrested Mandeville at his court, the way he did with the Bishops of Ely, Salisbury, and Lincoln? I grant you that does make him a dubious host,” Annora teased, “but why is that so damaging to his kingship?”

“Because it makes men think he cannot be trusted, because it makes him look weak-”

“Be fair, Ranulf! No one-not even your sister-could fault Stephen’s courage.”

“Nor do I. I said men think him a weak king, not a cowardly one. I am not saying that Mandeville did not deserve to be arrested, but there was something sly about the way it was done. That might not matter if men respected Stephen as they did my father. But they do not, Annora, for they do not fear him…and fear and respect are horns on the same goat.”

Annora was rapidly regretting ever having brought the topic up, for she had no interest in hearing Ranulf hold forth upon the flaws in Stephen’s kingship; she got enough of that from her husband, who was increasingly disillusioned with his king’s failure to end the war. “Can we not talk of something besides politics? I would much rather hear about the doings in Winchester, for,” she added hopefully, “was there not some sort of scandal involved?”

The recent calamity in Winchester was a sore subject with all of Maude’s partisans. But Ranulf knew how much Annora loved gossip, and so he overcame his reluctance, told her the rather sad and sordid story of William Pont de l’Arche, his young, fickle wife, and the Flemish mercenary, Robert Fitz Hildebrand. The former castellan of Winchester’s royal castle had taken advantage of the Wilton debacle to regain control of the stronghold, and then appealed to Maude and Robert for aid. They’d dispatched Hildebrand-to their eternal regret-for welcomed as an ally by William Pont de l’Arche, he’d promptly set about seducing the latter’s wife, and with her connivance, his men overpowered the castle garrison, cast the cuckolded husband into his own dungeon, and then struck a deal with the bishop and Stephen. All in all, it was a sorry tale, a deplorable commentary upon the way this war was unraveling the country’s moral fabric, and Annora found it highly entertaining.

“How do you know this Robert Fitz Hildebrand seduced the castellan’s wife? Mayhap she was the one seduced him,” she suggested impishly, and then demonstrated that she was not lacking in seduction skills herself. They kissed and rolled, laughing, to the very edge of the bed, where they kissed again. But then Annora bolted upright and let out a piercing scream. “A rat! Ranulf, a rat bit my hair!”

As he started to look, she grabbed his arm. “Wait-get your sword first!” she insisted, and then, indignantly, “Ranulf! Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” he said, “you’re about to meet a rare Norse rat,” and she peered cautiously over the edge of the bed, frowning at sight of the dog looking gravely back at her.

“I knew no rat would dare venture into the chamber with Loth here. He’s the best hunter of Shadow’s sons. I once saw him take down a deer all by himself,” Ranulf bragged, reaching out to ruffle the dyrehund’s thick fur. “When your hair swung down, he probably thought you were playing with him.”

“Tell him, please, that I was playing with you, and three are not wanted in this game.” Annora frowned again; she liked dogs, but there was something unnerving about this one’s unblinking stare. “What did you call him-Loth? Wherever did you get an outlandish name like that?”

She was at once sorry she’d asked, for she’d unwittingly given Ranulf an opportunity to expound upon one of his more peculiar passions-his love of reading. It was called The History of the Kings of Britain, he informed her, written by an Augustinian canon named Geoffrey of Monmouth, and dedicated to Robert. The book was the most remarkable one he’d ever read, tracing English history back through the ages. He’d especially fancied the story of Arthur, King of the Britons, the people known today as the Welsh. He’d gotten Loth’s name from the book, he explained; Loth was Arthur’s brother-in-law, and with Arthur’s help, he’d become King of Norway. So what better name for a Norwegian dyrehund?

Annora agreed politely that Loth was indeed an inspired choice, only half listening, for she neither shared nor understood Ranulf’s enthusiasm for books. Her brothers had been taught to read and write-against their will-for her father had an almost monkish respect for education. When she’d wanted to learn, too, jealously intent upon following in her brothers’ footsteps, he’d indulged her, as always, even though their priest had insisted that women had no need for worldly knowledge. She’d soon lost interest, would not have persevered had Ranulf not come into her life when he did, Ranulf who truly took pride in being able to wield a pen like a common clerk. Now, of course, Annora was thankful for her education, scanty as it was, for her rudimentary skills enabled her to write to Ranulf and to read his letters. But as he continued to extol the virtues of this Geoffrey of Monmouth’s book with its oddly named heroes-Brutus, Arthur, Merlin, Loth-her eyes glazed over and her jaw began to ache from the yawns she was suppressing.

Not wanting Ranulf to know he was boring her, she took diversionary measures, with such success that they soon attracted Loth’s attention. Puzzled and protective, the big dog rose to his feet, head cocked to the side as he tried to make sense of the strange noises coming from the bed, not moving away until he had satisfied himself that all this sudden thrashing about did not put his master in peril.

Ranulf and Annora’s idyllic stay at Lincoln Castle came to an abrupt end the next day with the unexpected arrival of Maud’s husband. Their unease was soon dissipated, though, for it was apparent that Chester had no recollection of ever having met Annora before. Ranulf, of course, he did remember, greeting the younger man with a caustic “You here again? It is well that you are Maud’s uncle or else I might start wondering why you seem to be underfoot all the time.” But the insult was offhand; he had weightier matters on his mind than baiting Ranulf. “Set the servants to packing what you need,” he instructed his wife, “for I am taking you back to Cheshire, and I want to depart on the morrow.”

Ranulf and Annora were dismayed, Maud irked. “Why?” she demanded, and Chester scowled.

“It ought to be enough for you that I say so.” His complaint was perfunctory, though, for he was in suspiciously high spirits. Maud regarded him warily, knowing from past experience that he was never so cheerful as when contemplating the troubles of others. And indeed, his black eyes were agleam with the perverse pleasure that people so often take in being the bearer of bad news. “Like ancient Egypt, we have a plague loosed upon us,” he declared dramatically. “Geoffrey de Mandeville has rebelled.”

His revelation was fully as explosive as he’d hoped, and he found himself fending off questions faster than arrows. “If you’ll all stop talking at once,” he protested, “I’ll tell you what I know. Mandeville took advantage of Bishop Nigel’s absence to seize the Isle of Ely and capture Aldreth Castle. He then advanced upon Ramsey, drove the monks out, and took over their abbey.”

“Do you truly think he’d dare to lay siege to Lincoln Castle, Randolph?” Maud asked skeptically and he shook his head.

“Not likely. But until Stephen tracks the whoreson down, there’ll be a lot of bodies found floating in the Fens. It is an outlaw’s Eden, a murky, deadly maze of salt marshes and quagmires and bogs. If Stephen goes in after Mandeville, he’ll never come out,” Chester predicted and smiled at the thought.

“Well, I am flattered,” Maud murmured, half mockingly, half flirtatiously, “that you were so concerned about my safety.”

“No one takes what is mine,” he said, “be it a lamb, a wife, a sack of flour from my mill, a felled tree from my woods. Let Mandeville steal and plunder all he pleases on his way to Hell, but if he makes me his enemy, he is an even greater fool than Stephen. No, lass, better you should keep to Cheshire and away from the Fens. Until Mandeville’s body is rotting on a gallows for all to see what befalls rebels, there will be no peace in these parts, nothing but blood and tears and the wailing of widows.”

It was a phrase that seemed to echo out of Scriptures, trailing a whiff of fire and brimstone. But what startled Ranulf was not that Chester was prophesying ruin and perdition, it was that he appeared to relish the prospect. Ranulf felt repelled when he realized why: that the Earl of Chester saw Geoffrey de Mandeville’s mad, doomed rebellion as an opportunity in bloody guise, a chance to set his own snares and pursue his own prey while Stephen hunted in the Fens.

The next day, Chester and the women departed at first light with a formidable armed escort. But Ranulf was not among them, for a messenger had arrived soon after Chester did, bearing urgent word for Annora. Her husband had heard, too, of Mandeville’s rebellion, and Lincoln was too close to the Fenlands for his peace of mind. If the Countess of Chester would be good enough to provide Annora with an escort again, Gervase would meet her along the route. Maud dispatched a courier to let Gervase Fitz Clement know that she and Annora would be heading west in the earl’s company, suggesting that they rendezvous at Coventry. Gervase’s letter vexed Ranulf even more than his disappointment at having their tryst cut so short. It was as if the man had reached across the miles to claim Annora as his own, and he had to stand aside and let it happen.

Nor could he accompany them on their westward journey, for he dared not risk Gervase’s learning that he’d been in Annora’s company. Even the most complacent, trusting husband would not accept “happenchance” as the explanation upon finding his wife with the man she’d been pledged to wed.

Annora and Maud were both uneasy about his striking out on his own, but Ranulf had a more potent armor than his chain-mail hauberk-the invincibility of youth-and he’d assured them that he’d keep to the main roads, take no needless risks, and send word straightaway upon his safe arrival at Devizes. He set out the day after their departure, taking the Fosse Way toward Newark. There he would follow the road south to Grantham, where he would swing off onto the cross-country road that would take him through Leicester, Coventry, and on to Gloucester.

The roads were even worse than he’d expected, for temperatures had plunged and treacherous ice patches were not always noticeable until it was too late. It had taken Ranulf a full day to travel the fourteen miles to Newark, and as he left the town behind the following morning, the sky was overcast, as leaden and bleak as his mood. More snow seemed in the offing, but he hoped he’d be able to reach Grantham before the weather turned truly foul.

Even in winter, there should have been travelers on the road, but it was virtually deserted; he covered more than five miles without seeing another soul. Loth had ranged off into the bushes, having caught an enticing scent, and Ranulf halted his palfrey, giving it a rest until the dog returned. Gazing at the empty stretch of road, he found himself worrying just how serious this rebellion of Geoffrey de Mandeville’s was. Fear was clearly on the prowl.

He was not sure at first what he’d heard, and he tilted his head, listening intently. It came again and this time he had no doubts-it was a scream. Turning his stallion about, he followed the sound into a copse of trees off to the side of the road.

He came out onto a frozen meadow, where a hunt was on. The quarry, though, was not deer or rabbit. Two men were trying to run down a young girl. There was a second child, too, but the men had no interest in him, and when he slipped on the ice and fell, they veered around him, continuing their pursuit of the girl. She’d been attempting to reach the woods, but the snow was hampering her flight, and they were gaining on her with every stride. When she risked a glance over her shoulder, she dodged suddenly, making a desperate detour out onto the ice of a small pond. The men halted at the edge, cursing, for the ice would never support their weight; as light as the girl was, the surface was creaking ominously under her feet. The men swore again, for by the time they circled the pond, she would have gotten into the woods, where it would not be so easy to find her.

At first glimpse, one of the men bore a superficial resemblance to Gilbert, for he was a redhead, too, and tall enough to look down upon most men. His partner in crime was lean and spare and dark, lacking either the redhead’s brawn or his conspicuous coloring. But he was the dominant of the two. As the redhead continued to stand at the pond’s edge, thwarted and fuming, he swung back toward the boy.

The child was just getting to his feet. Pouncing upon him before he could scramble out of reach, the man stopped his struggles with a blow across the face and then crooked his arm around the boy’s throat, shouting, “You’d best come back, girl, or I’ll snap the whelp’s neck in two, by God, I will!”

The girl looked back and froze on the ice, steps away from safety. The boy squirmed, bit the hand clamped over his mouth, and cried, “Run, Jennet!” He paid a price in pain for that, kicked futilely as he was snatched off his feet, and then gagged as the pressure on his windpipe increased. The girl’s face was contorted in horror; she seemed unable to move, and the man grinned, sensing victory.

“If you care about the cub,” he warned, “you get over here now!” Jerking his head toward his partner, he said, “Go around the pond so you can head her off if she runs for the woods.”

The redhead was accustomed to taking orders and was starting to obey when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and his jaw dropped open. He wasted several precious seconds, staring, eyes wide and mouth ajar, as Ranulf’s stallion raced toward them, before blurting out, “Holy Jesus! Ned, behind you!”

The man called Ned was of a different mettle than the befuddled redhead. The shock of seeing an armed knight bearing down upon him must have been considerable. But his reaction was instantaneous. Without hesitation, he threw the child into the path of the oncoming stallion.

Ranulf yanked on the reins and the palfrey swerved, with not a foot to spare. But the horse’s sudden plunge carried it onto a glaze of iced-over snow. It skidded, started to slide sideways, and went down.

Ranulf flung himself from the saddle, and was fortunate enough to land in a snowdrift. For a heart-stopping moment, he could not see where his sword had fallen, then spotted it ensnared in a hawthorn hedge. The prickly spines inflicted deep scratches upon his wrist and hand as he snatched it out, but that was the least of his problems, for the men were almost upon him.

He was surprised at their boldness, for he’d had a few encounters with brigands of their ilk, and they invariably backed off from any confrontation with a knight, preferring easier prey. They may have been enraged over the loss of the girl, for both children had seized their chance to flee. Or they may have been hungry enough for Ranulf’s horse and trappings to forget caution. Whatever their motivation, they were closing in fast, and he got a second, nasty surprise, for they were better-armed than he’d expected. The big redhead had a rough-hewn wooden club studded with nails, and Ned had a sword, an unusual weapon for one of these outcast, masterless men.

It was a basic tenet of faith with men of Ranulf’s class that a knight, trained in the ways of war since boyhood, could easily vanquish lesser foes, as much a belief in the superiority of blood and breeding as in the benefits of battle lore and killing competence. Ranulf had accepted this comforting conviction, too, but no one seemed to have told his assailants that they were inferior adversaries.

The thrust he aimed at Ned should have been lethal. It never connected, though, for Ned parried the blow with startling skill; whatever he was now, he’d once been a soldier, for no man handled a sword like that by chance. Moreover, they understood the concept of teamwork, and only Ranulf’s quick reflexes saved him when they bore in again. Fending off Ned, he whirled just as the redhead swung his club. Unlike them, he had the protection of chain mail, but had that blow landed, it would have broken bones. Instead, he was the one to draw blood. Not a mortal wound, but the redhead yelped and sprang backward so hastily that he nearly fell. Ranulf could not take advantage of it, though, for the other man was circling, ready to strike.

They’d taken his measure, too, were more wary now. The redhead, in particular, seemed leery of getting within range of Ranulf’s blade. They backed off a bit, talking strategy, not realizing that Ranulf understood them, for unlike many of Norman-French descent, he spoke English-not well, but enough to get by. While they were planning their next move, he retreated slowly toward the closest tree. He was ready for them when they attacked again, and they were forced to pull back, cursing and bleeding. But he was bleeding, too, and his fall had done more damage than he’d first thought, for his knee was stiffening up, slowing him down. Panting, his sword poised for their next assault, he realized that he was in the fight of his life and the odds were not in his favor.

The children were nowhere to be seen, probably long gone-if they were wise. His horse was not in view, either, and the distant road was still deserted-not that any passersby were likely to have intervened. But he saw then that there was one about to join the fray, for Loth had backtracked to find him, and was coming now at a run, a dark streak against the snow, silent and swift, hackles up, as fearful and blessed a sight as ever filled Ranulf’s eyes.

The dog made no sound, but alerted by instinct, perhaps, the redhead started to turn just as Loth launched his attack. The man yelled, but had no time to react, for the dyrehund was already upon him. As the animal leapt at him, he recoiled, slipped on the ice, and went over backward. His next scream was one of pain, for Loth had clamped his powerful jaws upon the redhead’s thigh, shaking the man’s body to and fro as if he were prey, as Ranulf had seen him attack deer.

When the redhead shrieked, Ned whirled in his direction. It was a natural reaction, but one that doomed him, for in the brief moment that he was distracted by the dog, Ranulf lunged, burying his blade in the other man’s back. Ned’s knees buckled. Ranulf’s second thrust all but decapitated him, and blood spurted out like a crimson fountain, splattering Ranulf with gore.

Swinging his sword up, Ranulf turned then to aid Loth, but the dog had no need of assistance. The redhead’s screams were mingling now with the dyrehund’s fierce, guttural growling. He’d dropped his club when he’d fallen, and had tried then to kick the dog away. Loth released his hold upon the man’s mangled thigh and, seizing an ankle, began a promising effort to cripple his quarry. Unable to break free of those ravening jaws and razor teeth, the man was writhing in pain as he desperately tried to reach his club, which lay tantalizingly close, but just beyond his groping fingers.

Ranulf kicked the club into the bushes, then reached down and dragged Loth off. It took the man a moment to realize he was no longer under attack, and he continued to claw the snow for his club, kicking feebly at a dog who was no longer there. Ranulf was having trouble restraining Loth; even when he pulled the dyrehund up onto his hind legs, the dog did not desist his struggles, choking and snarling as he fought to get back to his kill. The redhead had now scrabbled to his hands and knees, his breath coming in wheezing, gasping sobs. Somehow he lurched to his feet, screaming anew as pain jolted through his crushed ankle. Hobbling, stumbling, weaving like a drunkard, he fled in terror, leaving a blotched and bloody trail across the snow. He’d not get far; Ranulf had seen the terrible gaping wound, the shredded flesh of the man’s thigh.

Reaction now set in and Ranulf started to shake. Still clutching Loth’s collar, he sank to his knees. Blood was everywhere, splashed across the front of his hauberk, caking his boots. The churned-up snow was bright red, and Loth’s silver muzzle seemed to have been dipped in scarlet; so had his chest. The dyrehund was trembling, too; he whimpered and nuzzled Ranulf, smearing blood across Ranulf’s cheek and into his beard. Ranulf pulled the dog closer, wrapped his arms around Loth’s heaving sides, and held tight.

When Loth growled, Ranulf raised his head, automatically reaching again for his sword hilt. The boy was standing ten feet away, poised to take flight. Ranulf guessed he was about nine or so, but small for his age, reed-thin and meagre. He seemed all eyes; they dominated the pinched little face, a striking shade of blue-green, glassy with shock. He looked at the body, swallowed, and asked, “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“And the other…the one the dog bit?”

“Most likely he’ll bleed to death,” Ranulf said honestly.

The boy was quiet for a moment, staring at Loth. “Good,” he said, and then recoiled when Ranulf seemed about to rise. He did not go far, though, backing off a few more prudent feet. “Are you bad hurt?”

“No, not bad,” Ranuld said and waited, feeling as if he were trying to tame some wild, woodland creature, ready to bolt at any moment.

“Why?” the child asked suddenly. “Why did you help us?”

Ranulf considered several different answers, and then twitched a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I had nothing better to do.”

The boy’s eyes widened even further. But he seemed to take reassurance from the joke, for he slowly edged closer. “I am Simon,” he said solemnly, and after Ranulf introduced himself and Loth with equal gravity, Simon held out a small fist for the dyrehund to sniff. In view of what the child had watched the dog do, Ranulf thought that was a commendable act of courage. Simon peered intently into Ranulf’s face, then glanced back at Loth. “We know where your horse is,” he said unexpectedly. “It ran into the woods and its reins snagged on a bush. My sister found it.”

Ranulf wondered why they hadn’t tried to catch the stallion for themselves, and then realized that to these children, a horse would be as exotic an animal as an elephant. He still did not know why they were out here alone, but did not doubt that he was looking at the sort of poverty he’d rarely encountered; Simon’s clothes were so ragged they showed glimpses of skin and his worn leather shoes were held together with cord. Getting stiffly to his feet, Ranulf said, “Can you take me to the horse?”

The child nodded, but hesitated. No longer meeting Ranulf’s gaze, he asked, “Do you have any food?” Adding quickly, “Not for me, for Jennet.”

“Yes, I do,” Ranulf said, as matter-of-factly as he could manage, and with the child hovering just out of reach, he limped across the meadow toward the woods. Even if he’d had a shovel, the ground was too hard to dig a grave, so he left the body of the outlaw where it had fallen. Simon seemed to share his view that the man did not deserve a Christian burial, for the boy did not glance back, either.

Simon’s sister looked so like him that they might have been twins if not for the age difference; she had the same vivid blue-green eyes, the same light hair of an indeterminate shade that was either a pale ash-brown or a dirt-darkened blonde, and like him, she bore the signs of malnourishment. Ranulf imagined she was about thirteen, yet she was smaller than his nephew Henry, so frail and wan that he ached for her. More than the boy, she comprehended the full horror of what they’d been spared, and he was impressed by the bravery she’d shown in staying to watch the outcome of the battle.

He had bread and cheese in his saddlebag, and they fell upon it ravenously, with a hunger he’d never known. He waited until they’d devoured every crumb before asking what they were doing by themselves on the Newark-Grantham Road, and got an answer that dismayed him. They were on their way, Simon confided, to their uncle Jonas in Cantebrigge.

“God Almighty, you cannot be serious! Not only is Cantebrigge at least eighty miles from here, but it is less than twenty miles from Ramsey Abbey, which has been seized by rebels. You cannot go to Cantebrigge!”

Anxiety had given his voice an angry edge, and the children reacted with immediate fear, backing away. “We are going to Cantebrigge,” Jennet cried, “we must! And we will, we will go!”

Ranulf hastily changed his tack. “I did not mean to shout,” he said soothingly, while rapidly reviewing his options. There was another ten miles or more to Grantham; Newark was less than five. “Speaking for myself, I’ve never felt so battered or bone-weary. Luckily, I know an inn in Newark where we can get a decent meal and mayhap even a bone for Loth.”

They conferred together, speaking too swiftly for him to catch their words; his grasp of English did not allow for nuances or even slurred speech. When they turned back, Simon came forward until he was close enough to be grabbed; it was, Ranulf recognized, a declaration of trust. “We’ve nothing better to do,” he said, with what was almost a smile.

Ranulf had already attracted attention at the inn the preceding night: a lone knight and a dog the likes of which none had seen before. When he and the wolf-dog returned, drenched in gore and with two beggar children in tow, he created a sensation. But their curiosity was to remain unsatisfied, for he offered no explanations and all that blood somehow discouraged prying.

The innkeeper was as amazed by Ranulf’s request for two rooms as he was by his alarming appearance. A private room was an almost unheard-of luxury, except for the highborn; it was usual for strangers to share not only a chamber but a bed, and it seemed utterly bizarre to him that Ranulf should want to squander a room upon bedraggled urchins who ought to be bedding down out in the stables with the lord’s fine palfrey. He confined himself, though, to a timid protest, which Ranulf ignored, for he thought Jennet would be fearful sharing a room with anyone but her brother, so soon after the thwarted rape.

As much as he needed a bath, Ranulf knew better than to ask for one, not in a small, shabby inn in the midst of winter. The innkeeper was able to scrounge up some soft soap of mutton fat and wood ash, and he washed himself as best he could with cold water and a burlap towel. When the children crept downstairs to join him in front of the fire, they were still filthy, but so unself-conscious that he realized bathing was for them done only in summer, if at all. They’d shared their lives with him by now, offered up in hesitant bits and pieces as they’d made the slow trek back to Newark, and the more they’d told him, the less he’d wanted to know.

Simon and Jennet were children of the Fens, having lived all of their brief years in the bleak isolation of the Lincolnshire salt marshes, more cloistered than in any convent. Their mother was long dead and Jennet had insisted so vehemently that their father was a “free man” that Ranulf knew he must have been a runaway villein, a serf bound to the land. Their world had been a wattle-and-daub hut out in the Fens; all they could say was that it had been north of Sleaford. There they’d dwelled, just this side of starvation, their father fishing for eels and sometimes taking water reeds into Sleaford to sell for roof thatching. But he’d not taken them; until Ranulf had shepherded them through Newark’s streets, they’d never seen a town. As far as he could tell, the only people they ever saw were other fishermen and their families, mayhap an occasional peddler-until the day the outlaws came.

They took turns relating the horrors of that day, with the detached composure of emotional exhaustion. How their father had sensed danger and sent them off into the marsh to hide. How they’d waited out in the wind-ripped bogs for their father to fetch them, huddling together for warmth as gulls shrieked overhead and night came on. How they’d seen the smoke, and when they dared to venture back, they found their home in flames and their father’s body sprawled by the hen roost. The hens were gone, of course, as was the pig that was their prized possession, and every scrap of food that Jennet had salted away and stored for winter. And whatever the brigands hadn’t carried off had been burned in the fire.

They did not seem to know how long they’d lingered in the ruins, and Ranulf did not press them; better such memories were mercifully blurred. They’d buried their father and eventually hunger had driven them to undertake this lunatic quest of theirs-to seek out their only kinsman, their father’s younger brother Jonas, plying his trade as a tanner in the distant town of Cantebrigge.

Stretching his legs toward the fire, Ranulf massaged his aching knee and watched the children as they ate their fill, probably for the first time in their lives. It was a Wednesday fast day, but he’d made a conscious decision to violate the prohibition against eating flesh; he could always do penance once he got back to his own world. Now it seemed more important to feed Simon and Jennet the best meal he could, and the innkeeper had served up heaping portions of salted pork, a thick pottage of peas and beans, and hot, flat cakes of newly baked bread, marked with Christ’s Cross. To Ranulf, it was poor fare, and he ended up sharing most of it with Loth. But Simon and Jennet savored every mouthful, scorning spoons and scooping the food up with their fingers, as if expecting to have their trenchers snatched away at any moment. And Ranulf learned more that night about hunger and need than in all of his twenty-five years.

What would become of them? How could they hope to reach Cantebrigge? And if by God’s Grace, they somehow did, what if this uncle of theirs was not there? They’d never seen the man, knew only what their father had told them, that soon after Simon’s birth, a peddler had brought them a message from Jonas, saying he’d settled in Cantebrigge.

That confirmed Ranulf’s suspicions: two brothers fleeing serfdom, one hiding out in the Fens, the other taking the bolder way, for an escaped villein could claim his freedom if he lived in a chartered borough for a year and a day. It was a pitiful family history, an unwanted glimpse into a world almost as alien to Ranulf as Cathay. But like it or not, he was caught up now in this hopeless odyssey of Abel the eelman’s children. In an unusually morose and pessimistic mood, he wondered how many Simons and Jennets would be lost to the furies unleashed by Geoffrey de Mandeville’s rebellion.

That was mere speculation, though. These ragged, half-starved orphans were all too real, flesh-and-blood burdens, weighing ever more heavily upon his peace of mind. All through supper, he’d been silently debating his conscience, seeking to convince himself that he’d done what he could, that he was not responsible for them. But when the meal was done, he heard himself saying reluctantly, “If you are truly set upon going to Cantebrigge, I’ll take you.”

Ranulf had been surprised and vexed that the children had not shown more enthusiasm for his offer. It was no small sacrifice he was making, after all, for he had more to fear than Mandeville’s brigands; Cantebrigge was the king’s borough, and so were most of the towns they’d be passing through on their way south. But the children’s acceptance had been subdued, even wary, and he’d gone off to bed in a thoroughly bad humor. In the morning, though, he’d awakened to find Simon and Jennet asleep on the floor by his bed.

This journey was likely to be as expensive as it was dangerous; it was already draining his purse. He might have to stop at Wallingford on his way west and borrow money from Brien, for he’d had to buy a mule for the children, and mantles, too, for their cloaks might better serve as kitchen rags. He’d already decided that if-God Willing-he ever got home again, this Cantebrigge detour was a secret he’d share only with Loth, for he well knew that his misguided chivalry would make him a laughingstock. Who would ever understand why he’d gone to so much trouble for the children of a runaway serf?

Their pilgrimage was an excruciatingly slow one. The children were fearful at first of riding the mule, and even though they were traveling along the Great North Road, it was rough going, pitted and rutted by the winter weather. Moreover, daylight hours were dwindling away, dusk infiltrating now by late afternoon, and in every town or village, they ran into rumors of Mandeville’s depredations. Raiding throughout Cambridgeshire, up into Lincolnshire, he was spreading terror and laying waste to shires already suffering from famine. He’d gathered together a motley army: his own vassals and tenants, unemployed men-at-arms, bandits lured to his banner by his promises of money and livestock and women, all for the taking. Ranulf heard stories of pilgrims ambushed, merchants robbed, villages plundered and burned. How much of it was true and how much was hearsay, he had no way of knowing.

At Grantham, they were forced to stay over an extra day, waiting out a freezing rainstorm. When they finally reached Stanford, they were delayed again, this time to find a barber for Simon. The boy’s jaw had begun to swell, for he had a rotted tooth which should have been pulled months ago. He bore the pain in good spirits, though, and carefully tucked away his yanked tooth as a keepsake. In truth, both children were starting to enjoy their first foray into the world beyond the Fens. They did not realize their danger, so utterly had they come to trust in Ranulf’s protection, and they were fascinated by the castle at Stanford, the timbered town houses of two stories, their first market. Every day brought new and strange sights, and each night an inn awaited them, where there’d be a warm fire and all the food they could eat and then a safe night’s sleep on pallets in Ranulf’s chamber. Ranulf marveled at first that it took so little to content them, until he realized that those who’d had nothing expected nothing, and he began to worry that he was unwittingly teaching them an unfair lesson-to hunger for more than they could ever hope to get.

By their second week on the road, they were in Cambridgeshire, and much too close to Ramsey’s captured abbey for Ranulf’s comfort. But at Huntingdon, they had a stroke of luck, for they were able to join a caravan of merchants bound for London to sell their wares, men who’d banded together for protection against Mandeville’s cutthroats and their own fears. They were more than happy to have Ranulf ride with them; the sword at his hip guaranteed his welcome.

They parted company at Caxton, the merchants continuing south, Ranulf and the children turning off onto the Cantebrigge Road. There were fewer than ten miles to go now, and his relief was considerable, for he’d heard a very disturbing tale from some of the London-bound merchants-that Mandeville had raided the town of St Ives. Ranulf found that hard to believe, for St Ives was a prosperous borough, site of a famed fair. Surely Mandeville did not have enough men or enough nerve to attack a town? Rumor or not, though, it was unsettling, and he was grateful that he’d soon be able to turn his young charges over to their proper guardian. What he would do if the uncle could not be found, he did not know, for that was a dilemma he’d resolutely refused to address, preferring to fall back upon his innate optimism.

But as those last few miles began to ebb away, so did Ranulf’s confidence, and he found himself struggling with a sudden sense of foreboding, wondering what they would find in Cantebrigge. Yet he never expected what awaited them around a bend in the road: a sky full of smoke.

Ordering the children to hide themselves until he returned, he began a cautious investigation. It was almost dusk, but to the east, the sky glowed, and within a mile, he knew why-the city of Cantebrigge was afire. The first structure to come into sight were the stone walls of the castle, and then the rippling grey surface of the River Granta. The town lay just beyond, wreathed in smoke. Ranulf had been in Cantebrigge before, during his father’s reign, and as he looked now upon the charred and blackened shell off to his right, he knew it had once been a church, even remembered the name: All Saints by the Castle. Reining in his stallion, he stared at the ruins in shocked silence. All Saints was well away from the town; flames could not have spread that far. To have burned, the church must have been deliberately torched.

He was close enough now to see people wandering about, and it was like being back in the smoldering streets of Winchester, watching as dazed survivors stumbled about aimlessly in the wreckage of their lives. Loth growled softly, looking up at Ranulf with anxious eyes, for the scent of death was in the air. But it was then that Ranulf noticed the castle portcullis was up and the gates ajar. So it was over. The dying was done; the grieving only just begun.

Ranulf did not want to go any farther, to see any more. There would be bodies in the rubble of those smoking houses and looted shops. There would be bloodstains in the streets, but no screaming or wailing, not yet. When grief came so suddenly, the bereft were silent, too stunned for tears. He’d been at Lincoln, at Winchester, at Oxford. He knew what he’d find.

A slight, stooped figure was trudging up the street toward the castle, his priest’s cassock befouled with blood. He seemed unaware of his surroundings, but as he passed Ranulf, his step slowed and his aged eyes focused upon the younger man’s face. Recognition was mutual, and as dangerous as it might be, Ranulf did not deny it. Instead, he swung from the saddle to stand in the street beside the old man, chaplain for more years than he could remember at his father’s royal castle of Cantebrigge. “Father Osmond,” he said, “are you injured?”

“The blood is not mine.” If the priest was surprised to encounter the old king’s son in a town under Stephen’s dominion, he gave no sign of it. “I never thought,” he said, “to see such suffering, to see the innocents struck down in God’s Sight. There was killing even in the churches, where people had fled for refuge.”

He was far more feeble than Ranulf remembered, and he reached out, put a steadying hand on the priest’s elbow. “When did this happen?”

“Last night. They came in the night like thieves, but they came to kill. Some of the people were able to get into the castle, but the others…the ones caught in their houses, their beds…” His mouth trembled; he had a priest’s familiarity with death, but not like this.

“I looked upon evil, Lord Ranulf. We saw the Devil’s work. They showed no mercy, forced householders to divulge where their valuables were hidden, then cut their throats. They plundered St Radegund’s nunnery and raped honest women in front of their husbands. They deliberately burned churches and stole from God. They spared neither the young nor the old nor the weak, and their killing was wanton, done for the sport of it. And when they rode off, they took all our livestock and they loaded carts with their plunder and they carried off women, even some of the nuns. I know war and this was not war. Not even the infidel Saracens could be so cruel, so deserving of damnation…”

Ranulf, too, had thought he knew war. But never had he seen the sort of savagery the priest had just described. An outlaw army, composed of brigands and felons, the very dregs of the gutter, led by one who feared neither man nor God. And if he’d taken a different road, he and Jennet and Simon might have run right into them. “Who was it?” he said, already knowing what the priest would say.

“The Devil’s spawn. That son of perdition, Geoffrey de Mandeville.”