When Christ and His Saints Slept

33

Northampton, England

August 1146

“What sort of knavery is Chester up to now?”

Stephen had just come from a lengthy private audience with the earl, but he had to admit, “I do not know, Henry…not yet. I can tell you what he has asked of me-that I accompany him on an expedition against the Welsh-but I am not sure if he has something more nefarious in mind.”

If Stephen had doubts about Chester’s intentions, the others had none at all. “You cannot go into Wales with that evil man,” Matilda cried, at the same time the bishop protested, “Utter madness!” and William de Ypres blistered the air with Flemish obscenities.

“Should I interpret that as two ‘nays’ and one ‘undecided’?” Stephen asked, smiling faintly, but he was the only one who found the joke funny. “I did not agree,” he said defensively. “I said that I’d have to think about it.” And before they could object again, he told them of Chester’s proposal. The earl’s lands had been coming under attack by the Welsh, and he wanted Stephen’s aid in restoring peace to the Marches. If Stephen would agree, he’d provide the men and supplies, insisting that the king’s presence would be enough to intimidate the Welsh.

Ypres snorted. “From what I’ve heard, the only king likely to overawe those Welsh lunatics would be the King of Heaven-not England.”

For once, Stephen’s brother was in full accord with the Fleming. “If Chester is having Welsh troubles, let him sort them out with his new kinsman,” Henry said skeptically. “He’s just betrothed his niece to that renegade Welsh prince who marched with him against Lincoln, so let him turn to Cadwaladr for help, assuming he really needs it-which I doubt.”

“You are not seriously considering it, Stephen?” Matilda moved to her husband’s side, gazing up anxiously into his face. “Relying upon Chester’s honour would be like taking the Devil on faith. You cannot do that Stephen, you dare not!”

“Sweetheart, do not distress yourself so. Whilst I do not think I ought to dismiss his request out of hand, I have no intention of riding into an ambush with nothing to protect me but Chester’s goodwill.”

“It gladdens my heart to hear you say that,” Matilda confided. “I know we must do what we can to keep Chester content, but not at the risk of your safety. If he wants your help in Wales, he must be willing to do his part. Let him agree to provide hostages-men whose lives matter to him-and mayhap then I’ll believe this Welsh campaign of his is an honest endeavor, not some sort of treacherous snare.”

The bishop nodded approvingly; although he still felt Matilda exercised undue influence over his easygoing brother, he was willing to admit that she was more sensible than most of her sex. “Let him yield Lincoln Castle, too,” he said, “as he ought to have done months ago.”

As Stephen glanced toward William de Ypres, the mercenary shrugged. “I doubt that I’d trust Chester even if the Archangel Gabriel himself vouched for the man. But it cannot hurt to put him to the test. I agree with Madame Queen and the bishop. Let Chester offer up proof of his good faith, and then we’ll see.”

Stephen nodded, heartened by such unanimous agreement. “It is settled, then,” he said. “We’ll tell Chester our terms on the morrow. After that, it is up to him.”

AS the Earl of Chester strode into the castle hall the following morning, Bennet de Malpas and several members of his entourage hastened to intercept him. He was walking into a lion’s den, they warned. Northampton was aswarm with his enemies, and they were stirring up the hive by ranting about the dangers of his Welsh expedition, for word had gotten out that he wanted the king to go into Wales.

As he listened to Bennet and Ivo, the castellan of his castle at Coventry, Chester was surveying the hall. They had not exaggerated; it was thronged with men who’d thank God fasting for a chance to do him harm. The Earl of York, whose lands he’d repeatedly ravaged. Gilbert de Gant, who’d been forced to wed his niece after being captured at Lincoln. William Peverel, Lord of Nottingham and cousin to Stephen, a man with a temper to rival that of his fiery royal grandsire, William the Bastard. That poisonous Fleming Ypres. Friends of the absent Earl of Richmond, who’d starved in one of Chester’s dungeons until he agreed to yield Galclint Castle. The Earl of Northampton, dragging his disapproval around like an anchor. Even Robert Beaumont, who’d been rarely at Stephen’s court since his twin came to terms with Maude and Geoffrey.

Die-hard foes, the lot of them. Only one of the barons was likely to offer any support: the Earl of Hertford, his sister’s son. Most men would have been daunted by such odds. Not Chester, though; he relished turmoil, thrived on controversy, and he was looking forward to imposing his will upon these men who hated him so.

“It is getting on toward noon. Why are we delaying dinner? And where is the meddlesome little bitch?” He had no need to be more specific. They knew he meant Matilda, for every man in his service was aware of the grudge he bore Stephen’s queen; he was not one to forgive a public humiliation, especially at the hands of a woman. They explained now that Matilda had been called away when one of her ladies was taken ill. The pale, shy lass, Bennet disclosed, the one who had fits, but Chester was no longer listening; his interest in the Cecilys of this world was nonexistent. Beckoning them to follow, he headed for the dais, where he offered Stephen a perfunctory obeisance.

“I understand we are holding dinner for the queen. We have time, then, to discuss our Welsh expedition. How soon can Your Grace be ready to go? The sooner the better, for Wales turns into a quagmire once the autumn rains begin.”

Stephen frowned. He could hear troubled murmurings from those within earshot, and he wanted to assure them that it was not so; it nettled his pride that anyone should think-even briefly-that he might be Chester’s dupe. But they’d all agreed that the confrontation should be private, for Chester was too volatile to be trusted in a public setting. His brother was already nudging him, silently mouthing the warning words “Not now.” Annoyed by the reminder, Stephen said brusquely:

“We have much to talk about, but I prefer to wait until a time of my choosing.”

“Why wait? We can settle it right quickly,” Chester insisted. “Just tell me when and I’ll take care of the rest. As I told you, I’ll provide the men.”

The mutterings were louder now, and distinctly alarmed. Men were pressing in around them, Chester’s enemies in the forefront. “The king would not accompany you across the hall, much less let you lure him into Wales so you could ambush him!” Few would have dared to accuse Chester so openly, but William Peverel had never lacked for nerve. Seeing that some thought he’d overstepped himself, he said angrily, “Why not say it? It is what we are all thinking!”

“Why should I care what you think?” Chester sneered. “Your opinion is not important enough to matter to anyone, least of all to me. And as usual, you’re wrong, for the king is coming into Wales. Tell them, Your Grace,” he demanded, swinging around on Stephen. “Let them hear it from you if they doubt me!”

“What would you have me say? I did not agree to go, merely to talk further-”

“You did agree! By God, you did!”

“Indeed I did not!”

Both men sounded equally indignant, equally sincere. Most simply assumed that Chester was a convincing liar, but the bishop suspected it was more complicated than that, for he knew how hard it was for Stephen to turn people down. Even with one he disliked as heartily as he did Chester, he’d still temporize, hear the applicant out with the affable courtesy he denied to no man, be he baron or blacksmith. He’d left the door ajar, whether he meant to or not; the bishop would wager any amount on it. And for a man like Chester, who tended to hear only what he wanted to, that cracked door would beckon wider than Heaven’s Gate. “We’d best discuss this in private,” Henry said hastily, but it was already too late. Fueled by grievances and fanned by suspicions, Stephen and Chester’s accord was going up in flames.

This was exactly what Stephen had hoped to avoid, and he was furious with himself for letting Chester force the issue-which made him even more furious with Chester. “I told you that I would think about your request, no more than that. After due consideration, I have decided that I am willing to join you in Wales-provided that certain conditions are met.”

Chester was silent for a moment, cursing himself for not putting an end to Stephen’s kingship when he’d had the chance at Lincoln. If only his aim had been truer! “What conditions?”

“Bluntly put, your history does not inspire trust. I do not think it unreasonable to expect a show of good faith on your part. I want Lincoln Castle back. And hostages-of our choosing. I think that is a fair-”

“Fair? It is outrageous! I come seeking your aid-the aid you owe me as your liegeman-and what happens? You lie to me and then spit in my face!”

“I did not lie to you! Nor do I see why you object to these conditions. If you have been honest with me, why not provide hostages? What risk to them-as long as you are true to your word?”

“It is insulting, an affront to my honour!”

To Chester’s fury, that evoked a burst of derisive laughter from most of the men. Stephen smiled scornfully and Chester tensed, ready to lunge for his throat. But others were now joining in the fray. Bennet de Malpas put a restraining hand on Chester’s arm, for they were hopelessly outnumbered. William de Ypres had shouldered his way to Stephen’s side. “I never knew you had such a droll wit, my lord earl,” he gibed. “Surely that was a jest-your complaint about affronted honour?”

That prompted more laughter, which stilled, though, when William Peverel at last made himself heard above the uproar. “Treason!” he shouted. “He meant to betray the king!” And that stark cry of “Treason” was quickly taken up by others, until the entire hall seemed to echo with this deadly denunciation, the one accusation no king could ever ignore.

“You fools!” Chester raged. “I did nothing wrong!”

“Prove it, then,” Stephen challenged. “Accept my terms.”

“Rot in Hell!”

Faced with such defiance, Stephen had no choice. “Arrest him,” he ordered. Resistance would have been futile and possibly fatal, but no one had expected Chester to realize that, too. He surprised them all and disappointed more than a few by an unwonted display of common sense-he let himself be taken.

Afterward, there was jubilation among Chester’s enemies. But others were more ambivalent, asking themselves if suspicions alone were enough to justify a charge of treason. Even some who rejoiced in Chester’s downfall were still troubled by the way he’d fallen. If so great and powerful a lord as Chester could be arrested without proof of wrongdoing, who amongst them was safe?

Maude and Ranulf arrived at Bristol Castle in midafternoon. The summer sky was just starting to darken when Nicholas rode in. His unexpected appearance jarred Ranulf; barely two months had passed since his confrontation with Ancel and the memory was still raw. For a moment, he let himself hope that Nicholas might be bringing a letter from Annora, routed through Maud. But he knew better, knew that Nicholas was here on a far more urgent mission than the delivery of a clandestine love letter, and his suspicions were soon confirmed. Summoned hastily to the privacy of the castle solar, he and Maude and Rainald and Amabel listened in astonishment as Robert read aloud his daughter’s letter, a laconic account of her husband’s arrest at Northampton.

There was an amazed silence once he was done. “Has the man gone daft?” Rainald said at last. “How could even Stephen blunder this badly?”

“Just be thankful, Rainald, that he has,” Robert said earnestly. “We need not fear any more sheep straying from our fold now, not after the way Chester was sheared.”

“There will be no more defections, for certes,” Maude agreed. “I do not understand why Stephen keeps making the same mistakes. Does he not realize how weak and sly it makes him appear-breaching the King’s Peace to arrest men at his own court?”

“First the bishops, then Mandeville, now Chester. If he keeps on like this, he’ll have to send out his sheriffs to fetch his dinner guests. ‘Come and dine with the king, get to see the royal dungeons, too!’” Rainald was always one to laugh at his own jokes; the others were too preoccupied for levity.

“I wonder,” Maude said thoughtfully, “if Chester was guilty.”

They all did. It was easy enough to agree upon the obvious-that Chester’s refusal meant nothing, for even if he’d been as innocent as one of God’s own angels, he’d have balked at a public submission. But beyond that, they could only speculate. None disputed Ranulf, though, when he observed wryly that a man could rarely go wrong suspecting the worst of Chester.

“I find it difficult to give him the benefit of any doubt, too,” Robert admitted. “My daughter seems to think he was not plotting evil-for once. Of course he’d not be likely to confide in her if he was setting a snare. But he is having trouble with the Welsh; that was no lie.”

“I suppose he could be innocent,” Ranulf conceded grudgingly. “And if so, it would be the ultimate irony-that he’d be punished for the one sin he did not commit!”

There was laughter and then Maude surprised them with a comment that showed just how far she’d traveled down the road toward self-awareness. “No, Ranulf,” she said, “the ultimate irony is this-that for all the harm Stephen and I have tried to do each other, our worst wounds always seem to be self-inflicted.”

AN autumn rain was making life miserable for any Londoners who had to be out in it. Within the palace at Westminster, it was drier, but the mood was as dreary as the weather. Stephen had been closeted all morning with his wife, his brother, and William de Ypres, gloomily assessing their options. They agreed that they had but two choices, neither of them palatable.

If they kept Chester in confinement, they risked a rebellion by his vassals and tenants, who’d reacted with outrage to their liege lord’s arrest. Moreover, Chester was garnering support from unexpected quarters. The Cheshire Church was speaking out strongly on behalf of so generous a patron. Naturally his brother was among the most vocal of his defenders, as was his nephew, the Earl of Hertford. But others were arguing for his release, too, respected lords like the Earls of Derby and Pembroke. It had not helped, either, when the Welsh took advantage of Chester’s disgrace to raid into Cheshire. As unlikely as it seemed, Chester was becoming a figure of sympathy.

The longer Chester was imprisoned, the more problems he posed. But if he was set free, they well knew what to expect. He’d never forgive Stephen for this, never. Even if he was as guilty as Cain, he’d still see himself as the one wronged. When Ypres pointed this out, no one disputed him, and he took the opportunity to argue further against Chester’s release. “If you snared a wolf, would you let it go just because the rest of the pack was on the prowl?”

“Spare me your hunting homilies,” the bishop said brusquely. “They do not address the issue at hand. I like the thought of freeing Chester no more than you do, but I see no other way. How do you expect the controversy to abate as long as we keep him in the Tower?”

“Nor can we bring him to trial,” Matilda said, “for we have no proof to offer of his treachery. So in all fairness, Willem, how can we continue to hold him?”

“Kill him, then. Let him have a convenient mishap, fall down a flight of stairs or catch a fatal fever.”

Matilda wanted to believe this was one of Ypres’s unseemly jests, but as she met his eyes, she was chilled to see that he was in deadly earnest. She’d always known that he was lawless at heart, a man who’d passed most of his adult life perilously close to the dark side of damnation. She’d convinced herself that he’d pulled back from the brink, that salvation might still be within his grasp. But in recent months, he’d begun showing flashes of an erratic temper, his humor had soured, and he was either drinking more or not holding it as well. She did not know what was troubling him, was not even sure she wanted to know, for she suspected that she was not equipped to deal with his demons. But she was worried, nonetheless.

Stephen and the bishop had been offended by Ypres’s cynical suggestion, and they were taking turns berating him for his murderous advice. He listened in silence, not looking in the least contrite. As soon as she could interrupt the castigating flow, Matilda urged them to “Let it be. Willem erred, you were understandably affronted, and told him so. Now can we get back to the problem at hand? I agree with Henry. I think we must set Chester free.”

There was an unusual asperity to her tone and all three men looked at her in surprise. Stephen felt remorse stirring anew; she may have been far more tactful than his acid-tongued brother, but he knew how dismayed she’d been by Chester’s arrest. He’d repeatedly tried to explain that it was not his fault, and she’d professed to believe him, but he still fretted that she blamed him for the debacle.

Sometimes so did he, usually late at night as he sought to convince himself that Chester was the one at fault; it was then that he heard the insidious inner voices, insisting that his uncle the old king would never have gotten himself into such a bind. These voices sounded depressingly like his brother’s, for Henry was still reproaching him for not taking command of the situation before it got out of control. He never tired of pointing out that a private confrontation would have posed few risks; if Chester had balked at proving his good faith, Stephen need only have refused to go into Wales, and that would have been the end of it.

Now there seemed no end in sight. But how could he admit that he’d blundered when he did not know what he could have done differently? Even if he were given a chance to relive that scene in Northampton’s great hall, the outcome would likely be the same, and that realization was the most troubling of all.

“I botched it,” he said abruptly. “I know that. Chester will bear me a lifelong grudge. I know that, too. But I cannot change what is already done. I can put a high price on Chester’s freedom, though, high enough to make him think twice about incurring the wrath of the Crown again.”

He sounded as if he truly believed what he said, that it was possible to intimidate Chester into submission. For his sake, Matilda tried to believe it, too. Even the bishop held his peace. Ypres reached for his wine cup and drained it, in an unspoken sardonic salute to the phantom presence in their midst, the man they were at such pains not to mention, the late, unlamented lord and rebel, Geoffrey de Mandeville.

BY the time the negotiations for Chester’s release were completed, winter was upon them. It had not yet snowed, but the fields were bleak and the ground frozen as Chester and his brother rode west. William de Roumare had brought Chester’s favorite white palfrey and an impressive armed escort so that he could return to Cheshire in the style befitting an earl. But he knew it would take more than resplendent trappings to blot out the memories of the past few months.

Roumare kept glancing uneasily at his brother’s profile, as hard and unyielding as the barren countryside around them. Chester had been publicly shamed, clapped in irons, treated like a common felon. To gain his freedom, he’d been forced to swear a holy oath that he’d not bear arms against the king. He’d had to offer up a number of highborn hostages as pledges for his future loyalty, among them his nephew Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Hertford. And most galling of all, he’d had to surrender his castles at Lincoln and Coventry.

Roumare had expected Chester to be wild, afire with homicidal intent. The brother he knew ought to have been raging and raving and cursing, making threats and vowing vengeance with every breath he drew. That sort of frenzied fury would not have disturbed him unduly; it was just Chester’s way, and he was prepared for it.

Instead, he’d encountered a stony silence, so unlike Chester that he was becoming genuinely alarmed. Like William de Ypres, he, too, was haunted by memories of Geoffrey de Mandeville, the rebel earl who’d died an outlaw, accursed by all. Looking again at Chester, Roumare shifted in the saddle. He was not a fanciful man, but he seemed to feel the rage radiating from his brother, hot enough to scorch. Hot enough, too, to consume all common sense? Was Randolph so hate-maddened that he’d follow Mandeville’s bloody road to his doom?

“Randolph…” He cleared his throat, nudged his stallion closer to his brother’s mount. “You must tell me,” he urged, “what you mean to do.”

Chester’s eyes flicked toward him, opaque and unblinking and blacker than pitch. “I mean to do all in my power,” he said, “to gain the throne for Maude’s son.”

Stephen celebrated Christmas that year in his newly recovered castle at Lincoln. The citizens, freed from six years under Chester’s yoke, welcomed Stephen joyfully, as their liberator, and he rewarded them with lavish pageantries, festivities that heralded his victory over Chester as much as they did the Nativity of the Christ Child. The people were so bedazzled by the royal revelries that they accepted with aplomb Stephen’s decision to defy local superstition and wear his crown within the city, even though that was traditionally held to be bad luck.

The high point of the Christmas court was the elaborate ceremony in which Stephen knighted his eldest son and invested him as Count of Boulogne. Eustace would be seventeen in the spring, and he made a favorable impression upon Lincoln, for he was as tall and tawny-haired as Stephen, and looked like a fine young king in the making-from a distance. That heretical thought was Matilda’s. It had come unbidden, casting a shadow over the pleasure she’d been taking in the evening. It was an unbearably lonely feeling, for she could not confide her qualms to another living soul. How could she ever admit that she harbored such doubts about her own son?

The Christmas fete had been over for hours, but Matilda was still clad in her elegant court gown with its long, hanging sleeves and decorative silk belt that reached below her knees. A fur-trimmed mantle trailed from her shoulders, shielding her from the cold as she made her way to the small chapel in the east tower of the keep. She’d promised Stephen that she’d not be long, but she needed time alone with the Almighty, needed the peace of mind that could come only from entrusting her troubles to a Higher Power.

The chapel was in the upper story of the tower. Wall sconces still burned, and the scent of incense lingered on the air. She was not expecting to find anyone there, for the priest had retired for the night. But a man was standing before the altar. He spun around at sound of her footsteps, almost as if he were fearing an ambush, and she saw that it was William de Ypres.

“Willem!”

“I suppose I am the last man you thought to find here.”

“Well…” She did not know how to answer, for he was right, but to admit that seemed insulting.

“You never speak ill of people if you can help it, do you? We both know that if I turned up missing, you’d mount a search in the town’s alehouses, taverns, and whorehouses. You’d expect,” he said, “to find me in the gutter, not in church.”

His words were slurred, his eyes swollen, and she shivered, realizing that he was drunk. But he was also in pain. “Your need brought you to church tonight,” she said softly. “He is there for all of us, Willem. He loves the sinner as much as He hates the sin.”

To her consternation, he laughed, a harsh, grating sound that caused her to shiver again. “If that is a suggestion that I mend my ways,” he said, “I have already started down that road. I got as far as Boxley, too, for all the good it did me…”

Matilda was not comfortable being alone with him in this dimly lit chapel, for she was timid around drunkards; they tended to be loud and often quarrelsome and alarmingly unpredictable. His last words were so garbled that she was not sure she’d heard him correctly. “Boxley?” she echoed uncertainly. Forcing a smile when he did not respond, she repeated, “Boxley? Where is that, Willem?”

“In Kent.” He moved toward her, steady on his feet but with a telltale stiffness in his carriage, the rigid posture of a man concentrating carefully upon the commands his brain was sending his body. “I just founded a Cistercian abbey there,” he said, and laughed again, mirthlessly, at her dumbfounded expression.

Matilda’s initial amazement gave way almost at once to delight. She and Stephen had rewarded Ypres lavishly for his loyalty; he had been given such vast holdings in Kent that his enemies complained he was its earl in all but name. Even so, founding an abbey was an incredibly generous gesture, one which went well beyond the usual largesse bestowed upon the Church by its more pious or repentant sons.

“Willem, how wonderful! You seem so…so worldly sometimes that I feared you’d not given sufficient thought to your immortal soul. This is a worthy thing you’ve done, and I admire you for-”

“Do not!” At her startled recoil, he said again, more calmly this time, “Do not, my lady. There is nothing admirable about a bribe, especially one that failed.”

Matilda blinked. “I do not understand.”

“It is simple enough. I sought to make a deal with God. I’d give Him a House for His monks if He would give me back-” He bit off the rest of his words, would have turned away had she not caught his arm.

“Give you back what? Willem, tell me! Give you back what?”

He looked at her for a moment that seemed endless before saying hoarsely, “My sight. I am going blind.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Matilda breathed. “I did not know…”

“I did not want you to know.” His voice was flat, almost hostile. “I did not want your pity.”

“It is not pity! Willem…Willem, listen to me. I know it seems like meagre comfort, but the Almighty does not give us burdens too heavy to bear. Let Him help you carry it. And let us. Stephen and I will do all we can-”

“Will you?” His mouth contorted, in a bitter parody of a smile. “Even after I’m of no more use to you?”

Matilda understood, then, the true source of his fear; it was rooted in his turbulent and bloody past. His father had been the Count of Ypres, his grandsire Count of Flanders, but he was tainted by the Bar Sinister, not his father’s heir, just his bastard. He’d been unwilling to accept so limited a destiny, though, had fought for Flanders, lost, and been forced into English exile. At fifty-six years old, all that he had, he’d won by the sword, by his ruthless will and superior skills as a battle commander. No wonder he was so afraid now, she thought. It was not Death he dreaded, not even the loss of light; it was being helpless, unable to defend himself in a world that had never been anything but hostile.

“You are a wealthy man, Willem. Surely you did not fear that your estates would be forfeit if you were no longer able to fight for Stephen?” she said, although she well knew that was precisely what he’d feared. “You’ve earned whatever we’ve given you. Speaking for myself, I could lavish royal favors upon you from now till Judgment Day and I would still be in your debt. You gave me back my husband!”

As she spoke, he’d retreated into the shadows. No longer able to see his face, she reached out, took his hand between her own, and held tight.

But later that night, she lay awake and fretful in Stephen’s bed. Her husband slept peacefully beside her, snoring slightly, for he’d turned onto his back. She’d told him nothing of her conversation with Ypres; the Fleming was not yet ready to reveal his secret, even to one as sure to be sympathetic as Stephen. Matilda tucked the covers more securely about Stephen’s chest, then gently smoothed his hair; it was well streaked with silver. Her own hair was beginning to go grey, too, for she was forty-one now. Tonight, though, she felt as if she were much older, burdened with more troubles than she could even count.

Lying next to Stephen, she closed her eyes tightly, but the images would not go away. Ypres in the chapel. Eustace as he knelt to receive knighthood, his face upturned and eager. And Chester, a dark presence in the shadows, malevolent and unforgiving. Surely Chester could not be indifferent to the fate of his hostages, one of them his own kinsman? Would he truly risk his nephew’s life by rebelling? Stephen insisted that not even Chester could be so reckless, so ruthless. But what if he was?

AS soon as Stephen withdrew, the Earl of Chester launched a fierce attack upon the city of Lincoln. But Stephen had left a strong garrison behind, and with the help of the citizens, they were able to beat back the earl’s assault.

Thwarted at Lincoln, Chester then attempted to recapture Coventry. Stephen hastened to break the siege, was wounded in the fighting that followed, and had to withdraw. But he soon returned and put Chester to flight, the earl narrowly escaping with his life. Although hard pressed by Stephen, Chester continued his rebellion, and was accused by the chronicle Gesta Stephani of exercising “the tyranny of a Herod and the savagery of a Nero.”