When Christ and His Saints Slept

4

London, England

April 1135

It had been a day of chill winds and random rain showers, a day that had offered but one wan glimpse of the sun and not even a hint of coming spring. An oppressive, damp early dusk had settled over the city, and by the time Sybil neared the river, she was cursing herself for having mislaid her lantern, for the night sky was starless and the narrow, twisting streets were deep in shadow. Ahead lay the bridge. As she approached it, church bells began to toll; off to the west, St Martin Le Grand was chiming the curfew. Sybil swore under her breath, quickening her step, for the city gates would now be closing.

Fortunately, the guards were young, and she won their sympathy with a pretty smile, a lie about seeking a leech for her fevered child. She was the last one allowed through the gate, out onto the bridge.

The wind was gusting, the river surging against the wooden pilings, and Sybil was thankful when she reached the far shore. Turning west along the priory wall of St Mary Overy, she headed toward the Bankside. Londoners took pride in their city’s ancient past, stretching back a thousand years to Londinium, capital of Roman Britain. Southwark’s history was more obscure, but Sybil suspected that it, too, had existed then, luring Roman soldiers across the river to drink, gamble, and sin. Long before Norman-French adventurers followed William the Bastard into his newly conquered kingdom, Southwark was notorious, a haven for fugitives and felons and those seeking whores, ale, or trouble.

Southwark, be it Roman, Saxon, or Norman, was no safe place for a woman alone, even in broad daylight, and now, with the curfew bells still echoing across the river and every alleyway black as pitch, every door bolted against thieves and drunken knaves, Sybil hastened along the Bankside, keeping to the center of the street, for she knew the shadows hid watching eyes.

Had it been daylight, the Bankside would have been teeming with raucous, ribald life-with peddlers, beggars, sailors from the quays, pickpockets on the prowl, prostitutes too old or ailing for the bawdy-houses, foraging dogs, hissing geese, even a stray pig or two. Now the street was deserted, mired in mud and strewn with rotting garbage. Detecting movement from the corner of her eye, Sybil whirled as a scrawny grey cat scuttled under a broken wagon wheel. “Fiend take me,” she said ruefully, “if my nerves are not on the raw this night! How is it that you’re so stouthearted, Emma, whilst I’m so skittish?”

She got no answer, but did not expect one, for her daughter’s cheerful babble had yet to translate into recognizable words. Shifting the baby to her other hip, she swerved to avoid a deep, muddy rut in the road, and it was then that the men stepped from the shadows, barring her way.

“What is your hurry, sweeting?” The smile may have been meant to be ingratiating, but it emerged as a leer, and as he lurched toward her, Sybil caught the reek of cheap wine. She had already marked out the other man as the more dangerous of the two, and when he grabbed for her, she sidestepped, spun out of his grasp, and backed up against the closest wall.

He smirked. “Nowhere to run now, wench,” he gloated, and lunged, only to halt abruptly, blinking at sight of the slender blade that had suddenly materialized from under her cloak.

“I do not give away free samples!” she spat. “Put your stinking hands on me again and you’ll bleed like a stuck pig!”

“Bitch!” he snarled. But he kept his eyes on her knife, kept his distance.

His partner was peering at Sybil in bleary-eyed confusion, which slowly gave way to sheepish recognition. “Sybil…? A pox on us, Wat, she’s one of the doxies from the Cock!” The leer came back. “Sorry, lass, we just meant to have a bit of fun…”

“You still can,” she said coldly, “as long as you pay for it,” thinking all the while, Not in this life or the next, for they stank of sweat and grease and spilled wine, and her gorge rose at the thought of their dirty hands and foul breath in her bed. She knew better than to trust to the honour of thieves, and kept her knife out and at the ready as she circled around them. Her heart was thudding and her face flushed, but she moved at a deliberate pace, seeking to appear unafraid, for defiance had often proved to be as effective a weapon as her dagger in fending off rape. They shouted after her, making lewd offers and then obscene threats, all of which she ignored. But she did not sheathe her knife, not until she saw ahead the whitewashed wooden houses of the Southwark stews.

She’d heard it said that the brothels were whitewashed so they’d be easily visible to would-be customers on the other side of the river, and it was true that they stood out, even on a moonless night like this one. There were more than a dozen of these Bankside bordellos; unlike the protruding ale-stakes that hung over alehouses and taverns, the brothel names were painted right on the buildings, a crudely drawn crane or bell or crown. Passing the first three by, Sybil headed for the sign of the cock, slipping in a side door.

The kitchen was a contraband chamber, for bawdy-houses were prohibited from serving food or drinks. But like most of the laws intended to regulate Southwark’s sin industry, this one was sporadically enforced, and tonight the cook was stirring a savory beef-marrow broth in a large cauldron. Dragging her makeshift cradle toward the hearth, Sybil put her daughter to bed. After tucking in the blankets, she lingered, fishing out a freshly plucked goose feather for Emma to suck upon, loath as always to leave her child. But then Berta strode in. “You’re late, my girl-Jesu, not again! This is no fitting place for a babe, Sybil! How often do you have to hear it?”

Sybil was unimpressed by the bawd’s tirade; they both knew that she was the Cock’s star attraction. “A neighbor’s lass usually looks after Emma whilst I’m at work, but she was stricken with toothache. What would you have me do, Berta…leave a babe of seven months to fend for herself?”

Berta continued to grumble, but without any real heat. Sybil knew there were stew-holders who ran roughshod over their whores, but neither Berta nor her taciturn, morose husband, Godfrey, had a talent for tyranny. Sybil accorded them a casual sort of deference because it was politic to do so, but she never doubted that in any clash of wills, the stronger one would prevail-hers. Giving Emma one last quick kiss, she shed her cloak and sauntered into the common room.

She did not like what she found there: a surfeit of working women, a dearth of paying customers. It was, she saw, going to be a long night. There were a few foreign sailors, a drunken dockworker, a nervous youth whom she dismissed as a serious prospect; lads that young had the itch but rarely the money to scratch it. The sailors were already snared, sitting at a table with Loveday, sharing ale and bawdy laughter, apparently not handicapped by their lack of a common language, for they knew only Norwegian, and Loveday, like most of the Southwark harlots, was of Saxon birth, which meant that English-not Norman French-was her native tongue.

As Sybil entered, Loveday gave her a wave. Between them, they had the pick of the Cock’s clientele, but their rivalry was a friendly one, for they were rarely in direct competition; they appealed to very different male needs. Loveday was a big-boned, good-natured country girl, crude and blunt-spoken, with thick masses of untidy curly hair, dyed yellow or gold or red as the whim took her. She always looked somewhat disheveled, breasts spilling out of her low-cut bodice, so well-rouged that she seemed sunburned, perfumed and powdered but none too clean. There were many men, though, drawn by her brazen earthiness, reassured by her easygoing approachability. And for the others, there was Sybil: tall and slender, with small wrists and feet, high breasts and unblemished skin, so prideful and poised that a man could easily indulge in fantasy, could pretend he was bedding a lady.

Sybil poured herself some wine, sat down at one of the trestle tables. She felt no surprise when Eve soon drifted over. She’d vowed not to take the younger girl under her wing; she had enough on her plate as it was. But Eve, a timid, frail fourteen-year-old newcomer to the stews, needed no more encouragement than a lost, scared puppy would, and as she took a seat with a shy smile, Sybil grudgingly admitted to herself that she was stuck with yet another stray. She was frowning over an ugly greenish bruise that was only partially hidden by the sleeve of Eve’s gown when Avelina pulled up a stool, helped herself to Sybil’s wine, and announced glumly that she had missed her flux again.

Time was never a friend to women in their precarious profession, and tonight it was the enemy. Loveday went off with her sailors. Sybil suggested some herbs-tansy and pennyroyal-that Avelina might try. The drunkard in the corner spilled an entire flagon of ale and took it out on the little kitchen maid, who fled in tears. Avelina was cheered by the arrival of a portly goldsmith, one of her regulars. But he was intercepted by Jacquetta the Fleming, who’d been blessed with blue eyes and long blonde hair but no scruples; she had no qualms about stealing another girl’s customer, as she proved now, coaxing the goldsmith above-stairs before Avelina could muster up an effective protest. Sybil ordered another wine flagon and they set about drinking in earnest, for there seemed no better way to pass the hours. But it was then that the door banged and their watchdog barked and the young lords swaggered in.

She could tell they were gentry, Sybil explained to Eve, by their swords and fine wool cloaks and bold manner; did Eve not see how Berta and Godfrey were fawning over them? Knights-no, too young, she amended, most likely squires to some lord, for that was how the Norman highborn educated their sons, sending them off to serve in great households, first as pages and then as squires.

Eve was fascinated; Sybil never failed to impress her by how much she knew of the ways of the world. But her admiring glance went unnoticed. Sybil was coolly assessing these new arrivals, as alert as a cat on the scent of prey, for she well knew there was both danger and opportunity in any encounter with the highborn. They would have money, these young lordlings, and they’d need no urging, would be quick to spill their seed, not like some of her customers, who required tiresome coaxing to prime the pump. She was fastidious by nature, much preferred to couple with a body that was young and firm and reasonably clean, and these cocky lads were more to her taste than aging merchants or unwashed sailors. But if the rewards were greater, so, too, were the risks. What did a Southwark whore’s wishes matter to a baron’s son? Who would object if he chose to maltreat a lowborn harlot? Who would even care?

They were coming her way now, and Sybil sat up straighter, giving her bodice a discreet tug. Avelina and Eve looked hopeful, but the youths had eyes only for Sybil, and the two girls reluctantly withdrew, leaving her in possession of the battlefield.

Up close, they were younger than Sybil first thought. Seventeen or so, she reckoned, and as unlike as chalk and cheese: a red-haired, freckle-faced giant, a swarthy, handsome lad with glittering black eyes, and a wiry youth of middle height whose most striking feature was his uncommon coloring-deep-brown eyes and sun-streaked fair hair. He seemed, at first glance, overshadowed by his comrades, lacking the redhead’s impressive stature or the other’s smoldering Saracen intensity. But Sybil had noted that when they conferred with Berta, he’d done all the talking, and he was the one she favored with a provocative, slightly wary smile.

“We are seeking,” he said, “a lass who speaks French. The stew-master assures us that our hunt is over. Is it?”

“Indeed, I do speak French,” she said, “as I’ve just proved. If you and your friends would like to join me, mayhap we could discuss what else you are seeking this night.”

He studied her for a moment more, then he grinned, and Sybil thought, God has been too good to you, lad, for with a smile like yours, you do not need money, too. It transformed his face as if by some erotic alchemy, a smile to cajole and disarm and bewitch and break hearts…and she’d wager that he knew it.

“I am Ranulf,” he said, “and my companions here are Gilbert and Ancel,” gesturing carelessly toward the redhead and the Saracen in turn. “I believe the bawd said you are called Sybil?”

Sybil nodded. “You sound as if that surprises you?”

“It was not what I was expecting.”

Ancel gave a snort of laughter. “Why be so tactful? What Ranulf seems loath to say straight out is that your sisters in sin usually prefer to call themselves Petronilla or Mirabelle or Rosamund, fancy whore names. Sybil…now that sounds plain as dirt, drab as homespun. Have you no more imagination than that?”

Sybil’s smile was so sultry that Ancel saw only the promise, not the mockery. “In a world full of Cassandras and Clarices, a simple, plain Sybil is sure to be remarked upon…and remembered.”

Ranulf was watching her approvingly, dark eyes agleam with amusement. “I think,” he said, “that you are exactly what we are looking for, Sybil plain and simple.”

“Ere you say that, my lord Ranulf-you are a lord, I suspect-I think we ought first to reach an understanding. It would be my pleasure to entertain you and your friends, but one at a time. Crowds are fine for fairs and markets, not for beds. And I bruise easily, so I find it best to say this beforehand: no games that involve whips or ropes or bleeding. Other than that, I am amenable to suggestions…and can offer up a few of my own.”

They seemed taken aback by her candor, and she decided they were even younger than she’d realized-sixteen at most-for their lust was still a simple, uncomplicated urge, not yet shadowed by darker, deviant needs. Ancel guffawed too loudly and Gilbert actually blushed. Ranulf’s mouth curved. “You are the one who does not yet understand, Mistress Sybil. We do not want you to play the whore. We want you to play a nun.”

Although Sybil was only nineteen, she was sure she’d long ago lost the ability to be surprised. Ranulf had just proved her wrong. “I am likely to regret saying this,” she said at last, “but tell me more.”

Ranulf relaxed, flashing another of those beguiling grins. “It is quite simple, truly. We have a grudge to settle, and with your help, we can. We are all squires in the household of Robert Fitz Roy, the Earl of Gloucester, and-”

Ancel would have interrupted then, but Ranulf shook his head impatiently. “Nay, no false names, Ancel. Either we trust the lass or we do not, and if not, why are we still sitting here? There is a knave in Earl Robert’s service who is badly in need of a lesson. His name is Baldric Fitz Gerald, and I’ll not lie to you: he has powerful kin, for he is a cousin to the Earl of Leicester and Leicester’s twin brother, Count Waleran. When Baldric was a squire like us, he well nigh drove us mad with his boasting and conniving. Now that he has been knighted, he has become even more insufferable. With Earl Robert, he pretends to be a man of honour, but he amuses himself by playing cruel tricks upon those who cannot defend themselves-kitchen maids and stable lads and the pages in Earl Robert’s service.”

“He calls me Judas,” Gilbert chimed in indignantly, “because of my red hair, and when Ancel got green sick the first time he had too much wine, Baldric made up a song about it, sang it for a hall full of highborn guests. He put a burr under Ranulf’s saddle whilst we were at the king’s Christmas court in Rouen, and brayed like a jackass when the stallion pitched Ranulf into a mud wallow. I know, Ranulf, we cannot prove it. But I’d wager any sum you name that he was the culprit!”

Ranulf shrugged, clearly not pleased to have that particular memory dredged up again. “Let’s keep to what we can prove for certes. I know he was molesting that little kitchen maid back in Caen, for I came upon her weeping afterward. We know, too, that he caused the other servants to shun that stable groom with the red blotch on his face, claiming it was the Devil’s sign, the way Satan marked out his own. The lad finally ran off, and no one knows what became of him.”

Sybil was not sure how much of this she should believe. She knew the king was still in Normandy, but Earl Robert could be back in London; these Norman lords made frequent trips to check upon their English estates. “From what I’ve heard of Earl Robert,” she said, “he is a decent sort, and truly believes that a lord owes protection to the weak and powerless, to Christ’s poor. Why not just go to him, tell him of this Baldric’s true nature?”

They looked at her blankly, as if she’d suddenly begun to speak an unknown tongue. There was much about the male mind that she found incomprehensible, and nothing more so than the credo that men-especially young men-must settle their grievances on their own, that it was somehow dishonourable to appeal to higher authority for help. “Whatever was I thinking of? Well, then, tell me what part I am to play in this scheme of yours?”

“Baldric is a hypocrite and a cheat, and I think it time he showed his true colors to the rest of the world, not just to his prey.” Ranulf was smiling faintly, but his voice held a sudden, hard edge. “What I want,” he said, “is to see him publicly shamed, his sins stripped naked for all to look upon.”

“I am beginning to understand,” Sybil said, looking at Ranulf with new respect. “You make a bad enemy, love. Few sins are as serious as seducing a nun.”

“The best part of this plan,” he said, “is that Baldric will be the instrument of his own ruin. He does not have to take the bait…but he will. You need only lure him into a compromising position. We’ll provide the witnesses. You’ll not even have to let him tumble you; that is a pleasure the whoreson does not deserve!” He laughed then, and Sybil could not help herself; she laughed, too. “Well?” he prompted. “What say you-”

The cry was muffled, quickly cut off, but it had carried enough pain to swivel all heads toward the sound. Sybil saw at once what had happened. Berta-damn her grasping soul-had sent Eve over to entice the drunkard above-stairs, and Eve had botched it, for the girl was scared witless of drunks, had yet to learn how to handle a man deep in his cups. Now she cringed back in her seat, whimpering, as her assailant turned upon her the full blast of his alcoholic rage. Sybil half rose, only to sink back again. They had a hireling to deal with drunks, a huge, clumsy bear of a man, not too bright yet big enough to intimidate all but the most belligerent of troublemakers. He was out sick, though, and Godfrey, as she well knew, was not about to put himself at risk to protect a whore. Fighting back her anger, she reminded herself that there was nothing she could do. But then the drunk struck Eve across the mouth, and she jumped to her feet, shouting for him to stop.

She did not expect the drunk to heed her, nor did he. But Ranulf did. As she watched in amazement, he crossed the chamber in three quick strides, grabbed the man before he could aim another blow, and told him curtly to “Go home, sleep it off.” It may have been his tone, the echoes of rank and privilege. It may have been the sword at his hip. But he somehow penetrated the man’s wine-sodden haze. Seeing that, Godfrey hurried over to offer some belated support, and Sybil sighed with relief, sure now that the worst was over.

Ancel and Gilbert had kept their seats during the fracas. Now Ancel gave a comical grimace, winking at Sybil. “I swear that lad could find turmoil in a cemetery! Usually he sucks us into it, too, and his heroic impulses have gotten me more bruises and black eyes than I care to count. Not that it’s entirely his fault. The two men who’ve loomed largest in his life are Earl Robert and Count Stephen of Boulogne. Good men, both, but Robert is an earthly saint, and Stephen…well, he’s quite mad, never happier than when he’s rescuing damsels in distress or chasing after dragons to slay. No wonder Ranulf’s grasp of the real world is so tenuous!”

“You might do well,” Sybil murmured, “to follow in Ranulf’s footsteps. You see, women find ‘heroic impulses’ very alluring, indeed…even irresistible.”

Ancel’s smile flickered. For a fleeting moment he wondered if she could be making fun of him, but almost at once, he dismissed the suspicion as preposterous. Women were invariably charmed by him; the older ones mothered him and the younger ones flirted with him. Why should this Bankside harlot be any different? “Women already find me irresistible,” he joked. “So…what say you, Sybil, my sweet? Shall we pick a nun’s name for you? How about Sister Mary Magdalene?”

Sybil saw no humor in the jest; it was too obvious, too heavy-handed. But Ancel and Gilbert thought it was hilarious. She waited patiently until they were done laughing, and then said blandly, “Alas, I shall have to decline the honour.”

They were dumbfounded by her refusal, began to bombard her with perplexed queries and protests. “It is not that I am not tempted,” she admitted when they finally gave her a chance to respond, “for I am. But the danger is too great. What if this scheme went awry? How could Ranulf protect me from Baldric’s wrath? If he is kin to an earl-”

She stopped, then, for both boys were grinning widely. They exchanged knowing looks and nudges before Ancel said, with just a trace of smugness, “Ranulf’s protection would shield you from the malice of a hundred Baldrics. He is much more than a squire to Earl Robert. They are brothers.”

Sybil’s mouth dropped open, and she twisted around to stare at Ranulf, who was making a gallant attempt to comfort the sobbing Eve. “Ranulf is one of the old king’s bastards?”

Ancel nodded proudly. “King Henry has sired so many he needs a tally stick to keep count of them all! Ranulf is the youngest but one, born to a Welsh lass the king fancied. None would deny the king is a hard man, but none would deny, too, that he tends to his own. Ranulf grew up at his court, has wanted for nothing. His mother died when he was just a lad, and after Count Stephen wed the Lady Matilda, Ranulf was sent into his household as a page. Then, when he turned fourteen, Earl Robert took on his training as a squire. The king is right fond of him, would be willing to find him an heiress when he’s of an age to wed, but Ranulf and my sister have been mad for each other as far back as I can remember, and Ranulf appears content to settle for whatever marriage portion my father can provide. No one could ever fault his courage, but his judgment leaves much to be desired!”

“Especially in my choice of friends,” Ranulf jeered, reclaiming his seat, and Sybil saw that this barbed banter was their normal form of discourse. “Are you done blabbing all my family secrets, Ancel? If so, I’d like to get back to the matter at hand. This is what we had in mind, Sybil. We’ll lure Baldric to some secluded spot, mayhap out by Holywell, near the nunnery, where you will be waiting. You entreat his aid-we’ll think of a plausible story for you-and then you need only give him a few lingering looks. The privacy and your beauty and his own vile nature will do the rest. Just in time we’ll happen by with a few witnesses, possibly a priest or two. Of course we’ll have to wait till the weather warms up, for not even Baldric would be keen for futtering out in the mud and rain! How would-what? You see a weakness in our plan?”

Sybil shook her head. “Nay, you have thought of everything…or almost everything.”

“Ah, of course!” Ranulf smiled at her as if they were old and intimate friends, while spilling coins out onto the table. “This seems a fair sum to me.”

Sybil’s eyes widened, for he’d casually offered three times what she might expect to earn for a night’s work. And in that moment, she no longer doubted, sure that Ranulf had spoken only the truth, for who but a king’s son would be so lavish with his money?

“This is most fair,” she agreed, returning Ranulf’s smile. “That was not what I meant, though. I fear we have a problem that wants solving. I cannot hope to convince Baldric unless I well and truly look the part. But wherever are we going to find a nun’s wimple and habit?”

Ranulf and his friends left the city through Bishopsgate, headed north along the Ermine Way. It was usually a well-traveled road, the chief route to York. But most wayfarers had already sought a night’s lodging, for dusk was encroaching from the west. Just moments before, the sky had been veined with coppery-gold streaks; it was now smudging with smoke-colored shadows. They passed few houses, as most people felt safer dwelling within the city walls. Before the light had faded, the countryside had been pleasant to look upon, the fields and meadows green and lush in the first flowering of spring. But the boys turned a blind eye to the pastoral beauty around them, and welcomed the sun’s demise, for theirs was an undertaking that needed darkness. They rode in silence for the most part, not reining in until they saw the priory walls looming up through the deepening twilight. It was cloaked in quiet, stretching from the road back toward the River Walbrook-the Augustinian nunnery of St John the Baptist at Holywell.

Gilbert stared morosely at those moss-green walls. “I cannot believe we are actually going to do this,” he muttered, not for the first time that evening, and the other two glared at him. “It is not too late to reconsider,” he insisted. “Stealing from a nunnery is-”

“We are not thieves!” Ranulf snapped. “We are merely going to borrow a nun’s habit for a few days. We will return it undamaged, and with a goodly sum to aid in their alms-giving. What harm in that?”

“But what if something goes wrong? If-”

“What could go wrong?” Ancel demanded. “Our plan is too simple to miscarry. It is not as if we’re tying to sneak into the dorter and snatch a habit from a sleeping nun! We know the priory has spare habits on hand. We need only find where they are kept, most likely in the undercroft below the dorter, where the chambress stores her linens and beddings. The nuns will be asleep; they go to bed as soon as Compline is rung. Now I ask you, Gilbert, what have we to fear from a convent full of sleeping nuns?”

Gilbert grinned reluctantly at that, and Ranulf leaned over, punching him playfully on the arm. “What a comfort you are to us, Gib. If I looked at life the dour way you do, I’d not dare get out of bed in the morn! Why is it that you always expect the worst to happen?”

“Most likely because the two of you keep concocting lunatic schemes like this!” But Gilbert raised no more objections, and once it was fully dark, he hitched their horses in a nearby grove of trees, settled down to keep a wary watch as his friends disappeared into the shadows surrounding the priory.

It proved to be as easy as Ancel had predicted. They had no difficulty in scaling the wall, and detected no signs of life as they crept stealthily toward the church. It was deserted, and they moved swiftly through the nave, out into the silent cloisters. Ancel was to be the lookout, and took up position in one of the sheltered carrels as Ranulf started along the east walkway. He had no warning; suddenly the dorter’s door swung open. He froze as a woman appeared in the doorway. What was she doing out here? And then she gave a low whistle and Ranulf swore softly. A dog, sweet Lady Mary, she had a dog! The Church forbade pets, but the prohibition was more ignored than obeyed, and cats and small dogs were common occupants of English convents. Why had he not remembered that? It was too late now, for the nun’s dog was shooting through the air, swerving toward him in midstride, barking shrilly.

Ranulf kept his head, spun around and ran for the slype, the narrow passage that offered the cloister’s only escape. The dog was at his heels, nipping at his boots, and the nun had begun to scream. He caught a blurred movement off to his left, and spared a second or so to hope it was Ancel, retreating back into the church. Shutters were banging, the dorter windows flung open. But he was almost there-just another few feet and he’d be on his way to safety.

It was then, though, that Ranulf learned one of life’s uglier lessons: that when luck starts to sour, anything that can possibly go wrong, does. As he darted past the Chapter House, the door flew open and he collided with the priory chaplain, who should have been abed in his own lodgings at such an hour. The impact sent them both sprawling. Before Ranulf could get his breath back, the nun’s lapdog landed on his chest, sinking needle-sharp teeth into his forearm. But he was still sure he could get away, for he was younger and far more fit than the priest. Kicking at the dog, he rolled over and lurched to his feet, just as the priory’s porter came plunging through the slype, cudgel raised to strike.

Ranulf’s shoulders slumped, and he sagged back against the Chapter House door. He was well and truly caught, by God, might as well accept it with good grace. He looked about at the chaos he’d unleashed upon the cloistered quiet of this small, peaceful priory, looked at the snarling little dog and shrieking mistress, the fearful faces peering down from the dorter windows, the bewildered priest, still scrabbling about on his hands and knees in the grass, the hulking porter, flushed and panting-and he suddenly started to laugh, for this was lunacy beyond even Gilbert’s dire expectations.

He saw at once that his laughter had shocked them, and he struggled to contain his imprudent mirth, to sound sober and serious and above all, sincere, that this was merely a vast and outlandish misunderstanding. But then the porter shouted, “You misbegotten, whoreson thief, I’ll teach you to steal from God!” and swung his cudgel toward Ranulf’s head.

Tower Royal was one of London’s most impressive dwellings, as well it should be, for it had been a king’s gift, presented to Stephen at the time of his marriage to the Lady Matilda de Boulogne. The neighboring residents of Watling Street and Cheapside were accustomed to noise and torchlight spilling over the manor walls. Stephen was a lavish host, and whenever he was in London, Tower Royal served as a magnet, drawing to its hospitable hearth Norman lords and their ladies, officials of the court, influential churchmen, even some of the city’s more prosperous merchants and ward aldermen, for if Stephen liked a man’s company, he was indifferent to whether that man was Saxon or Norman, citizen or baron. His good-natured, indiscriminate affability had subjected him, at times, to gossip and the disapproval of his peers, but it had won him the hearts of Londoners; there was no man in the city more popular than he.

On this mild April evening, he had entertained his younger brother, Henry, Bishop of Winchester. After a meal of roast duck and stewed eels, Henry’s favorite foods, they settled down to a game of chess, and Stephen’s wife politely excused herself from their company so they might talk of politics without constraint; the bishop, like so many of his fellow clerics, felt that women were not meant to have a voice in matters of state. Matilda, who had less malice in her nature than any of her sisters in Christendom, nonetheless found herself wondering occasionally how her brother-in-law would cope once he must answer to a queen-and an imperious one at that, for those who knew Henry’s daughter knew, too, that Maude would be no docile, biddable pawn. When God called her father to Heaven’s Throne, Maude would never be content merely to reign. She would rule, too; on that, her allies and enemies could all agree.

After leaving the hall, Matilda made a quick detour into the nursery, where she did a loving inventory of the three small sailors adrift in a featherbed boat: Baldwin, Eustace, and William. Their night’s voyage was a peaceful one; they were all sound asleep. So, too, was the little girl in the corner cradle, her baby, her namesake. Blowing kisses to her brood, Matilda quietly withdrew.

Back in her own chamber, she dismissed her maid, then sat down amidst the cushions in the window seat and began to unbraid her hair. It floated about her like a veil of woven gold threads; Matilda was very proud of her hair, and tended it with such diligence that her chaplain had chided her for vanity. Matilda had accepted the rebuke meekly enough, as was her way, but continued to brush and burnish her hip-length blonde tresses, for she knew that Scriptures said, “If a woman hath long hair, it is a glory to her,” and that secret stubbornness was also her way.

The step was well known to her, but she felt surprise, nonetheless, when she looked up, for she’d not expected her husband until the hearth had burned low. “Stephen? Is the chess game done so soon?”

“I let Henry win,” Stephen said, cheerfully ignoring the fact that he was a mediocre player at best and his brother a very good one. “I then begged off from a rematch, explaining that I wanted to get above-stairs in time to watch my wife undress for bed.”

Matilda’s eyes widened. “Oh, Stephen, you did not-and he a priest!”

“He’d not like to hear you call him that, my love, for Brother Henry is one for holding fast to the least of his honours. A bishop he is, and would aim higher still; have you not noticed how solicitous he is of our ailing archbishop? Mayhap that’s why the archbishop always looks so uneasy around Henry, almost as if he were hearing vulture wings hovering overhead!”

Matilda clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Ah, Stephen, do be serious just this once. You did not really say that to Henry, did you?”

Stephen laughed, and dropped down beside her in the window seat, marveling that after ten years of marriage and four children, she still could not tell when he was teasing her. “Mayhap I did, mayhap not.”

Matilda gazed calmly into his eyes, and then turned her head aside so he’d not see her smile. “Better I not know,” she said, and sighed as he drew back her hair, kissing the curve of her throat. “It gladdens me that you still find pleasure in looking upon my body, even if I’d rather you not boast about it to men of the Church.”

“Indeed, I do find pleasure in looking, and in touching and caressing and stroking and fondling…what did I leave out?” he asked, and when he laughed this time, she did, too. He’d lifted her onto his lap and she’d gone soft and languid in his arms by the time a repeated rapping sounded on the door.

“We’re not here,” Stephen said loudly as Matilda sought to muffle her giggles against his shoulder. When the knocking persisted, he got reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll get rid of them right quick,” he assured her, and she watched as he strode across the chamber and opened the door. After a brief exchange, he turned with an apologetic smile. “It is my cousin Ranulf, and he says it is urgent. I’ll have to see him, Tilda, but not for long, that I promise.” Returning to the window seat, he began to speculate what Ranulf might want at such an hour. “He is a good lad, but nary a day goes by without him getting into devilment of some sort, most of which he manages to keep from my uncle the king. Did I ever tell you about the time he-”

He got no further, for the servant was back. But the two youths being ushered into the bedchamber were strangers to Stephen. “Who in blazes are you?”

The taller of the two came forward, knelt, and said hastily, “Forgive us, my lord, for lying to you, but we knew no other way to gain admittance. My name is Gilbert Fitz John and this is Ancel de Bernay. We are squires to the Earl of Gloucester, and Ranulf’s friends. He needs your help, my lord Stephen, for he has been arrested!”

Stephen was surprised, but not shocked, for youthful sins were both expected and indulged, provided that the sinners were highborn, like Ranulf. “What has he done? An alehouse brawl?”

The boys exchanged glances. Gilbert hesitated, then blurted out, “Nay, it is far more serious than that. Ranulf was caught breaking into the priory of St John at Holywell. I very much fear he’ll be charged with attempted theft or even rape. But it is not true, I swear it. He meant only to borrow a nun’s habit!”

There was a silence after that. Stephen and Matilda shared the same expression, one of utter astonishment. But then the corner of Stephen’s mouth quirked. Turning back to his wife, he said, “I am sorry, my love, but I cannot keep my promise. This is one story I have got to hear!”

Ranulf would not have believed it had he ever been told he could be afraid of the dark. But he’d never experienced darkness like this, lacking the faintest glimmer of light, as black as the pits of Hell. He was not alone; an occasional rustling in the straw warned him of that. Mice, he guessed, or rats. He stamped his feet to discourage any undue familiarity, slumping back against the wall. His manacles were rubbing his wrists raw, and his head was throbbing, but a headache was of minor moment when he considered what might have happened. If he’d not ducked in time, he’d have suffered much more than a grazed, bloody scalp; the porter’s cudgel would have split his skull like a ripe gourd.

He did not know whether it was a hopeful sign or not that he’d been taken to the Tower and not the gaol of London. It might just be a matter of convenience; the Tower, built by his royal grandsire, was closer to the priory than the city gaol, off to the west by the River Fleet. He was quite familiar with the Tower, for its upper two floors contained his father’s London residence and the chapel of St John. But he’d never expected to find himself confined in a small, underground cell near the storage chamber. He’d never, ever expected to be manhandled and shoved and treated like a felon.

His experience in the past few hours had taught him-if the porter’s cudgel had not already done so-that his predicament held no humor whatsoever. Theft was a serious offense, and “stealing from God” was a crime he could hang for. He might also be charged with attempted rape, for people would be quick to suspect the worst of a man caught at night in a nunnery. Ranulf tried to recall what he’d heard about rape laws. All he knew for certes was that it was a much more serious crime if a man forced himself upon a virgin, and nuns were all virgins-save an occasional widow-Brides of Christ.

Ranulf knew, of course, that he held the key to his prison. He need only speak up, reveal his identity. They were not likely to believe his story, and who could blame them? Yet it would matter little whether they believed him or not. It would be enough that he was King Henry’s son. If he admitted who he was, he’d be freed. But if he did, his brother would have to know, and Ranulf could not bear that Robert find out. Robert would never understand. He’d not even be angry, just baffled and disappointed. Ranulf would not willingly disappoint Robert for the very surety of his soul. But as the hours crept by, he found his common sense-which argued for disclosure-at war with his inbred optimism, his illogical yet intense faith that all would somehow still end well.

He had time, though, to make up his mind, for he did not think they would summon the Tower’s castellan until the morrow. He knew the man, with an effort even prodded his memory into disgorging the name-Aschuill. What he did not know was whether Aschuill would remember him. Well, he’d find out come morning, one way or another. Leaning his head on his drawn-up knees, he made a halfhearted attempt to sleep. But he was too tense, too bruised, too busy berating himself for not having heeded Gilbert’s warning. At least Gib and Ancel had gotten away. Surely they’d know better than to confess to Robert? Pray God they did! If-He jerked his head up, scarcely breathing as he strained to hear: sounds in the stairwell, the clanking of spurs against stone, growing closer now. And then there was a jangling of keys and the door was swinging open, letting in a sudden spill of lantern light, bright enough to blind.

Ranulf blinked, unable to see beyond its glare, and struggled to his feet. As he did, a familiar voice said, “I’ve known men who put their lives at peril for gold or for lust, and occasionally even for love. But you, lad, are the very first to risk the gallows for a woman’s wool garment-and with the woman not even in it!”

Ranulf burst out laughing. “I do not think,” he confessed, “that I’ve ever been so happy to see anyone in all my born days!”

“It is just me, lad,” Stephen said wryly, “not the blessed Angel Gabriel!” He gestured then for the guard to unlock his young cousin’s irons, and it took no more than that-the most casual of commands-for Ranulf to gain his freedom.

Although it was long past curfew, the alehouse owner did not mind being roused from sleep. The chance to do a favor for the Count of Boulogne was an opportunity not to be missed, for the count would remember should he ever need a favor in return. And if the City Watch did appear, he knew the count would send them away, well content with a few coins and a bit of friendly banter. So he hastily ordered his sleepy servant to pour ale and wine for the count’s men while he himself brought a flagon to the count’s table, returning a few moments later with cold chicken from his own larder.

Ranulf fell upon the chicken with gusto, continuing his adventures between huge bites. Stephen interrupted only twice, once to gibe that a full day in gaol would have brought Ranulf to the very brink of starvation, and once to ask how Gilbert and Ancel had gotten back to the city, for the gates had been barred hours ago. When Ranulf explained that they’d bribed a guard at Aldgate to let them in once they had the nun’s habit, Stephen shook his head and predicted they would end up on the gallows unless they repented. But his sermon’s impact was lessened somewhat by the laughter lurking beneath the rebuke.

Ranulf’s hunger was contagious, and Stephen soon helped himself to a drumstick. “Your trouble, lad, is that you have too much imagination. Anyone else with a score to settle would have been content to slip a purgative into Baldric’s wine or glue into his boots. And no, those are not suggestions! Now…may I assume that I need fear no more deranged plots to enliven Baldric’s days?”

Ranulf nodded, summoning up a discomfited smile. “It will take a lifetime to repay you for tonight, Cousin Stephen. Thank the Lord Christ that you happened to be in London!”

“Saintly soul that I am, I can never resist a chance to do good. But I am curious why you did not ask Robert for aid.”

“Robert is the last man in Christendom whom I’d want to know! Can you not imagine his shame at being told his brother had been arrested in a nunnery? He’d find no humor in it, no sense at all, and would likely end up blaming himself for my failings!”

“I suppose it is lucky for you, then, that I lack Robert’s moral superiority and incorruptible honour.”

Ranulf looked at the older man in dismay. “If I have offended you, I am indeed sorry. You and Robert are both men of honour, men I would follow to the very borders of Hell if need be. I meant only that you are…less judgmental than Robert, that you find it easier to forgive daft sins like mine.”

After a moment, Stephen shrugged. “Doubtless that comes from my own misspent youth.” But Ranulf was left with an uneasy impression, that his cousin’s flare of jealousy had been no joke.

“You and Robert…you have been my family,” he said softly, and somewhat awkwardly, for he was no more accustomed than most males to sharing sentiment. “I am not faulting my lord father when I say that, for he has been good to me. But…but I’ve always felt as if I were confined to his outer bailey, not allowed up into the keep itself.”

Stephen nodded. “My uncle is not an easy man to know. But then he is a king, lad, and kings cannot be judged like other men.”

Ranulf leaned closer, for wine and the night’s harrowing events had loosened his tongue, and he suddenly saw a chance to ask Stephen what he’d never dared to ask another living soul, especially Robert. “I know a king is bound to attract gossip, like bees to honey. The stories they tell of my father…how do I know which are true, Stephen, and which are wicked lies?”

Stephen studied the boy. “Have you any particular stories in mind, Ranulf?”

Ranulf almost lost his nerve then. He squirmed in his seat, reached for his wine, only to set it down untasted. “Is it true that he blinded his own granddaughters?”

Stephen did not respond at once, seemed to be weighing his words, and Ranulf had never seen him do that before. “Yes,” he said slowly, “he did. It happened the year before the White Ship sank. I’ll see if I can try to make sense of it for you. Your father had wed his daughter Juliane to a man named Eustace de Pacy, and promised Pacy that he could have the castle of Ivry. But Henry was loath to lose it, and he kept putting Pacy off with promises. To keep the peace, it was agreed that Pacy and Ivry’s castellan should exchange their children as hostages for each man’s good faith. Unfortunately, Pacy’s good faith was not worth spit, and he blinded the castellan’s son. Henry was so outraged by this treachery that he allowed the castellan to maim Pacy and Juliane’s two young daughters; they were blinded and the tips of their noses cut off.”

Ranulf said nothing, shocked into silence, for he’d not expected that tale to be validated as true. Stephen watched him, then said quietly, “It was not that your father lacked pity, lad; they were but little lasses and his own blood kin. But he felt men must be able to rely upon the king’s sworn word. He told me once that a king’s greatest mistake would be to make a threat and then not carry it out.”

Ranulf nodded, struggling to understand, needing to give his father the benefit of any doubt. But he could not help asking, “Could you have done that, Stephen?”

Stephen drained his wine cup, reached for the flagon, and poured again. “No,” he said, “no, lad, I could not…”

Ranulf’s appetite was gone, and he pushed aside the rest of the chicken. “What…what of the stories of how he became king? Are they true, too?”

“I do not know what you’ve heard,” Stephen said, adding with a forced smile, “and I am not sure I want to know!” When would he learn to look ere he leapt? But the lad had a need to talk, and it seemed harmless enough to indulge him; so why were they of a sudden hinting at regicide?

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Stephen said reluctantly. “Your father and others were hunting in the New Forest with his brother the king. William Rufus was shot by mischance-took an arrow in the chest-and died there in the woods. He had no sons, which meant that his crown would be claimed by one of his brothers. Robert was the firstborn, but he was on his way back from the Holy Land, and your father…well, he was luckier, for he was within riding distance of Winchester, where the royal treasury was kept. He headed for Winchester at a gallop, and by sunset, he was calling himself England’s king. As you know, Robert eventually challenged him, and ended his days confined to the great keep of Cardiff Castle in South Wales. More than that, I cannot say. No man can.”

Ranulf looked intently into Stephen’s face and then away. Stephen had deliberately drawn no conclusions, offered no opinion of his own about Henry’s hunt for a crown, for the words “by mischance” seemed dictated more by prudence than by conviction. Did Stephen believe, as many men did, that William Rufus’s death had been too convenient to be a mere hunting accident? But it was a question Ranulf could not bring himself to ask, nor in fairness, expect Stephen to answer.

“Is it true,” he asked instead, “that he abandoned William Rufus’s body in the woods, rode off and left him?”

“I’ll not lie to you, lad, he did. It does not sound very brotherly, I’ll admit. But do not make more of it than that. All we can say is that it proves what we already know-that men lust after crowns even more than they lust after women!”

Ranulf joined gratefully in Stephen’s laughter, relieved to return to safer ground, for he’d ventured further than he’d intended; better to backtrack, for both their sakes. “Do all men lust after crowns, Stephen? Do you?”

“Ranulf, my lad, if you searched the length and breadth of England, you might eventually find a man with no interest whatsoever in being its king…and if you did, you could be sure he lied!”

Ranulf grinned. “You’ll probably think me truly demented then, if I confess that I’d not want to be a king. I would not want to be powerless, mind you. I want to be respected, to have lands of my own and friends I can rely upon and Annora de Bernay as my wife. But I’d rather serve the Crown, Stephen, than wear one. I only wish it could have been yours!”

Stephen looked startled. So did Ranulf; he’d not meant to say that, for it was a betrayal of Maude, and he loved his sister. “Maude would not forgive me for this,” he said, “and I truly wish I had no qualms about her queenship. Mayhap if she were not wed to that Angevin hellspawn…but she is, even if it was not a marriage of her choosing. She has the right to the English throne, though, a blood right, and I will hold to my sworn oath, accept her as England’s queen and Normandy’s duchess when that time comes. But I will always harbor a secret, reluctant regret: that it could not have been you, Cousin Stephen.”

Stephen was gazing into the bottom of his cup, as if it held answers instead of wine. “All is in God’s Hands,” he said gravely. “We do what we must, lad, and hope that our inner voices speak true, that we are indeed acting in the furtherance of the Almighty’s Will. No man can do more than that.”

“I suppose not,” Ranulf agreed, somewhat hazily, puzzled by the serious turn the conversation had suddenly taken.

Stephen saw that and reached over, clinking his wine cup to Ranulf’s. “Let us drink then,” he said, “to the sanctity of nunneries, bad luck to rogues, and good fortune to a spirited Southwark harlot named Sybil.”

Ranulf laughed. “Aye, and may Sybil and the good nuns and you, my lord Count of Boulogne, all prosper under the reign of Queen Maude,” he said, atoning for his earlier disloyalty to his sister, and raised his cup. But Stephen set his own cup down, for he could not in good conscience drink to the queenship of his cousin, a brave and honourable woman, but a woman withal.