When Christ and His Saints Slept

54

Wallingford, England

December 1152

A swirling, wet snow had been falling since dawn. By the time the Bishop of Winchester arrived at his brother’s siege, he was chilled to the bone and grateful for even the meagre warmth of the brazier in Stephen’s command tent. Stephen seemed genuinely glad to see him, for in the two months since his return from Rome, they’d begun to mend the rifts in their relationship. Just as their estrangement had been mainly the bishop’s doing, so, too, was their reconciliation. His papal disgrace and thwarted ambitions had given the bishop a greater appreciation for familial bonds, a belated realization that he’d served neither Stephen nor God with wholehearted devotion. In his youth, he’d craved power and glory, the Holy See of Canterbury, possibly even a cardinal’s hat. He knew now that some dreams were dust; he would rise no higher in the Church.

But all was not lost. His brother still needed him, and so did England. It had been a year of mourning, first their brother Theobald and then Stephen’s Matilda. And Stephen would soon be facing the gravest threat yet to his embattled kingship. Stephen might be clinging to the shreds of a lifetime’s optimism, but the bishop was too realistic to underrate the danger. They dared not hold Maude’s son too cheaply. The French king had already learned that, to his cost.

“I hear your men finally captured Newbury?”

Stephen nodded, watching his brother warily. But the bishop continued to sip his mulled wine; if he, too, was critical of Stephen’s handling of the Newbury siege, he was keeping it to himself. Stephen was grateful for that; too many others had faulted him for sparing John Marshal’s son. “I sent the little lad to Constance in London,” he said, waiting for a negative response. Again, he was reprieved; the bishop merely nodded.

“Is it true that Eustace has crossed the Channel again?”

“Yes. He wants to hire more mercenaries, whilst keeping a hawk’s eye on Maude’s son. And he heard that the French king was threatening to break the truce, so I suspect he also hopes to prod Louis into another war, if he can.”

Stephen did not sound as if he expected Eustace to succeed. Neither did the bishop. The French king could not be eager to take on Henry Fitz Empress again. And even if Eustace did talk him into another campaign, Louis had proved he was no match for Henry on the field. It was their accursed luck, the bishop thought morosely, that Maude’s son would be one of those blessed few born with a flair for command.

Stephen seemed to have read his brother’s sour musings, for he said suddenly, “Normandy is lost to us. If we are to defeat Maude’s lad, it must be here-on English soil. That is why the fall of Wallingford matters so much. It has become a symbol of Angevin defiance, the castle the king could not win. Twice I tried to take it by force, twice I failed. And because that is so, its surrender will daunt our foes and hearten our supporters beyond measure.”

The bishop forgot his aching back, his frozen feet, and chilblained hands, for this was news of consequence, indeed. “Wallingford is going to yield to you?”

“They have no choice,” Stephen said, “for they are running out of food. The castellan asked to be allowed to send an urgent message to Henry Fitz Empress, advising him that unless he can come to their aid, they will be forced to yield.”

While to the uninitiated that might have sounded suspiciously like John Marshal’s ruse at Newbury, the bishop knew that was strictly in accordance with the laws of war, for such an appeal allowed a besieged garrison to surrender with honour if help was not forthcoming. And for Wallingford, it would not be. Not only was it the dead of winter, but Henry was not even in the country, still dallying with his new wife in far-off Aquitaine. Rejuvenated and revitalized, the bishop gave Stephen the rarest sort of smile, one of unqualified approval. “Well done, Stephen! The fall of Wallingford could be a turning point in your kingship.”

“God grant it so,” Stephen said fervently, “for I cannot lose this war. I cannot let my son down.”

Henry and Eleanor’s return to Poitiers was a hectic one, with vassals awaiting them in the great hall, petitioners seeking audiences, and a vast pile of letters accumulated in their absence, for not all of their correspondents had been able to track them on their progress through Aquitaine. After two days of continuous chaos, Eleanor decided they both could use some quiet time together, and surprised Henry with a candle-lit supper for two up in their bedchamber. Henry joked that he’d never heard of a man’s having a secret tryst with his own wife, but he was pleased, for privacy was a scarce commodity in their lives.

Over an Advent meal of herring and pike, they enjoyed a rare luxury-a conversation overheard by no others. Eleanor was able to confide her concern about her widowed sister. Petronilla had recently suffered another blow, for the French king had awarded the wardship of Petronilla and Raoul’s young son to Waleran Beaumont. Henry in turn complained about his vexing brother Geoff, having just found out that Geoff had been pestering their aunt, the Abbess Mathilde, entreating her to intercede with Henry on his behalf to get his forfeited castles back.

“Why Mathilde?” Eleanor asked. “Surely your mother would be the natural choice to mediate betwixt you?”

“Geoff would not dare approach our mother,” Henry said, with a scornful smile. “He has yet to face her, according to her last letter. My aunt said she blistered his ears, but that is nothing to what Mama would have done!”

He told her, then, of the other news in his mother’s letter: Stephen’s clash of wills with John Marshal at Newbury.

Eleanor was riveted by the tale. “How could any man be so indifferent to his own child?”

“Marshal is a gambler, willing to take great risks even if the odds are not in his favor. He proved that when he was trapped in a burning bell tower at Wherwell Abbey; I told you that story, love, remember? I’m guessing that he was gambling again at Newbury, this time upon how well he knew Stephen.”

“A diabolic wager, for certes,” Eleanor said, shaking her head incredulously, “with his son’s life as the stakes…”

“He judged Stephen rightly, though,” Henry pointed out, “but at what a cost if he had not!”

“I cannot help wondering,” Eleanor said, “how the boy’s mother felt about it. Henry…you would not have hanged the child?”

“No,” Henry said, leaning over to pour them both more wine, “I would not. But neither would I have threatened to hang him, as Stephen did. That was his great mistake. No man ought to make a threat he is not willing to carry out, especially a king-”

They were interrupted then by the arrival of a courier from England, bearing an urgent message for Henry. Excusing himself, he hastened down to the great hall. He was gone longer than Eleanor had expected; the servants had cleared away the dishes and brought up a bowl of costly imported oranges before he returned. Eleanor had been peeling an orange for him, but she set the fruit aside at sight of her husband’s face. “The news was not good?”

He shook his head. “A desperate appeal from William Boterel, the castellan of Wallingford Castle. They have been under siege for months, and they doubt that they can hold out much longer. Stephen has seized the bridge, so they no longer have a way of getting supplies into the castle and their larders are well-nigh empty.”

“This Wallingford…is it an important castle, Henry?”

“Yes, for it controls the Upper Thames Valley. But it has more than tactical significance. The man who held it, Brien Fitz Count, was the most steadfast of my mother’s supporters. It was to Wallingford that she fled when she made that miraculous escape from Oxford. Wallingford…well, it came to signify resistance, our hope for victory…” He’d begun to pace. Halting before the hearth, he stood for several moments, gazing into the flames.

Watching him, Eleanor already knew what he would do. “You are going to Wallingford’s rescue,” she said. “You are going to brave a January crossing of the Channel and launch a winter campaign. You do realize, Harry, how mad that sounds?”

“Of course I do,” he said, and smiled wryly. “That is why I’ll take Stephen utterly by surprise.”

The hearth had burned low, and embers glowed in the shadows, visible from the bed. Henry leaned over and kissed his wife’s throat, just below her ear. “Why are you not asleep yet?”

“I’ve a lot to think about,” she said, “much of it troubling. I intend to invite my sister to stay with me once you’ve gone. She still mourns for Raoul, and now her son has been taken away from her…Where is the justice in that?”

“Well…in fairness to Louis, he probably meant to reward Beaumont, not to punish Petronilla. After all, how often are women given wardships?”

“Precisely my point,” she retorted. “Women are the ones who must bear children, suffering the travails of the birthing chamber, and indeed, often dying to give life. And yet we have no say about what happens to the child afterward. It would never even have occurred to John Marshal to consult his wife ere he dared Stephen to hang their son. No more than Louis cared how he grieved Petra by putting her children’s future into the hands of a self-seeking lout like Waleran Beaumont. It is so unfair, Harry, so outrageously unfair.”

Henry had honestly never given the matter of wardships much thought. His views about women were conflicted, as the son of a strong-willed, defiantly independent woman in a world that taught him females were inferior, meant to be ruled by men. Following neither the well-traveled road of tradition nor the rocky, lonely trail Maude had blazed, he’d found his own path, not challenging their society’s concept of male dominance, but acknowledging individual accomplishments in women like his mother-or his wife.

“There is some truth to what you say,” he conceded, made cautious because they were venturing into unmapped territory; until now, they’d rarely discussed her daughters. “You are talking, too, about Marie and Alix…are you not?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose I am…”

Henry propped himself up on his elbow, but it was too dark to see her face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If I could get them back for you, Eleanor, I would. But it is beyond my power, and not even a crown will change that.”

“I know,” she said. “Why do you think I mention them so seldom? Because they are lost to me. Louis will never allow me to see them, and there is nothing I can do about it.” She turned toward him in the dark, seeking his embrace. “He’ll teach them to hate me, Harry, and there is nothing I can do about that, either.”

Henry tightened his arms around her. “It is not as easy as people think to poison a child’s mind. During my mother’s years in England, there were few at my father’s court to speak well of her. God knows he did not. Your Marie is older than I was when my mother left us, old enough to hold fast to her own memories-as I did.”

“Yes, but you knew your mother had not abandoned you. Abandonment will be the least of my maternal sins.”

“I’ll not deny that they’ll hear slanderous stories about you. But your notoriety might well work to your benefit, for you’ll not be like other discarded wives, Eleanor, to be cast aside and forgotten. Your daughters will grow up knowing that you are the Duchess of Aquitaine and Normandy and, God Willing, Queen of England. How can your girls not be curious about you? And once they are old enough, I think they’ll want to find out for themselves what sort of woman you are.”

“Jesu, Harry, what comfort can I take in that? The chance of a reunion twenty years from now?” But almost at once, Eleanor regretted her sharpness. “I am not being fair, am I? Had you offered me empty promises, vowed to win them back, then I’d have blamed you for lying to me. My nerves are on the raw tonight, more so than I realized.”

Henry kissed her gently. He could not ease her yearning for her daughters. But he did have a parting gift for her. “When you write to your sister, ask her to join you at Angers, not Poitiers.”

“Why?”

“I shall ask my mother to watch over Normandy in my absence. And of course you will continue to govern Aquitaine. But I would also have you act on my behalf in Anjou.”

As he’d guessed, that pleased her immensely. “Do you trust me as much as that, then?”

“Why not? You have sound political sense and good judgment, too…for a woman,” he teased, and pretended to wince when she nipped his neck. How he was going to miss sharing her bed in the months to come. “With you and my mother keeping vigil for me, I’ll not have to worry about my fool brother stirring up another revolt. Without Geoff to distract me, I’ll have a better chance of avoiding a heroic, martyr’s death on some godforsaken English field.”

“Do not jest about that,” she chided, with a gravity that he found quite flattering. She quickly lapsed back, though, into the bantering levity that was the coin of their marital realm. “I do not want you to take any needless risks, Harry. I would hate to have to start husband-hunting all over again.”

“I doubt that you’d have to hunt very hard,” he said dryly. “Most likely you’d find yourself fending off suitors at my wake.” Yawning, he drew her into an even closer embrace, and soon after, fell asleep. When he awoke, it was almost dawn. The fire had gone out and the chamber was cold and damp. But Eleanor’s body was warm against his, her skin soft to his touch, and fragrant with her favorite perfume, one that she said put her in mind of summer roses and moonlight and honey-sweet sins.

Why was it sinful, though, to lay with his wife? Henry could not understand the Church’s reasoning. Why was celibacy so holy, carnal lust so sinister? Even in wedlock, it remained suspect, for he’d heard priests claim that a man sinned if he loved his wife with too much passion. If that was true, he was putting his immortal soul in peril about twice a night. Laughing softly to himself, Henry reached for Eleanor.

Eleanor awoke with reluctance, for she’d been dreaming that she and Henry were making love, alone in a secluded meadow, with scented clover for their bed and a sapphire-blue sky for their ceiling. She’d never done that, never made love out in the open under a hot summer sun, and her first thought upon awakening was a drowsy regret for all she’d missed. And then she smiled, understanding why her dream had veered off into that meadow.

“Now you’re seducing me in my dreams, too,” she murmured, and laughed when he said that was passing strange, for in his dreams, she was always the temptress. She knew that their honeymoon harmony was not likely to last. They were both too self-willed not to clash occasionally, and she did not doubt that they would sail into rough seas at times. But she felt quite confident that their marriage bed would always be a safe harbor. Whether they called it lust or passion or even love, what they found together in bed was rare and real and had nothing to do with crowns or kingships. She understood how lucky they’d been, hoped that he did, too.

He’d begun to stroke her thighs, and wherever his fingers touched, her skin seemed to burn. The frigid December dawn receded, and she was back in her dream, their bodies entwined, aware only of each other, the urgency of their need, and then, the shared intensity of their release.

Lying, slaked and spent, in a tangle of sheets, they soon discovered that sexual heat did not linger, and they dived, shivering, under the coverlets, where they got into a playful tussle when Henry tried to warm his cold feet against her legs. That led to the first pillow fight of their marriage, which ended abruptly when Eleanor’s greyhound decided to join in the fun.

After evicting the dog, they settled back against the pillows, and Eleanor told Henry about her erotic dream. He promised that he’d find them a private meadow, provided that she was willing to wait for the spring thaw. But then they looked at each other, their laughter stilled, remembering that he would be in England in the spring, fighting a war.

Eleanor was quiet for a time after that. Once he rode away from Poitiers, who could say how long they’d be apart? She dared not wait, would have to tell him now. “Harry…do you think there is any chance that you might be back by August?”

“I do not know,” he admitted. Shifting so he could see her face, he gave her a quizzical look. His birthday was in March, hers in June, their anniversary in May. What significance did August have in their lives? True, they’d met for the first time in August, but he knew his wife was not sentimental. “Why August?” he asked, and then caught his breath. “Eleanor?”

Eleanor had known he’d guess the truth; he was nothing if not quick. “Yes,” she said, “I think I am with child.”

Indifferent to gossip, they remained abed for most of the morning. Henry was as solicitous as he was jubilant, summoning servants to light the hearth and fetch cider and honeyed bread for their breakfast, promising Eleanor that he’d not be gone a day longer than necessary, promising, too, to bring back a crown for their babe to play with. He was so delighted by the prospect of fatherhood that he was quite unfazed when she confessed that she could not be utterly certain yet, having missed only one flux so far. He blithely insisted that she was right to tell him now, that this was news to be shared in bed, not to be imparted in a letter. He even did his best to assure her that he’d not be disappointed if their first child was a girl, with such conviction that she almost believed him.

“Did you never doubt that I would give you a son?”

“No,” he said emphatically, “never,” and this time she did believe him.

Reaching for his hand, she laced their fingers together. “Harry…do you not think it is time we owned up to it?”

As cryptic as that might have sounded to others, he understood. She saw comprehension in his eyes, and a certain wariness as he considered his response. Not surprisingly, he settled upon humor. “You first.”

Eleanor was never one to resist a dare. “All right,” she agreed, “I will. When I began to confide in my sister about you, Petra listened and then exclaimed, ‘You fancy him!’ She was right, I did. I did not realize how much, though, until we were alone in the garden. You do remember what happened when we kissed?”

Henry’s mouth quirked. “Till my dying day.”

“I was caught by surprise, for fires usually have to be stoked ere they flame up like that. I remember telling Petra that you and I might be getting more than we’d bargained for. And the same can be said for our marriage.” She flashed a sudden smile, at once mischievous and tender, too. “I discovered on our wedding night that setting a fire in a rainy garden was child’s play, compared to the conflagration you could kindle in bed. But even then, I did not expect to fall in love with you…certainly not so quickly and completely. You were supposed to be satisfied with my body, not lay claim to my heart, too!”

Henry leaned over swiftly, seeking her mouth. She returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but when it ended, she said, “Your turn.”

“You already know,” he protested. “You would not have been so candid were you not sure of me.”

That was a shrewd thrust, and she acknowledged it as such. “Pride is a shield as well as a sin. You’re right, I would not have been so quick to put it down had I not been convinced I’d not need it. I know that you care, Harry. You prove that, in bed and out. But I would like the words, too.”

So commanding was his self-assurance that she rarely remembered his youth. But now she found herself being reminded that he was not yet twenty, for he’d begun to look distinctly uncomfortable. She was not offended by his reluctance, for she could understand why he might be leery of letting down his own defenses, caught too often in the crossfire of his parents’ war. But she’d spoken no less than the truth. She did need the words, especially now that she faced months of separation and anxiety, a lonely pregnancy under the constant threat of widowhood. “Louis was not so tongue-tied,” she gibed sweetly, and Henry grimaced.

“That was a low blow,” he complained. “I am utterly besotted with you, woman, as anyone with eyes to see could tell. Is that not enough for you?” She said nothing, greenish-gold eyes never leaving his face, and he capitulated with a smothered oath. “I do love you, Eleanor.” Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her again. “God help me, but I do…”

Generous in victory, she forbore to tease, although the temptation was considerable, for his declaration of love had sounded almost like a confession. It might not be polished or even voluntary, but it was heartfelt, that she did not doubt. She’d known from the first that he would never be a man for romantic gestures or pretty speeches. So be it, then. What he could give her mattered far more than the superficial and studied gallantries of courtly love.

Sliding his hand between their bodies, he rested it upon her belly, so flat and taut that he could not easily envision it swollen with new life. “I would that I could promise to be back for the birth,” he said regretfully, “but I cannot.”

“I know,” she reassured him, “I do. I ask only that you promise to take care, Harry, to remember that your life belongs to me now, too.”

After a hurried trip to Rouen to bid his mother farewell and to borrow the vast sum of seven thousand pounds from moneylenders, Henry set sail from Barfleur on Epiphany Eve. By dawn, his ships were within sight of the Dorset coast. Entering the River Frome, Henry’s fleet anchored at Wareham, after a crossing so rough that the men would have gladly kissed the ground-had a raw, sleet-laden wind not been blasting across the harbor.

Unloading soldiers and horses was never easy, and in weather like this, it became a logistical nightmare. By the time the first of Henry’s army came ashore, men from the castle were hastening down onto the docks. Turning at sound of his name, Henry found himself enveloped in a hearty avuncular embrace.

“Holy Rood, but you feel like a block of ice, lad!” Stepping back, Rainald beamed at his nephew. “We could not believe it when we first spotted sails on the horizon. This must have been the voyage to Hell and back!”

“Close enough,” Henry admitted. “I am right glad to see you here, Uncle, but surprised, too, since you had to come all the way from Cornwall. How were you able to get to Wareham so fast?”

“My usual good luck. I happened to be at Bristol with Will when he got his summons.” As Rainald glanced back, Henry saw that his cousin Will was coming toward him, with another familiar figure at his side: Roger Fitz Miles. Henry greeted them both warmly, but he could not help feeling a regretful twinge, too, for although Will was his kinsman and Roger his friend, he knew neither one of them could hold a candle to their deceased fathers. What he would not have given to be waging this campaign with his uncle Robert!

Henry remained on the docks for a while, supervising the landing. The others kept close by, hunched deep in their mantles and cursing the cold as they gave him their news. They expected the Earls of Chester and Salisbury and Ranulf and John Marshal to be awaiting him at Devizes Castle. Ranulf might be delayed, since getting word into Wales had been no easy feat; why he’d chosen to live in the back of beyond, Rainald would never understand. Baldwin de Redvers would be answering the summons, too, his health permitting, and Chester’s brother, William de Roumare, was likely to appear as well.

That was heartening news to Henry, for his thirty-six ships held only one hundred forty knights and three thousand foot soldiers, not a large force to overthrow a king. He made a mental note to find out how many men had sailed with his great-grandfather when William the Bastard had invaded England in God’s Year 1066, and then strode down to the water’s edge to shout a warning, for a young soldier was attempting to unload a horse without blindfolding it first.

The sleet was giving way to hail, and Henry finally allowed his kinsmen to escort him up to the castle. As loath as he was to admit it, he was exhausted, very much in need of a blazing fire and a few hours’ sleep. But as they approached the castle, pealing church bells began to echo on the stinging sea air, calling Christ’s faithful to hear Mass on this, the holy feast of the Epiphany.

The Earl of Gloucester at once drew rein. “We ought to give thanks to God for guiding you safely through that storm, Harry.” While Henry was in agreement that the Almighty deserved his gratitude, he’d have preferred to tender it after he’d been fed and thawed out. But he could think of no graceful way of refusing, for what sort of impious wretch did not have time for God? And so he did not object as his cousin led them into the small Benedictine priory east of the castle. Dismounting in the garth, they slipped in a side door of the nave, left open for latecomers.

The church was crowded, monks kneeling in the choir, townspeople in the nave. A few heads turned at their entrance, but most kept their eyes upon the priest as he solemnly intoned the introit for the Mass. “Behold, the Lord the ruler cometh, and the kingdom is in his hand.”

Henry’s head came up sharply. The response of his companions was far more dramatic. They looked at one another in astonishment, and then, at Henry, with something approaching awe.

“God’s Word on High,” Will said softly, crossing himself.

“What…divine prophecy?” But Henry’s skepticism merely glanced off Will’s certainty, and he nodded earnestly.

“Most men will think so.” Rainald grinned jubilantly, for if his one nephew interpreted the priest’s words as holy writ and the other as fortuitous happenchance, he saw them as a political windfall. “Maude must have told you about Stephen’s ominous mishap ere the Battle of Lincoln, Harry. When his candle broke in his hand during the Mass, a shiver of foreboding swept through the entire congregation, so sure were they that this was an evil omen for a man about to go forth and do battle. But that was a puny portent, indeed, when compared to this!”

So intent were they upon the amazing aptness of God’s Word that they had forgotten for the moment that they were in God’s House. As their voices rose, people were turning to stare in their direction, with disapproving frowns and puzzled mutterings. Wareham’s castle had long been an Angevin stronghold, though, and the three earls were known on sight to some of the parishioners. Those who’d recognized the earls soon guessed Henry’s identity, too, and once they did, their priest’s words took on a new and fateful significance. As they enlightened their neighbors, the church was soon in a state of excitement and disquiet.

Henry watched the turmoil in fascination. His uncle had been right! Leaning over, he murmured to Roger, “This is a tale to grow with each telling, and by the time it reaches Stephen’s ears, people will be swearing that an Angel of the Lord appeared to me in the midst of a burning bush!”