When Christ and His Saints Slept

57

Dover-Canterbury Road, Kent, England

March 1154

Early in Lent, Henry accompanied Stephen to Dover to meet the Count of Flanders and his wife, Henry’s paternal aunt. On this rain-sodden March Friday, they departed Dover Castle in midmorning, bound for Canterbury. They were still about five miles from the city when the archbishop’s saddle girth began to slip. A hasty examination revealed that the girth buckle was giving way and the royal cavalcade halted while the problem was corrected.

As the delay lengthened, Henry found it increasingly difficult to hide his impatience. Stephen’s son, Will, and a few of his companions were amusing themselves by galloping their horses across a nearby meadow. Henry was half tempted to join in, but although the rain had stopped, the ground was still muddy and slick, and he was not willing to endanger his stallion just to keep boredom at bay.

As he fidgeted by the side of the road, watching the races, he was joined by one of the archbishop’s clerks, who reported that the saddle girth was taking longer than expected to repair. When the clerk lingered after delivering his message, Henry was pleased, for he’d found Thomas Becket to be good company.

At first glance, they seemed too unlike for friendship; Becket was more than twelve years Henry’s senior, having been born a month after the sinking of the White Ship, and they did not share the same affinity for the religious life. But what they had in common mattered more than what they did not: a keen intelligence, a love of learning, unfettered ambition, and an ironic eye for life’s incongruities. Henry thought he could find use for a man of Becket’s talents, looking ahead to that day when England’s government would be his for the shaping. But whether Becket ever became a royal councilor or not, at the moment, he was a welcome diversion, and Henry was in need of one; had he been asked to describe Purgatory, he’d have said it was a place of infernal and endless waiting.

The past few months had been busy ones for Henry and Stephen: formalizing the agreement they’d struck at Winchester, getting the barons of the realm to do homage to Henry as their future king, issuing orders to demolish those castles judged illegal, preparing to expel foreign mercenaries. Becket knew they’d not been pleasant months for Henry, filled with dawn-to-dusk activity, but not much satisfaction. It was with a touch of sympathy, therefore, that he asked, “Is it true that your uncle has gone back to Wales?”

Henry nodded. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he reminded me that he’d not seen his wife and son for more than a year. I reminded him in turn that I’d not seen my wife for more than a year, either, and had yet to lay eyes upon my son. But he then pointed out that it was my crown, not his, and that left me with nothing to say except ‘Godspeed.’”

“How much longer ere you can go back to Normandy?”

“I would that I knew. Soon, I hope. Others might see me as the heir apparent, the next king. But just between you and me, Thomas, I feel more like the chief mourner at a funeral, waiting around for the ‘deceased’ to take sick. Surely I can put my time to better use than that?”

“Some men might be content to keep a death watch,” Becket agreed, sounding amused, “but for certes, not you.”

Henry glanced curiously at the older man. Becket stood high in the archbishop’s favor, and with so illustrious a patron, he could have a promising career in the Church, if he wanted it. But did he? “I know you’ve been in the archbishop’s service for the past eight years. He told me that when the next opening for an archdeacon comes up, he means to appoint you. You’d have to take holy orders, first, of course. And you have not…have you?”

“Not yet.”

Henry considered that answer, trying to understand how a man could choose of his own free will to give up so much, even for God. “I do not think I’d have made a good priest myself,” he said at last.

“I suspect you’d have had particular trouble with the vow of chastity,” Becket said dryly, and Henry grinned.

“I probably would not have done so well with the obedience vow, either,” he conceded. “Fortunately, the qualifications are less stringent for kings.”

Becket grinned, too. “I understand it helps,” he said slyly, “if a king does not fall off his horse.”

Henry had heard, of course, of Stephen’s balky stallion. “At least not three times in a row,” he laughed, and then grabbed for Becket, pulling the other man aside just as several of the racers galloped past, spraying mud in all directions.

Henry’s quick action had saved Becket from a thorough dousing, but the hem of his mantle had still gotten splattered. He frowned at the splotched wool, then gazed after the riders, shaking his head in disapproval. “What a pity,” he said, “that some men make such poor use of the wits God gave them.” And then, “Jesu!” for as they watched, one of the horses slipped in the mud, scrabbled futilely to retain its footing, and went down.

Henry had not seen the rider. It was not until he heard Stephen’s anguished cry that he realized it was Will. With Becket a stride or two behind, he hastened toward the fallen stallion. But Stephen got there first, made fleet by his fear. Will was pinned under the horse, and it took several men to pull him free. The hapless stallion was beyond help, doomed by a shattered foreleg, thrashing about in terror until a soldier mercifully put an end to its suffering.

At first sight, the king’s son did not seem likely to survive his stallion. Will’s face was blanched under a coating of mud, his flaxen hair darkening with blood. His mouth was contorted, blue eyes clouded with fear and pain, and he plucked frantically at Stephen’s sleeve as his father bent over him. “It hurts so…,” he moaned, and Stephen found himself thrust back in time to an August night, hot and humid, watching in horror as Eustace choked to death. Merciful God, not again!

“Papa…” Will clung to Stephen’s hand as if his father alone could save him. “Do not let me die…”

“You are not dying, Will,” Stephen promised recklessly. “I swear you are not!”

But Will did not believe him. “I’ve sinned,” he sobbed, “but I am sorry. Do not let me be damned…”

Shouting hoarsely for a doctor, Stephen blotted blood away as it trickled down into Will’s eyes. “Lie easy, lad,” he pleaded. “You make it worse for yourself when you move.”

“I ought to have told you…” Will’s eyes were riveted upon his father’s face. “I did not truly think they’d do it, though. I swear I did not…”

“I know, lad,” Stephen said soothingly, “I know. Try not to talk.”

“I must,” the youth insisted weakly, “lest I die ere I am shriven of my sin.” Sweat beaded his forehead, his upper lip. “Murder,” he whispered. “The Flemings…they mean to kill him…”

“Kill him?” Stephen repeated numbly. “What are you talking about?”

“The Flemings…” Will’s voice faltered. “They spoke of killing Maude’s son…”

“Christ Jesus…” Stephen raised his head, appalled by what he’d just heard, only to see Henry standing behind him, so close that he must have heard, too.

Stephen had been searching all over Christ Church Priory for Henry, finally finding him in the cloisters with Thomas Becket. They fell silent as he approached, Henry’s face giving away nothing of his thoughts-or his intentions. “How is Will?” he asked politely, noncommittally.

“God is indeed good, for the doctor says he’ll live.” Stephen told them then, about Will’s injuries: a gashed forehead, cracked ribs, and the most serious, a broken thigh bone. His convalescence would be a lengthy one, but he would heal in time. Henry and Becket wished Will a quick recovery, a response dictated by courtesy, not telling Stephen what he needed to know. He’d considered saying nothing, gambling on the off chance that Henry might have missed Will’s mumbled confession. But as his eyes met Henry’s, Stephen realized how foolish that would have been; Maude’s son was not one to be bluffed.

“Once I was sure that Will’s life was not in danger, I asked him about the Flemings. One of his men speaks Flemish, and he’d overheard some of the Flemish hirelings talking in a Dover alehouse. They were sorely vexed about the peace terms, angry at being cast out of England, and blaming you for their plight, Harry. Will’s servant told him that they were saying it would be for the best if you had a ‘mishap’ of some sort. But Will swears he did not take it seriously. He dismissed it as drunken maunderings, and that is why he said nothing. If he’d believed you to be in real danger, he’d have spoken up straightaway.”

Stephen sounded earnest, yet uneasy, too. Henry did not doubt his sincerity; he believed in his son. And it could have happened just as Will claimed, for he’d struck Henry as an amiable mediocrity. But even a capon might envy the cock; who was to say?

“I daresay you are right, Cousin. The foolish babbling of men in their cups. It is not surprising that Will acted as he did.”

Stephen’s relief was palpable. “I am gladdened that you understand, Harry. It would have been a great pity had Will’s name been tarnished by alehouse gossip. You have no reason to doubt my son’s good faith, that I swear to you.”

“You need not fret, Cousin, for I’ve taken Will’s measure.”

Stephen smiled. “Well, I’d best get back. The doctor gave Will a potion for his pain, but I want to be there when he awakens. Archbishop Theobald was kind enough to put Will up in his own lodgings. If you could find time to stop by later, I know it would mean much to Will…?”

Henry promised that he would, and Stephen was soon striding off buoyantly, intent upon thanking the Almighty for sparing his youngest son. Henry and Becket waited until he’d disappeared into a side door of the cathedral. Only then did they turn away, continuing along the cloister path.

“I hope you plan to watch your back,” Becket said quietly. “I’ve been told that few knives are sharper than a Fleming’s blade.”

“So I’ve heard, too.” Henry’s smile held an edge of its own. “You asked,” he said, “when I’d be returning to Normandy. I think the time has come. I would not want to overstay my welcome, after all.”

On the morning after Henry’s return to Angers, Eleanor awoke with a languorous sense of well-being, which lasted until she realized that she was alone. Sitting up, she brushed her hair out of her eyes. Could Harry not have lingered in bed just this once? No wonder his enemies claimed his energy was demonic. Her clothing lay strewn about the chamber, and the sight brought a soft smile to her lips as she remembered their urgency to reach the bed. Her husband’s scabbard had been hung over a chair and was still there, so at least he was somewhere in the castle. With a sigh, she reached for her bed-robe.

Opening the shutters, Eleanor stood at the window, breathing in the mild April air. She’d selected one of her favorite gowns, a rich wine-red, and she was about to summon Yolande to help her dress when she heard an odd thumping sound out in the stairwell. She opened the door just in time to admit Henry. He had their son slung over his shoulder and was guiding two servants up the stairs as they struggled with a large, unwieldy burden: a carved oaken cradle.

“I thought the tadpole might like to swim in our pond for a while.” Henry gestured toward the hearth as the men dragged the cradle across the threshold. “Put it over there.”

“Harry, you’re holding that child like a sack of flour.”

“He does not mind,” Henry insisted, and as he turned, Eleanor saw that Will did seem content. Now in his eighth month, he was such a placid, cheerful baby that Eleanor sometimes joked he must be a changeling, and he appeared to have taken in stride being awakened and carried off by a man who was a stranger to him.

After the servants had departed, Henry settled his son in the cradle, rocking it back and forth as Will yawned and then began to suck contentedly upon a rattle. When Eleanor joined them, the little boy gurgled happily at sight of her and reached up to snatch at the long tresses tumbling over her shoulder. Evading his grasp, she kissed the crown of his head. “I still find myself marveling at those golden curls of his,” she confided, “for Marie and Alix both have dark hair like mine.”

“Ought he to be putting that rattle into his mouth?”

“He is teething, Harry. When his discomfort gets too bad, we rub honey on his gums or give him a liquorice root to suck on.” Retrieving her brush, Eleanor retreated to the bed. “Do you intend to keep Will in here with us? I doubt that will work out very well.”

“Why not? The lad and I have a lot of catching up to do.” Henry was continuing to rock the cradle and Eleanor had to restrain herself from warning that he’d make Will seasick if he did not ease up. His first efforts at fatherhood might be heavy-handed, but she did not want to discourage him. She was pleased that he was so taken with their son, for too many men treated the nursery as alien territory.

Henry was laughing, for Will was now trying energetically to capture his feet. “Trust me, Will, even if you somehow got those into your mouth, toes do not taste good. He squirms about like an eel, Eleanor. Is he always this lively?”

“Ever since we took off the swaddling.”

“I’ve seen babies swaddled. They look like little caterpillar cocoons. Surely they do not enjoy being wrapped up that way?”

“I never thought about it,” Eleanor admitted. “But it is for their own good, for it keeps them warm and safe.” Henry was leaning over the cradle again, tickling Will and making him squeal with glee. Eleanor watched, smiling. “I hope you’ll be such an attentive father for our other children,” she teased. “A soothsayer told me that we’d have a baker’s dozen ere we’re done, so you’d best gird your loins!”

“For you, anytime.” But his smile was fleeting. He looked down at Will, then back at Eleanor, grey eyes guarded. “There is something you need to know. I have another son.”

Her brush halted in mid-stroke. “Do you, indeed? Do not keep me in suspense, Harry. The ‘why’ is rather obvious. But what of the ‘when’ and ‘where’ of it?”

“He was born last December, in London. I named him Geoffrey.” Henry was annoyed to hear himself adding needlessly, “After my father.” But he was not as confident as he sought to appear, for he was not sure how Eleanor would react. She was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever met, and while that was a great part of her charm, there were times-like now-when he’d have welcomed a fire that gave off a little less heat.

“You intend to recognize him as your own?”

“He is mine, Eleanor. How could I turn away from him?”

“And the mother?”

“She meant nothing to me. If she’d not gotten with child, I’d have long since forgotten her name.”

It was an unchivalrous answer, but the one Eleanor wanted to hear. “Well, then,” she said, “I suppose I should offer my congratulations.”

He did not respond at once, searching her face for sarcasm. “You truly mean that, Eleanor?”

“Why not? I do not begrudge you your joy in this child, and I would not attempt to talk you into shirking your obligations to him. It is all too easy for men to walk away afterward. I find it rather refreshing, Harry, that you did not.”

He was quiet for a moment, marveling. “You never fail to surprise me. It does not vex you that I bedded another woman?”

“More than one, I’d wager,” she said, with a sardonic smile. “It is not as if this comes as any surprise. You were gone nigh on sixteen months, after all. I’d not have expected you to refrain from eating until you could get home to dine with me, so why would I expect you to abstain from other hungers?” She shrugged significantly, then reclined back against the pillows, letting her bed-robe slip open enough to reveal a glimpse of thigh. “It goes without saying, though, that your dining out had best be done at a distance, Harry.”

Henry grinned. “You need not worry about that, love. Given a choice, I’d eat all my meals at home!” As he moved away from the cradle, Will whimpered in protest, but he didn’t notice; at the moment, his wife was claiming all of his attention. “You are the most amazing woman, Eleanor. I have to admit that I was not expecting you to be so understanding.”

“I’ve always understood men,” she said blandly, “and I’ve always tried to be tolerant of their failings. I’d like to think that you’d be as tolerant, too, Harry…should the need ever arise.”

He stopped abruptly, halfway to the bed. “If you’re suggesting…”

“You sound upset. Why is that?”

“Infidelity is not the same sin for men and women,” he said tautly, “for it puts a child’s paternity into question. You’re clever enough to realize that, Eleanor, to know-”

He cut himself off in midsentence, and she said encouragingly, “Know what? Do go on, Harry.”

By now, though, he’d caught on. But mixed in with his relief was a genuine anger, for he was not accustomed to being laughed at. “Damn you,” he said softly, and her eyebrows arched upward in feigned surprise.

“Why, Harry,” she murmured, “are you trying to seduce me again?”

The corner of his mouth twitched in involuntary amusement. “What would you have me say, Eleanor? That I am sorry?”

She shook her head impatiently. “I do not care if you tumbled an English harlot, Harry. I am not about to get jealous because you scratched an itch-as long as that is all it was.”

He thought he saw now where he’d erred. Crossing to the bed, he threw the covers back, seating himself beside her. “If I said I’d never stray, I’d be lying, and we both know it. But you have my heart, not to mention my crown. Surely that matters more than an occasional trespass?”

“A crown, you say?” She pretended to ponder it, and then reached out, inviting his embrace. As her arms slid up around his neck, she kissed him with incendiary effect. Finally getting his breath back, he murmured against her throat,

“That kiss was hot enough to leave a brand. If that is indeed what you intend, you might want to aim somewhat lower.”

She laughed and drew him deeper into the bed. But as he started to strip off her robe, she caught his hand in hers. “Promise me that you’ll remember what I am about to tell you, Harry. Whenever you’re tempted to ‘trespass’ in the future, just bear in mind that I am willing to be reasonable-but not saintly.”

“I’ll promise anything on earth, love, if it’ll keep you from ever getting saintly.” After that, they did not talk, concentrating upon ridding him of his clothes. They were making progress when an indignant wailing blared from the cradle. His face red, mouth puckered, and eyes tearing, their small son was venting his outrage at being ignored, loudly and persistently.

Henry shot up in the bed. “Christ Almighty, is all that noise coming from him?”

“I did warn you,” Eleanor said, beginning to laugh, “that having Will sleep with us might not be one of your better ideas. Welcome to fatherhood, Harry!”

Soon after his return from England, Henry found himself forced to deal with some of Eleanor’s rebellious barons. This he did with such dispatch that by the end of June, he was able to take his wife and son to Rouen for their first meeting with his mother.

Henry was unable to sit still; he kept getting up and prowling aimlessly about the chamber, all the while keeping a wary eye upon the women in his life. They were making polite conversation, seemingly at ease, but he could not enjoy the lull, constantly scanning the skies for approaching clouds. The only one more obviously uncomfortable than Henry was his brother Geoff; he was slouched down in his seat, twitching nervously every time his mother glanced his way. Will at last took pity upon them both and suggested that they adjourn to the stables to see his new roan stallion. His brothers accepted his offer with alacrity, and retreated in unseemly haste.

Watching them go, Eleanor shook her head. “Men are not usually so squeamish about bloodshed.”

Maude blinked, looking at Eleanor so blankly that she wondered if she’d made a mistake. But then the older woman smiled. “Men do not know nearly as much about women as they think. Geoffrey was sure that I’d not approve of you, but I’d hoped that Henry would have more sense.”

Eleanor had decided beforehand that honesty was the only weapon likely to penetrate her mother-in-law’s defenses. “It just matters so much to Harry that we get along. I’ll admit that I was somewhat uneasy myself about this meeting. If you believed even half of what’s been said of me, you’d have good reason to fear for Harry’s immortal soul!”

“Gossip,” Maude said dismissively. “The world is full of mud, and unfortunately there is no shortage of people eager to splatter it about, with women the targets of choice. You need not have fretted about your reception, Eleanor. I can think of at least three compelling reasons why I should want to welcome you into my family. The first and foremost one is sitting on your lap,” she said, gesturing toward Will, balancing on Eleanor’s knee.

“Would you like to hold him?” Eleanor suggested, and Will switched laps with aplomb. “And the other reasons?”

“You make my son happy. And then of course,” Maude said with a faint smile, “there is Aquitaine.”

Eleanor returned the smile. “I appreciate your candor. As it happens, there is a fourth reason, too. We were not going to say anything until I could be certain, but I’d like you to know. I may be pregnant again.”

“So soon? That is indeed blessed news!” Maude detached her grandson’s clutching fingers from the rosary at her belt. “No, Will, not the Pater Noster. You said that you are not sure yet, Eleanor?”

“I’ve missed just one flux so far. But yes…yes, I am sure. Sometime in Lent, by my calculations, I hope to give Harry another son.”

“Two pregnancies in two years of marriage, possibly two sons.” After a moment, Maude smiled, saying with satisfaction but some pity, too, “Poor Louis.”

October that year was an idyllic month, mild and dry, with clarion blue skies and mellowed golden sunlight. Londoners were determined to make the most of this respite before the winter freeze, and the Friday horse fair at West Smithfield had drawn a large, boisterous crowd. A race was in progress across the meadow, and most of the bargaining had been suspended so people could watch. Although neither Ranulf nor Padarn had wagered on the outcome, they found themselves cheering as loudly as the other spectators, caught up in the excitement. The winner, a rangy bay, edged out a lathered chestnut in a rousing finish that satisfied all but the chestnut’s backers. Ranulf was turning toward a piebald filly that had taken his eye when he heard his name called out behind him.

Bearing down upon him was a ghost from his past: Fulk de Bernay, Annora and Ancel’s elder brother. Once greetings had been exchanged, Fulk clapped Ranulf heartily on the shoulder. “What are you doing in London? We’d heard that you’d gone off to live on top of a Welsh mountain.”

Ranulf was accustomed by now to jokes about his adopted Welsh homeland, and had learned to shrug them off. “Since the peace seems to be holding, I decided this would be a good time to show England to my wife and son. We went to Chester first, collecting my niece Maud, her sons, and her mother, who happened to be visiting. We’ve been to Coventry, Woodstock, Oxford, and my father’s tomb at Reading, and for the past week, we’ve been enjoying the sights of London. From here we go on to Canterbury and then Dover to meet the king, and on our way back to Wales, we hope to stop at Bury St Edmunds to see St Edmund’s shrine.”

Ranulf was not normally so loquacious, but the words just kept cascading out, as if of their own will. This unexpected encounter had unnerved him somewhat, stirring up memories he’d as soon forget. Fulk looked eerily like Ancel and his gleaming dark eyes could have been Annora’s. But it was reassuring that he was being so friendly, for there could be no better proof that Ancel had not shared his secret; at least Annora’s family had been spared that ultimate rupture.

Fulk was regarding Ranulf with evident puzzlement. “It just goes to show,” he said, “how outlandish rumors can get. Do you know what we heard, Ranulf? As crazy as it sounds, that this Welsh wife of yours was blind!”

He laughed; Ranulf did not. “Rhiannon is blind,” he said evenly, and embarrassed color flooded into Fulk’s face.

“I…I am sorry,” he stammered. “But you said you were showing her the sights and I…I just assumed…How could she…That is…”

Ranulf let him flounder on like that for a few moments more. He wanted to ask Fulk why he thought the blind were bereft of their other senses, too. Rhiannon was enthralled by the pealing chimes of St Paul’s Cathedral. She could hear her footsteps echoing across the marble tiles as she approached its High Altar, she who’d never known any church but the small, secluded chapel at Llanrhychwyn where they’d been wed. When he’d led her out onto London Bridge, she’d felt the life-force of the Thames, surging against the wooden pilings. And when he walked with her on the beach below Dover’s white cliffs, she would experience the sea, hearing the waves break upon the wet sand, the gulls shrieking overhead, feeling the salt spray on her face, sensing the vastness that she could not see. But he knew Fulk would never understand, and so he said only, “No offense meant, so none taken.”

Fulk was fumbling his way out of the pit he’d dug for himself. “You said you have a son?”

“Yes…Gilbert will be three next month.”

Fulk smiled in surprise. “Passing strange, for Ancel named his firstborn Gilbert, too. I expect to see him at Martinmas. Shall I give him a message from you?”

“Tell him…tell him I wish him well.” Ranulf hesitated. “How is Annora?”

“She seems content enough. She has a little lass of her own, and Gervase still dotes upon her every whim-” Fulk caught himself, with a self-conscious laugh. “It does not bother you to hear me say that? I know you two were plight-trothed, but that was such a long time ago…?”

“You are right,” Ranulf agreed politely. “It was a long time ago.” He started to excuse himself then, with a polite smile. “I promised my niece that I’d buy her a mare this afternoon, so I’d best get to it-”

“Ranulf, wait. I’ve a question to put to you. I heard that Henry Fitz Empress has been taken gravely ill. Can that be true? The word in the alehouses is that he might not live. But surely that is just idle tavern talk?”

“There is some truth in it, Fulk. My nephew was stricken with a high fever last month and was ill enough to give us all a scare. But he recovered fully and the last I heard, he was dealing with a troublesome vassal in the Vexin.”

“Thank God,” Fulk said, with such fervor that Ranulf stared at him, for Fulk had been one of Stephen’s most steadfast supporters. It was heartening to realize that even Harry’s former foes now saw him as England’s only hope for a lasting peace.

WHEN she awoke, Rhiannon could not at once remember where she was. “Ranulf?” She called out again, quietly, in case the others were still sleeping, for they’d been sharing their chamber for most of this trip with Olwen, Gilbert, and Gwen, his young nurse. She heard nothing, though, not even the soft sounds of breathing. By now her memory was awakening, too. They were at Canterbury, in a guest chamber of the royal castle. But where was Ranulf?

He entered as she was fumbling for her bed-robe. “So you’re finally awake, love. You were so tired yesterday that I thought it would do you good to sleep in this morning. I’ve got breakfast here for two, and whilst we linger over it, Maud is taking Gilbert and her lads to the marketplace. With luck, we might actually have an entire hour or two all to ourselves.”

“Bless her,” Rhiannon said happily, making room for Ranulf in the bed. Between sips of cider and bites of honeyed bread, they exchanged sticky kisses. “Did you remember to give Gwen money in case Gilbert sees something he wants to buy at the market?”

“I did,” he said, “and told Gwen that he could have whatever he wanted, provided it was not alive. I asked him this morning what part of the trip he’d enjoyed most, thinking he’d pick the royal menagerie at Woodstock or mayhap the ferry ride across to Southwark. But do you know what he said? What he liked best was when Maud bought him a pasty at the cookshop by the river!”

Rhiannon laughed. “Does that surprise you? This is the child, after all, whose first complete sentence was ‘Feed me!’” Ranulf shared the last of the bread with her and she settled back into his arms. “I truly like Maud, even more than you predicted I would. It will be a year in December since she was widowed, so she’ll soon be able to consider marrying again. Do you think she will?”

“She says no…though she puts it more colorfully than that. I’m very fond of Maud, too, Rhiannon, but I’d rather not be discussing her marriage prospects right now. I’m sure we can put this time to better use,” he suggested and set about proving it.

But within moments, there was a loud, insistent knocking on the door. “Ranulf? Let me in!”

Ranulf swore softly; so did Rhiannon. When the pounding persisted, they reluctantly drew apart and he swung off the bed, opening the door to his niece. “Maud? What are you doing back so soon? You promised you’d keep the children away at least until-”

“I am sorry,” Maud panted, “but as soon as we got to the marketplace, we heard…People were talking of nothing else. Last night an urgent message arrived for the Archbishop of Canterbury, summoning him to Dover. Stephen has been stricken with the bloody flux, and the doctors fear the ailment is mortal. Ranulf…he is said to be dying.”

The royal castle of Dover was unnaturally still. At midday the bailey would normally have been bustling with activity. Now it was all but deserted. The few men to be seen moved hurriedly about their tasks, hasty, almost furtive in their movements, as if fearful of calling attention to themselves. As soon as he rode through the gateway, Ranulf felt a chill of familiar foreboding. Bristol Castle had looked like this, too, as Robert lay dying.

“You take our horses to the stables,” he told Padarn. “Then meet me in the hall.”

Padarn nodded. “Will you be able to see him?”

“I do not know,” Ranulf admitted, relieved when Padarn asked no further questions. Nor had Rhiannon. He was grateful for that, as he could not have explained even to himself why he felt such an urgent need to see Stephen before he died. For Rhiannon, though, no explanation was necessary. She’d sent him off with a quiet “Godspeed.”

The great hall was crowded, and Ranulf’s entrance went unnoticed. Almost at once, he spied a familiar face, one of the archbishop’s clerks, and as soon as he could, he caught Thomas Becket’s eye.

Becket had risen in the world since they’d last met; he’d been appointed that past June as the new archdeacon of Canterbury. Now he greeted Ranulf with the somber courtesy befitting the occasion, but with just enough warmth to indicate his pleasure at seeing Ranulf again. It was adroitly done, and confirmed Ranulf’s earlier impression of Becket as a man who had the makings of a superior diplomat, skilled at conveying nuances and shadings, while keeping his own secrets safe. Taking Ranulf aside, he quietly confided the worst, that Stephen was not expected to see another sunrise.

Becket had gone to arrange Ranulf’s admission into the royal sickroom. Waiting by the hearth, Ranulf happened to notice William de Ypres, sitting alone in a window seat. On impulse, he walked over. “Do you remember me? I’m Ranulf Fitz Roy.”

Squinting up at him, the Fleming said, “Well, well, if it is not the empress’s brother. Although I suppose you’ll soon be known as the king’s uncle.”

“Why are you all so sure that Stephen is dying?”

“He has begun to pass clotted blood. I’d say that’s as good a sign as any to send for the priest.”

Ranulf winced. “Is he in much pain?”

“More than he’ll admit.” After a moment, Ypres said, “Do you know why he was in Dover? He was meeting the Count of Flanders again, discussing their plans to go on crusade. God love him, a crusade!”

Ranulf’s throat constricted. “He’d have made a fine crusader,” he said softly, and the Fleming nodded.

“A better crusader than a king, for certes.”

“I know,” Ranulf agreed. “So why did we both race to his deathbed, then?”

Ypres shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said flippantly, but Ranulf knew better. The Fleming would never admit it, but they’d come to Dover for the same reason-to mourn.

Kings were not accorded privacy; even dying was done in public. Stephen’s chamber was thronged with people: the Archbishop of Canterbury, several doctors, a few priests, William Martel, Abbot Clarembald of Faversham, the Earl of Arundel, Stephen’s grieving son, just recovering from his March accident, now about to be dealt another crippling blow. Will was the only family member present, for Stephen’s brother was coming from Winchester and was not likely to arrive in time. Nor was his daughter, Mary, for she had departed the nunnery in Kent for Romsey Abbey in Hampshire, and seemed destined once again to miss saying her final farewell to a dying parent.

Becket ushered Ranulf toward the bed and then stepped back so that he might have some small measure of privacy. Ranulf was shocked at sight of Stephen. Until then he’d believed Stephen might still rally, for the bloody flux was not always fatal. But as he looked down into Stephen’s face, he saw there was no hope. Death was not only on the way, it was already in the chamber.

Stephen’s eyes were sunken back in his head, fever-glazed and bloodshot, but still lucid. As Ranulf bent over the bed, he saw recognition in their depths, and genuine joy that he’d come. Stephen was too weak to talk much, but when Ranulf took his hand, he managed a feeble squeeze, even a shadowy flicker of a smile.

“Look after Maude’s lad…” Ranulf nodded mutely. Stephen’s mouth was moving again. “Tell Maude…” But he got no further. Ranulf wondered if his strength had given out or he’d just realized there was nothing to be said.

Stephen’s eyes had closed. His breathing had an audible rasp, and Ranulf was glad he’d been shriven already, for it sounded as if each faltering breath could be his last. Ranulf found himself thinking of his nephew, just a few heartbeats away from becoming England’s king…at twenty-one. Stephen was fifty-eight and could easily have lived another ten or fifteen years. Instead he was dying less than a twelvemonth after they’d come to terms at Winchester. It occurred to Ranulf that mayhap Harry truly did have an ally in the Almighty.

Stephen’s lashes quivered. “Cousin…” Ranulf leaned closer to catch the whispered words. “I hope the lad gets more joy from his kingship than I did from mine…”