When Christ and His Saints Slept (14 page)

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.”