When Christ and His Saints Slept (15 page)

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.

5

Bernay, Normandy

November 1135

T
HE
Bernay family took its surname from the town that had sprung up around a Benedictine abbey. The bulk of Raymond de Bernay’s lands lay across the Channel, in England, though, for Raymond’s father had profited handsomely when Normandy’s duke claimed by conquest the English crown. But it had been many months since Raymond had visited his English estates. King Henry had been dwelling in Normandy for the past two years, seemed in no hurry to return to his island kingdom, and Raymond thought it prudent to follow his liege lord’s example.

When the dogs began to bark, Raymond’s daughter darted out the door into the bailey, heedless of the snow and cold. Ranulf was just swinging down from his saddle when Annora flung herself into his arms. “Fool!” he laughed. “Where is your mantle? Do you want to freeze?”

“Are you saying you cannot keep me warm?” She laughed back at him, and he took the dare, kissing her with enough passion to keep the cold at bay, at least until Edith hastened outside and chased them both into the manor, grumbling about such unseemly behavior.

Annora had no memories of her mother, who’d died while she was still in her cradle. But she could not remember a time when Edith had not been part of her life: nurse, confidante, mainstay. She was quite unfazed, though, by Edith’s sermon; she well knew the older woman would forgive her any sin under God’s sky.

Ranulf was equally unperturbed by Edith’s scolding. For all that she freely sprinkled her conversation with “rascal” and “young rogue,” hers was a bark that lacked bite; Edith was utterly delighted that her “darling lass” was to wed the king’s son. At least this was what she told Annora, for she’d never admit that she found Ranulf’s ready grin and good humor as appealing as his royal bloodlines. Jesú forfend that Annora ever suspect the shameful truth, that she was a secret romantic with a weakness, even now, for a likely lad.

The Bernays’ cook also had a fondness for Ranulf, and sent out a heaping platter of hot cheese-filled wafers. As Ranulf divided his attention between Edith and the wafers, Annora fidgeted. When her patience, never in plentiful supply, ran out, she got to her feet so abruptly that she spilled Ranulf’s cider, insisting that he accompany her outside to see the stable cat’s newborn kittens.

As excuses go, it was pitifully thin; only nuns and an occasional eccentric viewed cats as pets. But Edith waved them on indulgently, for Annora’s elder brother Fulk was due back that night, and he’d be far more vigilant about safeguarding his sister’s virtue. Let her lamb and the lad have some sweet stolen moments together. Even if they could not be trusted to be prudent—and in her heart she knew that discretion was an utterly alien concept to Annora—at the very worst, they’d just have to hasten the date for the wedding. But she had no problems with that, for her lamb was fifteen now, old enough to be a bride, a wife and mother.

Ranulf and Annora reached the stables in record time. Once they were safely within its sheltering shadows, Ranulf headed for the nearest bale of hay and drew Annora down onto his lap. Pulling off her veil, he reached under her mantle, then began to kiss her upturned face.

By their society’s rigid standards, Annora was no beauty, for she bore no resemblance whatsoever to the tall, willowy, golden-haired maidens so admired by their minstrels and poets, fair maidens demure and docile and unfailingly deferential to male authority. No bards would be singing Annora’s praises; she was short and dark and stubborn and so volatile that her brothers called her Hellcat.

So did Ranulf, but on his lips, it became an endearment. He wished now that he could have unbraided her hair; when loose, it put him in mind of a hot summer night, so black and sultry-soft was it. But that was out of the question; he could not let her emerge from the stables looking like a wanton, hair unbound and clothes askew. What would be the measure of his love if he cared naught for her honour?

It had not been easy, putting limitations upon their lovemaking. But he meant for Annora to come to their marriage bed a virgin, even if his forbearance half killed him, and at times, he feared it might. It was not that he believed they’d be sinning, for he did not; they’d been plight-trothed since the summer, since Annora’s fifteenth birthday, and a plight troth was almost as binding as a church ceremony. It was not his sense of sin that had so far kept Annora chaste; it was his sense of honour. Annora’s father trusted him, allowed him to see her often and alone, and Ranulf could not bring himself to betray Raymond’s trust by seducing Raymond’s daughter, however much he wanted to—however much Annora wanted him to. Thankfully, their waiting was almost done; her father was talking of a spring wedding.

Ranulf was the one to end their embrace; Annora never made it easy for him. “I suppose,” he muttered, “that all this self-control will stand me in good stead should I ever decide to become a monk.”

“A monk? I thought you were aiming for sainthood,” Annora gibed, and then gave a squeal when he yanked her braid. “How long can you stay?”

“Just till week’s end. My father had a sudden urge to go hunting, so Monday off he went to his lodge at Lyons-la-Forêt, with Robert, a handful of earls, and a bishop or two. When I reminded Robert that Bernay was only a day’s ride away, he gave me leave to ‘pay your respects to your betrothed,’” Ranulf quoted, switching to a passable imitation of his brother’s gravely deliberate tones. “I promised, though, to be waiting when they return to Rouen on Friday. But we’ll not be apart for long. I’m sure your father plans to attend the king’s Christmas court, does he not?”

Annora nodded. “Of course. Who would miss it? Ah…but Maude would, it seems. We heard she quarreled with your father, that she then dared to leave Rouen without his permission. Can that be true, Ranulf?”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “But it was not a quarrel of Maude’s making. My father had promised to yield some castles to her husband, and Geoffrey became convinced he was not acting in good faith. So he seized them, which vexed my father sorely. They’ve been squabbling about it all summer, whilst Maude sought to make peace betwixt them, to no avail. At last she wearied of all the strife, and returned to Geoffrey in Anjou. She ought not to have gone without bidding my father farewell, but I can understand her anger, Annora. My father forced her to marry Geoffrey, and for him now to berate her for Geoffrey’s sins is unjust, to say the least.”

Annora’s mouth curved down. “Sometimes I think you’ll be defending that woman with your dying breath. Why you’re so fond of her, I’ll never understand, for no one else can abide her foul tempers and arrogance—”

“You’re not being fair, Annora. People are too quick to find fault with Maude, judge her too harshly. It is true that she has ever been one for speaking her mind, and mayhap such forthrightness is unseemly in a woman, but I rather like it myself. There is no pretense to Maude; she says what she thinks and means what she says. As for her temper, I’ll not deny she is quick to anger. But if that be a sin, it is one she shares with most of mankind. And she is very loyal to those she loves. Do you remember me telling you about that remarkable dog I saw in Paris last year? It looked verily like a wolf, but with a jaunty, bushy tail curling over its back. It belonged to a Norwegian merchant, and he said such dogs were common in his homeland, known as dyrehunds, that they were bold hunters, able to track elk, moose, wolves, even bears—”

“I do not care if they can chase down unicorns! What do dyrehunds have to do with Maude?”

“If you’ll curb your impatience, you’ll find out. I was much taken with the dog, but the man would not sell it. I happened to mention it to Maude, and she sent for the man, secretly arranged for him to bring back two breeding pairs of dyrehunds on his next trip to Oslo, and surprised me with them on my birthday. Handsome beasts, I cannot wait for you to see them. But how many people would have done what Maude did for me? She has a giving heart, and that should count for more than a sharp tongue.”

Annora was not convinced. “I’m glad she got you the Norse dogs you fancied. But the world is still filled with people who love that lady not. At the mere thought of her queenship, my father turns the color of moldy cheese!”

“I know how common such qualms are,” Ranulf conceded. “We’ve never had a queen who ruled in her own right, and the novelty of that scares a lot of people. If only Maude were not wed to Geoffrey of Anjou! He may lack for scruples, but not for enemies, and every one of them is now Maude’s enemy, too, for they fear that he’d share her throne as he does her bed. Poor Maude, she cannot win, for when men are not berating her for her unwomanly willfulness, they are accusing her of being Geoffrey’s pawn! How can she be both a virago and a puppet?”

“Poor Maude, indeed! She was born a king’s daughter, wed first to the Holy Roman Emperor and then the Count of Anjou, she’s borne Geoffrey two healthy sons, she’ll one day be Queen of England and Duchess of Normandy, and the Lord God saw fit to make her a beauty in the bargain. There has probably never been a woman so blessed since Eve woke up in Eden!”

Ranulf grinned. “I’d say you were more blessed than Maude. After all, you’re going to marry me!” he said, and stifled her riposte with a kiss. “What you say about Maude is true enough, Annora. But truth, as my cousin Stephen is fond of pointing out, has as many layers as an onion. Peel away a few of them and you get a different truth, a view of Maude’s life not quite so ‘blessed.’ She was sent to Germany at age eight, wed to a man nigh on twenty years her senior, a man of black moods and brooding temper, notorious for having betrayed his own father. She somehow made a success of the marriage, though, and won the hearts of her husband’s subjects, too. When she was widowed, they wanted her to stay in Germany. So did she, for she’d learned by then to look upon Germany as her home. But my father insisted that she return to England, and when she did, he named her as his heir.”

“Oh, no! To be burdened with a crown—that poor lass.”

Ranulf tweaked her braid again. “But the crown had a baited hook in it, for he then forced her to wed Geoffrey of Anjou. When she objected, he confined her within his queen’s chambers under guard, kept her there until she yielded.”

“I never knew that! The king made Maude a prisoner?” When Ranulf nodded, Annora felt a twinge of grudging pity for Maude; her own upbringing had been one of indulgence and coddling, as the youngest and the only girl in a family of sons. “I’ll admit that Maude’s marriage does sound like a match made in Hell. But they did in time make their peace, did they not?”

“More like an armed truce. It helped when Maude gave birth to a son two years ago, and then a second lad a year later. Both Maude and Geoffrey dote on the boys, especially young Henry, their firstborn. But for all that they’ve iced over their differences, a bystander could still get frostbite if he lingered too long in their company. Do you see what I am saying, Annora? Do you remember last summer, when Maude nearly died in childbirth? She was stricken with childbed fever, and for nigh on a week, she suffered the torments of the damned. I was there at Rouen; I saw her agony. We were sure she was dying. So was she, and she told us she wanted to be buried at the abbey of Bec. But my father…he said no, that he would have her buried in Rouen. Even on her deathbed, Annora, she was given no say.”

Annora reached up, put her fingers to his lips. “I yield. You’ve convinced me that some of Maude’s blessings have been bittersweet. But I still think she brought much of her trouble on herself. If she’d not been so haughty, if she’d been more tactful, more womanly—”

Ranulf laughed rudely. “Like you? Sweetheart, I’d back your claws against Maude’s any day!”