When Christ and His Saints Slept (34 page)

Bristol Castle, England

July 1140

F
OR
Stephen and Maude both, it was to be a frustrating year, one of advances and retreats, thwarted victories and inconclusive defeats, check and mate. Matilda scored a diplomatic coup in those early winter months; sailing to France, she negotiated a marriage for her eldest son, Eustace, with Constance, young sister of the French king. But that good news was soured for Stephen by a rebellion in the English Fenlands, instigated by the Bishop of Ely, who’d been nursing a grudge since the Oxford ambush. Stephen raced north, and the bishop fled south, taking refuge at Bristol.

More trouble was already flaring for Stephen. William Fitz Richard, the sheriff and greatest landholder in Cornwall, declared for Maude, and sealed his new allegiance within the sacrament of marriage, offering his daughter, Beatrice, to Maude’s brother Rainald. After wedding and bedding his bride, Rainald joined his father-in-law and they set Cornwall ablaze. Stephen hastened west, and soon had them on the run. He had the greater resources, those of the Crown, and could put more men into the field than any of his enemies. But he’d begun to feel much like the “crazed firefighter” of his brother’s taunt; no matter how he struggled to quench these flames, embers still smoldered, and the acrid smell of smoke hung low upon the horizon, with no end in sight.

The strife continued. Miles Fitz Walter captured Hereford and burned Winchcombe. Waleran Beaumont torched Robert Fitz Roy’s favorite manor at Tewkesbury. Caught in the crossfire, the English people could only pray for deliverance. At Whitsuntide, there was a brief flicker of hope. Stephen’s brother Henry decided it was up to him to act as peacemaker, and he summoned both sides to Bath. The conference was quite civil, for Maude had sent her brother Robert, and Stephen his queen. But nothing was accomplished. The war went on.

IF
Stephen still held sway in much of the country, Maude’s writ ran in the west, with Bristol her de facto capital. But she herself preferred to dwell in Miles Fitz Walter’s riverside city of Gloucester, for there she was the mistress of her own household, whereas at Bristol, she was Amabel and Robert’s guest. Since less than forty miles separated the two strongholds, Ranulf divided his days between Gloucester and Bristol. On this humid, hot Saturday in late July, he was at Bristol Castle, although not for long. After saddling his horse, he was leading it from the stables when Gilbert burst in to bar his way.

“So it is true then, what your squire said? You are going off on your own with nary a word to anyone?”

Ranulf had already had this same argument with his anxious squire, was in no mood to have it again with Gilbert. “Luke is worse than a broody hen. I am quite able to fend for myself.”

“Luke has enough sense to see the danger in roaming about the countryside in the midst of a war. A pity I cannot say the same for you! What are you up to, Ranulf?”

“I have a private matter to take care of, will be back in a few days. You are making much ado about nothing, Gib.”

Gilbert scowled, for he knew that stubborn set of Ranulf’s jaw all too well. Following Ranulf out into the summer sun, he watched as the other man swung into the saddle, and then reached up, clamping his hand on Ranulf’s boot. “At least tell me where you are going,” he insisted. “If we have to search for your body, we need a place to start!”

Ranulf looked down thoughtfully at his friend. “You have a point,” he said grudgingly. “If you must know, I’m bound for Shrewsbury.”

“Shrewsbury? That shire is closely held by Stephen’s sheriff, and he’d like nothing better than to have Maude’s brother blunder into his nets! For Christ’s Pity, Ranulf, why Shrewsbury? What could be worth the risk?”

Ranulf hesitated, but could not resist the temptation. “I am going to Shrewsbury’s fair,” he said, quite truthfully, and with the memory of Gilbert’s incredulous face to enliven his journey, he spurred his stallion forward, rode laughing out of Bristol and onto the road north.

THE
abbey of St Peter and St Paul was not enclosed within Shrewsbury’s protective bend of the River Severn. It lay just to the east of the town, close by the red-grit sandstone span known as the English Bridge. It was not among the largest of the Benedictine monasteries, but it was a thriving one, owing a measure of its prosperity to the royal charter that permitted it to hold a fair in honour of its patron saint, Peter ad Vincula.

The fair opened each year on August 1st, lasting until sundown on the third day, and attracted merchants from Bristol and Chester and Coventry, some from as far away as London. People flocked to fairs, as much for the entertainment as for the opportunity to buy goods not available elsewhere, and Ranulf found the abbey already overflowing upon his arrival. The hospitaller squeezed him into a corner of the guest hall, though, and he spread his bedroll, made ready to pass the night.

But sleep would not come. Although he’d dismissed Gilbert’s fears as if they were of no account, he knew better. His danger was real. Moreover, Maude and Robert would be furious when they found out what he’d done. Since he was unwilling to lie to them, he could only refuse to answer their irate questions, and that would fuel their fire even higher. No, he was in for a rough patch when he returned—if he returned. He had more to fear than Stephen’s sheriff. The roads were full of bandits, masterless men seeking to take advantage of these troubled times, and a lone traveler was a tempting target for ambush or assault. Fortunately he’d thought to bring his dogs along, but he’d still have to keep his wits about him. Lying awake and fretful in the abbey hall, Ranulf had to admit that he was risking a great deal—and for what? Conjecture, surmise, an arrow shot in the dark.

It had taken him several months of discreet investigation, but he’d eventually found out what he wanted to know—that Gervase Fitz Clement’s favorite manor was located in Shropshire, west of Shrewsbury. Once he knew “where,” he set about figuring out “how,” and it soon came to him: St Peter’s Fair. He was gambling, though, and he knew it—gambling that the Fitz Clement household was currently in residence at the Shropshire manor, that Fitz Clement himself would have been summoned to Stephen’s service, and, last, that the fair would be a powerful enough lure to draw Annora into Shrewsbury. What could happen then, he did not know. But they’d left too much unsaid between them, not even farewell. He had to see her again…no matter what it might cost.

The morrow promised summer at its best: sun-drenched warmth, an easterly breeze, and an iris-blue sky, feathered by wispy white clouds. Sauntering through the monastery gatehouse, Ranulf turned right along the Abbey Foregate, heading for the fairground. As early as it was, the street was crowded with his fellow fairgoers, and with others who had less innocent aims than a day of fun at the fair—pickpockets and prostitutes and tricksters mingling with the tradesmen and goodwives and eager-eyed children. Ranulf forgot his sleepless qualms, and his spirits soared. Annora would be here today; suddenly he was sure of it.

The fairground was teeming with activity. It was as if a temporary town had sprung up overnight, row upon row of wooden stalls and booths, streets of trodden grass, already thronged with the customers that were its citizens. Had Ranulf not been watching for Annora with such hungry intensity, he would have enjoyed himself enormously. There was enough variety to satisfy the most jaded appetite. There were booths offering cloth of all kinds, fresh and salted fish, wine, honey, spices, crockery, gemstones, needles, canvas, finely tanned leather, perfume, soft felt hats, mirrors of polished metal, holy relics, and hooded hunting birds, merlins and goshawks tethered to wooden perches, while off to the north, horses were being put through their paces and cattle and oxen paraded before would-be buyers. Looking upon this bustling, colorful scene, Ranulf felt much heartened, for how could Annora resist such a beguiling temptation as the St Peter’s Fair?

Ranulf wandered among the booths, pausing now and then to watch the fair’s numerous forms of entertainment. There were archery contests and bouts with the quarterstaff, acrobats, jugglers, and strolling musicians strumming lively tunes on lyre, lute, and gittern. There was cock-fighting and a small spotted dog trained to balance upon a moving ball, and an occasional brawl, quickly broken up by the sheriff’s men. The fair offered all the attractions a fairgoer could wish for—save only Annora de Bernay.

By dinnertime, the fair was at its busiest. Ranulf jostled a path toward a crowded cook-stall, bought a hot pasty stuffed with spiced pork, marrow, and cheese for himself and a plain pork pie for his dogs, washing his meal down with ale. It was getting hotter; the breeze had died down. Shortly before noon, he decided to check out the horse fair, where a race was soon to get under way. And it was then that he saw her.

He caught only a glimpse as she moved between booths, but it was enough. He heedlessly trod upon a portly merchant’s heels as he sought to keep her in view, spilling the last of his ale, his breath quickening with each lengthening stride. He had her in sight again. She’d paused at a draper’s stall, examining samples of samite and linen as the merchant hovered close at hand, hopeful of making a sale. She was not alone, of course, attended by a gangling groom and a young maidservant, both of whom appeared delighted by this escort duty. The girl was quite pretty, but Ranulf saw only Annora.

She was clad in a vividly red gown, with full hanging sleeves in a lighter shade of rose, a green silk cord belted at the hip, her dark hair demurely hidden away beneath a soft circular veil. She looked just as Ranulf had envisioned her in dreams and daylight yearnings these four years past, but he’d not expected her to seem so contented, so comfortable in her role as Fitz Clement’s wife.

He stood, rooted, watching as she browsed from booth to booth. The merchants were very deferential, and she took it as her due, the hoyden he remembered suddenly transformed into the lady of the manor. She selected a pair of scissors and a length of green ribbon, turning her purchases over to her groom to carry. And then she stopped so abruptly that she stumbled, staring after the black-and-silver wolf-dog that streaked across her path, in pursuit of a spitting, hissing cat. Her face changed, her expression both wistful and regretful, and Ranulf knew in that moment exactly what she was thinking—of him and what they’d lost. He took a tentative step forward just as Annora turned and saw him.

Annora went white, and the combs she’d been appraising spilled into the grass at her feet. Ranulf swiftly closed the space between them, bent down and gathered up the combs; they were ivory and decorated with delicately carved flowers. “I think these are yours, my lady,” he said, and Annora nodded mutely. Her eyes seemed black and bottomless, dilated in disbelief. Her groom was looking toward them, wanting to be sure his lord’s wife did not need him to defend her honour. He was young enough to relish such a confrontation, and he’d soon be strutting their way, as challenging as any barnyard cock. Annora had not yet moved, and Ranulf held out the combs, saying softly, “Where can we meet?”

As Ranulf had feared, the groom was bearing down upon them. Annora snatched up the combs, so hastily that her fingers just grazed his. Thrusting the combs toward the disappointed merchant, she beckoned to her servants and moved on, toward a silversmith’s booth. But Ranulf had heard her whispered words, barely more than a breath: “St Alkmund’s Church.”

RANULF
found St Alkmund’s with no difficulty; the town’s weekly market was held in its churchyard. But the churchyard was deserted now, as were the streets. The fair had turned Shrewsbury into a ghost town, for its merchants were not permitted to compete with the monks, and their shops were shut down for the duration of the fair. St Alkmund’s was made of stone and the interior was shadowed and cool; summer’s heat seemed to stop at the church door. Ranulf walked up the nave, then continued on into the choir. Logic told him that she would not follow him right away, but he was already straining for sounds of her entry. He convinced himself so often that he heard her steps, only to find the nave empty and silent, that when she finally did arrive, she took him almost by surprise.

Ranulf had moved toward the candlelit High Altar, and when he turned back, Annora was there, framed in the arched doorway of the roodscreen. Her face was flushed; even in such dimmed lighting, he could see the color staining her cheeks and throat. He yearned to touch that hot skin, had to remind himself that he no longer had the right. Fumbling for words—any words—to break this smothering silence, he asked, “How did you get rid of your servants?”

“I did not. I told them to await me in the churchyard.” Annora sounded out of breath. “When I saw that dog, I thought at once of Shadow. But I…I never imagined it was really him! And when I turned around and saw you…”

Ranulf was absurdly pleased that she’d remembered the name of his dyrehund. “I had to come, Annora,” he said, and she looked at him, wide-eyed, for an unbearably long moment before saying, quite simply: