When Christ and His Saints Slept (36 page)

When the door opened, he turned in surprise, not expecting Luke back so soon. But it was Gilbert. Without waiting to be asked, he strode into the chamber, sat down on a coffer, and subjected Ranulf to a scrutiny that was far from friendly. “I was going to ask if you’d seen her,” he said, “but clearly you did.”

“Saw whom?”

“Annora Fitz Clement. Did you truly think I’d not figure it out? Once I put my mind to it, I knew Annora had to be at the root of your folly. So I asked Miles Fitz Walter if Gervase Fitz Clement has a manor in Shropshire. It would not surprise you, I am sure, to learn that he does.”

Ranulf shrugged. “What of it?”

“Do not try to lie, Ranulf; I know you too well. You went to Shrewsbury to seek Annora out, and you got what you wanted from her. Do not bother to deny it, for I can see it in your face.” Gilbert’s accusations had been delivered in flat, dispassionate tones, but then his outrage broke free. “Christ Jesus, Ranulf, how could you do it? How could you make a whore out of Ancel’s sister?”

Ranulf had been listening in a stony silence, but at that, he took a warning step toward Gilbert, dark eyes blazing. “Watch what you say! I mean to make her my wife!”

Gilbert started to rise, then slumped down again on the coffer. This was even worse than he’d expected. “You cannot be serious,” he said, but with no conviction. “Ranulf, have you lost what wits you have left? The girl has a husband!”

“Not for long,” Ranulf shot back triumphantly. “Annora may have been locked into a loveless marriage, but I have the key to set her free: our prior plight troth.”

Now that his first flash of anger was over, he was glad that Gilbert had guessed the truth. Having a trustworthy confidant was a luxury he’d not expected, and he gave his friend a discreetly edited account of his reunion with Annora, confided their hopes, and dwelled at length upon all the tomorrows they would share, time enough to recompense them for these lost years, a lifetime in which to wed and love and beget children and pledge fealty to his sister the queen. Gilbert listened and feared for them both. But he kept his qualms to himself, for he knew Ranulf would not have heeded them.

NIGHT
had claimed Geoffrey of Anjou’s capital city of Angers, and the castle was asleep. Sometime after midnight, Henry sat up suddenly in bed, jolted awake by a remembered sin. Papa’s dagger! He’d been playing with it all day, but he’d not gotten his father’s permission, and then he’d gone off to bed and forgotten to sneak it back where it belonged. Instead he’d left it in a window seat of the great hall, where it was sure to be found in the morning by one of the servants. And his wooden sword was down there, too, so all would know he was the culprit.

He was already in disgrace, all because of that fight he’d had with his brother Geoffrey. He still did not think it had been his fault. Geoffrey had deserved his nosebleed for the way he’d been badgering Will. Will could not help being scared of the dark; he was only four. From the superior vantage point of his seven years, that seemed very young to Henry, and he felt protective of his baby brother. When Will had begun to wake up screaming in the night, their father had given his consent for a small candle to be kept lit. That made sense to Henry, but Geoffrey could not resist teasing Will about his fears, and eventually he threatened once too often to snuff out the candle so Will could be carried off by the werewolves waiting in the dark. Henry wasn’t at all sorry for hitting Geoffrey; that memory was still very satisfying. But he could not be caught in another misdeed so soon after their squabble, not after he’d promised to be good.

Well, there was no help for it, he’d have to go get the dagger. Taking care not to disturb his brothers, he edged out of bed, fumbling about in the dark until he found his tunic. It took him longer to locate his shoes, but it was October and the stone stairs were too cold for bare feet. Both of his dogs were awake by now, eager to join in the fun. He was sorry he had to shut them up in the bedchamber, but dyrehunds always seemed to bark at just the wrong time.

Henry was not afraid of the dark, not really. Anyone would be nervous creeping down a winding stairwell blacker than any cave. He kept on going, and sighed softly when he reached the great hall, for it was dark, too, but there were people here, sleeping on pallets and benches and blankets. Much to his relief, the dagger was still in the window seat, half hidden by a cushion. Now if he could just get it back to Papa’s bedchamber without getting caught…To his surprise, he was beginning to enjoy himself, for this midnight quest was an adventure, with suspense and risk and even a worthy prize, a crusader’s dagger with a ruby hilt.

Hoping that the hinges wouldn’t squeak, he slowly pushed open the door of his father’s bedchamber. A reassuring sound met his ears, the snoring of his father’s squires. The hearth had burned low, the firelight dying down to a feeble glow. His father’s favorite wolfhound, a massive beast the size of a pony, raised her head, then tipped her tail in drowsy greeting. Leaving the door ajar, Henry moved toward the coffer at the foot of the bed. He was cautiously lifting the lid when his father’s voice suddenly cut through the darkness: “Just what are you looking for?”

Henry froze, shock robbing him of all speech. Before he could stammer out a response, a woman’s voice came floating from the bed. “I do believe I’ve found it, my lord. I was but browsing. Now, though, I think I’d like to buy!”

Henry was stunned and, for a too-brief moment, joyful. Almost at once, though, he realized his mistake, one foolish enough to make him blush. How could he have thought Mama had come home? If she were back, all would know it. Crouching down behind the coffer, he tried to make sense of this. Why was a strange woman in Papa’s bed? She was speaking again, an unfamiliar voice, sounding young and eager to please. Papa was laughing at what she’d said. Henry didn’t like it, not at all, that Papa should be laughing in bed with this unknown woman. He wanted to go away, to forget what he’d heard. But he was trapped, unable to move until they went back to sleep. And to his horror, he now heard his father say, “Fetch me that wine cup on the table, Nan.”

The bed curtains parted and a woman’s tousled head poked through. She had tumbled masses of unruly flaxen curls, and Henry could not help thinking of his mother’s glossy, neat braids, black as a raven’s wing. Having assured herself that the squires slept, the girl swung her legs onto the floor, scampered over to the table, and snatched up a goblet. Henry had a lively curiosity about women’s bodies. Not only were they formed differently than males, but people acted as if there was something sinful about female nakedness, and he still remembered a puzzling sermon he’d heard that summer, in which the priest had railed about daughters of Eve and whores of Babylon and Satan’s lures. Now, though, he averted his eyes, did not look up until the woman had climbed back into bed.

“Good lass. You cannot imagine how pleasant it is to have a biddable bedmate for a change.”

The girl giggled. “Your lady wife would not have fetched you wine?”

“Not unless she’d poisoned it beforehand.”

Another giggle. “Surely she could not be as bad as all that? I have to admit, though, that I was right glad when she left. She could stab someone with her eyes, God’s Truth! Do you think, my lord, that she will be gone long?”

“If God is merciful,” Geoffrey said wryly. “No, you need not fret about my she-wolf of a wife, Nan. She’s like to be bogged down in that English quagmire for years, and even if she does manage to defeat Stephen, her victory might not be worth much after she and Stephen get done with their crown-clipping.”

“I…I do not understand.”

“You do know about coin-clipping?”

“Is that not what the Jews do?”

“Not just the Jews, anyone with a sharp eye for turning a profit. They file the edges off the coin, and melt the clippings down to make a counterfeit coin. Anyone caught clipping coins in my domains does not live to regret it. But just as the clipped coins are worth less, so is a tarnished crown. For proof of that, we need look no further than the double-dealing by Hugh Bigod and Robert Fitz Hubert. Think you that either one would have dared to defy the old king like that? When pigs fly!”

The first name was vaguely familiar to Nan, the second name not at all. “This Hugh Bigod…was he not the king’s man?”

“More than that, lass. He perjured himself to God and the Archbishop of Canterbury, claiming that Maude’s father had repudiated her upon his deathbed. But he came to feel cheated, for he believed Stephen owed him more than he’d gotten, and this past June he rebelled. Stephen swooped down on him and seized one of Bigod’s castles, but freed Bigod to wreak more mischief if he chose. He did, and rebelled again in August. This time Stephen decided to buy his loyalty. Can there be a better reason for rebelling?”

Raising his voice, Geoffrey launched without warning into a mimicry of a peddler’s spiel. “Are you discontented with your lot in life? Has your barony begun to seem paltry and insignificant? Do you yearn for your own deer park, wine from Cyprus, oranges from Spain? Well, then, do not delay. Defy the king, gain yourself estates, castles, mayhap an earldom!”

Nan joined in his laughter, even though the humor eluded her. She laughed at all of Geoffrey’s jokes, whether she understood them or not. “What of the other man, this Fitz…Herbert?”

“Fitz Hubert. He was one of Stephen’s Flemish hirelings, mayhap the worst of a bad lot. Last October he turned on Stephen and seized Malmesbury Castle. Stephen snatched it back, but—surprise of surprises—he then agreed to let Fitz Hubert go. It seems he was a kinsman of William de Ypres, and he prevailed upon Stephen to show his cousin some undeserved mercy.”

“Was that the end of it?”

“Of course not. Fitz Hubert promptly hied off to Maude at Bristol. But he soon saw he could do better on his own and by a ruse, succeeded in getting hold of Devizes Castle. When Righteous Robert—my saintly brother by marriage—sent his son to take command, Fitz Hubert drove him off. Using Devizes as a refuge, he and his brigands set about terrorizing the countryside, plundering and raping and burning as they pleased. It then occurred to him that if he’d done so well with one castle, how much better he could do with two, and he set his eyes upon Marlborough. But he overreached himself there, for Marlborough was held by a man named John Marshal, and that one could teach the Devil himself about guile.”

Nan clapped her hands, like a child hearing a bedtime story. “What happened then?”

“Marshal pretended to believe Fitz Hubert’s cock-and-bull tale about forging an alliance, lured our greedy Fleming to Marlborough, and cast him into the castle’s dungeon. He then agreed to turn Fitz Hubert over to Brother Robert for five hundred marks. Robert dragged the Fleming back to Devizes, where he swore to hang him if he did not order the garrison to surrender. But Fitz Hubert balked and Robert, ever a man of his word, hanged him outside the castle walls. Meanwhile, the garrison had decided they did not truly need Fitz Hubert, and so they spurned all demands for surrender. Instead, they waited until Robert’s forces withdrew, and then yielded the castle to Stephen, for a right goodly profit!”

Geoffrey and Nan laughed so loudly that Henry feared they’d awaken the squires. He huddled against the coffer, holding his breath, but those blanketed forms by the hearth didn’t stir.

“So you see, sweet, it is every man for himself in England these days. And it’ll get worse ere it gets better. Stephen and Maude have opened the floodgates, and all they can do is let the tide carry them along, whilst trying to keep their heads above water. Not that it would break my heart if the lady drowned! But whether she survives or not, she’ll not be coming back to bedevil me. Now…enough of these English lunatics. We’ve more interesting matters to discuss. When are you going to make good your offer?”

“Offer?” Nan echoed coyly. “What offer was that, my lord?”

Henry did not hear his father’s murmured response, only the woman’s laugh. There was an intimacy to their conversation now that was different and disquieting. Making no further attempts at concealment, Henry got to his feet. He no longer cared if he was caught or not. With a deliberation that verged upon defiance, he turned away from the bed, started toward the door.

His father had once told him that ice could burn. He hadn’t believed it; now he did. The coldness within him was numbing, seemed to have seeped into the very marrow of his bones. He’d never felt like this before, did not even know how to describe it. The word
desolate
was not yet in his seven-year-old’s vocabulary. There was anger, too, but it was unfamiliar anger—not hot, more like the ice that burned. He had not comprehended all that he’d overheard, but he had understood what mattered. His mother was not coming back.

12

Westminster, England

December 1140