When Christ and His Saints Slept

  John Marshal was lounging against the wall, arms folded across his chest, seemingly oblivious to the tensions and undercurrents swirling about the solar. When he spoke up now, heads turned in his direction. “As I understand it, the good news is that reinforcements are on the way, whilst the bad news is that we may run out of food ere they get here. So we ought to be thinking how to feed ourselves in the meantime…unless we really do want to empty out the stables.”

  Baldwin de Redvers took that as a jab at his siege story. “I suppose you have a way to do that?” he scoffed, and was startled when Marshal nodded.

  “I may,” he said, “I just may.” He glanced around to make sure they were all listening, and only then did he tell them what he had in mind.

  It was very quiet after he was done speaking. Maude was regarding him thoughtfully. “You’d be taking a great risk, Sir John.”

  He responded with a shrug, a laconic “If I were not willing, my lady, I’d not have offered.”

  Maude admired his audacity, but she was not about to second-guess Robert or Miles on a matter of military judgment. She was turning to find out what they thought of John Marshal’s scheme when the door burst open and Gilbert Fitz John plunged into the room.

  “Forgive my bad manners, my lady,” he said, “but this news could not wait. Geoffrey de Mandeville has betrayed us. That whoreson Judas has gone over to Stephen’s queen!”

  “FOOD is getting scarcer by the day in Winchester,” William de Warenne reported. “They cannot hold out much longer, not unless they get help and soon. And in truth, I doubt that aid will be coming. Those who can stomach Maude’s queenship are already with her. The others are reluctant bridegrooms at best, being dragged to the altar against their will. If they think there is a chance that the wedding might be called off, they’ll go to ground faster than any fox you’ve ever seen! Men like my cousin Warwick and Hugh Bigod are not about to spill their blood on Maude’s behalf. They’re not likely to get within a hundred miles of Winchester, not as long as the outcome is in doubt.”

  The other men agreed with his optimistic assessment. Matilda alone kept silent, listening uneasily as they shared stories of the siege: rumors of sickness in the city and dissention in the castle, accounts of livestock being butchered for food, a word-of-mouth tale about a pack of starving stray dogs chasing down a drunkard—or was it a child?

  That was too much for Matilda. She understood the strategy—to force Maude’s army into a fight it could not win, with hunger the weapon of choice. An effective weapon, for certes, but an indiscriminate one. Was she the only one troubled by that?

  “I have a question,” she said, so abruptly that they all turned to stare at her. “Those who are suffering the most during the siege are the citizens of Winchester. Women and children, priests, pilgrims—they are supposed to be spared. Those are the rules of war, are they not? But these rules do not stop the shedding of innocent blood. So how do you keep from thinking of them—the innocents? Please…I truly need to know.”

  There was an awkward silence. She looked from one to the other—from the Fleming Ypres to her brother-in-law the bishop, to the Earls of Northampton, Surrey, and Essex, to William Martel, her husband’s steward—and saw the same sentiment on the faces of these very unlike men: discomfort that she should ask such a foolish question and reluctance to offend her by saying so.

  The bishop took it upon himself to allay her qualms. “It is always distressing to see Christians sorely afflicted, Matilda, my dear. But it is not given to mortal men to understand the workings of the Almighty. It is as Scriptures say, that ‘Now we see through a glass, darkly, but then, face to face.’ All will be revealed to us in God’s good time.”

  This was not the answer Matilda had been looking for. The men realized that, but only William de Warenne ventured to improve upon the bishop’s effort. After a brief hesitation, the young earl decided he could best serve his queen by candor. “I am not qualified to argue theology, madame. But I can speak as a soldier. In war, men do what they must to stay alive…and sometimes they do what they later regret. Am I sorry for the suffering of those you call the innocents? I am. Do I think much about their suffering? No, in all honesty, I do not. What good would it do? The people in Winchester will be no less hungry because I pity their plight.”

  She should have known better. What had she expected to hear? Matilda nodded politely, and saw their relief. After a few moments, the conversation resumed. They were still certain that they need not fear reinforcements from Scotland and Normandy. Maude and Robert would have been leery of bringing a Scots army across the border. Nor would Maude have entreated Geoffrey to come to her rescue. The men laughed at the very thought, agreeing that Maude would starve first. Matilda said nothing. She seemed composed, but she’d begun to fidget with her wedding band, as she invariably did whenever she was under stress. That was how well Ypres had come to know her during this unlikely alliance of theirs; even her nervous habits were familiar to him. He watched her twisting and tugging at her ring, and he would have comforted her if he could, but he’d rather she grieve for the townspeople of Winchester than mourn for Stephen.

  The bishop was proposing a plan to divert a stream that flowed past the castle when there was a sudden commotion outside. Warenne was the closest and the most curious, and ducked under the tent flap to investigate. He was back almost at once, wide-eyed and incredulous. “This,” he exclaimed, “you all have to see for yourselves!”

  The camp was in turmoil, and in the very midst of it—seated astride a sleek white stallion, surrounded by an armed escort, and reveling in the uproar—was none other than Randolph de Germons, Earl of Chester. They were all taken aback, none more so than Matilda. She stared at Chester in disbelief, not finding her voice until he started to swing from the saddle. “No!” she cried. “Do not dismount, for you’ll not be staying. You are not wanted here.”

  Chester looked truly surprised, and she hated him all the more for that, for the arrogance that allowed him to imagine his betrayals would be overlooked, his treachery forgotten. “That is a strange jest, madame,” he said coldly, “one likely to offend rather than amuse.”

  “I assure you I find no humor in your presence here, my lord earl. I want you gone from my sight. How much more plainly need I speak than that?”

  Chester was enraged. Angry color scorched his face, and he communicated so much tension to his stallion that the animal kicked out suddenly, causing the closest spectators to scatter. The earl yanked savagely on the reins, glaring at Matilda. “You are distraught, madame, do not know what you are saying. But I cannot indulge your whims, not with so much at stake. The king’s need is too great. I think it best that I speak with you, my lord bishop.”

  Matilda spun around, but the bishop was as deliberate as Stephen was impulsive, and his face was impassive, his thoughts his own. She was never to know what his response would have been, for William de Ypres had sauntered forward, brandishing a drawn sword and a smile so full of mockery that it was in itself a lethal weapon, conveying mortal insult without need of any words whatsoever.

  Words he had, though, each one aimed unerringly at Chester’s greatest vulnerability—his pride. “I can speak for the bishop,” he said, “for every man jack here. We heed but one voice in this camp—that of the queen. Now that flag of truce means no more to me than it would to you, but our lady is a woman of honour. So thank God for her forbearance and ride out, my lord earl, whilst you still can.”

  Chester showed no fear, only fury. “You fools,” he snarled, “you shortsighted, pompous fools! Mark this day well, remember that you had a chance to save your king. Instead, you heeded a woman and a foreign cutthroat, and sealed his doom. He’ll stay chained up at Bristol till he rots, and glad I’ll be of it!”

  Chester spurred his stallion without warning, and men dived out of his way as the horse plunged forward into the crowd. His men hastily followed, retreating in a hail of hostile catcalls and curses.

  Matilda had mov
ed away, jamming small fists into the folds of her skirts as she sought to regain her composure. When she turned back to face the men, she was braced for disapproval. “If you say I ought to have accepted his offer, I cannot dispute you. But I could not help myself. I could not pretend that I believed his lies, that I did not despise him. I can only pray that I have not harmed my husband…”

  “You did not,” Ypres said, with an assurance that she envied.

  “You think not, Willem…truly?”

  “I think spurning Chester was for the best. I’ll not deny that I enjoyed it immensely. But it was still a wise move, for the man would have been a constant source of trouble. Not even a saint could fully trust him, and our men are far from saintly. We’d have had an army of hungry cats, so intent upon watching the rat in our midst that Maude would be forgotten!”

  The bishop smiled at that, then nodded. “It is rare indeed when the two of us are in agreement about anything under God’s sky,” he said wryly, “but we do agree about the Earl of Chester. He would have been a dangerous distraction, more of a hindrance than a help. The man has proven himself to be thoroughly untrustworthy, an unscrupulous self-seeker who serves only himself.”

  Matilda stared at her brother-in-law in amazement, for he seemed to have spoken utterly without irony. She’d been incensed not just by Geoffrey de Mandeville’s treachery, but also by his cynicism. In offering his aid, he’d made no attempt to convince her of his good faith, sardonically sure that her need would outweigh her anger. He was not blind to ethical boundaries—as was Chester—merely indifferent to them. But as she looked now at Stephen’s brother, she realized that he was quite unlike those two renegade earls. It would never occur to him that others might consider him an “unscrupulous self-seeker,” too. He truly believed himself to be on the side of the angels, a pious man of God, defender of Holy Church, burdened with a feckless, ungrateful brother, a foolhardy king. And Matilda found his sincerity even scarier than Mandeville’s mockery or Chester’s amorality.

  Chester was being damned now from all sides, with great zest and considerable venom. Soldiers were not accustomed to censoring themselves. But few of them were comfortable cursing so freely in front of their queen. Matilda’s presence was inhibiting, therefore, and she knew it. Turning aside, she started back toward her tent, smiling at Warenne’s colorful way with words; he’d just described Chester as “able to slither under a snake’s belly with space to spare.” That got a laugh from Geoffrey de Mandeville. “To give the Devil his due, though, he roots out secrets like a pig going after acorns. How many men know about the king yet? Bristol must be swarming with Chester’s spies! He—madame?”

  Matilda had darted forward, grabbing Mandeville’s arm. “Know what? Has something happened to Stephen?”

  “My lady, we did not mean for you to hear…” William de Warenne stammered. “I am truly sorry!”

  “For what?” Mandeville demanded. “Unless…you mean she does not know?”

  Warenne shook his head, looking more miserable by the moment.

  “Know what?” Matilda repeated. “What are you keeping from me?” She had her answer not from either man, but from Chester himself, for his parting taunt came back to her then. “Chains,” she echoed, “oh, Sweet Jesus, no!” Whirling around, she sought the one man she trusted not to lie to her. “Have they put my husband in irons? Willem…answer me!”

  Ypres was already beside her. “Yes,” he said, “it is so. He has been shackled since mid-July or thereabouts.”

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  That was a difficult question for him to answer; he’d had so few protective urges in his life that he did not know how to justify such an alien emotion. “I did not see what good it would do for you to know,” he said gruffly.

  “You had no right to keep this from me—no right!” Tears had begun to sting her eyes, but she made no attempt to hide them, to wipe them away. What man among them would not have wanted a wife who’d weep for his pain? “Whatever happens to Stephen,” she said tautly, “I must be told. You are fighting to free your king. But I am fighting to free my husband. Do not ever forget that.”

  RANULF FITZ ROY and John Marshal led a force of three hundred knights, crossbowmen, and men-at-arms out of Winchester’s North Gate and onto the old Ickniell Way, toward Andover. It was still dark, dawn more than an hour away. The men were silent, tense. They had less than ten miles to go, but every one of those miles would be fraught with peril.

  John Marshal’s plan was not only dangerous, but controversial, too. He’d proposed setting up an outpost at Wherwell, where the River Test could be forded. Once they had control of the Andover Road, they would be able to escort supply convoys safely into Winchester. They would have to fortify the crossing, but that could be done with surprising speed; when a castle was under siege, timber countercastles were often put up by the attacking army. This would be far riskier, and to protect their men while they were building a temporary stronghold, John Marshal meant to take over the nearby nunnery of the Holy Cross. The nuns would be sent to safety in Andover until the nunnery could be returned to them, and would be compensated for their dispossession. But Maude and her allies would be bringing the wrath of the Church down upon them for this intrusion into a House of God, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, already irate at being trapped in the siege, would not be easy to placate. It was a measure of their desperation that they’d approved John Marshal’s daring stratagem.

  Maude had not been so willing, though, for Ranulf to lead this high-risk mission, and had quarreled hotly with her brother over it. But Ranulf had insisted and he’d prevailed. The argument he’d made was a valid one, that John Marshal was a good man to have on their side in battle, but not the ideal candidate to negotiate with a convent of nuns. But there was more to his motivation than concern for Holy Cross and its Brides of Christ. Ranulf was in need of diversion—however dangerous—for his nerves were fraying under the strain. He was still an optimist, still believed that Maude would win her war. But they’d come so close! Just three months ago, he’d been lodged at Westminster Palace, anticipating his sister’s coronation, and Annora was within his reach, if not yet his grasp. Now she seemed to slip further away with each passing day of this accursed siege. Maude had lost ground that it would take them months to regain. He was trying not to blame Maude for this, but those were months he could never get back, months in which Annora would be sharing Gervase Fitz Clement’s life and bed, instead of being where she belonged—at his side and in his bed.

  Easing his stallion, Ranulf now slowed its pace until Gilbert caught up. “I still say you ought to have stayed back in Winchester,” he grumbled. “You act at times as if I cannot be trusted out of your sight!”

  “Well…the last time you ventured into a nunnery, you got yourself arrested!” Gilbert glanced up at the greying sky, for they’d outrun the night, would be racing the sun to Wherwell. “What are the chances, you think, of Ancel’s being in the queen’s encampment?”

  “More than likely,” Ranulf conceded. “We know Northampton is there. So why would Ancel not be with his liege lord?”

  “It could be that he has seen the error of his ways, is now ready to acknowledge Lady Maude as his rightful queen.”

  “As if you believe that!”

  Gilbert shrugged. “I will if you will,” he offered, and got from Ranulf a reluctant grin. They rode on, bantering, into a waiting ambush.

  They had no warning, for the terrain was ideally suited for concealment, the road narrowing and curving as it wound its way up into the hills, bordered by deep woods, tangled oak and beech and yew providing perfect camouflage for the soldiers who now rushed out to the attack.

  There was instant chaos, horses rearing up, men swearing, hastily drawing swords, reeling back under the onslaught. What followed was not so much a battle as a wild mêlée, confusing and random and deadly.

  There was no organized retreat, no orders given. It was each man for himself, doing his best to st
ay alive. Assailed from both sides of the woods, Ranulf’s companions bunched together for protection, spurring their horses mercilessly, for those who halted were quickly struck down, dragged bleeding from their mounts, trampled and left for dead as the running battle surged up the road, until it reached the moss-covered walls of the Wherwell nunnery.

  Warned by the sounds of conflict, two nuns and the porter were struggling to close the doors of the gatehouse. They jumped aside just in time as the first horsemen swept by them into the convent grounds. As the nuns and porter watched helplessly, their nunnery was invaded by armed men, all striving urgently to kill one another.

  Ranulf’s stallion swerved suddenly, almost unseating him. Steering with his knees until he was able to snatch up the reins, he glanced back and gasped, for had his horse not veered off so sharply, he’d have ridden down a small child. It was quite common for nunneries to take in children as boarders or pupils, and several youngsters had been drawn outside by the commotion. This particular child was in the greatest peril, for she’d toddled directly into the path of the riders galloping through the gateway. Fighting to swing his stallion about, Ranulf yelled, “Run, lass!” But she was frozen with fear. Crouching down in the dirt, she disappeared into the dust clouds being swirled up by the flying hooves. When Ranulf got a glimpse of her again, her little body was being cradled by one of the nuns, and he was never to know if the nun had gotten to her in time.

  Nuns had come running out of their dorter, from the bakehouse and the buttery. Not all the women wore the black habit of the Benedictine Order, for widows often lodged in nunneries, renting themselves a safe haven away from worldly temptations and turmoil. But the real world had intruded upon them with a vengeance on this second Tuesday in September. Some of them screamed, fled back into the nearest buildings. Others stood rooted as the battle raged around them.