When Christ and His Saints Slept

  “Let’s go to the chapel, Mama,” he urged, “and pray for Papa’s safe deliverance.”

  Roger was still new to his calling, painfully earnest in his priestly dignity. To the rest of the world, he may have seemed like one of God’s Chosen, but to Amabel, he was a lost lamb, and she did not object when he tugged her toward the door. “But if prayer does not gain Robert’s release…”

  It was an unspoken threat, and a needless one. Maude would do whatever she must to pay Robert’s ransom. Those in the hall knew that. But they knew, too, what his freedom would cost—for Maude, for them all, and for England.

  THE bishop had settled in at Wolvesey, for it had not been badly damaged by the siege, unlike the royal palace, which was in ruins. Declining his hospitality, Matilda chose to stay at the castle, and people were soon lining up outside the kitchen, for the threat of starvation no longer hung over the city, but hunger was still Winchester’s unwelcome guest. Robert was gone, though; William de Ypres had escorted him to the greater security of Rochester Castle in Kent, deep in the heartland of Matilda’s English domains. It was mid-October before Ypres reported back to Matilda, and the news he brought was not good: Robert was still refusing to end his own captivity by setting Stephen free, not without additional concessions they were unwilling to make.

  They were seated close by the hearth in the great hall, for there was a chill of early winter in the air. Stretching his legs, cramped from long hours in the saddle, Ypres complained, half humorously, “It is extremely irksome, having to respect someone I dislike so heartily. But I cannot deny the man’s courage. If he was cut, he’d likely bleed ice!”

  Matilda did not find Robert’s fortitude quite so admirable; she didn’t share Ypres’s conviction that courage was the defining measure of a man. “If we agreed to free the other prisoners—”

  “You cannot do that! When a man takes a highborn prisoner, he expects to profit from it. That is the way it’s always been. You cannot change the rules with no warning, not without risking rebellion. My lady…Gloucester is engaging you in a clash of wills; do not let him win. He thinks he can outwait you, that you’re so eager to get Stephen back that nothing else matters. Prove him wrong.”

  “How?”

  “Simple. Make him want his freedom just as much as you want Stephen.”

  Matilda shook her head. “I do not like the sound of that, Willem.”

  “I am not suggesting we hang the man up by his heels, although the idea does have some merit. But we need not make his confinement quite so comfortable, either. He is being treated more like an honoured guest than a prisoner of war, allowed to have visitors, to write letters, to go into the town if he chooses; last week he even bought some blooded horses! I know what you are about to say, that he gave his sworn word he’d not attempt to escape. And I’ll concede that he’s probably the one man in Christendom whom I’d trust to keep such a preposterous oath, for he has always been insufferably prideful whenever honour is involved. But your generosity is leading you astray. He can afford to balk, to reject your terms, for what is it costing him? I say we change that, impose a price he’ll not be willing to meet.”

  Matilda frowned. “I will think upon what you’ve said, Willem. I know my brother-in-law agrees with you. I will admit that my patience is fast shredding thin. If Robert does not see reason soon…”

  A servant was hovering close by, ready to refill their wine cups. Once the man withdrew, Matilda shook off her disappointment and sought to sound more cheerful as she said, “We did have an unexpected stroke of luck last week. We intercepted a courier from the Scots king on his way to Gloucester with a message for Maude.”

  “So David finally surfaced for air, did he? Well, we knew he’d not been taken prisoner, and I found it unlikely that a king would be lying dead in a ditch and no one know of it. Where is he now…and more to the point, does he intend to rejoin Maude?”

  “By now he ought to be back in Scotland. His letter was dated on the 22nd of September, and by then he’d gotten as far north as Durham. To hear him tell it, he had as many narrow escapes as Maude—it must run in the family. Twice he was cornered and bribed his way free. His letter was sparing of details, so I assume he still had enough men to defend himself, and his would-be captors must have decided it was easier to take what was offered. The third time that he ran into trouble, he was recognized. But the knight in charge turned a blind eye, let him go by, for he just happened to be David’s godson! I have to confess that I am glad he got away; he is my uncle, too, after all. What gladdens me even more is that he will be staying up in Scotland where he belongs. He said as much to Maude, tactfully, of course. Still, the meaning seemed clear enough, that from now on, Maude is on her own.”

  That was what Ypres was hoping to hear. Pulling his seat closer to the fire, he listened with amusement as Matilda related the bishop’s latest undertaking. He’d sent his men to scour through the ruins of Hyde Abbey, sifting the ashes until they’d recovered those abbey treasures that had survived the flames. He’d gotten back enough melted gold and silver to pay for the soldiers he’d hired, Matilda reported, much to the outrage of the monks.

  Ypres was still laughing when the message arrived. Matilda gazed down at the seal of the Countess of Gloucester and all else was forgotten. Ypres had tensed, too, and watched intently as she read Amabel’s letter. He could not read her face as easily as he once had, for she was belatedly learning a queen’s skill at camouflage. But it seemed to him that she’d gotten paler, and when she glanced up, her eyes gave away her unease.

  “Amabel has heard rumors that we’ve threatened to drag Robert off to Boulogne. She reminds me that Stephen is being held at her castle, in her custody, and she vows that if any harm whatsoever comes to Robert, she will send Stephen where even God could not find him—to Ireland.”

  As threats went, that was a daunting one. “You know the woman,” he said, “as I do not. Is this a bluff? Or is she capable of carrying out her threat?”

  “Amabel? Oh, yes,” Matilda said, without hesitation, and Ypres slouched back in his chair, reconsidering their options. They’d have to tread with care, for if Gloucester’s wife knew her Scriptures—an eye for an eye, a wound for a wound—Matilda was not likely to follow his advice and strip Gloucester’s confinement down to the bare bone. Jesú, would she be desperate enough to give in, to let Gloucester win?

  Matilda was studying Amabel’s letter, but her initial disquiet seemed to have ebbed away. She looked pensive now, not dismayed, and as he watched, he saw a smile flicker about the corners of her mouth.

  “What is it?” he said sharply. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I am thinking,” she said, “that we’ve been going about this the wrong way. We have been negotiating with the wrong people, Willem. We’ve been seeking to come to terms with Robert and Maude, when the one we ought to have been bargaining with is the woman who holds Stephen—the woman who wants her husband back just as much as I want mine.”

  23

  Bristol, England

  November 1141

  THE first of November was not a comfortable day for travel. Rain had been falling intermittently since dawn and the wind had been constant, blustery and biting. Eustace did not care about the cold; he was so tense he barely felt it. He looked occasionally at his mother, but more often at William de Ypres, for he was very much in awe of the redoubtable Fleming. When Ypres happened to glance in his direction, Eustace stiffened his spine and raised his head, hoping that Ypres would notice how well he rode. He wished he had a stallion as spirited as Ypres’s chestnut, but his horse was a docile gelding. Wolf-bait, he thought scornfully, longing for spurs like Ypres and the other men wore. Despite his disappointment with his placid mount, it was still easy to pretend that he was the one leading an army to Bristol, not Ypres and his mother. If only theirs were a real rescue mission. He was sure they could catch the enemy by surprise, assault the castle and set Papa free. A pity Mama was so timid, so loath to see bloodshed.
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  Feeling her son’s gaze upon her, Matilda gave him a quick smile. Eustace knew it was meant to reassure, but he resented it for that very reason. “I do not need to be coddled, Mama,” he said indignantly. “I am not a bairn like Will and Mary, and I am not scared to be a hostage, not at all.”

  “I know that, Eustace.” Matilda found herself yearning for bygone days, when the distance between them was never so great that it could not be spanned by a hug. After some moments, she said, choosing her words with care: “It will all be over in a matter of days. Upon our arrival at Bristol, your father will be set free. He and Willem and Robert’s eldest son will then ride straightaway for Winchester. Once they get there, Robert will be released. Leaving his son as his pledge, he will hasten to Bristol. You and I will then be escorted safely back to Winchester, and Robert’s son will be freed. So you see, Eustace, we’ll scarcely have time to unpack, will be reunited with your father at Winchester by week’s end.”

  “It sounds as if none of you trust each other very much,” he said, with a cynicism that seemed too adult and knowing for his eleven years. Matilda was troubled by it, but she could not contradict him.

  “One another,” she corrected automatically, “not ‘each other.’ And you are right, lad. Trust never entered into it.”

  He slanted a sidelong glance her way. “Will she be at Bristol, too…the Angevin slut?”

  Matilda was no novice at motherhood, knew full well that she was being tested. “I like it not when you use such unseemly language, Eustace. Moreover, you are mistaken as well as rude. Maude’s husband is the Angevin. She is of Norman and Scots stock. Nor is she a slut.”

  Eustace’s lower lip jutted out. “Then why do men call her that? I’ve heard them,” he insisted.

  “I do not doubt it. But that does not make it true. When people want to insult a man, they cast slurs upon his courage. But the worst they can say about a woman is to impugn her chastity. It is unfair, though, for no scandal has ever sullied Maude’s good name. Whatever her other failings—and I find them plentiful—she is not a wanton.”

  Eustace was not convinced, but he prudently refrained from saying so. He didn’t really want to quarrel with his mother, not today. “Will she be there or not, Mama?”

  “No, she will not. She has withdrawn to Oxford Castle, will be awaiting Robert there upon his release. I suspect she could not bear to see your father ride forth as a free man.”

  Eustace felt a momentary disappointment, for he’d envisioned himself confronting her, this troublesome, wicked woman who’d dared to make war upon his father. “Mama…after Papa is free, what happens then? Will Maude give up, go back to her husband, and leave us in peace?”

  Matilda kept her eyes on the road ahead. “I doubt it,” she said bleakly. “I very much doubt it.”

  MATILDA had never been to Bristol, and she was both impressed and chilled by the fortified defenses of town and castle, protected by two rivers and a deep man-made ditch. They would never have been able to free Stephen by force. Thank God and His Holy Son that it had not come to that. Now they passed unchallenged into Robert Fitz Roy’s great citadel, and when they dismounted in the inner bailey of the castle, the Countess of Gloucester was awaiting them. Following Amabel inside, Matilda found a hall crowded with curious, wary, and hostile onlookers. But one glance was all she needed to see that the only man who mattered was not in their midst.

  Whirling upon Amabel, she demanded, “Where is my husband? Why is he not here?”

  Her suspicions were insulting, but Amabel was willing to overlook the affront, for she could identify with Matilda’s fear. “Stephen is waiting for you in the solar. He wanted your first meeting to be private.” And ushering Matilda and Eustace across the hall, she herself led them up into the stairwell.

  Matilda soon moved ahead, lifting her skirts and taking the stairs two at a time. When Eustace would have followed, Amabel blocked his way. “Give them a few moments alone, lad, ere you enter.” Eustace stared at her in astonishment, for this woman was the enemy. Did she truly think he’d do as she bade him? But to his fury, she refused to move aside when he sought to push past her, effectively trapping him in the narrow stairwell.

  Matilda was not aware that her son had been waylaid. By the time she’d reached the door, she was breathless and flushed. Nine months he’d been a prisoner, to the very day. How would he look? Could a man like Stephen survive confinement with no scars on his soul? Her heart was pounding. Reaching for the door latch, she shoved inward.

  Stephen was standing by the window. It had occurred to her that he might have gained weight, an active man suddenly forced into idleness. Instead he seemed to have lost weight. His face was thinner, his cheekbones noticeably hollowed, and he had more grey in his hair than she remembered. But his eyes were crinkling at the corners, alight with such a blazing blue joy that her throat tightened and she found herself thinking that no crown was worth more than Stephen’s smile. He moved so fast that before the door could close behind her, he had her in his arms, holding her so hard it hurt a little. She clung tightly, raising her face so he could claim her mouth, not even realizing she was crying until he’d begun to kiss away her tears.

  “I was so afraid,” she confessed, “that this day would never come.”

  “I never doubted,” he assured her, encircling her waist and pulling her even closer, “never.”

  She’d worried as much over his mental state as she had over his physical danger. “Truly, Stephen?”

  “Truly,” he said and grinned. “With you and God both on my side, Tilda, how could I lose?” He kissed her again, hungrily. “But I’d pawn my crown right now for a bed.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “oh, indeed, yes…” Giving him so ardent a look that his joke lost all humor. But at that moment, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by their son’s angry entrance.

  “That meddlesome woman would not let me in!” Eustace’s outrage flamed out quickly, though, at sight of his father. He was suddenly uncertain, oddly ill at ease.

  Stephen felt no such shyness. “Look at you, lad,” he marveled. “You are taller than your mother!”

  Eustace nodded, very pleased that his father had seen it at once, just how much he’d grown. “I am glad you are free, Papa,” he said, sounding rather formal even to his own ears, but surely he was too old now for open displays of affection? Stephen thought otherwise, and once Eustace found himself caught up in his father’s embrace, he forgot his qualms and clung no less urgently than his mother had done.

  Amabel gave them as much time as she could, but she could not wait long, not with so much at stake. “I am sorry to intrude,” she said, “but the sooner you are on the way to Winchester, Stephen, the sooner I’ll have my husband back. Now there is someone else waiting to see you.” And she stepped aside so William de Ypres could enter the room.

  The Fleming paused, almost imperceptibly, before crossing the threshold. In his entire adult life, he could not remember ever offering an apology for any act of his, and he was not sure how to go about it. But if they were to put the ghost of his Lincoln betrayal to rest, he’d have to say a few words at graveside. “I owed you better than you got,” he began awkwardly, “and for what it is worth, I did regret it. But by then, it was too late.”

  “Regrets always are,” Stephen said. He felt Matilda’s hand tighten on his arm, and he covered it with his own before turning his gaze back to Ypres. “It is passing strange,” he said, “how confinement has affected my memory. For the life of me, I cannot seem to remember anything at all about your conduct at Lincoln. Yet I have a very clear and vivid recollection of the great service you did me at Winchester…and I was not even there!”

  Amabel, watching from the doorway, said nothing. She was still furious with her sister-in-law. But somewhat to her surprise, she experienced a sudden, sharp pang of pity for Maude, who had right on her side, but little of Stephen’s generosity and none of his charm.

  MATILDA’S dream was at fir
st fanciful and then increasingly erotic. Stirring drowsily, she opened her eyes and discovered this dream was—at long last—real. “Are you getting hungry again, my love?” she murmured, and Stephen laughed into her hair.

  “I did not mean to wake you. I was just taking inventory of treasures I’ve been too long without. I ought to warn you, Tilda, that we are likely to create something of a scandal, for I may not let you leave this bed for days.”

  “Promise?” she said and he laughed again, drawing her in against him until they lay entwined, two halves made whole. “I was so proud,” she said, “of the way you accepted them back into the fold, all the sheep who had strayed…Willem and Northampton and Warenne and the others.”

  “‘Willem’?” he echoed, as if affronted by the intimacy. But she caught the playful tone, and bit him gently when he traced her mouth with his fingers.

  “It was easy enough,” he said lightly, “for I believe in redemption. I would that I could say I also believe I am my brother’s keeper, but that saintly I am not, sweetheart.”

  She saw through the flippancy, for she knew that of all the betrayals he’d suffered, none wounded so deeply as his brother’s defection. Shifting so she could cradle her head in the crook of his shoulder, she said, “I think Henry will be loyal from now on…in his own, odd way. At least you need not fear any more dalliances with Maude. He’s burned that bridge for certes.”

  “Along with most of Winchester,” he said, “and I wonder if he spares any regrets for the city when he mourns all his losses.”

  “Speaking of loss,” she said softly, “I came too close to the abyss, Stephen. You must promise me that you’ll never put yourself so at risk again. You have nothing to prove, for not even your most bitter enemies have ever questioned your courage. No more Lincolns, my love…promise me.”