When Christ and His Saints Slept

  St Giles in the Fields was a leper hospital just outside the city walls, founded by a queen, Maude’s mother. Matilda felt great pity for those poor souls afflicted with such a fearful malady, although she found it exceedingly difficult to look upon their dreadful deformities. But she forced herself to smile and show none of her revulsion when they came forward to thank her, and afterward she confided to Cecily her awed admiration for Maude’s mother, who had kissed lepers and washed their ulcerated sores with her own hands to demonstrate they were still beloved by God.

  Cecily agreed that such a woman well deserved to be known as Good Queen Maude, although she could not help adding mischievously that it explained much about the Empress Maude, child of such a disparate mating—a notorious lecher and an earthly saint. Matilda laughed, commenting that Stephen’s parents were surely an oddly matched pair, too, but then her smile faded, for she found herself thinking of yet another incompatible couple—her brash young son Eustace and Constance, his timid French bride.

  From St Giles, Matilda continued on to the hospital of St Bartholomew, situated next to the Augustinian priory of the same name in West Smithfield. St Bartholomew took in the needy and orphans as well as the sick, and it was for the orphans that Matilda had brought tops and balls. Her own children had puppets and wooden swords and dolls and whistles. But toys were a luxury, and she knew the skinny, solemn youngsters at St Bart’s were unlikely to have had any but makeshift playthings—scraps of rope and stones and hollow reeds. She was warmly welcomed by the hospital’s master and nuns, but the memory she took away with her was of the shrieks and laughter of boys playing with their first real ball, a pig’s bladder filled with dried beans.

  They reentered the city through Cripplegate, headed back toward the Tower. Matilda’s progress was a slow one, for people flocked to her as she passed by, seeking to find out if the king was fully recovered from his near-fatal fever. If the questions directed at her were occasionally intrusive or overly familiar, Matilda did not object; had the Londoners not been so forthright and cocky, they never would have dared to defy Maude. And so she waved and smiled and assured them that the king was on the mend, of good cheer, and eager to take up the reins of kingship again.

  Just how eager Stephen was, she was soon to discover. Upon her arrival at the Tower, she hastened up to the royal apartments on the top floor of the soaring, whitewashed keep. There she found her husband sitting around a table with his brother and William de Ypres and William Martel, his steward. They had a large map spread out before them, but that was not what caught Matilda’s attention; it was the charged atmosphere, one of barely suppressed excitement. “You look,” she said, “like foxes who’ve just found a way into the hen roost. What has happened that I do not yet know about?”

  There was a time when she would never have spoken up so boldly, but now she did not even hesitate, taking it for granted that she had earned the right to share in their decision making. And of the men, only the bishop thought her candid curiosity was unseemly, but even he held his tongue, tacitly acknowledging that Matilda would not be retreating back into the shadows. For better or worse, he conceded, hers had become a voice to be heeded.

  “We have gotten some very interesting news, Tilda.” Stephen leaned back in his chair, smiling at her. “Maude’s brother has gone to Normandy to meet with Geoffrey. Robert sailed for Barfleur a week ago.”

  “Leaving the hen roost unguarded,” William de Ypres said happily. “I never thought I’d owe Geoffrey of Anjou such a debt of gratitude!”

  Matilda’s first reaction was unease. Stephen might be ready for the rigors and risks of an active campaign, but she was not; her memories of his Northampton illness were still too raw. But she did not confess her qualms, for fear was a wife’s burden, to be borne alone. “What are you planning?” she asked, and Stephen beckoned her toward the map.

  “Robert sailed from there—from Wareham—putting his firstborn in command. But the son is not the man his father is, and he promptly went back to the greater comforts of Bristol, leaving the castle poorly garrisoned. If we capture it, we can deny Robert a safe port for his return.”

  “Where is Maude now…still at Devizes?”

  “No, she is back at Oxford Castle, with Miles Fitz Walter, Baldwin de Redvers, and Ranulf, amongst others, keeping a close watch upon her. Robert seems to have been so worried about her safety that I’d almost think he had second sight!”

  Matilda did not share Stephen’s smile. “That does not sound like an unguarded hen roost to me.”

  “No…not yet. Maude is well served at the moment. That is why I do not plan to besiege Oxford after we capture Wareham. No, there is our next target,” he said, “Cirencester. For however devoted Maude’s men are to her, they’re not likely to stay cooped up at Oxford if their own lands in the west are threatened. My raid on Cirencester will draw them away from Oxford, and then,” Stephen said, with a grim resolve he’d not often shown, “we take Maude captive and end this accursed war once and for all.”

  25

  Oxford, England

  September 1142

  OXFORD, like Winchester, had two royal residences, the eleventh-century castle by the river and the “king’s house” just north of the city walls. The latter was the more comfortable of the two, but Maude always chose to stay at the castle, for its castellan, Robert d’Oilly, was a loyal supporter and kin by marriage, his stepson being one of Maude’s numerous half-brothers.

  Even by English standards, it had been an unusually wet summer and autumn. But this 26th day of September dawned dry and clear and mild. Ranulf was standing on the steps of the great hall, savoring the sun as men passed in and out of the bailey. More riders were coming in, a dozen or more—not an uncommon sight these days, for only foolhardy or desperate travelers braved the roads alone. As they dismounted, Ranulf started forward, catching a glimpse of a familiar figure.

  At sound of his name, Bennet de Malpas turned around, his dark face lighting up with a grin of ready recognition. Ranulf was not surprised that Bennet should be so well mounted and armed, for he was one of the Earl of Chester’s household knights, the man entrusted by Chester with that urgent appeal for Maude’s help. He and Ranulf had struck up a casual friendship on their wretched winter march to Lincoln, and renewed acquaintance this past April at Chester Castle. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Ranulf now, although he was deliberately vague about his current task, saying only that he’d been to Coventry at the earl’s behest.

  Ranulf would have loved to learn more about Bennet’s mysterious mission for the earl, for he was morbidly curious about Chester’s doings; he’d never been able to resist turning over rocks, even if he knew he’d not like what lurked beneath them. But Bennet would not be revealing any of the earl’s secrets. Although Chester might not practice what he preached, he demanded complete discretion and utter loyalty from those who served him. Ranulf could only hope that Chester was not casting his nets wide enough to entangle Maude, and he said cautiously, “What brings you to Oxford, Bennet?”

  “I am performing a double duty, first off to Coventry for the earl and then on to Oxford for his countess. Lady Maud entrusted me with a letter for the empress. I also have one for you,” he said, turning aside to root in his saddle bag.

  Ranulf took his letter with a nonchalance he was far from feeling, for he was sure Maud had included a letter from Annora along with her own. After an unobtrusive check to assure himself that Maud’s wax seal had not been tampered with, he tucked the letter inside his tunic, and summoned up a distracted smile. “I missed that. You were saying…what?”

  “Is it true that the Earls of Hereford and Devon are no longer with the empress?”

  Ranulf’s mouth tightened. Chester must have more spies than a dog had fleas. The mere mention of the earls’ defection was enough to stir up his anger again, for Miles and Baldwin had promised Robert that they would put Maude’s safety before all other considerations. But he was not about to unburden himself to a man
who’d carry his complaints straight back to the Earl of Chester. “They were naturally disquieted when word reached us of Stephen’s raid upon Cirencester,” he said, striving to sound offhand, untroubled. “But they will be returning to Oxford once they are sure that their own lands are not in peril.”

  “I am glad to hear that, and so will my lady. She was concerned lest her aunt be put at risk by their departure. Now…I’d best seek out the castellan. As I mean to ask his hospitality for my men and myself, I ought not to be tardy in paying my respects.”

  “I am afraid you are too late, Bennet. Sir Robert was taken ill last month, and he was not as lucky as Stephen. He died a fortnight ago.”

  Bennet had watched too many men die for death to take him by surprise. Nor did he see any point in mourning a man he’d never met. “I am sorry,” he murmured, with perfunctory politeness. “Mayhap I ought to look for lodgings in the town, then…?”

  “Indeed not. There is more than enough room. Come on, I’ll take you to my brother.” The word brother never failed to echo oddly in Ranulf’s ears whenever he applied it to Rob d’Oilly, for it seemed such an intimate way to refer to a stranger. They were not actual strangers, of course, more like acquaintances who happened to share the same blood. Ranulf sometimes wondered how many other half-brothers of his might be scattered throughout England and Normandy, sons not even his father had known he’d sired. Any man who could claim more than twenty bastards was bound to have missed a few.

  Leading Bennet into the hall, Ranulf watched the other man from the corner of his eye, anticipating Bennet’s surprise when he first saw Rob d’Oilly. In truth, Rob’s appearance could still unsettle him, too, so uncanny was his resemblance to their father: the same stocky build, the same ink-black hair and deep-set eyes. Rob did not have the old king’s commanding presence, though. He was—Ranulf had discovered—just what he seemed to be, an affable, well-meaning man of wealth and privilege and modest ambitions, of whom the worst that could be said was that he was obstinate at times and too impulsive; his vices, like his virtues, were inhibited by his lack of imagination.

  Bennet did a comical double-take upon being introduced to Rob, for no one who’d ever met the old king would have forgotten him. Recovering his aplomb, he was expressing his condolences for the loss of Rob’s stepfather when he was interrupted by a sudden shout, loud enough and urgent enough to turn all heads toward the sound. When it came again, Ranulf and Rob both moved swiftly across the hall, with a curious Bennet on their heels.

  A rider had just reined in his mount in the crowded bailey. As the man flung himself from the saddle and ran toward them, Ranulf watched with foreboding, for Hugh de Plucknet was well known to him, a quick-tempered but intensely loyal Breton, one of Maude’s most trusted household knights. Hugh had departed at first light for Wallingford Castle, bearing Maude’s letter to Brien Fitz Count. So why was he back so soon? What had caused him to abandon his mission for Maude and return to Oxford in such haste? Ranulf was already sure he was not going to like Hugh’s answer.

  “The king is leading an army up the Abingdon Road, heading straight for Oxford!”

  Rob gasped, then began to assail Hugh with questions. Was he sure it was Stephen? Where had he seen them? Could he have been mistaken? How many were there?

  Ranulf paid no heed, for he knew the interrogation was a waste of time; Hugh was not a man to conjure up phantom foes. But what now? Would Maude be better off slipping out of the city whilst there was still time? But where could she go? Wallingford lay to the south. If she tried to reach Brien’s castle, she’d be riding right into Stephen’s army. No, she’d be safer staying in Oxford. The town was well protected by two rivers, the Cherwell on the east, and on the south and west, the great river known as Isis in Oxford, as the Thames elsewhere. The city’s walls were of stone, its defenses augmented by a deep outer ditch. And the castle itself presented a formidable challenge. He’d almost convinced himself that they could easily withstand a siege when Bennet pulled him aside, thrust the Countess of Chester’s letter into his hand, and asked him to see that the empress got it.

  Ranulf stared at him in amazement, unwilling to believe that Bennet truly intended to ride off, indifferent to Maude’s danger. But Bennet was beckoning to his waiting men, telling them to mount up. “What are you doing? Jesú, Bennet, we will need every man we can get to stave off Stephen’s attack!”

  Bennet shrugged. “I wish the empress well. But I am not about to risk my life for her. Ranulf, this is not my fight.”

  And with that, he signaled again to his men, put spurs to his stallion, and cantered across the bailey toward the drawbridge, leaving Ranulf with an unenviable task—telling Maude that Stephen would soon be at the city gates.

  MAUDE was keeping vigil upon the roofed ramparts of the castle keep. South of the city, where the River Cherwell flowed into the Thames, the late Robert d’Oilly’s uncle had built a raised clay causeway, known to locals as Grandpont. Ranulf and Rob had aligned their men to block this causeway, for the rivers themselves were impassable. Swollen with the run-off from the heavy rains, they’d spilled over their banks, flooding the adjacent meadows. The September sunlight was dazzling, but still not able to lighten the swirling depths of the water, a dark grey-green like the moss on cemetery tombstones.

  There were sporadic flashes of brightness as the sun reflected off the swords and chain-link hauberks of the soldiers. Arrows were being intermittently launched across the river, to the accompaniment of taunts and jeers. Some of the citizens had come out to join in this dangerous sport, daring the enemy to attack. Their more prudent brethren were patrolling the city walls, making ready to repel the invaders should they somehow manage to surmount the fast-flowing barrier of the Thames. There were some who’d escaped, like Bennet de Malpas and his men, out of the city’s North Gate. But most were not willing to abandon their homes, to abandon hope. Facing down a king’s wrath and a large hostile army, Oxford remained defiant.

  Maude was attended by several of her household knights, by Adam of Ely, her clerk, and William Marshal, a blunt-spoken priest who shared some of the steely qualities of his better-known brother, John. Maude had been impressed enough with Will’s abilities to have named him as her chancellor, but at this particularly precarious moment, he was the wrong brother. It was John Marshal whom she needed, arrogant and pitiless and scarred and miles away, like all the others who had taken Stephen’s bait.

  Just before noon, Ranulf returned to the castle. While the kitchen cooks hastily prepared a meal that he could eat quickly, he joined Maude up on the keep battlements. Rob was sure, he reported, that Stephen’s men would not be able to cross the Grandpont. Their bowmen were likely to prove almost as formidable as the river. The city gates were under guard and the townspeople seemed determined to resist, not cowed or disheartened.

  “You sound confident,” Maude said when he was done speaking, “but your words are at variance with what I see in your face. Do not keep your qualms from me, Ranulf. We owe each other better than that.”

  He gave her a quick, tense smile, one that acknowledged the validity of her complaint. And then he told her the truth, why he’d really come back to the castle—not for roast chicken and ale, but for the superior view from the keep roof.

  “I do not understand. What are you looking to find?”

  “A missing king. Stephen has been able to bring together a redoubtable force. Most of his barons and vassals seem to have answered his summons. I saw William de Warenne and Geoffrey de Mandeville and the Earls of Northampton and Pembroke, amongst others. Even his brother the bishop is across the river, doing God’s Work with a mace these days. But I looked in vain for Stephen, and that troubles me more than I can say. Just where is he, Maude?”

  DOWNRIVER from the Grandpont, Stephen stared across at the surging, wind-churned current. After several moments, he stooped and pitched a stone out into the water, watching as it splashed and sank. “This is the secret ford?” he asked skeptically. “It lo
oks to me like a crossing fit only for fish.”

  The man at his side nodded vigorously, stubbornly. “The river can be forded here, my liege,” he insisted. “I swear it upon the tears of the Blessed Mother Mary. It is just deeper than usual because of the rains.”

  Stephen looked at the man’s earnest face, then back at the river. “This is probably not one of my more rational decisions,” he said at last, “but I say we risk it.”

  William de Ypres shrugged. “Why not? It is as good a day to drown as any, I suppose.”

  “If Robert Fitz Roy could cross the Fossedyke at flood tide in the dead of winter, then we ought to be able to survive a September dunking in the Thames. Besides,” Stephen smiled suddenly, “if the Almighty meant for me to drown, he’d have let me sail on the White Ship.”

  “Even God can change His Mind,” Ypres pointed out, but he was already gesturing to one of their scouts. “Tell my lord Earl of Northampton and the others that we are going to cross at the ford. Have them stand ready to move onto the Grandpont.”

  Mounting his stallion, Stephen glanced at his waiting men, handpicked by Ypres and eager to reap the bounty that victory would bring. “Now,” he said, and plunged into the river. Their guide had not lied. There was indeed a ford there, but it was not for the faint of heart; the current was strong and the water level dangerously deep for such a crossing. Splashing toward the shore, swimming at times, Stephen’s stallion scrambled up onto the bank, and the others soon followed. Only one man had been swept from his saddle, and he’d managed to grasp his horse’s tail, holding fast until he could regain his footing in the shallows. Stephen looked them over, his eyes moving from face to face, shadowed by their conical helmets. Satisfied by what he found, he unsheathed his sword. “A gold ring,” he promised, “to the first man into the city!”