When Christ and His Saints Slept

  “You almost drowned, too, Stephen. Few men come as close to death as you did that November night…and walk away. Have you never wondered why you were spared? Was it truly happenchance? Or did the Almighty spare you for a purpose of His own?”

  “What purpose, Henry? To save England from Maude? Would it not have been simpler then, just to let the White Ship miss that rock? If Will had not drowned, Maude would still be in Germany, our uncle would have a son to succeed him, and you and I would not be having this conversation.”

  That was not the response Bishop Henry had been hoping for, but he still felt confident that he had planted a seed in fertile soil, for what man did not ponder his own place in the mysterious workings of the Almighty? He let Stephen go, content to wait.

  GOING down into the great hall, Stephen found Theobald sharing a hospitable wine flagon with their cousin. He and Robert greeted each other with a marked and mutual lack of enthusiasm, but he had a much warmer welcome for Robert’s young squire. Ranulf had passed several years in Stephen’s household serving as a page, for that was the approved method of educating youths of good birth. That past November he’d turned fourteen, and Robert had then assumed responsibility for the next stage of his schooling, in which he would learn about horses and weapons and the art of war. Stephen was quite fond of the boy, an affection Ranulf returned in full measure, and their reunion was highly pleasing to them both. But night had fallen some time ago, and Matilda had long since gone up to bed. Stephen soon excused himself and did likewise.

  Matilda was already asleep, but when Stephen drew her into his arms, she snuggled drowsily into his embrace. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then the pulse in her throat, and her lashes quivered. “I’ve been told,” he murmured, “that there is a good-hearted lady here who never turns a needy stranger away from her door. What are my chances of getting what I need?”

  “I’d say just fair to middling.” But he felt Matilda smiling against his neck, and when he caught hold of her blonde braid, she took it back, then tickled his nose with the tip.

  “My cousin Robert arrived after you went above-stairs.” He bent over, licking the soft hollow of her elbow. “He is on his way to visit Maude at Le Mans. Her father wants to know how she is faring, for Robert says she has been ailing, that her pregnancy has not been an easy one.”

  Matilda was wide awake by now. “You and Henry were in the solar for a long time. Once or twice I thought about coming to your rescue, but I could not think of an excuse he’d find credible.”

  “Next time, love, claim the castle is on fire,” Stephen suggested, and she laughed softly, entwining her fingers in his chest hair and tugging gently. There were few secrets between them, for theirs was that most fortunate of unions, a marriage of state that was also a genuine love match. But he’d yet to tell her of past “crown conversations” with Henry, and he did not tell her of this latest one, either, although he could not have explained—even to his own satisfaction—why he kept silent.

  Matilda was still smiling, her lips invitingly parted, and he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was a long one, no longer playful. But he surprised her, then, by saying, “I think we ought to ride along with Robert. He says Maude’s time is almost nigh, and I doubt she is getting much comfort from Geoffrey.”

  Matilda doubted it, too, and was sorry that Maude’s marriage was so unhappy. But she still did not want to go to Le Mans. She and Maude were first cousins, for their mothers had been sisters; their uncle David was the current King of Scotland. They were linked as well by Matilda’s marriage to Stephen. But there was no friendship between them; they were too unlike for that. Moreover, Matilda was eager to return to Boulogne, where their young sons awaited them. “If you truly want to go, Stephen…”

  “But you would rather not,” he said, not fooled by her dutiful denial. “I do think I ought to go, love.” He hesitated, unable to explain why he felt this urgent need to offer Maude support. “But you are not obliged to go with me. You could await me here at Chartres, or…or you could ride south to Marcigny and pass a few days with my mother.”

  Matilda could not hide her dismay; she was thoroughly intimidated by her formidable mother-in-law. “If that is truly your wish…,” she began gamely, but then the deferential wife gave way to the suspicious one, and she raised up to look sharply into his face. “That,” she cried, “was a cruel joke,” and she yanked his pillow away, hit him with it.

  Stephen was laughing too hard to offer an effective defense, and Matilda soon pummeled him into submission. Flushed and triumphant, she rolled over into his arms again. “I will go with you to visit Maude if it means that much to you. I will go wherever you desire, my lord husband,” she said, and heaved a mock martyr’s sigh before adding, “except to the nunnery at Marcigny!”

  Stephen laughed again, then reached up and drew the bed-hangings snug around their bed, shutting out the world.

  MAUDE was delighted to have company in these last weeks of her pregnancy. She was always glad to see Robert, who’d done his best to mend her rift with their father. She was quite fond of Ranulf. And Stephen was not just her cousin; he was one of the few men with whom she could let down her guard. She was even pleased for once to see Matilda, for Matilda had borne Stephen two children, knew what to expect in the birthing chamber.

  Maude believed in being well prepared for any eventuality, but her own memories of childbirth were clouded as much by grief as by the passage of time. All she remembered with clarity was the pain afterward, once she’d been told that her son’s life had been measured in but a few feeble breaths, a fading heartbeat. Minna was no help, for her marriage had been barren. And when Maude had asked other women, all too often they had assumed an indulgent tone that she found infuriating: the battle–seasoned soldier spinning war stories to awe the raw recruit. While Maude had never liked her shy, soft-spoken cousin, she felt confident that condescension was not one of Matilda’s character flaws.

  Robert had brought Maude a letter from their father, the warmest letter she’d gotten in some time. He was not a man to forgive easily, but it seemed that he was willing to let bygones be bygones now that Maude was back with Geoffrey where she belonged, and about to give birth to his grandchild. Maude was very resentful of his judgmental attitude; the letter pleased her, though, in spite of herself. After supper, she played chess with Robert, persuaded Stephen to teach her a popular dice game, and had a quiet talk with Matilda, who was able to reassure her that the pains she’d been having in recent days were quite normal and no cause for concern. It was one of the most pleasant evenings Maude had passed in months, and she even unbent enough to let her young brother Ranulf feel her baby’s kicking. There was only one shadow cast over their gathering: Geoffrey’s conspicuous absence.

  The irony of it did not escape her—that for once she found herself listening intently for the sound of his footsteps, wanting to hear them. But as little as she enjoyed Geoffrey’s company, still less did she enjoy being a figure of pity. She’d already been held up to ridicule and censure as a repudiated wife, and she could not bear to be seen now as a neglected wife, too, pregnant and pathetic, left at home alone while her husband took his pleasure in other beds, with other women.

  She slept poorly that night, unable to find a comfortable position, and awoke the next morning feeling as if she’d never been to bed. Her ankles were swollen, her head aching, her legs cramping, and by the time Minna had helped her to dress, she’d begun to get random sharp pains in her lower back. According to Dame Rohese, her midwife, she was not due for another fortnight. But on this cold Lenten Sunday in early March, a fortnight seemed longer to Maude than a twelvemonth.

  The Church said childbirth was the Curse of Eve, but she couldn’t help wondering why men were spared their fair share of the burden. Granted, it was Eve who’d first let herself be tempted by the serpent, but Adam had tasted that wretched apple, too, had he not?

  Minna was accustomed to her mistress’s acerbic morning musings, and she
continued calmly to braid Maude’s long, dark hair, pointing out that the babe might well be born on Palm Sunday—an auspicious beginning, indeed, for a future king.

  Maude went to Geoffrey’s bedchamber as soon as she was dressed, and was angered and disconcerted to discover that his bed had not been slept in. If he did not return from his nocturnal hunting within the next few hours, his continued absence would become known to all in the castle, for there could be no other explanation for his failure to appear at dinner.

  Her guests were soon up and stirring, too polite to ask about Geoffrey’s whereabouts. But the dinner hour was rapidly drawing nigh; it was already past ten. Snatching up her mantle, Maude left the hall; mayhap if she consulted with the cooks about the menu, it would take her mind off her missing husband. And it was then, as she crossed the bailey toward the kitchen, that she saw Geoffrey ride in through the gatehouse.

  For one who’d been out all night, he looked remarkably debonair and dapper. At the time of their wedding, he’d been a good-looking boy. Now, in his twentieth year, he’d matured into a man to turn female heads and claim female hearts, able to seduce with a smile and the age-old allure of fire and ice, the sudden glint of flames in the depths of a cool blue-grey gaze. Only one woman was indifferent to his swagger and sly, wayward charm—the wife who was now staring at him with intense, impotent fury.

  Geoffrey acknowledged her presence with a cheerful wave on his way to the stables. Feeling awkward and ungainly, trapped in a stranger’s heavy, bloated body, Maude trudged after him. He was already dismounting, handing over his stallion to a groom by the time she reached the stable doorway. “Where were you last night, Geoffrey?”

  Although she kept her voice low-pitched, it throbbed with angry accusation. Geoffrey gave her a surprised look, a faintly mocking smile. “I think she said her name was Annette…why? I find it hard to believe you were lying awake all night, dear heart, craving my caresses.”

  “My brothers and cousins are here,” she said through clenched teeth, “and I’ll not have you shaming me before them.” Even as she spoke, she knew she was going about this the wrong way, for Geoffrey balked at the merest prick of the spurs. But she could not bring herself to beg for the respect that ought to have been hers by right.

  Although Geoffrey was scowling, the taunt she was expecting died on his lips. That imperious tone was all too familiar to him. But this was not his enemy the empress, the reluctant wife who’d wanted neither his title nor his embraces, prideful and stubborn and damnably desirable. This was a tired, tense woman with a swollen belly and slumped shoulders, much too pale, great with his child. “Fair enough,” he said grudgingly. “You need not fret, Maude. I’ll give you no reason to complain whilst your kin are here.”

  Maude was momentarily at a loss, wondering if she was supposed to thank him. She settled upon a sardonic echo of his own terse “Fair enough” and rejected his offer to escort her into the hall. Almost at once, she regretted it, for their confrontation had sapped the last of her dwindling energy, and the kitchen now seemed miles away. She opened her mouth to call Geoffrey back, but pride prevailed over exhaustion. She just needed to catch her breath, she decided. She’d only taken a few steps, though, before she was jolted by a sharp pain, and for a frightening moment, the earth lurched beneath her feet. She gasped, but she did not fall, for Geoffrey had suddenly materialized at her side, his arm around her shoulders, holding her upright until her world stopped spinning.

  Maude’s dizziness soon passed. But when her vision cleared, she gasped again, this time in astonishment. “Stephen!”

  “Do you think you can walk now? Or would you rather wait a while?” Stephen asked, and when she nodded, he guided her into the stables, toward a nearby bale of hay.

  Maude sank down on it thankfully, but as their eyes met, she flushed, for by now she’d solved the mystery of his providential appearance. To have reached her so fast, he must have come from the stables, and that meant he had overheard her conversation with Geoffrey.

  “I…I would rather you say nothing of this,” she said, and although the words seemed to refer to her dizzy spell, she was asking more than that, and they both knew it.

  “I’d gone out to the stables to check upon my roan’s foreleg. He gashed it on the road yesterday. But I cannot imagine that being of interest to anyone else.”

  “No, not likely,” Maude agreed, and some of the color began to fade from her face. This was not the first time she’d had reason to be grateful for his gallantry, and as she beckoned him to sit beside her on the bale, she found herself remembering those unhappy months after her marriage foundered.

  It had not been an easy time, for all knew her father was furious with her, and theirs was a society in which cues were taken from the king. What scant sympathy she’d gotten had been surreptitiously offered—Adeliza, her father’s young queen—or left unsaid—Brien Fitz Count, his foster son. It was true that her little brother Ranulf had spoken up for her, asking with an eleven-year-old’s forthrightness, “If Geoffrey told her to go, why are people not blaming him?” But only one man had dared to make a public defense; only Stephen had pointed out—as Ranulf had—that she’d not been the one to end the marriage. She’d been heartened by his loyalty, and comforted by his private comment, that “Geoffrey was a fool to let you go.” A harmless bit of flattery—Stephen was always one for flirting—but her bruised and lacerated pride had needed such balm. She’d not forgotten his kindness, meant to reward it well once she was England’s queen.

  Stephen was worried by her pallor. “Shall I summon Minna?” he asked, not at all surprised when she stubbornly shook her head. “Maude…do you want me to talk to Geoffrey? You ought not to be under stress now, not with your time so near.”

  “Thank you, Stephen, but no. Actually, Geoffrey and I have been getting along better of late. He was truly pleased when I got with child, has his heart set upon a son, of course. But then, so do I,” she said, and smiled.

  They were quiet after that, but it was a companionable quiet. Maude slid her hand under her mantle, pressing it against her abdomen. Once she’d become pregnant, she’d envisioned her womb as a placid pool, with her baby swimming in its depths like a tiny tadpole. He was almost ready now to break the surface, to come up for air. “Stephen…I would ask you a question. But I want the truth, not what you think I need to hear.”

  Stephen stiffened, for he was afraid he knew what she was about to ask: if he thought she’d make a good queen. “Go on,” he said warily, all the while wondering what he would say.

  “This is likely to sound foolish, but do you think I’ll be a good mother?”

  His relief was considerable; he had not wanted to lie to her. “That is an odd question,” he acknowledged, “not one to occur to most of us. People have babies if it is God’s Will, and no one frets much over how they are raised. But yes, I think you will be a very good mother. I’ve heard it said that no earthly creature is as fearless as a mother lioness, defending her cubs unto the death!”

  “I take it there is a compliment in there somewhere,” Maude said, and laughed. “I barely remember my own mother. Of course I was so young when they sent me to Germany—just eight—and she was dead by the time I set foot again on English soil. But…but I never felt her presence, Stephen. There was always a distance, and it had naught to do with miles. I do not want that for my children. I want to matter more to them, to give them all that I can and make of them all they can be, to teach them to strive for excellence, to obey God’s Commandments, and—for my eldest son—to be a good king.”

  “There is one more lesson I hope you teach them, Maude—that it is not sinful to fail,” Stephen said, and she stared at him in surprise.

  Surely he could not be speaking of himself? Maude knew her aunt was a demanding woman, but she thought any parent would be proud of a son like Stephen. He showed courage on the battlefield, courtesy in the hall; he had earned a king’s favor, made an advantageous marriage, and sired sons of his own. M
oreover—and it was this talent that Maude secretly envied, for she knew it was one she lacked herself—he had a knack for putting others at ease, had more friends and fewer enemies than any man she knew.

  “If Aunt Adela is truly disappointed in you,” she said, “then she must be beyond satisfying. What more could she ask for in a son?”

  “One with more flint in his soul,” he said with a wry smile. “My lady mother, bless her, sets standards that the Holy Christ Child could not have met. You know nothing then, of her feud with my eldest brother?”

  Maude shook her head. “I thought she and Theobald were on good terms.”

  “They are, but Theobald is not the firstborn. I meant my brother Will. He and my mother were always at cross purposes. They fought through most of his boyhood. I do not know the whole of it, for I was too young, but I’ve been told Will swore a public oath that he would kill the Bishop of Chartres. He was just a lad, talking crazed, most likely drunk at the time, but my mother never forgave him. She and the bishop acted to deny Will his birthright, vesting my father’s titles in Theobald, the second son. I am not surprised that you knew none of this, for you were but a babe, and it was skillfully and discreetly done. There was no scandal. Will did not fight her, and lives quietly upon the lands of his wife, at Sully, seemingly content…but not the Count of Blois.”

  Maude was silent for a time. “I could not disinherit my son,” she said. “It would be like cutting out my own flesh.”

  “Is it wise to be so set upon a son? It could be a girl, after all.”

  “I want no daughters,” she said, “not ever.”

  Stephen was puzzled by her vehemence. “Matilda recently confided that she may be with child again, and if so, we both hope for a lass this time. Why would you want to deny yourself the pleasure a daughter would bring?”

  “Because,” Maude said, “daughters are but pawns, utterly powerless—”