When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I am not saying it is right, my liege,” William Martel said softly, “only that it is necessary. Sometimes an innocent must be sacrificed so that other innocents may live. Is it not better that one child should die if his death would hasten the end of this accursed war?”

  “I suppose it would depend upon whether the child was yours.” But Stephen was beaten and he knew it. He could not fight them all, for much of what they’d said had hit its target dead on. How many had died in the thirteen years since he’d let Maude go free at Arundel? Whenever he’d heeded his own inner voice, it was invariably wrong.

  The men read surrender in his silence, and were relieved that they had prevailed. But this would not be a victory to celebrate; it would be one to forget-if they could. Now that the crisis was over, the toll it had taken showed clearly on their faces. William de Mohun alone seemed to have emerged unscathed in this battle between conscience and kingship, and the others suspected that was because his own conscience had been stillborn. He proved that by volunteering for a task any rational man would have shunned, offering to take charge of the execution of John Marshal’s son. They were more than willing to put the onus off onto him, and Eustace nodded assent, all the while thinking that Mohun was a fool if he believed this would gain him any royal favor. Who wanted to dine with a hangman, to break bread with a gravedigger?

  When Mohun reentered the tent, the men hoped he’d come to report that it was done. But instead, he announced with odious indifference that the arrangements had all been made. “Do you want to witness the hanging, my liege, or shall I just inform you once it is over?”

  Stephen raised his head, regarding Mohun with revulsion. But it was nothing compared to his own self-loathing. “If a child is to die by my command, I owe it to him to watch.” Turning hollowed, accusing eyes upon his accomplices-for that was how he saw them-he said bitterly, “We all owe him that much.”

  Executions were usually a grisly form of entertainment, drawing large crowds in cities and towns. Rarely had a hanging been as poorly attended as this one, but as word spread through the camp, few of the men wanted to watch. Only the calloused and morbidly curious were gathered by the tree chosen as a gallows. Most found reasons to keep away.

  Stephen’s barons were there, but by command, not choice. They shifted uneasily, for few men could contemplate a child’s death with William de Mohun’s sangfroid. He might not know it yet, but Mohun had gained himself several new enemies this day, cursing him under their breaths for putting Stephen-and them-through this needless ordeal. Why had the fool just not gone off and done it?

  Eustace felt honour-bound to stand shoulder to shoulder with his father, although he would rather have been anywhere else in Christendom. He’d not thought he would hate anyone more than Henry Fitz Empress, but John Marshal now ran Henry a close second. No matter how long it took, he would make Marshal pay for springing this diabolic trap upon them; the death of the boy was only a down payment on the debt. He knew full well that his father would never forgive himself for what they were forced to do here. As much as he hated to admit it, he was feeling a certain queasy tension, too, as the time drew nigh. He could only hope that the lad would not weep and sob.

  But when William Marshal appeared, Eustace discovered that there was more to be feared than tears. A lively, handsome child, brown-haired and sturdy, William was utterly at ease, for he’d been well treated during his weeks in the royal encampment. He was too young to understand what being a hostage meant; he knew only that the king had been unfailingly kind to him, and he smiled at sight of Stephen, with an appalling and heartrending innocence.

  They’d set up a barrel under the tree, so that the lad would break his neck when it was kicked away, instead of slowly strangling, William de Mohun explained, oblivious, as the men shrank back as if he were a leper. Stephen’s throat had closed up, and it hurt to breathe, but he forced himself to watch as William Marshal was led toward the barrel.

  The boy paused to gaze admiringly at William d’Aubigny’s lance, which the man had been shifting nervously from hand to hand, wondering why the earl looked so odd when he asked if he could hold it later. Aubigny’s face twisted in anguish, and he muttered an obscenity that made William giggle, for he’d heard enough cursing from his father to recognize it for what it was.

  The soldier chosen as hangman was being well paid for his labors, but brought face to face with his young victim, he wanted only to get it over with as soon as possible, and he reached out suddenly, scooped William up, and deposited him on the barrel. The child looked startled, but not alarmed. He rather liked being the center of attention, for as the youngest of four sons, he wasn’t paid much mind in the Marshal household. Curious and trusting, he entered willingly into the spirit of this strange new game, and did not object as the noose was fastened around his neck.

  An unnatural hush fell over the camp. The hangman made ready to kick the barrel away, looking to William de Mohun for his signal. Shamed by his weakness, Eustace averted his eyes. But Stephen was already in motion. Striding forward, he waved the hangman back. “Enough! I will not do this. Do you all hear me? By God, I will not!”

  The hangman hastily moved aside, torn between relief and fear that he’d be cheated of his fee. Reaching up, Stephen took the rope from the bewildered child’s neck, and set him back on his feet. By then, Eustace was beside him. “Papa, what are you doing?”

  “What I should have done at the outset. God forgive me for letting it go this far.”

  “You’re making a fool of yourself-again. You do realize that? Once word gets out how Marshal duped you and then defied you, you’ll be a laughingstock!”

  “Look at the lad, Eustace. Damn you, look at him! We came within a hairbreadth of hanging this child, and for what? No crown is worth this!”

  “It is my crown, too! And I’ll not stand idly by whilst you lose it, that I swear!”

  William Martel and the Earl of Northampton were hovering about them, pleading that they stop, to no avail. William Marshal had begun to fidget, troubled by the anger in their voices. Moving closer to Stephen, he tugged at the king’s sleeve, saying plaintively, “I do not want to play this game anymore.”

  Stephen looked down at the boy. “You do not have to, lad. It is over.” Bending, he lifted William into his arms, and carried him toward the tent as the others watched, wordlessly.

  Sharon Kay Penman

  When Christ and his Saints Slept

  54

  Wallingford, England

  December 1152

  A swirling, wet snow had been falling since dawn. By the time the Bishop of Winchester arrived at his brother’s siege, he was chilled to the bone and grateful for even the meagre warmth of the brazier in Stephen’s command tent. Stephen seemed genuinely glad to see him, for in the two months since his return from Rome, they’d begun to mend the rifts in their relationship. Just as their estrangement had been mainly the bishop’s doing, so, too, was their reconciliation. His papal disgrace and thwarted ambitions had given the bishop a greater appreciation for familial bonds, a belated realization that he’d served neither Stephen nor God with wholehearted devotion. In his youth, he’d craved power and glory, the Holy See of Canterbury, possibly even a cardinal’s hat. He knew now that some dreams were dust; he would rise no higher in the Church.

  But all was not lost. His brother still needed him, and so did England. It had been a year of mourning, first their brother Theobald and then Stephen’s Matilda. And Stephen would soon be facing the gravest threat yet to his embattled kingship. Stephen might be clinging to the shreds of a lifetime’s optimism, but the bishop was too realistic to underrate the danger. They dared not hold Maude’s son too cheaply. The French king had already learned that, to his cost.

  “I hear your men finally captured Newbury?”

  Stephen nodded, watching his brother warily. But the bishop continued to sip his mulled wine; if he, too, was critical of Stephen’s handling of the Newbury siege, he was keeping it to him
self. Stephen was grateful for that; too many others had faulted him for sparing John Marshal’s son. “I sent the little lad to Constance in London,” he said, waiting for a negative response. Again, he was reprieved; the bishop merely nodded.

  “Is it true that Eustace has crossed the Channel again?”

  “Yes. He wants to hire more mercenaries, whilst keeping a hawk’s eye on Maude’s son. And he heard that the French king was threatening to break the truce, so I suspect he also hopes to prod Louis into another war, if he can.”

  Stephen did not sound as if he expected Eustace to succeed. Neither did the bishop. The French king could not be eager to take on Henry Fitz Empress again. And even if Eustace did talk him into another campaign, Louis had proved he was no match for Henry on the field. It was their accursed luck, the bishop thought morosely, that Maude’s son would be one of those blessed few born with a flair for command.

  Stephen seemed to have read his brother’s sour musings, for he said suddenly, “Normandy is lost to us. If we are to defeat Maude’s lad, it must be here-on English soil. That is why the fall of Wallingford matters so much. It has become a symbol of Angevin defiance, the castle the king could not win. Twice I tried to take it by force, twice I failed. And because that is so, its surrender will daunt our foes and hearten our supporters beyond measure.”

  The bishop forgot his aching back, his frozen feet, and chilblained hands, for this was news of consequence, indeed. “Wallingford is going to yield to you?”

  “They have no choice,” Stephen said, “for they are running out of food. The castellan asked to be allowed to send an urgent message to Henry Fitz Empress, advising him that unless he can come to their aid, they will be forced to yield.”

  While to the uninitiated that might have sounded suspiciously like John Marshal’s ruse at Newbury, the bishop knew that was strictly in accordance with the laws of war, for such an appeal allowed a besieged garrison to surrender with honour if help was not forthcoming. And for Wallingford, it would not be. Not only was it the dead of winter, but Henry was not even in the country, still dallying with his new wife in far-off Aquitaine. Rejuvenated and revitalized, the bishop gave Stephen the rarest sort of smile, one of unqualified approval. “Well done, Stephen! The fall of Wallingford could be a turning point in your kingship.”

  “God grant it so,” Stephen said fervently, “for I cannot lose this war. I cannot let my son down.”

  Henry and Eleanor’s return to Poitiers was a hectic one, with vassals awaiting them in the great hall, petitioners seeking audiences, and a vast pile of letters accumulated in their absence, for not all of their correspondents had been able to track them on their progress through Aquitaine. After two days of continuous chaos, Eleanor decided they both could use some quiet time together, and surprised Henry with a candle-lit supper for two up in their bedchamber. Henry joked that he’d never heard of a man’s having a secret tryst with his own wife, but he was pleased, for privacy was a scarce commodity in their lives.

  Over an Advent meal of herring and pike, they enjoyed a rare luxury-a conversation overheard by no others. Eleanor was able to confide her concern about her widowed sister. Petronilla had recently suffered another blow, for the French king had awarded the wardship of Petronilla and Raoul’s young son to Waleran Beaumont. Henry in turn complained about his vexing brother Geoff, having just found out that Geoff had been pestering their aunt, the Abbess Mathilde, entreating her to intercede with Henry on his behalf to get his forfeited castles back.

  “Why Mathilde?” Eleanor asked. “Surely your mother would be the natural choice to mediate betwixt you?”

  “Geoff would not dare approach our mother,” Henry said, with a scornful smile. “He has yet to face her, according to her last letter. My aunt said she blistered his ears, but that is nothing to what Mama would have done!”

  He told her, then, of the other news in his mother’s letter: Stephen’s clash of wills with John Marshal at Newbury.

  Eleanor was riveted by the tale. “How could any man be so indifferent to his own child?”

  “Marshal is a gambler, willing to take great risks even if the odds are not in his favor. He proved that when he was trapped in a burning bell tower at Wherwell Abbey; I told you that story, love, remember? I’m guessing that he was gambling again at Newbury, this time upon how well he knew Stephen.”

  “A diabolic wager, for certes,” Eleanor said, shaking her head incredulously, “with his son’s life as the stakes…”

  “He judged Stephen rightly, though,” Henry pointed out, “but at what a cost if he had not!”

  “I cannot help wondering,” Eleanor said, “how the boy’s mother felt about it. Henry…you would not have hanged the child?”

  “No,” Henry said, leaning over to pour them both more wine, “I would not. But neither would I have threatened to hang him, as Stephen did. That was his great mistake. No man ought to make a threat he is not willing to carry out, especially a king-”

  They were interrupted then by the arrival of a courier from England, bearing an urgent message for Henry. Excusing himself, he hastened down to the great hall. He was gone longer than Eleanor had expected; the servants had cleared away the dishes and brought up a bowl of costly imported oranges before he returned. Eleanor had been peeling an orange for him, but she set the fruit aside at sight of her husband’s face. “The news was not good?”

  He shook his head. “A desperate appeal from William Boterel, the castellan of Wallingford Castle. They have been under siege for months, and they doubt that they can hold out much longer. Stephen has seized the bridge, so they no longer have a way of getting supplies into the castle and their larders are well-nigh empty.”

  “This Wallingford…is it an important castle, Henry?”

  “Yes, for it controls the Upper Thames Valley. But it has more than tactical significance. The man who held it, Brien Fitz Count, was the most steadfast of my mother’s supporters. It was to Wallingford that she fled when she made that miraculous escape from Oxford. Wallingford…well, it came to signify resistance, our hope for victory…” He’d begun to pace. Halting before the hearth, he stood for several moments, gazing into the flames.

  Watching him, Eleanor already knew what he would do. “You are going to Wallingford’s rescue,” she said. “You are going to brave a January crossing of the Channel and launch a winter campaign. You do realize, Harry, how mad that sounds?”

  “Of course I do,” he said, and smiled wryly. “That is why I’ll take Stephen utterly by surprise.”

  The hearth had burned low, and embers glowed in the shadows, visible from the bed. Henry leaned over and kissed his wife’s throat, just below her ear. “Why are you not asleep yet?”

  “I’ve a lot to think about,” she said, “much of it troubling. I intend to invite my sister to stay with me once you’ve gone. She still mourns for Raoul, and now her son has been taken away from her…Where is the justice in that?”

  “Well…in fairness to Louis, he probably meant to reward Beaumont, not to punish Petronilla. After all, how often are women given wardships?”

  “Precisely my point,” she retorted. “Women are the ones who must bear children, suffering the travails of the birthing chamber, and indeed, often dying to give life. And yet we have no say about what happens to the child afterward. It would never even have occurred to John Marshal to consult his wife ere he dared Stephen to hang their son. No more than Louis cared how he grieved Petra by putting her children’s future into the hands of a self-seeking lout like Waleran Beaumont. It is so unfair, Harry, so outrageously unfair.”

  Henry had honestly never given the matter of wardships much thought. His views about women were conflicted, as the son of a strong-willed, defiantly independent woman in a world that taught him females were inferior, meant to be ruled by men. Following neither the well-traveled road of tradition nor the rocky, lonely trail Maude had blazed, he’d found his own path, not challenging their society’s concept of male dominance, but
acknowledging individual accomplishments in women like his mother-or his wife.

  “There is some truth to what you say,” he conceded, made cautious because they were venturing into unmapped territory; until now, they’d rarely discussed her daughters. “You are talking, too, about Marie and Alix…are you not?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose I am…”

  Henry propped himself up on his elbow, but it was too dark to see her face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If I could get them back for you, Eleanor, I would. But it is beyond my power, and not even a crown will change that.”

  “I know,” she said. “Why do you think I mention them so seldom? Because they are lost to me. Louis will never allow me to see them, and there is nothing I can do about it.” She turned toward him in the dark, seeking his embrace. “He’ll teach them to hate me, Harry, and there is nothing I can do about that, either.”

  Henry tightened his arms around her. “It is not as easy as people think to poison a child’s mind. During my mother’s years in England, there were few at my father’s court to speak well of her. God knows he did not. Your Marie is older than I was when my mother left us, old enough to hold fast to her own memories-as I did.”

  “Yes, but you knew your mother had not abandoned you. Abandonment will be the least of my maternal sins.”

  “I’ll not deny that they’ll hear slanderous stories about you. But your notoriety might well work to your benefit, for you’ll not be like other discarded wives, Eleanor, to be cast aside and forgotten. Your daughters will grow up knowing that you are the Duchess of Aquitaine and Normandy and, God Willing, Queen of England. How can your girls not be curious about you? And once they are old enough, I think they’ll want to find out for themselves what sort of woman you are.”

  “Jesu, Harry, what comfort can I take in that? The chance of a reunion twenty years from now?” But almost at once, Eleanor regretted her sharpness. “I am not being fair, am I? Had you offered me empty promises, vowed to win them back, then I’d have blamed you for lying to me. My nerves are on the raw tonight, more so than I realized.”