They were coming her way now, and Sybil sat up straighter, giving her bodice a discreet tug. Avelina and Eve looked hopeful, but the youths had eyes only for Sybil, and the two girls reluctantly withdrew, leaving her in possession of the battlefield.
Up close, they were younger than Sybil first thought. Seventeen or so, she reckoned, and as unlike as chalk and cheese: a red-haired, freckle-faced giant, a swarthy, handsome lad with glittering black eyes, and a wiry youth of middle height whose most striking feature was his uncommon coloring—deep-brown eyes and sun-streaked fair hair. He seemed, at first glance, overshadowed by his comrades, lacking the redhead’s impressive stature or the other’s smoldering Saracen intensity. But Sybil had noted that when they conferred with Berta, he’d done all the talking, and he was the one she favored with a provocative, slightly wary smile.
“We are seeking,” he said, “a lass who speaks French. The stew-master assures us that our hunt is over. Is it?”
“Indeed, I do speak French,” she said, “as I’ve just proved. If you and your friends would like to join me, mayhap we could discuss what else you are seeking this night.”
He studied her for a moment more, then he grinned, and Sybil thought, God has been too good to you, lad, for with a smile like yours, you do not need money, too. It transformed his face as if by some erotic alchemy, a smile to cajole and disarm and bewitch and break hearts…and she’d wager that he knew it.
“I am Ranulf,” he said, “and my companions here are Gilbert and Ancel,” gesturing carelessly toward the redhead and the Saracen in turn. “I believe the bawd said you are called Sybil?”
Sybil nodded. “You sound as if that surprises you?”
“It was not what I was expecting.”
Ancel gave a snort of laughter. “Why be so tactful? What Ranulf seems loath to say straight out is that your sisters in sin usually prefer to call themselves Petronilla or Mirabelle or Rosamund, fancy whore names. Sybil…now that sounds plain as dirt, drab as homespun. Have you no more imagination than that?”
Sybil’s smile was so sultry that Ancel saw only the promise, not the mockery. “In a world full of Cassandras and Clarices, a simple, plain Sybil is sure to be remarked upon…and remembered.”
Ranulf was watching her approvingly, dark eyes agleam with amusement. “I think,” he said, “that you are exactly what we are looking for, Sybil plain and simple.”
“Ere you say that, my lord Ranulf—you are a lord, I suspect—I think we ought first to reach an understanding. It would be my pleasure to entertain you and your friends, but one at a time. Crowds are fine for fairs and markets, not for beds. And I bruise easily, so I find it best to say this beforehand: no games that involve whips or ropes or bleeding. Other than that, I am amenable to suggestions…and can offer up a few of my own.”
They seemed taken aback by her candor, and she decided they were even younger than she’d realized—sixteen at most—for their lust was still a simple, uncomplicated urge, not yet shadowed by darker, deviant needs. Ancel guffawed too loudly and Gilbert actually blushed. Ranulf’s mouth curved. “You are the one who does not yet understand, Mistress Sybil. We do not want you to play the whore. We want you to play a nun.”
Although Sybil was only nineteen, she was sure she’d long ago lost the ability to be surprised. Ranulf had just proved her wrong. “I am likely to regret saying this,” she said at last, “but tell me more.”
Ranulf relaxed, flashing another of those beguiling grins. “It is quite simple, truly. We have a grudge to settle, and with your help, we can. We are all squires in the household of Robert Fitz Roy, the Earl of Gloucester, and—”
Ancel would have interrupted then, but Ranulf shook his head impatiently. “Nay, no false names, Ancel. Either we trust the lass or we do not, and if not, why are we still sitting here? There is a knave in Earl Robert’s service who is badly in need of a lesson. His name is Baldric Fitz Gerald, and I’ll not lie to you: he has powerful kin, for he is a cousin to the Earl of Leicester and Leicester’s twin brother, Count Waleran. When Baldric was a squire like us, he well nigh drove us mad with his boasting and conniving. Now that he has been knighted, he has become even more insufferable. With Earl Robert, he pretends to be a man of honour, but he amuses himself by playing cruel tricks upon those who cannot defend themselves—kitchen maids and stable lads and the pages in Earl Robert’s service.”
“He calls me Judas,” Gilbert chimed in indignantly, “because of my red hair, and when Ancel got green sick the first time he had too much wine, Baldric made up a song about it, sang it for a hall full of highborn guests. He put a burr under Ranulf’s saddle whilst we were at the king’s Christmas court in Rouen, and brayed like a jackass when the stallion pitched Ranulf into a mud wallow. I know, Ranulf, we cannot prove it. But I’d wager any sum you name that he was the culprit!”
Ranulf shrugged, clearly not pleased to have that particular memory dredged up again. “Let’s keep to what we can prove for certes. I know he was molesting that little kitchen maid back in Caen, for I came upon her weeping afterward. We know, too, that he caused the other servants to shun that stable groom with the red blotch on his face, claiming it was the Devil’s sign, the way Satan marked out his own. The lad finally ran off, and no one knows what became of him.”
Sybil was not sure how much of this she should believe. She knew the king was still in Normandy, but Earl Robert could be back in London; these Norman lords made frequent trips to check upon their English estates. “From what I’ve heard of Earl Robert,” she said, “he is a decent sort, and truly believes that a lord owes protection to the weak and powerless, to Christ’s poor. Why not just go to him, tell him of this Baldric’s true nature?”
They looked at her blankly, as if she’d suddenly begun to speak an unknown tongue. There was much about the male mind that she found incomprehensible, and nothing more so than the credo that men—especially young men—must settle their grievances on their own, that it was somehow dishonourable to appeal to higher authority for help. “Whatever was I thinking of? Well, then, tell me what part I am to play in this scheme of yours?”
“Baldric is a hypocrite and a cheat, and I think it time he showed his true colors to the rest of the world, not just to his prey.” Ranulf was smiling faintly, but his voice held a sudden, hard edge. “What I want,” he said, “is to see him publicly shamed, his sins stripped naked for all to look upon.”
“I am beginning to understand,” Sybil said, looking at Ranulf with new respect. “You make a bad enemy, love. Few sins are as serious as seducing a nun.”
“The best part of this plan,” he said, “is that Baldric will be the instrument of his own ruin. He does not have to take the bait…but he will. You need only lure him into a compromising position. We’ll provide the witnesses. You’ll not even have to let him tumble you; that is a pleasure the whoreson does not deserve!” He laughed then, and Sybil could not help herself; she laughed, too. “Well?” he prompted. “What say you—”
The cry was muffled, quickly cut off, but it had carried enough pain to swivel all heads toward the sound. Sybil saw at once what had happened. Berta—damn her grasping soul—had sent Eve over to entice the drunkard above-stairs, and Eve had botched it, for the girl was scared witless of drunks, had yet to learn how to handle a man deep in his cups. Now she cringed back in her seat, whimpering, as her assailant turned upon her the full blast of his alcoholic rage. Sybil half rose, only to sink back again. They had a hireling to deal with drunks, a huge, clumsy bear of a man, not too bright yet big enough to intimidate all but the most belligerent of troublemakers. He was out sick, though, and Godfrey, as she well knew, was not about to put himself at risk to protect a whore. Fighting back her anger, she reminded herself that there was nothing she could do. But then the drunk struck Eve across the mouth, and she jumped to her feet, shouting for him to stop.
She did not expect the drunk to heed her, nor did he. But Ranulf did. As she watched in amazement, he crossed the chamber in
three quick strides, grabbed the man before he could aim another blow, and told him curtly to “Go home, sleep it off.” It may have been his tone, the echoes of rank and privilege. It may have been the sword at his hip. But he somehow penetrated the man’s wine-sodden haze. Seeing that, Godfrey hurried over to offer some belated support, and Sybil sighed with relief, sure now that the worst was over.
Ancel and Gilbert had kept their seats during the fracas. Now Ancel gave a comical grimace, winking at Sybil. “I swear that lad could find turmoil in a cemetery! Usually he sucks us into it, too, and his heroic impulses have gotten me more bruises and black eyes than I care to count. Not that it’s entirely his fault. The two men who’ve loomed largest in his life are Earl Robert and Count Stephen of Boulogne. Good men, both, but Robert is an earthly saint, and Stephen…well, he’s quite mad, never happier than when he’s rescuing damsels in distress or chasing after dragons to slay. No wonder Ranulf’s grasp of the real world is so tenuous!”
“You might do well,” Sybil murmured, “to follow in Ranulf’s footsteps. You see, women find ‘heroic impulses’ very alluring, indeed…even irresistible.”
Ancel’s smile flickered. For a fleeting moment he wondered if she could be making fun of him, but almost at once, he dismissed the suspicion as preposterous. Women were invariably charmed by him; the older ones mothered him and the younger ones flirted with him. Why should this Bankside harlot be any different? “Women already find me irresistible,” he joked. “So…what say you, Sybil, my sweet? Shall we pick a nun’s name for you? How about Sister Mary Magdalene?”
Sybil saw no humor in the jest; it was too obvious, too heavy-handed. But Ancel and Gilbert thought it was hilarious. She waited patiently until they were done laughing, and then said blandly, “Alas, I shall have to decline the honour.”
They were dumbfounded by her refusal, began to bombard her with perplexed queries and protests. “It is not that I am not tempted,” she admitted when they finally gave her a chance to respond, “for I am. But the danger is too great. What if this scheme went awry? How could Ranulf protect me from Baldric’s wrath? If he is kin to an earl—”
She stopped, then, for both boys were grinning widely. They exchanged knowing looks and nudges before Ancel said, with just a trace of smugness, “Ranulf’s protection would shield you from the malice of a hundred Baldrics. He is much more than a squire to Earl Robert. They are brothers.”
Sybil’s mouth dropped open, and she twisted around to stare at Ranulf, who was making a gallant attempt to comfort the sobbing Eve. “Ranulf is one of the old king’s bastards?”
Ancel nodded proudly. “King Henry has sired so many he needs a tally stick to keep count of them all! Ranulf is the youngest but one, born to a Welsh lass the king fancied. None would deny the king is a hard man, but none would deny, too, that he tends to his own. Ranulf grew up at his court, has wanted for nothing. His mother died when he was just a lad, and after Count Stephen wed the Lady Matilda, Ranulf was sent into his household as a page. Then, when he turned fourteen, Earl Robert took on his training as a squire. The king is right fond of him, would be willing to find him an heiress when he’s of an age to wed, but Ranulf and my sister have been mad for each other as far back as I can remember, and Ranulf appears content to settle for whatever marriage portion my father can provide. No one could ever fault his courage, but his judgment leaves much to be desired!”
“Especially in my choice of friends,” Ranulf jeered, reclaiming his seat, and Sybil saw that this barbed banter was their normal form of discourse. “Are you done blabbing all my family secrets, Ancel? If so, I’d like to get back to the matter at hand. This is what we had in mind, Sybil. We’ll lure Baldric to some secluded spot, mayhap out by Holywell, near the nunnery, where you will be waiting. You entreat his aid—we’ll think of a plausible story for you—and then you need only give him a few lingering looks. The privacy and your beauty and his own vile nature will do the rest. Just in time we’ll happen by with a few witnesses, possibly a priest or two. Of course we’ll have to wait till the weather warms up, for not even Baldric would be keen for futtering out in the mud and rain! How would—what? You see a weakness in our plan?”
Sybil shook her head. “Nay, you have thought of everything…or almost everything.”
“Ah, of course!” Ranulf smiled at her as if they were old and intimate friends, while spilling coins out onto the table. “This seems a fair sum to me.”
Sybil’s eyes widened, for he’d casually offered three times what she might expect to earn for a night’s work. And in that moment, she no longer doubted, sure that Ranulf had spoken only the truth, for who but a king’s son would be so lavish with his money?
“This is most fair,” she agreed, returning Ranulf’s smile. “That was not what I meant, though. I fear we have a problem that wants solving. I cannot hope to convince Baldric unless I well and truly look the part. But wherever are we going to find a nun’s wimple and habit?”
RANULF and his friends left the city through Bishopsgate, headed north along the Ermine Way. It was usually a well-traveled road, the chief route to York. But most wayfarers had already sought a night’s lodging, for dusk was encroaching from the west. Just moments before, the sky had been veined with coppery-gold streaks; it was now smudging with smoke-colored shadows. They passed few houses, as most people felt safer dwelling within the city walls. Before the light had faded, the countryside had been pleasant to look upon, the fields and meadows green and lush in the first flowering of spring. But the boys turned a blind eye to the pastoral beauty around them, and welcomed the sun’s demise, for theirs was an undertaking that needed darkness. They rode in silence for the most part, not reining in until they saw the priory walls looming up through the deepening twilight. It was cloaked in quiet, stretching from the road back toward the River Walbrook—the Augustinian nunnery of St John the Baptist at Holywell.
Gilbert stared morosely at those moss-green walls. “I cannot believe we are actually going to do this,” he muttered, not for the first time that evening, and the other two glared at him. “It is not too late to reconsider,” he insisted. “Stealing from a nunnery is—”
“We are not thieves!” Ranulf snapped. “We are merely going to borrow a nun’s habit for a few days. We will return it undamaged, and with a goodly sum to aid in their alms-giving. What harm in that?”
“But what if something goes wrong? If—”
“What could go wrong?” Ancel demanded. “Our plan is too simple to miscarry. It is not as if we’re tying to sneak into the dorter and snatch a habit from a sleeping nun! We know the priory has spare habits on hand. We need only find where they are kept, most likely in the undercroft below the dorter, where the chambress stores her linens and beddings. The nuns will be asleep; they go to bed as soon as Compline is rung. Now I ask you, Gilbert, what have we to fear from a convent full of sleeping nuns?”
Gilbert grinned reluctantly at that, and Ranulf leaned over, punching him playfully on the arm. “What a comfort you are to us, Gib. If I looked at life the dour way you do, I’d not dare get out of bed in the morn! Why is it that you always expect the worst to happen?”
“Most likely because the two of you keep concocting lunatic schemes like this!” But Gilbert raised no more objections, and once it was fully dark, he hitched their horses in a nearby grove of trees, settled down to keep a wary watch as his friends disappeared into the shadows surrounding the priory.
It proved to be as easy as Ancel had predicted. They had no difficulty in scaling the wall, and detected no signs of life as they crept stealthily toward the church. It was deserted, and they moved swiftly through the nave, out into the silent cloisters. Ancel was to be the lookout, and took up position in one of the sheltered carrels as Ranulf started along the east walkway. He had no warning; suddenly the dorter’s door swung open. He froze as a woman appeared in the doorway. What was she doing out here? And then she gave a low whistle and Ranulf swore softly. A dog, sweet Lady Mary, she ha
d a dog! The Church forbade pets, but the prohibition was more ignored than obeyed, and cats and small dogs were common occupants of English convents. Why had he not remembered that? It was too late now, for the nun’s dog was shooting through the air, swerving toward him in midstride, barking shrilly.
Ranulf kept his head, spun around and ran for the slype, the narrow passage that offered the cloister’s only escape. The dog was at his heels, nipping at his boots, and the nun had begun to scream. He caught a blurred movement off to his left, and spared a second or so to hope it was Ancel, retreating back into the church. Shutters were banging, the dorter windows flung open. But he was almost there—just another few feet and he’d be on his way to safety.
It was then, though, that Ranulf learned one of life’s uglier lessons: that when luck starts to sour, anything that can possibly go wrong, does. As he darted past the Chapter House, the door flew open and he collided with the priory chaplain, who should have been abed in his own lodgings at such an hour. The impact sent them both sprawling. Before Ranulf could get his breath back, the nun’s lapdog landed on his chest, sinking needle-sharp teeth into his forearm. But he was still sure he could get away, for he was younger and far more fit than the priest. Kicking at the dog, he rolled over and lurched to his feet, just as the priory’s porter came plunging through the slype, cudgel raised to strike.
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 9