Ranulf’s shoulders slumped, and he sagged back against the Chapter House door. He was well and truly caught, by God, might as well accept it with good grace. He looked about at the chaos he’d unleashed upon the cloistered quiet of this small, peaceful priory, looked at the snarling little dog and shrieking mistress, the fearful faces peering down from the dorter windows, the bewildered priest, still scrabbling about on his hands and knees in the grass, the hulking porter, flushed and panting—and he suddenly started to laugh, for this was lunacy beyond even Gilbert’s dire expectations.
He saw at once that his laughter had shocked them, and he struggled to contain his imprudent mirth, to sound sober and serious and above all, sincere, that this was merely a vast and outlandish misunderstanding. But then the porter shouted, “You misbegotten, whoreson thief, I’ll teach you to steal from God!” and swung his cudgel toward Ranulf’s head.
TOWER ROYAL was one of London’s most impressive dwellings, as well it should be, for it had been a king’s gift, presented to Stephen at the time of his marriage to the Lady Matilda de Boulogne. The neighboring residents of Watling Street and Cheapside were accustomed to noise and torchlight spilling over the manor walls. Stephen was a lavish host, and whenever he was in London, Tower Royal served as a magnet, drawing to its hospitable hearth Norman lords and their ladies, officials of the court, influential churchmen, even some of the city’s more prosperous merchants and ward aldermen, for if Stephen liked a man’s company, he was indifferent to whether that man was Saxon or Norman, citizen or baron. His good-natured, indiscriminate affability had subjected him, at times, to gossip and the disapproval of his peers, but it had won him the hearts of Londoners; there was no man in the city more popular than he.
On this mild April evening, he had entertained his younger brother, Henry, Bishop of Winchester. After a meal of roast duck and stewed eels, Henry’s favorite foods, they settled down to a game of chess, and Stephen’s wife politely excused herself from their company so they might talk of politics without constraint; the bishop, like so many of his fellow clerics, felt that women were not meant to have a voice in matters of state. Matilda, who had less malice in her nature than any of her sisters in Christendom, nonetheless found herself wondering occasionally how her brother-in-law would cope once he must answer to a queen—and an imperious one at that, for those who knew Henry’s daughter knew, too, that Maude would be no docile, biddable pawn. When God called her father to Heaven’s Throne, Maude would never be content merely to reign. She would rule, too; on that, her allies and enemies could all agree.
After leaving the hall, Matilda made a quick detour into the nursery, where she did a loving inventory of the three small sailors adrift in a featherbed boat: Baldwin, Eustace, and William. Their night’s voyage was a peaceful one; they were all sound asleep. So, too, was the little girl in the corner cradle, her baby, her namesake. Blowing kisses to her brood, Matilda quietly withdrew.
Back in her own chamber, she dismissed her maid, then sat down amidst the cushions in the window seat and began to unbraid her hair. It floated about her like a veil of woven gold threads; Matilda was very proud of her hair, and tended it with such diligence that her chaplain had chided her for vanity. Matilda had accepted the rebuke meekly enough, as was her way, but continued to brush and burnish her hip-length blonde tresses, for she knew that Scriptures said, “If a woman hath long hair, it is a glory to her,” and that secret stubbornness was also her way.
The step was well known to her, but she felt surprise, nonetheless, when she looked up, for she’d not expected her husband until the hearth had burned low. “Stephen? Is the chess game done so soon?”
“I let Henry win,” Stephen said, cheerfully ignoring the fact that he was a mediocre player at best and his brother a very good one. “I then begged off from a rematch, explaining that I wanted to get above-stairs in time to watch my wife undress for bed.”
Matilda’s eyes widened. “Oh, Stephen, you did not—and he a priest!”
“He’d not like to hear you call him that, my love, for Brother Henry is one for holding fast to the least of his honours. A bishop he is, and would aim higher still; have you not noticed how solicitous he is of our ailing archbishop? Mayhap that’s why the archbishop always looks so uneasy around Henry, almost as if he were hearing vulture wings hovering overhead!”
Matilda clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Ah, Stephen, do be serious just this once. You did not really say that to Henry, did you?”
Stephen laughed, and dropped down beside her in the window seat, marveling that after ten years of marriage and four children, she still could not tell when he was teasing her. “Mayhap I did, mayhap not.”
Matilda gazed calmly into his eyes, and then turned her head aside so he’d not see her smile. “Better I not know,” she said, and sighed as he drew back her hair, kissing the curve of her throat. “It gladdens me that you still find pleasure in looking upon my body, even if I’d rather you not boast about it to men of the Church.”
“Indeed, I do find pleasure in looking, and in touching and caressing and stroking and fondling…what did I leave out?” he asked, and when he laughed this time, she did, too. He’d lifted her onto his lap and she’d gone soft and languid in his arms by the time a repeated rapping sounded on the door.
“We’re not here,” Stephen said loudly as Matilda sought to muffle her giggles against his shoulder. When the knocking persisted, he got reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll get rid of them right quick,” he assured her, and she watched as he strode across the chamber and opened the door. After a brief exchange, he turned with an apologetic smile. “It is my cousin Ranulf, and he says it is urgent. I’ll have to see him, Tilda, but not for long, that I promise.” Returning to the window seat, he began to speculate what Ranulf might want at such an hour. “He is a good lad, but nary a day goes by without him getting into devilment of some sort, most of which he manages to keep from my uncle the king. Did I ever tell you about the time he—”
He got no further, for the servant was back. But the two youths being ushered into the bedchamber were strangers to Stephen. “Who in blazes are you?”
The taller of the two came forward, knelt, and said hastily, “Forgive us, my lord, for lying to you, but we knew no other way to gain admittance. My name is Gilbert Fitz John and this is Ancel de Bernay. We are squires to the Earl of Gloucester, and Ranulf’s friends. He needs your help, my lord Stephen, for he has been arrested!”
Stephen was surprised, but not shocked, for youthful sins were both expected and indulged, provided that the sinners were highborn, like Ranulf. “What has he done? An alehouse brawl?”
The boys exchanged glances. Gilbert hesitated, then blurted out, “Nay, it is far more serious than that. Ranulf was caught breaking into the priory of St John at Holywell. I very much fear he’ll be charged with attempted theft or even rape. But it is not true, I swear it. He meant only to borrow a nun’s habit!”
There was a silence after that. Stephen and Matilda shared the same expression, one of utter astonishment. But then the corner of Stephen’s mouth quirked. Turning back to his wife, he said, “I am sorry, my love, but I cannot keep my promise. This is one story I have got to hear!”
RANULF would not have believed it had he ever been told he could be afraid of the dark. But he’d never experienced darkness like this, lacking the faintest glimmer of light, as black as the pits of Hell. He was not alone; an occasional rustling in the straw warned him of that. Mice, he guessed, or rats. He stamped his feet to discourage any undue familiarity, slumping back against the wall. His manacles were rubbing his wrists raw, and his head was throbbing, but a headache was of minor moment when he considered what might have happened. If he’d not ducked in time, he’d have suffered much more than a grazed, bloody scalp; the porter’s cudgel would have split his skull like a ripe gourd.
He did not know whether it was a hopeful sign or not that he’d been taken to the Tower and not the gaol of London. It might jus
t be a matter of convenience; the Tower, built by his royal grandsire, was closer to the priory than the city gaol, off to the west by the River Fleet. He was quite familiar with the Tower, for its upper two floors contained his father’s London residence and the chapel of St John. But he’d never expected to find himself confined in a small, underground cell near the storage chamber. He’d never, ever expected to be manhandled and shoved and treated like a felon.
His experience in the past few hours had taught him—if the porter’s cudgel had not already done so—that his predicament held no humor whatsoever. Theft was a serious offense, and “stealing from God” was a crime he could hang for. He might also be charged with attempted rape, for people would be quick to suspect the worst of a man caught at night in a nunnery. Ranulf tried to recall what he’d heard about rape laws. All he knew for certes was that it was a much more serious crime if a man forced himself upon a virgin, and nuns were all virgins—save an occasional widow—Brides of Christ.
Ranulf knew, of course, that he held the key to his prison. He need only speak up, reveal his identity. They were not likely to believe his story, and who could blame them? Yet it would matter little whether they believed him or not. It would be enough that he was King Henry’s son. If he admitted who he was, he’d be freed. But if he did, his brother would have to know, and Ranulf could not bear that Robert find out. Robert would never understand. He’d not even be angry, just baffled and disappointed. Ranulf would not willingly disappoint Robert for the very surety of his soul. But as the hours crept by, he found his common sense—which argued for disclosure—at war with his inbred optimism, his illogical yet intense faith that all would somehow still end well.
He had time, though, to make up his mind, for he did not think they would summon the Tower’s castellan until the morrow. He knew the man, with an effort even prodded his memory into disgorging the name—Aschuill. What he did not know was whether Aschuill would remember him. Well, he’d find out come morning, one way or another. Leaning his head on his drawn-up knees, he made a halfhearted attempt to sleep. But he was too tense, too bruised, too busy berating himself for not having heeded Gilbert’s warning. At least Gib and Ancel had gotten away. Surely they’d know better than to confess to Robert? Pray God they did! If—He jerked his head up, scarcely breathing as he strained to hear: sounds in the stairwell, the clanking of spurs against stone, growing closer now. And then there was a jangling of keys and the door was swinging open, letting in a sudden spill of lantern light, bright enough to blind.
Ranulf blinked, unable to see beyond its glare, and struggled to his feet. As he did, a familiar voice said, “I’ve known men who put their lives at peril for gold or for lust, and occasionally even for love. But you, lad, are the very first to risk the gallows for a woman’s wool garment—and with the woman not even in it!”
Ranulf burst out laughing. “I do not think,” he confessed, “that I’ve ever been so happy to see anyone in all my born days!”
“It is just me, lad,” Stephen said wryly, “not the blessed Angel Gabriel!” He gestured then for the guard to unlock his young cousin’s irons, and it took no more than that—the most casual of commands—for Ranulf to gain his freedom.
ALTHOUGH it was long past curfew, the alehouse owner did not mind being roused from sleep. The chance to do a favor for the Count of Boulogne was an opportunity not to be missed, for the count would remember should he ever need a favor in return. And if the City Watch did appear, he knew the count would send them away, well content with a few coins and a bit of friendly banter. So he hastily ordered his sleepy servant to pour ale and wine for the count’s men while he himself brought a flagon to the count’s table, returning a few moments later with cold chicken from his own larder.
Ranulf fell upon the chicken with gusto, continuing his adventures between huge bites. Stephen interrupted only twice, once to gibe that a full day in gaol would have brought Ranulf to the very brink of starvation, and once to ask how Gilbert and Ancel had gotten back to the city, for the gates had been barred hours ago. When Ranulf explained that they’d bribed a guard at Aldgate to let them in once they had the nun’s habit, Stephen shook his head and predicted they would end up on the gallows unless they repented. But his sermon’s impact was lessened somewhat by the laughter lurking beneath the rebuke.
Ranulf’s hunger was contagious, and Stephen soon helped himself to a drumstick. “Your trouble, lad, is that you have too much imagination. Anyone else with a score to settle would have been content to slip a purgative into Baldric’s wine or glue into his boots. And no, those are not suggestions! Now…may I assume that I need fear no more deranged plots to enliven Baldric’s days?”
Ranulf nodded, summoning up a discomfited smile. “It will take a lifetime to repay you for tonight, Cousin Stephen. Thank the Lord Christ that you happened to be in London!”
“Saintly soul that I am, I can never resist a chance to do good. But I am curious why you did not ask Robert for aid.”
“Robert is the last man in Christendom whom I’d want to know! Can you not imagine his shame at being told his brother had been arrested in a nunnery? He’d find no humor in it, no sense at all, and would likely end up blaming himself for my failings!”
“I suppose it is lucky for you, then, that I lack Robert’s moral superiority and incorruptible honour.”
Ranulf looked at the older man in dismay. “If I have offended you, I am indeed sorry. You and Robert are both men of honour, men I would follow to the very borders of Hell if need be. I meant only that you are…less judgmental than Robert, that you find it easier to forgive daft sins like mine.”
After a moment, Stephen shrugged. “Doubtless that comes from my own misspent youth.” But Ranulf was left with an uneasy impression, that his cousin’s flare of jealousy had been no joke.
“You and Robert…you have been my family,” he said softly, and somewhat awkwardly, for he was no more accustomed than most males to sharing sentiment. “I am not faulting my lord father when I say that, for he has been good to me. But…but I’ve always felt as if I were confined to his outer bailey, not allowed up into the keep itself.”
Stephen nodded. “My uncle is not an easy man to know. But then he is a king, lad, and kings cannot be judged like other men.”
Ranulf leaned closer, for wine and the night’s harrowing events had loosened his tongue, and he suddenly saw a chance to ask Stephen what he’d never dared to ask another living soul, especially Robert. “I know a king is bound to attract gossip, like bees to honey. The stories they tell of my father…how do I know which are true, Stephen, and which are wicked lies?”
Stephen studied the boy. “Have you any particular stories in mind, Ranulf?”
Ranulf almost lost his nerve then. He squirmed in his seat, reached for his wine, only to set it down untasted. “Is it true that he blinded his own granddaughters?”
Stephen did not respond at once, seemed to be weighing his words, and Ranulf had never seen him do that before. “Yes,” he said slowly, “he did. It happened the year before the White Ship sank. I’ll see if I can try to make sense of it for you. Your father had wed his daughter Juliane to a man named Eustace de Pacy, and promised Pacy that he could have the castle of Ivry. But Henry was loath to lose it, and he kept putting Pacy off with promises. To keep the peace, it was agreed that Pacy and Ivry’s castellan should exchange their children as hostages for each man’s good faith. Unfortunately, Pacy’s good faith was not worth spit, and he blinded the castellan’s son. Henry was so outraged by this treachery that he allowed the castellan to maim Pacy and Juliane’s two young daughters; they were blinded and the tips of their noses cut off.”
Ranulf said nothing, shocked into silence, for he’d not expected that tale to be validated as true. Stephen watched him, then said quietly, “It was not that your father lacked pity, lad; they were but little lasses and his own blood kin. But he felt men must be able to rely upon the king’s sworn word. He told me once that a king’s greate
st mistake would be to make a threat and then not carry it out.”
Ranulf nodded, struggling to understand, needing to give his father the benefit of any doubt. But he could not help asking, “Could you have done that, Stephen?”
Stephen drained his wine cup, reached for the flagon, and poured again. “No,” he said, “no, lad, I could not…”
Ranulf’s appetite was gone, and he pushed aside the rest of the chicken. “What…what of the stories of how he became king? Are they true, too?”
“I do not know what you’ve heard,” Stephen said, adding with a forced smile, “and I am not sure I want to know!” When would he learn to look ere he leapt? But the lad had a need to talk, and it seemed harmless enough to indulge him; so why were they of a sudden hinting at regicide?
“I’ll tell you what I know,” Stephen said reluctantly. “Your father and others were hunting in the New Forest with his brother the king. William Rufus was shot by mischance—took an arrow in the chest—and died there in the woods. He had no sons, which meant that his crown would be claimed by one of his brothers. Robert was the firstborn, but he was on his way back from the Holy Land, and your father…well, he was luckier, for he was within riding distance of Winchester, where the royal treasury was kept. He headed for Winchester at a gallop, and by sunset, he was calling himself England’s king. As you know, Robert eventually challenged him, and ended his days confined to the great keep of Cardiff Castle in South Wales. More than that, I cannot say. No man can.”
Ranulf looked intently into Stephen’s face and then away. Stephen had deliberately drawn no conclusions, offered no opinion of his own about Henry’s hunt for a crown, for the words “by mischance” seemed dictated more by prudence than by conviction. Did Stephen believe, as many men did, that William Rufus’s death had been too convenient to be a mere hunting accident? But it was a question Ranulf could not bring himself to ask, nor in fairness, expect Stephen to answer.
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 10