That was mere speculation, though. These ragged, half-starved orphans were all too real, flesh-and-blood burdens, weighing ever more heavily upon his peace of mind. All through supper, he’d been silently debating his conscience, seeking to convince himself that he’d done what he could, that he was not responsible for them. But when the meal was done, he heard himself saying reluctantly, “If you are truly set upon going to Cantebrigge, I’ll take you.”
RANULF had been surprised and vexed that the children had not shown more enthusiasm for his offer. It was no small sacrifice he was making, after all, for he had more to fear than Mandeville’s brigands; Cantebrigge was the king’s borough, and so were most of the towns they’d be passing through on their way south. But the children’s acceptance had been subdued, even wary, and he’d gone off to bed in a thoroughly bad humor. In the morning, though, he’d awakened to find Simon and Jennet asleep on the floor by his bed.
This journey was likely to be as expensive as it was dangerous; it was already draining his purse. He might have to stop at Wallingford on his way west and borrow money from Brien, for he’d had to buy a mule for the children, and mantles, too, for their cloaks might better serve as kitchen rags. He’d already decided that if—God Willing—he ever got home again, this Cantebrigge detour was a secret he’d share only with Loth, for he well knew that his misguided chivalry would make him a laughingstock. Who would ever understand why he’d gone to so much trouble for the children of a runaway serf?
Their pilgrimage was an excruciatingly slow one. The children were fearful at first of riding the mule, and even though they were traveling along the Great North Road, it was rough going, pitted and rutted by the winter weather. Moreover, daylight hours were dwindling away, dusk infiltrating now by late afternoon, and in every town or village, they ran into rumors of Mandeville’s depredations. Raiding throughout Cambridgeshire, up into Lincolnshire, he was spreading terror and laying waste to shires already suffering from famine. He’d gathered together a motley army: his own vassals and tenants, unemployed men-at-arms, bandits lured to his banner by his promises of money and livestock and women, all for the taking. Ranulf heard stories of pilgrims ambushed, merchants robbed, villages plundered and burned. How much of it was true and how much was hearsay, he had no way of knowing.
At Grantham, they were forced to stay over an extra day, waiting out a freezing rainstorm. When they finally reached Stanford, they were delayed again, this time to find a barber for Simon. The boy’s jaw had begun to swell, for he had a rotted tooth which should have been pulled months ago. He bore the pain in good spirits, though, and carefully tucked away his yanked tooth as a keepsake. In truth, both children were starting to enjoy their first foray into the world beyond the Fens. They did not realize their danger, so utterly had they come to trust in Ranulf’s protection, and they were fascinated by the castle at Stanford, the timbered town houses of two stories, their first market. Every day brought new and strange sights, and each night an inn awaited them, where there’d be a warm fire and all the food they could eat and then a safe night’s sleep on pallets in Ranulf’s chamber. Ranulf marveled at first that it took so little to content them, until he realized that those who’d had nothing expected nothing, and he began to worry that he was unwittingly teaching them an unfair lesson—to hunger for more than they could ever hope to get.
By their second week on the road, they were in Cambridgeshire, and much too close to Ramsey’s captured abbey for Ranulf’s comfort. But at Huntingdon, they had a stroke of luck, for they were able to join a caravan of merchants bound for London to sell their wares, men who’d banded together for protection against Mandeville’s cutthroats and their own fears. They were more than happy to have Ranulf ride with them; the sword at his hip guaranteed his welcome.
They parted company at Caxton, the merchants continuing south, Ranulf and the children turning off onto the Cantebrigge Road. There were fewer than ten miles to go now, and his relief was considerable, for he’d heard a very disturbing tale from some of the London-bound merchants—that Mandeville had raided the town of St Ives. Ranulf found that hard to believe, for St Ives was a prosperous borough, site of a famed fair. Surely Mandeville did not have enough men or enough nerve to attack a town? Rumor or not, though, it was unsettling, and he was grateful that he’d soon be able to turn his young charges over to their proper guardian. What he would do if the uncle could not be found, he did not know, for that was a dilemma he’d resolutely refused to address, preferring to fall back upon his innate optimism.
But as those last few miles began to ebb away, so did Ranulf’s confidence, and he found himself struggling with a sudden sense of foreboding, wondering what they would find in Cantebrigge. Yet he never expected what awaited them around a bend in the road: a sky full of smoke.
Ordering the children to hide themselves until he returned, he began a cautious investigation. It was almost dusk, but to the east, the sky glowed, and within a mile, he knew why—the city of Cantebrigge was afire. The first structure to come into sight were the stone walls of the castle, and then the rippling grey surface of the River Granta. The town lay just beyond, wreathed in smoke. Ranulf had been in Cantebrigge before, during his father’s reign, and as he looked now upon the charred and blackened shell off to his right, he knew it had once been a church, even remembered the name: All Saints by the Castle. Reining in his stallion, he stared at the ruins in shocked silence. All Saints was well away from the town; flames could not have spread that far. To have burned, the church must have been deliberately torched.
He was close enough now to see people wandering about, and it was like being back in the smoldering streets of Winchester, watching as dazed survivors stumbled about aimlessly in the wreckage of their lives. Loth growled softly, looking up at Ranulf with anxious eyes, for the scent of death was in the air. But it was then that Ranulf noticed the castle portcullis was up and the gates ajar. So it was over. The dying was done; the grieving only just begun.
Ranulf did not want to go any farther, to see any more. There would be bodies in the rubble of those smoking houses and looted shops. There would be bloodstains in the streets, but no screaming or wailing, not yet. When grief came so suddenly, the bereft were silent, too stunned for tears. He’d been at Lincoln, at Winchester, at Oxford. He knew what he’d find.
A slight, stooped figure was trudging up the street toward the castle, his priest’s cassock befouled with blood. He seemed unaware of his surroundings, but as he passed Ranulf, his step slowed and his aged eyes focused upon the younger man’s face. Recognition was mutual, and as dangerous as it might be, Ranulf did not deny it. Instead, he swung from the saddle to stand in the street beside the old man, chaplain for more years than he could remember at his father’s royal castle of Cantebrigge. “Father Osmond,” he said, “are you injured?”
“The blood is not mine.” If the priest was surprised to encounter the old king’s son in a town under Stephen’s dominion, he gave no sign of it. “I never thought,” he said, “to see such suffering, to see the innocents struck down in God’s Sight. There was killing even in the churches, where people had fled for refuge.”
He was far more feeble than Ranulf remembered, and he reached out, put a steadying hand on the priest’s elbow. “When did this happen?”
“Last night. They came in the night like thieves, but they came to kill. Some of the people were able to get into the castle, but the others…the ones caught in their houses, their beds…” His mouth trembled; he had a priest’s familiarity with death, but not like this.
“I looked upon evil, Lord Ranulf. We saw the Devil’s work. They showed no mercy, forced householders to divulge where their valuables were hidden, then cut their throats. They plundered St Radegund’s nunnery and raped honest women in front of their husbands. They deliberately burned churches and stole from God. They spared neither the young nor the old nor the weak, and their killing was wanton, done for the sport of it. And when they rode off, they took all our l
ivestock and they loaded carts with their plunder and they carried off women, even some of the nuns. I know war and this was not war. Not even the infidel Saracens could be so cruel, so deserving of damnation…”
Ranulf, too, had thought he knew war. But never had he seen the sort of savagery the priest had just described. An outlaw army, composed of brigands and felons, the very dregs of the gutter, led by one who feared neither man nor God. And if he’d taken a different road, he and Jennet and Simon might have run right into them. “Who was it?” he said, already knowing what the priest would say.
“The Devil’s spawn. That son of perdition, Geoffrey de Mandeville.”
30
Devizes Castle, England
January 1144
THE drawbridge was lowered at once for Ranulf, and by the time he’d dismounted, his squire was racing across the inner bailey. “Where have you been, my lord? We’d given up all hope of ever seeing you again!”
“I had my own doubts, too, Luke. But how did you know I was in trouble? I did not tell my sister when I’d be returning.”
“The empress had a letter from the Countess of Chester. Lady Maud was uneasy, not having heard from you as promised. And when you missed Christmas, we knew something was wrong. The empress wanted to send men out to search for you, but we did not know where to begin. My lord…may I speak freely? I do not know why you go off on these mysterious journeys of yours, and it is obvious that you do not want me—or anyone else—to know. But I would take your secret to the grave, that I pledge upon my honour and hopes of salvation. In Stephen’s England, life has become too cheap for a man to venture out alone.”
Ranulf was touched and gave the younger man a quick smile, although he avoided making Luke any promises. “If you’ll take our mounts into the stable,” he said, “I’ll get the children inside where they can thaw out.” At that, Luke abandoned his polite pretense of ignoring his lord’s unlikely traveling companions, but Ranulf deflected his curiosity with a murmured, “I’ll tell you about it once I’ve seen my sister.”
He led them toward the great hall, Simon and Jennet keeping so close to Ranulf that they were in danger of treading upon his heels. They’d almost reached the door when his nephew came bursting through it. “I knew you’d come back safe! But Mama has been fretting night and day over you, Uncle Ranulf, and she’ll likely scorch your ears for scaring us so. Of course if it was me, I’d have gotten my rump blistered, so you’ll be getting off easy!”
Ranulf laughed and ushered all three children into the hall. “Over to the hearth,” he directed, before adding, “Harry, I want you to look after Simon and Jennet whilst I seek out your mother.”
He’d become oddly protective of these orphans of the Fens, but he had no qualms now about entrusting them to Henry. His nephew had his share of swagger and was not one for backing down when challenged; in Bristol, he and Miles’s youngest son, Mahel, had gone from being rivals to outright enemies after a rough-and-tumble game of hot cockles. But as much as Henry liked his own way, he did not take unfair advantage of his privileged position. As young as he was, he seemed to understand that it was no more sporting to bully a servant than it would be to shoot a nesting bird, and Ranulf had concluded that a child was indeed more than the sum of his parents, for he did not associate a sense of fair play with Geoffrey, nor with his sister, either, for all that he loved her.
“You be on your best behavior with them, Harry, for they’ve never been in a castle before. Nor do they speak any French.”
“It is lucky then, that I’ve learned a little bit of English.”
Ranulf was not deceived by the boy’s offhand manner—he could recognize bragging in reverse when he saw it—and he made sure that his nephew got the praise he was craving. Turning then, to Simon and Jennet, he switched over to stilted English. “This is my nephew, the Lord Harry. He’ll stay with you till I get back.” They could not hide their dismay at being separated from him, even briefly, but he knew they’d do as he bade them; they were as trusting as Loth and far more obedient.
There was no need, though, to hunt for Maude. She was already rushing into the hall, a mantle hastily flung over her shoulders. “Ranulf, thank God! I thought you were dead, too!” A quick, convulsive hug; he could feel her trembling, her tension. She looked exhausted, her skin stretched as taut as her nerves, so pallid she might have just risen from a sickbed. Stepping back, she still held on to his arm, her fingers gripping hard enough to hurt. “Why were you visiting Maud in secret? And why in God’s Name did you go off on your own like that? Where have you been?”
“Cantebrigge,” he said simply, and she went even paler. Before she could speak, he drew her toward the hearth, appropriating a couple of chairs. “I know we’ve much to say to each other, and I am indeed sorry for worrying you. But first there is a story I must tell you, one I’d hoped to keep to myself. I brought back company—those two scared fledglings Harry has taken under his wing.”
As concisely as possible, he related then his adventures since encountering Simon and Jennet on the Newark-Grantham Road. “We finally reached Cantebrigge,” he concluded, “on the day after Mandeville’s raid. The town was still smoldering; it was Winchester all over again. And I could find no one who’d even heard of Jonas the tanner. If he’d ever been there, he was long gone.”
He grimaced in remembered frustration. “So…I took them back with me. What else could I do, Maude? They could never fend for themselves, would soon starve—if worse did not befall them. And the people of Cantebrigge had nothing to spare; the last thing the town needed was more orphans.”
He was talking faster than usual, partly from embarrassment and partly to keep Maude from interrupting until he was done. So far she’d listened in silence, although she’d occasionally shaken her head at the risks he’d taken. “I thought,” he said, “that we could ask the priests in Devizes and Bristol for help. They might know of a family willing to take Simon and Jennet in, mayhap one who’d lost a son—”
He stopped in surprise as Maude jumped to her feet. “I cannot talk about this,” she said sharply, “not now!” And before Ranulf could react, she spun away from him, exiting the hall so rapidly that it was almost as if she were fleeing. Ranulf was nonplussed. He’d been braced for gibes and raillery, knowing full well that few would understand his compassion for a runaway serf’s children. But he’d counted upon Maude to be more indulgent, if only because women were taught to be tolerant of male folly. The rebuff stung all the more, then, for being unexpected.
Staring after Maude, Ranulf started at the sound of “Uncle Ranulf,” for he’d not noticed as Henry edged unobtrusively within eavesdropping range. The boy looked unhappy, much too mature for his years. “Mama is not angry with you,” he said. “She has been grieving ever since we heard, and—”
“Jesú,” Ranulf breathed, for his sister’s words had suddenly come back to him, taking on a new and sinister significance. “I thought,” she’d cried, “you were dead, too!” Ranulf started to speak, had to swallow first. “Who?” he asked hoarsely. “Who died, lad?”
“The Earl of Hereford.”
“Miles?” Ranulf sank back in the chair he’d just vacated. “How? I did not know he was ailing.”
“He was not. He was slain on Christmas Eve…by mischance. He’d gone hunting in Dean Forest, and one of his companions misfired an arrow. It hit him in the chest and he died there in the woods.”
“What a meaningless way to die…” It occurred to Ranulf, then, that most deaths seemed meaningless these days; for what greater good had the citizens of Cantebrigge died? “May God forgive his earthly sins,” Ranulf said softly. He’d never shared Maude’s fondness for Miles. But the political ramifications of his death were far-reaching and dangerous. He’d been one of Maude’s most powerful and steadfast supporters, one she could not afford to lose.
“Uncle Ranulf, there is more. Mama got a letter yesterday from my father. He wants me to come back home.”
Ranulf sat uprigh
t. “And she agreed?” he asked, too surprised for discretion.
“Not at first. Not until I…I told her that I wanted to go.” Henry’s lashes swept down like shields, but not in time, and Ranulf felt a wrenching pang of pity for the boy. He wanted to assure Henry that missing his father was no cause for guilt, but he knew it was futile; in this war of tangled and torn loyalties, Henry’s conflicted battlefield was his heart.
Simon and Jennet had trailed timidly after Henry, and Ranulf summoned them over. “You will be staying here for now,” he said, and they nodded solemnly, for they never asked questions, their faith even stronger than their fear. No one had ever shown such utter confidence in him; it was both a great compliment and a great burden.
Leaving them with Henry, he started to go after Maude. He stopped, though, before he reached the door. He knew now what had sent her fleeing from the hall—his careless talk of “losing a son.” She’d not thank him for following her. She was as shy of showing her pain in public as her ten-year-old son. But Harry would outgrow his emotional skittishness. For his sister, it was too late.
STEPHEN hastily gathered an army to put down Geoffrey de Mandeville’s rebellion. But Mandeville refused to do battle and retreated deeper into the Fens. Stephen set about erecting castles in an attempt to contain the bloodshed. He then marched north in the hopes of catching the Earl of Chester’s garrison off guard at Lincoln Castle.
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 60