When Christ and His Saints Slept

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “You often despaired of ever breaking through all his walls,” Minna pointed out, “but he was slowly letting some of his defenses down, and he will again. Every freeze is followed by a thaw, madame.”

  “I hope so, Minna, how I hope so. But I am not as confident as you, not about Geoff. You see, he could never forgive me for not loving Geoffrey. And now…now he cannot forgive me for loving Henry.”

  As candid as they usually were with each other, Minna had learned to weigh her words when discussing Maude’s sons. She was very fond of Maude’s youngest, for Will had a singular sweetness, a naïf-like charm that was uniquely his own. Henry, she adored. Even at his wayward worst, he was still “Madame’s true son,” whose destined kingship would redress all of her lady’s struggles, all of her suffering.

  But she viewed Geoff with a jaundiced German eye, seeing a spoiled young lordling with an overabundance of grievances and no sense of obligation or duty, only a sense of entitlement. That was an opinion, however, that she could never share with Geoff’s mother, and she concentrated, instead, upon brushing out Maude’s hair, still a deep, rich black, although her next birthday would be her fiftieth.

  “They were afraid that I’d welcomed Geoffrey’s death,” Maude confided. “I swore to them that I had not, and that was the truth, Minna. I’d be the last one to doubt Henry’s abilities, but he is still so young. Geoffrey could have done what I cannot—keep the peace in Normandy whilst Henry seeks to overthrow Stephen. I can fight for my son, but not on the battlefield. It always comes back to that. Henry had need of his father. There was a time when I was not willing to admit that, but—”

  The knock was so soft that Maude was not sure at first what she’d heard. When it came again, Minna hastened over and opened the door. Henry paused on the threshold at sight of his mother’s unbound hair. “You’re getting ready for bed. I’d not realized it was so late.”

  Before he could back out, Maude beckoned him in. “I always have time to talk with you.” Minna had already disappeared, conveniently remembering a sudden need for night wine. Reclaiming her seat, Maude watched her firstborn prowl restlessly about the chamber. “Is Will abed?”

  Henry nodded. “It upset Will that Papa left Chinon and the other castles to Geoff, nothing to him. I explained that these castles had long been regarded as the rightful appanage of the House of Anjou’s younger son, that Papa was merely following family tradition, and it in no way meant that he’d favored Geoff. I did my best to assure Will of this, and I also assured him that he’d not be left to beg his bread. But I think it would help, Mama, to hear it from you, too.”

  “I’ll speak to him tomorrow,” Maude promised. “I’ll remind him that once he is of age, we’ll find him an heiress to wed.”

  “There is something else I want to discuss with you, Mama. It is about what happened in Paris.”

  “I was wondering about that,” Maude admitted. “Why did you change your mind about relinquishing the Vexin?”

  “I daresay you’ve heard the rumors about the French king’s troubled marriage. Well, the rumors are true. Louis has decided to divorce his wife. And once he does, I mean to marry Eleanor myself.”

  “Good God!” Maude sat back in her chair, openmouthed. “You’ve always been one for surprises, Henry, but this time you’ve truly outdone yourself!”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly, “assuming that was meant as a compliment?”

  “You sound very sure that this will come to pass. I gather, then, that you and Eleanor have reached some sort of understanding?”

  The corner of Henry’s mouth twitched. “I think you can safely say that.”

  “No wonder you were willing to give up the Vexin! You do realize, though, what a hornet’s nest you’ll be stirring up? You could have no better stepping-stone to the English throne than Aquitaine. But the French king will view this marriage as unforgivable treachery.”

  “So Papa said, too,” Henry conceded.

  “You and Eleanor—who would ever have guessed?”

  “Let’s hope no one does, Mama, not until we’re safely wed.”

  She nodded. “Henry…you know how much I want you to be King of England. But I also want you to be happy. For the highborn, marriage is a practical matter, indeed, with no allowance made for sentiment. A political union. A means of gaining territory. A way to forge an alliance. No one ever asks if the couple is mismatched, if they are likely to be compatible. But believe me, those are not frivolous questions. You may be seeking a consort and wedding a duchess, but you’ll be living with a woman, and now is the time to consider her. I know you want Aquitaine. Do you also want Eleanor?”

  He regarded her impassively, for he’d inherited Geoffrey’s irritating knack of being able to mask his thoughts when he chose. “Yes,” he said, “I want her.”

  “Well…then I can give you more than my approval. I can give you my blessings, too.”

  “Truly?” Henry’s smile offered her a sudden glimpse of sunlight breaking through the clouds, dispelling the oppressive mourning gloom. “Credit where due, Mama, you can surprise, too. Papa was so sure you’d have misgivings about the marriage!”

  A tart rejoinder hovered on her lips, that Geoffrey had not known her nearly as well as he’d imagined. It went unsaid. Instead, she reminded herself that their marital war was over at last. No more uneasy truces, just the eternal peace of the grave. As she embraced Henry, she could not help thinking, though, that the final victory had been Geoffrey’s. She knew that her sons loved and respected her; at least Henry and Will did. But she doubted that they’d have grieved as much for her as they now grieved for Geoffrey.

  THE storm caught North Wales by surprise, for it was only November. The snow started during the night, and the Welsh awoke to find that winter had arrived with a vengeance. By midday the wind had intensified; soon even the silhouetted peaks of Eryri were no longer visible. Ranulf had not seen so much snow since he’d been trapped in the siege of Oxford. As the storm increased in severity, it began to seem as if Trefriw were under siege, too, but by a more formidable foe than Stephen. Fortunately, this was an enemy that could be safely waited out, and the only weapon the besieged needed was patience. But that evening Rhiannon went into labor.

  She was not due for another fortnight, and they hoped at first that these were false labor pains. It soon became apparent, however, that the baby was coming—in the midst of a blizzard, with no midwife. Ranulf had been desperate enough to try to fetch the woman; he got no farther than the stable, barely made it back to the hall.

  That night seemed endless. Neither Ranulf nor Rhodri slept at all, huddled by the fire, waiting for word. Above-stairs in the birthing chamber, Rhiannon struggled to deliver her child, attended by the willing but inexperienced hands of Enid, Eleri, Olwen, and Heledd, their elderly cook. Downstairs, Ranulf struggled, too, seeking to convince himself that all would go as it ought. But Enid was barren, Eleri and Olwen were virgins, and Heledd’s own childbearing more than thirty years distant.

  Men were barred from the birthing chamber, but from time to time, Enid or Eleri would emerge with forced smiles and assurances that grew less and less convincing with repetition. Bechan, the serving-maid, crept about like a stray cat, shrinking into corners and daubing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. It was obvious that she was already mourning her mistress, and Ranulf could not trust himself to glance in her direction, lest he banish her from the hall. But how could he blame the wench for lacking faith when he had so little of it himself?

  With the coming of dawn, the blizzard at last showed signs of abating. White waves no longer swept across the bailey, obscuring all traces of land; for the first time in many hours, Ranulf could make out the sloping contours of the stable roof. Pulling up the hood of his mantle, he plunged out into the bailey. The cold seared his lungs, brought tears to his eyes. Wading through drifts deep enough to drown in, he slogged toward the stable. It was slow, hazardous going, but he battled on until he reeled into the stable, sink
ing down on a bale of hay. The horses peered over their stall doors, grateful for the human company, hungry for their breakfast of fodder and hay. Ranulf was still trying to get his breath back when the door banged again and two more hooded figures staggered in.

  He’d not realized that he was being followed, for their cries had been carried away by the gusting snow. Like him, they headed toward the bales of hay and collapsed against the wall. Padarn recovered first, his the resilience of youth, and volunteered to tend to the horses. Panting and wheezing, Rhodri blew on his chapped hands, stamped his feet to warm them, and brushed snow off his eyebrows, mustache, and even his lashes. “Have you lost your wits altogether?” he accused. “How far did you think you’d get?”

  “The storm seemed to be easing up. Since the midwife lives only a few miles from here, I thought I could make it—”

  “Christ Jesus, Ranulf, where is your common sense? This was a fool’s gamble if ever I saw one!”

  Ranulf could not argue the point. “I did not realize how bad it still was, not until I was out in it. But I had to try, Uncle. It has been more than twelve hours. I know the women say that is not unusual, but would they tell us if it were? So much can go wrong in a birthing, and without a midwife…” His shoulders sagged and he said, very low and fast, “My mother died in childbed, and the babe with her.”

  “I know, lad, I know. It is never easy for the woman, nor for the man, either. I remember all too well what the waiting was like, each time my Nesta was brought to bed of one of our bairns. I could not help noticing how raw your nerves became as Rhiannon’s time drew nigh. None of us reckoned upon this accursed storm, but you were already sorely afeared. You would not even choose names for the baby, lest you tempt fate. This is not like you, Ranulf. Why are you so loath of a sudden to let yourself hope for the best?”

  Ranulf’s smile was bleak. “For most of my life, I not only hoped for the best, I expected it, as if it were my god-given birthright. That was the worst sort of arrogance, Uncle, and it brought nothing but grief—not just to me, but to the innocent, too. I truly thought the rest of my life would be penance for these sins; I deserved no less…”

  “But you do not deserve Rhiannon and your babe…is that what you fear? That God means to punish you for daring to be happy?” Rhodri slid over on the bale until he was close enough to grasp the younger man’s arm. “Why is it that the Almighty forgives us more readily than we forgive ourselves? Listen to me, lad. I cannot tell you there is no danger in childbirth. But I can tell you how good you’ve been for my daughter, how much—”

  “Come quick!” Padarn had been keeping vigil at the door. Spinning around, he gestured urgently. “They are shouting for us!”

  Lurching to their feet, Ranulf and Rhodri hastily followed Padarn out into the snow. Linking arms, they ploughed through the drifts, for they now had the wind at their backs. As they stumbled toward the hall, Eleri appeared in the doorway. Her hair was in disarray, her color ashen, her eyes swollen with fatigue, her gown splattered with blood. But her smile was incandescent.

  THE entire household had crowded into Rhiannon’s chamber to admire her newborn son, everyone from the timid Bechan to the burly stable grooms. She accepted their congratulations and good wishes with exhausted aplomb, but was grateful when Eleri eventually took charge and insisted that they all withdraw so she could rest. She groped quickly for Ranulf’s hand, letting him know she wanted him to stay, needlessly so, as nothing short of force could have dislodged him from her bedside. A reluctant Rhodri was the last to leave, pushed out by his wife and daughter as he craned to get one more loving look at his grandson. Once they were finally alone, Ranulf leaned over and kissed his wife, then his son.

  Rhiannon smiled tiredly. The baby had begun to whimper, and she drew back the bed covers, guiding his little mouth toward her breast. He needed no further urging, was soon sucking contentedly upon her nipple. She’d refused from the outset to consider a wet nurse, and Ranulf now understood why; nursing was an especially intimate act for a mother unable to see her child.

  “What color is his hair?” she asked, and he reached over to stroke the infant’s head; the silky, scant hair was as soft as the downy plumage of a baby chick.

  “It is hard to say,” he teased, “for he is well-nigh bald. If I had to guess, I’d say a flaxen shade. It’s like to change anyway. Which is fine with me; I’d not mind if it turned green.”

  “I think I’d prefer a more conventional color.” Rhiannon’s smile ended as a yawn. “I want you to name him, Ranulf.”

  “Are you sure, love? It would not be a Welsh name.”

  She squeezed his hand in reply. “You wish to call him Robert, after your brother?”

  Ranulf gently wiped away the milk dribbling down his son’s chin. “No,” he said, “I want to name him Gilbert.”

  49

  Beaugency, France

  March 1152

  IN late September, Louis and Eleanor had begun a royal progress through her domains. They were welcomed with enthusiasm, for Eleanor had always been extremely popular with her people, and they were heartened by rumors of an impending split with her “foreign” French husband. These rumors gained credence as the weeks passed, for in the course of the progress, French garrisons and Crown officials were replaced with men of Eleanor’s choosing, men of Aquitaine. The French sovereigns celebrated their Christmas court at Limoges; it was to be their last one as man and wife. In February, they parted, Eleanor returning to Poitiers, Louis to Paris. By now all knew a divorce was both imminent and inevitable.

  On the Friday before Palm Sunday, the Archbishop of Sens convened a Church Council at the royal castle of Beaugency, not far from Orléans. Evidence was presented that the French king and his queen were related within the prohibited degree, for her great-grandmother had been a granddaughter of his great-grandfather. The clerics were not long in delivering their solemn verdict—that the marriage must be annulled on grounds of consanguinity. The young princesses, Marie and Alix, were declared to be legitimate and their custody was granted to the French king. Eleanor relinquished her queenship, and resumed those titles that were hers by birthright: Duchess of Aquitaine and Countess of Poitou. The French king was now free to wed again, to seek a wife able to give him a son and heir. At the prodding of Eleanor’s advocate, the Archbishop of Bordeaux, the Council agreed that she was free to wed, too, but of course not without Louis’s consent, for her former husband was still her king and liege lord.

  THE following morning was a mild, sunlit Saturday, a good day for travel. But the Count of Vermandois did not doubt that his sister-in-law would have ridden out in the teeth of a raging gale, so eager did she seem to leave Beaugency and her former life behind. He would be sorry to see her go, and he said so now, telling her that the royal court would be a dull place without her, that her going would break male hearts and quench candles all over Paris.

  Eleanor smiled, for she liked Raoul. His gallantry might be a bit heavy-handed at times, but she’d take that any day over the sort of somber piety she’d been living with for the past fourteen years. Gathering her into his arms, Raoul winked over her shoulder at his wife. “You do not mind if I run off with Eleanor for a few weeks, do you, Petra?”

  “Of course not,” Petronilla said absently, not hearing a word he’d said. She was finding this harder than she’d expected—saying farewell to her sister, knowing how drastically their lives were about to change. “I shall miss you, Eleanor,” she said, summoning up a game but forlorn smile. “Who will I have to quarrel with once you’re gone?”

  “That is what husbands are for.” As the sisters embraced, Eleanor found her eyes misting, too. “You must visit me at Poitiers later in the spring,” she said, adding significantly, “I will tell you when to come.”

  Petronilla nodded, and Raoul cheerfully promised to accompany her. The two women said nothing, for it was understood that Petronilla would find a way to come alone. Raoul was Louis’s cousin and liegeman and seneschal of France;
they could not compromise his honour by allowing him to attend Eleanor’s wedding to Henry Fitz Empress. Eleanor had no illusions about what was to come. There was a time when she’d been careless of consequences, but no longer. Louis would see her marriage as a grievous betrayal, both of the man and of the monarch. What would he do? She knew him so well, and yet she was still not sure how he’d react. She felt confident that she and Harry would be a match for him. But she was determined to shield any others from Louis’s wrath, and so Raoul must be kept in ignorance, for his own protection.

  The great hall was thronged with clergy and curious onlookers, eager to watch this historic parting between the French king and his notorious queen. As soon as Eleanor appeared, heads turned and necks craned. The men who’d command her escort were waiting by the door: Saldebreuil de Sanzay, her constable, and Geoffrey de Rancon, Lord of Taillebourg. She smiled at sight of them, for they were more than loyal vassals; they were friends, men who would willingly lay down their lives to keep her safe. Louis was nearby, engaged in conversation with the Archbishops of Rouen and Reims, not yet aware of her presence. She was about to start toward him when she saw the tall, white-haired figure by the hearth, his simple monk’s habit contrasting dramatically with the colorfully clad nobles and the ornately garbed princes of the Church. The holy man of France, the venerated and honoured Abbot of Clairvaux. Her sainted enemy.

  Abbot Bernard greeted her with frigid formality. He so resembled one of the patriarchs of old—pale and haggard, burning dark eyes and flowing long hair—that Eleanor wondered cynically if he’d deliberately cultivated the image. “I understand,” she said, “that you convinced Louis not to bring my daughters to Beaugency to bid me farewell. He told me that he would have done so—if not for you, my lord abbot.”

  He was quite untroubled by the accusation. “That is true,” he said calmly. “I thought it was for the best. Such a meeting was bound to be painful.”