When Christ and His Saints Slept

  To Valerie Ptak LaMont

  Never before had there been greater wretchedness in the country…. And they said openly that Christ and his saints slept.

  —THE PETERBOROUGH CHRONICLE

  Contents

  Prologue: Chartres Cathedral, France

  1. Barfleur, Normandy

  2. City of Angers, Province of Anjou, France

  3. Chartres Castle, France

  4. London, England

  5. Bernay, Normandy

  6. Tower Royal, London, England

  7. Falaise, Normandy

  8. Caen, Normandy

  9. Nottingham, England

  10. Sussex, England

  11. Bristol Castle, England

  12. Westminster, England

  13. Nottinghamshire, England

  14. Lincoln Castle, England

  15. Gloucester, England

  16. Oxford Castle, England

  17. Westminster, England

  18. Guildford, England

  19. Winchester, England

  20. Winchester, England

  21. Winchester, England

  22. Near Devizes Castle, Wiltshire, England

  23. Bristol, England

  24. Devizes, England

  25. Oxford, England

  26. Cérences, Normandy

  27. Oxford Castle, England

  28. Devizes Castle, England

  29. Tower of London

  30. Devizes Castle, England

  31. Chester, England

  32. Chester Castle, England

  33. Northampton, England

  34. Devizes, England

  35. Devizes, England

  36. Devizes, England

  37. Devizes, England

  38. Canterbury, England

  39. Cheshire, England

  40. The Welsh Marches

  41. Gwynedd, Wales

  42. Chester Castle, England

  43. Yorkshire, England

  44. Chester Castle, England

  45. Trefriw, North Wales

  46. Rouen, Normandy

  47. Paris, France

  48. Le Mans, France

  49. Beaugency, France

  50. Bury St Edmunds, England

  51. Poitiers, Poitou

  52. Fontevrault Abbey, Anjou

  53. Newbury, England

  54. Wallingford, England

  55. Siege of Wallingford

  56. Siege Of Wallingford

  57. Dover-Canterbury Road, Kent, England

  58. Rouen, Normandy

  Afterword

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chartres Cathedral, France

  January 1101

  STEPHEN was never to forget his fifth birthday, for that was the day he lost his father. In actual fact, that wasn’t precisely so. But childhood memories are not woven from facts alone, and that was how he would remember it.

  He’d come with his parents and two elder brothers to this great church of the Blessed Mary to hear a bishop preach about the Crusade. He didn’t know who the bishop was, but his sermon was a long, dull one, and Stephen had fidgeted and squirmed through most of it, for he was safely out of his mother’s reach. She had no patience with childhood mischief, no patience with mischief of any kind. “Remember who you are” was her favorite maternal rebuke, and her older children had soon learned to disregard that warning at their peril.

  But it puzzled Stephen; why would he forget? He knew very well who he was: Stephen of Blois, son and namesake of the Count of Blois and the Lady Adela, daughter of William the Bastard, King of England and Duke of Normandy. Stephen had never met his celebrated grandfather, but he knew he’d been a great man. His mother often said so.

  Stephen knew about the Crusade, too, for people talked about it all the time. His father had taken the cross, gone off to free the Holy Land from the infidel. Stephen was still in his cradle then, and two when his father came back. There was something shameful about his return. Stephen did not understand why, though, for he was convinced his father could do no wrong, not the man who laughed so often and winked at minor misdeeds and had promised him a white pony for this long-awaited fifth birthday. Stephen had already picked out a name—Snowball—so sure he was that his father would not forget, that the pony would be waiting for them back at the castle.

  Stephen had hoped they’d be returning there once the Mass was done, but instead they lingered out in the cloisters with the bishop, discussing the new army of crusaders that was making ready to join its Christian brethren in the Holy Land. Ignored by the adults, bored and restless, Stephen soon slipped back into the cathedral.

  Within, all was shadowed and still. With the candles quenched and the parishioners gone, the church seemed unfamiliar to Stephen, like a vast, dark cave. Sun-blinded, he tripped over a prayer cushion and sprawled onto the tiled floor. But he was not daunted by a scraped knee, scrambled up, and groped his way down the nave toward the choir.

  He was curious to get a better look at the Sancta Camisia, draped over a reliquary upon the High Altar. Up close, though, it was a disappointment, just a faded chemise, frayed and wrinkled. He’d expected something fancier, mayhap cloth of gold or spangled silk, for this shabby garment was among the most revered relics in Christendom, said to have been worn by the Blessed Lady Mary as she gave birth to the Holy Christ Child. Stephen’s eldest brother, Will, had once dared to ask how it could have survived so many centuries and their mother had slapped him across the mouth for such blasphemy. Carefully wiping his hand on his tunic, Stephen was reaching out to touch the Sancta Camisia when the door opened suddenly, spilling sunlight into the nave.

  Stephen ducked down behind the High Altar, willing these intruders to go away. Instead, the footsteps came nearer. When he peeped around the altar cloth, he gasped in dismay. It would be bad enough to be caught by a priest, but this was far worse. He feared his mother’s wrath more than the anger of priests and bishops, even more than God’s, for He was in Heaven and Mama was right here in Chartres.

  Adela stopped before she reached the High Altar, but she was still so close that Stephen could almost have touched her skirts. The second set of footsteps was heavier and familiar. Some of Stephen’s anxiety began to abate now that his father was here, too. He still hoped to escape detection, though, for discipline was his mother’s province.

  “I cannot believe you hold my life so cheaply, Adela.” Stephen knew his parents had been quarreling for days, but his father did not sound angry now; to Stephen, he sounded tired and even sad.

  “I am your wife, Stephen. Of course I value your life. But I value your honour, too…more than you do, I fear.”

  “That is not fair! When the Crusade was first preached, I took the cross, more to please you than God, if truth be told. And now you would have me go back? Are you that eager to be a widow?”

  “I am not sending you back to die, Stephen, but to redeem your honour. You owe your sons that, and you owe me that. You must fulfill your crusader’s vow. If not, you’ll live out all your days haunted by the shame of Antioch.”

  “Christ Jesus, woman…I’ve told you again and again why I left the siege. I was ailing and disheartened and sickened by all the needless killing—”

  “How can you say that? What greater glory could there be than to die for the liberation of Jerusalem?”

  “Jerusalem has been liberated, Adela, more than a year ago—”

  “Yes, but you were not there to see it, were you? No, you were back at Chartres, taking your ease whilst Christians were being slain by enemies of the True Faith!”

  There was silence after that, lasting so long that the little boy risked a cover
t glance over the top of the High Altar. His parents were standing several feet away, looking at each other. “You’ve shared my bed for nigh on twenty years, Adela; you know every scar my body bears, battle scars, all of them. You ought to have been the last one to doubt my courage. Instead, you were amongst the first. So be it, then. I will do what you demand of me. I will take the cross again, go back to that accursed land, and make you proud,” the count said, so tonelessly that his son shivered.

  Stephen did not hear his mother’s response, for he’d thrust his fist into his mouth, biting down on his thumb. His vision blurred as he sought to blink back tears. Footsteps were receding, a door clanging shut. Getting to his feet, Stephen left the shelter of the High Altar, only to find himself face-to-face with his father.

  The Count of Blois was clearly taken aback. He caught his breath on an oath, was starting to frown when Stephen whispered, “Do not go away, Papa…”

  “Ah, lad…” And then Stephen was swept up in his father’s arms, being held in a close embrace as he dried his tears on the count’s soft wool mantle.

  “Why do you have to go, Papa?” He’d once asked his father what the Holy Land was like, and still remembered the terse reply: “A hellish place.” “You do not want to go back,” he said, “so stay here, please do not go away…”

  “I have no choice.” His father rarely called Stephen by his given name, preferring “lad” or “sprout” or a playful “imp.” He did now, though, saying “Stephen” quietly, sounding sad again. “I’d hoped to wait until you were older…When I was in the Holy Land, I made a mistake. It did not seem so at the time. It was, though, the greatest mistake of my life. We’d been besieging Antioch for nigh on eight months. I’d been taken ill with fever, had withdrawn to nearby Alexandretta. The day after I left, our forces captured the city. But then a large Saracen army arrived and trapped them within Antioch. They seemed doomed for certes, and I…well, I chose to go home, back to Blois.”

  He paused, ruffling Stephen’s hair, the same tawny shade as his own, before resuming reluctantly. “But the crusaders besieged in Antioch were saved by a miracle. You see, lad, they found an ancient lance in one of Antioch’s churches, supposedly revealed in a vision from God. Whether this was truly the Holy Lance that had pierced Our Lord Christ on the Cross or not, what matters is that men believed it to be so. They marched out of Antioch to confront the Saracen army, and against all odds, won a great victory. So Antioch was spared and I…I was shamed before all of Christendom, what I saw as common sense seen by others as cowardice…”

  He paused again, and then set the boy back on his feet. “I know you do not understand what I am telling you, lad, but—”

  “Yes, I do!” Stephen insisted, although all he truly understood was that his father was going away and for a long time. “Papa…promise me,” he said. “Promise me you’ll come back soon.” And he took comfort when his father readily promised him that he would, for he was too young to be troubled by the softly added words, “God Willing.”

  STEPHEN convinced himself that his father would come back when his mother’s new baby was born, for he knew grown people made much ado about babies. But his brother was born and christened Henry and his father did not come.

  That summer Henry was stricken with croup. Stephen was fond of Henry; he’d been delighted to have a brother younger than he was. Although he worried about Henry’s cough, it also occurred to him that the baby’s illness would likely bring their father home. But it was not to be. Henry got better; their father did not return.

  Stephen’s faith did not falter, though. It would be Christmas for certes. It was not. His sixth birthday, then. Again he was disappointed. And then at Easter, they got the letter Stephen had been awaiting every day for the past thirteen months, the letter that said his father was finally coming home.

  JULY was hot and dry in that year of God’s Grace, 1102. August brought no relief; the sky over Chartres was a glazed, brittle blue, and the roads leading into the city were clogged with pilgrims and choked with dust. It was midmorning, almost time for dinner. Stephen had gone down to the stables to see a recently whelped litter of greyhounds. Playing with the puppies raised his spirits somewhat, but he was still perturbed by his mother’s revelation, that she meant to send him to England, to live at the court of the king.

  Seeing his distress, she’d impatiently assured him that he would not be going for a while yet, not until he was older. But he must set his mind to it, that his future lay in England. His elder two brothers would inherit their father’s titles, his little brother, Henry, would be pledged to the Church, and he, Stephen, would go to her brother Henry, the English king.

  Stephen did not want to go so far away, to live with strangers. He let a puppy lick his hand, reminding himself that his father would be back soon, surely by summer’s end, and Papa would not let him be sent away. He felt better then and dropped to his knees in the straw beside the squirming balls of brindle and fawn fur. He lost all track of time, and was still in the stables when his mother came looking for him later that afternoon.

  Stephen jumped to his feet in alarm, for he’d forgotten all about dinner. “I…I am sorry, Mama,” he stammered, but she did not seem to hear his flustered apology. Even in that dimmed light, he saw how pale she was. Her hands were clasped together, so tightly that her rings were being driven into her flesh, and her mouth was thinned and tautly set, as if to keep secrets from escaping. “Mama?” he said uneasily. “Mama?”

  “God’s Will is not always to be understood,” she said abruptly, “but it must be accepted. So it is now, Stephen. A letter has come from the Holy Land. Your lord father is dead.”

  Stephen stared at her, his eyes flickering from her face to the coral rosary entwined around her clutching fingers. “But…but Papa was coming home,” he said, “he promised…”

  Adela blinked rapidly, looked away. All of her sons had gotten their father’s fair coloring, but only Stephen had been blessed—or cursed—with his obliging, generous nature, one utterly lacking in rancor or guile but lacking, too, in the steely self-discipline and single-minded tenacity that had enabled her father to conquer and then rule two turbulent domains, England and Normandy.

  “Your father’s departure for home was delayed by bad weather,” she said, and managed to steady both her voice and her resolve by sheer force of will, for she must not show weakness now, not before the child. “He was still at Jaffa when King Baldwin of Jerusalem sought his aid in laying siege to Ramleh. But they were greatly outnumbered. Baldwin was one of the few to escape. Your father…he held fast and was slain.”

  Stephen’s mouth had begun to quiver, his eyes to fill with tears, and Adela reached out swiftly, pulling him toward her. “No, Stephen,” she said. “You must not weep. He died a noble, proud death, in the service of Almighty God and a Christian king. Do not grieve for him, lad. Be thankful that he has atoned for his past sins and gained by his crusader’s death the surety of salvation, life everlasting in the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  But it was your fault! Papa did not want to go, and you made him. If not for you, he would not be dead and gone away. The words were struggling to break free, burning Stephen’s throat, too hot to hold back. But he must, for those were words he dared not say aloud. To stop himself, he bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood, then stood rigid and mute in his mother’s embrace as she talked to him of honour and pride and Christian duty.

  After a time, she grazed his cheek with one of her rare kisses and withdrew. Stephen retreated into the shadows, into an empty stall. Flinging himself down into the matted, trampled straw, he wept for his father, who’d died at Ramleh, alone and far from home.

  1

  Barfleur, Normandy

  November 1120

  THE ship strained at its moorings, like a horse eager to run. Berold stopped so abruptly that he almost collided with a passing sailor, for in all of his sixteen years, he’d never seen a sight so entrancing. The esneque seemed huge to him, at leas
t eighty feet long, with a towering mast and a square sail striped in vertical bands of yellow and scarlet. The hull was as sleek as a swan and just as white, and brightly painted shields hung over the gunwales, protecting the oarsmen from flying spray. Above the mast flew several streaming pennants and a silver and red banner of St George. The harbor resembled a floating forest, so many masts were swaying and bobbing on the rising tide. More than twenty ships were taking on cargo and passengers, for the royal fleet of the English King Henry, first of that name since the Conquest, was making ready to sail. But Berold had eyes only for the White Ship.

  “Smitten, are you, lad?” Startled, Berold spun around, found himself looking into eyes narrowed and creased from searching out distant horizons and squinting up at the sun. The sailor’s smile was toothless but friendly, for he’d recognized a kindred soul in this gangling youngster swaddled in a bedraggled sheepskin cloak. “Not that I blame you, for she’s a ripe beauty for certes, a seaworthy siren if ever I saw one.”

  Berold was quick to return the sailor’s smile. “That she is. The talk in the tavern was all of the White Ship. Wait till I tell my brother that I saw the most celebrated ship in the English king’s fleet!”