Sharon Penman: When Christ and his Saints Slept

The blows had been coming in swift succession, giving him no time to recover his bearings. Eustace’s rebellious flight had been followed by the sudden death of one of the few men Stephen truly trusted, Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northampton. And as he mourned his old comrade-in-arms, word began to filter into Suffolk of Eustace’s outlaw raids, tales of crops burned in the fields and villages torched, culminating in last week’s outrage at Bury St Edmunds. Horrified and heartsick, Stephen refused to discuss his son’s marauding with any of his men, forcing them to join him in a conspiracy of silence, in which it was tacitly understood that as long as Eustace’s banditry was not acknowledged, nothing need be done about it. Before the others, Stephen stubbornly held his peace; alone in the night, he prayed for his son to come to his senses, and he grieved.

After occupying the town, Stephen had found lodgings at Holy Trinity, a small priory of Augustinian canons. He’d returned this Monday at dusk, after another long, tiring day at the siege site. Although he knew the others were waiting for him in the guest hall, he slumped down in a chair by the window; at times he found it hard to remember why it mattered whether he took this castle or not. He’d been told that Henry had gone north, that he was now laying siege to William Peverel’s castle at Stanford, apparently as a favor to the Earl of Chester. He wondered if it ever occurred to Henry that they were playing a peculiar form of chess. A castle taken here, another lost there, and the game went on.

He was turning away when several men raced past the window, running flat-out on a hot August evening, when even a brisk walk would work up a sweat. He leaned out, saw nothing in the gathering dusk, but the oddness of it lingered and when William Martel entered a few moments later, he commented upon it, half humorously, to the seneschal. “I just saw two of the Black Canons sprinting across the garth. They’re usually so protective of their dignity, but these lads were kicking up so much dust you’d swear Satan had come calling!”

William Martel did not return his smile. “It is Eustace.”

Stephen froze. “What of him?”

“He is here, my liege. He just rode into the priory.”

Their shouting had carried beyond the chamber, out into the garth where men gathered to listen. When Stephen and Eustace finally emerged, their covert audience scattered in haste, but neither man noticed, so caught up were they in their private war. Stephen kept staring at this stranger who was his son, unable to admit that there was nothing left to be said. He’d raged and cursed and then pleaded, but he’d gotten no answers from Eustace, only angry abuse. Eustace had offered neither explanations nor apology for what he’d done. He’d come back, he said defiantly, because if he were not here to defend his rights, no one else would. And for Stephen, that was the most painful of his wounds, that Eustace had been so quick to believe in his betrayal.

Eustace stumbled as they entered the hall, jostling his father, and only then did Stephen realize how much his son had been drinking. But he found a small measure of comfort in that; if Eustace had not dared to face him sober, how could he be as unrepentant as he claimed?

Their entrance killed all conversation. Several of the Augustinian canons were present, but not for long, for as soon as Eustace came through the door, they made a hasty exit. Stephen’s men seemed no less hostile than the canons, although they at least attempted-however poorly-to hide their antipathy. Eustace raked the hall with a bold, challenging stare, as if defying anyone to speak out. None did, yet there was no thaw in the air, no easing of the tension.

“Come, take a seat,” Stephen insisted. Eustace’s arm was rigid under his hand, but Stephen’s grip was too tight to shake off, and he reluctantly allowed his father to steer him toward the high table. Familiar faces were all about him. Arundel. That Judas Fleming. His milksop of a little brother. To his fury, none of them seemed willing to meet his eyes. Did they think they could make him disappear by pretending not to see him? If they hoped he’d slink away in the night, they would be sorely disappointed. He’d never make it easy for them. They’d have to confront him openly from now on, if they dared.

It enraged him, though, to be shunned like this, as if he were a foul, stinking leper instead of the rightful heir to the English throne. Draining his wine cup, much too fast, he signaled for a refill. The food on his trencher was a favorite dish of his, a lamprey-eel pie, but he was too angry to savor it and ate quickly, without tasting what he swallowed, brooding upon the injustice of it all, silently cursing Henry Fitz Empress and his weak-willed father with every bite.

It was proving to be a miserable meal for Stephen, too; the food on his trencher went untouched, even unnoticed. What was he going to do? If he punished his son as he deserved, he’d risk pushing Eustace into open rebellion. But the monks of St Edmunds had been grievously wronged, and how could he ignore that? Eustace could not have served Henry better than he had at Bury St Edmunds; why could he not see that? If only Tilda were here to counsel the lad; mayhap she could have made him see reason. Each time Stephen glanced up, he saw men warily watching Eustace. How long would they remain loyal if he continued to force Eustace upon them? And yet how could he ever abandon his own son?

So unnaturally quiet was it that the sound of an overturning chair was shockingly loud, startling them all. Seeing his son on his feet, Stephen felt a throb of despair. What sort of mischief was Eustace up to now? Could he not even get through a single meal without shaming them both?

But once he got his first clear look at his son’s face, he cried out sharply. Something was wrong. Eustace was clutching at his throat, his eyes cutting frantically toward Stephen. When he lurched into the table, knocking a wine flagon over onto the other diners, there were curses and even a few audible mutterings about “drunken sots.”

Stephen knew better. “Eustace, what is wrong? Tell me!”

Eustace seemed to be trying to do just that. His mouth was working, but no words were emerging. By now they’d all realized that he was having some sort of seizure. Chairs were shoved aside and men scrambled away from the table, away from Eustace, for the same thought was in most of their minds: a plundered abbey and a saint’s curse.

Eustace’s face was suffused with blood. He sank to his knees, one hand still clawing at his throat, the other reaching out toward his father.

“He is choking!” Time seemed to have slowed, even to have stopped, as Stephen struggled to get to his son. Eustace was convulsing; there was spittle and blood on his lips and his skin had taken on a bluish hue. Stephen began to pound him desperately upon the back and shoulders. Someone was shouting for a doctor. There were a few cries, too, for a priest. But most of the men just stood there, watching. Eustace’s eyes were rolling back. His body jerked in several uncontrollable spasms and then went limp. Those who’d ventured closer now caught the smell of urine. Death was no stranger to any of them. But few had ever witnessed a death like this one, so sudden and swift and divinely ordained. For surely it could not be mere happenchance that Eustace would be struck down in all his youthful arrogance just days after defiling a holy shrine?

As Stephen cradled his son and wept, men glanced at one another, and then crossed themselves. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and St Edmund was not to be mocked, for he tended to his own. And as the shock began to subside, more than a few of the witnesses gave silent thanks to this vengeful saint, even as they looked with pity upon their stricken king.