Sharon Penman: When Christ and his Saints Slept

Ranulf was not normally so loquacious, but the words just kept cascading out, as if of their own will. This unexpected encounter had unnerved him somewhat, stirring up memories he’d as soon forget. Fulk looked eerily like Ancel and his gleaming dark eyes could have been Annora’s. But it was reassuring that he was being so friendly, for there could be no better proof that Ancel had not shared his secret; at least Annora’s family had been spared that ultimate rupture.

Fulk was regarding Ranulf with evident puzzlement. “It just goes to show,” he said, “how outlandish rumors can get. Do you know what we heard, Ranulf? As crazy as it sounds, that this Welsh wife of yours was blind!”

He laughed; Ranulf did not. “Rhiannon is blind,” he said evenly, and embarrassed color flooded into Fulk’s face.

“I…I am sorry,” he stammered. “But you said you were showing her the sights and I…I just assumed…How could she…That is…”

Ranulf let him flounder on like that for a few moments more. He wanted to ask Fulk why he thought the blind were bereft of their other senses, too. Rhiannon was enthralled by the pealing chimes of St Paul’s Cathedral. She could hear her footsteps echoing across the marble tiles as she approached its High Altar, she who’d never known any church but the small, secluded chapel at Llanrhychwyn where they’d been wed. When he’d led her out onto London Bridge, she’d felt the life-force of the Thames, surging against the wooden pilings. And when he walked with her on the beach below Dover’s white cliffs, she would experience the sea, hearing the waves break upon the wet sand, the gulls shrieking overhead, feeling the salt spray on her face, sensing the vastness that she could not see. But he knew Fulk would never understand, and so he said only, “No offense meant, so none taken.”

Fulk was fumbling his way out of the pit he’d dug for himself. “You said you have a son?”

“Yes…Gilbert will be three next month.”

Fulk smiled in surprise. “Passing strange, for Ancel named his firstborn Gilbert, too. I expect to see him at Martinmas. Shall I give him a message from you?”

“Tell him…tell him I wish him well.” Ranulf hesitated. “How is Annora?”

“She seems content enough. She has a little lass of her own, and Gervase still dotes upon her every whim-” Fulk caught himself, with a self-conscious laugh. “It does not bother you to hear me say that? I know you two were plight-trothed, but that was such a long time ago…?”

“You are right,” Ranulf agreed politely. “It was a long time ago.” He started to excuse himself then, with a polite smile. “I promised my niece that I’d buy her a mare this afternoon, so I’d best get to it-”

“Ranulf, wait. I’ve a question to put to you. I heard that Henry Fitz Empress has been taken gravely ill. Can that be true? The word in the alehouses is that he might not live. But surely that is just idle tavern talk?”

“There is some truth in it, Fulk. My nephew was stricken with a high fever last month and was ill enough to give us all a scare. But he recovered fully and the last I heard, he was dealing with a troublesome vassal in the Vexin.”

“Thank God,” Fulk said, with such fervor that Ranulf stared at him, for Fulk had been one of Stephen’s most steadfast supporters. It was heartening to realize that even Harry’s former foes now saw him as England’s only hope for a lasting peace.

WHEN she awoke, Rhiannon could not at once remember where she was. “Ranulf?” She called out again, quietly, in case the others were still sleeping, for they’d been sharing their chamber for most of this trip with Olwen, Gilbert, and Gwen, his young nurse. She heard nothing, though, not even the soft sounds of breathing. By now her memory was awakening, too. They were at Canterbury, in a guest chamber of the royal castle. But where was Ranulf?

He entered as she was fumbling for her bed-robe. “So you’re finally awake, love. You were so tired yesterday that I thought it would do you good to sleep in this morning. I’ve got breakfast here for two, and whilst we linger over it, Maud is taking Gilbert and her lads to the marketplace. With luck, we might actually have an entire hour or two all to ourselves.”

“Bless her,” Rhiannon said happily, making room for Ranulf in the bed. Between sips of cider and bites of honeyed bread, they exchanged sticky kisses. “Did you remember to give Gwen money in case Gilbert sees something he wants to buy at the market?”

“I did,” he said, “and told Gwen that he could have whatever he wanted, provided it was not alive. I asked him this morning what part of the trip he’d enjoyed most, thinking he’d pick the royal menagerie at Woodstock or mayhap the ferry ride across to Southwark. But do you know what he said? What he liked best was when Maud bought him a pasty at the cookshop by the river!”

Rhiannon laughed. “Does that surprise you? This is the child, after all, whose first complete sentence was ‘Feed me!’” Ranulf shared the last of the bread with her and she settled back into his arms. “I truly like Maud, even more than you predicted I would. It will be a year in December since she was widowed, so she’ll soon be able to consider marrying again. Do you think she will?”

“She says no…though she puts it more colorfully than that. I’m very fond of Maud, too, Rhiannon, but I’d rather not be discussing her marriage prospects right now. I’m sure we can put this time to better use,” he suggested and set about proving it.

But within moments, there was a loud, insistent knocking on the door. “Ranulf? Let me in!”

Ranulf swore softly; so did Rhiannon. When the pounding persisted, they reluctantly drew apart and he swung off the bed, opening the door to his niece. “Maud? What are you doing back so soon? You promised you’d keep the children away at least until-”

“I am sorry,” Maud panted, “but as soon as we got to the marketplace, we heard…People were talking of nothing else. Last night an urgent message arrived for the Archbishop of Canterbury, summoning him to Dover. Stephen has been stricken with the bloody flux, and the doctors fear the ailment is mortal. Ranulf…he is said to be dying.”

The royal castle of Dover was unnaturally still. At midday the bailey would normally have been bustling with activity. Now it was all but deserted. The few men to be seen moved hurriedly about their tasks, hasty, almost furtive in their movements, as if fearful of calling attention to themselves. As soon as he rode through the gateway, Ranulf felt a chill of familiar foreboding. Bristol Castle had looked like this, too, as Robert lay dying.

“You take our horses to the stables,” he told Padarn. “Then meet me in the hall.”

Padarn nodded. “Will you be able to see him?”

“I do not know,” Ranulf admitted, relieved when Padarn asked no further questions. Nor had Rhiannon. He was grateful for that, as he could not have explained even to himself why he felt such an urgent need to see Stephen before he died. For Rhiannon, though, no explanation was necessary. She’d sent him off with a quiet “Godspeed.”

The great hall was crowded, and Ranulf’s entrance went unnoticed. Almost at once, he spied a familiar face, one of the archbishop’s clerks, and as soon as he could, he caught Thomas Becket’s eye.

Becket had risen in the world since they’d last met; he’d been appointed that past June as the new archdeacon of Canterbury. Now he greeted Ranulf with the somber courtesy befitting the occasion, but with just enough warmth to indicate his pleasure at seeing Ranulf again. It was adroitly done, and confirmed Ranulf’s earlier impression of Becket as a man who had the makings of a superior diplomat, skilled at conveying nuances and shadings, while keeping his own secrets safe. Taking Ranulf aside, he quietly confided the worst, that Stephen was not expected to see another sunrise.