Sharon Penman: When Christ and his Saints Slept

Becket had gone to arrange Ranulf’s admission into the royal sickroom. Waiting by the hearth, Ranulf happened to notice William de Ypres, sitting alone in a window seat. On impulse, he walked over. “Do you remember me? I’m Ranulf Fitz Roy.”

Squinting up at him, the Fleming said, “Well, well, if it is not the empress’s brother. Although I suppose you’ll soon be known as the king’s uncle.”

“Why are you all so sure that Stephen is dying?”

“He has begun to pass clotted blood. I’d say that’s as good a sign as any to send for the priest.”

Ranulf winced. “Is he in much pain?”

“More than he’ll admit.” After a moment, Ypres said, “Do you know why he was in Dover? He was meeting the Count of Flanders again, discussing their plans to go on crusade. God love him, a crusade!”

Ranulf’s throat constricted. “He’d have made a fine crusader,” he said softly, and the Fleming nodded.

“A better crusader than a king, for certes.”

“I know,” Ranulf agreed. “So why did we both race to his deathbed, then?”

Ypres shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said flippantly, but Ranulf knew better. The Fleming would never admit it, but they’d come to Dover for the same reason-to mourn.

Kings were not accorded privacy; even dying was done in public. Stephen’s chamber was thronged with people: the Archbishop of Canterbury, several doctors, a few priests, William Martel, Abbot Clarembald of Faversham, the Earl of Arundel, Stephen’s grieving son, just recovering from his March accident, now about to be dealt another crippling blow. Will was the only family member present, for Stephen’s brother was coming from Winchester and was not likely to arrive in time. Nor was his daughter, Mary, for she had departed the nunnery in Kent for Romsey Abbey in Hampshire, and seemed destined once again to miss saying her final farewell to a dying parent.

Becket ushered Ranulf toward the bed and then stepped back so that he might have some small measure of privacy. Ranulf was shocked at sight of Stephen. Until then he’d believed Stephen might still rally, for the bloody flux was not always fatal. But as he looked down into Stephen’s face, he saw there was no hope. Death was not only on the way, it was already in the chamber.

Stephen’s eyes were sunken back in his head, fever-glazed and bloodshot, but still lucid. As Ranulf bent over the bed, he saw recognition in their depths, and genuine joy that he’d come. Stephen was too weak to talk much, but when Ranulf took his hand, he managed a feeble squeeze, even a shadowy flicker of a smile.

“Look after Maude’s lad…” Ranulf nodded mutely. Stephen’s mouth was moving again. “Tell Maude…” But he got no further. Ranulf wondered if his strength had given out or he’d just realized there was nothing to be said.

Stephen’s eyes had closed. His breathing had an audible rasp, and Ranulf was glad he’d been shriven already, for it sounded as if each faltering breath could be his last. Ranulf found himself thinking of his nephew, just a few heartbeats away from becoming England’s king…at twenty-one. Stephen was fifty-eight and could easily have lived another ten or fifteen years. Instead he was dying less than a twelvemonth after they’d come to terms at Winchester. It occurred to Ranulf that mayhap Harry truly did have an ally in the Almighty.

Stephen’s lashes quivered. “Cousin…” Ranulf leaned closer to catch the whispered words. “I hope the lad gets more joy from his kingship than I did from mine…”

Rouen, Normandy October 1154

A squall had blown in from the west soon after Petronilla’s arrival in Rouen. Within the castle, fires were kindled in every hearth and shutters hastily latched, but the solar continued to echo with the sounds of the storm’s fury. The wind’s howling put Eleanor in mind of hungry wolves, and the rain beat a steady tattoo against the slated roof, loud enough at times to intrude upon their conversation.

Petronilla moved her chair closer to the hearth. “So…how do you like sharing a city with your mother-in-law? I know it did not take you long to vanquish Louis’s mother, but she lacked the Lady Maude’s imperial will. If the empress is even half as formidable as her foes claim, she’d be a match for Barbary pirates, infidels, and Abbot Bernard, too!”

“Why is it,” Eleanor wondered, “that no one wants to believe Maude and I are on good terms? She is not a meddlesome mother-in-law, for she has far too much dignity for that. As for her ‘imperial will,’ I thanked God for it when Harry was taken so ill last month. When his fever would not break, the doctors began to despair, but not Maude. She fought Death the way she did Stephen-no quarter given-and she won. We took turns nursing him, and kept Death at bay long enough for Harry to rally. And once he was up and about, what did he do? Just as soon as he had the strength to climb into the saddle, he was off to Torigny to besiege the castle of a rebel baron, God save us all!”

Eleanor shook her head, sounding both amused and exasperated, and then shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Yolande emerged from the shadows, offering a cushion, and Petronilla gave her a sympathetic look. “Is the babe getting restless again?”

Eleanor grimaced. “Much of the time, I feel as if I’ve swallowed a frog,” she confided, “and February seems so far away…”

“Men do not know what joys they are missing, do they? I remember complaining to Raoul about one of my pregnancies, for it was hellishly hot and sweltering that summer and I felt like a beached whale. His response? To tell me I should be thankful a woman’s pregnancy lasted only nine months, as he’d read in a bestiary that an elephant carried her calf for nigh on two years!”

For most of the past year, Petronilla could not talk of Raoul without tears. That she could now jest about her late husband showed Eleanor that even heart wounds could heal, if given enough time. Positioning the cushion behind her aching back, Eleanor smiled at her sister. “Did you hear about Louis?”

“That he went off on pilgrimage?”

“Louis has always yearned to visit the holy shrine at Santiago de Compostela, and now he is doing just that. But for once he has more in mind than the salvation of his immortal soul. You see, Petra, the King of Castile has a marriageable daughter, and if she finds favor with Louis-that is, if she is unlike me in all particulars-he will probably return to France with a bride. By a very roundabout route, though,” Eleanor said and grinned. “Rather than ask me for a safe-conduct through Aquitaine, Louis traveled to Castile by way of Toulouse!”

Petronilla grinned, too. “Louis will have to perform an exorcism to rid his marriage bed of your ghost,” she predicted, “and even then-”

“My lady!” Yolande had departed the solar only moments before. Now she was back, flushed and breathless. “The empress…she is here! I just saw her ride into the bailey!”

Eleanor and Petronilla exchanged alarmed looks. What would have brought Maude out in such a storm-except news of dire urgency? Nor were they reassured when Maude was ushered into the solar, for she was soaked to the skin, her mantle muddied and her hair windblown, the first time that Eleanor had ever seen her elegant mother-in-law in such disarray.

“Good Lord, Maude, you look like a drowned cat! What possessed you to leave the priory in such vile weather? Unless…nothing has happened to Harry?”

“No,” Maude cried, “oh, no! My news is from England, Eleanor, from the Archbishop of Canterbury.” She paused for breath, and then she smiled, a smile of triumph and joy and vindication, a smile nineteen years overdue.

“Stephen is dead,” she said, “and England’s crown now belongs to my son. Henry is to be king.”