Sharon Penman: When Christ and his Saints Slept

Although they were first cousins, the two men were as unlike in appearance as they were in character, Stephen tall and fair, Robert several inches shorter, far less outgoing, with brown hair and eyes, a quick, cool smile. He was the older of the two, thirty years to Stephen’s twenty-four, but people often assumed the age gap was greater than that, for Robert’s was the dignity of a man settled and sedate, one long past the wayward urges and mad impulses of youth. He was a man of honour-Stephen would concede that-a man of courage, loyal and steadfast. But he was not a boon companion, not one to visit the taverns and bawdy-houses with. Stephen liked to joke that not even God would dare to call him “Rob,” and would have been truly amazed had he known that in the intimacy of Robert’s marriage bed, he was Amabel’s “sweet Robin.”

Robert had impeccable manners; he believed all men were deserving of courtesy. He made no attempt, though, to feign warmth as he greeted Stephen, for he drew a clear distinction between civility and hypocrisy. But Stephen did not even notice. He’d forgotten all about Robert as soon as he recognized the girl at Robert’s side.

To Stephen, Matilda de Boulogne was living proof that small packages could hold intriguing surprises. For this little slip of a lass, barely coming up to his chest, so slight and fair and fragile she put him in mind of a delicate white violet-one that could be bruised by rough handling or chilled by a cold breath-bore in her veins the royal blood of kings. Her mother was a Scots princess and the sister of King Henry’s dead queen. Her father was the Count of Boulogne, two of her uncles successive kings of Jerusalem. She herself was a great heiress. This convent-bred innocent would bring to her husband not only the county and crown of Boulogne but vast estates, as well, in the south of England. She blushed prettily as Stephen kissed her hand, and as he gazed down into iris-blue eyes, he was not thinking only of those fertile fields and prosperous manors in Kent and Boulogne.

Amabel had known for some time that Matilda was smitten with Stephen, and she was not surprised in the least, for few young girls were not susceptible to high spirits, good looks, and gallantry. Robert now saw it, too, although with none of his wife’s benevolent approval. He supposed it was only to be expected that a fifteen-year-old virgin maiden would not have the wisdom to tell gilt from true gold. But women worldly enough to know better made the same foolish mistake, and it baffled him that it should be so. It was not that he wished Stephen ill; he did not. Nor did he deny that Stephen had courage, good humor, and a giving heart, admirable qualities for certes. But Robert did not think Stephen was reliable, and for Robert, that was one of the most damning judgments he could pass upon another man.

“Well, I’d best get back to the White Ship.” Reaching again for Matilda’s hand, Stephen raised it to his mouth. “God keep you, Lady Matilda. Till the morrow at Southampton.”

“Oh!” It was an involuntary cry, and a revealing one. “You are not coming with us?” Matilda’s disappointment was keen enough to embolden her. “I’d hoped,” she confided, “that you would make the journey on our ship. I have ever hated the sea. But I would not be so afraid if you were there to laugh at my fears, to make me laugh, too…” Her lashes fluttered up, just long enough to give Stephen one look of intense, heartfelt entreaty, then swept down, shadowing her cheeks like feathery golden fans.

Amabel grinned; coming from such an innocent, that was not badly done at all. Robert glanced at his wife but refrained from commenting. Stephen was momentarily caught off balance, not sure what to say. He really did want to sail on the White Ship, had been laying wagers with friends that it would be the first ship into Southampton Harbor. But he found himself staring at Matilda’s long, fair lashes; was that shine behind them the glint of tears?

“White Ship? I never heard of it,” he said, and discovered then that any ship was well lost for the sake of her smile.

Thomas Fitz Stephen, the proud master of the White Ship, was not pleased to learn that Stephen had defected to the king’s vessel, for the more lords of rank aboard, the greater his prestige. But he had no time to brood about Stephen’s change of plans, for the king’s son had finally arrived. The Lord William was a prideful, cocky youth of seventeen who’d inherited his father’s stocky frame, black hair, and iron-edged will. He did not have Henry’s ice-blooded control and vaunted patience, though, and soon grew restless, abandoning the ship for the more convivial pleasures of the nearest quayside tavern. But before he departed, he won over the crew by breaking out three of the casks of cargo wine, ordering them shared between passengers and sailors alike.

Most of the cargo had already been loaded: huge wine casks and heavy, padlocked coffer chests said to contain the king’s treasure. They were now secured in the center of the ship, covered with canvas. A large tarpaulin tent was being set up near the bow so the highborn passengers could be sheltered-somewhat-from the cold and flying spray. When Berold had first come aboard, he’d been awed by the spaciousness of the ship. It was filling up fast, though. He’d heard in the tavern that there were fifty oarsmen on the White Ship, but his counting skills were rudimentary at best, and he could only guess at the number of passengers milling about; at least two hundred, he reckoned, mayhap many more.

Berold had been dismayed to learn that Stephen would not be sailing with them. With Stephen aboard, he’d have felt safe, would have feared neither storms nor prowling Channel pirates, not even the disdain of these highborn passengers. With Stephen not there to speak up for him, what if one of the lords ordered him off the ship? He’d found for himself an out-of-the-way corner at the stern, near the steering oar, and drawing his knees up to his chin, he pulled his cloak close, tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He knew, though, that his very appearance marked him out as an intruder in their midst. The drab grey of his homespun tunic-neither bleached nor dyed-contrasted starkly with the vivid blues and scarlets and greens swirling around him. And while he was grateful for the warmth of his sheepskin cloak, he saw the scornful smiles it attracted, for the wool was on the outside, a style worn only by rustics, the poor, and baseborn. But when his fears finally came to pass, when a knight objected belligerently to the presence of “this meagre whelp,” the Lord Richard Fitz Roy waved the man aside with a quip about “one of Lord Stephen’s strays.”

Berold closed his eyes in thankfulness, then blessed the Lord Stephen again, for still casting a protective shadow. Sliding his hand under his cloak, he squeezed the leather pouch hidden in his tunic, his secret talisman, Stephen’s farewell generosity. The coins clinked reassuringly as he touched them. Settling back against the gunwale, he at last felt free to enjoy his astonishing good fortune: sailing to England on the king’s newest, fastest ship, amongst these great and powerful lords and their ladies. What stories he would have to tell Gerard!

He began to eavesdrop, seeking to catch snatches of conversation, for he wanted to identify as many as possible of his celebrated shipmates. Richard Fitz Roy looked to be in his early twenties; he was said to be well loved by his father, the king, who’d recently betrothed him to a Norman heiress. Berold wondered if she was one of the women sailing with them, wondered too, if the Lord William’s young wife was aboard. He was utterly fascinated by the female passengers, for never had he been in such close proximity to ladies of rank.