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In When Christ and His Saints Slept master storyteller and historian Sharon Kay Penman illuminates one of the lesser-known but fascinating periods of English history.
The next addition in this highly acclaimed historical fiction series of the middle ages, and the first of a trilogy that will tell the story of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. When Christ and His Saints Slept begins with the death of King Henry I, son of William the Conqueror and father of Maude, his only living legitimate offspring.
| ISBN-13: | 9781429939522 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Holt, Henry & Company, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2010 |
| Series: | Plantagenet Series , #1 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 784 |
| Sales rank: | 215,937 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
For many years while she was a student and then a tax lawyer, Sharon Kay Penman (1945-2021) worked on a novel about the life of Richard III and The War of the Roses. After the original manuscript was stolen from her car, Penman rewrote the entire novel that would become The Sunne in Splendour.
Penman is the author of ten critically acclaimed and New York Times best selling historical novels and four medieval mysteries featuring Justin de Quincy. The first book in the series, The Queen's Man, was a finalist for an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery from the Mystery Writers of America.
For many years while she was a student and then a tax lawyer, Sharon Kay Penman (1945-2021) worked on a novel about the life of Richard III and The War of the Roses. After the original manuscript was stolen from her car, Penman rewrote the entire novel that would become The Sunne in Splendour.
Penman is the author of ten critically acclaimed and New York Times best selling historical novels and four medieval mysteries featuring Justin de Quincy. The first book in the series, The Queen's Man, was a finalist for an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery from the Mystery Writers of America.
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 seneque seemed huge to him, at least 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!"
"Did you hear how her master came to the king? His father, he said, had taken the king's father to England when he sailed to claim a crown in God's Year, 1066. He begged for the honour of conveying the king as his father had done. King Henry had already engaged a ship, but he was moved by the man's appeal, and agreed to let his son, Lord William, sail on the White Ship. When word got out, all the other young lordlings clamored to sail on her, too. There — down on the quay — you can see them preening and strutting like so many peacocks. The dark one is the Earl of Chester, and yonder is the Lord Richard, one of the king's bastards, and the youth in the red mantle is said to be a kinsman of the German emperor. The king's favorite nephew, the Lord Stephen, is supposed to sail on her, too, but I do not see him yet ... he's one who'd be late for his own wake, doubtless snug in some wanton's bed —"
"I've seen the Lord Stephen, almost as near to me as you are now," Berold interrupted, for he did not want the sailor to think he was an ignorant country churl. "I've dwelled in Rouen for nigh on six months, for my uncle has a butcher's shop and is teaching me his trade. Twice did I see the king ride through the city streets, with Lord Stephen at his side. The people liked Stephen well, for he always had an eye for a pretty lass and he was open-handed with his alms-giving."
"All the way from Rouen, eh? You are the well-traveled one," the sailor murmured, and was amused to see that the boy took his good-natured gibe as gospel truth.
"Indeed, it was not a trek for the faint of heart," Berold agreed proudly. "I wore out two pairs of shoes on the road, got lost in the fog, and was nearly run down by a cart in Bayeux! But I had to get to Barfleur, for I must book passage to England. I have a ... a quest to fulfill."
That caught the sailor's interest; butchers' lads were not likely candidates for pilgrimages or perilous sea voyages. "A quest? Did you swear a holy oath, then?"
Berold nodded solemnly. "My family has long been split asunder, ever since my brother Gerard quarreled with our father, who cursed him for his willfulness and cast him out like Cain. For five winters, we knew not whether he still lived, but then a neighbor's seafaring son came to us at Michaelmas, said he'd seen Gerard in an English town called London. It was the answer to our heartfelt prayers, for my father has been ailing since the summer, suffering from a gnawing pain in his vitals, and he yearns to make peace with his firstborn ere he dies. I swore to my father and to the Father of All that I'd seek out Gerard, fetch him home."
The sailor could not help admiring the boy's pluck, but he suspected that Berold's mission was one doomed to failure. "I wish you well, lad. To tell you true, though, you're not likely to find passage this day. The king's ships are already crowded with his lords, his soldiers, and servants. They'll be taking aboard none but their own."
"I know," Berold admitted. "But God directed me to a tavern where I met Ivo — that's him over there, the one with the eyepatch. We got to talking, and when he learned of my plight, he offered to help. He is cousin to a helmsman on one of the king's ships, and his cousin will get me aboard if I make it worth his while. That must be him coming now, so I'd best be off." With a cheerful wave, he started across the street toward his newfound friends, followed by the sailor's hearty "Go with God, lad!"
"Are you Mauger?" Ivo's cousin ignored Berold's smile, merely grunted as Ivo made the introductions. He was a big-boned man, pockmarked and dour, and Berold was grateful that he had the amiable Ivo to act as go-between.
But Ivo did not seem as affable as he had been in the tavern. "Come on," he said brusquely. Berold had to hasten to keep pace, dodging passersby and mangy, scavenging dogs. A young prostitute plucked at his sleeve, but he kept on going, for she was dirty and very drunk. Although Barfleur was exciting, it was unsettling, too, for it seemed that all he'd heard about the sinfulness of seaports was true. The streets were crowded with quarrelsome, swaggering youths, the taverns were full, and even to Berold's innocent eye, there was a surfeit of whores, beggars, peddlers, and pickpockets. He was indeed fortunate to have found Ivo in this den of thieves and wantons.
They were heading away from the harbor. Berold took one last lingering look at the White Ship, then followed Ivo into the shadows of a narrow, garbage-strewn alley. He'd assumed they were taking a shortcut, but the alley was a dead end. In such close quarters, the stench of urine was overwhelming, and he started to back out, saying politely, "I'll wait whilst you piss." But before he could retreat, a huge hand slammed into the side of his head, and he lurched forward, falling to his knees. His shocked cry was cut off as Mauger slipped a thin noose around his neck, and suddenly the most precious commodity in his world was air. As Berold choked and gasped and tore frantically at the thong, Ivo leaned over him, in his upraised fist an object dark and flat. It was the last thing Berold saw.
He was never to know how long he had been unconscious. At first he was aware only of pain; his head was throbbing, and when he tried to rise, he doubled over, vomiting up his dinner. Groaning, he reached for a broken broom handle, used it for support as he dragged himself upright. Only then did he think of the money he carried in a pouch around his neck, the money meant to pay his passage to England, to bring his brother home. He groped for it with trembling fingers, continued to fumble urgently within his tunic long after he'd realized the pouch was gone. The theft of his father's money was, for Berold, a catastrophe of such magnitude that he was utterly unable to deal with it. What was he to do? Blessed Lady, how could this happen? He'd never be able to go home again, never. How could he face his family after failing so shamefully? Papa would not die at peace, Gerard would never be forgiven, and it was his fault, God curse him, all his fault.
By the time he staggered back into the street, he was so tear-blinded that he never saw the horses — not until he reeled out in front of them. Fortunately, the lead rider was a skilled horseman. He swerved with seconds to spare. So close had Berold come to disaster, though, that the stallion's haunches brushed his shoulder, sent him sprawling into the muddied street.
"You besotted fool! I ought to wring your wretched neck!"
Berold shrank back from this new assault, made mute by his fear. These men who'd almost trampled him were lords. Their fine clothing and swords proclaimed them to be men of rank, men who could strike down a butcher's apprentice as they would a stray dog. The angriest of them was already dismounting, and Berold shuddered, bracing himself for a beating — or worse.
"Use the eyes God gave you, Adam. The lad's not drunk. He's hurt."
The man called Adam was glaring down contemptuously at the cowering boy. "A few more bruises would do him no harm, my lord, might teach him to look where he is going next time." But he'd unclenched his fists, coming to a reluctant halt.
Astounded by the reprieve, Berold scrambled hastily to his feet as his defender dismounted. But he was as wobbly as a newborn colt and would have fallen had the man not grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the shelter of a mounting block.
"You seem bound and determined to get yourself run over, lad. Sit, catch your breath whilst I look at that bloody gash of yours. Ah ... not so bad. You must have a hard head! Were you set upon by thieves?"
Berold nodded miserably. "They took all my money, and now my father will die —" He got no further; to his shame, he began to sob.
Adam grimaced in disgust. They'd already wasted time enough on this paltry knave. It was truly fortunate that his lord showed such boldness on the battlefield, lest men wonder at his womanlike softheartedness. But now that the dolt had bestirred his lord's curiosity, they'd likely be stuck here till sunset, listening to this fool's tale of woe.
Just as he feared, the boy's cryptic remark was bait his lord could not resist. "You'd best tell me what happened," he said, and as Adam fumed, Berold did so. He was fast losing touch with reality. Why should one so highborn pay any heed to him? That this was a great lord, Berold did not doubt; he had never seen anyone so elegant. Shoulder-length flaxen hair that was so shiny and clean no lice would dare to nest in it. A neatly trimmed beard, and a smile that showed white, healthy teeth, not a one broken off or rotted. A brigh-tblue mantle that looked softer than any wool ever spun, luxuriously lined with grey fox fur. Cowhide boots dyed to match, laced all the way to the knee. A hat adorned with a dark-red jewel. Worn at his left hip, as lightly as a feather, a sword Berold doubted he could even lift. He could not begin to imagine what life must be like for this handsome young lord, for there was no earthly bridge between their worlds. And yet there was an odd sense of familiarity about his saviour, as if their paths had crossed ere this. Even as Berold explained haltingly about his father and lost brother and Ivo's foul treachery, he found himself straining to remember. When he did, he was so stunned that he forgot all else, blurting out in one great gasp:
"You are the king's nephew! You are the Lord Stephen!"
Stephen acknowledged his identity with a smile, aware of the impatient muttering of his men but feeling a flicker of pity for this luckless butcher's lad, scared and grass-green and far from home. "Now," he said, "what can we do about you, Berold?" The boy was looking up at him like a lost puppy, eyes filled with silent pleading, forlorn hope. Stephen studied him for a moment more, and then shrugged. Why not?
"Tell me," he said, "how would you like to sail to England on the White Ship?"
STEPHEN had no liking for ships, did not know any man of sense who did; who would willingly seek out the triple perils of storms, shipwrecks, and sea monsters? He was fascinated, nonetheless, by the sight that met his eyes: the English king's fleet, riding at anchor in Barfleur Harbor. They were very like the ships that had carried his grandfather William the Bastard on his invasion of England more than fifty years past, but Stephen neither knew nor cared about that; like most people, he lived for the moment, had no interest in any history not his own. But he enjoyed pageantry, was amused by chaos, and relished turmoil — all of which he found in full measure on this Thursday of St Catherine in Barfleur Harbor.
Up and down the beach, small boats were being launched, ferrying passengers out to the waiting ships. Only those fortunate enough to be traveling on the White Ship or the English king's vessel were spared that wet, rough ride and undignified, hazardous boarding. They had just to venture out onto the quay, then cross a gangplank to the safety of their ship.
Stephen was standing now on that same quay, wanting to bid his uncle Godspeed before they sailed. So far he'd looked in vain for the stout, formidable figure of the king. As he was in no hurry, he was content to loiter there on the pier, bantering with acquaintances and passersby. But his nonchalance camouflaged a soldier's sharp eye, and he alone noticed the small boy tottering toward the far end of the quay. Shoving aside the people in his path, he darted forward, snatching up the child just before he reached the wharf's edge.
The little boy let out a yowl of protest. It subsided, though, as soon as he recognized Stephen, for Ranulf was a sunny-natured child, given to mischief but not tantrums. Stephen had concluded that Ranulf must take after his mother, for not even King Henry's greatest admirers ever claimed he had an amiable temperament.
"Well, look what I caught! What sort of queer fish could this be?" Ranulf was too young to comprehend the joke, for he was barely past his second birthday. Nor did he fully understand his kinship to Stephen. He knew only that Stephen was always kind to him, that Stephen was fun, and he squealed happily now as his cousin swung him high up into the air.
"More," he urged, "more!" But Stephen insisted upon lowering him back onto the quay, for he'd seen the women hastening toward them.
"Ranulf!" Angharad reached them first, with the white-faced nurse just a step behind. Catching her son in a close embrace, she held him until he started to squirm, then turned upon Stephen a torrent of gratitude.
Laughing, he held up his hand to stem the tide. "Lady Angharad, you do me too much credit. The lad was in no real danger. Even if he had taken a tumble into the water, we'd have fished him out quick enough." He was not surprised, though, that his assurances counted for naught; he'd never known a more doting mother than his uncle's young Welsh mistress.
Stephen treated all women with courtesy, felt protective toward most of them. But Angharad, in particular, had always stirred his sense of chivalry. He knew little of her past, only that she'd been brought back by his uncle from one of his campaigns in Wales. She couldn't have been much more than fifteen at the time, and he sometimes wondered how she'd felt about being claimed as a prize of war by an enemy more than thirty years her senior. Stephen had been quite young himself then, and had only a few hazy memories of a timid country lass with nary a word to say for herself, downswept lashes and sidelong glances and a shyness that served as her shield. But in the six years that she'd been at Henry's court, she'd learned to speak French, adopted Norman fashions, and borne Henry two children, a stillborn son and Ranulf.
Stephen knew that most people would envy Angharad, not pity her, for her life held comforts undreamed-of in Wales. The king's concubine would never go hungry, never lack for warm clothes or a soft bed. As tight-fisted as Henry was, he looked after his own, freely acknowledging all his bastard-born children. He was said to have sired at least twenty offspring out of wedlock, and had made brilliant marriages for many of them. Stephen did not doubt Ranulf was fortunate, indeed, that his mother had been fair enough to catch a king's eye. Whether that was true or not for Angharad, too, he had no way of knowing.
Hoisting Ranulf up onto his shoulders, Stephen escorted Angharad and the nurse across the gangplank, found for them a space under the canvas tent, and wished them a safe and speedy journey. Returning to the quay, he was hailed by a husky female voice. "Stephen, you fool! My husband will be here any moment, and when he finds you lusting after me like this, he'll slay us both!"
Stephen bit back a grin. "If ever there were a woman worth dying for, it would be you, my dearest ... dearest ... no, do not tell me! Clemence? No ... Rosamund?"
That earned him a sharp poke in the ribs. "Swine!" She laughed, and he reached out, gave her a hug, for they were kin and could take such liberties without giving rise to gossip.
They were not really related, though, not by blood; it was Amabel's husband, Robert, who was Stephen's cousin. While King Henry provided well for his illegitimate children, he preferred not to do so out of his own coffers. For Robert, his firstborn son, he'd found Amabel Fitz Hamon, daughter of the Lord of Creully, a rich heiress who'd brought Robert the lordship of Glamorgan, the vast Honour of Gloucester. Stephen had recently heard that the king meant to bestow upon Robert, too, the earldom of Gloucester. His was not a jealous nature, but he did begrudge Robert so much good fortune. No man so self-righteous, he thought, deserved an earldom and Amabel and a king's favor, too.
Excerpted from When Christ and his Saints Slept by Sharon Kay Penman. Copyright © 1995 Sharon Kay Penman. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
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