Gilbert’s dire expectations.
He saw at once that his laughter had shocked them, and he struggled to contain his imprudent mirth, to sound sober and serious and above all, sincere, that this was merely a vast and outlandish misunderstanding. But then the porter shouted, “You misbegotten, whoreson thief, I’ll teach you to steal from God!” and swung his cudgel toward Ranulf’s head.
Tower Royal was one of London’s most impressive dwellings, as well it should be, for it had been a king’s gift, presented to Stephen at the time of his marriage to the Lady Matilda de Boulogne. The neighboring residents of Watling Street and Cheapside were accustomed to noise and torchlight spilling over the manor walls. Stephen was a lavish host, and whenever he was in London, Tower Royal served as a magnet, drawing to its hospitable hearth Norman lords and their ladies, officials of the court, influential churchmen, even some of the city’s more prosperous merchants and ward aldermen, for if Stephen liked a man’s company, he was indifferent to whether that man was Saxon or Norman, citizen or baron. His good-natured, indiscriminate affability had subjected him, at times, to gossip and the disapproval of his peers, but it had won him the hearts of Londoners; there was no man in the city more popular than he.
On this mild April evening, he had entertained his younger brother, Henry, Bishop of Winchester. After a meal of roast duck and stewed eels, Henry’s favorite foods, they settled down to a game of chess, and Stephen’s wife politely excused herself from their company so they might talk of politics without constraint; the bishop, like so many of his fellow clerics, felt that women were not meant to have a voice in matters of state. Matilda, who had less malice in her nature than any of her sisters in Christendom, nonetheless found herself wondering occasionally how her brother-in-law would cope once he must answer to a queen-and an imperious one at that, for those who knew Henry’s daughter knew, too, that Maude would be no docile, biddable pawn. When God called her father to Heaven’s Throne, Maude would never be content merely to reign. She would rule, too; on that, her allies and enemies could all agree.
After leaving the hall, Matilda made a quick detour into the nursery, where she did a loving inventory of the three small sailors adrift in a featherbed boat: Baldwin, Eustace, and William. Their night’s voyage was a peaceful one; they were all sound asleep. So, too, was the little girl in the corner cradle, her baby, her namesake. Blowing kisses to her brood, Matilda quietly withdrew.
Back in her own chamber, she dismissed her maid, then sat down amidst the cushions in the window seat and began to unbraid her hair. It floated about her like a veil of woven gold threads; Matilda was very proud of her hair, and tended it with such diligence that her chaplain had chided her for vanity. Matilda had accepted the rebuke meekly enough, as was her way, but continued to brush and burnish her hip-length blonde tresses, for she knew that Scriptures said, “If a woman hath long hair, it is a glory to her,” and that secret stubbornness was also her way.
The step was well known to her, but she felt surprise, nonetheless, when she looked up, for she’d not expected her husband until the hearth had burned low. “Stephen? Is the chess game done so soon?”
“I let Henry win,” Stephen said, cheerfully ignoring the fact that he was a mediocre player at best and his brother a very good one. “I then begged off from a rematch, explaining that I wanted to get above-stairs in time to watch my wife undress for bed.”
Matilda’s eyes widened. “Oh, Stephen, you did not-and he a priest!”
“He’d not like to hear you call him that, my love, for Brother Henry is one for holding fast to the least of his honours. A bishop he is, and would aim higher still; have you not noticed how solicitous he is of our ailing archbishop? Mayhap that’s why the archbishop always looks so uneasy around Henry, almost as if he were hearing vulture wings hovering overhead!”
Matilda clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Ah, Stephen, do be serious just this once. You did not really say that to Henry, did you?”
Stephen laughed, and dropped down beside her in the window seat, marveling that after ten years of marriage and four children, she still could not tell when he was teasing her. “Mayhap I did, mayhap not.”
Matilda gazed calmly into his eyes, and then turned her head aside so he’d not see her smile. “Better I not know,” she said, and sighed as he drew back her hair, kissing the curve of her throat. “It gladdens me that you still find pleasure in looking upon my body, even if I’d rather you not boast about it to men of the Church.”
“Indeed, I do find pleasure in looking, and in touching and caressing and stroking and fondling…what did I leave out?” he asked, and when he laughed this time, she did, too. He’d lifted her onto his lap and she’d gone soft and languid in his arms by the time a repeated rapping sounded on the door.
“We’re not here,” Stephen said loudly as Matilda sought to muffle her giggles against his shoulder. When the knocking persisted, he got reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll get rid of them right quick,” he assured her, and she watched as he strode across the chamber and opened the door. After a brief exchange, he turned with an apologetic smile. “It is my cousin Ranulf, and he says it is urgent. I’ll have to see him, Tilda, but not for long, that I promise.” Returning to the window seat, he began to speculate what Ranulf might want at such an hour. “He is a good lad, but nary a day goes by without him getting into devilment of some sort, most of which he manages to keep from my uncle the king. Did I ever tell you about the time he-”
He got no further, for the servant was back. But the two youths being ushered into the bedchamber were strangers to Stephen. “Who in blazes are you?”
The taller of the two came forward, knelt, and said hastily, “Forgive us, my lord, for lying to you, but we knew no other way to gain admittance. My name is Gilbert Fitz John and this is Ancel de Bernay. We are squires to the Earl of Gloucester, and Ranulf’s friends. He needs your help, my lord Stephen, for he has been arrested!”
Stephen was surprised, but not shocked, for youthful sins were both expected and indulged, provided that the sinners were highborn, like Ranulf. “What has he done? An alehouse brawl?”
The boys exchanged glances. Gilbert hesitated, then blurted out, “Nay, it is far more serious than that. Ranulf was caught breaking into the priory of St John at Holywell. I very much fear he’ll be charged with attempted theft or even rape. But it is not true, I swear it. He meant only to borrow a nun’s habit!”
There was a silence after that. Stephen and Matilda shared the same expression, one of utter astonishment. But then the corner of Stephen’s mouth quirked. Turning back to his wife, he said, “I am sorry, my love, but I cannot keep my promise. This is one story I have got to hear!”
Ranulf would not have believed it had he ever been told he could be afraid of the dark. But he’d never experienced darkness like this, lacking the faintest glimmer of light, as black as the pits of Hell. He was not alone; an occasional rustling in the straw warned him of that. Mice, he guessed, or rats. He stamped his feet to discourage any undue familiarity, slumping back against the wall. His manacles were rubbing his wrists raw, and his head was throbbing, but a headache was of minor moment when he considered what might have happened. If he’d not ducked in time, he’d have suffered much more than a grazed, bloody scalp; the porter’s cudgel would have split his skull like a ripe gourd.
He did not know whether it was a hopeful sign or not that he’d been taken to the Tower and not the gaol of London. It might just be a matter of convenience; the Tower, built by his royal grandsire, was closer to the priory than the city gaol, off to the west by the River Fleet. He was quite familiar with the Tower, for its upper two floors contained his father’s London residence and the chapel of St John. But he’d never expected to find himself confined in a small, underground cell near the storage chamber. He’d never, ever expected to be manhandled and shoved and treated like a felon.
His experience in the past few hours had taught him-if the porter’s cudgel had not already done so-that his predicament held no humor whatsoever. Theft was a serious offense, and “stealing from God” was a crime he could hang for. He might also be charged with attempted rape, for people would be quick to suspect the worst of a man caught at night in a nunnery. Ranulf tried to recall what he’d heard about rape laws. All he knew for certes was that it was a much more serious crime if a man forced himself upon a virgin, and nuns were all virgins-save an occasional widow-Brides of Christ.
Ranulf knew, of course, that he held the key to his prison. He need only speak up, reveal his identity. They were not likely to believe his story, and who could blame them? Yet it would matter little whether they believed him or not. It would be enough that he was King Henry’s son. If he admitted who he was, he’d be freed. But if he did, his brother would have to know, and Ranulf could not bear that Robert find out. Robert would never understand. He’d not even be angry, just baffled and disappointed. Ranulf would not willingly disappoint Robert for the very
