Time and Chance (19 page)

Hywel didn’t hesitate. “Ranulf spoke true. I have no doubts whatsoever about that.”

“I would say, then, that your time in these foreign lands has served us well.”

Owain was usually sparing with his praise and Hywel flushed with pleasure. Draining his cup, he pushed his chair away from the table. “It is late,” he said, “and I’d best find a bed over in the hall ere they are all taken.”

Owain nodded. “I am glad,” he said, “to have you home,” and Hywel departed with a light step and a lingering smile.

Outside, the sky was clear, stars gleaming in its ebony vastness like celestial fireflies. It was bitterly cold, and Hywel’s every breath trailed after him in pale puffs of smoke. The glazed snow crackled underfoot as he started toward the great hall. He’d taken only a few steps when a ghostly, graceful figure glided from the shadows into his path.

Hywel came to a halt. “Were you waiting to bid me good night, Cristyn? How kind.”

Cristyn pulled down her hood. The face upturned to his was bleached by the moonlight, her eyes dark and fathomless. “I was hoping,” she said, “that you’d not come back.”

“I missed you, too,” he drawled and heard her draw a breath, sharp as a serpent’s hiss.

“I know what you are up to,” she warned, “and it will avail you naught. You may be Owain’s spy, but you’ll never be his heir.”

“You might want to check with my father ere you settle the succession for him. I daresay he has an idea or two on that particular subject.”

Cristyn gave him a stare colder even than the December night. “You will not cheat Davydd of his birthright.”

Hywel laughed softly. “Now if I were facing you across a battlefield, darling, I might be worried. But little brother Davydd? He could not out-fight a flock of drunken whores. Ask him to tell you sometime about the night he balked at paying for services rendered and the outraged bawd chased him through the streets of Bangor, walloping him with a broom.”

Hywel waited to see if she would respond. When she did not, he walked on, still laughing under his breath. Cristyn stayed where she was, as if rooted to the frozen earth, watching as he sauntered toward the hall. But he never looked back.

CHAPTER NINE

 

 

 

 

 

 

FRIDAY, THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF JUNE, was the Nativity of St John the Baptist, and Chester’s annual fair was in full swing. Booths and stalls had been set up in front of the abbey of St Werbergh’s Great Gate, and merchants were doing a brisk business. Enticed by the aroma of freshly baked apple wafers, Eleri fumbled in the purse dangling from her belt. Finding only a few farthings, she scowled, then tugged at her sister’s sleeve.

“I wish to God our kings minted money of their own. I hate having to use English coins for everything. Speaking of which, do you have any, Rhiannon? I want to buy the children some wafers.”

“Ranulf gave me a full purse. Here, take what you need.”

They’d been speaking in Welsh, and Eleri now glanced toward the young Englishwoman standing a few feet away, one of the Countess of Chester’s ladies-in-waiting. “Your French is much better than mine, Rhiannon. Ask her if she wants a wafer, too.”

Isolda did, and Eleri was soon shepherding the children toward the baker’s booth. Left alone with Isolda, Rhiannon made polite conversation for a while, but the other woman’s responses were so terse that she soon gave up the attempt, unsure whether Isolda’s discomfort was a reaction to her blindness, her Welsh blood, or both. Reminding herself that there were plenty of Welsh made uneasy by her blindness, too, she concentrated instead upon the sounds and smells of the fair.

The savory aroma of the baked wafers mingled with the fragrances of perfumes and spices and the more pungent odors associated with summer heat and crowds and animals. Rhiannon had never been to a fair before; they had nothing of this scope in Wales. But Eleri was skilled at acting as her sister’s eyes and she’d been providing vivid descriptions of the activities and fairgoers.

The variety of goods for sale was truly amazing, she’d reported: bolts of linen and silk, cowhide boots, felt hats, jars of honey and olive and almond and linseed oil, wines and cider and candles and even a bright green African parrot in a wicker cage. Equally remarkable was the range of entertainment offered. There were acrobats and jugglers and musicians and a rope dancer and archery contests, bouts with the quarter staff, wrestling matches, and cock fighting. There were also cutpurses and thieves and harlots on the prowl, keeping their eyes peeled for the sheriff’s men, and an occasional belligerent drunkard. For Rhiannon, it was an experience both exhilarating and overwhelming.

“Lady Isolda, where are they selling cider?” Getting no answer, Rhiannon repeated her question. But again there was no response. With a pang of dismay, she realized that the other woman had gone off, leaving her alone. She had a moment of instinctive panic, which quickly subsided once she remembered that Eleri would soon be back.

Still, it was unnerving to be surrounded by jostling strangers, people she could neither see nor understand, for although Ranulf had taught her French, most of the Chester fairgoers were speaking English, and that only increased her sense of isolation. Damning Isolda under her breath, she stumbled when someone bumped her from behind. Her first fear was that a cutpurse had seen her as an easy target, but she soon realized that something else was amiss. All around her, people were pushing and shoving. They did not seem fearful, though, for they were laughing and shrieking. Confused, she struggled to keep her footing, but she was caught up in the surging crowd like a twig carried along by flood waters. She was soon dizzy and disoriented, her cries for Eleri going unheard. When an elbow slammed into her ribs, she reeled backward, losing her balance.

She did not fall, though. An arm snaked around her waist, keeping her upright, and a familiar voice murmured soothingly in Welsh, “Easy, darling, I’ve got you.”

Rhiannon gasped with relief, but also astonishment. “Hywel? Whatever are you doing here?”

“What I do best, rescuing a damsel in distress. Of course I usually have to fend off dragons, not greased pigs, but—”

“Greased pigs! What are you talking about, Hywel?”

“That was the cause of all the commotion. One of the greased pigs escaped from its pen and made a dash for freedom, with a pack of eager youths in noisy pursuit.” Hywel chuckled and gave Rhiannon a hug. “It must have been a Welsh pig, for he ran circles around those English lads, and when last seen, was heading west as fast as those stubby little legs would carry him. Now . . . why are you wandering about Chester’s fair by yourself and where is that roving husband of yours?”

“You first,” she insisted, as he led her toward the greater security of the closest booth.

“We happened to be passing by and decided to stop in at the fair. Why else did we make peace with the English except for the opportunity to shop in Chester?”

Rhiannon wished he wouldn’t joke about the peace, for she still fretted—especially late at night—that it would not last. “My turn,” she said. “We are visiting Ranulf’s niece. She was waylaid by the abbot, told us to go on into the fair. Eleri is at the baker’s booth with the children, hers and mine.”

“And Ranulf?”

“He had to ride over to one of his Cheshire manors and meet with his steward. We’re staying with Maud until he gets back. Can you wait until she joins us? I would like you to meet her.”

“We did meet,” Hywel said, smiling at her surprise, “in Poitiers last June. Did Ranulf never tell you?” Hearing his name called then, he gave an answering shout. “Over here!” Turning back to Rhiannon, he said, “You remember my foster brother, Peryf ap Cedifor?”

“Of course,” she said, holding out her hand for Peryf to kiss. The sound of his voice was just as she remembered, gruff and so deep that she’d envisioned him as a veritable giant, a vast, sturdy oak of a man. It had come as a shock when Ranulf described Peryf as being only of average height, nowhere near as tall as Hywel.

“And here is my son, Caswallon,” Hywel said fondly as they were joined by a youth of fifteen. “You remember the lovely Lady Rhiannon, lad?”

The boy nodded, ducking his head. He had inherited neither his father’s uncommon height nor his coloring, the fair hair and dark eyes that gave Hywel such a striking appearance. Caswallon had hair the shade of rust, a multitude of freckles, and greyish-green eyes that looked at life sidelong, rarely head-on. Unlike Peryf, Caswallon’s physical description tallied well with Rhiannon’s mental image of the boy, as one easily overlooked. Each time Rhiannon had met him, he’d been so tongue-tied that all of her maternal instincts were aroused. The problem, she suspected, was most likely Hywel; it might well be daunting for a shy youngster, growing up in the shadow of such a celebrated and flamboyant father.

“Rhiannon, I’ve been looking all over for you! Why did you not stay by the—Oh!” Eleri’s indignant protest was forgotten at the sight of the Welsh prince. “Lord Hywel, what a surprise! What brings you to Chester?”

“Lady Eleri, you know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth,” Hywel professed gallantly. After dispatching his son to buy more wafers and cider for them all, he and Peryf ushered the women toward the shade of a nearby elder tree. “I’m sorry that we’ll miss seeing Ranulf. I rely upon him for gossip about the English king’s court.”

Eleri giggled; her sister had long ago noted that she laughed immoderately at all of Hywel’s jokes. “Well, you are in luck,” she declared, “for Rhiannon and I have a truly wicked scandal to relate, one involving a nun and a count’s son!”

Hywel was immediately intrigued. “Do not keep us in suspense, sweetheart. And spare none of the lurid details!”

Eleri was happy to oblige. “You remember when the Count of Boulogne died on that ill-fated expedition against Toulouse? Naturally the English king at once began to think about finding a suitable husband for the count’s sister Mary, the new heiress to Boulogne. Unfortunately, Mary also happened to be the abbess of Romsey’s nunnery. Now that would have discouraged most men from pursuing any matrimonial schemes.”

Eleri stifled another giggle, adding archly, “The Church does not look kindly upon marriage for its Brides of Christ, after all. But the English king is not one to balk at trivial obstacles like holy oaths of chastity. So . . . he either coerced or coaxed our Mother Abbess out of Romsey, somehow obtained a dispensation—to the horror of his own chancellor, Becket—and married the new countess off to his cousin Matthew, younger son of the Count of Flanders!”

Rhiannon saw no humor in the tale, for it troubled her that Henry felt so free to play by his own rules; moreover, she could not help sympathizing with the convent-bred Mary, wondering how willing a bride she’d been. But Hywel and Peryf were roaring with laughter.

“Bless you, lass, that is more than choice gossip. It is almost too good to be true, for it has all the classic elements of a truly great scandal; the best ones always involve the Church, the Crown, and clandestine conspiracies. Throw in a virgin nun-bride and it is well nigh perfect!”

Eleri joined in their mirth, delighted with the success of her story. They were laughing too hard to hear the approaching female footsteps, lightly treading upon the summer grass. “What,” Maud asked, “is provoking so much merriment?” Her dark eyes widened as they turned toward Hywel. “If it is not the poet-prince!”

Hywel kissed her hand with his usual panache. “I am flattered beyond words that you remember me, my lady.”

“You . . . beyond words? Now why do I doubt that?”

Hywel grinned. “Why are the most beautiful of women always the cruelest?” After introducing Maud to Peryf, he collected his son, just returning with a sackful of wafers and several cider flasks. Munching on the wafers, they corralled the children and sauntered back toward the booths, stopping to watch as a daring youth juggled knives and axes and even flaming torches.

It was a dazzling performance, and the audience responded with generous applause and a shower of coins. Leaving the juggler to count his booty, they moved on. Eleri soon dropped back to walk beside her sister. “It is shameless,” she hissed, “the way Maud is flirting so blatantly with Hywel! You’d think she’d have more pride, would you not?”

Rhiannon made a noncommittal reply. She would much rather Hywel do his flirting with Maud than with Eleri, for the widowed countess was far more worldly than her little sister and better able to deal with Hywel’s formidable charm. While she was convinced that Eleri loved her husband, she knew, too, that Hywel was dangerously adept at seduction, and she wasn’t sure his friendship with Ranulf would restrain him if Eleri offered encouragement. No, better that he turn that beguiling smile upon Maud, a more worthy adversary in every sense. Even without sight, she could detect the unmistakable sparks flying between them, and she found herself wondering about that first meeting of theirs in Poitiers.