Time and Chance (27 page)

“Was that little lass you?” he asked, prodding his memory in vain. “So . . . you’re Walter Clifford’s daughter.”

“Yes, my lord king. I am Rosamund Clifford,” she said, and dropped another curtsy. She was so happy that Henry claimed to have remembered her that she now made Gilbert utterly happy, too, by turning to him and saying, “It was so long ago, the summer after the king’s coronation. He was putting down a Marcher lord’s rebellion and stayed one night at my father’s castle. I’d climbed the old apple tree in my mother’s garden and lost my balance when I tried to get down. I was clinging desperately to one of the branches when the king heard my cries and ran to my rescue. He caught me just as I fell, saved me from broken bones and mayhap even a broken neck, then dried my tears and agreed that my mishap would be kept a secret between the two of us.”

She smiled again at Henry. “So I owe you a debt twice-over, my liege, for that little girl in the apple tree and this foolish one at the Woodstock springs.”

It occurred to Ranulf that Rosamund Clifford was looking at Henry with the same starry-eyed adoration that his son was lavishing upon her. It was dangerous for a girl to be so pretty and so innocent, too; a convent was probably the safest place for her, at least until her father found her a suitable husband.

Henry was amused and faintly flattered, his thoughts echoing Ranulf’s own: that the sooner this little lamb got safely back to Godstow, the better. “The pleasure was all mine, Mistress Rosamund. But if you hope to keep your father in ignorance, we’d best see about repairing the damage done. We need someone who can be discreet, who can help the lass to stitch up the tear in her gown and find her another veil. Any ideas, Ranulf?”

“I know no one who appreciates intrigues more than Maud.”

“So I’ve heard,” Henry said, with a puckish smile that made Ranulf wonder suddenly if his nephew knew Maud had been the go-between in his long-ago liaisons with Annora Fitz Clement. It was soon agreed upon that Will would escort Rosamund Clifford to the manor and Gilbert would then go into the hall and fetch Maud, a plan that seemed to please Will and Gilbert more than Rosamund, who kept glancing back over her shoulder until she’d vanished into the gathering dusk.

Once she was gone, the two men looked at each other and laughed. “Were we ever that young?” Ranulf asked and Henry slapped him playfully on the back.

“Speak for yourself, Uncle. Need I remind you that I’m only thirty? I think I’ll have a word with Clifford, though, suggest that he send the girl back to Godstow without delay. Next time she might not be so lucky.” After a moment, Henry started to laugh again. “I was just thinking . . . Eleanor was about that lass’s age when she wed the French king. But somehow I doubt that Eleanor was ever that vulnerable or trusting. If any man had been fool enough to force his attentions upon her, I’d wager she’d have kicked him where it would hurt the most and then laughed about it afterward!”

Ranulf grinned. “I daresay you’re right.” The summer darkness was flowing about them now like a river, drowning the last traces of twilight. There was no point in continuing on to the springs and they started back. “Maud was a good choice,” Henry observed, “for she’ll not lecture the lass. Maud, bless her, is never judgmental. Did you hear about her brother?”

“No . . . what trouble has Will gotten himself into now?” Ranulf would never understand how his brother Robert, as fine a man as ever drew breath, could have sired a son as incompetent as Will. “I saw him in the hall, so if he got himself abducted by the Welsh again, he must have paid another ransom.”

“No, I’m talking of her younger brother, Roger. He is now the bishop-elect for the see of Worcester.”

Ranulf was delighted, for he’d always been very fond of Roger. “A pity his parents could not have lived to see that. How proud they would have been.”

“Roger is a good man, ought to make a good bishop. Even Thomas could find no objections to raise.”

“You make it sound as if Thomas is deliberately being contentious. Is that what you truly think, Harry?”

“In truth, Ranulf, I do not know what I think. I’d have sworn I knew Thomas to the depths of his soul. Now . . . now I look at him and see a stranger.”

By then they were almost upon the manor. It was clear that something out of the ordinary was occurring. Torches were flaring, voices raised, dogs barking. Ranulf figured it out first. “It is Owain Gwynedd,” he said.

The Welsh king’s entrance was so dramatic that Ranulf suspected he’d deliberately timed his arrival for nightfall. The molten-gold light of the torches flamed up into the darkening sky, casting eerie, wavering shadows, striking sparks against sword hilts and spearheads and the ruby pendant encircling the slender throat of Owain’s queen. Cristyn’s exotic, dark beauty had never struck Ranulf so forcefully, and he had the uneasy thought that this was a woman men would kill over, one with Delilah and Jezebel and Bathsheba. Did Hywel fully understand how dangerous it could be to underrate her?

Owain’s sons had accompanied him, well armored in pride and suspicion. Davydd and Rhodri, riding stirrup to stirrup, handsome and high-strung. Cynan, looking about with unabashed curiosity, and Maelgwn, meeting Woodstock with a scowl. Iorwerth, solitary even in a crowd. Several others, whose names Ranulf knew, but whose personalities eluded him. And then Hywel, reining in at Owain’s side, father and son gazing down upon their English audience, so impassive that even Ranulf, who knew them so well, could not be sure what they were thinking. With a silent, fervent hope that all would go well at Woodstock between his two kings, Ranulf stepped forward into the torch-glare to bid them welcome to his other world.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

 

 

 

 

SITTING ON A BENCH in the gardens, Ranulf was watching his children romp with a silver-grey puppy when he heard his name called. Rising, he moved forward to meet Thomas Becket. Two of the men with the archbishop were familiar to Ranulf, for William Fitz Stephen and Herbert of Bosham had been clerks in the royal chancellory before following Becket to Canterbury, and they exchanged amiable greetings.

“Where is the Lady Rhiannon?” Becket asked, demonstrating that his manners were no less impeccable as archbishop than they’d been as chancellor.

“She is visiting with the queen and my niece, the Lady Maud, and whilst she does, I rashly offered to keep our two hellions from wreaking havoc upon an unsuspecting Woodstock,” Ranulf said with a smile.

“I see that the king has given you the puppy. He mentioned to me that he had it in mind. Apparently it is an uncommon breed?”

“Yes, a Norwegian dyrehund. The king remembered that I’d bred them years ago and thought it would please me to have one again.”

“He can be very generous,” Becket said, and Ranulf nodded. He was frustrated by the formality of the conversation, made necessary by the archbishop’s entourage. He wanted to take Becket aside, dispense with protocol, and talk not of the king, but of Harry, the man they both knew so well. But Becket was always surrounded by others and he did not invite any opportunities. To the contrary, he maintained an emotional distance, one Ranulf had been unable to breach. Friendly but not familiar, he used courtesy and the deference due his office as a shield, effectively deflecting curiosity and intimacy, too.

Becket was talking about Roger of Gloucester’s elevation to the bishopric of Worcester. He seemed to hold Roger in high esteem, which might explain his willingness to approve Roger’s election. For certes, it was not to please Harry. Becket’s interest in pleasing the king seemed minimal, and Ranulf yearned to know why. But that was not a question he could ask, mayhap not even one Becket could answer.

They continued making polite, meaningless small talk for a while longer and then the archbishop and his retinue moved on. Ranulf reclaimed his seat, watching until Becket was no longer in sight. What was motivating the man? Was it pride? Had his newfound independence gone to his head? Ranulf remembered his sister’s foolhardy behavior when it seemed as if the crown was finally within her grasp. She’d acted arrogantly and recklessly, alienating the Londoners to such an extent that they’d rebelled and chased her out of the city. She’d lost her chances of queenship in that wild rout, and doomed England to another twelve years of civil war. Could Becket be following that same perilous path?

Or did he truly believe himself to be unworthy of the archbishopric? Did he feel the need to prove to the Church—and to himself—that he was no longer Harry’s man? Did he think that to serve God, he must first sacrifice his other self, disavow the worldly chancellor who’d been the king’s friend? Was he shedding his old identity the way a snake would shed its skin? Ranulf frowned, then called out an admonition to Gilbert, who had scrambled precariously up onto the garden wall. It served for naught to speculate like this. He could only hope that Becket would realize in time that neither the Church nor the Crown benefitted from confrontation and conflict.

“Ranulf? Is it really you?”

The voice was one he’d not heard in years, but he knew it at once, for it still echoed at times in his dreams. He sat, frozen in disbelief, as Annora Fitz Clement came toward him across the grassy mead. It had been sixteen years since he’d seen her last, at Shrewsbury’s fair, a memory that had yet to fade, still sharply etched and achingly vivid. She’d been clad in green, pregnant with her husband’s child, glowing with contentment—until she’d seen him standing there. For at least a lifetime, they’d stared at each other, as she pleaded silently that he not betray her. He’d never forgotten that look of fear on her face; in that moment, he’d finally seen her for what she was—another man’s wife.

She was garbed again in green, a moss-colored gown with tight-fitting bodice and wide skirts, the sleeves billowing out like streamers from her slender wrists. The black hair he’d loved to stroke was hidden away under a wimple of crisp white linen. She’d never been a great beauty, short and dark and so quick-tempered that he’d fondly called her “hellcat,” but from the time he was sixteen, she’d been the woman he wanted, the one he had to have, at whatever cost.

She’d almost reached him and he got hurriedly to his feet, kissing her hand and then her cheek. “You always were one for taking a man by surprise,” he said, with a strained smile. “It’s been a long time, Annora.” He winced as soon as the platitude left his mouth. It was bad enough that he suddenly felt like a tongue-tied raw lad, without sounding like one, too.

She laughed and let him seat her beside him on the bench. The conversation that followed was as proper as it was awkward: polite queries about family and health, as if there had been nothing between them but friendship. He offered his condolences for her father’s death, very belatedly, for Raymond de Bernay had gone to God four years ago. She assured him that her brothers were well and related a humorous story about Ancel, the friend of his youth. Ranulf smiled and nodded and tried not to recall the day Ancel had caught them together, calling his sister a slut and Ranulf a Judas.

“I do not believe it,” Annora exclaimed suddenly. “That puppy across the garden looks just like your dyrehund, just like Loth!”

“Loth was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of dog, but I have hopes for the pup . . . if only the children can stop squabbling long enough to agree upon a name for him.”

“Those are your children? Gilbert and Mallt?” She made a credible attempt at the Welsh pronunciation and gave him an impish smile. “You must wonder how I know that. I met them, you see, three years ago at the Chester fair.”

“Yes, I know. Rhiannon told me,” he said, and saw her surprise.

“Ancel named one of his sons after Gilbert, too. What was it I called the three of you . . . the unholy trinity? I was so sorry to learn of his death . . . a riding mishap of some kind?”

He stared at her. She did not know! But then, how could she? “Gilbert died,” he said, “because of me.”

“Because of you? I do not understand.”

“After I got your letter, telling me that you could not see me again, I set out for Shrewsbury hoping that I’d find you at the fair. When Gilbert learned that I’d gone off alone into an area under Stephen’s control, he was alarmed and rode after me. He never reached Shrewsbury, though. His horse bolted and threw him, breaking his neck.”

“Oh, Ranulf . . .” Reaching over, she gently touched his hand. For a time, they sat in silence, remembering and grieving and watching his children play with the dyrehund puppy. “I had to end it,” she said, very softly. “I promised God that I would, if only He’d let my baby live. I could not bear to miscarry again . . .”

“I know, lass,” he said sadly, “I know.” But he did not want to go down that road again. “How is your daughter?” he asked hastily, and her face lit up.

“Matilda is well nigh grown, almost sixteen. She looks like me, I’m told, but she has none of my faults. She thinks ere she acts and never breaks a promise and she brightens a room just by walking into it. I wish you could know her, Ranulf.” She paused. “I wish she were yours.”