Time and Chance (47 page)

“Well, you gave it as good a ride as you could,” Hywel said, with a faint smile. “Nigh on eight years ere you finally lost your balance. I doubt if there is another horseman in Christendom who could have done as well.”

“Oh, I did right well,” Ranulf said, with a bitter edge that was aimed not at Hywel but at himself. “I alienated my family, friends, neighbors, broke faith with Lord Owain, and made it impossible for my wife and children to live in their own land.”

“And on the seventh day, you rested.”

Ranulf was taken aback. “You mock me, Hywel? I can find no humor in the wreckage I have made of our lives!”

“What wreckage? As usual, you see only the brightest white, the darkest black, and none of the colors in-between. I am simply saying you ought not to be overhasty in packing up and racing for the border. It is not as if you have a band of angry neighbors baying at your heels, now is it?”

“No,” Ranulf said slowly, “it is not. And that is passing strange, for the Welsh have many virtues, but they are not a forgiving people. I would not have blamed my uncle if he’d turned me away from his door. Instead, he welcomed me back with open arms. So did my son and my sister-by-marriage and even our neighbors. It occurs to me, Hywel, that you might know why.”

Hywel feigned innocence and, as always, did it quite well. But Ranulf had caught a telltale flicker, enough to confirm his suspicions. “Hywel, what have you done? I have a right to know.”

Hywel regarded him pensively. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said, “but you’ll not like it much. I put the word out that you’ve been our man at the English court, spying all along on my father’s behalf.”

Ranulf’s jaw dropped. “Tell me you’re joking!”

“No, I am not. I knew that the life you’d had in Wales was over, that not even my father’s goodwill would be a strong enough shield. I understand that mulish pride of yours, knew it would compel you to obey Henry’s summons. But few others would understand. You’d be shunned, treated as if you were an outcast, a leper—if you were lucky. More likely you’d have been burned out by your outraged neighbors. You needed an excuse for your inexplicable loyalty to the English king, and so I provided you with one.”

“By making me into an accursed spy, a man without honor or loyalties? Christ Jesus, Hywel, how could you do that?”

Hywel was expecting just such a reaction and shrugged. Rhiannon’s response was less forbearing. “I’ve heard enough of honor to last me a lifetime! Where is the honor in exile, Ranulf?”

Ranulf turned to stare at her. “You knew what Hywel had done? You approved?”

“Yes, I knew, and indeed I approved! More than approved, I was grateful beyond words. My only regret was that you’d have to be told, for I knew you’d never understand. You are a good and decent man, Ranulf, but in some ways, you are as blind as I am.”

Ranulf was stunned by her outburst. Their quarrels were so infrequent and so mild that he’d been lulled into believing Rhiannon was incapable of genuine rage. After the turbulence and turmoil he’d endured with the high-strung, unpredictable Annora, he’d come to cherish the tranquillity he’d found in marriage to Rhiannon. He saw now that theirs was a false peace, purchased at the cost of her conscience. Again and again she had given him her unwavering support, her understanding, her acceptance—as Annora never had. She had suppressed her own fears and misgivings, always putting his needs first, even when the price of protecting his honor might well be banishment from the homeland she so loved.

Getting swiftly to his feet, he crossed the chamber to his wife, then took her in his arms. “I am sorry, love,” he whispered, “so sorry. You are in the right and I am an idiot.”

Rhiannon shook her head vehemently. “No, you are not. If our sons grow to manhood with even half of your courage and integrity, they will be very fortunate and I will be well content.”

Whatever she might have said next was lost as Ranulf kissed her. Hywel waited until he thought their embrace had gone on long enough and then said, “I can do without the hug, but what about an apology to me, too, Ranulf?”

Ranulf smiled at the other man over his wife’s shoulder. “I guess I do owe you one,” he conceded. “Actually your idea was ingenious—in a sly sort of way. I can understand how others might believe it, for you’ve always been glib of tongue, Hywel. But how could my uncle Rhodri imagine for a moment that I’d engage in such double-dealing? And Gilbert and Eleri—do they not know me better than that?”

“I can answer that,” Rhiannon said. “They believed it because they wanted to believe it, Ranulf, because they needed to believe it. They love you enough to banish disbelief.”

“Whereas you should have seen the horrified reactions of my brothers Davydd and Rhodri, who love you not.” Hywel grinned, remembering. “They were looking forward to a public hanging as soon as the opportunity presented itself. When they went running to my father in hopes of a denial, they were confounded when he confirmed it instead!”

“Owain did that?” Ranulf asked in astonishment. “You must be in higher favor than I thought, Hywel!” But almost at once, his amusement faded. “I would thank you,” he said seriously, “for what you tried to do on my behalf.”

Hywel cocked a brow. “ ‘Tried to do’?” he echoed. “It seems to me that my plan was a brilliant success, if I say so myself.”

“It would have been,” Ranulf agreed, “if not for the maiming of the hostages.”

“You think my father blames you for that?”

“His sons will never see another sunrise because of the English king . . . and I am Harry’s uncle.”

“You are also the one man who spoke up for the hostages. Only one voice argued against the maiming, and it was yours.”

Ranulf looked searchingly at Hywel, hope suddenly soaring to the quickening beat of his heart. “Are you saying Lord Owain is willing to let me stay in his domains?”

“He said that words rarely count for more than blood, but Chester is one of those times. You may make your home in Gwynedd till the end of your days and none will challenge your right to be here, to call yourself Welsh. On that, my father has spoken.”

Ranulf exhaled an uneven breath and then whirled back toward Rhiannon. She returned his embrace wholeheartedly, but her eyes prickled with tears, for she knew that the events at Chester had inflicted a grievous wound, one that would leave a deep jagged scar upon her husband’s soul.

 

 

 

HENRY GAZED DOWN from the battlements of Chester Castle upon the ruination of his Welsh campaign. His fleet had finally arrived from Dublin, was anchored in the bend of the River Dee, and each time he looked upon that motley assemblage of ships, he felt anger stirring anew, embers from a fire that had been smoldering since their forced retreat from the Berwyns. He had contracted for galleys, but some of the ships riding at anchor were cogs. Instead of warships, he had flat-bottomed cargo vessels with which to ravage the Welsh coast . . . and not even enough of those.

“Did you ever see a more pitiful fleet in all your born days?” he demanded of the young Earl of Chester. “Shredded rigging, torn sails, lost oars—it is a bloody miracle that they did not sink like stones in Dublin’s harbor. Any man setting foot on one of those wrecks had better know how to walk on water, or else have made his peace with the Almighty.”

Hugh fidgeted nervously, wanting to offer reassurance or hope but checked by the reality floating below them on the river. One of the ships had been run aground into a mudbank to patch leaks, and the crew was scrambling to complete the repairs before the onset of high tide. In the shadow of another ship, a raft had been launched, and as it bobbed and pitched, several men set about recaulking the seams with a sticky mixture of tar and moss. Hugh had to admit it was a sorry spectacle meeting their eyes. Striving to shine the best light upon the debacle, he ventured to remind Henry that the ships had been mauled in a storm off the Irish coast. “But once they are mended, they may yet inflict damage amongst the Welsh.”

The other men winced at that, but Henry did not erupt as they expected. This muddled youth was his favorite cousin Maud’s son, after all, and so he contented himself with a barbed sarcasm. “Aye—there is always the chance that the Welsh will die laughing at their first sight of this great armada.”

Hugh didn’t have Henry’s familiarity with other languages and he wasn’t sure what an armada was, but he knew better than to ask. He was finding it a trial to be his king’s host; Henry had moved to Hugh’s castle at Chester to await the fleet, and now Hugh hoped that he’d decide to go back to Shotwick, where his army was encamped. Hugh had always been intimidated by his royal cousin the king, but Henry’s temper was exceptionally choleric these days and it was all too easy to provoke his ire.

Henry continued to watch the beached ship, his the morbid curiosity of a man with a toothache, compelled to keep touching his tongue to the tooth to see if it still hurt. It had been two days since that tattered fleet had limped into the Dee estuary, two days since he’d realized that his hopes of continuing the Welsh war had foundered with those Irish ships. The Welsh princes had defied him and gotten away with it. He had nothing to show for all his efforts but a depleted Exchequer, a lost summer, and a trail of shallow graves.

His bleak reverie was interrupted by a shout from the gatehouse; riders were coming in. A cursory glance down into the bailey showed him that there were women among them, but he had no interest in these new-comers. He would have welcomed his cousin, the tart-tongued worldly Maud, but she was in Anjou with Eleanor, planning to remain until after the babe was born. He could think of no other female he cared to see and he resumed his gloomy surveillance of the Irish ships. But then Hugh gave a sudden whoop.

“Holy Cross, it is Mistress Rosamund!”

Turning, Henry saw that the boy was right; one of the women in the bailey below them was indeed Rosamund Clifford. Hugh was heading for the ladder, at such a pace he’d be lucky not to take a headlong fall. Henry followed more slowly and with much less enthusiasm.

The Marcher lord, Walter Clifford, was greeting his daughter Rosamund and another woman whom Henry guessed to be his wife. After making the introductions to Hugh, who’d managed to get down in one piece, Clifford ushered the women toward Henry.

“My liege, may I present my wife, the Lady Margaret?” Wherever Rosamund had gotten her uncommon beauty, it was apparently not from her mother, a pleasingly plump woman in her forties with pale-blue eyes and the complacent composure of one born to a life of privilege.

“I believe you already know my daughter.” Clifford’s smile was so smug that Henry’s first impulse was to turn on his heel and stalk away. For the girl’s sake, he resisted the urge and managed a cool civility. Rosamund was more discerning than her father and her own smile faltered. Clifford was professing surprise that his womenfolk had come to visit him, jovially asking Hugh if he could find them a bed at the castle, and Hugh, beaming, declaring nothing would give him greater pleasure, while Rosamund looked at Henry in bewilderment, not understanding. Henry excused himself, climbed back up to the battlements, and stared out over the river at his misfit Irish fleet.

 

 

 

SUPPER THAT EVENING was not a festive affair. Hugh’s cooks did their best to provide a tempting meal, but Henry picked at the minced pork and venison pie without either interest or appetite. Hugh had gallantly invited Clifford, his wife, and daughter to join them at the high table. His attempts at flirtation proved futile, though. Subdued and silent, Rosamund kept her eyes upon her trencher, pushing food about with her knife but eating very little, occasionally casting covert glances at Henry when she thought he wasn’t watching. Hugh’s spirits soon flagged in the face of her obvious indifference. Clifford was growing increasingly annoyed by his daughter’s diffidence, scowling at her from his end of the table. The only one who seemed to be enjoying the meal was Henry’s uncle Rainald, who never let other people’s discomfort affect his appetite, and he at least did justice to the varied and highly seasoned dishes prepared by Hugh’s cooks.

After supper, Hugh summoned a minstrel to perform for his guests. But the entertainment was no more successful than the meal, if judged by Henry’s brooding demeanor. He may have heard the minstrel’s songs, but he did not appear to be listening, his private thoughts obviously far from the hall of Chester Castle. Through the open windows, the sky was turning from a twilit lavender to a rich plum color as a messenger was ushered toward the dais. Kneeling before Henry, he proffered a parchment bearing the seal of a French lord of opportunistic allegiances, Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux. As Henry scanned the dispatch, his body language alerted those close to him that something was wrong. Stiffening in his seat, one hand clenching upon the arm of his chair, he looked up, his mouth set in a taut line and his grey eyes frosted, filled with distance. He did not share the French count’s news, but rose instead, making an abrupt departure, leaving behind a hall abuzz with conjecture.

It was fully dark now, but the air still held some of the warmth of the day. The sudden stretch of fine weather had seemed like the ultimate ironic joke to Henry; where had the sun been when he’d had such need of it? One of the castle dogs trailed after him as he entered the deserted gardens, but soon veered off on the scent of unseen nocturnal prey. Henry was regretting not revealing the contents of de Montfort’s letter. More precisely, he was regretting not having someone to confide in, someone who’d understand his misery without the need of words. His ambitions were dynastic, his greatest wish to see his empire ruled by his sons after his death. Eleanor understood that. So had Thomas Becket—once. And Ranulf.

He did not like the direction his thoughts had taken. Some roads were better left untraveled. He had jammed the count’s letter into his belt as he left the hall. Now he pulled it out again, wishing he had a fire to thrust it into. On impulse, he drew his dagger and began methodically to slash the parchment into ribbons. He felt faintly foolish; destroying the evidence would change nothing. But he did not stop until the sheepskin was in tatters, letting the scraps fall to the ground at his feet.