Time and Chance (9 page)

The chamber was dark, but she navigated with confidence, for she knew the location of every chair, every coffer; it was a grave offense in her household to move furniture at whim. She had been blind for twenty-six of her thirty-four years, and she’d long ago learned how to cope with her disability, relying upon memory and her other senses and courage to compensate for her lack of sight. She invariably amazed people with her prowess, misleading them by how easy she made it appear. That was an illusion, for her victories were all hard won, her battle begun anew with each day’s dawning.

Outside, the air was cool on her skin, a welcome relief after so many hours of stifling summer heat. She’d meant to return to the hall, but instead she found herself following the seductive perfume of honeysuckle wafting across the bailey from her garden. Seating herself on a wooden bench, she breathed in the delicate fragrances scenting the night, smiling when one of her cats interrupted its nocturnal prowling to rub against her ankles.

Many people looked askance at cats, and they were not commonly kept as pets. But Rhiannon loved the sensual, plush feel of their fur, the throaty murmur of their purring, the lithe lines of their bodies, and they seemed to sense that, for they invariably sought her out. Now she allowed the young cat to settle in her lap, gently stroking it as she thought about her husband’s homecoming.

She’d always liked Hywel. He was one of the few men who’d ever flirted with her, for most males could not see past her blindness. But that fondness seemed such a pallid, tepid emotion when compared with what she felt for Hywel now—a surge of gratitude that ran like a river through her veins, deep and swift-flowing and sure to last until her final breath. Hywel had been her husband’s friend. Tonight he had been Ranulf’s savior. For she did not doubt that life in Trefriw would have been intolerable for him—for them both—if not for Hywel.

But what mattered far more to Rhiannon than the goodwill of her neighbors was the olive branch offered, rather awkwardly, by her sister. Eleri still did not understand why Ranulf could not refuse the English king’s summons. From the first, she’d idolized him, this English cousin come so suddenly and dramatically into their lives, almost as if the Almighty had sent him to replace the brothers He’d claimed, too often and too young. Rhiannon knew that Eleri’s anger was fueled by pain. Knowing this, though, had not made it any easier to douse its flames. It had taken Hywel to do that, giving Eleri the excuse she needed to welcome her brother-in-law back into the fold, back into her good graces.

Laughter had been floating from the open windows of the great hall, and the abrupt silence caught Rhiannon’s notice. Tilting her head, she listened intently, nervously. But the stillness was not ominous, merely the prelude to a performance.

 

That was vintage Hywel; when he waxed most lyrical, there was sure to be a sting in the tail. His next verse was momentarily drowned out by laughter and cheers, and Rhiannon rose, planning to rejoin the revelries. But she changed her mind at the sound of a familiar step on the graveled garden path. Smiling, she turned in the moonlight, waiting for her husband to reach her.

 

 

 

FROM THE UPPER WINDOW of St George’s Tower, Henry looked upon the city of Oxford, spreading out to the east. It was nigh on fifteen years since his mother had staged an amazing escape from this castle, lowering herself by ropes from this very chamber onto the iced-over moat below, then somehow slipping through the lines of Stephen’s besieging army. It was an incredible feat, for she’d had as much to fear from the weather as from Stephen’s soldiers; a fierce winter snowstorm had been raging that night.

Henry was very proud of his mother’s daring flight. On this particular September day, though, his thoughts were focused upon an ordeal of another sort. Just north of the city walls, in the palace known as the king’s house, his wife was laboring to give birth to their fourth child.

This was the first time that he’d been present for one of Eleanor’s lying-ins, and with each passing hour, he was regretting it more and more. He’d always considered waiting to be an earthly foretaste of eternal Hell; even minor delays could wreak havoc upon his patience. And now he could do nothing but wait, knowing all the while that so much could go wrong in a birthing. The babe could be stillborn, strangled by the cord, positioned wrong in the mother’s womb. The woman’s life could bleed away then and there, or she could sicken afterward. Death stalked the birthing chamber as relentlessly as it did the battlefield.

In a far corner of the room, his brother and chancellor watched him with the wary sympathy of men trapped in close quarters with an injured lion. “Mayhap we can get him to go hunting,” Will murmured. “Harry would likely rise from his deathbed for one last chance to hunt.”

“I already suggested it.” Becket signaled to a hovering servant to pour more wine. “Not only did he balk, he well nigh bit my head off.”

“There is no hope then,” Will said, with a melodramatic sigh. “We’re doomed.”

“Do not despair, lad. To save ourselves, we can always urge Harry to find out for himself how the queen fares.”

Will took Becket’s jest literally and his eyes widened. “But men are barred from the birthing chamber,” he objected. “Harry could not just burst in . . .” After a moment to reflect, he grinned. “What am I saying? Harry would storm Heaven’s own gates if he had a mind to!”

“A pity that the queen chose to join Harry here at Oxford. She was already great with child, and I’d not be surprised if the rigors of the journey brought on an early labor. It would have made more sense for her to have remained at Westminster and given birth there.”

Will glanced curiously at the chancellor, wondering if all churchmen listened only to their heads, not their hearts. “You can hardly blame Eleanor for wanting to be with Harry as the birth drew nigh,” he said mildly. “She came close to losing him in Wales, after all.”

Becket’s response was lost as Henry swung away from the window with an explosive oath. “By the Blood of Christ, enough of this! For all we know, she gave birth hours ago and the fool midwife has forgotten to send word!”

As he headed for the door, Will scrambled to his feet. “Harry, do nothing rash! You’ll just upset the women if you go charging in, and what good will that do Eleanor?”

“The lad is right,” Becket observed calmly. “You cannot hasten the birth. The babe will be born in God’s Time, no sooner, no later.”

Seeing Henry’s hesitation, Will hastily groped for further persuasion. “The child might even come faster if you’re not there,” he insisted. “Everyone knows that hovering over a pot will not make it cook any faster.”

Henry gave his brother a look that was incredulous, irked, and amused in equal measure. “That is not an analogy I’d suggest you make in Eleanor’s hearing,” he said dryly. “What would the two of you have me do, then?”

“You can pray,” Becket said and Henry scowled, unwilling to entrust Eleanor’s safety to another higher power, even the Almighty’s. But it was then that they heard the footsteps out in the stairwell.

When the messenger came catapulting through the doorway, Henry’s spirits soared, for no man would be in such a hurry to deliver dire news. Skidding to a halt in the floor rushes, the messenger dropped to his knees before his king. “God has indeed smiled upon you, my liege. He has given you a fine son.”

 

 

 

PETRONILLA POURED a cupful of wine, carefully carried it back to her sister’s bed. “Here, Eleanor, drink this. God knows, you’ve earned it.”

Eleanor thought so too. “You’d think this would get easier. I’m getting enough practice, for certes.”

She heard laughter beyond her range of vision and a low, throaty voice teased, “Well, dearest, what would you tell a farmer who had an overabundant harvest? To plant less, of course!”

Eleanor was amused by that impudent familiarity, for no daughter of Aquitaine could be offended by bawdy humor. Moreover, she was quite fond of the speaker, Henry’s cousin Maud, Countess of Chester.

Maud was a handsome widow in her mid-thirties, niece to the Empress Maude, whose namesake she was. She shared more than a name with her royal aunt; they were both women of uncommon courage and sharp intelligence. But laughter had never come readily to the Empress, and the younger Maud laughed as easily as she breathed. To the surprise of many, including Henry, Eleanor and her prickly mother-in-law had gotten along well from their first meeting. With the second Maud, though, a genuine friendship had quickly formed, for in this worldly, irreverent kinswoman of her husband’s, Eleanor had recognized a kindred spirit.

“I am not complaining about the frequency of the planting,” she said. “I’d just rather not reap a crop every year.”

Maud retrieved the wine cup, setting it on the table within Eleanor’s reach. “After four crops in five years, I’d think not!”

“It proves,” Petronilla chimed in, “that letting a field lie fallow truly does make it more fertile.”

Maud’s eyes shone wickedly. “Nigh on fifteen years fallow, was it not, Eleanor?”

Sometimes it astonished Eleanor to remember that she’d actually endured fifteen years as France’s bored, unhappy queen. “But you may be sure I was the one blamed for those barren harvests,” she said, with a twisted smile. “As if I could cultivate soil without seed!”

“Does that truly surprise you? Women have been taking the blame ever since Eve listened to that fork-tongued serpent, who most assuredly was male!” Maud turned then toward the door, smiling. “To judge by the commotion outside, either we are under siege or Harry has just arrived.”

Somewhere along the way from the castle, Henry had found a garden to raid, for he was carrying an armful of Michaelmas daisies. These he handed to Petronilla, rather sheepishly, for romantic gestures did not come easily to him. Crossing the chamber in several quick strides, he leaned over the bed to give his wife a kiss that roused a wistful sort of envy in both widows, for Petronilla had been blessed with a happy marriage of her own and Maud had been denied one.

“Are you hurting, love?”

Eleanor’s smile was tired, but happy. “Not at all,” she lied. “By now the babes just pop right out, like a cork from a bottle.”

Henry laughed. “Well . . . where is the little cork?”

A wet-nurse came forward from the shadows, bobbing a shy curtsy before holding out a swaddled form for his inspection. Henry touched the ringlets of reddish-gold hair, the exact shade as his own, and grinned when the baby’s hand closed around his finger. “Look at the size of him,” he marveled, and as his eyes met Eleanor’s, the same thought was in both their minds: heartfelt relief that God had given them such a robust, sturdy son. No parent who’d lost a child could ever take health or survival for granted again.

“We still have not decided what to name him,” Henry reminded his wife. “I fancy Geoffrey, after my father.”

“The next one,” she promised. “I have a name already in mind for this little lad.”

He cocked a brow. “Need I mention that it is unseemly to name a child after a former husband?”

Eleanor’s lashes were drooping and her smile turned into a sleepy yawn. “I would not name a stray dog after Louis,” she declared, holding out her arms for her new baby. She was surprised by the intensity of emotion she felt as she gazed down into that small, flushed face. Why was this son so special? Had God sent him to fill the aching void left by Will’s death? “I want,” she said, “to name him Richard.”

CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

 

 

 

 

THOMAS BECKET WAS CELEBRATED for his hospitality; his great hall was filled at most hours with knights, petitioners, barons, and clerks. He spent such large sums on candles, rushlights, and torches that men joked night was the one unwelcome guest. His servants swept up and changed the floor rushes on a daily basis, sweet-smelling hay in winter and fragrant herbs in summer. His agents ranged far and wide, procuring the finest wines and spices for his buttery and kitchen, and his tables gleamed with gold and silver plate. Men came from foreign courts to meet with England’s king, but they hoped to dine with England’s chancellor.

Becket’s Ascension Day feast for the Archbishop of Canterbury was lavish even by the chancellor’s bountiful standards. The tables were draped in linen cloths whiter than milk, the washing lavers were scented with rosemary, and the rich fare included capon, heron, venison, pike, cream of almonds, custard, and angel wafers, all washed down with varied wines and spiced hippocras and sweet malmsey. If any of the guests saw the irony in providing such a banquet for the unassuming, ascetic Theobald, none commented upon it.