Time and Chance (13 page)

Letters from their husbands had been few and far between. Ranulf had written to describe Henry’s entry into Paris, as deliberately understated as Becket’s had been ostentatious. Modestly declining all ceremonial honors, Henry had impressed the Parisians by traveling with a small escort, visiting the city’s shrines, and graciously deferring to his host, the French king, at every opportunity. The letter was circumspect, for Ranulf knew it must be read to Rhiannon, but his unspoken amusement echoed throughout the narrative. It was becoming all too evident to Rhiannon that he was enjoying himself, and so she was not totally surprised when he explained that he felt honor-bound to accompany his nephew on an expedition against the rebellious Viscount of Thouars. Rhiannon had been assuring her mutinous young son that they’d be home for Christmas. But in recent weeks, she’d begun to wonder if their English exile might last far longer.

She’d not seen her children for hours. Gilbert was laboring over his lessons with Maud’s youngest son, who’d soon be sent off to serve as a page in some noble household, as his elder brother had. Mallt was in the nursery with Eleanor’s children, under a nurse’s care; it had shocked Rhiannon to realize how little the queen was involved in their daily routine. She supposed that was why royalty could bear to send their children away to be raised by strangers. Ever since she’d learned that the French queen would be yielding up her infant daughter to Henry, she’d been overwhelmed with pity for Constance. Princesses were bartered away for peace, for gain, for gold, their futures often determined while they were still in the cradle. Constance would have known that, expected that. But Rhiannon found herself wondering if the mother was as accommodating as the queen.

Across the hall, Eleanor was conversing with her husband’s justiciars, Richard de Lucy and Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester. Maud and Eleanor’s sister, Petronilla, were playing a game of hazard, under the disapproving eye of the Bishop of Salisbury, who felt that gambling was an even greater sin when engaged in by the female sex. Left to her own devices on this rain-soaked afternoon, Rhiannon let her defenses slip. Her sister was with child again, the babe due in January. Eleri’s two earlier pregnancies had been difficult ones, her birthings prolonged and painful. She ought to be there for Eleri, not stranded here at the English court, feeling like a flower put down in foreign soil.

“Rhiannon!” The familiar bellowing of her brother-in-law jolted her back to the castle’s great hall. By the time Rhiannon had gotten to her feet, Rainald had already reached her. “I’ve a surprise for you, lass,” he said jovially. “Guess who I just met out in the bailey?”

Rhiannon had already recognized the footsteps of Rainald’s companion. With a joyful cry, she flung herself into Ranulf’s arms, giving him the most enthusiastic greeting of their entire marriage. When they finally ended the embrace, they were surrounded by grinning spectators and Eleanor was moving swiftly toward them.

“Lord Ranulf! Did my husband come back with you?” Eleanor’s smile flickered. “No . . . I suppose not.”

Ranulf hastened to kiss her hand, murmuring a formal “My lady” for the benefit of their audience. “He has gone on pilgrimage with the French king to the abbey of Mont St Michel.”

Eleanor’s lips parted, freezing her smile in place. “Did he, indeed? Then he has no plans to return to England in the near future?”

“No, Madame. He wants you to join him at Cherbourg for Christmas, and he gave me a letter to deliver . . .” Ranulf was fumbling within his mantle. “Ah, here it is.”

Eleanor took the letter. “Welcome home, my lord Ranulf,” she said, and this time the smile was dazzling. Ranulf could not help noticing, though, that she seemed in no hurry to open Henry’s letter.

 

 

 

RANULF HAD RACED a winter storm from Southampton to Old Sarum, and it was soon besieging the castle in earnest. The wind was battering at closed shutters and barred doors, its high, keening wail chasing sleep away. Most people tossed restively, yearning for the coming of day. In Ranulf and Rhiannon’s bedchamber, though, the mood was one of drowsy contentment, for they were still basking in the afterglow of an especially passionate reunion.

“I must have been stark mad to be gone so long from your bed,” Ranulf confided, laughing softly when she agreed that indeed he must have been. “I had intended to return to England after we went to Paris, but then Harry summoned his knights in Normandy to Avranches, planning a campaign in Brittany, and I could not leave. Once Duke Conan submitted to Harry, I made plans again to depart. But then we had to ride south to deal with the Viscount of Thouars. It was never my wish to be gone three months, love.”

“Nigh on four,” she corrected. “At least you did not go off to tour the religious shrines of Brittany with Harry and the French king.”

“Eleanor seemed vexed about that, too.”

“Does that truly surprise you, Ranulf?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “it does somewhat. She is a queen, after all, and well accustomed to the demands of kingship.”

“She is a woman, too, and I doubt that there is a woman alive who’d not expect her husband to come home to see his newborn son. I’m sure she understands his reasons for threatening to make war against Conan, and she’d hardly complain about his success in rousting her rebellious vassal from Thouars Castle. But it is another matter altogether for him then to go off blithely on a pleasure jaunt with her former husband, especially when he has yet to lay eyes upon their babe!”

“But she approved of the marriage betwixt their children, Rhiannon. Harry assured me it was so.”

“I know, and I’ll own up that I was taken aback by that. Eleanor is far more pragmatic than I am, I fear. But I can assure you that she is not so pragmatic that she wants Harry and Louis to become the best of friends! She loves Louis not, with cause, for he will not allow her to see their daughters. And for all the talk about his saintly nature, he has not scrupled to besmirch her name and their memories of her. Can you blame her for being bitter about that?”

“No, of course not . . .” Ranulf pulled more blankets about them as the wind’s howling intensified. “Harry once told me that his father cautioned him against wedding a woman he loved. Geoffrey claimed that the best marriages were based upon goodwill or benign indifference. I thought that was unduly cynical, even for Geoffrey. But I can see that passion might not be the soundest of foundations for a marriage, especially a royal one. The expectations would be different, and marital wounds would cut more deeply, for the weapons would have sharper blades.”

He frowned, then was quiet for several moments. “I hope that Harry and Eleanor have the good sense not to let their wounds go untended, lest they fester. It would grieve me greatly to think there was a serpent in their Eden, just biding its time.”

Rhiannon realized that he was quite oblivious to their own snake, the woman he’d risked his mortal soul for, the dark-eyed Annora Fitz Clement. Whenever Ranulf crossed the border back into England, Rhiannon’s fear rode with him, the fear that this would be the time he’d encounter Annora at the English court. Was it true that a flame was more easily kindled from the embers of an old fire? She didn’t know, prayed to God that she never found out. “If you love me, Ranulf,” she whispered, “take me home.”

Turning, he kissed her mouth and then the hollow of her throat. “I do,” he said, “and I will. We leave for Wales on the morrow.”

 

 

 

ELEANOR’S SHIP LANDED at Barfleur in mid-December. From there she rode the few miles to Cherbourg, where she was reunited with her husband. Their Christmas court that year was said to be splendid.

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

 

 

 

 

IN JUST TWO DAYS, the churches of Gwynedd would be pealing out the advent of Palm Sunday, but winter still held fast in the high mountain passes and heavily wooded hillsides. Patches of snow glistened above the timberline of Moel Siabod and a raw, wet wind was making life miserable for men and animals alike. It would not normally be a day for visiting and so the dusk appearance of a lone rider caused a stir. A groom was soon hastening into the hall, blurting out that Lord Owain’s son was dismounting in the bailey.

Rhodri and Enid made much of their unexpected royal guest, ushering Hywel toward the hearth, taking his muddied mantle, calling for mead and cushions. Rhiannon’s greeting was equally warm, for Hywel was now firmly lodged in her good graces. All of them wanted to know what he was doing out in such wretched weather, expressing astonishment that he did not have an escort and reminding him that it was both dangerous and unseemly for a king’s son to venture about on his own.

Ranulf thought he had the answer to that particular puzzle. If Hywel was alone, it meant he’d been paying a discreet, clandestine visit to yet another light o’ love, one with either a protective father or a jealous husband. As their eyes met, he had confirmation of his suspicions in Hywel’s sudden grin. He wondered idly who this latest conquest was; women came and went with such frequency in Hywel’s life that it was hard to keep track of them, even for Hywel.

Hywel’s secret liaison had obviously gone well, for he was in high spirits, flirting with Enid and Rhiannon, joking with Rhodri, eating heartily of their plain Lenten fare. Over a dinner of salted herring, onion soup, and dried figs, he regaled them with tales of the recent English expedition into South Wales against the rebellious King of Deheubarth, Rhys ap Gruffydd. Henry had dispatched the Earls of Cornwall, Gloucester, and Salisbury to lift Rhys’s siege of Carmarthen Castle. Although Rhys was his sister’s son, Owain Gwynedd had been compelled by the English king to contribute a contingent to the royal force, too, led by his brother Cadwaladr and his sons, Hywel and Cynan. Yet this formidable English-Welsh alliance had failed to bring Rhys to heel and they’d had to settle for another truce, a rather inglorious end to such a redoubtable campaign.

Ranulf couldn’t resist pointing this out to Hywel, but the Welsh prince took the raillery in good humor. “You do not truly expect me to lose any sleep over the English king’s feuding with Rhys? Life is too fleeting to waste time fretting about other men’s troubles.”

They laughed and urged him to tell them more about the campaign. He did, relating several comical stories that ridiculed both the heroics of war and his English allies, garnering more laughter for his efforts. But Hywel had a poet’s keen eye and he was not deceived by the apparent harmony in Ranulf’s household. During the course of the dinner, he’d taken note of Rhiannon’s reddened, swollen eyes, and he’d noticed the sidelong, surreptitious glances Rhodri cast in his nephew’s direction from time to time. Even the complacent Enid was showing signs of distraction, for she had neglected to apologize profusely and needlessly to Hywel for the quality of their meal, as she’d unfailingly done in the past. As for Ranulf, his laugh was too hearty and his humor hollow, at least to one who knew him as well as Hywel.

Putting aside the last of his dried figs, Hywel complimented Enid extravagantly upon the dinner and then insisted that Ranulf accompany him out to the stables to see his new stallion. Ignoring Ranulf’s halfhearted protests, he collected their mantles and a lantern, then headed for the door, giving Ranulf no choice but to follow. The rainstorm heralded by the day’s damp wind had finally arrived, and they hastened across the bailey, pulling up their hoods.

The horses had been fed and bedded down for the night, their groom over in the hall having his own dinner. Raising the lantern, Ranulf started toward one of the stalls, saying, “Come on, show me this wonder horse so we can get back inside where it is warm.” When the flickering light revealed a dappled grey muzzle, he turned to stare at Hywel in surprise. “Either this new stallion of yours is a twin to your Smoke or you had far too much mead tonight. Which is it?”

“You’re right, that is Smoke. I needed an excuse to talk to you alone.”

Ranulf frowned. “Why? What is wrong?”

“You tell me.” Hywel moved closer so that they were both standing within the small pool of light spilling from the lantern. “What has your wife and uncle so distraught? And why do I suspect the King of England’s name will soon be creeping into our conversation?”

Ranulf smiled tiredly. “You do not miss much, do you?” Turning aside, he sat down on a workbench and gestured for Hywel to join him. “My nephew is about to go to war against the Count of Toulouse and he has issued a summons to his barons, myself included, to meet at Poitiers on June twenty-fourth.”

“And your family does not want you to go.”

“They are adamantly opposed, and I cannot seem to make them understand that I have no choice. Rhiannon has turned a deaf ear to my arguments, reminding me that she did not object when I answered Harry’s summons two years ago, as if that were a debt she can now collect. I know women can be unreasonable . . .” And for a moment, an unbidden ghost flitted across his memory, strong-willed and stubborn. Startled, he shook his head, banishing Annora Fitz Clement back to the past where she belonged. “But I thought Rhiannon would be more sensible—”