Time and Chance (24 page)

Conceding defeat, at least for the time being, Eleanor got slowly to her feet. “It has begun to snow again, and I think we all need to thaw out by the fire. Will you put off a final decision on this, Harry? With so much at stake, you want to be utterly sure you’ve made the right choice. I urge you to think upon it for a while longer.”

Maude added her voice to Eleanor’s, and Henry agreed that he would ponder further upon the matter. But they could take little comfort from his assurance, for they well knew that once he made up his mind, he did not often change it.

 

 

 

FALAISE WAS AWASH in white-gold sunlight. From the castle’s solar, Henry gazed out upon a cloudless sky, as bright as the April blue-bells lining the banks of the River Ante. Below in the gardens, his eldest son was romping with Eleanor’s greyhounds. Becket had brought Hal to Falaise to bid farewell to his parents, and then they would depart for London, where the barons were to swear a solemn oath of fealty to the boy, acknowledging him as the future King of England. Henry watched his son’s antics with a smile, and then turned back to his chancellor.

“If the weather holds, you should have a smooth Channel crossing, Thomas.”

“God Willing. We’ll depart for Barfleur on the morrow if that meets with your approval?”

Henry nodded. “Eleanor and I know our lad will be in good hands. Now I think it is time we talked of an English see that has been vacant too long.” He was sure that what he was about to say would come as no surprise to Becket, for rumors had been circulating about his intentions for several months, fueled by his recent consultation with England’s most senior bishops. “I am sending my justiciar back with you to England, Thomas. I have instructed him to advise the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury, that I would be greatly pleased if they elect you as their archbishop and greatly displeased if they do not.”

Becket’s smile was self-deprecating, rings glittering on his fingers as he gestured to his finely woven, fashionable tunic and buckled shoes. “And a right saintly archbishop I’d make, would I not?”

“You can switch to sackcloth and ashes if you like,” Henry joked. “In fact, that might be one way to impress the monks. For whilst your election is a foregone conclusion, in all honesty, you’ll not be a popular choice. When I talked to the English bishops about this, they were rather underwhelmed.” Tactfully neglecting to mention that his own wife and mother were among Becket’s opponents, he said, “You need to know this, Thomas, for you will have to prove yourself to many skeptics. I can make you an archbishop. What you do with it, though, will be up to you.”

Becket was no longer smiling. “And did it not trouble you, Harry, that none shared your enthusiasm for elevating me to Canterbury’s Holy See? Did you never think that they could be right?”

“No, I did not. Shall I tell you why? Because I know you better than they do, plain and simple.” Henry straddled a chair, grey eyes puzzled, probing. “What is the matter, Thomas? Clearly you have misgivings . . . why? And do not tell me you are overwhelmed by the high honor or such blather. You have your virtues, but modesty is not amongst them. So what makes you so wary?”

“I value our friendship, Harry. I would not want to put it at risk.”

“Nor would I. But why should this jeopardize it? Yes, circumstances will change. What of it? As well as we know each other, what surprises are there likely to be?”

“I wish I shared your certainty. It is that . . . that I do not think you have foreseen the possible consequences.” Becket’s slight stammer was much more pronounced now, an unmistakable sign of tension. “Are you so sure that I can serve both you and the Almighty?”

Henry stared at him and then laughed shortly, amusement warring with exasperation. “I can assure you that I do not see God as a rival. That prideful I am not! If those are your qualms, you can lay them aside. The Almighty and I will not be in contention for your immortal soul.”

Becket’s smile was a polite flicker, and Henry’s patience ran out. “Jesú, Thomas, I am offering you the archbishopric of Canterbury, the greatest plum in Christendom! I did not think I’d have to talk you into it. So you’d best tell me now if you’re crazed enough to refuse.”

Becket smiled more convincingly this time. “When you do put it that way . . .”

Henry studied the older man and then nodded in satisfaction. “So it is settled then.”

“Yes,” Becket agreed, “it is settled.”

 

 

 

JUNE THAT YEAR in Wales was cool and wet, with sightings of the sun as scarce as dragon’s teeth. The last Monday in the month dawned to skies greyer than December, and it went downhill from there. In midmorning, a rainstorm swept through the Conwy Valley, and it was still drenching Trefriw when Hywel rode in. His arrival created even more of a stir than usual, for in addition to his customary attendants and servants, he was accompanied by six kinsmen: his son, Caswallon; his foster brothers, Peryf and Brochfael; and no fewer than three of his half-brothers, the raffish Cynan and Maelgwn and the sobersided Iorwerth. Enid was in a dither, determined to entertain them in a style worthy of their rank, not drawing a calm breath until these unexpected and highborn guests were settled comfortably in the great hall with towels to dry themselves off, mead, and cushions.

“I assume you can put us all up for the night,” Hywel asked, beckoning for Ranulf to join him in the window seat.

The question was a mere formality, for hospitality was a sacred duty among the Welsh. Even had Hywel led an army into Trefriw, they’d have been accommodated. “I suppose,” Ranulf grumbled, “you can sleep out in the stables.”

“Spoken like a true Englishman,” Hywel gibed. “But where is your wife? She is the one I really came to see. Is she off visiting her sister?”

“No . . . she is in our private chambers, lying down.”

Hywel’s gaze had been drifting around the hall, where Peryf and Cynan had begun an arm-wrestling contest. But at that, his eyes cut sharply back toward Ranulf’s face. “Is she ailing?”

Ranulf was staring into the depths of his mead cup. “She miscarried a fortnight ago, Hywel.”

“Ah, Ranulf . . . I am truly sorry. I did not know she was with child again.”

“We’d told none but the family. She was only in the third month . . .”

Hywel groped for words of consolation. “To lose a babe is surely one of life’s greatest sorrows. But mayhap in time, she’ll conceive again.”

“She is thirty-nine,” Ranulf said, and although the words themselves were neutral, his tone was without hope.

“So? Queen Eleanor was thirty-nine when she birthed another daughter last year, was she not?”

“Eleanor is not like other women. Childbirth seems to come as easily to her as kingdoms do.”

“She might argue with you about that, Ranulf. I’ve heard more than one woman claim that if men were the ones bearing children, mankind would have died out with Adam.”

Ranulf was suddenly very glad that Hywel was there; smiles and laughter had been absent from his household of late. “Ought I to extend my condolences for your father’s marriage to the Lady Cristyn?”

Hywel heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose it was inevitable. But the Lady Gwladys was scarcely in her grave ere Cristyn began planning the wedding. I half-expected her to burst into the church during the funeral service, demanding that the priest say the marriage vows first.”

“Do you call her Stepmama now?” Ranulf asked innocently and then ducked, laughing, when Hywel sent a cushion whipping past his head. “So . . . how is life in the hive now that there is a new queen bee? You look hale and hearty enough, so I assume the Lady Cristyn has not been slipping hemlock into your mead?”

“No . . . but then I drink sparingly when I dine with Cristyn. In a way, I cannot blame her for wanting to protect her cubs. A pity they are such worthless whelps. God help Gwynedd if either of them ever gains my father’s crown. Fortunately for Wales, I do not intend to let that happen.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Ranulf clinked his cup playfully against Hywel’s. “I surely do hope you are Gwynedd’s next king. I’d hate to think I’ve been cultivating your friendship all these years for naught.”

“You ought to have some money on the outcome, Ranulf, for few wagers are so certain of success. Peryf is offering odds of two to one in my favor. Of course if you fancy more risk for your money, he says the odds on Little Brother Rhodri are so high not even his mother would chance a wager!”

Ranulf laughed again. Owain and Cristyn’s youngest son had recently turned seventeen, and by all accounts, he was proving to be a handful. “I’ve heard that Rhodri is becoming even more insufferable these days than Davydd, as hard as that is to believe.”

“Believe it. Davydd does have a brain beneath all that bluster. But I doubt that there is much hope for Rhodri, not the way he’s been strutting and swaggering about this spring. I’ve seen barnyard cocks show more sense. Hellfire, even I showed more sense at seventeen!”

Under Enid’s sharp eye, her serving maid was offering their guests food hastily collected from the kitchen. When she reached Ranulf and Hywel now, they helped themselves to napkins and hot wafers. Sitting back in the window seat, Hywel gave his friend a curious smile. “So . . . what do you think of Canterbury’s new archbishop?”

“Harry finally selected someone, did he? Who is the lucky man . . . Gilbert Foliot?”

Hywel blinked. “You have not heard? You mean I am better informed for once about English affairs than you? And here I’ve been assuring my father that you were worth keeping around for your superior connections to the English king’s court!”

“So much for your celebrated political acumen. Now that I think upon it, I’ve not gotten any letters from Harry or Rainald or my sister for some weeks. Even my niece has been lax about writing and Maud is usually my most reliable source.”

“Ah . . . that reminds me.” Swallowing the last of his wafer, Hywel fumbled within his tunic. “I have a letter for you.”

At the sight of that familiar seal, Ranulf’s eyebrows rose. “Since when are you delivering my niece’s mail?”

Hywel met his gaze guilelessly. “I happened to be in Chester recently, and naturally I stopped by to pay my respects to the countess.”

“Naturally,” Ranulf echoed dryly. “We both know you’re the very soul of courtesy.” Politely putting the letter away to be read later, he took a sip of mead, regarding Hywel with a sardonic smile. “So you found out about Canterbury’s new archbishop from Maud?”

Hywel nodded. “You’re probably one of the last to hear, for this news has been spreading faster than any brushfire. The Lady Maud says England is talking of nothing else, and once I brought word to my father’s court at Aber, that was the only topic of conversation there, too.”

“Why? Did Harry make so controversial a choice? Whom did he pick?”

“Thomas Becket.”

Ranulf sat up straight. “You are serious? He truly chose Becket?”

Hywel nodded again, happily; he liked nothing better than being the bearer of tidings sure to startle. “The Christ Church monks elected him in late May. On June second, he took holy vows, and the next day he was consecrated as Canterbury’s archbishop. From priest to archbishop in just one day; now that is what I call a spectacular promotion! He seems to think so, too, for his first official act was to decree that the day of his consecration will be a feast day from now on, in honor of the Holy Trinity.”

Ranulf was silent for several moments. “I need time to think upon this,” he confessed. “For once, Hywel, you were not exaggerating in the least. This will have people marveling from Rome to Rouen, and with good reason.”

“That it will,” Hywel agreed, thinking of his father’s jubilant reaction to the news. “According to your niece, the king forced Becket upon the monks and bishops. Few think he has the makings of a good priest, much less an archbishop. But they dared not protest, for they knew your nephew had his mind set on this. Only Gilbert Foliot spoke up, with a very sour jest indeed, saying that the king had wrought a miracle, turning a soldier and worldly courtier into a holy man of God.”

“Well,” Ranulf said slowly, “Harry has always been one for the bold stroke, and this is nothing if not bold. I can see the logic in it, for Becket is one of the very few people whom Harry truly trusts. I can also see the risks. This will be all or nothing, either a brilliant success or an utter disaster, nothing in-between.”

Hywel thought Ranulf’s assessment was right on target; they differed only in which results they were hoping for. Before Hywel could respond, Ranulf was getting to his feet. Turning in the window seat, Hywel saw why; Rhiannon had just entered the hall. He stayed still for a few moments, giving Ranulf a chance to exchange a private greeting with his wife, and then joined them.

Even if Ranulf had not told him about the miscarriage, he’d have guessed that something was amiss. Rhiannon was paler than moonlight, her eyes heavy-lidded and shadow-smudged, and her smile the saddest Hywel had ever seen. “Come over here, darling,” he said before she could speak. “Sit with us in the window seat.”

Rhiannon had meant merely to make a brief appearance, for courtesy’s sake. But Hywel would not be denied. He and Ranulf ushered her across the hall, as solicitously as if she were a queen, taking her wet mantle and finding cushions for her, offering their own cups of mead. Hywel then called for Ranulf’s uncle to fetch his harp. Beaming with delight, Rhodri did.

The hall quieted as soon as the others realized Hywel was going to perform. But Hywel paid the audience no mind. Drawing a stool up, he began to strum the harp, a haunting, plaintive melody that would linger in the memory long after the music ended. “A love poem for the Lady Rhiannon,” he said softly.