Time and Chance (26 page)

“An heiress, I trust?” Maude interrupted uneasily. It was obvious that her son was smitten with his future bride, and that was well and good, as long as the girl had more to recommend her than a pretty face.

“Indeed she is.” Will was now grinning from ear to ear. “I am to wed Isabella de Warenne, Countess of Surrey.”

“The widow of Stephen’s son?”

Will nodded. “Isabella was wed as a child, was just fourteen when she was widowed nigh on four years ago. She is old enough now to be a wife and mother, and we would like to be married here in Rouen. You missed Harry’s wedding, so I’d not have you miss mine.” Will waited then, for her verdict. He was reasonably certain that she would approve, but he needed to hear the words; he could not imagine wedding without his mother’s blessing.

The irony was not lost upon Maude that even in death, Stephen continued to shadow her path. She would have preferred that Will marry a woman with no links to the House of Blois, had never expected to share a daughter-in-law with Stephen. But it was not fair to blame the girl for a marriage made in childhood, a marriage in which she’d been given no say. And she was more than an enemy’s widow; she was a great heiress in her own right, would bring the earldom of Surrey to her husband. Henry had indeed done well by his younger brother. How jealous Geoffrey would have been, she thought sadly, and then smiled at her lastborn. “I am very pleased,” she said. “I am sure that Isabella will make you a good wife.”

Will beamed. “So am I,” he said, and when Ranulf proposed a toast to the new Earl of Surrey, he looked so joyful that Maude was able to forget, at least for a time, her qualms about Thomas Becket.

“I have long looked forward to the day of your wedding,” she said, and hoped that her son would find more happiness and contentment in his marriage than she had found in either of hers.

 

 

 

ON THE FIRST DAY OF JULY in God’s Year 1163, the King of Scotland and the Welsh rulers were summoned to do homage to Henry at Woodstock. As a Great Council meeting was scheduled afterward, the barons of the realm and princes of the Church were also expected to attend, and accommodations were soon filled to overflowing. By the time Ranulf arrived, he and his family had to settle for lodgings in New Woodstock, the borough Henry had founded a half-mile to the northeast.

Ranulf had fond memories of Woodstock. As a boy, he’d enjoyed visiting his father’s menagerie, and he was sorry to discover that the lions and leopards and camels were long dead, for he’d wanted to show them to his children. He was particularly disappointed on Gilbert’s behalf, for he knew the boy was restless and homesick, eager to return to Wales. And so when he rode over to Woodstock to let Henry know of his arrival, he took his son along, hoping there would be enough activity at the royal court to compensate for the lack of alien animals.

A small hill sloped away from the River Glyme, and upon its summit was the royal manor of Woodstock. Although it was one of Henry’s favorite residences, the buildings were comfortable rather than lavish, for his main interest was in the hunting. The great hall was a spacious structure, but now there was not a foot to spare, so crowded was it with Henry’s highborn guests.

Owain Gwynedd had not yet arrived, but Malcolm, the Scots king, was there, as were the lesser Welsh lords, and Rhys ap Gruffydd, who’d been held in honorable confinement since his surrender to Henry in April. Ranulf had never met Rhys and observed the Welsh firebrand with great interest. He was considerably younger than his uncle, in his early thirties, lacking Owain’s commanding stature, distinguished silver-fox coloring, and regal dignity. But his dark eyes were glittering with a lively, sharp intelligence, and he still had a swagger in his step, the cocksure confidence of a man who dealt with defeat by refusing to recognize it. Ranulf doubted that Henry had heard the last of Rhys ap Gruffydd.

Ranulf knew most of the men in the hall, was kin to some of them. In addition to his brother Rainald and his cousin of Gloucester, the Earls of Leicester, Hertford, and Salisbury were in attendance upon the king, as were the Marcher lords, William Fitz Alan and Walter Clifford. The Church was also well represented. Thomas Becket was the most conspicuous of the prelates, richly garbed as always, elegant and enigmatic, a magnet for all eyes. Gilbert Foliot, newly translated from the see of Hereford to the more prestigious one of London, known for his eloquence and asceticism, but known, too, as a man who did not suffer fools gladly. Robert de Chesney, the aged Bishop of Lincoln. And by the dais, surely the most venerable and devious of England’s clerics, Henry of Blois, Bishop of Winchester, Stephen’s brother and erratic ally.

Maud and Will had sailed for Southampton with Ranulf and his family, but they’d gone on ahead to Woodstock while Ranulf and Rhiannon lingered for a few days in Winchester. They now greeted Ranulf and Gilbert so ebulliently that onlookers might well have assumed they’d been apart for months.

A seductive perfume alerted Ranulf to the approach of England’s queen, and he turned to make an obeisance to Eleanor, pleased when his son followed his example without prompting. The queen looked lovely in a gown the color of claret; it was a shade few women could have worn well, but it suited her to perfection, as sophisticated and dramatic and distinctive as the woman herself. Ranulf marveled that she seemed to be aging with such grace and ease; had he not known she’d just marked her forty-first birthday, he’d never have guessed her to be within a decade of that age. But when he later said as much to his niece, Maud looked at him as if he’d lost his senses.

“I can assure you, Uncle, that few women age with ‘grace and ease,’ especially one so celebrated for her beauty. Eleanor is too shrewd not to know this is a war she cannot hope to win, but she is giving ground very grudgingly, making use of all the weapons at her disposal to keep the enemy at bay.”

Gilbert seemed daunted by the noise and crowds and confusion; he didn’t say anything, but he kept close by Ranulf’s side, his eyes roaming the hall as if seeking an avenue of escape. Aware of the boy’s edginess, Ranulf was about to suggest that they go outside to get some fresh air when Henry saw them and beckoned from the dais. His welcome was affectionate, and when Ranulf explained that he wanted to show Gilbert around the manor grounds, Henry at once voiced his approval, springing to his feet with alacrity.

“An excellent idea. Come on, let’s take the lad to see the springs,” he said, so enthusiastically that those around him smiled, aware that he’d have seized upon any pretext to avoid the ceremonial duties of kingship. Leaving Eleanor to preside over the hall, he headed for the closest door, accompanied by Ranulf, Gilbert, and Will. There was a time when Thomas Becket would have automatically been included in one of Henry’s Grand Escapes, and Ranulf could not help remembering that as he hastened after his nephew. Looking back at the tall, stately figure of Canterbury’s archbishop, he wondered if Becket was remembering, too.

Henry was in high spirits, acting like a schoolboy who’d managed to evade his lessons, and the others found his mood to be contagious; even Gilbert brightened up perceptibly. The sun had slid below the horizon, but the clouds drifting overhead were still painted in its hues, streaked with deep rose and soft purple. The sky had yet to lose its light, and the day’s warmth lingered. Gilbert soon forged ahead, racing one of Henry’s young wolfhounds, looking happier than Ranulf had seen him in weeks. The men followed at a more leisurely pace.

“How old is that lad of yours, Uncle?” Henry asked idly. “Nigh on twelve? I suppose he’d consider my Hal too young to bother with. A pity, for Hal has been complaining that there is ‘nothing to do here,’ which I take to mean he has no one to get into trouble with.”

“Hal is here at Woodstock? He is still in Thomas Becket’s care, is he not?”

Henry nodded. “I told Thomas to bring him along. I want the Scots king and the Welsh to do homage to Hal, too, when they do homage to me.”

Ranulf glanced thoughtfully at the younger man. “I was wondering about that,” he admitted. He could understand why Rhys ap Gruffydd should be required to do homage as a condition of regaining his liberty. But why summon the others? Now he had the answer: so they could swear to Hal, too. Before he could pursue this further, though, Henry asked abruptly:

“Have you spoken to Thomas yet?” When Ranulf shook his head, he looked disappointed. “I was hoping to get your impression of our lord archbishop.” Although said with a smile, the words held a slightly sardonic edge. “Talk to him tonight, Ranulf. I’ve tried talking to him myself, and he says what is expected of him. But—”

Henry came to a sudden halt, head tilted to the side, listening intently. “Did you hear that?” They hadn’t, but he paused before moving on. “Passing strange, I guess my imagination was playing me false. We’re almost at the springs. I’ve always loved this part of the park, have long had it in mind to build a house here—”

This time there was no mistaking the sounds: raised voices, a splash, a burst of sputtered cursing. The men quickened their pace and a moment later, a woman came running through the trees. She was casting glances back over her shoulder as she ran, and didn’t see the exposed root until it was too late. She stumbled, cried out sharply, and fell.

Henry reached her first, with Will and Ranulf only a step behind. She was already getting unsteadily to her feet, shrinking back at sight of the men. They could see now that she was very young, fifteen or sixteen at most. “We mean you no harm, lass,” Henry said swiftly, for her torn gown and her panicked flight told a story without need of words.

Just then her pursuer came into view. He was youthful and well dressed and would have been quite handsome under other circumstances; now his face was mottled and contorted with rage. “Look what that little bitch did!” he exclaimed, gesturing toward his muddied chausses and sopping shoes.

Henry swung back toward the girl, who’d taken refuge behind him. “Did you push him into the pool?” he asked and began to laugh. “Good for you, lass!”

The girl murmured something inaudible, and the man’s fury found a new target. “This is none of your concern,” he warned, but his belligerence lasted only until Henry stepped from the shadows cast by the oak tree. That he’d recognized Henry was obvious, for his angry flush gave way within seconds to a sickly pallor. When he started to stammer either an apology or an explanation, Henry cut him off impatiently. He did not need to be told twice, began to back away, and then bolted.

The girl kept close to Henry’s side until she was sure her assailant was gone. “Thank you, my lords,” she said softly. Gilbert had arrived in time to witness the man’s rout, and when the girl came forward, he drew a sibilant breath. Glancing at his son, Ranulf fought a smile, remembering the first time he’d seen girls in a new and dazzling light. Gilbert’s reaction was understandable, for she was very pretty in a delicate, fragile way. Too young to wear the fashionable wimple, she’d covered her head with a veil that had been lost in her flight, and her hair now tumbled loosely about her shoulders in a splash of silver. She had wide-set eyes, the darkest blue Ranulf had ever seen, a fair, ivory-tinted complexion, and a very appealing smile; when she turned it upon Gilbert, he flushed to the tips of his ears.

“Thank you,” she said again. “I did not mean to shove him into the pool, truly I did not. His foot must have slipped on one of the mossy rocks when I tried to pull away. He was sure, though, that I did it on purpose, and became so wroth . . .” She shivered visibly. “If you had not been here, I do not know what he might have done.”

They were puzzled by the contradictions between her appearance and her demeanor. She wore a rather plain gown, not at all stylish, but her speech indicated education; no serving girl sounded as this one did. “What were you doing out here, lass?” Henry asked, voicing the question in all their minds.

Twilight was deepening, a soft, shimmering lavender-blue, but they could still see the blush rising in her cheeks. “My father is in attendance upon the king, and he sent for me, Godstow being just a few miles away.”

“Godstow?” Henry echoed. “The nunnery . . . of course. You are being schooled there, then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“But how did you come to be with that lecherous lout?” Will asked tactlessly, and she bit her lip, looking so embarrassed that he at once regretted the question.

Notwithstanding her discomfort, she answered honestly. “I met him in the gardens. He said he was a knight in the Scots king’s household and we began to talk. He was very well spoken and courteous and when he offered to show me the springs, I saw no harm in it . . .”

“Ah, child . . .” Henry shook his head ruefully. “There is a great difference between the convent and the court.”

“The fault was mine, then?”

She sounded so forlorn that Will made gallant haste to assure her that indeed it was not, an assurance echoed by Ranulf and then Henry, who added, “The fault lies with your father, for letting a lamb loose with so many wolves on the prowl. He ought to be taken to task for—”

“Oh, please, no! Do not tell my father, for he’d be so angry with me . . .” She laid a hand on Henry’s arm in timid entreaty, and then gasped. “Blessed Lady, it is you! The king!” She sank down at once in a deep, submissive curtsy.

Henry gestured for her to rise. “Calm yourself, lass,” he said soothingly. “I did not mean to cause you greater distress, will say nothing to your father if that is your wish.”

A moment ago, she’d seemed on the verge of tears. But her smile now was radiant, so bewitching that Gilbert heaved a small sigh. “Thank you, my lords, thank you!” The words were addressed to them all, but meant only for Henry. “This is not the first time you came to my rescue. You caught me when I fell out of a tree in my mother’s garden at Clifford Castle. Do you . . . do you remember, my liege?” she asked, so hopefully that Henry lied and nodded.