Time and Chance

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

July 1163

Woodstock, England

Sitting on a bench in the gardens, Ranulf was watching his children romp with a silver-grey puppy when he heard his name called. Rising, he moved forward to meet Thomas Becket. Two of the men with the archbishop were familiar to Ranulf, for William Fitz Stephen and Herbert of Bosham had been clerks in the royal chancellory before following Becket to Canterbury, and they exchanged amiable greetings.

“Where is the Lady Rhiannon?” Becket asked, demonstrating that his manners were no less impeccable as archbishop than they’d been as chancellor.

“She is visiting with the queen and my niece, the Lady Maud, and whilst she does, I rashly offered to keep our two hellions from wreaking havoc upon an unsuspecting Woodstock,” Ranulf said with a smile.

“I see that the king has given you the puppy. He mentioned to me that he had it in mind. Apparently it is an uncommon breed?”

“Yes, a Norwegian dyrehund. The king remembered that I’d bred them years ago and thought it would please me to have one again.”

“He can be very generous,” Becket said, and Ranulf nodded. He was frustrated by the formality of the conversation, made necessary by the archbishop’s entourage. He wanted to take Becket aside, dispense with protocol, and talk not of the king, but of Harry, the man they both knew so well. But Becket was always surrounded by others and he did not invite any opportunities. To the contrary, he maintained an emotional distance, one Ranulf had been unable to breach. Friendly but not familiar, he used courtesy and the deference due his office as a shield, effectively deflecting curiosity and intimacy, too.

Becket was talking about Roger of Gloucester’s elevation to the bishopric of Worcester. He seemed to hold Roger in high esteem, which might explain his willingness to approve Roger’s election. For certes, it was not to please Harry. Becket’s interest in pleasing the king seemed minimal, and Ranulf yearned to know why. But that was not a question he could ask, mayhap not even one Becket could answer.

They continued making polite, meaningless small talk for a while longer and then the archbishop and his retinue moved on. Ranulf reclaimed his seat, watching until Becket was no longer in sight. What was motivating the man? Was it pride? Had his newfound independence gone to his head? Ranulf remembered his sister’s foolhardy behavior when it seemed as if the crown was finally within her grasp. She’d acted arrogantly and recklessly, alienating the Londoners to such an extent that they’d rebelled and chased her out of the city. She’d lost her chances of queenship in that wild rout, and doomed England to another twelve years of civil war. Could Becket be following that same perilous path?

Or did he truly believe himself to be unworthy of the archbishopric? Did he feel the need to prove to the Church-and to himself-that he was no longer Harry’s man? Did he think that to serve God, he must first sacrifice his other self, disavow the worldly chancellor who’d been the king’s friend? Was he shedding his old identity the way a snake would shed its skin? Ranulf frowned, then called out an admonition to Gilbert, who had scrambled precariously up onto the garden wall. It served for naught to speculate like this. He could only hope that Becket would realize in time that neither the Church nor the Crown benefitted from confrontation and conflict.

“Ranulf? Is it really you?”

The voice was one he’d not heard in years, but he knew it at once, for it still echoed at times in his dreams. He sat, frozen in disbelief, as Annora Fitz Clement came toward him across the grassy mead. It had been sixteen years since he’d seen her last, at Shrewsbury’s fair, a memory that had yet to fade, still sharply etched and achingly vivid. She’d been clad in green, pregnant with her husband’s child, glowing with contentment-until she’d seen him standing there. For at least a lifetime, they’d stared at each other, as she pleaded silently that he not betray her. He’d never forgotten that look of fear on her face; in that moment, he’d finally seen her for what she was-another man’s wife.

She was garbed again in green, a moss-colored gown with tight-fitting bodice and wide skirts, the sleeves billowing out like streamers from her slender wrists. The black hair he’d loved to stroke was hidden away under a wimple of crisp white linen. She’d never been a great beauty, short and dark and so quick-tempered that he’d fondly called her “hellcat,” but from the time he was sixteen, she’d been the woman he wanted, the one he had to have, at whatever cost.

She’d almost reached him and he got hurriedly to his feet, kissing her hand and then her cheek. “You always were one for taking a man by surprise,” he said, with a strained smile. “It’s been a long time, Annora.” He winced as soon as the platitude left his mouth. It was bad enough that he suddenly felt like a tongue-tied raw lad, without sounding like one, too.

She laughed and let him seat her beside him on the bench. The conversation that followed was as proper as it was awkward: polite queries about family and health, as if there had been nothing between them but friendship. He offered his condolences for her father’s death, very belatedly, for Raymond de Bernay had gone to God four years ago. She assured him that her brothers were well and related a humorous story about Ancel, the friend of his youth. Ranulf smiled and nodded and tried not to recall the day Ancel had caught them together, calling his sister a slut and Ranulf a Judas.

“I do not believe it,” Annora exclaimed suddenly. “That puppy across the garden looks just like your dyrehund, just like Loth!”

“Loth was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of dog, but I have hopes for the pup… if only the children can stop squabbling long enough to agree upon a name for him.”

“Those are your children? Gilbert and Mallt?” She made a credible attempt at the Welsh pronunciation and gave him an impish smile. “You must wonder how I know that. I met them, you see, three years ago at the Chester fair.”

“Yes, I know. Rhiannon told me,” he said, and saw her surprise.

“Ancel named one of his sons after Gilbert, too. What was it I called the three of you… the unholy trinity? I was so sorry to learn of his death… a riding mishap of some kind?”

He stared at her. She did not know! But then, how could she? “Gilbert died,” he said, “because of me.”

“Because of you? I do not understand.”

“After I got your letter, telling me that you could not see me again, I set out for Shrewsbury hoping that I’d find you at the fair. When Gilbert learned that I’d gone off alone into an area under Stephen’s control, he was alarmed and rode after me. He never reached Shrewsbury, though. His horse bolted and threw him, breaking his neck.”

“Oh, Ranulf…” Reaching over, she gently touched his hand. For a time, they sat in silence, remembering and grieving and watching his children play with the dyrehund puppy. “I had to end it,” she said, very softly. “I promised God that I would, if only He’d let my baby live. I could not bear to miscarry again…”

“I know, lass,” he said sadly, “I know.” But he did not want to go down that road again. “How is your daughter?” he asked hastily, and her face lit up.

“Matilda is well nigh grown, almost sixteen. She looks like me, I’m told, but she has none of my faults. She thinks ere she acts and never breaks a promise and she brightens a room just by walking into it. I wish you could know her, Ranulf.” She paused. “I wish she were yours.”

“Ah, Annora…” He hesitated, not knowing what to say, and she reached again for his hand, lacing her fingers through his.

“The Shrewsbury fair is next month,” she said. “I expect to be there. Will you?”

He let his breath out slowly. “No,” he said, “I will not.”

Her fingers twitched, then jerked away from his. He knew how fast her temper could kindle, but she looked wounded, not angry. “I see,” she said stiffly. She made no move to rise, though. “I think I have a right to know why, Ranulf.”

He could give her the easy answer, that he was not free. But she’d never been one for taking the easy way, and he knew what her forthright response would be: why should his marriage vows matter more than hers? He could tell her that he loved his wife and it was the truth. He did not think she’d believe him, though. She’d never believe he could love another woman as he’d loved her. And he did not want to take that certainty from her if he could help it. “I am sorry, Annora,” he said at last. “Some wounds never fully heal.” He thought that sounded woefully inadequate, but at least it was not an outright lie.

She was gazing intently into his face. “Ah, Ranulf… I understand now.” Getting to her feet, she waited until he had risen, too, and then touched her hand to his cheek in a light, lingering caress. “I shall pray for Gilbert’s soul,” she said, “and for your peace.”

He understood then, too. Just as he’d seen her weave intricate wall hangings, she was creating a pattern out of loose threads of fact, transforming his rejection into a response she could live with. They were tragic lovers, doomed by fate and an unruly horse, kept apart by guilt and the ghost of Gilbert Fitz John. Rhiannon would remain the Welsh cousin he’d wed out of pity, a shadowy figure of no consequence, not a rival for his affections, never that. But how could he fault her for that fantasy? Had he not done the same? He’d spun out deluded daydreams about their future, justified their adultery, and given nary a thought to the impact of their affair upon her husband and stepchildren. It seemed like one of God’s more ironic jokes that he could see so clearly now, years too late.

“Papa?” Mallt was sprinting toward them. “Look what I’ve got!” Carefully uncupping her hands, she revealed a small grasshopper. “If I put it in a jar, will it live?”

“No, love, it will soon die.”

Mallt looked disappointed, but it never occurred to her to argue, for she was still at the age when a father’s wisdom was absolute. Carrying her prize over to the grass, she set it free. Ranulf and Annora watched, then looked at each other in what they both knew to be a final farewell. She was smiling, but he thought he could detect a glimmer of tears behind her lashes. He stood motionless as she moved away, and then called out to his children. “Catch the puppy. I think it is time we went looking for your mother.”

“Hywel? you look as if you’ve just swilled a flagon full of vinegar. What is amiss?”

“Ask your nephew,” Hywel snapped, and would have turned away had Ranulf not grabbed his arm.

“I am asking you. What is wrong?”

“Why did you not warn us, Ranulf? You think my father would have given in to Cristyn’s coaxing and let her come if he knew what awaited us at Woodstock? How could you let us ride into that ambush?”

“Hywel, I do not know what you are talking about. I swear by all the saints that I do not!”

“You did not know about the act of homage?”

“Yes, of course I knew about that. What of it? Harry has had the English barons swear homage to his son, so it makes sense that he would want Hal acknowledged by the Welsh, too. Surely that is not what has your hackles rising? Owain did homage to Harry at Rhuddlan Castle and the sun did not plummet from the sky. So why should it matter if he repeats the oath?”

“You truly did not know, did you? Your nephew has more in mind than a formal recognition of his heir. He means to put our kings on the same footing with his English barons, and he has begun to whittle away at our liberties and rights, imposing new demands and restrictions. He insists that we can no longer offer sanctuary to those he considers enemies of the Crown, and that is but the beginning. How long ere he attempts to introduce English laws and customs? How long ere he seeks to turn Gwynedd into an English shire?”

Ranulf was stunned by the outburst. Hywel usually diluted all of life’s problems with a healthy dose of humor. He’d not known the other man was capable of a stark, searing anger like this, one that burned to the bone. He wanted to assure Hywel that the Welsh were borrowing trouble, but how honest would that assurance be? He’d told Owain that Harry had no intention to swallow Wales whole. But would he keep nibbling away until Welsh sovereignty was well nigh gone? There was a time when he could have answered that question with an emphatic “no.” That was before Toulouse. His nephew’s needless war against Count Raymond had been an eye-opening lesson in the cynical lore of kingship. He still did not believe that Harry meant to annex Wales outright; he was surely too shrewd to expend so much to get so little. Harry could be goaded, though, into a war of conquest. He’d warned Owain of that, could only hope that the Welsh king had taken the warning to heart.

“The English king is indeed my nephew, as you rather pointedly reminded me. But I am also Welsh, partly by blood and wholly by choice. For all that I hold English estates, my true home is at Trefriw. Your fears for Wales are mine, too, Hywel. It saddens me that I should have to assure you of that.”

“Your kinship to the English king is a fact, Ranulf, not an accusation. I was not implying that you are some sort of royal spy. Only an utter idiot could suspect that you’d been dwelling amongst us for more than thirteen years, even going so far as to take a Welsh wife, all on the odd chance that should war come, you might possibly be of use to the English Crown.” The corner of Hywel’s mouth quirked. “So of course my brilliant half-brothers are convinced it is true!”

Ranulf took comfort in the jest, but he knew that if relations between the English and Welsh worsened, there would be others to question where his loyalties lay. “I will talk to Harry,” he promised. “It may well be that you are all shying at shadows.”

Hywel did not argue. His skeptical silence spoke volumes, though, and Ranulf began to realize that his nephew’s actual intent might matter less than what the Welsh perceived it to be.

The ceremony of homage was performed in Woodstock’s great hall, in an atmosphere so charged with tension that Ranulf half-expected to hear rumblings of thunder echoing in the distance. Six years ago, the Scots king had done homage to Henry for the English earldom of Hunt ingdon, but the vassalage demanded of Malcolm now was more circumscribed and restrictive; he was also required to yield up his younger brother David as a hostage for his good faith. The Welsh were compelled, too, to accept a vassalage that went beyond what had been demanded of Owain at Rhuddlan Castle, a subordinate status that the Welsh found both demeaning and threatening.

If the ritual of homage to Henry and his son was an impressive demonstration of English power, the feasting that followed offered a lavish display of English hospitality. But Ranulf had no appetite for the bountiful repast, and he doubted that the Scots or Welsh did, either.

The revelries dragged on through the evening. Ranulf’s edginess was only exacerbated by the presence of Annora Fitz Clement, her husband, and a stepson. Rhiannon did not yet know Annora was at Woodstock and he wanted to be the one to tell her. Feeling guiltily grateful that she could not detect Annora on her own, he kept a cautious watch upon his old love, trying to keep the two women well apart.

Hywel and Maud had eventually noticed Annora Fitz Clement, too. Hywel confined himself to a raised brow, a quizzical glance in Ranulf’s direction. Maud took more direct action, pulling Ranulf aside for a hurried interrogation. Satisfied with his response, she went off to make sure that the unpredictable Annora did not take it into her head to seek Rhiannon out for an exchange of social pleasantries, and Ranulf breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he’d just gained an invaluable ally.

Not unexpectedly, he’d gotten no chance to talk privately with Henry; that would have to wait. By the time the interminable festivities had drawn to a close, he was exhausted and so thoroughly out of humor that others had begun to notice. All in all, it was a day he wanted only to forget.

Once they were back at their lodgings in New Woodstock, he sprawled on the bed, still fully dressed, watching as Rhiannon loosened her braids. She’d dismissed her attendant, a sure sign that she wanted to talk of matters not for other ears, and as she began to brush out her hair, she soon gave voice to her own anxiety.

“Do you think the Welsh are justified in their suspicions, Ranulf?”

“Well… I do not believe that Harry is laying secret plans to overrun Wales. He had a perfect opportunity to rid himself of Rhys ap Gruffydd this spring, chose instead to restore Rhys to power. If his intentions were as sinister as the Welsh believe, why would he have done that?”

“Then you believe the Welsh are in the wrong?”

“I would that it were so simple,” he said wearily. “The problem, lass, is that the Welsh and English do not view homage in the same light. I’ve tried to explain to Harry that Welsh history and customs are unlike those in his other domains. In England and Normandy, the act of homage is not humbling or degrading. It is a cornerstone, the foundation upon which all else rests. A Duke of Normandy or a Count of Anjou can do homage to the French king without being diminished in his own eyes or those of his subjects. But it is different in Wales. There, it is an alien concept, imposed by the force of arms. So when Harry compels Owain and Rhys to swear public homage to him, they do not see it as part of the natural order, but rather as an act meant to humiliate, salt rubbed into their wounds. It is not surprising, therefore, that they should be so quick to suspect the worst. But Harry can no more grasp their point of view than they can comprehend his.”

He sounded so dispirited that Rhiannon came over, sat beside him upon the bed. “The Almighty did you no favor by giving you such keen eyesight, my love. The man who can see both sides in a conflict earns himself thanks from neither side.”

Taking the brush, he drew it through her hair. It was a beautiful color, a rich shade of chestnut; he thought it such a pity that she could never see that autumn entwining of russet and copper and sorrel. “Let’s talk no more of this tonight. I’ve something to tell you. This morning in the gardens, I laid a ghost to rest… Annora Fitz Clement.”

Rhiannon stopped breathing for a moment. “She is here at Woodstock?”

“It came as quite a surprise to me, too.”

Not for Annora, though. She’d have known he’d be in attendance upon the king on such an occasion. Rhiannon waited until she was sure her voice would not betray her. “Was it a… a painful meeting, Ranulf?”

“It churned up memories long buried. But painful… no,” he said, not altogether truthfully. “I was not sure how I’d feel upon seeing her again. It was… was like listening to a song I’d once loved. The words were the same, but I could no longer hear the music.”

Just as on the night that he’d proposed marriage, she sat utterly still, afraid that if she moved, it would break the spell. “You have no regrets, then?”

“For Gilbert, yes, a lifetime of regrets. But for Annora… no. I have the life-and the woman-I want, consider myself a lucky man.” When he touched her cheek then, he discovered it was wet. “Sweetheart, I am sorry. I never knew Annora caused you such unease.”

“It does not matter,” she said, “not anymore. Now I have something to tell you, too. I was going to wait until I was sure. But what better time than now? I think I am with child again. My flux did not come last month and we are now into the second week of July, so I am six weeks late.”

Ranulf pulled her into his arms, holding her so close she could hardly breathe. “The babe was conceived in Rouen, then.” He kissed her tears away before seeking her mouth, and then said what she most wanted to hear. “I shall tell Harry that we cannot accompany him on to London. Once the Woodstock council is done, we’ll go home to Wales.”

The Bailey was crowded and clamorous, for the Welsh were making ready to depart. Farewells had been said to Henry, chilled and correct, packhorses loaded, orders given. Ranulf and Hywel stood watching as horses were led out and men began to mount. Taking his stallion’s reins from a groom, Hywel glanced back at Ranulf. “Ought you not to be at the council meeting?”

“They are not discussing any matters of urgency today. Harry wants to change the way the sheriff’s aid is paid, hardly an issue of life or death. So I’ll not be missed nor am I missing much.”

“What is the sheriff’s aid?”

Ranulf knew full well that Hywel cared not a whit about English taxes. He’d asked for the same reason that he’d not yet mounted his horse: to put off the moment of departure. “The sheriff’s aid is a customary payment made by landowners to the sheriffs of each shire. Harry is proposing that the money be paid directly to the Exchequer in the future. That way, officials of the Crown can be kept under closer supervision, whilst limiting the opportunities for extortion.”

“Dishonest sheriffs?” Hywel gave a grimace of mock horror. “What next-unchaste nuns and lecherous monks?”

Ranulf smiled. “Or tongue-tied poets? We live in an odd world indeed, Hywel. Are you sure you cannot wait and ride back to Wales with us?”

Hywel glanced across the bailey toward his father. “No… a good guest always knows when to go home.”

Ranulf nodded, unsurprised. The Welsh had weighty matters to discuss. Upon his own return to Trefriw, he meant to visit Owain’s court, do what he could to reassure the Welsh king of his nephew’s good faith. And today he would try again to make Harry understand why the Welsh often seemed so skittish, so infernally stubborn. There had to be a way to bridge the gap between his two homelands, and he’d find it, by God he would.

After the Welsh had ridden out, Ranulf considered going over to the great hall where the council meeting was in session. But the prospect was not an appealing one; it seemed almost sinful to waste a summer day indoors, discussing a tedious topic like royal revenues. The choice was made for him as he drew near the gardens, for there a boisterous game of quoits was in progress. Several youths were flinging horseshoes about with reckless abandon, to the accompanying applause and jeers of a growing audience. Ranulf recognized Maud’s two sons, fifteen-year-old Hugh and his younger brother, Richard, and was not surprised to see his niece midst the bystanders, cheering them on. At sight of Ranulf, she beckoned him over, and he hesitated for all of a heartbeat before yielding to temptation.

“Have the Welsh gone?” Maud asked, and then, “Good pitch, Hugh!”

“They departed a while ago. I tried to get Hywel to ride back with us, to no avail.”

“What ails him, Ranulf? My impression of Hywel is that he’d be joking with the Devil on his deathbed. I’ve never seen him so somber as he was here at Woodstock. Why, when I told him that the Scots king was known as Malcolm the Maiden because he’d taken an ill-considered vow of chastity, Hywel merely nodded and made not a single jest! When he passed up an opportunity like that, I knew something must truly be amiss.”

“The Welsh are troubled by Harry’s demand for homage. They are worried that this new vassalage might well have strings attached, unseen as yet.”

Maud looked amused. “Strings? With Cousin Harry, most likely enough strings to weave a spider’s web.”

Ranulf frowned, for he thought his niece was a shrewd judge of men. “You think, then, that Harry truly covets Rhys and Owain’s domains?”

“Of course he covets, Uncle. That is what kings do, even saintly souls like Louis or our virginal young Malcolm. But I doubt that Harry is hatching any nefarious schemes to usurp Wales the way Stephen did England. To be unforgivably candid, Wales is not that great a prize. I think his true concern is to assure the succession for his son, and if that requires overawing the Welsh and the Scots, so be it. As like as not, he will-Jesu!”

Maud recoiled as an ill-aimed horseshoe thudded into the grass at her feet. “Are you so eager to be an orphan, Dickon?” she chided, and her younger son gave her an embarrassed grin. “Come on,” she said, linking her arm through Ranulf’s. “Apparently I am too tempting a target for my lads!”

Ranulf laughed and followed her out of the line of fire. “Quoits can be downright dangerous, especially when the players use stones instead of horseshoes. Add ale to the mix, and bystanders are likely to start dropping like ripe pears.” He was about to relate an account of a near-riot that had erupted after a quoit had bounced off the hob and clouted a London alderman, when he saw a familiar figure striding toward them.

“Rainald? Is the council done already?”

“Aye, it is done,” Rainald said, sounding so morose that Maud and Ranulf forgot about the game of quoits and hastened over. “Be glad you were not there, Ranulf, for it turned into a right ugly brawl. I’m half-deafened from so much shouting, am surprised you did not hear it all the way out here, for Harry can rattle shutters and raise the roof when he is in full cry.”

“What stirred up such a commotion? I thought it was just the sheriff’s aid that was under discussion.”

“Believe it or not, that was what kindled the fire. As soon as Harry announced that he wanted the sheriff’s aid to go into the Exchequer, Thomas Becket rose up in opposition to the plan, objecting most vehemently to the proposed change.”

Ranulf and Maud exchanged baffled looks. “Why? It would affect the sheriffs, not the Church.”

“So Harry pointed out. But Becket insisted that the sheriff’s aid was a free-will offering and was not to be changed into a royal revenue at the king’s whim. Harry was taken aback and instead of setting forth his reasons for wanting the change, he lost his temper and swore by God’s Eyes that the aid should be entered on the Pipe Rolls. And then Becket also lost his temper and he swore, too, by God’s Eyes, vowing that he’d not pay so much as a penny from his estates or Church lands. And all the while, the rest of us were sitting there openmouthed, unable to understand how it had come about.”

“Did Harry prevail?”

“No,” Rainald said, with astonishment that had yet to fade. “Becket did! He cleverly shifted his ground, arguing that our ancient, revered customs must be preserved against new and potentially dangerous innovations. That carried the day with barons and bishops alike, for who amongst us is not suspicious of change? When Harry saw the way the wind was blowing, he agreed to drop the matter, at least for now.”

“Why would Becket make so much ado about this? Why antagonize Harry over an issue that matters so little to the Church?”

“I’d have to be a soothsayer to answer that, Ranulf. This I can tell you, though, the bishops were asking that very question amongst themselves. For all that they rallied around Becket in public, they were as baffled by his behavior as we are. A wise man picks his quarrels with care, and Becket just squandered the king’s friendship for a trifle.”

“Uncle Ranulf?” Henry’s brother intercepted him as he started up the steps into the great hall. “May we talk?”

“Of course, lad.” Will’s open, freckled face was pinched and drawn, his distress so obvious that Ranulf took his elbow and steered him away from eavesdroppers. “Were you witness to the dispute over the sheriff’s aid?”

Will nodded. “I’ve never seen Harry so wroth, not ever. Few men would have dared to defy him like that, not to his face. I do not understand, Ranulf, how it has come to this.”

“Neither do I, Will.”

“Uncle… I had a troubling encounter with Thomas myself this morning, ere the council began. I honestly do not know if I have cause for concern or not, but I’ll admit to being disquieted about it. I told Thomas, you see, that I am to wed Isabella de Warenne. And he looked at me very gravely, shook his head, and said that such a marriage would not be acceptable in God’s Eyes, as Isabella is kin to me, by blood and marriage. It is true that Isabella and I are very distant cousins, and her late husband was my third cousin. But… but surely that is not an insurmountable impediment? Cousins get dispensations to wed all the time. Harry and Eleanor are cousins, after all, as were my parents. For certes, Thomas will be reasonable, will he not? He would not really forbid the marriage?”

Will’s composure was like a thin layer of ice, barely concealing the deep reservoir of panic just below the surface. Ranulf yearned to reassure his nephew that his fears were for naught, that not even the most scrupulous clerical conscience would be so inflexible. But how could he offer Will such a surety? Who would dare to speak for Thomas Becket now?

“We’ll talk to Harry about it… later, after his temper has cooled,” he promised, and, hoping that Will’s look of relief was justified, he continued on up the steps.

He was surprised to find that Henry and Becket were both still there, although at opposite ends of the hall. Like battle commanders, he thought, each one unwilling to withdraw from the field and give the advantage to his foe. Becket was talking to the elderly Bishop of Lincoln, never once glancing toward the king. But his clerks were hovering close at hand and his natural pallor was even more pronounced, his face the color of wax, his mouth ringed in white. His occasional stammer was more in evidence than usual, too. All in all, he struck Ranulf as a man with an unquiet soul, angry, agitated, and determined not to give ground. Rainald was wrong, he thought, for it was plain that Becket did not regard this as a quarrel over a trifle. Becket might be the only one who fully understood what the stakes were in this contest of wills between archbishop and king, but none could doubt that he knew they were high indeed.

The new Bishop of London was standing some distance away. Gilbert Foliot had an expressive face, and each time he gazed upon the archbishop, he gave himself away, his the queasy ambivalence of a man who’d just been proven right, at one and the same time grimly gratified and genuinely horrified. At his side was Ranulf’s nephew Roger, the Bishop-elect of Worcester. Roger was the son who most physically resembled his father, Robert, compact and spare of build, with oak-brown hair and eyes, a good-humored smile, an innate reserve. Now he was speaking quietly and persuasively into Foliot’s ear, like his sire, a born reconciler.

Several of the king’s lords were clustered around him upon the dais. Walter Clifford and Roger de Clare, Earl of Hertford, who was smiling so smugly that Ranulf knew he’d concluded that Henry was now sure to support his claim to Tonbridge Castle. Ranulf’s other nephew, Will of Gloucester, was gesturing emphatically to the Earl of Leicester, but Henry’s justiciar did not seem to be paying Will much mind. From time to time, he would nod politely or absently. All the while, though, he watched the king.

So did Ranulf. If Becket was ostensibly ignoring his sovereign, Henry’s gaze was following every move his archbishop made, with a falcon’s unblinking intensity. His face still deeply flushed, grey eyes smoldering, he seemed to be radiating heat; Ranulf could almost believe his skin would be hot to the touch. One glance was enough to show him that Rainald was not so wrong, after all, for the friendship between Henry and Becket was indeed doomed. It was dying here and now, on this July afternoon in Woodstock’s great hall.