Time and Chance

CHAPTER TWENTY

September 1165

Gwynedd, Wales

The road home was long and hard and Ranulf rode it alone. He owed the Crown the service of four knights for his English manors, but Henry had not claimed it of him in the Welsh war. Spared the need to provide fighting men, he’d taken along only two English-born squires, and he dispatched them to his closest Cheshire manor before heading west into Wales.

A state of war still existed and so he thought it prudent to avoid the main roads, where he’d be most likely to encounter Owain Gwynedd’s scouts and patrols. After fifteen years in Wales, he knew of the alternate routes, the deer tracks and woodland trails and local byways. His roundabout, circuitous journey was prolonged by the continuing wet weather. While the rains were nothing like the torrential deluge that had assailed the English in the Berwyns, they were still substantial enough to make travel both arduous and unpleasant. By the third day in the saddle, Ranulf had developed a low fever and a troublesome cough.

His physical discomfort on the road was a minor matter, though, when compared to the emotional abyss awaiting him at journey’s end. How could he tell Rhiannon that they must leave the only home she’d ever known, start life anew in an alien land? What of Gilbert? He was nigh on fourteen, the age of majority in Wales. Would he agree to come with them? Their entire family would be torn asunder and it was his doing. His uncle would face the eventual loss of his lands. Rhodri’s sons were dead and without near male kin to inherit, his manor would go upon his death by default to his Welsh king. Eleri and Rhiannon would be separated by distance and ill will, as would their children. Mallt and Morgan would grow up never knowing their own kin, their own customs, in time even their own tongue. Hiraeth-the Welsh longing for one’s homeland-would shadow their days in English exile.

He could not even be sure that English exile would be open to him. What if his nephew chose to declare his English manors forfeit? It was difficult for him to imagine Harry being that vindictive, that petty. But then it would have been difficult a fortnight ago to imagine that Harry would ever have given the order to maim the Welsh hostages.

When he at last reached the Conwy valley, the rain had dwindled to a light mist, its cooling touch welcome on his hot skin. He halted by the river so his stallion could drink, but he was putting off the inevitable and he knew it. Tugging on the reins, he headed for Trefriw.

His arrival was heralded by barking and, as soon as he dismounted, he was surrounded by dogs, their tails whipping about like waterwheel paddles as they welcomed him home. He was fending off his ecstatic dyrehund when his daughter came flying from the hall. With a joyful squeal, she flung herself upon him, telling him how happy she was that he had not been killed by the English.

Ranulf supposed that was something to be thankful for, and decided it definitely was a few moments later when Rhiannon appeared in the doorway of the hall. He reached her in several quick strides and found fleeting comfort in her arms. She clung so tightly that he knew she, too, dreaded what was to come.

When his uncle came limping out into the bailey, Ranulf reluctantly ended the embrace and turned to face Rhodri. His leave-taking had been angry, with Rhodri crying after him in frustrated fury that he was one of God’s greatest fools. He was expecting his return to be no less resentful. But his uncle was beaming, and a bewildered Ranulf was soon enveloped in a hearty, welcoming hug.

“I knew you’d come back safe,” Rhodri enthused, “I knew it.”

“I wish you’d shared that certainty with me,” Rhiannon murmured. “Ranulf, you feel feverish. Are you ailing?”

“I’ll live,” he said and slipped his arm through hers. “Let’s go into the hall. There is something I must tell you all.”

Ranulf’s account of the maiming of the Welsh hostages seemed to echo in the stillness that had engulfed the hall. Rhodri’s outraged oaths had soon spluttered out. Mumbling that he felt greensick of a sudden, he stumbled toward the door and Enid hurried after him. Rhiannon had listened in silence, one hand softly stroking Mallt’s brown braids. Her face was shuttered and drawn; Ranulf found it difficult to guess her thoughts. When it seemed clear that he had nothing more to say, she started to rise. “You must be hungry.”

“No,” he said, “I could not choke down a morsel to save my soul. Rhiannon, wait. There is more. On the morrow I must ride to find Owain Gwynedd, tell him what has befallen his sons and the other hostages-”

“No! Let someone else be the bearer of that news. Not you, Ranulf, not you!”

“I must,” he said, and although he spoke softly, that tone was all too familiar to her. Once he made up his mind, it was almost impossible to turn him in another direction. She did not even have a chance to try, though, for at that moment the door to the hall banged open and their son lurched across the threshold.

As clumsy in his growth spurt as a long-legged colt, Gilbert was usually self-conscious about his ungainliness, for he had always been easily embarrassed. But now he didn’t even seem to notice his stumble. His face lit up, dark eyes shining. “I just heard that you’d come home!”

It had been a long time since Ranulf had heard such unguarded pleasure in his son’s voice. “Yes,” he said, “I am home.” His last encounter with Gilbert had been even more turbulent than the one with Rhodri, and he had been braced for hostility, accusations, anything but this awkward offer of an olive branch. Getting to his feet, he started toward his son, expecting at any moment that Gilbert would back away. But the boy stood his ground, ducking his head with a shy smile as his father put an arm around his shoulders. To Ranulf, his son’s sudden thawing was more than he could have hoped for, and he accepted the transformation for what it seemed to be-as close as he would ever come to a miracle in this life.

In the course of the evening, Ranulf’s cough worsened and the next morning, Rhiannon insisted that he remain in bed. When he agreed, her anxiety flared anew, for she needed no greater proof that he was indeed ailing, and she hovered by his bedside for most of the day, bringing him honey for his cough, freshly baked bread and venison soup to tempt his indifferent appetite, and the rambunctious eighteen-month-old Morgan to raise his spirits. Ranulf ate what she brought him, played games in bed with his youngest son, and took a doomed man’s pleasure in the respite, knowing that his time in Wales was running out.

Just before dusk, Eleri and her children arrived in response to Rhodri’s summons. When they were ushered into Ranulf’s bedchamber, his sister-in-law greeted him with an elated smile and fond kisses so poorly aimed that his face was soon smeared with her lip rouge. Ranulf began to feel as if he were at a celebration where he was the only sober guest. What was going on?

What happened next was even more baffling. Their nearest neighbors, Sulien and his wife, Marared, arrived soon after Eleri, for in Wales news spread faster than summer wildfire. The last time Ranulf had run into Sulien, the older man had called him a misbegotten English Judas and spat onto the ground at his feet. Yet now that same man was approaching the bed with a jovial smile, so apparently pleased to see the Judas again that Ranulf half-expected him to announce that a fatted calf had been killed in his honor. But when he made mention of their altercation, Sulien dismissed it as a “lamentable misunderstanding,” adding a wink and a nudge as if they were allies in the same conspiracy.

That night Ranulf waited until his wife joined him in bed. “Rhiannon, when I rode off to fight with the English, I was reviled and denounced by all but you. Why has that changed? Why are Eleri and Rhodri and Gilbert suddenly so forgiving? Jesu, even Sulien and Marared! This makes no sense to me.”

He was not reassured by her reply. Rhiannon, usually so forthright, gave him an answer that was as evasive as it was uncomfortable. She knew more than she was telling. He did not press further, though, not yet, for there was another confession to be made. She had to be prepared for the worst. And so he told her, as gently as he could, that the least he could expect from Owain Gwynedd was banishment.

She was silent for a time. “Do you know my favorite verse of Scriptures? I learned it by heart as a girl and remember it well, even now. ‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’ ”

There was only one possible response to that. Ranulf drew her close, holding her in his arms until they both slept.

To Rhiannon’s dismay, Ranulf arose the next morning determined to ride out to find Owain Gwynedd. They argued as he dressed, during breakfast in the hall, and in the stables as he began to saddle his stallion. Having failed with logic and anger, Rhiannon was not too proud to resort to entreaty, not if it would keep Ranulf at Trefriw. “At least wait until you are stronger,” she implored, entwining slim, stubborn fingers in the sleeve of his tunic. “What harm can a few more days do?”

“I am already on the mend,” Ranulf insisted. But he undercut his own argument when he could not suppress a coughing fit, so prolonged that he sank down upon a wooden bench as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Compared to what-a man newly lain in his grave?” This sardonic query startled them both. Rhiannon swung toward the sound of that familiar voice and Ranulf’s head came up sharply, his eyes blinking as he sought to focus upon the man standing in the open doorway, haloed in sunlight.

“Hywel?” Incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

Hywel stepped from the light into the shadowed gloom of the stable. “What I do best,” he said, “which is saving you from yourself. What is this nonsense about riding off when you’re as weak as a mewling kitten?”

“I have to find your father…” Ranulf was on his feet now, trying to disguise the effort it had cost.

Hywel shrugged. “Do what you must, then. But it is only fair to warn you that I’ll be amongst the first to be courting your lovely widow.”

Ranulf started to speak, began to cough instead. When the spasm passed, he conceded defeat. “Hywel… we need to talk.”

“Yes, we do,” Hywel agreed. “But not here.”

As they headed for the door, Rhiannon stood without moving, listening to their muffled footsteps in the straw. Hywel’s coming was a blessing, putting off Ranulf’s reckoning with Owain Gwynedd, at least for a while longer. But his arrival also brought risk, for he was the source of the secret she’d been keeping from her husband. She waited a moment longer, drawing several deep bracing breaths, and then followed the men from the stable.

Rhiannon stirred honey and wine in a cup, then handed it to Ranulf. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let some of the syrupy liquid trickle down his throat, but he had yet to take his eyes from Hywel. “How is it that you’re here? Why are you not still with Lord Owain at Corwen?”

“My father has returned to Aber, waiting to see what the English king does next. I am here because I know you, Ranulf, down to your very bones. Sure as hellfire and brimstone, you’d be on the road to Aber within a day of your homecoming. I thought it best to head you off.”

Ranulf considered that response, which was uncommonly straightforward for Hywel, who was a master of misdirection and equivocation. “How did you know I’d returned to Trefriw? Did you have it under watch?”

“I did.”

“You are a good friend, better than I deserve. Hywel… I have something to tell you. There is no easy way to say it. A great evil has befallen your brothers Cadwallon and Cynwrig. They and the other Welsh hostages-I do not know how many-were blinded and unmanned at Chester, upon the orders of my nephew.”

Hywel thought it was very like Ranulf to stress his blood bond to Henry, assuming his share of the blame. “Twenty-two,” he said softly, and repeated it when he saw that Ranulf did not understand. “Twenty-two hostages were maimed at the English king’s pleasure.”

“You… you already know?”

“My father has eyes and ears wherever there is a need for them, and that includes Chester.”

“Christ, Hywel, I am sorry,” Ranulf said hoarsely and Hywel twitched a shoulder.

“My father has sired so many sons that some of them are almost strangers to me. Cadwallon and Cynwrig were too young to be boon companions as I came to manhood, so I never knew them all that well. But I’d not wish such a fate upon a convicted felon, much less blood kin.”

“Your father…” Ranulf could not find the words to ask how a man coped with the mutilation of his sons, and his voice died away.

“About as you’d expect. My father never lets anyone see him bleed, even me.”

“One of Rhys ap Gruffydd’s sons was amongst the twenty-two. Does he know that?”

Hywel’s mouth turned down. “He knows.”

Ranulf forced himself to drink more of Rhiannon’s honeyed concoction; his throat was so raw that it was like swallowing sawdust and ashes. “Your father tried to warn me that a man could not ride two horses at once. Fool that I was, I would not listen.”

“Well, you gave it as good a ride as you could,” Hywel said, with a faint smile. “Nigh on eight years ere you finally lost your balance. I doubt if there is another horseman in Christendom who could have done as well.”

“Oh, I did right well,” Ranulf said, with a bitter edge that was aimed not at Hywel but at himself. “I alienated my family, friends, neighbors, broke faith with Lord Owain, and made it impossible for my wife and children to live in their own land.”

“And on the seventh day, you rested.”

Ranulf was taken aback. “You mock me, Hywel? I can find no humor in the wreckage I have made of our lives!”

“What wreckage? As usual, you see only the brightest white, the darkest black, and none of the colors in-between. I am simply saying you ought not to be overhasty in packing up and racing for the border. It is not as if you have a band of angry neighbors baying at your heels, now is it?”

“No,” Ranulf said slowly, “it is not. And that is passing strange, for the Welsh have many virtues, but they are not a forgiving people. I would not have blamed my uncle if he’d turned me away from his door. Instead, he welcomed me back with open arms. So did my son and my sister-by-marriage and even our neighbors. It occurs to me, Hywel, that you might know why.”

Hywel feigned innocence and, as always, did it quite well. But Ranulf had caught a telltale flicker, enough to confirm his suspicions. “Hywel, what have you done? I have a right to know.”

Hywel regarded him pensively. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said, “but you’ll not like it much. I put the word out that you’ve been our man at the English court, spying all along on my father’s behalf.”

Ranulf’s jaw dropped. “Tell me you’re joking!”

“No, I am not. I knew that the life you’d had in Wales was over, that not even my father’s goodwill would be a strong enough shield. I understand that mulish pride of yours, knew it would compel you to obey Henry’s summons. But few others would understand. You’d be shunned, treated as if you were an outcast, a leper-if you were lucky. More likely you’d have been burned out by your outraged neighbors. You needed an excuse for your inexplicable loyalty to the English king, and so I provided you with one.”

“By making me into an accursed spy, a man without honor or loyalties? Christ Jesus, Hywel, how could you do that?”

Hywel was expecting just such a reaction and shrugged. Rhiannon’s response was less forbearing. “I’ve heard enough of honor to last me a lifetime! Where is the honor in exile, Ranulf?”

Ranulf turned to stare at her. “You knew what Hywel had done? You approved?”

“Yes, I knew, and indeed I approved! More than approved, I was grateful beyond words. My only regret was that you’d have to be told, for I knew you’d never understand. You are a good and decent man, Ranulf, but in some ways, you are as blind as I am.”

Ranulf was stunned by her outburst. Their quarrels were so infrequent and so mild that he’d been lulled into believing Rhiannon was incapable of genuine rage. After the turbulence and turmoil he’d endured with the high-strung, unpredictable Annora, he’d come to cherish the tranquillity he’d found in marriage to Rhiannon. He saw now that theirs was a false peace, purchased at the cost of her conscience. Again and again she had given him her unwavering support, her understanding, her acceptance-as Annora never had. She had suppressed her own fears and misgivings, always putting his needs first, even when the price of protecting his honor might well be banishment from the homeland she so loved.

Getting swiftly to his feet, he crossed the chamber to his wife, then took her in his arms. “I am sorry, love,” he whispered, “so sorry. You are in the right and I am an idiot.”

Rhiannon shook her head vehemently. “No, you are not. If our sons grow to manhood with even half of your courage and integrity, they will be very fortunate and I will be well content.”

Whatever she might have said next was lost as Ranulf kissed her. Hywel waited until he thought their embrace had gone on long enough and then said, “I can do without the hug, but what about an apology to me, too, Ranulf?”

Ranulf smiled at the other man over his wife’s shoulder. “I guess I do owe you one,” he conceded. “Actually your idea was ingenious-in a sly sort of way. I can understand how others might believe it, for you’ve always been glib of tongue, Hywel. But how could my uncle Rhodri imagine for a moment that I’d engage in such double-dealing? And Gilbert and Eleri-do they not know me better than that?”

“I can answer that,” Rhiannon said. “They believed it because they wanted to believe it, Ranulf, because they needed to believe it. They love you enough to banish disbelief.”

“Whereas you should have seen the horrified reactions of my brothers Davydd and Rhodri, who love you not.” Hywel grinned, remembering. “They were looking forward to a public hanging as soon as the opportunity presented itself. When they went running to my father in hopes of a denial, they were confounded when he confirmed it instead!”

“Owain did that?” Ranulf asked in astonishment. “You must be in higher favor than I thought, Hywel!” But almost at once, his amusement faded. “I would thank you,” he said seriously, “for what you tried to do on my behalf.”

Hywel cocked a brow. “ ‘Tried to do’?” he echoed. “It seems to me that my plan was a brilliant success, if I say so myself.”

“It would have been,” Ranulf agreed, “if not for the maiming of the hostages.”

“You think my father blames you for that?”

“His sons will never see another sunrise because of the English king… and I am Harry’s uncle.”

“You are also the one man who spoke up for the hostages. Only one voice argued against the maiming, and it was yours.”

Ranulf looked searchingly at Hywel, hope suddenly soaring to the quickening beat of his heart. “Are you saying Lord Owain is willing to let me stay in his domains?”

“He said that words rarely count for more than blood, but Chester is one of those times. You may make your home in Gwynedd till the end of your days and none will challenge your right to be here, to call yourself Welsh. On that, my father has spoken.”

Ranulf exhaled an uneven breath and then whirled back toward Rhiannon. She returned his embrace wholeheartedly, but her eyes prickled with tears, for she knew that the events at Chester had inflicted a grievous wound, one that would leave a deep jagged scar upon her husband’s soul.

Henry gazed down from the battlements of Chester Castle upon the ruination of his Welsh campaign. His fleet had finally arrived from Dublin, was anchored in the bend of the River Dee, and each time he looked upon that motley assemblage of ships, he felt anger stirring anew, embers from a fire that had been smoldering since their forced retreat from the Berwyns. He had contracted for galleys, but some of the ships riding at anchor were cogs. Instead of warships, he had flat-bottomed cargo vessels with which to ravage the Welsh coast… and not even enough of those.

“Did you ever see a more pitiful fleet in all your born days?” he demanded of the young Earl of Chester. “Shredded rigging, torn sails, lost oars-it is a bloody miracle that they did not sink like stones in Dublin’s harbor. Any man setting foot on one of those wrecks had better know how to walk on water, or else have made his peace with the Almighty.”

Hugh fidgeted nervously, wanting to offer reassurance or hope but checked by the reality floating below them on the river. One of the ships had been run aground into a mudbank to patch leaks, and the crew was scrambling to complete the repairs before the onset of high tide. In the shadow of another ship, a raft had been launched, and as it bobbed and pitched, several men set about recaulking the seams with a sticky mixture of tar and moss. Hugh had to admit it was a sorry spectacle meeting their eyes. Striving to shine the best light upon the debacle, he ventured to remind Henry that the ships had been mauled in a storm off the Irish coast. “But once they are mended, they may yet inflict damage amongst the Welsh.”

The other men winced at that, but Henry did not erupt as they expected. This muddled youth was his favorite cousin Maud’s son, after all, and so he contented himself with a barbed sarcasm. “Aye-there is always the chance that the Welsh will die laughing at their first sight of this great armada.”

Hugh didn’t have Henry’s familiarity with other languages and he wasn’t sure what an armada was, but he knew better than to ask. He was finding it a trial to be his king’s host; Henry had moved to Hugh’s castle at Chester to await the fleet, and now Hugh hoped that he’d decide to go back to Shotwick, where his army was encamped. Hugh had always been intimidated by his royal cousin the king, but Henry’s temper was exceptionally choleric these days and it was all too easy to provoke his ire.

Henry continued to watch the beached ship, his the morbid curiosity of a man with a toothache, compelled to keep touching his tongue to the tooth to see if it still hurt. It had been two days since that tattered fleet had limped into the Dee estuary, two days since he’d realized that his hopes of continuing the Welsh war had foundered with those Irish ships. The Welsh princes had defied him and gotten away with it. He had nothing to show for all his efforts but a depleted Exchequer, a lost summer, and a trail of shallow graves.

His bleak reverie was interrupted by a shout from the gatehouse; riders were coming in. A cursory glance down into the bailey showed him that there were women among them, but he had no interest in these new-comers. He would have welcomed his cousin, the tart-tongued worldly Maud, but she was in Anjou with Eleanor, planning to remain until after the babe was born. He could think of no other female he cared to see and he resumed his gloomy surveillance of the Irish ships. But then Hugh gave a sudden whoop.

“Holy Cross, it is Mistress Rosamund!”

Turning, Henry saw that the boy was right; one of the women in the bailey below them was indeed Rosamund Clifford. Hugh was heading for the ladder, at such a pace he’d be lucky not to take a headlong fall. Henry followed more slowly and with much less enthusiasm.

The Marcher lord, Walter Clifford, was greeting his daughter Rosamund and another woman whom Henry guessed to be his wife. After making the introductions to Hugh, who’d managed to get down in one piece, Clifford ushered the women toward Henry.

“My liege, may I present my wife, the Lady Margaret?” Wherever Rosamund had gotten her uncommon beauty, it was apparently not from her mother, a pleasingly plump woman in her forties with pale-blue eyes and the complacent composure of one born to a life of privilege.

“I believe you already know my daughter.” Clifford’s smile was so smug that Henry’s first impulse was to turn on his heel and stalk away. For the girl’s sake, he resisted the urge and managed a cool civility. Rosamund was more discerning than her father and her own smile faltered. Clifford was professing surprise that his womenfolk had come to visit him, jovially asking Hugh if he could find them a bed at the castle, and Hugh, beaming, declaring nothing would give him greater pleasure, while Rosamund looked at Henry in bewilderment, not understanding. Henry excused himself, climbed back up to the battlements, and stared out over the river at his misfit Irish fleet.

Supper that evening was not a festive affair. Hugh’s cooks did their best to provide a tempting meal, but Henry picked at the minced pork and venison pie without either interest or appetite. Hugh had gallantly invited Clifford, his wife, and daughter to join them at the high table. His attempts at flirtation proved futile, though. Subdued and silent, Rosamund kept her eyes upon her trencher, pushing food about with her knife but eating very little, occasionally casting covert glances at Henry when she thought he wasn’t watching. Hugh’s spirits soon flagged in the face of her obvious indifference. Clifford was growing increasingly annoyed by his daughter’s diffidence, scowling at her from his end of the table. The only one who seemed to be enjoying the meal was Henry’s uncle Rainald, who never let other people’s discomfort affect his appetite, and he at least did justice to the varied and highly seasoned dishes prepared by Hugh’s cooks.

After supper, Hugh summoned a minstrel to perform for his guests. But the entertainment was no more successful than the meal, if judged by Henry’s brooding demeanor. He may have heard the minstrel’s songs, but he did not appear to be listening, his private thoughts obviously far from the hall of Chester Castle. Through the open windows, the sky was turning from a twilit lavender to a rich plum color as a messenger was ushered toward the dais. Kneeling before Henry, he proffered a parchment bearing the seal of a French lord of opportunistic allegiances, Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux. As Henry scanned the dispatch, his body language alerted those close to him that something was wrong. Stiffening in his seat, one hand clenching upon the arm of his chair, he looked up, his mouth set in a taut line and his grey eyes frosted, filled with distance. He did not share the French count’s news, but rose instead, making an abrupt departure, leaving behind a hall abuzz with conjecture.

It was fully dark now, but the air still held some of the warmth of the day. The sudden stretch of fine weather had seemed like the ultimate ironic joke to Henry; where had the sun been when he’d had such need of it? One of the castle dogs trailed after him as he entered the deserted gardens, but soon veered off on the scent of unseen nocturnal prey. Henry was regretting not revealing the contents of de Montfort’s letter. More precisely, he was regretting not having someone to confide in, someone who’d understand his misery without the need of words. His ambitions were dynastic, his greatest wish to see his empire ruled by his sons after his death. Eleanor understood that. So had Thomas Becket-once. And Ranulf.

He did not like the direction his thoughts had taken. Some roads were better left untraveled. He had jammed the count’s letter into his belt as he left the hall. Now he pulled it out again, wishing he had a fire to thrust it into. On impulse, he drew his dagger and began methodically to slash the parchment into ribbons. He felt faintly foolish; destroying the evidence would change nothing. But he did not stop until the sheepskin was in tatters, letting the scraps fall to the ground at his feet.

“My lord…”

He’d not heard the light footsteps in the grass, and he spun around at the sound of a soft female voice. Rosamund Clifford stood several feet away, her face blanched in the moonlight, her small fists balled at her sides. It occurred to Henry that she looked frightened and that saddened him. It did not take much to sadden him these days. He laughed suddenly, mirth lessly. God’s Bones, he was as maudlin tonight as any drunken lout deep in his cups and without the excuse of wine, for he was cold sober.

He saw that his laughter had distressed her still further, for she’d understood that there was no humor in it. She was more perceptive than he would have expected of a convent-reared virgin, the self-serving Clifford’s flesh and blood. “Why are you wandering about in the gardens, Mistress Rosamund? Trying to avoid Hugh?”

Rosamund blushed; she hadn’t realized that he’d noticed Hugh’s attentions. “I was looking for you, my lord.” She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, had hoped he might think their meeting was accidental, unplanned. But face to face with him in the moonlight, she found herself too flustered for subtlety. She could only tell the truth, or as much of it as she dared. “I was worried about you, my lord. That letter seemed to trouble you so…”

“This letter I was just ripping into shreds?” Henry at once regretted the sarcasm; why take out his temper on the lass? “You might as well be the first to know. All of Paris is rejoicing; it’s a wonder we cannot hear the church bells pealing across the Channel. The Almighty has finally taken pity upon the French king. On the fourth Sunday of August, his queen gave him a son.”

He expected that he’d have to explain the political and dynastic significance of that birth. Rosamund did not give him the chance. “I am sorry to hear that,” she said softly. “Sons-by-marriage of a king have influence for certes. But uncles of a future king will wield much more.”

Henry looked at her in surprise. “So you know Louis’s current queen is of the House of Blois?”

She nodded shyly. “And I know, too, that her brothers, the Counts of Champagne and Blois, are men who bear you a mortal grudge.”

She could see that he was pleased she was so knowledgeable and she felt faintly guilty, as if she were flying under false colors. The truth was that he was her abiding interest, not matters of state. In the two years since their encounter in the gardens at Woodstock, she had studied him as a scholar might study holy writ, asking questions when she could, eavesdropping when she could not, learning as much as possible about Henry Fitz Empress.

She knew that he’d been crowned Duke of Normandy when he was but seventeen, that he’d become king of the English at one and twenty, that he was wed to a legendary beauty, that he could be lenient to rebels but unforgiving of betrayal, that his memory was extraordinary and he was said to have some knowledge of all the tongues spoken “from the coast of France to the River Jordan,” that his energy was boundless and his curiosity all-encompassing, that his anger could scorch hotter than the flames of Hell but to the downtrodden and Christ’s poor, he was unfailingly courteous, that he was unpredictable and passionate and often enigmatic even to those who knew him best, and each time she looked into his eyes, her pulse began to race and her breath quickened.

“I truly did not expect that Louis would ever be able to get himself a son, not after three wives and four daughters. He came to believe that he’d incurred the Almighty’s displeasure, and I suppose I wanted to believe that, too.” Henry shook his head in disgust at his own shortsightedness. “If we could foretell the future with certainty, what need would we have for prayer?”

That sounded vaguely blasphemous to Rosamund, but she decided Henry ought not to be judged by the same stringent standards that applied to other men. As King of England, he was the Almighty’s anointed, after all. She was thankful for her questions and her curiosity, for the flickering improbable hope that one day their paths might cross again, as her en deavors now enabled her to comprehend the root of his discontent. He had married his eldest son to Louis’s daughter in the belief that this marriage might one day make his son heir to two thrones. It had been an ambitious dream, but Henry was not one to settle for less if there was a chance he might get more. Louis had two daughters older than little Marguerite, of course, wed to the conniving Counts of Blois and Champagne, and Rosamund did not doubt they’d have made their own claims had Louis died without a son. Just as she did not doubt that Henry would have prevailed. But now it was not to be.

She struggled to find some morsel of comfort to offer him, at last said hesitantly, “Your son will still be England’s king, my liege. And the lands of the French king are meager indeed when compared with the empire you rule.”

Henry said nothing; she couldn’t be sure if he’d even heard her. He was frowning into the shadows beyond their moonlit patch of garden, withdrawing back into himself again. Rosamund felt suddenly bereft. Desperate to slow the drift, to keep his attention for a little longer, she found the courage to ask the question that had been haunting her since their arrival that afternoon.

“My liege… have I offended you in some way?”

Henry was sorry she’d asked that, for there was no honest way to answer her without causing her pain. “Of course not,” he said, hoping she’d be satisfied with his denial.

Rosamund bit her lip, utterly unconvinced. “Then… then why did you look at me like that in the bailey? You were not pleased to see me, my lord, I know you were not. Can you not tell me why?”

He was quiet for a moment, considering his options and concluding that he had none. “You are right, lass. I was displeased, but not with you. My anger was with your father.”

“Because he sent for me?” she asked in a small voice, and Henry nodded unwillingly.

“Rosamund, I do not want to hurt you. None of this is your doing. You did not realize what he had in mind, using you as bait to fish for the king’s favor. At Avreton Castle, he saw that I was drawn to you and he thought to take advantage of it. I should be used to it by now. But you’re his daughter, by God, and he ought to care more for your welfare than his own coffers. By pushing you toward my bed, he might have gained certain advantages today, but what of your tomorrows? What sort of marriage could you make? I’m no saint, have committed my share of sins and I’m likely to commit more. But you’re an innocent…”

Henry paused, hearing again Ranulf’s voice pointing that out to him. The king’s conscience. “I do not want to hurt you,” he repeated, and this time he was not speaking of the injuries inflicted by his candor.

Rosamund was deeply flushed; even by the moon’s silvered light, he could see the color burning in her cheeks. “You are wrong, my liege.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I did realize what my father had in mind. I am indeed an innocent, as you say. But I am not a child. Of course I understood. What you do not understand is that I was willing. I wanted to come. I wanted to be with you.”

The silence that followed her confession seemed endless to Rosamund; even the sounds of the night had ceased, and she could almost believe the entire world had gone still of a sudden. When she could endure it no more, she said, “You must think I’m shameless.. ”

Henry closed the distance between them, slid his fingers under her chin, and tilted her face up to his. “No,” he said, “I am thinking that it would take a stronger man than me to walk away from you now.”

Watching as Henry moved to the table and poured wine for them, Rosamund could only marvel that the King of England was acting as her cupbearer. He brought a single cup back to the window seat and they took turns drinking from it. Rosamund limited herself to several small sips, for she already felt light-headed, made tipsy by this astonishing turn of fate. All her daydreams notwithstanding, she found it hard to believe that she was actually here with Henry in his bedchamber, his fingers stroking her cheek, his every smile for her and her alone. She was touched that he was being so gentle with her, so unhurried. He’d unfastened her veil and wimple, unpinning her hair until it tumbled free down her back.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, “especially with your hair loose like this. The color is remarkable, not so much spun flax as spun moonlight.”

“I’m glad it pleases you,” she said, and he set the wine cup down in the floor rushes at their feet, took her in his arms. He’d kissed her before, below in the gardens, but not like this. His mouth was hot, tasting of wine, and when he took her onto his lap, she felt the rising proof of how much he wanted her. She was breathless by the time he ended the kiss. He traced the curve of her mouth with his finger, his eyes shining silver in the lamplight. The loss of her maidenhead would turn her life onto a different path, a road unfamiliar and fraught with risk. She was immensely grateful that he cared about her honor, but she was not afraid. Her anxiety had vanished down in the gardens, once she realized that he did want her. She gave him a smile he would remember, one of tenderness and utter trust, and he lifted her up in his arms, carried her across the chamber to his bed.

Henry was thirty-two, had first learned about the profound pleasures of the flesh while still in his early teens. Oddly, though, he’d had little experience with virgins, for he was as pragmatic about bedsport as he was about other pursuits; his natural inclination was for the most direct route. Before his marriage to Eleanor, he’d preferred knowing, practiced bedmates and was quite willing to pay for the privilege, as that was easy and uncomplicated and avoided awkward misunderstandings. Since his marriage, he’d been faithful to his wife when he was with her, feeling free to seek sexual release elsewhere when he was not.

Rosamund Clifford was a departure from his usual pattern, and he was intent upon making sure that her first time was pleasurable for her, for she aroused more than his lust; there was something about the girl that made him want to take care of her. With Rosamund, he discovered a virtue he hadn’t thought he possessed-patience-and after their lovemaking was over, he held her within the sheltering circle of his arms, fighting sleep for her sake, a sacrifice he’d hitherto made only for Eleanor.

He awoke in the morning with a feeling of drowsy contentment, and for the first time in weeks with nary a thought to spare for his failed campaign, his missing uncle, or the hapless Welsh hostages. Rosamund was curled up beside him like a kitten, blond hair spilling across the pillow and over the side of the bed; it must reach nigh on to her knees, he decided, and a stray quotation from Scriptures surfaced, that “if a woman hath long hair, it is a glory to her.” When she opened her eyes and smiled up at him, he was surprised by the surge of relief he felt. He’d been confident he’d made her deflowering more pleasurable than painful, but a woman’s virtue was a valuable commodity in their world and she might well have suffered morning-after regrets. He was pleased to see that it was not so, and leaned over to kiss her sweeping golden lashes, the corner of her mouth where her smile still lingered.

Afterward, they lay entwined in the sheets, reluctant to leave the private refuge of his bedchamber for the reality waiting on the other side of the door. Henry was the first to stir, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand. “People will know,” he said. “Nothing that a king does escapes notice. Does that trouble you, Rosamund?”

“No, it does not, my lord.” The lie came readily to her lips for she’d recognized that any liaison with Henry would have consequences that were sure to spill over into every corner of her life. Until last night she’d been known to their world as Clifford’s daughter. Now she would become the king’s concubine. It was a prospect she found both daunting and humiliating, but it was a price she was willing to pay for her time with Henry.

“When do you plan to leave Chester?” she asked, and was proud of herself for making the query sound so casual, as if heartbreak was not riding upon his answer.

“Probably on Friday. My Curia Regis is scheduled to meet at month’s end.” He thought to translate the Latin into “Royal Court” for her benefit, but she scarcely noticed, for she was counting surreptitiously upon her fingers. Four days.

“Will you have time for me tonight?” she asked, still striving for nonchalance, and was reassured when he laughed and joked about staying in bed with her for the rest of his born days. She knew better, of course, but at least she’d have until Friday. That was more than many an unhappy wife had in an entire lifetime.

Sitting up, she began to untangle her hair with her fingers, feeling an almost childish delight when Henry tossed her his own brush. He was dressing with his usual dispatch, but when he smiled at her as he pulled a tunic over his head, she was encouraged to ask if he might grant her a favor.

Henry found himself fumbling with his belt, fighting back sudden suspicion. Had he so misjudged her? Was she Clifford’s accomplice, after all? He was accustomed to people wanting what a king could give, and women did their best bargaining in bed; that he well knew. But for reasons he did not fully understand, he did not want Rosamund Clifford to angle for her own advantage, to put a price upon her maidenhead. “What may I do for you?” he asked, his tone so neutral that a more worldly woman might have been warned.

Rosamund hesitated, hoping that he would not think her presumptuous. “I was wondering if… if when we are alone, I may call you Henry?”

Henry burst out laughing. “Well, no,” he said, and when he saw she’d taken his teasing seriously, he added hastily, “Actually I prefer Harry.”

She smiled, saying “Harry” with such ingenuous satisfaction that he had to return to the bed and kiss her. And when he left Chester at the week’s end, he took Rosamund with him.

In October, Eleanor gave birth at Angers to their seventh child, a fair-haired daughter who was named Joanna.