Time and Chance

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

December 1165

Angers, Anjou

In their thirteen years of marriage, Henry and Eleanor had often been apart, but they always spent Christmas together. Only war had separated them and only once. But now they were separated by more than miles. Eleanor did not understand why her husband was still in England. Nor did she approve. She had acted as his regent during his disastrous invasion of Wales, and that had been no easy task, for Thomas Becket’s defiance was a contagion, infecting the always contentious barons of Poitou, Anjou, and Maine. Small rebellions had been breaking out like brushfires all over Henry’s vast domains, fanned by agents of the French Crown and the House of Blois. Henry was needed on the Continent, where his enemies were plotting against him, where he had an infant daughter he’d yet to see and a wife who’d been sleeping alone for the past six months. Perplexed and aggrieved by his continuing absence, Eleanor finally voiced to intimates the question that was being asked by others, too, and with increasing frequency: What was keeping the king in England?

JUST AS SHE had not allowed pregnancy and childbirth to distract her from her duties as regent, Eleanor was determined to hold a Christmas Court as spectacular as any she and Henry had hosted in the past. God’s Year 1165 had not been a good one for Henry Fitz Empress-a humiliating defeat in Wales, the birth of a son to the French king, continuing discord with the exiled archbishop, Thomas Becket, echoes of rebellion on the bleak winter winds. But Eleanor had always been one for nailing her flag to the mast so it could not be struck down. She spared no expense and her guests would be marveling at the splendor of the royal revelries for months to come.

The great castle of Angers was hung with evergreen, holly, laurel, yew, and mistletoe. To enthusiastic cheers of “Wassail!” the Yule candle was lit and then the Yule log, carefully stacked so it might burn for the following twelve days. The Eve of Christmas was a fast day, but the Christmas Day feast was lavish enough to blot out all memories of Advent abstinence: a roasted boar’s head, refeathered peacocks, oysters, venison, and the delicacy known as a “glazed pilgrim,” a large pike which was boiled at the head, fried in the middle, and roasted at the tail. The entertainment was no less impressive than the menu: music by the finest minstrels in all of Aquitaine, dancing, a fire juggler, and then the presentation of the Play of the Three Shepherds. As bells pealed to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child, Eleanor’s Christmas Day revelry came to a successful conclusion, and if her spirits had been dampened by her husband’s absence, she alone knew it.

Christmas festivities traditionally ended on Twelfth Night. The January sky was canopied by clouds, and the evidence of an earlier snowfall still glazed the ground of the castle’s inner bailey. Colors of crimson and sun-gold glowed in the wavering torchlight, for most of the guests had not bothered to cover their fine clothes with mantles or cloaks. Warmed by wine and vanity, they’d trooped outdoors in good humor for the wassailing of the trees, only to discover that hippocras and the frothy cider drink called lamb’s wool were poor protection against a biting wind and air so icy it hurt to breathe.

Hurriedly, the revelers crowded into the garden, twelve of them forming a circle around the largest of the fruit trees. “Hail to thee, old apple tree,” they chanted hoarsely. “From every bough, give us apples enow.” The rest of the rhyme was all but drowned out by the chattering of teeth and the stamping of frigid feet. Cups were hastily lifted and muffled cries of “Wassail” filled the garden. There was more to the ceremony, but the guests were already hastening back toward the great hall. Pouring the remainder of their cider onto the exposed gnarled roots of the apple tree, the twelve wassailers scrambled to catch up with their retreating audience. Soon the garden was empty of all save a lone woman who’d had the foresight to wrap herself in a mantle lined with fox fur and a youth whose arm she had linked in hers.

The young Earl of Chester was sensibly garbed, too, enveloped in a green wool mantle that billowed like a sail with each swirl of the wind. He showed neither impatience to return to the hall nor curiosity why his mother should have chosen to linger in the dark, deserted garden, and it was that very apathy that Maud found so perplexing. Hugh’s abrupt arrival at Angers had taken her by surprise, for she had expected him to remain in England with their cousin the king. Whatever had possessed the lad to make a needless winter journey like this? So far he’d been as sparing with his answers as he was with his smiles, thwarting her maternal solicitude with shrugs and silence. Watching him as he brooded amongst the wassailers, as somber as if he were attending a wake, Maud had at last lost all patience.

“Are you going to tell me what is troubling you, Hugh, or must I guess?” He glanced at her sideways, with another of those vexing shrugs, and Maud’s frustration spilled over into the sort of blunt speaking that her more conventional son deplored. What sort of sins would he be most likely to commit? Gambling debts? Nay, he was too cautious to enjoy wagering. “Have you gotten some girl with child?”

“No!” Hugh flushed, looking much younger at that moment than his eighteen years, and Maud almost smiled. So it was a lass, after all. Reminding herself how vulnerable first love could be, she said, not unkindly, “There is no crime in being smitten by a pretty face. Nor is there any great harm in sowing a few wild oats, provided that the girl is not already spoken for…” Her son’s face twitched, and she said, more sharply, “Hugh, no good can come of lusting after a married woman. Even if she is only a villein, it is not wise, for-”

“Rosamund is no villein,” he snapped, sounding offended. “She is well bred and gently born. Nor is she married.”

“Rosamund who?” she asked, so unobtrusively that Hugh found himself mumbling her surname before he could think better of it.

Maud regarded him thoughtfully; clearly this was more serious than she’d realized. Was he enamored enough to want to marry the girl? Clifford’s daughter would make most men a perfectly acceptable wife, but the Earl of Chester could aim much higher. What of the negotiations to wed him to the young daughter of the Count of Evreux? “Hugh, I hope you’ve done nothing rash. You’ve made no promises to this girl, have you?”

He shook his head mutely, and she sighed with relief. But then he added in a burst of miserable candor, “I would have, but she’ll have none of me.”

Maud’s temper ignited. That self-serving malcontent, Clifford, dared to refuse her son? What better husband could he crave for his daughter than Hugh of Chester, cousin to the king? Forgetting for the moment her own opposition to a Clifford-Chester match, she said indignantly, “Some hawks fly high these days, need to get their wings clipped for certes!” Hugh did not seem much comforted by that, and she patted his arm con solingly. “Ah, lad, I do understand. This is the first lass you’ve set your heart upon, and I know it is hurtful. But-”

“No, you do not understand!” Hugh’s despair was so naked that his mother fell silent, for such an emotional outburst was quite unlike him. “Hurtful, you say? You do not know the half of it! What choice did she have, a girl convent-reared and all too trusting? But I could do nothing, had to watch as he took her to his bed, with her lout of a father cheering him on!”

Maud stared at him. “What in God’s Name are you talking about? Who took Rosamund Clifford into his bed?”

“Who do you think?” Hugh’s mouth twisted. “The king!”

“Harry… and Rosamund Clifford?” She sighed again, this time sadly. Poor Hugh, no wonder he was so distraught. “Well, that is unfortunate, but it might turn out better for the girl than you think. If she was indeed a virgin, Harry will surely be generous enough to compensate for the loss of her maidenhead, and there are men who’d take a perverse pride in having a woman bedded by the king.”

“You still do not understand! This is more than a grope in the dark or a quick tumble between the sheets. He is besotted with her, keeps her as close as he can. Where do you think he is now? At Woodstock-with her!”

Maud’s breath hissed between her teeth. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder, making sure they were still alone. So that was why Harry had lingered so long in England! Jesu, but men were such fools. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else, Hugh?” When he shook his head, she reached out and gripped his arm. “See that you do not.”

Hugh looked annoyed. “What do you fear, Mother, that I’d blurt it out to the queen? I have more sense than that. But my silence will matter for naught. Sooner or later, she’ll hear about her husband and Rosamund.”

“Yes,” she agreed grimly, “she will. But it will not be from you.”

Meliora had not ventured far, only to an apothecary’s shop on Calpe Street, but the rain started again before she could return to the shelter of Winchester’s great castle. It was a stinging, cold rain, interspersed with sleet, for although the calendar had marked the first week of March, England was still in winter’s frigid grip. But Meliora was not one to be daunted by bad weather; pulling up her mantle hood, she continued on her way. Several boisterous young men came sprinting toward her, laughing and cursing as they sought to outrun the rain to the closest alehouse. A woman passing by made haste to cross the street, but Meliora didn’t give the rowdy youths a second glance. Now in her fifties, she still had the bold spirit that had led her to leave her native Cornwall in search of adventure and more opportunities than any Cornish village could offer.

Twice married, twice widowed-the first marriage for fun, the second for security-she had three grown children, and a dower sufficient to keep her in a comfortable old age. But for all that her flaming red hair was now greyed, her waist thickened, and her step slowed by a touch of the joint-evil, her thirst for the unknown had not been slaked. And so when the king asked her to attend the Lady Rosamund Clifford, Meliora had accepted with alacrity.

Hearing sudden footsteps thudding behind her, she spun around, her grip tightening on the walking stick that would make a useful weapon. But the man bearing down upon her was no cutpurse, far too well dressed for that. As he drew nearer, she recognized him as the castellan’s second-in-command, and readily accepted his offer to escort her back to the castle. With ostentatious gallantry, he insisted upon carrying her apothecary’s sack and she relinquished it with a droll smile, knowing full well that the days were long past when young men vied for her favors. His chivalry was motivated by curiosity for certes; she’d wager the entire garrison was gossiping about the girl who’d accompanied the king to Winchester.

Meliora was not averse to gossip and answered readily enough, amused by the youth’s clumsy attempts at nonchalance. She confirmed that she and her lady would be leaving for Woodstock on the morrow, weather permitting, now that the king had continued on to Southampton. No, she did not know when the king would be returning to England. Yes, she and her lady would be needing an escort, but she believed the King’s Grace had arranged that with the castellan ere his departure yesterday. She was so agreeable, so affable that it was only later that he’d realize just how little she’d actually told him.

The castle’s postern gate was open for there was still a trickle of sodden daylight remaining. Thanking her escort with just a trace of perceptible irony, Meliora crossed the bridge and waded through the mud, heading for the square tower in the northeast angle of the inner bailey that Henry had occupied for his brief domicile in Winchester.

Meliora knew that Henry had deliberately chosen to eschew the king’s chambers and the royal bed he’d shared with Eleanor. She wondered if Rosamund did. She had a genuine liking for the king. They’d met several years ago during one of his frequent stays at Woodstock, Meliora’s home for the past two decades. She enjoyed his sly humor and cavalier disregard for protocol, admired his sharp-edged intelligence, and was impressed by the generosity of the offer he’d made to her, for she knew he was not a spendthrift by nature. She’d jumped at the chance to enter his world, shrewdly sure she knew what he wanted-a shepherd to watch over his little lamb for as long as his infatuation with the girl lasted-and after four months in the king’s service, she had yet to repent of her impulsive acceptance.

She huffed up the stairwell to their chamber, then shed her wet mantle, kicked off her clogs, and hurried over to thaw out by the hearth. Rosamund Clifford had been lying down, but at the sound of the opening door, she jerked the bed hangings aside. “Where did you go, Meliora? Look at you, you’re soaked through.” Snatching up a garment from a wall pole, she hastened toward the hearth. “Here, put this on.”

Meliora snorted incredulously at the sight of what Rosamund was holding out, the new bedrobe given her by the king. Made of finely woven scarlet, the most luxurious of all woolens, it shimmered in the lamplight, a deep, rich mulberry. “Child, I’d be lucky to get my elbow into that wisp of cloth, much less my rump. And even if it fit, I’d be as skittish as a treed cat, wearing something more costly than my late husband’s best cow.” She sketched a cross in the air, adding a perfunctory “May God assoil him,” and then grinned. “The husband, not the cow.”

Rosamund grinned, too. “I was fretful about wearing this myself,” she confided. “I was sure I’d spill wine in my lap or stand too close to the hearth and get smoke smudges on it, and the king would think I was shamefully careless. When I finally confessed my unease, he raised a brow in that way he has and said he was reasonably sure that ruining a robe was not a hanging offense.”

Meliora was amused that Rosamund continued to observe the pro prieties, always taking care to accord her lover his regal title. Henry Fitz Empress was a lucky man, she thought, for this was one royal concubine who’d never be a player in those dangerous and tempting games of chance in which no stakes were higher than the king’s favor. Even after more than five months of sharing his bed, Rosamund Clifford showed no symptoms of that pernicious ailment Henry had once sardonically dubbed “Crown fever,” and Meliora was worldly enough to appreciate how rare such an immunity was.

She hadn’t counted upon this, upon becoming so fond of the lass. She would have preferred to keep an emotional distance, to avoid getting sucked into the whirlpools and eddies as the love affair ebbed and flowed. But it was too late; her shepherd’s eye had taken on a maternal glint and she was already regretting the hurt that would inevitably befall the king’s little lamb.

“Has your headache eased up any?” she asked, noting the pallor in Rosamund’s cheeks, the puffiness shadowing her eyes. “You still look a mite peaked. Well, I’ve a remedy for that,” she announced, reaching for the apothecary’s sack, knowing all the while that herbs were no cure for what ailed the girl. The king had departed yesterday morning for Southampton, where he planned to take ship for Normandy, and Meliora had heard Rosamund softly weeping several times in the night, despite her efforts to muffle her sobs in the pillow. The lass would have to toughen up if she hoped to survive this perilous liaison with nothing worse than a few calluses of the heart. But for now, betony would have to do.

“My grandmother used to swear by this,” she said, rooting about in the apothecary’s sack, “whenever any of us was stricken with head-pain. She’d mix a spoonful of betony juice with honey, wine, and nine pepper-corns, have the ailing one take it every morn and eve for nine days.”

Ignoring Rosamund’s half-hearted demurrals, Meliora set about preparing her potion, only to remember that she’d finished the last of the red wine during their dinner; since Henry’s departure, they’d been taking their meals in the privacy of their bedchamber rather than under the curious stares of the garrison in the great hall. Rosamund protested in earnest once she realized that Meliora meant to venture out again into the storm, but the older woman laughed away her objections and pulled on her sodden mantle, then squeezed her feet back into her muddy clogs. No one ever said that a shepherd’s lot was an easy one.

The rain had not slackened and it was so blustery that Meliora turned her ankle in her rush to reach the buttery. She was limping back toward the square tower, clutching the wine flagon to her chest and cursing under her breath when a shout echoed from the battlements. Men were running along the rampart walks, gesturing toward the castle’s great gate with enough urgency to attract Meliora’s attention. Riders were coming in, and to judge by the sudden spurt of activity, they were men of considerable importance. Meliora’s curiosity, always a potent force, won out over her discomfort and she lingered to watch the arrival of these high-ranking visitors. A moment later, she was splashing through the muck of the mid-bailey, intent only upon reaching the man on a familiar, raw-boned grey stallion.

“Your Grace!” Panting, she waved to catch Henry’s eye. He saw her at once, and after shooting off a barrage of instructions over his shoulder, he swung from the saddle and strode toward Meliora, who’d prudently stopped some feet away, remembering his stallion’s unpredictable temper. “Is something amiss?” she cried as soon as he was within hearing range. “Why are you not at sea by now?”

Henry’s shoulders twitched under his mantle in what might have been a shrug. “The weather was so foul that I decided to delay crossing the Channel until the storm passes.”

Meliora could not hide her astonishment, for it was well known that he’d often sailed in seas rough enough to make the Devil himself greensick. Henry had the grace to look somewhat sheepish as he realized how lame his excuse sounded. This time his shrug was more pronounced. “I can spare a few more days,” he said, as close as he could come to admitting his reluctance to leave his young mistress. “How does she, Meliora?”

By now he’d steered her across the bailey and into the square tower. “You’d best see for yourself, my lord. You needn’t wait on me, though. I’d as soon stay here till I catch my breath.”

The smoking rushlight above their heads caught the gleam of his smile, the damp gold of his hair as his hood fell back. Meliora sat down on the stairs, listening to the jangle of his spurs as they struck sparks against the grooved stone steps. He was taking them two at a time, and within moments, she heard the door open, heard Rosamund cry out in wonderment: “Harry!” Meliora settled herself more comfortably against the stairwell and took a deep swallow from the flagon, unconcerned with the lack of a cup. The wine was a heavy, sweet malmsey from Crete, far superior in quality to the sour white wines of southern England that Meliora’s late husband could afford. She savored the taste and smiled then in the dark, for it now seemed as if she’d have more opportunities to drink the king’s fine wines than she’d first envisioned.

Henry returned with Rosamund to Woodstock, where they passed another week together. It was not until March 16 that he rode back to Southampton and sailed for Normandy. Reunited with his queen, they held their Easter court at Angers. Henry then set about punishing those lords who’d defied Eleanor’s orders during his absence in England. Marching into Maine, he dealt first with the rebellious Count of Seez, William Talevas, and in a lightning-fast campaign, he forced Talevas to yield his strongholds of Alencon and La Roche Mabille. He also found time to confer with the King of France, to pressure the monks of Pontigny to expel Thomas Becket from their abbey, to summon his lords to Chinon for a council on the turmoil in Brittany, and to plan another meeting with Louis. But as spring’s warmth yielded to the scorching heat of a dry, searing summer, word spilled over the castle walls of Chinon, shocking even Henry’s multitude of mortal enemies. The English king was gravely ill, it was said, so ill that it was feared for his life.

The day was hot, the sky a brittle, cloudless blue, and the soaring, white walls of Chinon had come into view, high on a spur overlooking the River Vienne. The Countess of Vermandois recognized it with a mingled sense of relief and dread, thankful to end her dusty, uncomfortable journey but uneasy about what she would find. Sending her men to seek refreshments in the great hall, she insisted upon being taken at once to see her sister, the queen. If death had come to Chinon, better that she know it straightaway.

She was escorted across a dry, barren bailey, the earth cracked and sere. The air was cooler inside the great round keep, the Tour de Moulin, but not by much. Following a servant into the shadowed stairwell, Petronilla blinked as she emerged into the light of the solar, where windows were unshuttered, open to the sun. As she sat on a cushioned settle, she could feel perspiration trickling into the lacings of her bodice; it was so tightly fitting that it seemed molded to her skin, and she wondered why fashion must be so damnably uncomfortable. Hoping for an errant breeze, she moved to a window, but the smell from the river was too pungent and she soon retreated.

When Eleanor entered, she gave her sister a distracted embrace, then sent a servant for wine. “I never thought I’d say this, but today I almost miss those wretched, wet English fogs.”

“How does Harry fare?”

“Better. His fever broke three days ago.” Sitting down heavily upon the settle, Eleanor groped for a pillow to put behind her back. “It was good of you to come, Petra.”

“Of course I came. Your letter made it sound as if you might be a widow at any moment!”

“If I’d listened to those fool doctors, I’d have been picking out my mourning garb.” Eleanor shook her head impatiently. “I told them that unless Harry could rule in absentia, he’d never agree to die.”

“You say his fever has broken?”

“Yes, on Friday, and he’s begun complaining about the food and the doctors and the heat, a sure sign that he is on the mend. Although he did give us a scare yesterday. A courier arrived with word of Becket’s latest outrage whilst I was lying down, and those dolts let the man in to see Harry. He started shouting like a madman, insisted upon getting out of bed, and collapsed in the floor rushes like a sack of flour since he is still as weak as a newborn.”

“What has Becket done now?”

Eleanor grimaced. “On Whitsunday, he celebrated Mass at Vezelay and pronounced sentences of anathema and excommunication upon seven of Harry’s lords, including his justiciar, Richard de Lucy. He also condemned the Constitutions of Clarendon and freed the English bishops from their oaths to obey them. And he even threatened to excommunicate Harry himself and lay all England under interdict.”

Petronilla sighed; she was thoroughly bored by this endless squabbling between Becket and her brother-in-law. “What happens now?”

“Harry means to order the English bishops to appeal to the Pope against these censures.”

A wisp of hair had escaped Eleanor’s wimple and was tickling her cheek; she tucked it away and leaned back against the settle, closing her eyes. Petronilla was not surprised that she looked fatigued; she’d wager every soul in Chinon was careworn from catering to Harry’s sickbed whims. “You ought to be flushed in this heat, not as white as chalk,” she said critically, reaching over to feel Eleanor’s forehead as the door opened and a servant entered with a flagon of wine, two cups, and a plateful of fresh-baked wafers. “Set it by me,” Petronilla directed and filled the cups. The wine was a strong red Gascon and she savored every swallow. “You’d not believe the swill I was served on the road. Here, Eleanor, have one of the cheese wafers.”

Eleanor shook her head, recoiling when Petronilla tried to pass her a wafer. “Just the smell of it is enough to make my gorge rise.”

“Are you ailing?” Petronilla gave her sister a speculative look. “You’ve never been one for queasiness, except… Good Lord, Eleanor, has Harry gotten you with child again?”

“Well, I surely hope it is Harry’s,” Eleanor said tartly. She was obviously irked by her sister’s disapproving tone, but Petronilla doubted that she’d welcomed this pregnancy with heartfelt joy. What woman of forty and four years would?

“I know you’ve enjoyed confounding those who claimed you’d ever be a barren queen, but even so… What are you and Harry doing, going for a baker’s dozen? When is this one due?”

“In January. It happened whilst we were at Angers for Eastertide.” Petronilla scowled, thinking it a pity that Harry had not stayed longer in England. No wonder Eleanor looked so wan. If the fates had been less kind, she’d have found herself a pregnant widow, bequeathed each and every one of Harry’s enemies, struggling to hold together a far-flung empire for a son who was all of eleven years. She held her tongue for once, though, and glancing at her sister’s taut profile, she could only hope that this eighth pregnancy would be an easy one and, God Willing, the last.

No sooner had Henry risen from his sickbed than he was in the saddle. Conan, Duke of Upper Brittany, was viewed by the Bretons as an Angevin puppet, and a rebellion had recently flared up, ignited by a disaffected baron, Ralph de Fougeres. By June 28, Henry’s army was at Fougeres. It was said to be impervious to assault, but it fell to Henry on July 14. He then pushed on into Brittany, where he deposed the inept Conan, betrothed his young son Geoffrey to Conan’s daughter and heiress, Constance, and took possession of the duchy in his son’s name.

Autumn that year painted the countryside in vivid shades of scarlet, saffron, and russet, and the days were clear and crisp under harvest skies. But Henry had little time to enjoy the splendors of the season. Even his passion for the hunt went unsatisfied as he passed the days in a whirlwind of councils with allies and enemies alike-the Count of Flanders; Theobald, Count of Blois; the perpetually discontented Poitevin lords; the new King of Scotland; a papal envoy; and Matthew of Boulogne, scandalously wed to King Stephen’s daughter Mary, former abbess of Romsey Abbey.

By November 20, he was back at Chinon Castle, and it was here that he received his justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and his uncle Rainald, Earl of Cornwall, bearing news of yet another Welsh setback. Owain Gwynedd had taken advantage of Henry’s absence from England to capture and destroy Basingwerk Castle. Under the command of the Earls of Leicester and Essex, men were dispatched to rebuild it, but they’d been forced to retreat back across the border in disarray.

Chinon’s Great Hall was crowded, for Henry’s own retainers were augmented by the new arrivals from England and a sizable contingent of Poitevin lords, squirming under the king’s watchful eye. After a time, Rainald took refuge in a window seat alcove, where he made himself as comfortable as his aching muscles would allow, occasionally intercepting a passing wine-bearer or nodding with forced joviality if he happened to spot a familiar face. The night was mild and the hearth fires well tended; Rainald was soon dozing, his chin resting on his chest, fingers loosening around the stem of a tilting wine cup. But when another hand reached over to steady the goblet, he jerked upright, blinking blearily until his tired brain processed the information that the wine thief was his nephew.

Henry was grinning. “I think you’d rally on your very deathbed if someone waved a flagon under your nose.” Sitting down in the window seat, he waved aside the inevitable flock of hangers-on, indicating he wanted some semiprivacy with his uncle. As they reluctantly retreated, he handed Rainald back his wine cup. “Feeling your age, Uncle?”

Rainald’s answering grin was swallowed up in a huge yawn. “Aye, lad, I am, and why not? When you reach the advanced age of fifty and six, too, you’ll find that even your vast stores of energy will be well nigh empty.” He was not surprised by Henry’s amused disbelief. Still in his high noon at thirty-three, how could he envision a twilight waning?

“These old bones are getting too brittle for journeys like this,” Rainald complained good-naturedly. “Lord knows why de Lucy was in such haste to find you, what with all our news being so bleak!” He glanced toward the center hearth, where the justiciar was chatting amiably with several bishops and the Earl of Salisbury, Henry’s military commander in Aquitaine. “At least Becket’s curse has gone astray,” he said, pointing out the obvious: that none were obeying the Church’s dictate to shun the excommunicate justiciar as one of God’s castaways.

The mere mention of Thomas Becket’s name was enough to sour Henry’s mood. “Have you heard the latest about our archbishop in exile?” he asked, the words dripping with sarcasm. “Becket left his refuge with the Cistercians of Pontigny, is now under the protection of that fool on the French throne. Louis even dispatched a three-hundred-man escort to welcome Becket into his new roost, the abbey of St Columba, outside Sens.”

“It is difficult to understand how a man of God can stir up so much of the Devil’s mischief.” Seeing that his commiseration had chafed rather than soothed, Rainald marveled how easy it was to misspeak if Thomas Becket was the topic of conversation, and hastily sought to change the subject. “How does Eleanor these days? Is she still at Angers?”

“No, she joined me at Rouen last month and tarried to visit with my mother for another fortnight. As loath as she is to admit it, this pregnancy has not been an easy one. She tires easily and her nerves are so often on the raw that the babe she carries must be a hellraiser, for certes!”

“And Maude? Is she still ailing?” Rainald asked, and gnawed his lower lip when his nephew gave him a terse confirmation. Maude had never lacked for enemies, but the most insidious one was proving to be her own body, nurturing a foe that stole her breath, sapped her strength, and alarmed her loved ones. Her spirit still burned with a blue-white flame-Rainald had heard how wroth she’d been when Henry captured a messenger of Becket’s and put him to the knife to reveal his secrets-but few doubted that her mortal days were finite enough to count. Fumbling to cast out the shadow that had so suddenly fallen between them, Rainald brightened, remembering a choice bit of gossip he’d picked up in Wales.

“Guess who Owain Gwynedd is locking horns with nowadays? None other than Thomas Becket!”

Henry’s interest was immediate. “How so?”

“Well… the see of Bangor has been vacant for nigh on five years now,” Rainald began, and Henry was hard put to conceal his impatience, knowing his uncle could spin a tale out till the cows came home. “But of course you know that,” Rainald conceded, seeing those grey eyes narrow tellingly. “Owain wanted the position filled and he rashly wrote to Becket at Pontigny, asking if, during Becket’s exile, another prelate might consecrate Bangor’s bishop. Obviously, he did not consult Ranulf beforehand, for he’d have warned Owain that Becket’s vanity would never allow him to delegate even a scrap of authority. Becket sent a curt refusal, ordering that no election be held. But Owain is a man for getting his own way, too, and he arranged for his candidate to be elected and then sent him off to Ireland to be consecrated.”

He’d hoped that Henry might be amused by this flouting of Becket’s will; instead he scowled. “Ere war broke out, Owain approached me about filling the vacancy at Bangor with a man of his choosing, a monk of Bardsey. I refused, for I knew what he was about, trying to subvert English control over the diocese. So he thought to checkmate me with Becket, did he?”

“Well, it did not work,” Rainald reminded him mildly, putting aside the heretical thought that his nephew was no less jealous of his own prerogatives than Becket. “He may have his man at Bangor, but the Church will not recognize him. Moreover, he has made an enemy of Becket, who is suddenly showing great interest in Owain’s marriage to the Lady Cristyn, warning Owain that if the rumors of their kinship be true, she is no lawful wife and must be put aside.”

Henry’s eyes glittered. “I wish Owain better luck than my brother Will had,” he said, and Rainald realized that he had stepped into yet another snare. If truth be told, it was impossible to talk about Thomas Becket without blundering into one quagmire after another.

He began to speak at random about any subject that came to mind-the sudden death of the Earl of Essex last month at Chester, after their rout by the Welsh; Richard de Lucy’s professed intent to take the cross and go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land-knowing that there was a need to exorcise more than one ghost. It had been clumsy of him to make mention of Ranulf, sprinkling salt into an unhealed wound. He knew his nephew wanted to ask if he’d heard from Ranulf. He knew, too, that he would not ask. They were a pair, Harry and Ranulf, stubbornly keeping silent whilst their estrangement festered, each one unwilling to admit his own pain. Upon his return to England, he would write to his niece, he decided. If anyone could make peace between these two balky mules, surely it was Maud.

Richard de Lucy was approaching and Rainald welcomed him heartily; let de Lucy be the one to blunder into pitfalls for a while. Not that he would; de Lucy was the perfect royal servant, with diplomatic skills worthy of a Pope and loyalty that would put a dog to shame. When Henry informed him now that he must postpone his pilgrimage, instead journey to Rome to appeal Becket’s latest excommunications, the justiciar didn’t even blink, agreed so smoothly that Rainald had not a clue as to what he truly thought. Camouflaging another yawn, he watched as a courier was ushered across the hall toward them, and made ready to ask his nephew’s permission to retire for the evening.

But before he could, the messenger thrust a letter from Henry’s mother into his hands. Henry swiftly broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and held it up toward the wall sconce above his head. Rainald squirmed on the seat, trying to ease his aching back. His eyelids had begun to droop again when his nephew drew a sudden, sibilant breath.

Rainald’s first fear was for Maude. “Is the news bad?”

Henry shook his head. “No… just unexpected. My mother says that Eleanor has left Rouen and rumor has it that she took ship at Barfleur for England.”

Rainald gaped, for that made no sense at all. Why would a woman brave a November Channel crossing whilst great with child? “Why would she do that? Did you not say that you were holding your Christmas court at Poitiers this year, to please her?”

Henry was frowning over the parchment again. Richard de Lucy was his usual inscrutable self, but Rainald was too puzzled for tact. “Surely Maude must be wrong. Why would Eleanor take it into her head of a sudden to go to England, now of all times?”

Henry glanced up sharply, then shrugged. “I have no idea, Uncle,” he said, “none at all.”