Time and Chance

CHAPTER THIRTY

November 1170

Trefriw, Wales

Rain was as much a part of the Welsh landscape as its mountains and ice-blue lakes and low-lying valley mists. But even for Wales, the weather that November had been exceedingly wet, day after day of ash-colored skies and relentless downpours. The rivers and streams were swollen with weeks of runoff, the roads clogged in mud, and Ranulf’s family began to curse the rain with as much rancor as Noah. An invitation to the court of Owain Gwynedd was a great honor, and Enid vowed that they’d attend even if they had to swim the miles between Trefriw and Aber.

Two days before the fete, though, the inhabitants of Gwynedd were dazzled by the sight of an almost forgotten phenomenon-the sun. And so on a Thursday in Martinmas week, Ranulf, Rhodri, and Enid were where they’d hoped to be, dining in the great hall of their prince’s palace in celebration of his seventieth birthday.

Rhiannon was present, too, but Ranulf knew it was a sense of duty that had prompted her to accept the invitation. She did not enjoy being on display, and a blind woman at a banquet was enough of a novelty to guarantee that she’d be the object of unwanted attention. He had tried to convince her that she need not attend, knowing all the while that she would insist on accompanying him. Watching as she concentrated carefully upon the venison frumenty that had been ladled onto her trencher, it occurred to Ranulf-not for the first time-that there was a manifest measure of gallantry in his wife’s brand of quiet courage.

Taking a swallow of mead, he resumed his role as her eyes, continuing his description of the hall and guests. “Cristyn looks bedazzling, as usual, in a gown the color of plums. And Owain… well, the only word for him would be ‘regal.’ He most definitely does not look like a man who has reached his biblical three-score years and ten. Three of his sons are seated at the high table: Hywel, of course, and Cristyn’s fox cubs. Neither Davydd nor Rhodri seems very pleased to see me; if looks could kill, I’d have breathed my last ere the servers brought in the roast goose.”

They’d been speaking softly in French, for discretion’s sake. Rhiannon wiped her mouth with her napkin, then murmured, “Ni wyr y gog ond ungainc,” and Ranulf grinned, for that was an old Welsh proverb: The cuckoo knows but one tune. Hywel had once said of his half-brothers that they’d ever been ones for fleeing the smoke so they could fall into the fire, and as he intercepted their sullen, baleful glares, Ranulf found himself in full agreement with his friend; Davydd and Rhodri had so far shown no sign whatsoever that they were capable of learning from past mistakes. The most successful rulers-like Owain or Harry-knew when to hold fast and when to give ground. The ones who did not were likely to end their days like Stephen, dying alone and unmourned.

But Ranulf did not want to harbor any regrets today, and made a conscious effort to banish these ghosts, casting both his doleful dead cousin and his estranged nephew out of his thoughts. Mead helped, he soon discovered, and as his eyes met Hywel’s across the hall, he raised his cup in a playful salute.

“Who else is here?” Rhiannon resumed, and Ranulf took another look at their fellow guests.

“Owain’s brother, Cadwaladr. He’s been given a seat at the high table as a courtesy, but no one seems to be paying him much mind. Passing strange that he was once considered a threat to Owain’s rule, so completely has Owain brought him to heel. Also on the dais is Owain’s son-in-law, Gruffydd Maelor of Powys, and Owain’s daughter Angharad. And at Owain’s right is Rhys ap Gruffydd.”

Ranulf was impressed by Rhys’s presence at Aber, for his own lands lay many miles to the south. Rhys had come with a large entourage, as much to reflect his own prestige and power as to honor his ally and uncle, but his wife, Gwenllian, had remained behind in Deheubarth; Rhys was not known for being uxorious.

“Several of Owain’s other sons are here, too, although not at the high table. Cynan seems to be enjoying himself; that one could find sport at a wake. And Iorwerth, who always looks as if he is attending a funeral, Lord love him. There are clergy present, as well; I recognize the Archdeacon of Bangor and I overheard someone say that the Cistercian monk with Rhys is the abbot of Strata Florida, that abbey in Dyfed.”

Rhiannon found that as interesting as Ranulf did. “So the Welsh Church is not recognizing Owain’s excommunication?”

“It would seem not.” Ranulf was not surprised by the recalcitrance of the Welsh clergy, not if the views of his neighbors in Trefriw were any gauge of public opinion. When the Archbishop of Canterbury had excommunicated Owain for his refusal to end his marriage to Cristyn, most of Owain’s subjects reacted with outrage, sure that Becket was punishing Owain for their conflict over the bishopric of Bangor. Ranulf had his suspicions, too, although he usually tried to give Becket the benefit of every doubt. But the timing did seem odd to him, that as soon as Owain had defied Becket by having his candidate consecrated as Bishop of Bangor in Ireland, his marriage to his cousin was suddenly a matter of grave concern to the Church.

Cristyn had never been popular with her husband’s people, for her position was by its very nature an ambiguous one. She was scorned by some as a concubine who’d usurped the place of Owain’s lawful wife, and to these judgmental souls, she had not been redeemed by her subsequent marriage. To others, she was seen as guileful and sly, willing to do whatever was necessary to disinherit Hywel and ensure that her sons would succeed Owain as rulers of Gwynedd. But the animosity of Thomas Becket had done what she herself could not, transforming her into a more sympathetic figure to many of the Welsh.

Once the meal was done, the trestle tables were cleared away and the entertainment began. Owain’s pencerdd came forward as the hall quieted. Poets were accorded great respect in Wales and he had an attentive, enthusiastic audience for his songs, the first celebrating the glory of God and the second a paean in praise of his lord. After his performance, it was the turn of Owain’s bardd teulu, the chief minstrel of the court, and as the sky darkened over the Menai Straits, the prince’s palace at Aber resounded with music and mirth.

Servers were circulating throughout the hall with mead and wine, and Hywel’s foster brother Peryf amused Hywel and Ranulf by appropriating a large flagon for himself. “You need not fear,” he assured them, “for I might be persuaded to share.”

“Assuming there is so much as a drop left,” Hywel scoffed. “I’ve seen you in action, Peryf, remember?”

They had withdrawn to a window seat alcove. Seeing that Rhiannon had concluded her conversation with Owain’s daughter Angharad, Ranulf hastened over to bring her into their charmed circle, where they had an unobstructed view of the dancing and the intermingling of the other guests. Once she was settled onto the cushioned seat and Hywel’s flirting had run its course, Ranulf asked the question that was foremost on his mind.

“Are you still planning a voyage to Ireland, Hywel?”

“Must you say it in the same tones you’d use to inquire after my trip to Purgatory? I know the Irish Sea is aboil at this time of year. But I have no choice, for there are matters about my lady mother’s estate that demand my presence. And now I will impress you and the lovely Lady Rhiannon with my abilities as a soothsayer, for I can predict your next question. The answer is yes. I mean to take your lad with me.”

Ranulf and Rhiannon had the same parental response, a discordant mixture of pride and concern. They were gratified that since joining Hywel’s household, their son was rising so fast in Hywel’s favor. Yet they worried about his making a winter journey to Ireland, although they would do their best not to embarrass Gilbert by giving voice to their qualms.

“Speaking of the devil,” Hywel said, and they saw that their firstborn was heading in their direction. Seeing Gilbert away from home and hearth, Ranulf invariably felt a prick of surprise that his son could be nineteen now, a man grown. Gilbert was smiling, but his parents knew him well enough to pick up on the subtle signs, indications of unease.

Once the pleasantries were over, Gilbert hesitated. “Has Lord Hywel told you that I will be accompanying him to Ireland?” Getting a confirmation, he paused again and then, as was his wont, plunged in headfirst. “There is something I need to tell you ere I go and I might not get another chance. I have decided to change my name. I’ve never felt comfortable with Gilbert, as you know. I am of an age now to choose a name more to my liking, a Welsh name. I wish to call myself Bleddyn.”

Ranulf felt as if he’d just taken a blow to the midsection. He stared at his son, stunned that Gilbert could offer such a mortal insult in this public setting. Did he truly think it was merely a matter of names? That Gilbert Fitz Ranulf could become Bleddyn ap Ranulf as easily as that? Gilbert was rejecting half of his heritage, the Norman blood running in his veins, and at that moment, it seemed to Ranulf that his son was rejecting him, too.

Before he could respond, he felt Rhiannon’s hand on his arm, gently but firmly pulling him back from the brink. He covered her hand with his own, giving it a grateful squeeze. “This is not the time,” he said, as evenly as he could manage. “I think it would be best if we continue this discussion later.”

His son agreed all too readily and made his escape within moments thereafter, leaving Ranulf, Rhiannon, Hywel, and Peryf behind in a cloud of dust. There was a long silence and then Ranulf slowly shook his head. “Whatever possessed him to raise this now?”

“Has it been that long since you were young?” Hywel gibed. “This was an ambush, man! Your lad picked his time and place with care. I’ll wager that you’ll need a pack of lymer hounds to track him down ere we sail for Ireland.” He laughed, but stopped when Ranulf did not. “There’s less to this than meets the eye, Ranulf. Take a moment and think it through. The name he chose… Bleddyn. You think he picked it at random?”

“Does it matter?”

“I think so. You told me once that yours is an old Norse name, dating back to when they invaded Normandy. ‘Shield of the wolf,’ right? Well, what does Bleddyn mean in Welsh? You ought to know, for you named one of your dyrehunds Blaidd!”

“Wolf,” Ranulf said softly. “Bleddyn means ‘young wolf,’ ” and Hywel gave him the indulgent smile of one tutoring a slow student. At that moment, Hywel saw that his father was beckoning to him from the dais, and after kissing Rhiannon with his usual flourish, he took his leave. It was soon clear that Owain had invited him to perform and the hall quieted in anticipation.

Hywel took a seat, accepted a harp. “I would sing,” he said, “of the battle of Tal Moelfre.”

Those words were enough to roll back time for Ranulf, and the torchlit hall gave way to a summer’s day in God’s Year 1157, to the tangled, dense greenwood of the Cennadlog Forest, riding with Harry into a Welsh ambush. While they were escaping by a hair’s-breadth, Hywel had been routing the English at Tal Moelfre on the isle of Mon, and he’d afterward composed a poem to commemorate the battle. Ranulf had heard it many times, and while he appreciated the imagery in such lines as “When ruby-red flame flared high as Heaven, home offered no refuge,” he’d teased Hywel unmercifully over the hyperbole of the boastful last verse, in which Hywel bragged of sinking “three hundred ships of the king’s own navy.” If Harry had ever had three hundred warships, he’d pointed out, all of Wales would be an English shire by now. Hywel’s response was always the same: a laugh, a shrug, and a claim that poets could not be held to the same exacting standards as mere mortals.

Others in the audience assumed with Ranulf that Hywel would be performing his own composition. There were murmurs of surprise, therefore, when he began, for the words were not his. The song was one of praise to Owain, but the poet was not present. Gwalchmai ap Meilyr had been Owain’s chief bard for many years. They’d had a falling out, though, and Gwalchmai was no longer in favor. So Hywel’s choice was a startling one, and Ranulf noticed how both Davydd and Rhodri pushed their way through to the dais, jockeying for position like eager spectators at a public hanging.

Hywel seemed oblivious to the tension in the hall. But then he happened to catch Ranulf’s eye and winked. Ranulf knew him as well as one man can ever know another and he knew then that Hywel had selected the disgraced Gwalchmai’s song to honor a fine poet. There was little that Hywel took truly seriously, but his love of poetry was the lodestar of his life, greater even than his love of women. Ranulf felt sure that Hywel had been motivated by mischief, too. He’d rarely been able to resist poking his stick into a hornet’s nest.

Hywel had a rich, mellow voice and he infused Gwalchmai’s words with a passion that was contagious. By the time he lauded Owain as “The Dragon of Mon,” his father’s stern mouth had relaxed into an amused, fond smile. No one watching could doubt the depths of Owain’s pride in his firstborn, and when Hywel was done, the hall erupted into applause.

Ranulf was laughing and cheering, too, when Peryf nudged him and hissed gleefully, “The she-wolf looks like to choke on her own bile!” And he turned in time to see Cristyn’s court mask slip, to see her handsome face harden into stone, dark eyes narrowed to slits of pure, primal rage as she gazed upon her husband’s best-loved son.

North Wales had another week of dry weather, and then the rains returned. At night, the temperature dropped and a thin glaze of ice skimmed the surface of ponds. The last of the swallows disappeared and badgers dug winter dens and trees were silhouetted bare and sparse against the November sky.

The last Wednesday in November was wretched in all aspects. Rain poured down incessantly and a cold, piercing wind drove even the hardiest travelers from the roads. At Trefriw, none ventured outside willingly, and in the stables, cats played deadly feline games with shelter-seeking mice. Ranulf awoke with a dull headache and a disheartened realization that worse was to come: dwindling hours of daylight and smoky hearths and storms and meal after meal of salted herring and the daily deprivations of Advent and Lent and months to go before the reviving clemency of spring.

By midafternoon, the household was in turmoil, most of it due to the antics of Ranulf and Rhiannon’s six-year-old son. Morgan did not mean to wreak havoc, but he was bored and restless and trapped indoors, and the result was chaos. He spilled Ranulf ’s inkwell, snapped a string on Rhodri’s harp, lost a knife Rhodri was using to carve wooden spoons, took Rhiannon’s best boar-bristle brush to groom his father’s dyrehund, and knocked over a barrel of wood ash that the women intended using to make into soap. After this last mishap, Ranulf grabbed the boy and, snatching up their mantles, hustled him out into the rain.

“Better you should risk drowning out here, lad, than certain death inside,” he chided, and Morgan did his best to look as if he was being punished, although he had no objections whatsoever to getting wet and muddy. He was trying to coax Ranulf into wading across the bailey toward the dovecote when shouts erupted from the direction of the gatehouse.

To Morgan’s delight and Ranulf’s astonishment, a lone rider was being admitted. Swathed in a soaked mantle, plastered with mud, the man staggered as soon as he slid from the saddle, and Ranulf, remembering his manners, came forward hastily to bid this miserable traveler welcome.

“Good God, you’re half-frozen! Come inside and thaw out.”

Their guest did not argue, and as soon as a groom hurried out to take his horse, he stumbled after them toward the hall. Ranulf still did not recognize him, able to discern only that he was of middle height and stocky. He could hear the chattering of the man’s teeth, could see the reddened chilblains on his hands, and wondered what urgent mission had put him out onto the roads on such a foul day.

Their arrival in the hall created a flurry of confusion and noise. Silencing the barking dogs with difficulty, Ranulf led the man toward the hearth as Rhodri limped over with a cup of hot, mulled cider and Enid sent a servant for blankets and towels. Gulping down the cider in three swallows, the man began to struggle with his mantle, emerging from its dripping folds like a rumpled butterfly from a soggy cocoon. To Ranulf’s surprise, the face revealed when the hood fell back was a familiar one.

“Peryf? What are you doing so far from home?”

Peryf started to speak, began to cough instead. Signaling for more cider, he drank as if he could not get enough. He was standing so close to the open hearth that steam rose off his sodden clothes. “So tired…,” he panted, “… left Aber at dawn…”

Ranulf’s sudden chill had nothing to do with the winter weather. “Peryf, what is wrong?”

“Lord Owain… he is dead.”

There was a muffled cry from one of the women, a choked oath from Rhodri. Ranulf had to swallow before he could speak, for his mouth had gone dry. “How? What happened?”

“Monday morn… he… he complained of a pain in his arm, said he felt queasy of a sudden.” Peryf’s voice was still hoarse, but steadier now. When Ranulf shoved a stool toward him, he sank down upon it gratefully. “Then he fell over. Everyone panicked, people rushing about, bumping into one another, Cristyn shrieking like a madwoman, dogs underfoot, children crying. Lord Owain was the only one who kept calm… Lying there in the floor rushes, his head cradled in his wife’s lap, he told us to fetch a doctor and… and a priest.”

Rhodri hastily crossed himself and Enid began to sob; so did her maid and their cook. “Was there time for him to be shriven?” This voice was Rhiannon’s and Ranulf reached out, drew her to his side, thinking that she always went straight to the heart of the matter. Their relief was enormous when Peryf nodded vigorously.

“Aye, there was. He lived long enough to confess his sins and to be given extreme unction… and to name Hywel as his heir.”

The full import of Owain’s death hit Ranulf then. “Hywel… he’s gone?”

“Aye,” Peryf echoed, looking at Ranulf with swollen, fear-filled eyes. “Hywel sailed for Ireland ten days ago.”

THE DAY was surprisingly mild for late November, and England’s young king was taking full advantage of the weather’s clemency to practice in the tiltyard of Winchester Castle. Rainald cheered loudly each time Hal made a successful pass at the target, but even allowing for his avuncular partiality, Hal’s performance was deserving of applause. Astride a spirited white stallion, Hal was displaying both skilled horsemanship and a deft control of his lance, and he’d soon drawn an admiring audience. He would make a fine king one day, for certes, blessed with good looks, good health, and winning ways. If his judgment was still unduly influenced by impulse and whim, Rainald preferred to believe that these were flaws which would be remedied with maturity.

Reining in his stallion, Hal accepted a flask from one of his friends. As his eyes met Rainald’s, he grinned. “What do you think of Favel, Uncle? This is only the third time I’ve ridden him and already he anticipates my every command.”

“You’ve got a good eye for horseflesh,” Rainald agreed amiably. “Listen, lad, there is someone here who’d like a word with you. See that anxious soul in the brown mantle?”

The man pointed out by Rainald was small of stature and modestly garbed, and Hal’s gaze flicked over him and then away, without interest. “I was about to make another run at the quintain.”

“It will take only a few moments,” Rainald insisted, raising his hand in a beckoning gesture. “You met him earlier today, at your public audience in the great hall.” Seeing no recollection on Hal’s face, he added helpfully, “John of Salisbury.” Hal still looked blank. “He’s a noted scholar, a good friend to Thomas Becket, who has sent him on ahead to make sure the Freteval accords are being implemented.”

By then John of Salisbury was within hearing range and Rainald could offer no more prompting. He knew Hal was not pleased, but the youth dismounted as John approached, and that, too, Rainald had known he would do. He was more good-natured than his younger brothers, rarely showed flashes of his family’s infamous Angevin temper, and was usually willing to be accommodating if it didn’t inconvenience him greatly.

John bestowed a grateful glance upon Rainald before making a deep obeisance to the young king. Hal had greeted him with affable courtesy during their initial meeting, reminiscing about his years in Archbishop Thomas’s household, but he’d been flanked at all times by the chief lords of his court, men so hostile to the archbishop that their very presence hobbled John’s tongue. This chance to speak more candidly with the youth was God-sent.

“Lord Thomas will be returning to England within the week. When we last spoke in Rouen, he expressed his desire to see Your Grace as soon after his arrival as can be arranged. May I write and assure him that you, too, are eager for this reunion, my lord?”

“Of course I would be gladdened to see the archbishop again,” Hal said politely. “But you need to consult with my lord father’s chancellor about such matters.” If Hal appreciated the irony of fortune’s wheel-that the chancellorship which had once been Becket’s was now held by Geoffrey Ridel, one of his bitterest adversaries-it was not evident upon his face. “He will be better able to tell you when the archbishop can be made welcome.”

“Thank you, my lord,” John said hesitantly. At fifteen, Hal was already as tall as many men grown, towering over the diminutive scholar. His smile was easy, his manners polished, his hair sun-burnished, his eyes the color of the sky.

There was so much that John had planned to say. He’d meant to stress the dangers that awaited the archbishop upon his arrival to England, to speak of the archbishop’s many enemies, men of wealth and power who feared being dispossessed of the estates and honors they’d been enjoying during his long exile. He’d hoped to gain the young king’s assurances that he would not heed these enemies, nor listen to the malicious gossip they’d be murmuring in his ear. With King Henry still in Normandy, his son’s attitude was of the utmost importance, both to the archbishop and his foes.

“My lord king!” Geoffrey Ridel was striding hastily toward them, poorly concealing his alarm that his young charge should have slipped his tether. Giving John an irate look that spilled over onto Rainald, too, he was breathless by the time he reached them, intent upon ending this impromptu audience straightaway.

He need not have worried, for John had already realized that his mission was doomed to failure. The archbishop had been sure that Hal would be on his side. But John was an astute judge of men and he’d seen only one emotion in the depths of those sapphire-blue eyes: indifference.