Time and Chance

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

March 1171

Poitiers, Poitou

How many days until Maundy Thursday?” Raoul de Faye’s question seemed idly put, innocuous.

Maud knew better. It was a sly thrust at her cousin the English king, for it was customary for the Pope to issue excommunications and interdicts upon that day, the Thursday before Easter.

“I have not been keeping count,” she lied coolly, as if she had not been grudging every day’s dawning for the past month. Henry’s envoys had departed for the papal court weeks ago, racing the calendar to arrive before Maundy Thursday. Thomas Becket’s cross-bearer, Alexander Llewelyn, was known to be on the road to Italy, too, bearing letters from the French king and outraged French bishops. If he reached the Pope before Henry’s emissaries, a Maundy Thursday thunderbolt was almost a certainty.

“It is less than a fortnight,” Raoul supplied helpfully. “I wonder how far the Angevin’s minions have gotten by now. For all we know, they are snowbound somewhere in the Alps, using his papal petitions for fire-wood.”

“You sound as if you hope that to be true,” Maud observed, and he gave her what he thought was a candid, disarming grin, allowing that he’d not be heartbroken if Henry’s agents were lost until the spring thaw.

Maud studied him with speculative, critical eyes. Raoul had been verbally sparring with her since her arrival in Eleanor’s capital the preceding week. At first she’d dismissed his sniping as an echo of Petronilla’s antagonism, but she was reassessing that assumption. Petronilla was jealous of her intimacy with Eleanor, and obviously so was Raoul. But Petronilla’s resentment was personal and his was political. He wanted no rivals for Eleanor’s ear, no trusted confidants to offer advice that was not his. Not for the first time in her life, Maud marveled that men could be such fools. As if Eleanor would ever be any man’s pawn, be he husband or uncle.

Raoul’s smug satisfaction grated upon her nerves. They were jackals, she thought scornfully, nipping at Harry’s heels, hoping against hope that the lion was cornered at last. She had a weapon of her own-knowledge that Raoul did not possess-and she used it now to retaliate.

“It grieves me,” she said gravely, “that you find such joy in wishing misfortune upon the king’s ambassadors. One of them is my beloved brother, the Bishop of Worcester.” Although addressed ostensibly to Raoul, her retort was actually aimed at their audience, and it achieved the desired result. Her sorrowful dignity stirred chivalric urges in the listening men and their disapproval discomfited Raoul. In the indolent, pleasure-seeking society of Aquitaine, bad manners were often judged more harshly than sins.

Maud had not lingered in the great hall after her victory; she had no interest in exchanging poisoned pleasantries with Raoul or Petronilla. Her confident pose was just that: a pose. She was deeply concerned for her cousin, fearing that Henry would be branded as an enemy of God by the enraged Pope. She worried, too, about Roger, for a winter crossing of the Alps was fraught with peril. And in the past few days, she’d become aware that Eleanor was troubled by more than her husband’s jeopardy.

She discovered the queen’s secret later that night, purely by chance. She’d gone into the chapel upon discovering that it was unoccupied, for solitude was rarely found midst the clamor and commotion of a royal court. After saying prayers for the souls of her parents and dead brothers, for friends long gone and the husband who was surely burning in Hell these seventeen years past, she then prayed for the salvation of a Welsh prince whose laughter was stilled, his music silenced.

She was about to depart when she heard footsteps out in the stairwell leading up to Eleanor’s private chamber. One of the queen’s men was escorting a woman muffled from head to foot in a dark, enveloping mantle, an odd choice of apparel on a mild spring eve. Maud’s curiosity was piqued by the clandestine behavior of the couple; had one of Eleanor’s ladies dared to tryst with a lover in her mistress’s own bed? As they passed the chapel door, whispering furtively, she acted on impulse and stepped out to confront them.

Recoiling sharply, the woman grasped the hood of her cloak, drawing back into its folds like a turtle into its shell. The man reacted with equal dispatch, hurrying her by Maud before any words could be exchanged. Maud stood utterly still in the stairwell, staring after them. A cry rose in her throat, a name that never left her lips. For just the span of an indrawn breath, she’d looked upon the other woman’s face, no more than that, but time enough for recognition. This mysterious, shrouded figure being spirited from the queen’s chamber with such secrecy was Bertrade, her midwife.

Eleanor had unbraided her hair and was brushing it out, a nightly ritual that should have been soothing in its very familiarity. Not tonight; her thoughts continued to careen about: unwelcome, illogical, and unexpected. Picking up a mirror, she examined her metallic reflection with critical eyes, seeing a tired, pale woman gazing back at her, an aging stranger.

The sudden pounding startled her and she frowned toward the door, vexed by this proof of the edgy state of her nerves. Before she could respond, it was pushed open and her cousin by marriage burst into the chamber. But this was a Maud she’d not seen before, white-faced and tense, so obviously agitated that Eleanor felt a surge of alarm.

“Maud? What is wrong? It is not Richard-”

“No,” Maud said hastily, “nothing like that. The last I saw of him, Richard was in the hall, playing chess with one of your household knights too new to know better.”

Eleanor smiled faintly. “Richard turns every game into a life or death struggle. And when he loses, he demands an immediate rematch. But if nothing is amiss, why did you come running in here as if the palace was afire?”

Maud hestitated, for this was one of the rare times when she’d reacted on instinct, not thinking out beforehand what she would do. The sight of Bertrade had propelled her up the stairs, for the memory of Eleanor’s last birthing was still harrowing even after the passage of more than four years. Not knowing what to say, she could only fall back upon the truth. “Eleanor… I saw her leaving.”

“Saw whom?”

“Bertrade. It was not her fault; she was being very circumspect.” Eleanor’s face was a graven mask, utterly unrevealing, but Maud forged ahead, nonetheless. “I know I am intruding and I know that trespassers risk being-”

“Maud, I am not with child.”

“If it is still early enough, there are herbs like artemisia and pennyroyal or savin-”

“You are not listening to me. I am not pregnant.”

This time Maud believed her. “But you thought you were.” Reading Eleanor’s silence as assent, she crossed the room and took the brush from the other woman’s hand. Eleanor didn’t object and for a time it was quiet. Maud concentrated upon brushing the queen’s hair until it gleamed like a long, dark rope.

“You have beautiful hair,” she said. “Did you ever wish that it was a fashionable flaxen shade?”

“No,” Eleanor said, and then, “I’ve had to start dyeing it.”

“To hide the grey? Me, too.”

“I thought I was… pregnant, I mean. I’ve not had a flux since December. But Bertrade says no, that I’ve reached that time in life when a woman’s menses cease. She says it usually happens by age fifty.” Eleanor’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I’m forty-eight.”

Maud kept silent, continuing to brush Eleanor’s hair.

“It makes no sense. I was horrified to think I was pregnant again, Maud. I’ve been drinking wine mixed with the juice of willow leaves so I’d not conceive. I should be so relieved…”

“I understand,” Maud said softly. “Any woman would.”

“But no man.” Eleanor rose suddenly, moved to the table, and poured wine into two gilded cups. Handing one to Maud, she said, “I took your advice, after all.”

“Which advice was that?”

“A long time ago, it was, more than eleven years. I was wroth with Harry for failing to win Toulouse, and Petra was adding fuel to the fire. You told me-not in so many words-that I was being foolish and shortsighted. It took a while, but I came to see that you were right.”

Maud glanced quickly toward Eleanor, their eyes catching and holding. She remembered. She had warned Eleanor that she must either accept Harry as he is or learn to love him less.

Pope Alexander was so appalled by the news of Thomas Becket’s murder that he refused to meet with Englishmen for more than a week. But Henry’s envoys were still able to persuade him not to issue a sentence of excommunication, taking oaths that the English king would abide by any papal judgment. The Pope contented himself with pronouncing a general sentence of excommunication against the murderers of the archbishop and all who had given them counsel, countenance, aid. Nor did he lay England under interdict, although he subsequently confirmed the interdict laid by the Archbishop of Sens upon Henry’s continental domains. He also confirmed the sentences of excommunication and suspension imposed by Thomas Becket upon the Bishops of London and Salisbury and the Archbishop of York, prohibited Henry from entering any church for the time being, and announced that he would be sending papal legates to Normandy to meet with the English king and judge whether he was “truly humbled.”

Gerald de Barri always felt his heart swell upon his first sight of St David’s. Hidden away in a secluded hollow by the River Alun, the cathedral burst into view like a flower in sudden bloom, resplendent even in a chilly Welsh downpour. The original church had been built in the sixth century by the patron saint of Wales. The present cathedral was a lodestone for the faithful, attracting pilgrims from the far-flung corners of Christendom. For Gerald, it was much more; his uncle was the Bishop of St David’s.

Urging his mount forward, Gerald vowed to make sure the poor beast got a rubdown and a bran mash, rich fare for a hired horse. He knew, though, that he’d pushed the animal mercilessly. The ride from Pembroke was less than twenty miles, but the day was wet, the September weather foul, and he’d set a punishing pace, so eager was he to reach Menevia while the English king was still there.

After finding a trustworthy groom to take care of his horse, he took time for a quick wash-up before seeking his uncle and the king; both vanity and practicality dictated that he not appear before them in muddied disarray. He then plunged out into the rain again, hurrying toward the church. He arrived just as the Mass had ended and slipped inconspicuously in the south door, mingling with the canons and English lords as he awaited his chance.

It came sooner than he expected. The king had halted in the nave, surrounded by his entourage and well-wishers and royal watchers. Murmuring an excuse to his highborn guest, the bishop hastened toward the door. Gerald darted forward to intercept him just as he stepped out onto the porch.

“Uncle David!”

The bishop blinked “Gerald! What are you doing here, lad?” Not waiting for his nephew’s response, he enfolded the young man in an affectionate embrace. “Why did you not write that you were coming home? Ah, but you’ll never guess who is inside the cathedral!”

“I already know! I heard as soon as my ship dropped anchor at The Cross. He’s staying at Pembroke Castle whilst awaiting favorable winds for Ireland. People in the town were talking of nothing else. I had planned to head for Manorbier first, but when I heard the king was at Menevia… well, I thought if we met, he’d be likely to remember me in the future.” Gerald acknowledged his aspirations with a forthright grin; in his family, pride was not one of the Seven Deadly Sins. “Has a king ever visited St David’s ere this? When you heard he was at Pembroke, did you dare hope he’d come here?”

“I hoped he would not,” Bishop David confided softly, and when Gerald stared at him in surprise, he glanced around surreptitiously to be sure they were not overheard. “It is a great honor, of course. But it is also a great burden, for we have not the resources of an English cathedral. We do not have enough in our larders and pantries to feed so many and I am loath to shame us by providing a meager meal for the king. Moreover, the longer he stays, the more dire our straits. A three-day visit could eat up our entire winter supplies.”

Gerald was very fond of his uncle; David was paying for a first-rate education at the University of Paris. But he deplored his kinsman’s shortsighted approach to life. Were he the Bishop of St David’s, he’d gladly have put the canons on starvation rations if that earned him the favor of a king-even a king in disgrace.

“Where does he stand with the Church these days, Uncle? In Paris, rumor had it that the Holy Father was still deliberating his fate. Is there any chance that you are entertaining an excommunicate?”

Bishop David shuddered. “Jesu forfend!” Even though they were alone on the porch, he lowered his voice still further, continuing in a throaty whisper. “I assume you know that the Bishops of Worcester and Evreux and Lisieux were able to persuade the Pope not to issue an excommunication on Maundy Thursday. His Holiness then appointed a commission to investigate the king’s complicity in the murder of the martyred Thomas. But they have reached no conclusions. In fact, I believe they are still en route to Normandy. So at least I need not fear that I have invited Ishmael into God’s House!”

Pope Alexander had also forbidden the English king to enter a church until his guilt or innocence could be determined, but Gerald kindly forbore to remind his uncle of that. For all he knew, the Holy Father had lifted this proscription; he had, after all, absolved the Bishops of London and Salisbury of their excommunication. Gerald was a student of history and he knew that kings were rarely cast out into darkness, for most Popes were astute practitioners of political power. Only outright defiance could guarantee a papal thunderbolt, and the English king was too shrewd to fall into that trap.

“ ‘Ishmael’? Discussing Scriptures, my lord bishop?” This new voice was low-pitched and ironically amused, the voice of a man who never had to raise it to be heard. Gerald guessed the identity of the speaker even before he swung around to face the king of the English.

Bishop David flushed and began to fling words about as if they were lifelines, hoping that one of them might be his rescue, distracting Henry from what he may have overheard. He made the introductions with over-hearty enthusiasm, and as his nephew knelt before the king, he babbled on nervously about Gerald’s accomplishments, the fine career ahead of him in the Church once his studies were done.

Gerald was not easily embarrassed, scorned false modesty, and usually enjoyed hearing his virtues lauded. But not under these circumstances, and he earnestly entreated his uncle to desist, insisting that the King’s Grace could not be interested in the doings of an “obscure scholar.”

“Not obscure for long, I’d wager,” Henry observed, for he knew Gerald’s family and there was not a one of them born without a craving for fame and fortune. Gerald de Barri was the grandson of a celebrated Marcher lord and a Welsh princess, a woman so lovely that men had called her the Helen of Wales. The Lady Nest gave Henry an incongruous link with the young clerk, for Gerald’s beautiful grandmother had become the mistress of his own grandfather, the lascivious old king, Henry I.

Henry could think of any number of bawdy jokes to make about this dubious connection, but he regretfully refrained, for he was supposed to be on his best behavior. Reminding himself of that, he ignored the tempting subject of the Lady Nest, instead offered some courtesies about the cathedral, the saint’s shrine, and the bishop’s hospitality.

Bishop David gulped and then did what he must, declaring that the King’s Grace and his entourage were welcome at St David’s for as long as it might please them, seeking to disguise his discomfort with lavish compliments and much talk about the “honor” of this royal visit.

Henry knew better. “That is most kind of you, my lord bishop. We will, of course, be pleased to dine with you. But I regret that we cannot accept your generous invitation to stay at Menevia, for I must return to Pembroke this eve.”

Bishop David’s relief was so transparent that Henry had to hold back a smile. His uncle Ranulf had often joked that a royal visitation was about as welcome as a biblical plague of locusts, stripping bare every cupboard and blade of grass in their path. Had the bishop looked upon life with more humor, Henry might have jested about his plight. As it was, he contented himself with the knowledge that his pilgrimage to St David’s had gone so well. Facing a fearsome sea voyage to Ireland, it behooved a man of faith to court the goodwill of one of the most celebrated of Christendom’s saints. And if word of his visit-and his offerings of brocaded silk and silver coins-got back to the Holy See, so much the better. He well knew that his papal currency had dwindled down to a handful of farthings, not enough to buy delay, much less absolution.

“I need have no fears of Purgatory when I die, for I am expiating all of my sins on the road to Pembroke,” Rainald moaned, no longer bothering to clutch his mantle close against the gusting rain; he was already drenched, wetter than any fish.

“Somehow, Uncle, I doubt that your sins can be as easily shriven as all that.”

Rainald turned in the saddle to glower at his companion. It wasn’t Roger’s joking that offended him. He was vexed that his nephew could sound so cheerful under such drear circumstances: riding along a muddy mountain path in a pouring rain as night came on, all because his other nephew was a lunatic. Who but a lunatic would drag them out into a storm when they could be snugly abed back at the bishop’s palace?

Roger knew exactly what he was thinking, for Rainald had been complaining nonstop. “We’re almost there,” he said encouragingly. “Surely you can endure a few more miles?” Getting another groan in reply, he kicked his stallion lightly in the ribs and overtook his cousin, riding just ahead.

Henry slanted a smile over his shoulder. “Is Uncle Rainald hurling more curses at my head?”

“Be thankful he does not practice the Black Arts or you’d have been struck down miles ago.” Roger grinned, for he was still young enough to share Henry’s indifference to the weather. “I think you are to be commended, Harry, for sparing the bishop’s larders and his pride. It was plain to see that he could not afford the openhanded hospitality that we’d find in Normandy or England. As it was, some of our men had to eat standing up even though you’d deliberately limited your escort to three hundred. If we’d stayed overnight, St David’s might never have recovered from the honor!”

The rain was coming down too heavily for Henry to see his cousin’s face, but Roger’s voice held a levity that he hadn’t heard for almost a year. Roger had defended him before the French court, and then made the dangerous winter journey across the Alps to argue his case to the Pope. He’d accompanied Henry back to England in August, ending his self-imposed exile, yet Henry knew that Roger held him responsible for Thomas Becket’s death. Roger did not confuse the legal concepts of “innocent” and “not guilty,” nor would he pretend otherwise. But Henry had noticed a thawing in recent weeks.

It had begun at Wolvesey Palace, when he and Roger paid a visit to Henry of Blois. The aged Bishop of Winchester was blind and feeble. He had not minced his words, though, bluntly telling the king that once he’d unleashed the hounds of Hell, he could not claim he was blameless for the destruction they did. Very few people had ever dared to speak to Henry with such uncompromising candor. Winchester had known he was dying and that may have unbridled his tongue. Henry had known he was dying, too, and so he’d accepted a judgment he thought to be unfair and biased; how likely was he to receive impartial justice from Stephen’s brother? He’d tried to view his silence as penance, for even at his most defiant, he could not deny that his reckless words had set in motion the bloody killing at Canterbury. But on this rain-sodden Michaelmas night, he saw the first flickering of light after months of darkness, the realization that his friendship with his cousin Roger might one day emerge from the shadow cast by Thomas Becket’s murder.

Although he’d not have admitted it, even Henry was relieved when they finally rode into the bailey of Pembroke Castle. Warming himself before the hearth in his bedchamber, he waved his squires aside when they would have helped him to undress. “Later, lads. For now, just fetch me some red wine.”

The youths exchanged startled looks, for that was a rare request. Eager to please him, they made a hasty departure for the buttery, already starting to squabble over which wine to select, Gascon or Rhenish, even though they knew Henry would want whatever they chose watered down.

As soon as they were gone, Henry sat down on a coffer, stretching his muddied boots toward the fire. He’d been detained at Pembroke for a fortnight, his will thwarted by westerly winds, and the delay was shredding his patience raw although his stay had been quite productive so far. In addition to his pilgrimage to St David’s, he’d made peace with the most powerful of the Welsh rulers, Rhys ap Gruffydd, accepted the submission of the erring Earl of Pembroke, and even enjoyed several successful hunts, the rain notwithstanding. But he was eager to be on his way and he knew these contrary winds could continue to blow for weeks to come.

He’d just taken his boots off when a knock sounded. “Enter,” he said, not bothering to turn around. But it was not his returning squires. Glancing over his shoulder, he was surprised to see both Rainald and Roger beaming at him. “Why are you two not abed?”

“We’ve brought you a visitor.”

“At this hour? What would you have done if I’d been asleep?” Rainald dismissed the objection with an airy wave of his hand. “We’d have had to awaken you, of course.” He and Roger exchanged grins, looking more like gleeful coconspirators than earl and bishop, stalwarts of the king’s council.

Puzzled and faintly irked by their complacent smiles and baffling behavior, Henry got to his feet as they stepped aside, revealing the man standing behind them in the doorway. And then a smile of his own slowly spread across his face.

“What are you waiting for, Uncle?” he said. “Come on in.”

After a barely perceptible hesitation, Ranulf did.

Henry’s squires had fallen asleep on their pallets. So had Rainald, who was sprawled, snoring, in the window seat. Roger held out longer, but at last he, too, was nodding drowsily and stifling yawns. “I’m going to bed now and leaving word that I’m not to be awakened until Friday.” Ignoring Henry and Ranulf’s gibes of “milksop” and “weakling,” he headed for the door.

They’d been conversing easily, interrupting each other freely, lapsing back into the bantering familiarity of a lifetime, almost as if the past six years’ estrangement had never been. They had discussed Henry’s plans for Ireland, where he meant to foil the ambitions of his Marcher lords, put a halt to the ongoing strife, and aid the Irish bishops in their attempt to bring Irish Church practices into conformity with Roman law. They had talked of Henry’s family, scattered throughout the Angevin empire like feathers on the wind: Eleanor in Poitiers with Richard and Joanna and Aenor, Hal in Normandy, Geoffrey in Brittany, Tilda in Germany, and John with the nuns at Fontevrault Abbey. And they had spoken of the smoldering tinderbox that was Wales.

North Wales had fragmented in the aftermath of Hywel’s death at Pentraeth. Gwynedd had been divided up amongst Owain’s surviving sons, with the lion’s share going to Davydd and Rhodri, Mon to Maelgwn, Nanconwy to Iorwerth, and the commotes in the west to Cynan. Few doubted, though, that this partitioned peace was doomed, kindling for yet another Welsh war of succession.

In the south, it was different. Rhys ap Gruffydd had none to challenge his supremacy, none but the might of the English Crown, and he had made a coldly calculated decision to ally himself to that alien power. He’d come to Henry near the Welsh border, offering hostages, horses, oxen, and fealty. Ranulf understood why he’d done so, and thought that Owain might have understood, too. But he did wonder if any mention had been made of the hostage son who had suffered for Rhys’s broken faith, the son now known as Maredudd Ddall, Maredudd the Blind.

When Roger shuffled sleepily off to bed, Henry had been telling Ranulf that he’d waived payment of most of Rhys’s proffered tribute, recognized Rhys’s right to lands claimed by the Marcher Houses of Clare and Clifford, and returned to him another son long held hostage at the English court. But now that he and Ranulf were alone for the first time, their conversation’s flow began to ebb, soon slowing to a trickle.

They studied each other silently in the fire’s erratic glow, listening to the crackle of flames, the raspy sounds of Rainald’s snoring, the rhythm of rain upon the roof. Henry sipped his wine, oblivious to what he was tasting. “I grieved for you when I learned of Hywel ab Owain’s death,” he said softly. “He was a brave man, a gifted poet, and good company.”

Ranulf inclined his head. “Yes… he was.”

“I was concerned on your behalf, too, Uncle, for I very much doubted that Davydd ab Owain would let you dwell unmolested in domains now his.”

“He did not.”

Henry waited a moment and then prodded, “Well?”

“I thought it best to depart Trefriw lest I drag my uncle Rhodri down with me. My elder son joined the service of Hywel’s brother Cynan, and Rhiannon and our younger children are dwelling now at my manor in Shropshire…”

Color had crept into Ranulf’s face, spreading upward from throat to forehead, and Henry set his cup down in surprise once he noticed the older man’s discomfort. Ranulf was quiet again and Henry shifted impatiently, but this time he did not prompt, waiting for Ranulf to continue on his own.

Ranulf was still deeply flushed. “I realize you might well think that this is why I am here, Harry, to mend fences now that I’ve returned to England. But that is not so. I came not to regain royal favor-”

Henry had been staring at him incredulously and now burst out laughing. “Jesus God, Ranulf! In all my life, I’ve never known a man so uncalculating, so lacking in avarice. Did you truly think I’d doubt your motives? After you turned down an earldom?”

Ranulf joined in his laughter, somewhat sheepishly. “You will admit it was an awkward coincidence, though, that I should seek you out once I am back on English soil. I could hardly blame you for harboring some suspicions.”

“And I usually breathe in suspicions as I breathe in air,” Henry conceded. “But not with you, Uncle.” He hoped that Ranulf understood his assertion for what it was, the rarest of compliments. Death had claimed his confidants one by one-his parents, his brother Will-leaving only Rosamund and Eleanor and his sons, who were still green, untried lads. “Whether it be the doings of the Almighty or your ‘awkward coincidence, ’ Ranulf, I am not likely to question it, just to be glad of it.”

Ranulf’s smile was still the smile of his youth, curiously untouched by time. “I’m glad, too,” he said. “I’ve missed you, lad.”

Henry’s answering smile never reached his eyes. “I ought to leave well enough alone,” he said, “but I’d not mislead you by my silence. I deeply regret our falling-out over the Welsh hostages. I am sorry that there are men who dwell in darkness because of my command. But in all honesty, if I had to do it over again… most likely I would, Ranulf.”

“I know.” Ranulf had spent much of his life watching those he loved wrestle with the seductive, lethal lure of kingship. It had proved the ruination of his cousin Stephen, a good man who had not made a good king. For his sister Maude, it had been an unrequited love affair, a passion she could neither capture nor renounce. For Hywel, it had been an illusion, a golden glow ever shimmering along the horizon. He believed that his nephew had come the closest to mastery of it, but at what cost?

Henry rose and padded barefoot across the chamber to pour more wine for Ranulf, spilling only a splash into his own cup. He detoured to snatch a blanket from his bed and drape it over Rainald’s shoulders before returning to the hearth. “The drawbridge is down, the parapets unmanned. You may not get another chance to catch me with my defenses in such disarray. Are there any questions you would put to me?”

Ranulf smiled and shook his head, and Henry’s brows shot upward. “Not even about Thomas Becket?”

“No.”

Henry studied Ranulf’s face intently, and then exhaled a breath soft as a sigh, for he saw that his uncle was utterly sincere, free of all doubts or misgivings about the manner in which Becket met his death. “A pity the Pope does not share your certainty,” he said, with a flippancy that did not deceive Ranulf in the least.

“I know that the Pope has dispatched two cardinal legates to investigate the killing, and I know, too, that both men are said to be strongly predisposed in Becket’s favor,” he said and Henry grimaced his agreement.

“I think we can safely assume that there will be some finding of fault.” “Is that why you are going to Ireland, then, to delay the reckoning with the Church?”

Henry feigned indignation. “Such cynicism ill becomes you, Uncle. Would you have me sit on my hands whilst my Marcher lords carve out Irish kingdoms for themselves?”

“But Roger told me that the Earl of Pembroke hastened from Ireland to meet you at Newnham and made an abject submission to assuage your wrath,” Ranulf pointed out, and Henry shrugged.

“Yes, he came to his senses right quickly. By that time, though, I already had an army assembled. If you go to the trouble of saddling a horse, you’re going to want to ride it.”

Ranulf was amused by his nephew’s ability to avoid giving a direct answer. “If lamprey is not your favorite dish, it ought to be, for your slipperiness could put any eel to shame. I know you can give me reasons beyond counting why you must go to Ireland, beginning with that Papal Bull you were granted some years ago to bring Ireland under subjugation to Rome. Nor do I doubt that you want to teach your Marcher lords that if they try to fly too high, you’ll clip their wings. But I still say that if the Irish isle was not even more remote than Wales, you’d not be so keen to spend the winter there.”

Henry yielded, then, with a grin. “I see these past six years have not robbed you of any of your stubbornness. If you must hear me say it, so be it. The longer I can stave off the Church’s verdict, the less likely it will be an excommunication or interdict and the more likely they’ll offer terms I can live with.”

Ranulf raised his cup in a fond, sardonic salute. “Now that I think of it, there is a question I want to ask you. Rumors about the Canterbury killers have taken root in every alehouse, every marketplace, and are sprouting faster than the hardiest weeds. I’ve been told that they have gone on Crusade to make amends, that you’ve dispatched men to hunt them down without mercy, that in the months since the killing, they’ve all begun to sicken, stricken by unknown maladies that have no cure. What is the truth of it, Harry?”

“The last I heard, they had gone to ground at Hugh de Morville’s castle at Knaresborough in Yorkshire, where I daresay they are hoping to ride out the storm.”

“But you have not moved against them?”

“No,” Henry said, frowning into the depths of his wine cup. “They thought they were doing my bidding, Ranulf. Even though they wounded me almost as grievously as they did Thomas, they were arrows launched from my bow, men who were acting upon my own angry, imprudent words. I admit that I have been known to dissemble at times, for that is an essential aspect of statecraft. But I am not a hypocrite.”

“No,” Ranulf agreed, although not as wholeheartedly as Henry would have liked. It was not that Ranulf disbelieved him. But life had taught him that men learned to justify themselves almost as soon as they learned to talk, and he suspected that kings had more need than most to vindicate their acts. “What do you think will happen to them, Harry?”

Henry shrugged again. “If they are wise, they’ll confess their sins, repent, and throw themselves upon the mercy of the Church. Of course the only penalties they’d face are spiritual. The ultimate absurdity of this, Ranulf, is that their crime is one the Church would deny me the right to punish. Thomas insisted unto his final breath that only the Church could judge the offenses of men in holy orders and any crimes committed against them.”

“I do not imagine Thomas would appreciate the irony of that,” Ranulf said dryly. “From what I’ve heard, he cast off humor when he put on the sacred pallium.”

“For certes, he did when he donned that wretched hair shirt,” Henry agreed, sounding more perplexed than sarcastic. He’d been shaken by the revelation of Becket’s secret mortification, and months later, he still could not reconcile that man with the one he’d known-or thought he’d known. He waved Ranulf off when his uncle would have refilled his cup, for wine was not the key to the enigma that was Thomas Becket.

“I thought he was the hypocrite,” he admitted. “In that, I was wrong. No man would wear a filthy, lice-ridden garment next to his private parts if he did not believe utterly in the sanctity of his cause. The chafing alone must have driven him half-mad!” He smiled then, without much humor. “How could I have so misjudged him, Ranulf?”

Ranulf did not answer at once, for he understood the honor inherent in the question; he was likely the only man to whom his nephew could pose that query. “I think,” he said slowly, “that Hywel saw him with the clearest eye. He said once that Thomas reminded him of a chameleon, changing his color to reflect his surroundings.”

Henry raised his head, considering that. “Well,” he said, “if Hywel is right, the fault is still mine, then, for insisting he take the archbishopric. If I’d kept him as my chancellor, we both might have fared better.”

“I’d heard that the Pope has agreed to absolve the Bishops of London and Salisbury. But what of the Archbishop of York? Does his suspension still hold?”

“For now it does. I expect, though, that he’ll eventually get it lifted.”

“And the de Brocs? What of them?”

That was a question Henry preferred not to answer. He didn’t doubt that they had been implicated in Becket’s murder, but he still had need of their services in Kent. He sought to divert Ranulf’s attention by changing the subject. “I do not suppose you’ve heard about the latest misfortune to befall Gilbert Foliot? He took ill this past August, was burning with fever until they began to despair of his life. The Bishop of Salisbury had come to give him comfort, and he kept urging Gilbert to let him pray to Thomas for deliverance. Gilbert finally agreed, his fever soon broke, and within a few days, he was well on the road to recovery.”

Ranulf grinned. “Was his misfortune that he was so gravely ill.. or that he may have owed his recovery to Thomas Becket?”

“Both, I suspect,” Henry said and laughed. “Poor Gilbert. He is truly torn between his dislike of the man and his awe of the martyr!”

It was quiet for a time after that, but it was a companionable quiet, bred of intimacy and affection. Henry absentmindedly scratched the ears of one of his wolfhounds and Ranulf smothered a yawn.

“I think I shall have to be off to bed,” he said. “These old bones of mine need more rest than yours.”

Henry glanced up, then nodded. “Ranulf… do you think Thomas Becket was a saint?”

“I do not know, Harry.”

“There is much talk of miracles at his tomb and the like. But surely that is not proof? There are fools aplenty who are credulous enough to believe any nonsense that reaches their ears.”

“I’ve heard of these miracles,” Ranulf acknowledged, “and in truth, I do not know what to make of them. To us, Thomas was a mortal man, one like any other, with his share of flaws and follies. It is difficult to envision him a saint.”

“Well nigh impossible,” Henry commented trenchantly. “Did I ever tell you what he was reported to have said about the expulsion of his kinfolk and servants? When he was told that some of them were on their way to join him at Pontigny, he replied that as long as their souls were saved, he cared not if they were flayed to the bone. How saintly does that sound?”

“Well… not very. But I suppose it could be argued that saints care only for the spiritual and not the corporeal.”

“Do you believe that?” Henry demanded and Ranulf shook his head, smiling.

“No, not really. I cannot answer your question, Harry, doubt that anyone can. I do know, though, that saints are not judged like ordinary men. That is, after all, what makes them saints.”

Henry drained the last of his wine, then looked up at Ranulf, his expression an odd one, at once skeptical and regretful. “Saint or not,” he conceded, “Thomas got the last word for certes.”

Heavy rains and westerly winds continued to keep Henry at Pembroke. Another week went by. Roger departed, returning to Normandy to await the arrival of the papal legates. Rhys ap Gruffydd arrived and Henry agreed to an elaborate banquet, as much to banish boredom as to honor Rhys.

Seated at the high table with Henry, Rhys, Rainald, the Earls of Pembroke and Hertford, and the Bishop of St David’s, Ranulf drank the wine offered and ate the venison and fresh pike and pheasant, but he was not really enjoying himself. He missed Rhiannon, missed his children, missed Hywel and the life he’d lost at Trefriw. He was glad that he and his nephew had made peace; their breach was a wound that had never fully healed. Yet even his pleasure was diluted these days and left an aftertaste.

When the meal was done and the trestle tables cleared away for the entertainment, Henry signaled for silence. “Did you know, Uncle, that Hywel’s foster brother has written a tribute to him?”

Ranulf shook his head, glancing from Henry to Rhys, back to Henry again. The Welsh prince’s bard had come forward, claiming the center of attention and waiting until his audience quieted. “This elegy is not mine, although I wish it were. The poet is Peryf ap Cedifor, and he writes of what he saw, what he felt, what he lost at Pentraeth. Peryf agreed that I could sing his words, share his grief, and it is my great honor to present The Killing of Hywel.

While we were seven men alive, not three sevens

Challenged or routed us;

Now, alas, dauntless in battle,

Of that seven, three are left.

Ranulf balled his fists at his sides, grateful that Peryf was not the one performing his lament. Four brothers he’d lost at Pentraeth, and Hywel, brother in all but blood. He was no longer listening to the bard’s words, his eyes misting with tears. But then the tone changed, from mournful to embittered.

Because of the treachery brewed, unchristian Briton,

By Cristyn and her sons,

Let there be left alive in Mon

Not one of her blotched kindred!

Despite what good comes from holding land,

World is a treacherous dwelling:

Woe, to you, cruel Davydd,

To stab tall Hywel, hawk of war!

Only Ranulf, Rhys, and his men understood the elegy, as it had been recited in Welsh. But the hall had fallen silent, for there were haunting echoes of heartbreak in the pulsing plaint of the harp. Henry moved toward Ranulf, his eyes marking the tear tracks upon his uncle’s face. “I thought it would please you to honor Hywel. Was I wrong?”

“No… I’m glad you did. It would have pleased Hywel, too.” Ranulf mustered up a shadowy smile. “He always did have a liking for center stage.”

As Henry turned away in response to a query from the Earl of Pembroke, Ranulf took the opportunity to withdraw. He’d lost enough loved ones to know that even the greatest pain would eventually dull its edges. His grieving for Hywel no longer pressed against his chest like the heaviest of stones, no longer tore at his lungs with each constricted breath. If not fully tamed yet, the hurt was becoming accustomed to being handled; almost broken to the saddle, he thought, with a flicker of black humor that Hywel would have approved. It was the regret that he found hardest to live with. He sometimes pictured a wheel in his brain, spinning over and over in remorseless rhythm to those most tragic and futile of words: if only, what if.

It was then that he overheard it, a casual comment made by Rhys to one of his retainers. Peryf’s lament drew its strength from his sorrow, not his style, Rhys observed, adding that his poetry could not hold a candle to Hywel’s.

Noticing for the first time that Ranulf was within hearing range, the Welsh lord gave a half-humorous, half-embarrassed grimace. “You caught me out,” he conceded. “I did not mean to slight Peryf’s talent. It is just that I think Hywel was a better poet, one who’ll be remembered far longer than Peryf.”

“No offense taken,” Ranulf said. “I doubt that even Peryf would argue with your assessment. Hywel’s poetry will live on even after his memory fades.” And when he realized how much truth there was in that prediction, he found it gave him considerable solace. Hywel had made words soar higher than hawks, his songs celebrating his love of life, women, and Wales. That might be a legacy more lasting than even a kingship.

Henry’s fleet had assembled at The Cross, just downstream of the castle at the mouth of the River Pembroke. It was an impressive sight, for he’d required four hundred ships to transport thirty-five hundred men, five hundred knights, horses, and provisions. On this Saturday in mid-October, the waiting was finally over. With favorable winds at last, anchors were raised, shrouds tightened, sails unfurled, and the fleet got underway.

Ranulf and Rainald had bade Henry farewell, then mounted their horses to ride along the north shore so they could watch the ships enter the estuary. The sun was sinking in the west and the sky was a dusky copper, obscuring the horizon in a golden haze. The first stars had not yet appeared, but the absence of clouds promised a clear, moonlit night. The tranquillity of the scene was illusory, though, for sixty miles of open sea had to be navigated before the ships saw land again.

Waving frantically at the fleet’s flagship, Rainald shouted, “Go with God, Harry!” Much to his delight, a man in the bow waved back. “You think that is him?” He squinted, uncertain but hopeful. “By the Rood, it is! He’s got the lass with him, Ranulf. See her blue mantle?”

Ranulf swung around in the saddle. “ ‘The lass,’ ” he echoed. “You mean… Rosamund Clifford?”

“Well, with all due respect to Eleanor, I’d hardly refer to her as a lass, now, would I? Yes, I mean the little Clifford. You did not know he was taking her along?” When Ranulf shook his head, Rainald grinned, pleased to be the bearer of scandalous tidings. “Mind you, he does try to be discreet. He did not even sail with her on the same ship for Portsmouth. And he kept her hidden away at Pembroke, too. But he told me that she has a fear of the sea-sensible lass-so I suppose he thought it would be easier for her if they traveled together to Ireland. That is a longer voyage than a Channel crossing, after all.”

Ranulf said nothing and they sat their horses in silence as the ships were piloted from the river mouth into the estuary. The sunset was flaming out and in that fleeting, ephemeral interval between day and night, it seemed as if the world was afire, as if time itself was suspended until the last dying rays were submerged in the crimsoning waters of the sea. And then the moment was over, the spectacle ended, and darkness began to descend. Ranulf continued to watch, though, as long as the sails were still in sight.