Time and Chance

CHAPTER THREE

August 1157

Aber, North Wales

As she entered the Great Hall, all eyes followed the Welsh king’s concubine. By the standards of their age, Cristyn was no longer young at thirty-seven. But she still turned male heads with ease. Dressed richly in a vibrant red gown, she defied Welsh fashion by wearing her hair long, a curly, midnight cloud set off by a veil of gauzy gold, as transparent as summer sunlight. The colors were deliberately dramatic. She’d have been just as compelling, though, in mourning garb, for her vital, passionate nature burned brighter and hotter than any fire. All knew she held their king’s heart in the palm of her hand, and few seeing her now wondered why.

One who did watched from the shadows with a sardonic smile. Hywel ab Owain could not deny that Cristyn made his father happy or that he’d have wed her years ago if not for the inconvenient existence of his wife, Gwladys. It even amused Hywel that he might one day have a stepmother younger than he was, although it had taken him years to see the ironic humor in that. In the beginning of their liaison, Hywel had been horrified that his father would bed a girl of seventeen. It had not helped that he’d found her so damnably desirable himself. He still did, but no longer with the shamed, hungry yearning of raw youth. When he looked upon his father’s leman now, it was with an oddly impersonal desire, the poet’s innate love of beauty continually at war with the prince’s deep-rooted dislike of the woman.

“I see the queen bee has set all the drones to buzzing about her again. You think she’ll ever grow tired of preening her tail feathers in public?”

The speaker mixing metaphors with such reckless abandon was Hywel’s half-brother, Cynan, who’d come up unnoticed behind him. Like Hywel, Cynan was born out of wedlock. But in Wales, it was enough that the father recognized the child as his, and so Cynan and Hywel and their other illegitimate half-brothers were on an equal footing with Iorwerth and Maelgwn, the sons of Owain’s lawful wife. Hywel, the result of Owain’s youthful love affair with the daughter of an Irish lord, was the firstborn, the oldest at thirty-eight, of Owain’s considerable brood. The rest ranged in age through their thirties and twenties down to Cristyn’s two sons, nineteen-year-old Davydd and twelve-year-old Rhodri.

Cynan never referred to Cristyn by her given name if he could help it. It was always the “queen bee,” although not in his father’s hearing; even Cynan was not that rash. Hywel’s private name for her was the “lioness,” after reading in a bestiary that the female lion was fiercely protective of her cubs. Cristyn’s eldest cub was now swaggering across the hall toward her, the younger cub nowhere in sight. Cynan, who detested Davydd fully as much as he did Cristyn, muttered an obscenity. Hywel snagged a cup of mead from a passing servant and waited for Cristyn to come to him.

That she would, he did not doubt; a lioness was always wary when male lions were on the prowl. Hywel had no false pride, for he had won fame at an early age and was renowned throughout Wales as a poet and soldier. He and Cristyn both knew that he was the most formidable of her foes, the son most like Owain.

Cristyn greeted Hywel with a cool smile. “I’d heard that you had ridden in, Hywel. Is my lord Owain expecting you?”

His own smile was wry, acknowledging the deft thrust: a polite welcome for an interloper. “I daresay he is, Cristyn. When has he ever ridden off to war without me at his side?”

Cristyn’s smile held steady. Davydd, following in his mother’s footsteps, had neither her self-control nor her skill at verbal jousting. Glaring at Hywel, he said belligerently, “My father does not need your help to defeat the English.”

Hywel had done enough hell-raising in his own youth to understand Davydd’s need to chase after trouble and court confrontations. Usually he overlooked his half-brother’s bravado. Tonight, though, he was tired and Davydd’s barb rankled. “Tell me, Davydd, have you bloodied your own sword yet?”

Davydd’s face flooded with color. “Whoreson!” he snarled, and people nearby gave up any polite pretense that they were not eavesdropping. Others had begun to drift over and they soon had a large, expectant audience. Cristyn put a hand on her son’s arm, saying softly, “Do not take his bait, Davydd. Let it lie.”

Davydd was no fool, and the part of his brain not inflamed by anger was sending him the same message. But at nineteen, pride had a louder voice than common sense. “Hywel owes me an apology,” he insisted. “If he says he is sorry, I’ll be satisfied.”

He sounded so young that Hywel could not help smiling. It was both his blessing and his curse that he could never stay angry for long; his sense of the absurd was too well developed for that.

“Are you laughing at me?” Davydd balled his fists, shrugging off his mother’s restraining hold. “Say you’re sorry, damn you, or by God, I’ll…” He paused, not sure exactly what he would do, and Cynan chose that inopportune moment to join in the fun.

“I’ll say it if Hywel won’t. I am indeed sorry, lad, sorrier than I can say that you’re such a hotheaded half-wit. It reflects badly upon us all, what with your being kin-”

Davydd lunged at Cynan, who pivoted just in time. Before the younger man could launch another attack, Hywel and Cristyn, working in tandem for once, stepped between the combatants. Cynan was willing to cooperate, for he’d merely been amusing himself. Davydd was too furious, though, to heed reason, or even his mother. When Hywel caught his arm, he jerked free with such violence that he stumbled. Only then did he become aware of the sudden silence. All around him, people were backing away, when only moments before, they’d been pressing in eagerly to watch. Davydd froze and then turned slowly to face his father.

When men said that Owain Gwynedd cast a long shadow, they were speaking both literally and figuratively, for he was taller than most Welshmen. He was fairer in coloring, too; in his youth, his hair had been as bright as beaten gold, now silvered like moonlight. He bore his fifty-seven years well, but his cares had chased the laughter from his soul. Inspiring both admiration and awe in his subjects, he was a redoubtable figure even to those who loved him.

Owain said nothing; he’d long ago learned the tactical advantages that waiting could confer. Davydd and Cynan were soon squirming under the piercing power of those flint-grey eyes. “Did something happen here that I ought to know about?” Posed as a question, it was not. He controlled their response as thoroughly as he controlled the moment, and Davydd and Cynan hastily assured him that nothing had happened, nothing at all.

Owain regarded them impassively, just long enough to communicate an unmistakable message: that he knew better. “One of our scouts has ridden in from the east,” he said. “The English king’s army is breaking camp at Saltney, getting ready to cross into Wales.”

A murmur swept the hall, subdued and unsurprised. Cristyn moved unobtrusively to her lover’s side. The others, too, had drawn closer to Owain, putting Hywel in mind of the way people huddled before an open hearth on a blustery winter’s day. Only this storm would strike in August.

“Papa…” Owain’s youngest son had followed his father into the hall. Rhodri’s eyes were as round as coins and his voice held the hint of a tremor. “What… what will you do?”

Owain glanced down at the boy, letting his hand rest on Rhodri’s shoulder. “Well, lad, we shall have to teach this young English king how wars are fought in Wales.”

The English King’s command tent was lit by sputtering cresset lamps that gave off more smoke than light, and the men had to crowd in to see the map spread out upon the trestle table. The Marcher lords were dominating the discussion, for they claimed to know Wales better than the Welsh themselves. William Fitz Alan was embellishing his conversation with such sweeping arm gestures that he’d already caused one lamp’s flame to gutter out, and Walter Clifford was using his dagger for dramatic effect, stabbing down at the map as if he were thrusting into the heartland of Wales itself.

“Here,” he said, “here is where our war begins and ends.” The dagger flashed, the knife biting deeply into the table.

Henry looked down at the target pierced by that quivering blade. “I already know Owain awaits us at Basingwerk, Walter,” he said coolly, for he had little patience with posturing. “If he fights, it’ll be here. Was it really necessary to mutilate the table for that?”

Most men were flustered by royal rebukes. Walter Clifford was oblivious to the sarcasm, as thick-skinned as he was single-minded. “What is more important, my liege?” he asked brashly. “A table or a chance to outflank your enemy?”

“How?” Henry sounded skeptical. “We’ve agreed that we must march along the coast. What would you have us do, try to take an army over the goat tracks that pass for roads in most of Wales?”

Clifford grinned triumphantly. “No, my lord king. But you could send a smaller force through the Cennadlog Forest.”

“I know it sounds rash at first hearing,” William Fitz Alan said hurriedly. Furious with Clifford for presenting the Marcher plan as his own, he glared at the other man even as he sought to persuade the king. “The forest trails are indeed narrow and not easily followed. But with trustworthy guides, a body of lightly armed horsemen could penetrate those woods and reach the coast-behind Owain’s army.”

Henry glanced inquiringly at Owain Gwynedd’s brother. “What say you, my lord? Can this be done?”

Cadwaladr nodded vigorously. A tall, robust man in his late forties, with a cocky grin and thick chestnut hair that had not yet begun to grey, he was not one to pass unnoticed in any company. Only in his brother’s presence was he somehow diminished, a paler, lesser copy of the original. When seeing the two men together, Ranulf had occasionally felt an involuntary pang of pity for Cadwaladr, no more able to eclipse Owain than a man could outrun his own shadow. He was not surprised now that Cadwaladr should back the Marcher plan, for the Welshman’s courage was equaled only by his confidence.

“I can do it,” the Welsh prince said, with just enough emphasis on the “I” to hint at doubts about the corresponding capabilities of these alien allies of his. “Give me the command and we’ll salt Owain’s tail for you, good and proper!” An uproar at once ensued, as the Marcher lords began to object strenuously to the idea of turning over command to Cadwaladr.

Henry heard them all out. Ranulf sensed that he was intrigued by the Marcher suggestion. There was an inherent boldness in the idea that was sure to appeal to him. Ranulf said nothing as the discussion swirled about him, drawing further back into the shadows. He was accustomed to feeling like an outsider, for he’d lived much of his life as one, half Welsh, half Norman-French, a king’s bastard, neither fish nor fowl, as he put it in his more whimsical moods. But rarely had he felt as isolated as he did now, or as helpless, watching as war’s insidious fever claimed first one victim and then another. Was it burning, too, amongst the Welsh?

His silence did not go unnoticed by Henry, who rarely missed much. “It is getting hotter than Hades in this tent,” he complained. “I am going to take a walk around the camp, and will give my decision when I return. Uncle… you want to help me walk the wolf?” he asked, gesturing toward the large black alaunt napping under the table.

Rainald half-rose from his seat, then sank back in disappointment as he realized he was the wrong uncle. Ranulf got slowly to his feet, waiting as Henry slipped a lead on the dog’s collar, and then followed his nephew out into the night.

Henry’s pretext had some basis in truth, for it had been an uncommonly hot August so far. The sky above their heads held not even a wisp of cloud, just stars beyond counting. Soldiers nudged one another as they recognized the king, and one of the inevitable camp-followers, a buxom young woman with fiery red hair, called out cheekily, “Good hunting, my liege!”

“You, too, sweetheart,” Henry shot back, stirring laughter in all within hearing range. Glancing over at Ranulf as they paused to let the alaunt sniff a wagon wheel, he said quietly, “You do not like this flank attack. Tell me why, Uncle.”

“I do not like this war!” Ranulf said, too loudly, for heads turned in their direction. “I know you say this campaign is meant only to intimidate Owain and the Welsh, and I do not doubt your intent, Harry. Set a fire to contain a fire. But what if it gets away from you? If you and Owain misread each other, all of Wales could go up in flames.”

Henry did not deny it. “I never promised you that there would be no fighting, Uncle. I’d not lie, at least not to you. I would much prefer that we come to terms with the Welsh, but if it take some bloodshed to bring that about, so be it. However little you like to admit it, Ranulf, I have the right in this argument.”

Ranulf knew that Owain Gwynedd would say the same. But there was no use in pointing that out to his nephew. He had an uneasy sense that events were taking on their own momentum, already beyond the power of either Henry or Owain to control.

“What do you think of this flank attack?” Henry persisted. “Is it worth the risk?”

“I have a bad feeling about it.” Even to Ranulf, that sounded lame. Henry whistled to the dog and they started back toward his tent. Neither spoke for several moments. Ranulf studied his nephew’s moonlit profile; it was bright enough to see the freckles scattered across Henry’s nose. “You’re going to do it, though,” he concluded. “So who gets the command? Cadwaladr? Hertford or Salisbury?”

He caught a sudden flash of white as Henry smiled. “The command,” he said, “goes to me.”

Henry had never seen woods so thick and tangled. Clouds of rustling foliage shut out the sun, and by the time it filtered through that leafy web, the summer heat had lost its oppressive edge. The forest trail was overgrown in spots, but at least it was not mired in mud, and their Welsh guides followed its meandering track as if every hollow and fallen log and brambled barrier were branded into their memories. They’d only ridden a few miles so far, but they’d left the known world behind, all that was familiar and safe. This was the Wales of legend, primal and impenetrable.

“My liege?” Eustace Fitz John urged his mount to catch up with Henry and Ranulf. “Are we sure that Owain is with his army at Dinas Basing?”

He used the Welsh name rather than the Norman-French Basingwerk, and Ranulf liked him for that. It offended him that his father’s countrymen were so loath to use the names given by the Welsh to their own castles, towns, and abbeys. He’d had a few dealings with Eustace Fitz John, the Constable of Chester, and had always found him to be a decent sort, not as high-handed as most of the Marcher lords. It seemed such a pity that so many good men, Norman and Welsh, were putting their lives at risk on this hot August afternoon.

Ranulf would have thought that he’d be used to tallying up casualties by now; he had, after all, fought in the very worst of that bloody war for his sister’s stolen crown. But a few years of peace had stripped away those hard-won defenses. He was a battle-seasoned soldier with a monk’s loathing for bloodshed, and he could expect neither the Welsh nor the Normans to understand. He’d learned the hard way that most people could see no side but their own. Snapping out of his reverie, he saw that Henry and Fitz John were discussing the most lethal weapon in Henry’s arsenal: the royal fleet sailing up the Welsh coast from Pembroke. Ranulf had been dismayed to learn of the naval force; the Welsh king had no warships of his own. Nor could Owain match the manpower of the English Crown. The bulk of Henry’s army, now making its way along the coast toward Dinas Basing, was sure to outnumber the Welsh. Ranulf’s instinctive empathy for the underdog had fused with his love for his adopted homeland, and if it did come to outright war, his deepest sympathies would be with Wales.

The fact that he’d be bleeding for England only underscored the perversity of his plight. With a flicker of forced humor, he wondered how the Almighty would view his muddled prayers for victory. Let the Welsh win, O Lord, but not by much. That sounded suspiciously like St Augustine’s memorable plea for chastity-eventually.

Henry happened to glance in his direction at that moment, catching a glimpse of Ranulf’s self-mocking smile. “What are you laughing at, Uncle?”

“Myself.” Ranulf swatted a fly off his stallion’s withers, squinting as a bead of sweat trickled into the corner of his eye. While it was cooler in the depths of the woods than out in the full glare of sun, their chain-mail armor was stifling. “I was curious why you decided against letting Cadwaladr accompany us?”

“If I had,” Henry explained, “that would have set all those Marcher noses out of joint. Just as Cadwaladr would have been sorely vexed if I’d brought Clifford along. Better to send the lot of them by the coast road with Fitz Alan’s archers. I said I had need of you to talk truce terms with Owain, but that glib tongue of yours might be called into service sooner-to make peace midst our own men.”

“I’ll leave that to your chancellor,” Ranulf said and Henry grinned.

“You’re right. I daresay Thomas could talk a nun out of her habit. Not that he would. Even after two years in my constant company, he remains remarkably indifferent to the sins of the flesh.”

Ranulf laughed. “Well, he is an archdeacon, Harry. And the last I heard, the Church took a rather negative view of sins of the flesh.”

“A man can be virtuous without being a zealot about it.” Henry laughed, too, reaching up under the nose guard of his helmet to rub his chafed skin. “Thomas claims I do enough sinning for the both of us.”

They could see a pool of sunlight up ahead as the trail widened, dappled brightness briefly dispelling some of the deeper shadows. A small woodland creature darted across the path, too swiftly to be identified. As they rode on, there was a sudden flurry and a flock of chittering birds burst from a nearby tree, a shower of feathered arrows aiming at the sky. Ranulf gazed upward, following their soaring flight with the beginning of a smile. But then he saw Tegid, one of their guides. The young Welshman was staring up at the fleeing birds, too, and on his face was an expression of dawning horror.

“Rhagod!” Only Ranulf understood that hoarse cry, a warning of ambush come too late. The urgency in the guide’s voice needed no translation, though. Henry checked his stallion, starting to draw his sword from its scabbard. Tegid’s second shout was choked off as he was slammed backward, knocked from his saddle by the force of the spear protruding from his chest.

An arrow thudded into a tree trunk above Ranulf’s head. Another shaft found a target in flesh, and a knight slumped across his stallion’s neck, sliding to the ground as the horse reared up in fright. Then the killing began in earnest. With savage-sounding yells, the Welsh, charging from the woods on both sides of the road, sought to drag the English from their horses. The English in turn slashed and thrust with deadly effect in such close quarters, and blood splattered the combatants, the trampled grass, even the leaves of low-hanging branches.

Ranulf had passed some sleepless hours in recent weeks, envisioning a battle in which he found himself fighting against the Welsh. What if he saw someone he knew amongst them? Celyn, his brother-by-marriage? Hywel? Now that the dreaded moment was here, he had no time to spare for such fears. His only concern was defending himself against men set upon killing him, and when a Welsh soldier grabbed his arm, jerking to pull him from the saddle, he spurred his stallion into rearing up. His attacker lost his balance, falling in front of those flailing hooves.

A few feet away, Eustace Fitz John was not as lucky. His horse had bolted and a tree branch caught him in the throat. He crashed heavily to the ground and before he could regain his feet, a Welshman was astride him, plunging a spear downward. Ranulf tore his gaze away from the constable’s body, seeking his nephew. Henry was struggling to control his panicked stallion, while fending off a swarthy Welshman wielding a mace. His sword was already bloody, and as Ranulf watched, an arrow scorched past his face, almost grazing his cheek.

Before Ranulf could go to Henry’s assistance, he was again under attack himself. When at last he looked back at Henry, the young king was still holding his own. But then he saw the royal standard dip, disappear into the dust churned up by the thrashing horses.

The impact was immediate and devastating. “The king is dead!” The cry went up from a dozen throats, and Ranulf knew what would happen next. Believing that Henry was slain, his men would lose heart, think only of flight. Ranulf raced his horse across the clearing, leaned recklessly from the saddle and snatched up the fallen standard. Some of the English had already bolted, but the reassuring sight of that red and gold banner steadied the others, forestalling a rout.

“Sound the retreat!” Ranulf thanked God that his nephew had a voice made for shouting. Henry’s command rose above the din of battle, followed by the blare of trumpets. Bunching together, the English began an agonizingly slow-paced withdrawal, keeping their horses under tight rein though they yearned to spur into a wild gallop, knowing that such a flight would doom them all.

Ranulf had been in running battles before, but this one was night marish, for they were walled in by the dense woods, trapped on a winding trail that made speed impossible, and under unrelenting attack by the pursuing Welsh. They had to abandon their dead, even their wounded. But after several harrowing miles, they succeeded in fighting their way free.

The danger had eased, but not ended. Henry was too tempting a target for Welsh bowmen; they’d be back, and in greater numbers. The English rode on, pushing their horses, relieved but still wary once they left the woods behind. They’d not yet counted their dead. Ranulf knew that the toll would be a high one. But it could have been worse, Christ Jesus, so much worse. Glancing from time to time at his nephew, he wondered if Harry realized just how close he’d come to dying.

Henry did. He could still feel the hot rush of air on his skin as that Welsh arrow whistled past his ear. He was no novice to battle-he’d bloodied his sword for the first time at sixteen-but this had been different. This time his luck had almost run out.

They were heading for the coast road, hoping to catch up with the rest of their army before the Welsh could rally for another attack. But they’d only covered a few miles before they saw dust up ahead. Drawing their swords, they waited, and soon were cheering, for the riders galloping toward them were friends, not foes.

A scout on a lathered horse reached them first, explaining that a few of the English fugitives from the battle had overtaken the rearguard, claiming that the king had been slain, the rest lost. “But your uncle the earl would not believe it, my liege,” the scout told Henry. “Nor would the chancellor.” His begrimed, sweat-streaked face lit up in a wide grin. “The sight of you is going to gladden their eyes, and that’s God’s Blessed Truth!”

Rainald began to whoop as soon as he was in recognition range. “I knew those fools were wrong, by God, I did!”

Thomas Becket was more restrained in his greeting, but his jubilation burned no less brightly than Rainald’s, just at a lower flame. “Do you realize what you almost put me through, Harry?” He shook his head in mock reproach. “I’d have had to be the one to tell your queen that you got yourself killed in some godforsaken corner of Wales!”

“That was foremost in my mind. Whilst I was fighting for my life, I kept thinking, ‘I cannot do this to Thomas!’ ”

“You think telling Eleanor would have been rough? God pity the man who’d have had to tell my sister Maude!” Rainald’s grimace was partly for effect, partly quite genuine. “So… tell us. How bad was it, truly?”

“Well, I’ve passed more pleasant afternoons,” Henry allowed, and they all grinned. But as his gaze met Ranulf’s, there was no levity, no laughter in either man’s eyes, only a haunted awareness of what might have been.

After Henry’s escape from the Welsh ambush, Owain withdrew his forces before the advance of the much larger English army, and Henry continued along the coast to Rhuddlan Castle, awaiting the arrival of his fleet. But when word came, it was not good. Acting against orders, the English ships had anchored at Tal Moelfre on the island of Mon and the sailors had gone ashore, plundering and looting and burning the churches of Llanbedr Goch and Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf. The island residents were so outraged that they staged a counterattack, led by Owain’s son Hywel. In the fighting that followed, the English took much the worst of it, suffering many casualties, including a half-brother to Ranulf and Rainald.

It was dusk when Ranulf and his men reached the encampment of the Welsh king at Bryn y pin. The day’s sweltering heat had yet to ebb and the English flag of truce drooped limply in the still, humid air. The Englishmen’s spirits were sagging, too, for they were convinced that Ranulf’s mission was doomed and they lacked his confidence in the worth of Owain’s word. They were greeted with predictable antagonism, subjected to jeers and catcalls as they were escorted through the camp. But no hands were raised against them, and the only weapons to threaten them were the fabled sharp edges of the Welsh tongue.

Ranulf dismounted from his stallion, then stiffened at the sight of the man striding toward him. Slowly unsheathing his sword, he offered it to Owain’s son. Hywel accepted it awkwardly and they walked together across the encampment. The Welshman was finding this meeting as uncomfortable as Ranulf, and after a few moments he said, “So… how has your summer been so far, Ranulf? You keeping busy?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. How about you?”

“You were there, were you not? With the English king in the Cennadlog Forest?”

Not for the first time, Ranulf found himself marveling at the efficiency of Owain Gwynedd’s espionage system. “Tell me, Hywel, does a leaf fall in the forest without your father’s learning of it within the hour?”

“A stray leaf or two may get past him. But we’ve tried to keep an eye on you-for your own good, of course.”

“Of course.” Ranulf decided not to ask why, not sure he wanted to know the answer. “That ambush almost worked. If only they’d waited until we’d gotten deeper into the woods, we’d never have been able to fight our way out. Lucky for us you Welsh are such an impatient, impulsive people.”

“Lucky for you I was not in command. That honor went to my brothers, Cynan and Davydd.” Hywel’s sly smile told Ranulf he was not entirely displeased that his brothers’ timing had been off. “I was occupied elsewhere, teaching greedy English sailors that plunder has its price.”

They’d reached Owain’s tent, but neither man was in a hurry to enter. Hywel’s eyes were solemn now, for once devoid of all amusement. “I’ve always had a way with words; with a Welsh father and an Irish mother, how could I not? But tonight I hope you’re the eloquent one. You’ll have to be more than persuasive, Ranulf, if you expect to convince my father to make peace. You’ll have to be downright spellbinding.”

Hywel didn’t wait for Ranulf’s response. Instead, he handed him back his sword. “It is never wise,” he said, “to go unarmed into the lion’s den.”

Ranulf was not as cynical as Hywel; his expectations were usually much more optimistic. Not this time, though. He agreed wholeheartedly with Hywel’s pessimistic assessment of his chances. The tent was poorly lit by a single torch and crowded with as hostile an audience as he’d ever faced. Owain’s seneschal was regarding him balefully. So were his lords and four of his sons: Cynan, Davydd, Iorwerth, and Maelgwn.

Owain was not as easy to read as the other men. He never was. They were seated on the ground, for the Welsh scorned the campaign comforts of their English enemies. Signaling for Ranulf to join them, Owain said, “Give the man some mead, Hywel.”

Davydd started to object, caught Owain’s eye, and reconsidered. Ranulf gratefully accepted a cup from Hywel and took a deep, bracing swallow. “I am here, my lord Owain, at the behest of King Henry. He does not want all-out war with the Welsh. It is his hope that you and he can come to terms.”

Owain drank from his cup, keeping his eyes on Ranulf all the while. “His terms, I’d wager.”

There was no way to temper the blow, and Ranulf was wise enough not even to try. “King Henry would expect you to do homage to him for your domains, to offer up hostages as a show of good faith, to restore your brother Cadwaladr to his lands in Meirionydd, and to renounce all claims to the cantref of Tegeingl.”

He knew what reaction he’d get, but it was even more heated than he’d expected. Owain’s sons were the most vocal in expressing their outrage. Cynan vowed passionately that he’d die ere he gave up his share of Meirionydd to Cadwaladr, Maelgwn and Iorwerth fumed at the insufferable arrogance of the English, while Davydd was reduced to sputtering incredulous oaths. Even Hywel dipped his oar in, pointing out acidly that the English fleet had been defeated at Tal Moelfre, just in case that had escaped King Henry’s notice.

Ranulf made no attempt to defend himself, letting their indignation run its course. Owain, too, waited for the tumult to subside. “Your king’s notion of peace is a curious one. It sounds suspiciously like Welsh surrender to these ears. Suppose you tell me, Lord Ranulf, why I should even consider such one-sided terms. What could I possibly get out of it?”

“You’d get the English army out of North Wales.”

Owain smiled skeptically. “For how long?”

Ranulf leaned forward tensely. “That would be up to you.”

Owain’s eyes narrowed, but his expression did not change as the others began to heap scorn on this “English peace,” and when Owain got to his feet, Ranulf reluctantly rose too, taking it as a dismissal. So did Owain’s sons, and they were all caught by surprise when the Welsh king beckoned to Ranulf, saying, “Come with me.”

Ranulf hastily followed Owain from the tent. Ignoring the stares and speculation of his soldiers, Owain began to walk, and Ranulf fell in step beside him. A turquoise twilight was spilling over the hills, and the few clouds overhead were darkening to a deep purple. Off to the south, Ranulf thought he glimpsed the fading gleam of the River Elwy. They were just a few miles from Rhuddlan and the English army. A few miles and a few days and then Armageddon. Unless he could convince Owain to accept the English terms. Unless the Almighty deigned to work a miracle solely on his behalf.

“What did you mean,” Owain asked abruptly, “when you said it would be up to me?”

“King Henry’s terms are not easy to swallow. But if you can force them down this once, you’ll not have to drink from that cup again. If you keep faith with him, he’ll keep out of Wales.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because,” Ranulf said, “I know my nephew, about as well as any man can.”

Owain had led them into the shadowed circle cast by a sky-scraping oak. “I’ve spoken to your uncle about you,” he said unexpectedly. “Rhodri swears that your soul is Welsh. He says you are that rarity, a man as honorable as he is honest. But can you be loyal to Wales and Henry, too?”

Ranulf summoned up a grimacing smile. “God knows, I am trying.” “The English campaign has hardly been a rousing success so far. Your nephew’s attempt to outflank me almost cost him his life, and his fleet was badly mauled in that raid on Mon. Why should I make peace when I am winning?”

“Because we both know that you can win battles, but not the war,” Ranulf said bluntly. “Wales can match neither the resources nor the armies of the English Crown. For every Welsh child born, the Lord God has chosen to let twenty be begotten across the border. I am not saying it would be easy to conquer Wales. But I fear it could be done.”

“And you think this young lordling is the man to do it?”

“You mock him at your peril, my lord Owain. Yes, Harry is young.

He learns fast, though, rarely making the same mistake twice. And he gets what he wants. You need proof of that? Both his crown and his queen were once claimed by other men. But by the time he was one and twenty, he’d won the English throne and taken Eleanor of Aquitaine into his bed.”

Ranulf paused, taking a deep, deliberate breath before saying then, with all the conviction at his command, “Trust me in this if nothing else, my lord. Henry Fitz Empress is no ‘young lordling,’ but the most dangerous foe you’ve ever faced. His will was forged in the same fire that tempered the blade of his sword. If you provoke him into war to the uttermost, he’ll do whatever he must to win that war.”

“You say he gets what he wants. How do I know he does not want Wales?”

“Harry is ambitious, not rapacious. For all that gluttony is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, it is not amongst his. He does not bite off more than he can chew, and he well knows that Wales would be a tough mouthful. Moreover, he has shown himself to be a fair and just liege lord to the diverse lands within his domains. He rules Anjou, Normandy, Maine, Touraine, England, and his wife’s Aquitaine, without meddling in their customs, laws, or languages. He told me once that was his father’s deathbed advice: Always to ride with a light hand on the reins.”

“That may be so, but he is heavy-handed in his demands. He asks a lot for a man who has yet to gain a victory on Welsh soil.”

“And that is telling, too, my lord. Another man might have forced a battle, just to prove to you-and himself-that he could win. Another man might also have made the terms much harsher, punishing you for his mistakes. But Harry needs to prove his manhood to no one. Nor does he seek out scapegoats. He accepts rebellion, fairly fought. It is betrayal he cannot abide-or forgive.”

“I assume that is a warning,” Owain said dryly. “You put me in mind, Lord Ranulf, of a man trying to ride two horses at once. At the moment, you seem to have a foot planted firmly in each saddle. But I wonder how long you can keep such a precarious balance.”

“I wonder, too,” Ranulf said, with a rueful smile. “I’ve tried to be honest with you, my lord, more honest than men usually are with kings. If I may, I’d do a bit more plain speaking now. I know that Harry’s terms leave a sour taste in your mouth. But in truth, they are not that unreasonable or onerous. It would vex you, I daresay, to have Cadwaladr underfoot again. We both know, though, that you can keep him in check. It might even be better to have him back under your control, rather than conniving freely at the English court. As for Tegeingl, you cannot truly blame Harry for wanting you out of a cantref that borders on Chester. He told me recently that if he turned a blind eye to the border for long, the people of Cheshire and Shropshire would soon be speaking Welsh, and that, my lord Owain, is the highest compliment he could pay you.”

He’d taken a gamble with that last remark, saw that he’d won it when the corner of Owain’s mouth quirked, a smile almost too quick to catch. He did not dare to ask, though, if he’d been persuasive. There was too much at stake to risk hearing that he’d failed.

“Stay the night,” Owain said. “I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Ranulf watched as Owain strode off into the darkness. Suddenly he felt very tired, body and soul. A tree stump was off to his right, a primitive seat at best, but close at hand. He was still sitting there when Hywel strolled over.

“My father will say only that he has some thinking to do. Naturally, that has alarmed my brothers, few of whom do any thinking at all. They cannot understand why he does not just send you back to the English camp with a blistering refusal scorching your ears. Nor would they stop at that. If it were up to them, you’d be banished from ever setting foot on Welsh soil again, even in your dreams.”

That was Ranulf’s secret fear, that even if he managed to stave off a war, he could still be the loser. “Am I likely to end up in exile, Hywel? Would your father do that?”

Hywel looked surprised, then amused. “Do not be a dolt. Of course he will not.”

Ranulf was heartened by the other man’s certainty. “You must have more influence than I realized.”

“As much as I’d like to claim the credit, there is a simple reason why my father will let you remain in Wales. You’re the English king’s uncle. You might well become our window to the English court. Or,” Hywel added mischievously, “a useful pawn or hostage. No, rest assured that we’ll not be booting you out of Gwynedd, whatever my father decides on the morrow.”

“I’m gladdened to hear that,” Ranulf admitted, for with Hywel he could let down his guard. “It would break Rhiannon’s heart to go off into English exile. Nor would I fancy it much, either.”

Getting to his feet, he moved so stiffly that Hywel, who was a year younger, made a joke about aging English bones. By now the moon had risen above the surrounding hills, casting a soft, silvered light upon the Welsh encampment. Ranulf studied the face of his friend, familiar but not always expressive; Hywel could be as inscrutable as his father when he chose.

“It is going to be a long night, Hywel. You know your father’s thinking, better than most. Do you believe he will agree to the English terms?”

Hywel was quiet for a moment. “Well,” he said, “if I were a gambling man-and we both know I am-I’d put my money on peace. Or what passes for peace in Wales.”