Time and Chance

CHAPTER FOUR

August 1157

Rhuddlan Castle

Gwynedd, Wales

Henry’s charm was genuine, for it sprang from his love of life and his unquenchable curiosity. But it also contained an element of calculation. He’d learned at an early age the disarming power of a smile or jest. He’d learned, too, that not all men could be won over with charm, and he sensed at the outset that Owain Gwynedd was one of them. The Welsh king was courteous, dignified in his submission, and beyond reach. When Henry looked into his eyes, grey unto grey, he got only the most guarded glimpse into the older man’s soul. Gwynedd’s defenses might be vulnerable to English attack, but Owain’s defenses were intact, impressive even in defeat.

Across the great hall, Ranulf watched as Henry and Owain talked together, their voices low, their faces unrevealing. Occasionally, they smiled, seemingly oblivious of all the eyes upon them. The ceremony was over. Owain had done homage to Henry, yielded hostages and the cantref of Tegeingl and accepted the submission of his brother, Cadwaladr. Ranulf doubted if that particular peace would last long. Cadwaladr’s smirk did not bode well for future harmony. But Cadwaladr’s prospects held no interest for Ranulf. If he was foolish enough to provoke Owain again, he deserved whatever he got. The only peace that mattered to Ranulf was the one that now existed between Owain Gwynedd and Henry Fitz Empress.

“Intriguing, is it not?” Hywel materialized without warning at Ranulf’s side; for a big man, he could move as quietly as any cat when he chose. “Watching them take each other’s measure, like two stallions vying for the same mares. The young challenger versus the seasoned sire. Which would you wager upon, Ranulf? Youth or experience?”

“Does it matter? They’ve agreed, after all, to share the herd.”

Hywel smiled skeptically, for he thought that neither stallions nor kings were ones for sharing. But he refrained from saying so. It was hardly sporting, after all, to kick a man’s crutch out from under him. “So what happens next? I trust we get fed now that we’ve surrendered? Even the doomed Christians got a last meal ere being thrown to the lions.”

“Actually, they were the meal and the lions were the ones who got fed. But we’ll have a better supper than you’ll usually see on the royal table, for Thomas Becket brought his cooks along. Tonight we’ll dine on venison stew and stuffed goose and the lord chancellor’s finest Gascon wines, and on the morrow, Harry will return to England, Owain to Aber, and you, I expect, will find some absent husband’s wife to help you celebrate the Peace of Rhuddlan.”

Hywel grinned into his wine cup, not bothering to deny it; he loved to hunt and he loved women, and in pursuit of those twin passions, he felt no conscience pangs about trespassing. “What of you, Ranulf? When you return to Trefriw, will you be welcome?”

“I do not know, Hywel,” Ranulf admitted reluctantly. “My uncle and sister-in-law were wroth with me for answering Harry’s summons. They may not want me back.”

“But you did avert further bloodshed, convincing my lord father to accept the English terms. Surely that must count in your favor?”

Ranulf shrugged. “It is not a popular peace, though. I’ve heard the talk. Many Welshmen feel that they were winning and do not understand why Owain yielded. My uncle and Eleri may well be amongst them.”

“True enough,” Hywel conceded, but then he smiled. “Suppose I accompany you? After they hear me laud you as a blessed peacemaker, how can they not forgive you?”

“Just be sure,” Ranulf warned, “that you do not lure Eleri off for some private persuasion. Her husband may be a man of few words, but you make a cuckold of him at your peril.”

“Of course I will not try to seduce Eleri.” Hywel managed to look both innocent and offended, yet his dark eyes were gleaming. “I promise,” he said, “to confine my attentions to your wife,” and sauntered away with Ranulf’s laughing curse ringing in his ears.

“That is Owain’s firstborn?” Henry arrived just as Hywel was departing. “The poet?”

Poets were greatly esteemed in Wales, not so revered across the border. Henry had a higher regard for learning, though, than many of his countrymen; both his parents had valued education and had seen to it that he’d received an excellent one. Many lords scorned writing as a lowly clerk’s skill, but Henry never traveled without a book in his saddlebags. Knowing that, Ranulf had no qualms about confirmation and he nodded. “Yes, the poet.”

Henry looked after Hywel with kindled interest. “Is he any good?”

“Actually, he is. And he wields a sword as deftly as he does a pen. It was Hywel who rallied the citizens of Mon to repel your invasion.”

“Can you not even pretend to regret our rout from Mon?” The reproach was playful, Henry’s smile sympathetic. “You deserve credit for this peace, Uncle. I’ll not be forgetting what you did.”

“I hope the Welsh forget,” Ranulf said wryly, knowing they would not. Too many of his Welsh brethren would see his actions as proof that he was-and would always be-an alltud, a foreigner.

“Let them grumble in the alehouses and taverns; you do have alehouses in Wales? When courting popularity, Ranulf, aim high. You’ve gained a king’s favor by this campaign. No, not mine; you’ve always had that. I meant Owain. You proved yourself to be honorable and, even better, useful.”

Ranulf smiled in spite of himself. “I can see that you and Owain speak the same tongue, one common to kings. A pity poor Stephen never learned it.”

“I’m glad he did not,” Henry said forthrightly, “for if he had, he might have held on to his stolen crown. You are right, though. I think Owain and I do understand each other.” For a moment, his gaze shifted, his eyes resting thoughtfully upon the Welsh king. All in all, Henry was pleased with the results of his campaign. He’d gotten what he wanted, and without paying too high a price for it. He knew, of course, that he had not bought peace with the Welsh, merely rented it for a time. He knew, too, that his uncle believed otherwise, and that would be the one regret he’d take back to England. But he said nothing, for in this, he and Hywel ab Owain were of one mind. Llawer gwir, gorau ei gelu. All truths are not for telling.

Dinner was served in England between eleven and twelve in the forenoon, in Wales at day’s end. Because Eleri had visited Trefriw rarely in the weeks since war began, her stepmother, Enid, had instructed their cook to prepare a more elaborate meal than usual: roast capon, cabbage and almond soup, gingered carp, and apple fritters. But the dinner was not a success. To Enid’s annoyance, Eleri and Rhiannon and Rhodri seemed indifferent to the fine fare set before them. Only the children ate with gusto. The adults pushed the food about on their trenchers, taking an occasional absentminded bite, and Enid realized she could have served them straw for all the notice they’d taken. Conversation was equally listless, desultory, and labored. Enid was soon wishing that her stepdaughter had stayed away.

Rhiannon was wishing the same. It was unbearably painful, this estrangement with her sister. She could feel Eleri’s eyes upon her. When she misjudged her reach and almost tipped over her cider cup, Eleri had instinctively leaned over to help. As Rhiannon steadied the cup, their fingers touched, briefly, before Eleri pulled back. Rhiannon knew Eleri was hurting, too. But neither one knew how to mend this rift. Whenever they’d tried to talk about it, they ended up arguing again. Even the news of the Rhuddlan pact had not restored peace to their household.

Picking up her spoon, Rhiannon dipped it into her soup. The silence was as oppressive as the heat; this was the hottest, driest summer she could remember. Rhodri was too disheartened by the family discord to keep the conversation afloat, Enid seemed to be sulking, and when shouts echoed across the bailey, Eleri grasped gratefully at an excuse to flee the table.

“Someone is coming,” she announced, flinging her napkin aside; she was halfway across the hall before it landed. Swinging the door back, she gave a joyful cry, as sweet and clear as birdsong. “It is Celyn!” Her voice changing, she added flatly, “And Ranulf.” But then she gasped. “Jesu, Prince Hywel is with them, too!”

As the men dismounted, Eleri came flying through the doorway and threw herself into Celyn’s arms. Rhiannon wisely elected to let Ranulf come to her, and they were soon enveloped in a close embrace. It was left to Hywel to accept Rhodri’s flustered greetings. Stammering a bit, for he was not accustomed to entertaining royalty, Rhodri bade the prince welcome, while Enid blessed her luck for having served a dinner fit for a king’s son.

With squeals of “Papa!” Ranulf’s children bolted out into the bailey. Ranulf swung Gilbert up into his arms and then hastened to catch Mallt as she tripped. As strong-willed as her namesake, the Empress Maude, Mallt took her stumble in stride, picking herself up with admirable aplomb. “Papa! What you bring me?”

Ranulf laughed and then set the little girl upon her feet as his uncle limped toward him. For the span of a lifetime, they looked at each other. “Welcome back, lad,” Rhodri said at last. “Welcome home.”

The celebration lasted long after darkness had fallen. As word got out, borne on the wind across the hills and down into the river valley, neighbors began to trickle in, for Hywel attracted crowds as surely as nectar enticed bees. He liked nothing better than an audience and soon had the men laughing and the women bedazzled, telling them of the English raid upon Mon, describing his father’s meeting with the English king at Rhuddlan, praising Ranulf extravagantly for the part he’d played in the peacemaking, shrewdly mentioning how pleased Lord Owain was with Ranulf’s efforts. That baffled some of Ranulf’s neighbors, impressed others, and offended a few. But even the most unforgiving of them dared not challenge their king’s verdict. Before the evening was done, Hywel would see to it that Ranulf was protected by armor far more effective than chain-mail, the redoubtable shield of Owain Gwynedd’s favor.

It was almost midnight when Rhiannon slipped from the hall and crossed the bailey toward the chambers she shared with Ranulf. Both her children were in bed, Gilbert tangled up in the sheets and Mallt with her arms wrapped tightly around her cherished rag doll. Rhiannon leaned over their pallets, listening to the soft cadence of their breathing. Reassured that they slept, she backed away.

The chamber was dark, but she navigated with confidence, for she knew the location of every chair, every coffer; it was a grave offense in her household to move furniture at whim. She had been blind for twenty-six of her thirty-four years, and she’d long ago learned how to cope with her disability, relying upon memory and her other senses and courage to compensate for her lack of sight. She invariably amazed people with her prowess, misleading them by how easy she made it appear. That was an illusion, for her victories were all hard won, her battle begun anew with each day’s dawning.

Outside, the air was cool on her skin, a welcome relief after so many hours of stifling summer heat. She’d meant to return to the hall, but instead she found herself following the seductive perfume of honeysuckle wafting across the bailey from her garden. Seating herself on a wooden bench, she breathed in the delicate fragrances scenting the night, smiling when one of her cats interrupted its nocturnal prowling to rub against her ankles.

Many people looked askance at cats, and they were not commonly kept as pets. But Rhiannon loved the sensual, plush feel of their fur, the throaty murmur of their purring, the lithe lines of their bodies, and they seemed to sense that, for they invariably sought her out. Now she allowed the young cat to settle in her lap, gently stroking it as she thought about her husband’s homecoming.

She’d always liked Hywel. He was one of the few men who’d ever flirted with her, for most males could not see past her blindness. But that fondness seemed such a pallid, tepid emotion when compared with what she felt for Hywel now-a surge of gratitude that ran like a river through her veins, deep and swift-flowing and sure to last until her final breath. Hywel had been her husband’s friend. Tonight he had been Ranulf’s savior. For she did not doubt that life in Trefriw would have been intolerable for him-for them both-if not for Hywel.

But what mattered far more to Rhiannon than the goodwill of her neighbors was the olive branch offered, rather awkwardly, by her sister. Eleri still did not understand why Ranulf could not refuse the English king’s summons. From the first, she’d idolized him, this English cousin come so suddenly and dramatically into their lives, almost as if the Almighty had sent him to replace the brothers He’d claimed, too often and too young. Rhiannon knew that Eleri’s anger was fueled by pain. Knowing this, though, had not made it any easier to douse its flames. It had taken Hywel to do that, giving Eleri the excuse she needed to welcome her brother-in-law back into the fold, back into her good graces.

Laughter had been floating from the open windows of the great hall, and the abrupt silence caught Rhiannon’s notice. Tilting her head, she listened intently, nervously. But the stillness was not ominous, merely the prelude to a performance.

Summer I love, when the stamping horse is unstilled.

And lord against valiant lord, comes fierce to the field.

And swift upon Flint, the flurrying wave is o’erspilled,

And newly the apple-trees blossom, their beauty fulfilled.

Bright on my shoulder is borne my shield to the fight.

How long to my wooing will my wedded lover not yield?

That was vintage Hywel; when he waxed most lyrical, there was sure to be a sting in the tail. His next verse was momentarily drowned out by laughter and cheers, and Rhiannon rose, planning to rejoin the revelries. But she changed her mind at the sound of a familiar step on the graveled garden path. Smiling, she turned in the moonlight, waiting for her husband to reach her.

From the upper window of St George’s Tower, Henry looked upon the city of Oxford, spreading out to the east. It was nigh on fifteen years since his mother had staged an amazing escape from this castle, lowering herself by ropes from this very chamber onto the iced-over moat below, then somehow slipping through the lines of Stephen’s besieging army. It was an incredible feat, for she’d had as much to fear from the weather as from Stephen’s soldiers; a fierce winter snowstorm had been raging that night.

Henry was very proud of his mother’s daring flight. On this particular September day, though, his thoughts were focused upon an ordeal of another sort. Just north of the city walls, in the palace known as the king’s house, his wife was laboring to give birth to their fourth child.

This was the first time that he’d been present for one of Eleanor’s lying-ins, and with each passing hour, he was regretting it more and more. He’d always considered waiting to be an earthly foretaste of eternal Hell; even minor delays could wreak havoc upon his patience. And now he could do nothing but wait, knowing all the while that so much could go wrong in a birthing. The babe could be stillborn, strangled by the cord, positioned wrong in the mother’s womb. The woman’s life could bleed away then and there, or she could sicken afterward. Death stalked the birthing chamber as relentlessly as it did the battlefield.

In a far corner of the room, his brother and chancellor watched him with the wary sympathy of men trapped in close quarters with an injured lion. “Mayhap we can get him to go hunting,” Will murmured. “Harry would likely rise from his deathbed for one last chance to hunt.”

“I already suggested it.” Becket signaled to a hovering servant to pour more wine. “Not only did he balk, he well nigh bit my head off.”

“There is no hope then,” Will said, with a melodramatic sigh. “We’re doomed.”

“Do not despair, lad. To save ourselves, we can always urge Harry to find out for himself how the queen fares.”

Will took Becket’s jest literally and his eyes widened. “But men are barred from the birthing chamber,” he objected. “Harry could not just burst in…” After a moment to reflect, he grinned. “What am I saying? Harry would storm Heaven’s own gates if he had a mind to!”

“A pity that the queen chose to join Harry here at Oxford. She was already great with child, and I’d not be surprised if the rigors of the journey brought on an early labor. It would have made more sense for her to have remained at Westminster and given birth there.”

Will glanced curiously at the chancellor, wondering if all churchmen listened only to their heads, not their hearts. “You can hardly blame Eleanor for wanting to be with Harry as the birth drew nigh,” he said mildly. “She came close to losing him in Wales, after all.”

Becket’s response was lost as Henry swung away from the window with an explosive oath. “By the Blood of Christ, enough of this! For all we know, she gave birth hours ago and the fool midwife has forgotten to send word!”

As he headed for the door, Will scrambled to his feet. “Harry, do nothing rash! You’ll just upset the women if you go charging in, and what good will that do Eleanor?”

“The lad is right,” Becket observed calmly. “You cannot hasten the birth. The babe will be born in God’s Time, no sooner, no later.”

Seeing Henry’s hesitation, Will hastily groped for further persuasion. “The child might even come faster if you’re not there,” he insisted. “Everyone knows that hovering over a pot will not make it cook any faster.”

Henry gave his brother a look that was incredulous, irked, and amused in equal measure. “That is not an analogy I’d suggest you make in Eleanor’s hearing,” he said dryly. “What would the two of you have me do, then?”

“You can pray,” Becket said and Henry scowled, unwilling to entrust Eleanor’s safety to another higher power, even the Almighty’s. But it was then that they heard the footsteps out in the stairwell.

When the messenger came catapulting through the doorway, Henry’s spirits soared, for no man would be in such a hurry to deliver dire news. Skidding to a halt in the floor rushes, the messenger dropped to his knees before his king. “God has indeed smiled upon you, my liege. He has given you a fine son.”

Petronilla poured a cupful of wine, carefully carried it back to her sister’s bed. “Here, Eleanor, drink this. God knows, you’ve earned it.”

Eleanor thought so too. “You’d think this would get easier. I’m getting enough practice, for certes.”

She heard laughter beyond her range of vision and a low, throaty voice teased, “Well, dearest, what would you tell a farmer who had an overabundant harvest? To plant less, of course!”

Eleanor was amused by that impudent familiarity, for no daughter of Aquitaine could be offended by bawdy humor. Moreover, she was quite fond of the speaker, Henry’s cousin Maud, Countess of Chester.

Maud was a handsome widow in her mid-thirties, niece to the Empress Maude, whose namesake she was. She shared more than a name with her royal aunt; they were both women of uncommon courage and sharp intelligence. But laughter had never come readily to the Empress, and the younger Maud laughed as easily as she breathed. To the surprise of many, including Henry, Eleanor and her prickly mother-in-law had gotten along well from their first meeting. With the second Maud, though, a genuine friendship had quickly formed, for in this worldly, irreverent kinswoman of her husband’s, Eleanor had recognized a kindred spirit.

“I am not complaining about the frequency of the planting,” she said. “I’d just rather not reap a crop every year.”

Maud retrieved the wine cup, setting it on the table within Eleanor’s reach. “After four crops in five years, I’d think not!”

“It proves,” Petronilla chimed in, “that letting a field lie fallow truly does make it more fertile.”

Maud’s eyes shone wickedly. “Nigh on fifteen years fallow, was it not, Eleanor?”

Sometimes it astonished Eleanor to remember that she’d actually endured fifteen years as France’s bored, unhappy queen. “But you may be sure I was the one blamed for those barren harvests,” she said, with a twisted smile. “As if I could cultivate soil without seed!”

“Does that truly surprise you? Women have been taking the blame ever since Eve listened to that fork-tongued serpent, who most assuredly was male!” Maud turned then toward the door, smiling. “To judge by the commotion outside, either we are under siege or Harry has just arrived.”

Somewhere along the way from the castle, Henry had found a garden to raid, for he was carrying an armful of Michaelmas daisies. These he handed to Petronilla, rather sheepishly, for romantic gestures did not come easily to him. Crossing the chamber in several quick strides, he leaned over the bed to give his wife a kiss that roused a wistful sort of envy in both widows, for Petronilla had been blessed with a happy marriage of her own and Maud had been denied one.

“Are you hurting, love?”

Eleanor’s smile was tired, but happy. “Not at all,” she lied. “By now the babes just pop right out, like a cork from a bottle.”

Henry laughed. “Well… where is the little cork?”

A wet-nurse came forward from the shadows, bobbing a shy curtsy before holding out a swaddled form for his inspection. Henry touched the ringlets of reddish-gold hair, the exact shade as his own, and grinned when the baby’s hand closed around his finger. “Look at the size of him,” he marveled, and as his eyes met Eleanor’s, the same thought was in both their minds: heartfelt relief that God had given them such a robust, sturdy son. No parent who’d lost a child could ever take health or survival for granted again.

“We still have not decided what to name him,” Henry reminded his wife. “I fancy Geoffrey, after my father.”

“The next one,” she promised. “I have a name already in mind for this little lad.”

He cocked a brow. “Need I mention that it is unseemly to name a child after a former husband?”

Eleanor’s lashes were drooping and her smile turned into a sleepy yawn. “I would not name a stray dog after Louis,” she declared, holding out her arms for her new baby. She was surprised by the intensity of emotion she felt as she gazed down into that small, flushed face. Why was this son so special? Had God sent him to fill the aching void left by Will’s death? “I want,” she said, “to name him Richard.”