Time and Chance

CHAPTER FIVE

May 1158

London, England

Thomas Becket was celebrated for his hospitality; his great hall was filled at most hours with knights, petitioners, barons, and clerks. He spent such large sums on candles, rushlights, and torches that men joked night was the one unwelcome guest. His servants swept up and changed the floor rushes on a daily basis, sweet-smelling hay in winter and fragrant herbs in summer. His agents ranged far and wide, procuring the finest wines and spices for his buttery and kitchen, and his tables gleamed with gold and silver plate. Men came from foreign courts to meet with England’s king, but they hoped to dine with England’s chancellor.

Becket’s Ascension Day feast for the Archbishop of Canterbury was lavish even by the chancellor’s bountiful standards. The tables were draped in linen cloths whiter than milk, the washing lavers were scented with rosemary, and the rich fare included capon, heron, venison, pike, cream of almonds, custard, and angel wafers, all washed down with varied wines and spiced hippocras and sweet malmsey. If any of the guests saw the irony in providing such a banquet for the unassuming, ascetic Theobald, none commented upon it.

Seated at a side table, one of the clerks of the chancellory, William Fitz Stephen, was exchanging discreet gossip with John of Salisbury, Archbishop Theobald’s secretary. The dinner was clearly a great success. Yet Fitz Stephen had been hearing an undercurrent of disapproval directed at their host. It was no secret that the archbishop was deeply disappointed in his protege. Theobald had recommended Becket as chancellor in the belief that he would be a strong advocate of the rights of the Church. Instead, Becket had become the king’s man in word and deed. Although the archbishop retained his fondness for his former clerk, some in his inner circle were bitter at what they saw as Becket’s defection to the Crown, and they were not loath to criticize the chancellor even while enjoying his hospitality.

Fitz Stephen was disdainful of these disingenuous critics, for he scorned hypocrites and his loyalty to the chancellor was wholehearted. But because John of Salisbury’s own friendship with Thomas Becket dated back to their years together in the archbishop’s service, Fitz Stephen did not feel he had to be on his guard with John. And so when John made passing mention of the Bishop of Chichester’s failed case against Battle Abbey, Fitz Stephen did not become defensive, as he might have done with others in Theobald’s household. He contented himself by merely reminding John that even the archbishop had disapproved of Chichester’s perjured denials.

“Chichester has less backbone than a conger eel,” John said scornfully. “His panic notwithstanding, the underpinnings of his argument remain sound. It sets a poor precedent to exempt an abbey from episcopal jurisdiction, and I’d not be surprised if this comes back to haunt us. Already the king is showing undue interest in the Scarborough case.”

Fitz Stephen was familiar with this particular case. When the king had been in York in January, a Scarborough citizen had petitioned him for justice, contending that a local dean had extorted money from him by falsely accusing the man’s wife of adultery and then demanding a payment to withdraw the calumny. Henry had wanted the dean charged and had been enraged when the Treasurer of York insisted the king could not punish the dean because he was in holy orders and thus subject only to Church discipline.

Fitz Stephen sighed, for like his master, Thomas Becket, he was both an officer of the Crown owing loyalty to the king and a subdeacon owing loyalty to the Church. He sometimes felt like one of those rope dancers who entertained at fairs, balancing upon a tautly drawn cord high above the ground, knowing that a single misstep could result in a nasty fall.

“I agree that we do not want the Crown intruding into the Church’s domains,” he said quietly. “But the complaints about lawless clerics are too often justified, as with that Scarborough dean using his position in the Church for extortion. If we took better care to discipline our own, people would not be coming to the king with their woes and he’d have no opportunity to meddle in matters best left to ecclesiastical courts.”

John, too, deplored the way unscrupulous men could plead their clergy to elude punishment for crimes against the king’s peace. But when he weighed the evils, his fear that the Crown might erode Church liberties was far stronger than his reluctance to see guilty clerics escape a temporal reckoning.

Just then a commotion erupted outside, loud enough to swivel all heads toward the unshuttered windows. Two servants were hurrying to fling open the doors. John looked baffled, but Fitz Stephen was grinning, for this was a familiar occurrence in the chancellor’s household. They were about to have a royal visitor.

As the doors swung back, the noise intensified, male voices nearly drowned out by the baying of hounds. Much to John’s astonishment, a horse and rider appeared in the doorway, hooves striking sparks against the flagstones. Maneuvering the stallion with ease, Henry guided it over the threshold and into the hall. He was clad in a sweat-stained green tunic, a soft, stalked cap, knee-high cowhide boots, a quiver slung over his shoulder, a bow carried casually in one hand, and his face was streaked with dirt, his eyes unreadable in the blinding, bright sunlight streaming into the hall behind him.

“Another feast, my lord chancellor? My invitation must have gone astray.”

John of Salisbury gasped. It was not so long ago that he’d been in severe disfavor with the king, relying upon his friendship with Thomas Becket to appease Henry’s anger. He was alarmed now to think that Becket might have drawn that very same anger down upon himself, and he reached out, his hand closing around Fitz Stephen’s wrist in an instinctive bid for reassurance.

Fitz Stephen did not share his anxiety. Nor did the target of Henry’s pointed query. Thomas Becket was regarding his king with complete composure. “Had I invited you, my liege, you’d have been compelled to pass the afternoon on a cushioned seat, dining on pike in doucette and Galantine pie. As it was, you were able to eat on horseback, washing down strips of dried beef with English ale.”

John spun in his seat, staring at Becket’s wine cup. He knew the chancellor was sparing in his own habits, yet if he were not drunk, what had possessed him to offend the king like this? His moment of consternation was brief, however, for Henry had already begun to laugh.

“When you put it like that, my lord chancellor, I am in your debt!” he said, and as Becket joined in his laughter, John realized that this was an old game between them, played out for their amusement whenever they had a credulous audience.

Rising, Becket detoured around the table, offering his own wine cup with a flourish. “Will you dine with us, my lord? I’m sure we can squeeze in another place if we try.”

Accepting the wine cup, Henry pretended to ponder the invitation. By now the others in his hunting party had followed him into the hall, although they’d made a more conventional entrance, having dismounted first. Gesturing toward his justiciar, his brother Will, and the Earls of Salisbury and Leicester, all of whom were just as bedraggled and disheveled as he, Henry shook his head ruefully. “You’d have to feed that wolf pack, too, if I stay. No, better that we depart whilst you still have some leftovers to distribute to the poor gathering at your gate.”

Handing the cup back to Becket, Henry turned to salute the Archbishop of Canterbury, who responded with a paternal smile, and singled out a young priest, Roger Fitz Roy, for some brief badinage. Roger, brother of the Earl of Gloucester and the Countess of Chester, shared with his sister a finely honed wit and he more than held his own with his cousin the king. Henry then exchanged greetings with several of the other guests before bringing his attention again to Theobald.

“We need to talk, my lord archbishop, about that rapacious dean up in Scarborough. My justiciar tells me that the Treasurer of York thinks I’m meddling in matters best left to the Church.”

Theobald had won his archbishop’s mitre during two of the most turbulent decades in English history, and it was not by chance that he had steered Canterbury and the Church through the worst of the civil war. While he could be sharp-tongued and abrupt in private, he’d long ago learned a valuable lesson, that a soft answer was particularly effective in turning away royal wrath. Showing none of his inner disquiet, he smiled easily.

“I would hope that the treasurer did not express himself in such intemperate terms, my liege. The king’s concern for justice in his realm can hardly be considered ‘meddling.’ But it is true that many in holy orders feel very passionately about the need to safeguard the Church’s exclusive right to deal with its own. I would, of course, be pleased to discuss this case with you at greater length, and I will dispatch one of my clerks to your court to arrange a meeting upon this matter.”

Henry’s smile was no less politic than the archbishop’s. “I look forward, my lord archbishop, to these discussions, as I have utter confidence that you will bring your customary prudence and wisdom to bear upon this thorny issue. And now I ask you all to resume your meal, for I’ve too long kept you from my chancellor’s fine fare.” With another salute for the archbishop and Becket, he turned his stallion in a semicircle, tossing a nonchalant “Godspeed” over his shoulder as he headed toward the door.

An oppressive silence settled over the hall, for Becket’s guests were all men of the cloth, experienced in the shifting nature of boundaries and the predatory practices of kings. Theobald’s shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he showed every burdensome one of his more than sixty years. His gaze came to rest upon the tall, courtly figure of Henry’s chancellor, and he felt a surge of sadness, a baffled regret that Thomas had not been more outspoken in his defense of the Church.

Becket was standing alone in the middle of the hall. When he called out, “My lord king!” Theobald’s hope flared in a sudden spark of faith; he still believed that the heart of his pious, dedicated clerk beat on in the chest of the king’s worldly chancellor.

Reining in his stallion, Henry glanced back at Becket, his expression quizzical. “My lord?”

“You did not tell us, my liege, how the hunt went.”

Their eyes held steady for a moment, long enough for Theobald’s hope to gutter out. And then Henry grinned. “I got,” he said, “what I aimed for, Thomas.”

This was Rhiannon’s second visit to the English court, but it was still alien territory. Cities like Winchester were cauldrons always on the boil, alarming places to a woman accustomed to the seclusion and stillness of the Welsh countryside. She’d long ago learned to deal with the calloused curiosity of strangers, but it was easier, somehow, to deflect the hurtful, heedless questions if they were posed in her own language. Even as a welcome guest, aunt by marriage to the King of England, she never felt so vulnerable as she did on English soil.

On this warm August evening in the great hall of Winchester Castle, she was doing her best to play the role expected of her, but so far events seemed to be conspiring to shred her poise. Ranulf had been waylaid by Henry and soon swept away, for trying to resist his nephew was like bat tling a headwind. Left in the care of Ranulf’s brother Rainald, Rhiannon found herself being coddled and cosseted until she yearned to startle Rainald by some outrageous act. She did not, of course, constrained by courtesy and her ironic awareness of the reason for Rainald’s clumsy kindness: his own wife was addled in her wits, given to fits of weeping and melancholy and irrational fears.

She’d finally been able to evade Rainald’s well-meaning clutches. Listening to the music swirling around her, she slowly began to relax. The shock was all the greater, therefore, when she caught snatches of a nearby conversation, malicious gossip that targeted her as “Ranulf’s blind Welsh wench” and marveled how she’d ever ensnared him into marriage, speculating whether it was by drink or the Black Arts.

From the way they were bandying her husband’s name about, they appeared to be well acquainted with him. Such careless cruelty would have been easier to tolerate from strangers. Coming from Ranulf’s friends, it kindled a spark of rare rage. Turning toward the sound of their voices, she said, “I am blind, not deaf.”

There was a sudden silence, and then a mumbled apology. The voices were receding, taking advantage of her disability to escape unscathed. The unfairness of that was more than Rhiannon could accept and she stubbornly sought to hinder their retreat. “Do I know you? Have we met?”

Her challenge went unanswered. She bit her lip, conceding defeat, when another voice alerted her that there was a new player in this unpleasant game. “If you have not met them, Rhiannon, count your blessings.”

Those stinging words were accompanied by a whiff of exotic perfume and a soft breath on Rhiannon’s cheek. The whispered name was needlessly offered, for she’d recognized the voice at once. But the Countess of Chester was always conscientious about identifying herself, unable to believe that other senses could be as reliable as sight.

Maud gave her no chance to reply. “Rhiannon, as much as it grieves me to admit this, these ill-mannered dolts are kin: my brother Will and his harpy of a wife, Hawise.”

There was an outraged sputter from Hawise, and Gloucester said sharply, “This was an unfortunate misunderstanding, Maud. Your meddling will only make it worse.”

“Spare me your righteous indignation, Will. I overheard enough to judge your rudeness for myself!”

“For God’s Sake, lower your voice!” Gloucester sounded alarmed, for Maud was capable of making an enormously embarrassing scene and well he knew it.

In this concern, he had an unlikely ally in Rhiannon, for her anger was cooling as fast as it had flared now that she knew the identity of her defamers. Family faults were better discussed in private, and she said hastily, “Let it lie, Maud. It does not matter.”

“What does not matter?” This was a new voice, low pitched and sultry, infused with the unique confidence that high birth and beauty confer, and Rhiannon quickly dropped a curtsy to the English queen. Eleanor’s perfume was more subtle and elusive than Maud’s. Breathing it in as Eleanor kissed her cheek in a kinswoman’s greeting, Rhiannon was momentarily transported to a far-off garden where mysterious, elegant flowers bloomed by midnight.

The others had the advantage of Rhiannon, though, for they could see the expression on Eleanor’s face. As those greenish-gold eyes appraised the Earl of Gloucester and his wife, they thought not of summer gardens, but of cats on the scent of prey.

“You are very pale of a sudden, Hawise. Mayhap you have not fully recovered from your ordeal.” Eleanor gently squeezed Rhiannon’s arm. “Did you hear about the woeful mishap that befell my husband’s cousin and his wife, Rhiannon? They and their son were abducted from the bedchamber of their own castle at Cardiff, dragged off as spoils of war in a daring Welsh raid. Poor Will had to pay a huge ransom for his release, did you not, Will?”

“Yes,” Gloucester muttered, acutely aware of the audience that Eleanor was attracting.

“I can only imagine how humiliating that must have been for you.” Eleanor’s sympathy was as lethal as hemlock. “I daresay they were laughing at how easily they’d breached your defenses, adding insult to injury by making you the butt of their jests and jokes. I do hope that at least they let you both dress ere they carried you off into the night?”

Maud, watching with a grin, thought it a pity that Rhiannon could not savor the peculiar color of her brother’s complexion. Hawise was equally flustered, and Maud wondered gleefully which rankled more: the implicit slur upon her husband’s manhood or the suggestion that she’d been abducted stark naked.

Satisfied with her victory, Eleanor allowed the discomfited couple to flee the field, trailed by amused titters from some of the spectators. Slipping her arm through Rhiannon’s, Eleanor guided the Welshwoman up onto the dais. “I need to sit down,” she confessed, not surprisingly, for she was in the eighth month of yet another pregnancy.

“That was a highly enjoyable spectacle,” Maud declared, “watching my lout of a brother be minced into sausage. But ought I to warn Cousin Harry how sharp your claws can be, Eleanor?”

“Harry knows,” Eleanor said, with a complacent smile that faded as she glanced toward Rhiannon. “Gloucester is a fool, wed to another one. Try not to let their spite spoil your evening.”

“It does not matter,” Rhiannon repeated. This time she meant it. “It hurt me to think that they were making sport of my blindness,” she confided, and then she smiled. “But now that I know they scorn me merely for being Welsh, I can return their hostility in good conscience and full measure.” And the last sour aftertaste of the Gloucesters’ rancor was washed away by the approving, amused laughter of Chester’s countess and England’s queen.

The Hildren Ere Shrieking again and a nurse hurried over to make peace between three-year-old Mallt and two-year-old Maude, now nicknamed Tilda. Although the floor of the solar was strewn with toys, the cousins invariably set their hearts upon playing with the same puppet. Richard kept trying to claim that puppet, too, but at eleven months, he was too wobbly on his feet to offer a serious challenge. Hal, a handsome, cheerful youngster of three and a half, was more interested in teasing his mother’s greyhound, using a wafer to lure the dog within reach. Slouched on a coffer seat, Rhiannon’s son, Gilbert, was disconsolately bouncing a ball against the wall over his head. After a time, that irritating, rhythmic thud attracted Eleanor’s attention.

Gilbert was feeling very sorry for himself, trapped here with his little sister and cousins when he yearned to be outside, playing games like hoodman blind or hunt the fox. After all, he reasoned, he was nigh on seven, old enough to be having fun on his own. When the queen said his name, he glanced up incuriously, finding these English adults no more interesting than their children. He didn’t understand why they were in Winchester, yearned to be back home in Wales with his friends.

Eleanor was beckoning to one of the young women working upon an embroidered cushion. “Beatrix, I’d like you to take Gilbert down to the stables and show him the roan mare’s new foal.”

Gilbert sprang to his feet, remembering just in time to toss a plaintive “Mama?” in Rhiannon’s direction. “Go on,” she said reluctantly, hoping that Eleanor had chosen a sharp-eyed caretaker for her spirited young son, whose mischief-making capabilities were truly awesome. The banging door told her that he was now on the prowl and Winchester Castle in God’s Keeping. Getting to her feet, she moved cautiously across the solar to join Eleanor at the window.

It was unshuttered, open to the August heat. “Sit beside me,” Eleanor invited, “and I’ll tell you what I see as I look out upon the city.”

Rhiannon did, appreciative of Eleanor’s matter-of-fact acceptance of her blindness. Most people were too self-conscious to make such an offer, so fearful of offending her that they denied her the opportunity to envision new surroundings. “I would like that,” she said. “Ranulf often talks of Winchester, for he was under siege here during the war between his sister and King Stephen.”

“Yes, I’ve heard those stories, too. To judge by all the men who’ve boasted to me that they were at the Winchester siege with the Empress Maude, there was nary a soul who supported Stephen. Which makes it very mysterious that he managed to cling to power for nineteen years.”

Rhiannon laughed, and Eleanor began to describe the view. “In the distance, I can see the spire of St Swithun’s Priory. High Street or the Cheap runs through the center of the town, east to west. It is not visible from here, but off to the southwest lies Wolvesey Palace, where the Bishop of Winchester will be dwelling again now that he’s made his peace with Harry. And to the north of the palace is the convent commonly called Nunminster, not far from the East Gate.”

Eleanor stopped suddenly, smiling. “And below us, the men have just ridden into the bailey.”

Rhiannon sighed with relief, for she’d feared they’d get so caught up in the thrill of the chase that they’d be gone for days. While she didn’t understand that particular passion, she knew many men found it as compelling an urge as lust. “I hope,” she said politely, “that they had a successful hunt.”

“Usually the dirtier and sweatier they are, the more fun they’ve had. So this hunt must have been truly memorable!”

When the men came trooping into the solar, Rhiannon soon discovered that Eleanor had not been exaggerating. Ranulf was pungent, muddied, soaked with perspiration, and in very high spirits for a man who’d been in the saddle since daybreak. So was Henry, who startled Rhiannon by planting an exuberant kiss on her cheek before grabbing for his wife. “Here you go, love,” he declared. “I saved the hunt’s prize for you.”

Eleanor looked dubiously at the object he’d dropped into her lap. “This had better not ruin my appetite,” she warned, gingerly unwrapping the deerskin covering. “What is it?” she asked, puzzled. “It looks like… like gristle.”

“It is a bone from a hart’s heart,” Henry explained, grinning at the wordplay. “Well, actually you are right and it is gristle. But legend has it that this so-called bone is what prevents the hart from ever dying of fear. They say that if it is made into an amulet, it protects a woman in childbirth.”

“Harry, you spoil me. Other husbands may give their wives gemstones, but how many women ever get gristle from a dead deer?”

“Not just any deer,” Henry protested, “a hart of twelve of the less!” And so universal was the love of hunting that even Rhiannon knew enough of its terminology to comprehend that he meant a stag with twelve tines on its antlers.

“Oh, that does make all the difference,” Eleanor agreed dryly and gave Henry a kiss that got her face smeared with some of her husband’s mud. Sprawling beside her in the window seat, he shouted for wine and launched into an enthusiastic account of the hunt, with his brother Will and his uncles Ranulf and Rainald and the Earl of Leicester all interrupting freely whenever they felt he was claiming too much credit. Servants hastily fetched flagons of wine and Eleanor gave orders for baths to be made ready, warning that not a one of them would be allowed to take supper that night without being scrubbed down first. The mood was ebullient and raucous, and Ranulf realized just how much he’d missed the humor and energy of his nephew’s court. He and Rhiannon would have to spend more time in England, he decided.

Having exhausted the dramatic possibilities of the day’s events, the talk ranged back to past hunts, each man summoning up his favorite story. Ranulf told them of Loth, his beloved Norwegian dyrehund, who’d once brought a stag down by himself, and Henry boasted of tracking a huge black wolf who’d been slaughtering livestock in the villages around Angers. When it was his turn, Rainald told of a hunt for the most dangerous prey of all, a tusked wild boar that he and Henry and Thomas Becket had brought to bay in the New Forest. The men had retreated into a pond to await the boar’s charge, a common practice that enabled the hunters to take advantage of their longer legs. The trick, as Rainald explained it, was to get far enough from shore so that the boar could no longer touch the bottom.

“Becket balked at going into the water, though. He was not fearful of facing the boar’s tusks, but he was loath to get his new furred mantle wet-you remember, Harry? So he braced for the charge on the bank. But the boar sped right by him, plunged into the pond, and impaled himself on Harry’s spear, as clean a kill as I’ve ever seen.”

“It was a good kill,” Henry agreed. “Though when he came churning through the water straight at me, there was a moment when I thought it would take one of God’s own thunderbolts to stop him!”

Ranulf was not surprised Rainald’s tale had not put Thomas Becket in the best of lights, for Rainald was no friend to the chancellor. He’d always found Becket to be good company, though, and he said curiously, “Just where is Thomas these days? Off on some mysterious mission for the Crown?”

Henry looked amused. “You might say that. I am meeting the French king soon to discuss the future of the Vexin, amongst other matters. So I sent Thomas ahead to blaze a trail for me. I’d wanted to send Eleanor, for she’s had some experience at charming Louis-” He pretended to flinch when Eleanor jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “But she balked, so I had to settle for Thomas.”

“Tell Ranulf and Rhiannon about his entry into Paris,” Eleanor prompted her husband. “Better yet, read from his letter, for you’ll never remember all the glittering details otherwise.” Adding, “And whilst you’re up, I need a cushion for my back.”

Henry unfolded himself from the window seat. “Imagine how she’d order me around if I were not a king.” Tossing Eleanor a cushion, he began to sort through a pile of letters spread out on the table.

“Here it is. Envision this if you will. First came two hundred and fifty footmen, followed by Thomas’s hounds and greyhounds and eight wagons, each pulled by five horses and guarded by a chained mastiff. Ah, yes, each of the wagon horses also had a monkey riding on its back.”

Henry’s mouth twitched. “Then came twenty-eight packhorses laden with gold and silver plate, clothes, money, books, gifts, and such. After that came Thomas’s retinue: two hundred squires, knights, falconers with hawks, clerks, stewards, and servants. And finally came Thomas himself, mounted on a stallion whiter than milk, looking more like a king than most, I daresay.” With that, his grin broke free. “For certes, more kingly than me!”

“Well,” Ranulf acknowledged, “if his aim was to bedazzle the French with English wealth and splendor, he must surely have accomplished that. Mayhap too well! For how can you possibly overshadow him? You plan to bring along elephants and trained bears and Saracen dancing girls?”

Henry laughed, glancing over at Eleanor. “Saracen dancing girls? Alas, as intriguing as that suggestion sounds, I doubt that-” Interrupted by the sound of the opening door, he strode forward to confer briefly with the man who’d just entered, not loudly enough for the others to hear, and then startled them by plunging out into the stairwell. They could hear his boots echoing on the stairs, and then silence. No one spoke after that, waiting uneasily for his return.

He was soon back, a crumpled letter in his hand. “Will,” he said, and his brother tensed, for Maude had been ailing again. Henry read his fear and swiftly shook his head. “It is not our mother,” he said. “It is Geoff. Will… he is dead.”

His brother’s mouth dropped open. The others shared his astonishment, for Geoffrey was just twenty-four. “What happened, Harry? Was he thrown from his horse?”

“Or caught with another man’s wife?” Rainald blurted out, before thinking better of it, relieved when no one paid his tactless suggestion any heed.

Henry was shaking his head again. “He got a chill after going swimming, and a fever followed. It was very quick…” His voice trailed off, and as his eyes met Will’s, he saw the same thought was in both their minds. This was how their father had died, too, death coming without warning to claim him in his prime.

What puzzled Rhiannon was the lack of sorrow in their voices. They sounded shocked, but not grief-stricken. Tugging at her husband’s sleeve, she whispered, “Are there none to mourn him, Ranulf?”

“Yes,” he said somberly. “There is one.” Crossing the solar, he said, “Will you be going to France straightaway?” When Henry nodded, he said, “I want to come with you.”

Henry nodded again, unsurprised. But Rhiannon gasped and Ranulf heard. “I must go, lass. My sister has lost a son.”

Rhiannon could not hide her dismay. She did her best, murmuring that she understood. But Eleanor knew better. Leaning over, she touched Rhiannon’s hand in silent sympathy, for they would be stranded together in England. Once again, she thought morosely, Harry would be miles away when she gave birth to his child.

Thomas Becket was standing by an open window, watching as monks from the priory went about their daily chores. As soon as word had reached him in Paris of Geoffrey’s death, he’d ridden for Rouen to pay his condolences to the empress and to await Henry’s arrival. Knowing Henry, he’d known, too, that he would not have long to wait.

Henry was now with Maude on the settle, their voices low, faces intent. When Will offered his mother a wine cup, she thanked him absently, setting it down untasted, and Ranulf felt a twinge of pity for the youth. Maude’s rapport with her firstborn was so complete that it inevitably and unintentionally shut others out, even Will. Ranulf had not seen his sister in seven years. His elder by sixteen years, she was fifty-six now, too thin for his liking and too pale. She was dry-eyed, which didn’t surprise him; Maude would let only the Almighty see her tears. But her pain was apparent in the rigid stiffness of her posture, in the lines grooved around her mouth, even in the unnatural stillness of the fingers loosely linked in her lap.

Rising, Ranulf crossed the chamber and joined Becket at the window. “How did your talks go with the French king?”

“Quite well.”

Ranulf glanced curiously at the other man. He knew his nephew had a specific purpose in seeking a meeting with Louis, and he would have liked to know what it was. But there was no point in asking, for Becket shared none of Henry’s secrets.

Feeling Ranulf’s gaze upon him, Becket smiled quizzically. He was in his thirty-eighth year, a man of intriguing contrasts, handsome but apparently chaste, educated but no scholar, an articulate and eloquent speaker who’d had to overcome a slight stammer, an archdeacon who’d not taken priestly vows, worldly and prideful and pious, closer to the king than any man alive, and yet with few other friends or intimates. People were invariably impressed by his competence, but he remained a stranger in their midst and they sensed that, however imperfectly.

“Is there some reason why you are staring at me, Ranulf?” Becket asked good-naturedly. “I get the uneasy sense that you are trying to see into the depths of my soul!”

“Actually,” Ranulf confessed, “I was speculating about your mission to the French court. It could not have been easy, acting as Harry’s emissary to his wife’s former husband. Even your powers of persuasion must have been sorely tried under those circumstances.”

Becket smiled, not denying that he was a gifted mediator or that this had been a particularly challenging task. “Harry does seem to enjoy sending me into the lion’s den.”

“And then wagering upon whether you’ll come out alive,” Ranulf joked. “But he often says that naming you as chancellor was one of the best decisions of his life, although he’s not likely ever to say it in your hearing.”

“I am gladdened that I’ve done well as chancellor. But I expected no less.” Becket flashed a quick smile to dispel any hint of arrogance. “I learned at an early age that an undertaking must be done wholeheartedly or not at all.”

“That may explain why you and Harry see eye to eye so often. God knows, he is half-hearted in nothing that he does!”

They turned then to welcome Will, who’d finally stopped hovering on the fringes of his mother and brother’s conversation. When Ranulf asked how he was faring, he shrugged. “I ought to be more grieved,” he said, sounding very young, “for we were brothers, after all. But I feel more pity than sorrow. I’m sorry Geoff was cheated of so much. But in truth, he could be such a swine.”

Will drew a deep breath then, as if unburdened by his honesty. Almost at once, though, his eyes flicked across the chamber, reassuring himself that his mother had not heard. When he spoke again, he sounded bemused. “Do you know what Harry and Mama are talking about, Uncle Ranulf? She is urging him to lay claim to the county of Nantes as Geoff’s heir.”

Ranulf and Becket were both amused by Will’s naivete. It would never have occurred to them that Henry would do otherwise than claim Nantes, for if he did not, the Duke of Brittany would swallow the county whole. When Will wandered away to the settle, Becket said softly:

“It was fortunate for all concerned that Harry was the eldest of the Lady Maude’s sons.”

Ranulf nodded slowly. Geoff would have been a disaster as king, and-in a different way-so would Will, for he was far too good-hearted and easygoing to command other men. “A king needs steel in his soul,” he agreed, thinking sadly of Stephen.

“Harry has that, in plenitude. But that raises an interesting point. Which comes first, the kingship or the steel?”

“Ah… so you are asking, Thomas, if Harry is ruthless because he is king? Or because he is ruthless, did he become king? I suspect we’d best leave that to the same philosophers who debate how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.” Ranulf’s smile vanished, though, as he looked across the chamber at his sister. Maude in earnest conversation with Henry, exhorting him to claim Nantes straightaway, doing what she’d always done, submerging her grief in dreams of glory for her firstborn, her best beloved son.