Time and Chance

CHAPTER SIX

August 1158

Gisors, France

The Great Hall of Gisors Castle was overflowing with men, music, and avid curiosity. Most eyes kept straying toward the dais, where the Kings of France and England presided over an elaborate meal, for the true entertainment of the evening was not the minstrels; it was the sight of these two men sitting side by side in such incongruous harmony.

They were as unlike in appearance as they were in temperament. Louis was tall and slim, with delicate features and fair hair just beginning to thin around the temples. Pledged to God in his cradle, he had been raised by the monks of St-Denis, snatched from the cloistered world he’d come to love by the unexpected death of his elder brother. He was unfailingly courteous and genuinely kindhearted, with an innate dignity that had nothing to do with kingship, so pious that he was rumored to wear a hair shirt under his royal robes. But although he’d been King of France for more than twenty years, he still seemed to be playing a role not of his choosing.

Watching the two kings from his vantage point farther down the table, Ranulf could not help thinking that Louis was but a candle to Harry’s bonfire. As far as he could determine, they had nothing in common but the woman they’d both wed. It made their apparent amity now all the more amazing. Ranulf had long ago learned not to underestimate his nephew. But even he had not been prepared for such dazzling legerdemain as this. How, he marveled, had Harry done it? How had he been able to befriend a man with so many reasons to resent him?

“I find myself thinking of Scriptures.” Thomas Becket leaned over so that his voice reached Ranulf’s ear alone. “I daresay you know the verse I mean. ‘The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid.’ ”

A burst of royal laughter echoed down the table. Ranulf was not close enough to hear what Louis and Henry were saying, but he was struck by the anxious frown of Hugh de Champfleury, the French king’s chancellor. It was obvious that de Champfleury was viewing this rapprochement in the same stark biblical terms as Becket; obvious, too, whom he’d cast as the wolf.

Reaching for his wine cup, Ranulf clinked it against Becket’s. Still wondering what quarry his nephew was pursuing at the French court, he said, “Let’s drink to a successful hunt.”

It was late when the festivities ended and Henry and Louis bade each other a cordial good night. As the French left, Henry caught Ranulf’s eye. They’d always communicated well without words, and Ranulf nodded. Finding his way abovestairs to Henry’s bedchamber, he met Thomas Becket at the door and they entered together.

Henry had stripped off his tunic, but was still in his shirtsleeves. No servants were in attendance, for he wanted no other ears pricking up at his news. At the sight of his uncle and his chancellor, Henry grinned. “Well,” he said, “Louis has agreed to give me a free hand in Brittany.”

Ranulf whistled softly. Duke Conan of Brittany had wasted no time in claiming Nantes after Geoffrey’s death. It was only to be expected that Henry would seek to regain Nantes and punish Conan for his rashness. But it was quite surprising that Louis would acquiesce in it, for it was not in the interest of the French Crown to see Henry’s influence expand into Brittany. “Now however did you manage that?”

Henry’s grin widened. “Louis has decided to make me a seneschal of France, conferring upon me the authority to make peace in Brittany.”

“Very clever,” Ranulf said admiringly, for that was an adroit, face-saving maneuver, giving Henry the authority to intervene in Brittany without eroding any of the French Crown’s purported sovereignty over the duchy. “I’d wager that was your idea and not Louis’s.”

“Actually,” Henry conceded cheerfully, “it was Eleanor’s. Women seem to have a natural instinct for subtlety.”

Becket was frowning impatiently. “But what of the rest, Harry? Has the deal been struck?”

Henry playfully dragged out the suspense before nodding. “You sowed the seeds well, Thomas. It was only for me to harvest the crop. Louis has agreed to cede me the Vexin.”

Becket looked gratified, but Ranulf was dumbfounded. As the high price of recognizing first Geoffrey of Anjou and then his son Henry as successive Dukes of Normandy, the French king had demanded that the Vexin be yielded up. But the castles of the Vexin controlled the River Seine from Paris to Rouen, making it much too strategic for Henry to accept its loss with good grace. Ranulf knew how determined his nephew was to recover the Vexin. He could not imagine what bait he might have used to tempt Louis into giving it up. “Good God Almighty,” he said, “what did you do-cast a spell upon the man?”

Henry was obviously enjoying himself. “The Vexin,” he said, “cannot compare to a crown, and that is what we are offering Louis: the opportunity to see his daughter as Queen of England one day.”

Ranulf was speechless. Louis’s Spanish queen, Constance, had given him a daughter early in the year, a bitter disappointment to a man desperate to have sons. It did not surprise Ranulf that Louis would contract a marriage for the little girl at such an early age; that was the way of their world. But as pragmatic as people were about marital unions, it still had not occurred to him that a match could be made between Eleanor’s son and Louis’s daughter. Could the children truly wade to the altar through so much bad blood?

“Louis agreed to this marriage?” he asked, sounding so incredulous that both Henry and Becket laughed.

“Indeed he did, Uncle. Our eldest lad will wed Louis’s little lass when they are of a suitable age, and the Vexin will be her marriage portion. The Knights Templar are to hold the castles of Gisors, Neaufles, and Neufcha tel until the marriage takes place, at which time they will be yielded to me. Louis did prove prickly on one point, though. He refused flat-out to allow his daughter to be raised at our court, in accordance with custom. Whilst he was too well-mannered to say so, it was plain that he fears Eleanor would exert a sinister influence upon the child! I had to agree that Marguerite would be looked after in Normandy by that pillar of rectitude, Robert de Newburgh.”

Becket was glowing with satisfaction. “I had my doubts that we’d ever bring this to fruition,” he confessed to Ranulf. “When Harry first proposed the idea to me, the sheer audacity of it well nigh took my breath away. Even after Louis showed an interest, I feared it could all fall apart at any moment. Fortunately for us, Louis retains a monkish distrust of the female sex and blames Eleanor far more than Harry.”

“Yet even a crown would not have been enough,” Ranulf pointed out, “had Louis not taken to Harry straightaway. That is what baffles me. How in God’s Name did you win him over, Harry?”

Henry’s mouth quirked. “Must you make it sound as if I’ve been practicing the Black Arts upon the poor man? The truth is far simpler. There is a bond between us, as kings. And we could each find qualities to respect in the other. It surprised me somewhat, I admit, for I did not expect it. But Louis is an easy man to like.” He laughed then, silently. “And if you love me, Uncle, do not ever quote me on that to Eleanor!”

After a highly successful visit to Paris, Henry headed west to deal with the Duke of Brittany. That proved easier than he’d anticipated, for Conan wanted no war with the King of England. Hastening to meet Henry at Avranches, he made peace by yielding up Nantes. Henry then rode into Poitou, where he taught a sharp lesson to one of Eleanor’s more troublesome vassals, the Viscount of Thouars, in just three days capturing a castle that was said to be invincible.

In England, Eleanor gave birth on September 23 to another son, naming the baby Geoffrey in honor of her husband’s father.

A cold November rain had been falling since dawn. Rhiannon was seated so close to the hearth that Maud kept an uneasy eye upon her, not totally trusting Rhiannon’s insistence that she could judge the fire’s distance accurately by its heat. Absently stroking Eleanor’s favorite greyhound, Rhiannon was struggling to keep her depression at bay. She’d begun to envision her homesickness as a wolf stalking her relentlessly across the English countryside. Kent, Hampshire, Berkshire, Wiltshire, Devon shire. The shire names meant nothing to Rhiannon, blurred one into the other. She’d known that the English royal court was migratory, but she’d not anticipated that Eleanor would spend so little time in any one place, so much time on the road. She could have elected to remain behind, but she preferred the hardships of travel to the alternative: time to dwell upon her unhappiness.

Eleanor was acting as co-regent with Henry’s two justiciars, and Rhiannon was impressed by the sheer volume of work that entailed, especially for a woman just two months risen from childbed. But Eleanor seemed to thrive on it, holding court and issuing writs in her absent husband’s name. As November drew to a damp, chilly close, they reached Old Sarum, where Eleanor settled a dispute in favor of Ranulf’s niece Maud, Countess of Chester. Rhiannon hoped they would linger here for a while, but she wasn’t counting upon it.

Letters from their husbands had been few and far between. Ranulf had written to describe Henry’s entry into Paris, as deliberately understated as Becket’s had been ostentatious. Modestly declining all ceremonial honors, Henry had impressed the Parisians by traveling with a small escort, visiting the city’s shrines, and graciously deferring to his host, the French king, at every opportunity. The letter was circumspect, for Ranulf knew it must be read to Rhiannon, but his unspoken amusement echoed throughout the narrative. It was becoming all too evident to Rhiannon that he was enjoying himself, and so she was not totally surprised when he explained that he felt honor-bound to accompany his nephew on an expedition against the rebellious Viscount of Thouars. Rhiannon had been assuring her mutinous young son that they’d be home for Christmas. But in recent weeks, she’d begun to wonder if their English exile might last far longer.

She’d not seen her children for hours. Gilbert was laboring over his lessons with Maud’s youngest son, who’d soon be sent off to serve as a page in some noble household, as his elder brother had. Mallt was in the nursery with Eleanor’s children, under a nurse’s care; it had shocked Rhiannon to realize how little the queen was involved in their daily routine. She supposed that was why royalty could bear to send their children away to be raised by strangers. Ever since she’d learned that the French queen would be yielding up her infant daughter to Henry, she’d been overwhelmed with pity for Constance. Princesses were bartered away for peace, for gain, for gold, their futures often determined while they were still in the cradle. Constance would have known that, expected that. But Rhiannon found herself wondering if the mother was as accommodating as the queen.

Across the hall, Eleanor was conversing with her husband’s justiciars, Richard de Lucy and Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester. Maud and Eleanor’s sister, Petronilla, were playing a game of hazard, under the disapproving eye of the Bishop of Salisbury, who felt that gambling was an even greater sin when engaged in by the female sex. Left to her own devices on this rain-soaked afternoon, Rhiannon let her defenses slip. Her sister was with child again, the babe due in January. Eleri’s two earlier pregnancies had been difficult ones, her birthings prolonged and painful. She ought to be there for Eleri, not stranded here at the English court, feeling like a flower put down in foreign soil.

“Rhiannon!” The familiar bellowing of her brother-in-law jolted her back to the castle’s great hall. By the time Rhiannon had gotten to her feet, Rainald had already reached her. “I’ve a surprise for you, lass,” he said jovially. “Guess who I just met out in the bailey?”

Rhiannon had already recognized the footsteps of Rainald’s companion. With a joyful cry, she flung herself into Ranulf’s arms, giving him the most enthusiastic greeting of their entire marriage. When they finally ended the embrace, they were surrounded by grinning spectators and Eleanor was moving swiftly toward them.

“Lord Ranulf! Did my husband come back with you?” Eleanor’s smile flickered. “No… I suppose not.”

Ranulf hastened to kiss her hand, murmuring a formal “My lady” for the benefit of their audience. “He has gone on pilgrimage with the French king to the abbey of Mont St Michel.”

Eleanor’s lips parted, freezing her smile in place. “Did he, indeed? Then he has no plans to return to England in the near future?”

“No, Madame. He wants you to join him at Cherbourg for Christmas, and he gave me a letter to deliver…” Ranulf was fumbling within his mantle. “Ah, here it is.”

Eleanor took the letter. “Welcome home, my lord Ranulf,” she said, and this time the smile was dazzling. Ranulf could not help noticing, though, that she seemed in no hurry to open Henry’s letter.

Ranulf had raced a winter storm from Southampton to Old Sarum, and it was soon besieging the castle in earnest. The wind was battering at closed shutters and barred doors, its high, keening wail chasing sleep away. Most people tossed restively, yearning for the coming of day. In Ranulf and Rhiannon’s bedchamber, though, the mood was one of drowsy contentment, for they were still basking in the afterglow of an especially passionate reunion.

“I must have been stark mad to be gone so long from your bed,” Ranulf confided, laughing softly when she agreed that indeed he must have been. “I had intended to return to England after we went to Paris, but then Harry summoned his knights in Normandy to Avranches, planning a campaign in Brittany, and I could not leave. Once Duke Conan submitted to Harry, I made plans again to depart. But then we had to ride south to deal with the Viscount of Thouars. It was never my wish to be gone three months, love.”

“Nigh on four,” she corrected. “At least you did not go off to tour the religious shrines of Brittany with Harry and the French king.”

“Eleanor seemed vexed about that, too.”

“Does that truly surprise you, Ranulf?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “it does somewhat. She is a queen, after all, and well accustomed to the demands of kingship.”

“She is a woman, too, and I doubt that there is a woman alive who’d not expect her husband to come home to see his newborn son. I’m sure she understands his reasons for threatening to make war against Conan, and she’d hardly complain about his success in rousting her rebellious vassal from Thouars Castle. But it is another matter altogether for him then to go off blithely on a pleasure jaunt with her former husband, especially when he has yet to lay eyes upon their babe!”

“But she approved of the marriage betwixt their children, Rhiannon. Harry assured me it was so.”

“I know, and I’ll own up that I was taken aback by that. Eleanor is far more pragmatic than I am, I fear. But I can assure you that she is not so pragmatic that she wants Harry and Louis to become the best of friends! She loves Louis not, with cause, for he will not allow her to see their daughters. And for all the talk about his saintly nature, he has not scrupled to besmirch her name and their memories of her. Can you blame her for being bitter about that?”

“No, of course not…” Ranulf pulled more blankets about them as the wind’s howling intensified. “Harry once told me that his father cautioned him against wedding a woman he loved. Geoffrey claimed that the best marriages were based upon goodwill or benign indifference. I thought that was unduly cynical, even for Geoffrey. But I can see that passion might not be the soundest of foundations for a marriage, especially a royal one. The expectations would be different, and marital wounds would cut more deeply, for the weapons would have sharper blades.”

He frowned, then was quiet for several moments. “I hope that Harry and Eleanor have the good sense not to let their wounds go untended, lest they fester. It would grieve me greatly to think there was a serpent in their Eden, just biding its time.”

Rhiannon realized that he was quite oblivious to their own snake, the woman he’d risked his mortal soul for, the dark-eyed Annora Fitz Clement. Whenever Ranulf crossed the border back into England, Rhiannon’s fear rode with him, the fear that this would be the time he’d encounter Annora at the English court. Was it true that a flame was more easily kindled from the embers of an old fire? She didn’t know, prayed to God that she never found out. “If you love me, Ranulf,” she whispered, “take me home.”

Turning, he kissed her mouth and then the hollow of her throat. “I do,” he said, “and I will. We leave for Wales on the morrow.”

Eleanor’s ship landed at Barfleur in mid-December. From there she rode the few miles to Cherbourg, where she was reunited with her husband. Their Christmas court that year was said to be splendid.