The King's Man

by Elizabeth Kingston

  Nor can I ever be a lady such as he needs, she reminded herself, and she was more sure of this than anything else, and spurred her horse on to Ardleigh.

  Edric rode slowly on the road just outside the town, when she found him on the third day. The shock on his face when she revealed herself, this time in armor instead of a fine gown, almost provoked a smile from her. With her assurances that she needed no defending and that he must not call her a lady, he kept his curiosity in check as they rode west.

  I must choose, and is right to choose this, she told herself as she wrapped a length of coarse wool around herself that night. It felt right, and good, and familiar – her sword at her side and her mail hanging heavy on her body. There was no more confusion or doubt clouding her mind, and she slept deeply.

  She dreamt of him. She dreamt of his breath hot on her breast, the hard length of him inside her, his body touching all along her skin from neck to toe, in the moments before he dropped to sleep. When she woke, she could feel the weight of his hand in hers as on their wedding night, the surprisingly sweet security of knowing that he was at her side. Always at her side, his hand ever there to steady hers in moments of doubt.

  But no one held her hand as she lay on the hard ground miles from Morency. It was only a memory. All of it would be a memory now, of a life that was not hers. That should never have been hers.

  In the full morning light, she turned her head and saw a myrtle shrub. She stared at the leaves, wondering at the heaviness in her head, how long and deeply she had slept.

  The truth of it came to her slowly, her mind gradually admitting the things she had dared not think before this moment. As she realized, all the reasons that had driven her to this point were dismissed, one after the other. Her mother’s weeping did not matter. Her men were as safe with Madog as with herself. She was not running to her rightful destiny. In truth, she was only running away.

  She sat up, staring at the plant. Bog-myrtle leaves, boiled in a strong brew with rue, sipped carefully at the first sign your courses would not come.

  Her hands spread across her middle. For the first time since girlhood, she could not think past a simple refrain of, Do not weep, you must not weep. But the tears came, because there was no way to run from this.

  Edric commented on the fine day as he readied his horse, no hint of complaint that she had slept through the night and half the morning too. He began describing the roads from here to Hereford, conjecturing on the speed of their travel as she clutched her mail-clad belly.

  The clarity of who she was and what she must do, the certainty that had guided her since Madog’s letter had arrived, was shattered. In its place grew a new and different certainty. She must choose, yes. But it was not a choice between her husband and her mother. Not a choice of where her loyalty would lie, or which place she would live and die. It was deeper and more fundamental than any of that.

  It was an absolute division, no way to keep pieces of each. It must be one and not the other. A mother, or a soldier. A woman, or not.

  She stared at the leaves until Edric fell silent, until she could see nothing but a glossy green blur. She thought her heart might rip in two, even as she sat there.

  Eventually the sunlight shifted through the trees, a stray bit of it catching her sword where it lay before her, and woke her from her trance.

  “We push hard today, with the weather so fine,” she finally said.

  She stood and belted her sword, then pulled out her small knife to strip leaves from the shrub. Tansy buttons would do as well as rue, added to these, and they were easily found. If she needed it.

  A choice must be made, but there was time yet to decide. Weeks and weeks, if it was not decided for her by nature and circumstance. Until then, she must keep moving.

  She carefully folded the leaves into a cloth and pushed them deep into her saddlebag before riding west, her armor softly chinking.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ranulf had not imagined his remorse could grow keener, nor his anger more ferocious, until he returned to Morency to find her gone.

  But he stayed silent when the quaking servant told him, not trusting himself to say more than a simple, “Where?” That itself was enough to make the man turn white as he stammered his ignorance.

  Hugh Wisbech questioned servants for hours, sure that one must know something of Lady Morency’s whereabouts. The ladies who were her attendants showed a genuine confusion but little concern, saying that she had gone to search for some plants far afield and had expected it might require a few days. They felt sure she would return at any moment, though they admitted it was troubling that Ranulf’s party had not encountered her, nor word of her, as they had traveled among his tenants. Sir Gerald, his best knight, wanted to mount a party immediately to search for her. The man was sure her absence for so many days without word could only mean that she had been lured into a trap and was held ransom.

  It was this ludicrous conjecture that made him look to Davydd. The boy stood in a corner a little apart from the rest, listening to this theory with a wry half-smile that matched his own. Gwenllian, captured, playing the part of the lady in distress. He would have laughed at it, if he could. But laughter was suddenly an impossible, mythical thing.

  Davydd met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. It told him everything.

  As they chattered among themselves, these knights and ladies of his household, Ranulf turned away from them to stare out the window where a tree obscured the view of the sea. It was a fine autumn day, as clear and fresh as the morning he had cut Alice’s body down from the other tree that had once stood here. He had eased her to the ground and wrapped her in his cloak, all the while he planned how Aymer would die. Even now he could feel the red rise of hatred in his chest, how it leapt up to grip his throat, the cold that had swallowed his heart whole, for years, until one day he looked up into wide gray eyes.

  But now there was no vengeful act to plan, no hatred to compel him. She had left him. He knew she would not soon return. Haps she would never return. He could not think of how to say it aloud, to these people, without shouting and raging and acting the monster. He could think of no way to tell them to stop their concern, to go about their business, as he must.

  “Leave me,” he said at last.

  They did not hear, so low had he spoken. The Lady Adela, who was Sir Gerald’s sister, was protesting to the knight that it was not her place to question Lady Gwenllian’s movements. Gerald called his sister a fool to never notice that the lady rode out without servants by her side. Their voices raised in a heated debate on the subject even while Ranulf said louder, “Leave me.”

  Still they did not hear him, and he watched as Adela grew more animated, spots of color rising in her cheeks. She looked like Alice. Her hair, her delicate frame, the gentleness of her demeanor – to see her float about the castle had been almost like seeing a ghost. But now the girl surprised him, so full of spirit was she as she protested her against overbearing brother. Alice had never looked like that. Would that she had ever protested, that any of them had.

  “Leave!” he burst out, and at last he was heard.

  Wide and startled eyes turned to him. One of the ladies gave a little start of fear, and more than one put a hand over her mouth. He wondered if it was only their old fear of him, or if it was the jagged force of his voice. He could hear it himself, that in just one syllable he sounded like a man at the edge of madness. But they recovered and obeyed him with alacrity, quietly and swiftly moving out the door.

  Only Davydd was slow to move. He lingered when he reached the door, as though he knew he would be wanted. Ranulf said nothing to the boy, could not even look directly at him. He stood frozen when Davydd spoke.

  “My lord?” he asked hesitantly.

  The boy’s voice was a quiet lilt that sounded of her, of the place she had come from. The sound of it drifted down in him, finding the kernel of remorse that hid quietly under the fury that had driven him for days. The anger had driven him, but the
regret was there. Until now it had only come forward in the night, when he could not help but think of Gwenllian, bare and sweet and strong. Now it pulsed all around him, a thing as great and living as his rage, alive here in this room and unescapable.

  Of course she would not stay with him. Of course she would believe him vile. So well had he played at villainy for years.

  Davydd, apparently unable to stop acting as squire for even a moment, retrieved a cup of ale from the servant who hovered outside the door, and brought it to Ranulf. He took it, but could not drink. He only stared into its depths, remembering a hut in the wilderness where an unearthly messenger of God had hovered over him and pressed a cup to his lips.

  “Alack,” he said with a weak irony, “is there no mead to be had?”

  To his surprise, Davydd replied, “It ferments, my lord. There will be but little, for my lady did not wish to use more honey than is needed for her medicines until more bees are kept. She commanded new hives built…”

  Ranulf held up a hand to stop the words, each falling like a heavy blow. She had brewed mead, brought the flavor of her home to Morency. She had planned for future seasons here. And then she left.

  “She does not mean to return.” He did not ask it. He knew the answer.

  “I cannot say, my lord.”

  “Certes, you can. Who knows her mind better than you?”

  Even as he asked it, he knew the answer. Only Madog knew her mind as well or better. Doubtless he had known exactly the words to write, to persuade her to leave. A reticent Welshman and this nervous boy – two men who understood her better than her husband ever had.

  “Nor do I believe it is her mind that rules her in this, my lord.” Davydd seemed to think this was solace.

  Ranulf let out a rueful laugh. “Oh aye, so long as it is her heart that drives her from me and not her head, I am full soothed.”

  He drank the ale down in harsh gulps, then studied the boy who had turned his face down, abashed. Her squire, ever at her service.

  Ranulf leaned his shoulder to the wall, the new tapestry that hung there a soft cushion to remind him of her. He held out the empty cup, and Davydd with lowered head came to take it from him.

  “She wore armor?” Ranulf asked softly.

  Davydd’s head came up swiftly, his eyes looking at him steadily for a quiet moment before nodding. The simple knowledge that she wore her mail sent a trickle of relief through him, at the same time he wanted to thrash the boy for having anything to do with her schemes.

  “She rode west, my lord. Nor did she tell me where, nor why, nor when she would return. But it was west she went.”

  “And would you tell me where, if you knew?” he asked.

  All at once, Davydd abandoned his deferent pose and looked at Ranulf squarely, a challenge in his stance.

  “Never would I betray her trust, as well my lord knows. But is no betrayal to tell you she rode west.” His voice was insistent, as though he was sharing news of great import.

  “Aye, to Wales. You think me simpleminded?”

  Still Davydd looked at him expectantly, and he began to wish for more ale. A great deal of ale. He thought he might spend his evening in the undercroft among the barrels of it, drinking himself blind. It seemed a fine idea. At least it was safer than the only other appealing activity, which involved his sword and a mace and a great deal of bellowing and broken bones.

  “Not simpleminded, my lord, but if winter comes hard and soon, it will be a slower journey for you.” When Ranulf did not respond, the boy’s face reddened slightly, his eyes lowered. “If my lord will so journey.”

  He imagined the coming winter, the long hours of darkness, the cold seeping through stone walls. If Edward learned of her rebellion, the ground would be frozen when they spilled her blood on it. If they found her. If they could take her. Or they would drag her to wherever Edward bid, and she would spend the cold dark months as prisoner – a prospect she evidently preferred to passing the time here, with him. He could understand that, little though it pleased him to know it.

  What he could not understand, nor less forgive, was something deeper, something truer. He had thought she would ever stand next to him. He had believed it in his heart, in his bones, in places he had thought dead and in a way that he had never questioned.

  Fool, he thought, and wished for something far stronger than ale.

  Davydd still looked at him. The boy thought Ranulf would journey to find her, to follow her and make her return to Morency. It should be something to laugh at, but still he did not laugh. He simply asked the obvious.

  “Think you she can be convinced to go where she does not wish to go, nor do what she does not wish to do?”

  “Nay, my lord, but–”

  “Think you she rides west in hopes I will follow and plead with her to return?”

  Davydd lowered his head, his shoulders slumping.

  “Nay, my lord.”

  Ranulf turned again to the window and found the glimmers of the sea by staring hard at the growing spaces where leaves had begun to fall from the branches. “There is naught for me to do, but to tell the king.”

  He must consider his course well. Tell Edward now and she was like to be more easily defeated and captured, but he himself would be safe from Edward’s wrath. Wait too long to say it and he would be traitor to his king – but she would have time to better plan her battles, and see success. Or at least escape.

  “Soon or late, Davydd, the king will know. Bring me more ale and then leave me to decide it.”

  He stayed frozen in indecision for three weeks. The wind grew colder and the days shorter, but no word did he send to Edward. He waited each day for the walls of the castle to close in on him, to drive him away as they always had, but it did not happen. No longer did he see ghosts in every corner. There was work to be done, which filled his days and made him more a part of this place than ever he had been. It was easy to forget that he must betray her. And so he did not.

  Only for a moment, at the end of the day, did he feel her absence keenly and remember that he must tell Edward of the brewing rebellion. In the morning he woke to remember she was gone, then felt the rage rise up in him and swore that today he would write to the king. Yet somehow, he never did.

  Then a messenger came, not from Edward but from his most trusted advisor Robert Burnell. Buried amid the mundane business of scutage, justices of the forest, and the movement of the royal court, was a brief mention of a man who served in Lady Eluned’s household. Burnell understood that Lady Eluned had departed from Morency months ago in anger, and that there was no correspondence between mother and daughter. Further, how much it pleased Edward’s most trusted advisor to assure Ranulf that the king remained well-informed of Lady Eluned’s actions.

  Ranulf’s blood ran cold, his hands gripping the letter. His mind raced back to the messenger that Madog had sent. He’d been a careful man, cautious in communication. Burnell would have written a very different letter if he knew Lady Eluned’s true plans, or that Gwenllian was party to them. This was not gloating or warning, but intended as a brief and reassuring note about a trivial matter.

  But how long until this man sent to watch Eluned closely learned her plans? What might he think to see a woman in armor among her party? And if the spy had been at court and recognized her as Lady of Morency?

  As Ranulf ordered his horse saddled and provisions prepared, he told himself that it did not matter if Gwenllian herself was discovered. The moment Edward learned of the Welsh plans, Morency would be lost. His lands and possessions, that he had given his immortal soul to have, forfeit to the king. Because of her.

  He rode at a dangerous speed to Sir Gerald’s manor, where Davydd had been sent to serve, and fumed as he waited for the boy to be brought to him. Well may she risk Ruardean in her schemes, and her own life. Well may she humiliate him by leaving with no word of return. But not for anything would he let her destroy Morency.

  He frowned at the eagerness on Davydd’s face. The
boy made his bow and looked at him expectantly.

  Ranulf looked back in a sudden benign suspicion. “Why did you not go with Lady Gwenllian, when she left?”

  Davydd looked up at him, startled.

  “She rode west, my lord,” Davydd said insistently, as he had once before. “Is a fair large place, Wales. None can act as guide so well as I might, for my lord.”

  The fool boy looked at him, satisfied that he had known they would journey to find her. Weeks he had waited, sure that this day would come. Ranulf decided it was better not to tell him that instead of a mission of gallantry, it was a desire to throttle his wife that drove him to act.

  “Do you have a mount, prepare yourself to leave even now. I’ll ask Sir Gerald to grant you leave to come with me, but we do not tell him we ride to Wales. Nor do we tell anyone where we go, boy, in these perilous times.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “He cannot have your trust.”

  Gwenllian sat and stared at the basket of fresh apples brought by their latest visitor. They were lovely fruits, perfect for eating. Yet even had they not reminded her of the orchard at Morency, and a long discussion with Hugh Wisbech concerning the need for cider, and how she had never finished her letter to Suzanna – even if none of that came to mind, still she would not be tempted by them.

  Her mother looked at her, the lines between her brows etched deeper than ever. She was obviously thinking of the best words to tell Gwenllian something she would not like to hear. Eluned did this now, this careful consideration of her words before speaking to her daughter. She had never seemed to do so before that day in the orchard. For her part, Gwenllian was anxious to keep peace only because she was too tired to fight. And when she was not exhausted, she feared bringing on a headache.

  “We trust not men, but their circumstances and their greed. His allegiance is only to himself, is true.” Eluned paced slowly, her frown deepening in thought. It was a kinsman of Gruffydd that had visited, his mission so obvious that even Gwenllian had immediately guessed it. Though much had been carefully kept secret, word was spreading quietly but quickly, and men of power did not want to be taken by surprise. “If we can have his men and all his strongholds in our hands and not in Edward’s, it is no small advantage.”