“I value our friendship, Harry. I would not want to put it at risk.”
“Nor would I. But why should this jeopardize it? Yes, circumstances will change. What of it? As well as we know each other, what surprises are there likely to be?”
“I wish I shared your certainty. It is that… that I do not think you have foreseen the possible consequences.” Becket’s slight stammer was much more pronounced now, an unmistakable sign of tension. “Are you so sure that I can serve both you and the Almighty?”
Henry stared at him and then laughed shortly, amusement warring with exasperation. “I can assure you that I do not see God as a rival. That prideful I am not! If those are your qualms, you can lay them aside. The Almighty and I will not be in contention for your immortal soul.”
Becket’s smile was a polite flicker, and Henry’s patience ran out. “Jesu, Thomas, I am offering you the archbishopric of Canterbury, the greatest plum in Christendom! I did not think I’d have to talk you into it. So you’d best tell me now if you’re crazed enough to refuse.”
Becket smiled more convincingly this time. “When you do put it that way…”
Henry studied the older man and then nodded in satisfaction. “So it is settled then.”
“Yes,” Becket agreed, “it is settled.”
June that year in Wales was cool and wet, with sightings of the sun as scarce as dragon’s teeth. The last Monday in the month dawned to skies greyer than December, and it went downhill from there. In midmorning, a rainstorm swept through the Conwy Valley, and it was still drenching Trefriw when Hywel rode in. His arrival created even more of a stir than usual, for in addition to his customary attendants and servants, he was accompanied by six kinsmen: his son, Caswallon; his foster brothers, Peryf and Brochfael; and no fewer than three of his half-brothers, the raffish Cynan and Maelgwn and the sobersided Iorwerth. Enid was in a dither, determined to entertain them in a style worthy of their rank, not drawing a calm breath until these unexpected and highborn guests were settled comfortably in the great hall with towels to dry themselves off, mead, and cushions.
“I assume you can put us all up for the night,” Hywel asked, beckoning for Ranulf to join him in the window seat.
The question was a mere formality, for hospitality was a sacred duty among the Welsh. Even had Hywel led an army into Trefriw, they’d have been accommodated. “I suppose,” Ranulf grumbled, “you can sleep out in the stables.”
“Spoken like a true Englishman,” Hywel gibed. “But where is your wife? She is the one I really came to see. Is she off visiting her sister?”
“No… she is in our private chambers, lying down.”
Hywel’s gaze had been drifting around the hall, where Peryf and Cynan had begun an arm-wrestling contest. But at that, his eyes cut sharply back toward Ranulf’s face. “Is she ailing?”
Ranulf was staring into the depths of his mead cup. “She miscarried a fortnight ago, Hywel.”
“Ah, Ranulf… I am truly sorry. I did not know she was with child again.”
“We’d told none but the family. She was only in the third month..”
Hywel groped for words of consolation. “To lose a babe is surely one of life’s greatest sorrows. But mayhap in time, she’ll conceive again.”
“She is thirty-nine,” Ranulf said, and although the words themselves were neutral, his tone was without hope.
“So? Queen Eleanor was thirty-nine when she birthed another daughter last year, was she not?”
“Eleanor is not like other women. Childbirth seems to come as easily to her as kingdoms do.”
“She might argue with you about that, Ranulf. I’ve heard more than one woman claim that if men were the ones bearing children, mankind would have died out with Adam.”
Ranulf was suddenly very glad that Hywel was there; smiles and laughter had been absent from his household of late. “Ought I to extend my condolences for your father’s marriage to the Lady Cristyn?”
Hywel heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose it was inevitable. But the Lady Gwladys was scarcely in her grave ere Cristyn began planning the wedding. I half-expected her to burst into the church during the funeral service, demanding that the priest say the marriage vows first.”
“Do you call her Stepmama now?” Ranulf asked innocently and then ducked, laughing, when Hywel sent a cushion whipping past his head. “So… how is life in the hive now that there is a new queen bee? You look hale and hearty enough, so I assume the Lady Cristyn has not been slipping hemlock into your mead?”
“No… but then I drink sparingly when I dine with Cristyn. In a way, I cannot blame her for wanting to protect her cubs. A pity they are such worthless whelps. God help Gwynedd if either of them ever gains my father’s crown. Fortunately for Wales, I do not intend to let that happen.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Ranulf clinked his cup playfully against Hywel’s. “I surely do hope you are Gwynedd’s next king. I’d hate to think I’ve been cultivating your friendship all these years for naught.”
“You ought to have some money on the outcome, Ranulf, for few wagers are so certain of success. Peryf is offering odds of two to one in my favor. Of course if you fancy more risk for your money, he says the odds on Little Brother Rhodri are so high not even his mother would chance a wager!”
Ranulf laughed again. Owain and Cristyn’s youngest son had recently turned seventeen, and by all accounts, he was proving to be a handful. “I’ve heard that Rhodri is becoming even more insufferable these days than Davydd, as hard as that is to believe.”
“Believe it. Davydd does have a brain beneath all that bluster. But I doubt that there is much hope for Rhodri, not the way he’s been strutting and swaggering about this spring. I’ve seen barnyard cocks show more sense. Hellfire, even I showed more sense at seventeen!”
Under Enid’s sharp eye, her serving maid was offering their guests food hastily collected from the kitchen. When she reached Ranulf and Hywel now, they helped themselves to napkins and hot wafers. Sitting back in the window seat, Hywel gave his friend a curious smile. “So.. what do you think of Canterbury’s new archbishop?”
“Harry finally selected someone, did he? Who is the lucky man.. Gilbert Foliot?”
Hywel blinked. “You have not heard? You mean I am better informed for once about English affairs than you? And here I’ve been assuring my father that you were worth keeping around for your superior connections to the English king’s court!”
“So much for your celebrated political acumen. Now that I think upon it, I’ve not gotten any letters from Harry or Rainald or my sister for some weeks. Even my niece has been lax about writing and Maud is usually my most reliable source.”
“Ah… that reminds me.” Swallowing the last of his wafer, Hywel fumbled within his tunic. “I have a letter for you.”
At the sight of that familiar seal, Ranulf’s eyebrows rose. “Since when are you delivering my niece’s mail?”
Hywel met his gaze guilelessly. “I happened to be in Chester recently, and naturally I stopped by to pay my respects to the countess.”
“Naturally,” Ranulf echoed dryly. “We both know you’re the very soul of courtesy.” Politely putting the letter away to be read later, he took a sip of mead, regarding Hywel with a sardonic smile. “So you found out about Canterbury’s new archbishop from Maud?”
Hywel nodded. “You’re probably one of the last to hear, for this news has been spreading faster than any brushfire. The Lady Maud says England is talking of nothing else, and once I brought word to my father’s court at Aber, that was the only topic of conversation there, too.”
“Why? Did Harry make so controversial a choice? Whom did he pick?”
“Thomas Becket.”
Ranulf sat up straight. “You are serious? He truly chose Becket?”
Hywel nodded again, happily; he liked nothing better than being the bearer of tidings sure to startle. “The Christ Church monks elected him in late May. On June second, he took holy vows, and the next day
he was consecrated as Canterbury’s archbishop. From priest to archbishop in just one day; now that is what I call a spectacular promotion! He seems to think so, too, for his first official act was to decree that the day of his consecration will be a feast day from now on, in honor of the Holy Trinity.”
Ranulf was silent for several moments. “I need time to think upon this,” he confessed. “For once, Hywel, you were not exaggerating in the least. This will have people marveling from Rome to Rouen, and with good reason.”
“That it will,” Hywel agreed, thinking of his father’s jubilant reaction to the news. “According to your niece, the king forced Becket upon the monks and bishops. Few think he has the makings of a good priest, much less an archbishop. But they dared not protest, for they knew your nephew had his mind set on this. Only Gilbert Foliot spoke up, with a very sour jest indeed, saying that the king had wrought a miracle, turning a soldier and worldly courtier into a holy man of God.”
“Well,” Ranulf said slowly, “Harry has always been one for the bold stroke, and this is nothing if not bold. I can see the logic in it, for Becket is one of the very few people whom Harry truly trusts. I can also see the risks. This will be all or nothing, either a brilliant success or an utter disaster, nothing in-between.”
Hywel thought Ranulf’s assessment was right on target; they differed only in which results they were hoping for. Before Hywel could respond, Ranulf was getting to his feet. Turning in the window seat, Hywel saw why; Rhiannon had just entered the hall. He stayed still for a few moments, giving Ranulf a chance to exchange a private greeting with his wife, and then joined them.
Even if Ranulf had not told him about the miscarriage, he’d have guessed that something was amiss. Rhiannon was paler than moonlight, her eyes heavy-lidded and shadow-smudged, and her smile the saddest Hywel had ever seen. “Come over here, darling,” he said before she could speak. “Sit with us in the window seat.”
Rhiannon had meant merely to make a brief appearance, for courtesy’s sake. But Hywel would not be denied. He and Ranulf ushered her across the hall, as solicitously as if she were a queen, taking her wet mantle and finding cushions for her, offering their own cups of mead. Hywel then called for Ranulf’s uncle to fetch his harp. Beaming with delight, Rhodri did.
The hall quieted as soon as the others realized Hywel was going to perform. But Hywel paid the audience no mind. Drawing a stool up, he began to strum the harp, a haunting, plaintive melody that would linger in the memory long after the music ended. “A love poem for the Lady Rhiannon,” he said softly.
I love a rounded fortress, strongly built;
A lovely girl there will not let me sleep.
A bold, determined man will reach the place.
The wild wave breaks there loudly at its side.
My fair, accomplished lady’s lovely home.
It rises bright and shining from the sea.
And she shines all the year upon the house.
One year in furthest Arfon, under Snowdon!
He wins no mantle who looks not at silk.
I will love no one more than I love her.
If she would grant her favor for my verse,
Then I should be beside her every night.
When the song died away, the hall erupted into applause. But for Hywel and Ranulf, the only reaction that mattered was Rhiannon’s, and she was smiling through tears.
In September, Henry met with the French king at the papal court in exile of Pope Alexander III, who’d been driven out of Rome by the Holy Roman Emperor and forced to take refuge at Montpellier in France. The meeting was civil, but the wounds left by the Toulouse war were slow healing. After that, Henry moved south to the great abbey of Deols, and then joined Eleanor at Chinon Castle.
As soon as Eleanor entered the great hall, she knew something unusual had happened. People were clustered together, voices raised. The first person she recognized was her husband’s half-brother. Hamelin was one of Geoffrey of Anjou’s bastards, acknowledged and well educated by the count until his untimely death, and then taken care of afterward by Henry. Hamelin was now in his early twenties and bore a remarkable resemblance to his other half-brother, Will. He did not have Will’s equable temperament, though, was far more excitable and impulsive. Eleanor liked him, for if he was quick to fire up, he was also quick to forgive, and his joyful zest for life usually made him good company. But at the moment, his cheerful, freckled countenance was clouded, and when Eleanor drew him aside, he could barely contain his indignation.
“What has happened, Hamelin?”
“You see that Augustinian canon over there? He was sent by Thomas Becket to return the king’s great seal!”
Eleanor was taken aback. “Are you saying that Becket has resigned the chancellorship?”
“Yes, my lady, he did. No letter, either, just the great seal. And when the king demanded to know why, his messenger said only that he felt scarcely equal to the cares of one great office, much less two.” Hamelin’s devotion to Henry was absolute, and he shook his head angrily. “Can you believe such ingratitude, Madame?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said tersely. “Where is Harry now?” When Hamelin shrugged and shook his head again, she went swiftly in search of her husband. The hunt proved harder than she’d expected. Kings were rarely able to escape the constant surveillance of the curious, but no one seemed to have seen Henry. It was only by chance that she happened to glance upward, saw him standing alone on the castle battlements.
Gusting winds sent her skirts whipping about her ankles, billowing out her mantle behind her. She stayed close to the parapet wall; although she would never admit it, she had a dislike of heights. The sun was redder than blood, haloed by flaming clouds as it blazed a path toward the distant horizon. Normally such a splendid sunset would have caught Eleanor’s eye, but now she never even noticed. “Harry?”
He half-turned, glancing toward her and then away. The view was breathtaking. Far below, the blue slate roofs and church spires of the town were still visible in the day’s waning light, and the river shone like polished brass as it flowed west to join with the Loire. Eleanor knew, though, that her husband was blind to the valley’s beauty. The hot color had yet to fade from his face, still scorching the skin above his cheekbones, and the hand resting on the merlon wall had clenched into a fist.
“Hamelin told me that Becket has resigned the chancellorship.”
He nodded, almost imperceptibly.
She hesitated, for in his present raw mood, whatever she said was likely to be taken wrong. But when she touched his arm, compelling him to meet her eyes, she saw in his face as much hurt as anger, and she found herself doing something she’d never have envisioned: making excuses for Thomas Becket. “What he said may well be true, Harry. He may feel overwhelmed by the obligations and duties of his office. It must be daunting to know that all are looking to him for spiritual guidance, for he was thrust into this role, not bred for it. If men find it hard at first to move from the plains up into the mountains, mayhap he needs time to adjust to the rarefied air on the heights of Canterbury.”
Henry frowned, but found her words were not so easy to dismiss. “I suppose there could be something in what you say,” he conceded grudgingly. “Thomas has always had to be the best at whatever he does, satisfied by nothing less than perfection. Mayhap he truly does fear that he could not do justice to the chancellorship and the archbishopric, too.”
Sliding his arm around her waist, he drew her in against him, and they watched together as the sun disappeared behind the trees. After some moments of silence, he said, “I still do not understand why Thomas did not tell me what he meant to do.”
And for that question, Eleanor had no convincing answer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
May 1163
Rouen, Normandy
Maude signaled to her servants to bring in the next course. Her cooks had been laboring since dawn, for she wanted this dinner to be an exceptionally fine one. Her guests were deserving of o
nly the best, for they were family: her brother Ranulf, his wife and children, her son Will, and her niece and namesake, Maud, Countess of Chester.
The meal was an obvious success; they were eating the stuffed goose with gusto. Maude had not met Ranulf’s wife before, and had never understood why he’d chosen to wed a woman without sight. She’d occasionally wondered how Rhiannon coped with the challenges of daily living, but if her behavior at the dinner table was any indication, she managed surprisingly well. Of course it helped that it was customary for two guests to share a trencher; Rhiannon’s seat-mate was her husband, and he provided what assistance she needed with inconspicuous adroitness.
Watching as Rhiannon carefully laid a bone on the trencher’s edge, Maude smiled approvingly. Growing to womanhood at the imperial German court, she’d learned to place a high value upon etiquette and decorum, and she decided now that her Welsh sister-in-law’s manners were quite satisfactory. For certes, better than what passed for table manners in England, she thought disdainfully, remembering how often she’d seen bones thrown into the floor rushes, heard soup loudly slurped, seen meat dunked into the common saltcellar, the tablecloth used as a napkin. Maude had risked her life to reign over the English, but she had no love for the people of that island kingdom, and had not set foot on English soil since being forced into Norman exile, not even attending her beloved son’s coronation. She’d mellowed some in her sunset years, but she still had not learned to forgive.
She wanted to ask about the issue weighing most heavily upon her mind: if her son’s friendship with Thomas Becket had survived Becket’s elevation to an archbishopric. But Will had been monopolizing the conversation since the meal began, and she hadn’t the heart to interrupt; he’d always seemed so much younger than his years, in need of more coddling than his brothers.
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