Time and Chance eoa-2

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Will was recounting their recent foray into South Wales to punish that unrepentant rebel, Rhys ap Gruffydd. “I would that all of our Welsh campaigns were so easy,” he enthused. Almost at once, though, he reconsidered and glanced apologetically toward Ranulf and Rhiannon. “No offense, Uncle. I know you are friendly with Owain Gwynedd. But Rhys is a horse of another color. He deserved whatever he got, and then some.”

  Ranulf shrugged. “To tell you true, lad, I was glad to stay out of it. These old bones would rather sleep in my own bed, not on a rain-sodden field off in the middle of nowhere.”

  “You’re not so old as that,” Will insisted, with more courtesy than conviction, for to twenty-six, forty-four did indeed seem much closer to the grave than the cradle. Having assured himself that Ranulf was indifferent to Rhys’s fate, he plunged back into his narrative with enthusiasm.

  “In truth, it was more like a procession than an invasion, for we encountered little resistance. We even had Merlin on our side!” Will grinned at his mother’s puzzled expression. “It seems that Merlin had prophesied of ‘the coming of a freckled man of might,’ whose crossing of the ford at Pencarn would set chaos loose upon their lands. Of course we did not yet know of this prophecy and the ford was an ancient one, so Harry started to cross the stream at the ford in use now. But just then trumpets sounded and spooked his stallion, who balked at crossing. To calm him, Harry rode him along the bank and crossed at the abandoned ford-just as Merlin had predicted! After word of that got about, Rhys’s men lost heart and he had no choice but to surrender. How could he hope to defeat Harry and Merlin, too?”

  “The fact that Rhys was badly outnumbered may have played a part in his decision,” Ranulf observed dryly, and Maude seized the opportunity to divert the conversation out of Wales, toward Canterbury.

  “I am glad that Henry was able to punish this Welsh rebel with a minimum of bloodshed. I can only hope that he is as successful in his dealings with his new archbishop. You sailed with Henry back to Southampton in January, Will. I understand that Thomas Becket was there to greet Henry and Eleanor. Tell me how the reunion went. Did you detect any tension?”

  Will shook his head. “No… not that I can remember. Harry and Thomas seemed glad to see each other, joking the way they always do.”

  A faint frown creased Maude’s brow. As much as she loved her youngest son, he was not the ideal eyewitness, blind to nuance and oblivious to undercurrents. “What of you, Ranulf? You saw Henry ere you sailed for Barfleur. What is your judgment? Think you that their friendship is still intact?”

  “That is not an easy question to answer. They’d both probably insist it was, if asked. When Harry proposed that Gilbert Foliot be chosen to fill the vacant see of London, Becket agreed to his translation from the see of Hereford. And when Becket attacked the abuses of multiple benefices and demanded that the king’s clerks yield them up, Harry did not object. He did insist, though, that Becket ought to practice what he preached and surrender the archdeaconry of Canterbury. I suppose you could argue that this shows they are both striving to be reasonable. But it is not an argument I could make with much conviction.”

  Maude leaned toward Ranulf, her gaze intent. “I’ve heard troubling rumors about Becket’s efforts to reclaim those Church lands lost during the chaos of Stephen’s reign. I am not faulting him for that, mind you. But if the stories are true, he has been arbitrary and high-handed, ordering his men-at-arms to seize disputed estates rather than seeking to regain them in court. What do you know about this?”

  “The stories are true. He has revoked all leases for the Canterbury demesne. In some cases, I think he merely meant to renegotiate the terms, but many are complaining that they have been denied legal process.”

  “And he has rashly challenged the Earl of Hertford,” Maud interjected, “laying claim to the castle and Honour of Tonbridge. Admittedly, I do not know the particulars, so I cannot judge the validity of his claim. But surely it would have been more prudent to seek recovery in the king’s court? Instead, he demanded that Hertford do homage to him for Tonbridge. You can well imagine, Aunt Maude, how the earl responded to that!”

  Maude could, indeed; she’d had a lifetime of dealing with prideful, thin-skinned barons. “That was foolishly done,” she said disapprovingly. “What does Henry think of these doings?”

  “He has been flooded with complaints and petitions coming out of Kent, and he is understandably vexed. Yet he is puzzled, too. When he granted Becket a royal writ to regain alienated Church property, he never expected Thomas to go about it in such a tactless and overbearing way. So far he is trying to give Becket the benefit of every doubt. I’ve been surprised by the patience he has shown, I’ll admit. But then he still thinks of Thomas as his friend.”

  “Not for long, I’d wager.” The Countess of Chester took a swallow of hippocras. “That flag of friendship may still be flying, but it is becoming more tattered by the day. Harry has been trying to convince himself that Becket just needs time to settle in, that once he feels comfortable as archbishop, all will revert back to the way it was between them. But how much longer can he cling to that hope?”

  Maude was silent for a time, reflecting upon what she’d heard. “It sounds as if Becket is bound and determined to assert his independence at every opportunity. Whilst that may be understandable, it is also foolhardy and does not bode well for the future.”

  The silence that followed was a somber one, broken only when Rhiannon asked her husband to cut her another piece of bread. At home, she would have done it herself, but she felt self-conscious in the presence of Ranulf’s formidable sister. Will had begun to fidget, for he knew from past experience that discussions about Thomas Becket might drag on endlessly, and he had news of his own to share.

  “Tell me, Mama,” he said quickly. “How would you like to start planning a wedding?”

  “A wedding? Whose?”

  “Mine,” he said cheerfully. “Harry has found me a wife. I am eager for you to meet her, Mama, for she is as close to perfect as mortal woman has the right to be: fair to look upon and sweet-natured and soft-spoken and pious and-”

  “An heiress, I trust?” Maude interrupted uneasily. It was obvious that her son was smitten with his future bride, and that was well and good, as long as the girl had more to recommend her than a pretty face.

  “Indeed she is.” Will was now grinning from ear to ear. “I am to wed Isabella de Warenne, Countess of Surrey.”

  “The widow of Stephen’s son?”

  Will nodded. “Isabella was wed as a child, was just fourteen when she was widowed nigh on four years ago. She is old enough now to be a wife and mother, and we would like to be married here in Rouen. You missed Harry’s wedding, so I’d not have you miss mine.” Will waited then, for her verdict. He was reasonably certain that she would approve, but he needed to hear the words; he could not imagine wedding without his mother’s blessing.

  The irony was not lost upon Maude that even in death, Stephen continued to shadow her path. She would have preferred that Will marry a woman with no links to the House of Blois, had never expected to share a daughter-in-law with Stephen. But it was not fair to blame the girl for a marriage made in childhood, a marriage in which she’d been given no say. And she was more than an enemy’s widow; she was a great heiress in her own right, would bring the earldom of Surrey to her husband. Henry had indeed done well by his younger brother. How jealous Geoffrey would have been, she thought sadly, and then smiled at her lastborn. “I am very pleased,” she said. “I am sure that Isabella will make you a good wife.”

  Will beamed. “So am I,” he said, and when Ranulf proposed a toast to the new Earl of Surrey, he looked so joyful that Maude was able to forget, at least for a time, her qualms about Thomas Becket.

  “I have long looked forward to the day of your wedding,” she said, and hoped that her son would find more happiness and contentment in his marriage than she had found in either of hers.

  On the first day of July
in God’s Year 1163, the King of Scotland and the Welsh rulers were summoned to do homage to Henry at Woodstock. As a Great Council meeting was scheduled afterward, the barons of the realm and princes of the Church were also expected to attend, and accommodations were soon filled to overflowing. By the time Ranulf arrived, he and his family had to settle for lodgings in New Woodstock, the borough Henry had founded a half-mile to the northeast.

  Ranulf had fond memories of Woodstock. As a boy, he’d enjoyed visiting his father’s menagerie, and he was sorry to discover that the lions and leopards and camels were long dead, for he’d wanted to show them to his children. He was particularly disappointed on Gilbert’s behalf, for he knew the boy was restless and homesick, eager to return to Wales. And so when he rode over to Woodstock to let Henry know of his arrival, he took his son along, hoping there would be enough activity at the royal court to compensate for the lack of alien animals.

  A small hill sloped away from the River Glyme, and upon its summit was the royal manor of Woodstock. Although it was one of Henry’s favorite residences, the buildings were comfortable rather than lavish, for his main interest was in the hunting. The great hall was a spacious structure, but now there was not a foot to spare, so crowded was it with Henry’s highborn guests.

  Owain Gwynedd had not yet arrived, but Malcolm, the Scots king, was there, as were the lesser Welsh lords, and Rhys ap Gruffydd, who’d been held in honorable confinement since his surrender to Henry in April. Ranulf had never met Rhys and observed the Welsh firebrand with great interest. He was considerably younger than his uncle, in his early thirties, lacking Owain’s commanding stature, distinguished silver-fox coloring, and regal dignity. But his dark eyes were glittering with a lively, sharp intelligence, and he still had a swagger in his step, the cocksure confidence of a man who dealt with defeat by refusing to recognize it. Ranulf doubted that Henry had heard the last of Rhys ap Gruffydd.

  Ranulf knew most of the men in the hall, was kin to some of them. In addition to his brother Rainald and his cousin of Gloucester, the Earls of Leicester, Hertford, and Salisbury were in attendance upon the king, as were the Marcher lords, William Fitz Alan and Walter Clifford. The Church was also well represented. Thomas Becket was the most conspicuous of the prelates, richly garbed as always, elegant and enigmatic, a magnet for all eyes. Gilbert Foliot, newly translated from the see of Hereford to the more prestigious one of London, known for his eloquence and asceticism, but known, too, as a man who did not suffer fools gladly. Robert de Chesney, the aged Bishop of Lincoln. And by the dais, surely the most venerable and devious of England’s clerics, Henry of Blois, Bishop of Winchester, Stephen’s brother and erratic ally.

  Maud and Will had sailed for Southampton with Ranulf and his family, but they’d gone on ahead to Woodstock while Ranulf and Rhiannon lingered for a few days in Winchester. They now greeted Ranulf and Gilbert so ebulliently that onlookers might well have assumed they’d been apart for months.

  A seductive perfume alerted Ranulf to the approach of England’s queen, and he turned to make an obeisance to Eleanor, pleased when his son followed his example without prompting. The queen looked lovely in a gown the color of claret; it was a shade few women could have worn well, but it suited her to perfection, as sophisticated and dramatic and distinctive as the woman herself. Ranulf marveled that she seemed to be aging with such grace and ease; had he not known she’d just marked her forty-first birthday, he’d never have guessed her to be within a decade of that age. But when he later said as much to his niece, Maud looked at him as if he’d lost his senses.

  “I can assure you, Uncle, that few women age with ‘grace and ease,’ especially one so celebrated for her beauty. Eleanor is too shrewd not to know this is a war she cannot hope to win, but she is giving ground very grudgingly, making use of all the weapons at her disposal to keep the enemy at bay.”

  Gilbert seemed daunted by the noise and crowds and confusion; he didn’t say anything, but he kept close by Ranulf’s side, his eyes roaming the hall as if seeking an avenue of escape. Aware of the boy’s edginess, Ranulf was about to suggest that they go outside to get some fresh air when Henry saw them and beckoned from the dais. His welcome was affectionate, and when Ranulf explained that he wanted to show Gilbert around the manor grounds, Henry at once voiced his approval, springing to his feet with alacrity.

  “An excellent idea. Come on, let’s take the lad to see the springs,” he said, so enthusiastically that those around him smiled, aware that he’d have seized upon any pretext to avoid the ceremonial duties of kingship. Leaving Eleanor to preside over the hall, he headed for the closest door, accompanied by Ranulf, Gilbert, and Will. There was a time when Thomas Becket would have automatically been included in one of Henry’s Grand Escapes, and Ranulf could not help remembering that as he hastened after his nephew. Looking back at the tall, stately figure of Canterbury’s archbishop, he wondered if Becket was remembering, too.

  Henry was in high spirits, acting like a schoolboy who’d managed to evade his lessons, and the others found his mood to be contagious; even Gilbert brightened up perceptibly. The sun had slid below the horizon, but the clouds drifting overhead were still painted in its hues, streaked with deep rose and soft purple. The sky had yet to lose its light, and the day’s warmth lingered. Gilbert soon forged ahead, racing one of Henry’s young wolfhounds, looking happier than Ranulf had seen him in weeks. The men followed at a more leisurely pace.

  “How old is that lad of yours, Uncle?” Henry asked idly. “Nigh on twelve? I suppose he’d consider my Hal too young to bother with. A pity, for Hal has been complaining that there is ‘nothing to do here,’ which I take to mean he has no one to get into trouble with.”

  “Hal is here at Woodstock? He is still in Thomas Becket’s care, is he not?”

  Henry nodded. “I told Thomas to bring him along. I want the Scots king and the Welsh to do homage to Hal, too, when they do homage to me.”

  Ranulf glanced thoughtfully at the younger man. “I was wondering about that,” he admitted. He could understand why Rhys ap Gruffydd should be required to do homage as a condition of regaining his liberty. But why summon the others? Now he had the answer: so they could swear to Hal, too. Before he could pursue this further, though, Henry asked abruptly:

  “Have you spoken to Thomas yet?” When Ranulf shook his head, he looked disappointed. “I was hoping to get your impression of our lord archbishop.” Although said with a smile, the words held a slightly sardonic edge. “Talk to him tonight, Ranulf. I’ve tried talking to him myself, and he says what is expected of him. But-”

  Henry came to a sudden halt, head tilted to the side, listening intently. “Did you hear that?” They hadn’t, but he paused before moving on. “Passing strange, I guess my imagination was playing me false. We’re almost at the springs. I’ve always loved this part of the park, have long had it in mind to build a house here-”

  This time there was no mistaking the sounds: raised voices, a splash, a burst of sputtered cursing. The men quickened their pace and a moment later, a woman came running through the trees. She was casting glances back over her shoulder as she ran, and didn’t see the exposed root until it was too late. She stumbled, cried out sharply, and fell.

  Henry reached her first, with Will and Ranulf only a step behind. She was already getting unsteadily to her feet, shrinking back at sight of the men. They could see now that she was very young, fifteen or sixteen at most. “We mean you no harm, lass,” Henry said swiftly, for her torn gown and her panicked flight told a story without need of words.

  Just then her pursuer came into view. He was youthful and well dressed and would have been quite handsome under other circumstances; now his face was mottled and contorted with rage. “Look what that little bitch did!” he exclaimed, gesturing toward his muddied chausses and sopping shoes.

  Henry swung back toward the girl, who’d taken refuge behind him. “Did you push him into the pool?” he asked and began to laugh. “Good for you, lass!”r />
  The girl murmured something inaudible, and the man’s fury found a new target. “This is none of your concern,” he warned, but his belligerence lasted only until Henry stepped from the shadows cast by the oak tree. That he’d recognized Henry was obvious, for his angry flush gave way within seconds to a sickly pallor. When he started to stammer either an apology or an explanation, Henry cut him off impatiently. He did not need to be told twice, began to back away, and then bolted.

  The girl kept close to Henry’s side until she was sure her assailant was gone. “Thank you, my lords,” she said softly. Gilbert had arrived in time to witness the man’s rout, and when the girl came forward, he drew a sibilant breath. Glancing at his son, Ranulf fought a smile, remembering the first time he’d seen girls in a new and dazzling light. Gilbert’s reaction was understandable, for she was very pretty in a delicate, fragile way. Too young to wear the fashionable wimple, she’d covered her head with a veil that had been lost in her flight, and her hair now tumbled loosely about her shoulders in a splash of silver. She had wide-set eyes, the darkest blue Ranulf had ever seen, a fair, ivory-tinted complexion, and a very appealing smile; when she turned it upon Gilbert, he flushed to the tips of his ears.

  “Thank you,” she said again. “I did not mean to shove him into the pool, truly I did not. His foot must have slipped on one of the mossy rocks when I tried to pull away. He was sure, though, that I did it on purpose, and became so wroth…” She shivered visibly. “If you had not been here, I do not know what he might have done.”

  They were puzzled by the contradictions between her appearance and her demeanor. She wore a rather plain gown, not at all stylish, but her speech indicated education; no serving girl sounded as this one did. “What were you doing out here, lass?” Henry asked, voicing the question in all their minds.

  Twilight was deepening, a soft, shimmering lavender-blue, but they could still see the blush rising in her cheeks. “My father is in attendance upon the king, and he sent for me, Godstow being just a few miles away.”