Hywel’s hearing was more acute. “A rider is coming in,” he announced and within moments was proved correct. The messenger was soaked to the skin, trembling with the cold. Stumbling toward the hearth, he gratefully accepted a cup of mead, gulping it down before he drew a sealed parchment from his tunic.
“My lord,” he said, dropping to his knees before Ranulf. “I bring you an urgent message from the king.”
The hall quieted. Even those who did not understand French realized that something was amiss. All watched nervously as Ranulf broke the seal and read. He sat down suddenly in the closest seat, the letter slipping from his hand, fluttering into the floor rushes. “My nephew is dead.”
“Which one?” Hywel asked, hoping it was the least of the lot, that fool Gloucester.
“Will… the king’s brother.” Ranulf blinked back tears. But before he could tell them any more, the door was flung open and his sister-in-law plunged into the hall.
Eleri was wet and disheveled and jubilant. “God be praised, Ranulf, you have a son!”
After a visit with his wife and newborn son, Ranulf returned to the hall, where a celebration was in progress. Celyn soon arrived, and then their neighbors, for in Wales, word seemed to travel on the wind. Ranulf welcomed his young daughter home, assured her that her mother and baby brother were well, and generally tried to play the role expected of him, that of host and happy father. But Will’s plaintive ghost lingered in the shadows and Ranulf kept catching glimpses of him from the corner of his eye; once or twice, he even thought he heard Will’s voice, sounding sad and bewildered and wrenchingly young.
“When will you tell Rhiannon?” Hywel had come up quietly behind him. “I did not get a chance to say I was sorry. I know how fond you were of Will. He was good company…” Hywel’s smile flickered briefly. “… for an Englishman.”
“I did not want Rhiannon to know, not yet. She was fond of Will, too. I’ll tell her on the morrow.”
Hywel had brought over a brimming cup. “Drink this,” he directed. “You look as if you need it.”
“I do,” Ranulf acknowledged. “When Will died in Rouen, any chance of compromise between Harry and Becket died, too. Harry is very bitter, blaming Becket for his brother’s death.”
“Then the accord they reached at Clarendon is not likely to last?”
“No… not bloody likely. Becket seems to have repented of his submission almost at once. As soon as he returned to Canterbury, he did public penance, put aside his customary fine clothes for plain, dark garb, and suspended himself from saying Mass. You can well imagine Harry’s response to that.”
Hywel whistled softly. “Say what you will about him, the good archbishop has quite a flair for the dramatic. So their war goes on.” He hesitated then, dark eyes studying Ranulf’s face. “I am loath to add to your worries. But you’ll find out sooner or later, and mayhap you ought to hear it from me. Rhys ap Gruffydd has gone on the attack, overrunning Dine-far and chasing the Marcher lord Walter Clifford back across the border with his tail tucked between his legs. And we recently got word that the English king’s stronghold at Carreghwfa fell to Owain Cyfeiliog at year’s end.”
Ranulf’s breath caught. He’d known since the summer-since Woodstock-that trouble was brewing in the Marches. But he’d not expected the cauldron to boil over so soon. How long ere Owain Gwynedd cast his lot with Rhys ap Gruffydd and the lords of Powys? How long ere all of Wales took fire?
“If anyone asks after me,” he said, “tell them I’ve gone to look in on Rhiannon.”
Collecting his daughter as he left the hall, he agreed to take her along if she’d promise to be very quiet. Seeing Gilbert loitering a few feet away, he beckoned and the boy hurried over, with enough speed to give the lie to his feigned nonchalance. Leaving their guests to Rhodri and Hywel, he ushered his children out into the damp February night.
The midwife had departed, but Eleri was dozing in a chair by the hearth. She smiled at the sight of them, putting her finger to her lips and pointing toward the bed. Ranulf kissed her on the cheek and said softly, “Celyn is awaiting you in the hall. I’ll stay with her now.”
Mallt and Gilbert glanced at their sleeping mother, then followed Ranulf as he crossed to the cradle. Swaddled in linen strips and covered by warm woolen blankets, Morgan slept as peacefully as if he were still sheltered within his mother’s womb. He was larger than either Gilbert or Mallt at birth, with a faint bruise on his temple and a fringe of tawny hair, the exact shade of Ranulf’s own. The older children crowded eagerly around the cradle, but when Morgan continued to sleep on, their interest flagged and they soon slipped away. Picking up the chair, Ranulf carried it over to his wife’s bed.
Rhiannon awakened about an hour later, raising up on her elbows to listen for the sound of a familiar step, a known voice. “Eleri?”
“No, love, it is me.” Leaning over, he kissed her tenderly on the mouth. As quiet as they were, a sudden wail from the cradle signaled that Morgan was now awake and in need of attention. When Ranulf put the baby in Rhiannon’s arms, Morgan let out a few more tentative cries, as if testing the power of his lungs, and then settled down contentedly against his mother’s warmth. Rhiannon refused to engage a wet-nurse as ladies of rank usually did, unwilling to sacrifice the precious intimacy of that bond in the name of fashion. She guided Morgan’s mouth to a nipple, smiling as he began to suckle noisily.
Ranulf slumped back in his chair. The chamber was lit only by firelight, the hearth flames offering just enough illumination for him to distinguish the shadowy forms of his wife and son. As he watched Rhiannon nurse their baby, it should have been a moment of tranquil joy. But his eyes were stinging, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. Trefriw was the first real home he’d ever known, and he’d been happier here than he’d have believed possible. Now a storm was gathering on the horizon: dark, foreboding clouds and a rising wind. When war came to Wales, how would he be able to keep his family safe? His earlier rebuke to Gilbert seemed to echo on the air. He was indeed half-English, half-Welsh. What if he could not be true to both halves of his soul? Could he choose without destroying the rejected self? He’d lived his entire life striving to keep faith. But what if his loyalties became irreconcilable?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
August 1164
Woodstock, England
As the Archbishop of Canterbury’s retinue approached the king’s manor at Woodstock, villagers thronged the road A to watch. William Fitz Stephen’s stomach was queasy, his skin flushed and damp with perspiration. He would have liked to blame the day’s sultry heat for his discomfort, yet he knew better-it was his lord’s looming confrontation with the king. He cast a sidelong glance at his companion, wondering if Herbert of Bosham shared his unease. But Herbert’s face was alight with anticipation. His outward appearance was so foppish and affected-tall and willowy, handsome and preening-that it was easy to forget his was the soul of a firebrand, one who thrived on controversy and scorned compromise. Fitz Stephen could only hope that Herbert’s thirst for turmoil would go unslaked this day. Why would Lord Thomas seek out the king like this if he did not intend to proffer an olive branch?
They could see the manor walls now, sunlight glinting off the chain-mail of the sentries. Fitz Stephen had many pleasant memories of times spent at Woodstock, riding with Lord Thomas and the king as they hunted in these deep, still woods on hot summer afternoons like this one. Those were bygone days, beyond recall. He glanced at his lord’s taut profile and said a silent prayer that this meeting with the king would go well. It was then that guards stepped forward, blocking the gate.
The archbishop’s men reined in. There was a flurry of confusion and the archbishop began to cough when he inhaled some of the dust kicked up by the milling horses. Fitz Stephen urged his mount forward. Before he could speak, Herbert demanded that the guards step aside. “Do you fools not recognize His Grace? Admit us at once!”
The guards shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, looking so unco
mfortable that Fitz Stephen knew at once something was terribly wrong. They did not move away from the gate. “We have our orders,” one mumbled, while the others let their raised spears speak for them.
“What orders?” Thomas Becket frowned impatiently. “The king is expecting me. I sent him word that I would be arriving in midweek.”
There was a silence, and then the boldest of the guards muttered, “The king does not wish to see you, my lord archbishop. We were told not to admit you.”
Color burned into Becket’s face. He opened his mouth, no words emerging. For what was there to say?
After being turned away from Woodstock, Becket seemed to realize just how precarious his position had become. He secretly sought to flee England, not even confiding in his own household. His first try was thwarted by contrary winds, and his second attempt failed when the sailors recognized him and balked, for fear of incurring the king’s wrath.
Becket’s next return to Woodstock was on a dreary August afternoon, under a weeping sky. The road was clogged in mud and the trees dripped with moisture, splattering the riders as they passed underneath. William Fitz Stephen tried not to glance over his shoulder at the smothering cloud cover, but his apprehension increased with each mile that brought them closer to Woodstock. He thought it was the true measure of his lord’s despair that he’d risk another public humiliation. But he knew Thomas feared the consequences of his failed attempts to flee the country, for they were breaches of the Constitutions of Clarendon. If the king did not yet know of these transgressions, it was only a matter of time until he did. Better to face him now and offer his own defense. Fitz Stephen understood his lord’s reasoning. Yet what if the king refused again to give him an audience? What if he would not even listen to the lord archbishop’s explanation? Fitz Stephen no longer harbored hopes that they’d make their peace, not after their last visit to Woodstock.
This time they were admitted by the king’s guards and ushered across the bailey into the great hall. Henry was seated upon the dais, with Eleanor at his side. He greeted Becket with cool civility, his eyes as grey and opaque as the rain clouds gathering overhead. When Becket broached the subject of his abortive flight, Henry heard him out without interruption. The hall hushed then, waiting for the royal wrath to kindle. But Henry offered no rebukes, made no accusations. “Is my kingdom not big enough for the two of us,” he asked, “that you must seek to flee from it?”
It was a barbed jest, yet a jest nonetheless. Relieved laughter rustled through the audience. Thomas Becket did not join in the laughter. Nor did William Fitz Stephen.
Afterward, Herbert of Bosham drew Fitz Stephen aside to comment upon how well he thought the meeting had gone. “I was sure the king would rave and rant over this breach of his accursed Constitutions. Who would have guessed that he’d take it in such good humor?”
Fitz Stephen looked around to make sure none were within hearing range. “Do you not realize what that means, Herbert? The king is done with arguing. I fear he has something else in mind for our lord archbishop.”
Ranulf felt no relief when the walls of Northampton came into view, even though the sight signaled the end of a long and arduous journey. It had not occurred to him to disobey the king’s summons, but never had he dreaded a council as he dreaded this one, for he knew its purpose-to declare war upon Wales. He’d known for months that this day was coming; Henry could not let Rhys ap Gruffydd’s defiance go unpunished. And when an English army crossed into Wales, he knew that Owain Gwynedd would choose to fight with Rhys. What he did not yet know was what he would do.
The sky was a vibrant blue, and October was already beginning to splash its colors across the countryside. But the beauty of the season was lost upon Ranulf. Knowing the castle would be filled to overflowing, he decided to lodge his men at the Cluniac priory of St Andrew’s outside the city walls, only to discover that the priory was already occupied by the Archbishop of Canterbury. As Becket had brought with him a large entourage, including more than forty clerks and numerous household knights and servants, there was not a bed to be found in the priory’s guest hall. Ranulf ordered his weary men back into the saddle. He had better luck with the Augustinian canons at St James, where the harried hospitaller managed to squeeze them in, and within the hour, he was dismounting in the outer bailey of Northampton Castle.
“Ranulf!” His brother Rainald was coming down the steps of the keep. “I was beginning to think you were not coming. The council started yesterday.”
“Wales is a long way off, Rainald. What have I missed? Nothing has been decided yet about the Welsh campaign?”
“There has been no talk at all of Wales so far. Harry has other fish to fry. Ere he deals with the Welsh rebels, he must deal with his rebellious archbishop. So the first item of business was the contempt charge against Becket.”
“What contempt charge?”
“Ranulf, you truly do live at the back of beyond! When are you going to move back to civilization? Come into the hall where we can get an ale and I’ll bring you up to date on all you’ve been missing.”
Seated in a window seat with a flagon and a plate of hot wafers drizzled with honey, Rainald wasted no time in launching into his narrative. “Remember John Marshal, that lunatic who was nearly burned alive in that bell tower ere he’d surrender to Stephen’s soldiers? Well, this summer he lodged a claim in the archbishop’s court for the manor of Pagenham. When he lost, he appealed to the king’s court, as provided by the Constitutions of Clarendon. Becket then made a grave mistake. He did not appear in answer to the king’s summons, sending four knights to argue that Marshal had committed perjury in the Pagenham case. Knowing Marshal, that is more than likely. But Becket should have come himself to the king’s court. By not doing so, he handed Harry a club to bash him with, and you can be sure that Harry made the most of it.”
“He was found guilty, then, of contempt?” Ranulf asked, and Rainald nodded.
“That was all but inevitable since he had no defense to offer. But the sentence passed was unusually harsh for a first offense-forfeiture of all Becket’s movable goods. The best proof that men thought it too severe was that none were willing to pass sentence; the bishops argued that it was for the barons to do and the barons insisted it was more fitting for a bishop to do it. Harry finally lost patience and ordered the Bishop of Winchester to do it. Becket objected at first, but was persuaded by the other prelates that he ought to accept the judgment, and all the bishops save Gilbert Foliot then offered to stand surety for any fine imposed by the court.”
Ranulf was finding it difficult to concentrate upon Becket’s plight when Wales was on the verge of calamity, especially since he felt that many of the archbishop’s troubles were of his own making. “So the Becket case has been resolved, then. Does that mean the matter of Wales will be discussed on the morrow?”
Rainald’s reply was unintelligible, for his mouth was full of wafer. Washing it down with ale, he gave Ranulf a knowing smile. “Becket might think it is over. But I’d wager Harry has a surprise or two still in store for our lord archbishop.”
The Council assembled the next morning in the great hall. This was Ranulf’s first glimpse of the archbishop, and he thought Becket was showing the strain of his war of wills with the king. He’d lost more weight, and he’d not had flesh to spare. His dark hair was feathered with more grey than Ranulf remembered, his natural pallor enhanced by the stark black of the habit he now wore, the garb of an Augustinian monk. He seemed composed, though, doubtless feeling that the worst was behind him. Henry was plainly dressed, as usual, in a green wool tunic. But he did not need silk or fur-trimmed garments to hold center stage. Like Owain Gwynedd, he projected the aura of kingship by his very presence, not by the trappings of royalty, the accoutrements of power. Ranulf needed only a few moments of close observation to conclude that Rainald’s suspicions were correct-their nephew was not ready to settle for a contempt-of-court conviction.
When Geoffrey Ridel rose to speak on the king
’s behalf, Thomas Becket stiffened noticeably, for Ridel had been acting as chancellor since Becket’s abrupt resignation of that office two years before. “There are a few other matters to be settled,” Ridel said calmly. “My lord Archbishop of Canterbury owes the Crown an accounting for sums expended during his tenure as chancellor.”
Becket looked perplexed. “What sums are you talking about?” “Three hundred pounds in revenue from the Honour of Eye and the castle of Berkhamsted.”
Becket turned in his seat to stare at the king. “As Your Grace well knows, I used that money to make repairs to the Tower of London.”
“Not on my authorization. Did you get my consent to make these repairs? Did you even discuss them with me?”
“No… but… but that is because I saw no need.” Becket’s stammer had come back. “I never bothered you with minor matters like that. I took it for granted that you’d be in agreement with me.”
“Well,” Henry said softly, “those days are gone… are they not?”
They looked at each other across a distance far greater than the width of the hall. The impasse was broken by the Bishop of Winchester, who hobbled to his feet and asked for a brief recess so Becket could confer with his fellow bishops.
Ranulf had heard that Henry of Blois was no longer the conniving, ambitious opportunist who had goaded his brother Stephen into claiming the crown and thus doomed England to nineteen years of a bloody civil war. Ranulf supposed that it was possible for a man to mellow in old age, sincerely to repent the sins of his past. He just wasn’t sure if the bishop was that man. His suspicions proved unfounded, though, at least on this particular occasion, for the bishops soon returned to the hall and Henry of Blois announced that the Archbishop of Canterbury was confident that he had done nothing wrong. He was willing, however, to make repayment of the three hundred pounds, for he would not have money come between him and his lord king.
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