Ranulf was stunned by her outburst. Their quarrels were so infrequent and so mild that he’d been lulled into believing Rhiannon was incapable of genuine rage. After the turbulence and turmoil he’d endured with the high-strung, unpredictable Annora, he’d come to cherish the tranquillity he’d found in marriage to Rhiannon. He saw now that theirs was a false peace, purchased at the cost of her conscience. Again and again she had given him her unwavering support, her understanding, her acceptance-as Annora never had. She had suppressed her own fears and misgivings, always putting his needs first, even when the price of protecting his honor might well be banishment from the homeland she so loved.
Getting swiftly to his feet, he crossed the chamber to his wife, then took her in his arms. “I am sorry, love,” he whispered, “so sorry. You are in the right and I am an idiot.”
Rhiannon shook her head vehemently. “No, you are not. If our sons grow to manhood with even half of your courage and integrity, they will be very fortunate and I will be well content.”
Whatever she might have said next was lost as Ranulf kissed her. Hywel waited until he thought their embrace had gone on long enough and then said, “I can do without the hug, but what about an apology to me, too, Ranulf?”
Ranulf smiled at the other man over his wife’s shoulder. “I guess I do owe you one,” he conceded. “Actually your idea was ingenious-in a sly sort of way. I can understand how others might believe it, for you’ve always been glib of tongue, Hywel. But how could my uncle Rhodri imagine for a moment that I’d engage in such double-dealing? And Gilbert and Eleri-do they not know me better than that?”
“I can answer that,” Rhiannon said. “They believed it because they wanted to believe it, Ranulf, because they needed to believe it. They love you enough to banish disbelief.”
“Whereas you should have seen the horrified reactions of my brothers Davydd and Rhodri, who love you not.” Hywel grinned, remembering. “They were looking forward to a public hanging as soon as the opportunity presented itself. When they went running to my father in hopes of a denial, they were confounded when he confirmed it instead!”
“Owain did that?” Ranulf asked in astonishment. “You must be in higher favor than I thought, Hywel!” But almost at once, his amusement faded. “I would thank you,” he said seriously, “for what you tried to do on my behalf.”
Hywel cocked a brow. “ ‘Tried to do’?” he echoed. “It seems to me that my plan was a brilliant success, if I say so myself.”
“It would have been,” Ranulf agreed, “if not for the maiming of the hostages.”
“You think my father blames you for that?”
“His sons will never see another sunrise because of the English king… and I am Harry’s uncle.”
“You are also the one man who spoke up for the hostages. Only one voice argued against the maiming, and it was yours.”
Ranulf looked searchingly at Hywel, hope suddenly soaring to the quickening beat of his heart. “Are you saying Lord Owain is willing to let me stay in his domains?”
“He said that words rarely count for more than blood, but Chester is one of those times. You may make your home in Gwynedd till the end of your days and none will challenge your right to be here, to call yourself Welsh. On that, my father has spoken.”
Ranulf exhaled an uneven breath and then whirled back toward Rhiannon. She returned his embrace wholeheartedly, but her eyes prickled with tears, for she knew that the events at Chester had inflicted a grievous wound, one that would leave a deep jagged scar upon her husband’s soul.
Henry gazed down from the battlements of Chester Castle upon the ruination of his Welsh campaign. His fleet had finally arrived from Dublin, was anchored in the bend of the River Dee, and each time he looked upon that motley assemblage of ships, he felt anger stirring anew, embers from a fire that had been smoldering since their forced retreat from the Berwyns. He had contracted for galleys, but some of the ships riding at anchor were cogs. Instead of warships, he had flat-bottomed cargo vessels with which to ravage the Welsh coast… and not even enough of those.
“Did you ever see a more pitiful fleet in all your born days?” he demanded of the young Earl of Chester. “Shredded rigging, torn sails, lost oars-it is a bloody miracle that they did not sink like stones in Dublin’s harbor. Any man setting foot on one of those wrecks had better know how to walk on water, or else have made his peace with the Almighty.”
Hugh fidgeted nervously, wanting to offer reassurance or hope but checked by the reality floating below them on the river. One of the ships had been run aground into a mudbank to patch leaks, and the crew was scrambling to complete the repairs before the onset of high tide. In the shadow of another ship, a raft had been launched, and as it bobbed and pitched, several men set about recaulking the seams with a sticky mixture of tar and moss. Hugh had to admit it was a sorry spectacle meeting their eyes. Striving to shine the best light upon the debacle, he ventured to remind Henry that the ships had been mauled in a storm off the Irish coast. “But once they are mended, they may yet inflict damage amongst the Welsh.”
The other men winced at that, but Henry did not erupt as they expected. This muddled youth was his favorite cousin Maud’s son, after all, and so he contented himself with a barbed sarcasm. “Aye-there is always the chance that the Welsh will die laughing at their first sight of this great armada.”
Hugh didn’t have Henry’s familiarity with other languages and he wasn’t sure what an armada was, but he knew better than to ask. He was finding it a trial to be his king’s host; Henry had moved to Hugh’s castle at Chester to await the fleet, and now Hugh hoped that he’d decide to go back to Shotwick, where his army was encamped. Hugh had always been intimidated by his royal cousin the king, but Henry’s temper was exceptionally choleric these days and it was all too easy to provoke his ire.
Henry continued to watch the beached ship, his the morbid curiosity of a man with a toothache, compelled to keep touching his tongue to the tooth to see if it still hurt. It had been two days since that tattered fleet had limped into the Dee estuary, two days since he’d realized that his hopes of continuing the Welsh war had foundered with those Irish ships. The Welsh princes had defied him and gotten away with it. He had nothing to show for all his efforts but a depleted Exchequer, a lost summer, and a trail of shallow graves.
His bleak reverie was interrupted by a shout from the gatehouse; riders were coming in. A cursory glance down into the bailey showed him that there were women among them, but he had no interest in these new-comers. He would have welcomed his cousin, the tart-tongued worldly Maud, but she was in Anjou with Eleanor, planning to remain until after the babe was born. He could think of no other female he cared to see and he resumed his gloomy surveillance of the Irish ships. But then Hugh gave a sudden whoop.
“Holy Cross, it is Mistress Rosamund!”
Turning, Henry saw that the boy was right; one of the women in the bailey below them was indeed Rosamund Clifford. Hugh was heading for the ladder, at such a pace he’d be lucky not to take a headlong fall. Henry followed more slowly and with much less enthusiasm.
The Marcher lord, Walter Clifford, was greeting his daughter Rosamund and another woman whom Henry guessed to be his wife. After making the introductions to Hugh, who’d managed to get down in one piece, Clifford ushered the women toward Henry.
“My liege, may I present my wife, the Lady Margaret?” Wherever Rosamund had gotten her uncommon beauty, it was apparently not from her mother, a pleasingly plump woman in her forties with pale-blue eyes and the complacent composure of one born to a life of privilege.
“I believe you already know my daughter.” Clifford’s smile was so smug that Henry’s first impulse was to turn on his heel and stalk away. For the girl’s sake, he resisted the urge and managed a cool civility. Rosamund was more discerning than her father and her own smile faltered. Clifford was professing surprise that his womenfolk had come to visit him, jovially asking Hugh if he could find them a bed at the
castle, and Hugh, beaming, declaring nothing would give him greater pleasure, while Rosamund looked at Henry in bewilderment, not understanding. Henry excused himself, climbed back up to the battlements, and stared out over the river at his misfit Irish fleet.
Supper that evening was not a festive affair. Hugh’s cooks did their best to provide a tempting meal, but Henry picked at the minced pork and venison pie without either interest or appetite. Hugh had gallantly invited Clifford, his wife, and daughter to join them at the high table. His attempts at flirtation proved futile, though. Subdued and silent, Rosamund kept her eyes upon her trencher, pushing food about with her knife but eating very little, occasionally casting covert glances at Henry when she thought he wasn’t watching. Hugh’s spirits soon flagged in the face of her obvious indifference. Clifford was growing increasingly annoyed by his daughter’s diffidence, scowling at her from his end of the table. The only one who seemed to be enjoying the meal was Henry’s uncle Rainald, who never let other people’s discomfort affect his appetite, and he at least did justice to the varied and highly seasoned dishes prepared by Hugh’s cooks.
After supper, Hugh summoned a minstrel to perform for his guests. But the entertainment was no more successful than the meal, if judged by Henry’s brooding demeanor. He may have heard the minstrel’s songs, but he did not appear to be listening, his private thoughts obviously far from the hall of Chester Castle. Through the open windows, the sky was turning from a twilit lavender to a rich plum color as a messenger was ushered toward the dais. Kneeling before Henry, he proffered a parchment bearing the seal of a French lord of opportunistic allegiances, Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux. As Henry scanned the dispatch, his body language alerted those close to him that something was wrong. Stiffening in his seat, one hand clenching upon the arm of his chair, he looked up, his mouth set in a taut line and his grey eyes frosted, filled with distance. He did not share the French count’s news, but rose instead, making an abrupt departure, leaving behind a hall abuzz with conjecture.
It was fully dark now, but the air still held some of the warmth of the day. The sudden stretch of fine weather had seemed like the ultimate ironic joke to Henry; where had the sun been when he’d had such need of it? One of the castle dogs trailed after him as he entered the deserted gardens, but soon veered off on the scent of unseen nocturnal prey. Henry was regretting not revealing the contents of de Montfort’s letter. More precisely, he was regretting not having someone to confide in, someone who’d understand his misery without the need of words. His ambitions were dynastic, his greatest wish to see his empire ruled by his sons after his death. Eleanor understood that. So had Thomas Becket-once. And Ranulf.
He did not like the direction his thoughts had taken. Some roads were better left untraveled. He had jammed the count’s letter into his belt as he left the hall. Now he pulled it out again, wishing he had a fire to thrust it into. On impulse, he drew his dagger and began methodically to slash the parchment into ribbons. He felt faintly foolish; destroying the evidence would change nothing. But he did not stop until the sheepskin was in tatters, letting the scraps fall to the ground at his feet.
“My lord…”
He’d not heard the light footsteps in the grass, and he spun around at the sound of a soft female voice. Rosamund Clifford stood several feet away, her face blanched in the moonlight, her small fists balled at her sides. It occurred to Henry that she looked frightened and that saddened him. It did not take much to sadden him these days. He laughed suddenly, mirth lessly. God’s Bones, he was as maudlin tonight as any drunken lout deep in his cups and without the excuse of wine, for he was cold sober.
He saw that his laughter had distressed her still further, for she’d understood that there was no humor in it. She was more perceptive than he would have expected of a convent-reared virgin, the self-serving Clifford’s flesh and blood. “Why are you wandering about in the gardens, Mistress Rosamund? Trying to avoid Hugh?”
Rosamund blushed; she hadn’t realized that he’d noticed Hugh’s attentions. “I was looking for you, my lord.” She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, had hoped he might think their meeting was accidental, unplanned. But face to face with him in the moonlight, she found herself too flustered for subtlety. She could only tell the truth, or as much of it as she dared. “I was worried about you, my lord. That letter seemed to trouble you so…”
“This letter I was just ripping into shreds?” Henry at once regretted the sarcasm; why take out his temper on the lass? “You might as well be the first to know. All of Paris is rejoicing; it’s a wonder we cannot hear the church bells pealing across the Channel. The Almighty has finally taken pity upon the French king. On the fourth Sunday of August, his queen gave him a son.”
He expected that he’d have to explain the political and dynastic significance of that birth. Rosamund did not give him the chance. “I am sorry to hear that,” she said softly. “Sons-by-marriage of a king have influence for certes. But uncles of a future king will wield much more.”
Henry looked at her in surprise. “So you know Louis’s current queen is of the House of Blois?”
She nodded shyly. “And I know, too, that her brothers, the Counts of Champagne and Blois, are men who bear you a mortal grudge.”
She could see that he was pleased she was so knowledgeable and she felt faintly guilty, as if she were flying under false colors. The truth was that he was her abiding interest, not matters of state. In the two years since their encounter in the gardens at Woodstock, she had studied him as a scholar might study holy writ, asking questions when she could, eavesdropping when she could not, learning as much as possible about Henry Fitz Empress.
She knew that he’d been crowned Duke of Normandy when he was but seventeen, that he’d become king of the English at one and twenty, that he was wed to a legendary beauty, that he could be lenient to rebels but unforgiving of betrayal, that his memory was extraordinary and he was said to have some knowledge of all the tongues spoken “from the coast of France to the River Jordan,” that his energy was boundless and his curiosity all-encompassing, that his anger could scorch hotter than the flames of Hell but to the downtrodden and Christ’s poor, he was unfailingly courteous, that he was unpredictable and passionate and often enigmatic even to those who knew him best, and each time she looked into his eyes, her pulse began to race and her breath quickened.
“I truly did not expect that Louis would ever be able to get himself a son, not after three wives and four daughters. He came to believe that he’d incurred the Almighty’s displeasure, and I suppose I wanted to believe that, too.” Henry shook his head in disgust at his own shortsightedness. “If we could foretell the future with certainty, what need would we have for prayer?”
That sounded vaguely blasphemous to Rosamund, but she decided Henry ought not to be judged by the same stringent standards that applied to other men. As King of England, he was the Almighty’s anointed, after all. She was thankful for her questions and her curiosity, for the flickering improbable hope that one day their paths might cross again, as her en deavors now enabled her to comprehend the root of his discontent. He had married his eldest son to Louis’s daughter in the belief that this marriage might one day make his son heir to two thrones. It had been an ambitious dream, but Henry was not one to settle for less if there was a chance he might get more. Louis had two daughters older than little Marguerite, of course, wed to the conniving Counts of Blois and Champagne, and Rosamund did not doubt they’d have made their own claims had Louis died without a son. Just as she did not doubt that Henry would have prevailed. But now it was not to be.
She struggled to find some morsel of comfort to offer him, at last said hesitantly, “Your son will still be England’s king, my liege. And the lands of the French king are meager indeed when compared with the empire you rule.”
Henry said nothing; she couldn’t be sure if he’d even heard her. He was frowning into the shadows beyond their moonlit patch of garden, withdrawing back into him
self again. Rosamund felt suddenly bereft. Desperate to slow the drift, to keep his attention for a little longer, she found the courage to ask the question that had been haunting her since their arrival that afternoon.
“My liege… have I offended you in some way?”
Henry was sorry she’d asked that, for there was no honest way to answer her without causing her pain. “Of course not,” he said, hoping she’d be satisfied with his denial.
Rosamund bit her lip, utterly unconvinced. “Then… then why did you look at me like that in the bailey? You were not pleased to see me, my lord, I know you were not. Can you not tell me why?”
He was quiet for a moment, considering his options and concluding that he had none. “You are right, lass. I was displeased, but not with you. My anger was with your father.”
“Because he sent for me?” she asked in a small voice, and Henry nodded unwillingly.
“Rosamund, I do not want to hurt you. None of this is your doing. You did not realize what he had in mind, using you as bait to fish for the king’s favor. At Avreton Castle, he saw that I was drawn to you and he thought to take advantage of it. I should be used to it by now. But you’re his daughter, by God, and he ought to care more for your welfare than his own coffers. By pushing you toward my bed, he might have gained certain advantages today, but what of your tomorrows? What sort of marriage could you make? I’m no saint, have committed my share of sins and I’m likely to commit more. But you’re an innocent…”
Henry paused, hearing again Ranulf’s voice pointing that out to him. The king’s conscience. “I do not want to hurt you,” he repeated, and this time he was not speaking of the injuries inflicted by his candor.
Rosamund was deeply flushed; even by the moon’s silvered light, he could see the color burning in her cheeks. “You are wrong, my liege.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I did realize what my father had in mind. I am indeed an innocent, as you say. But I am not a child. Of course I understood. What you do not understand is that I was willing. I wanted to come. I wanted to be with you.”
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