Ranulf paused and shrugged his chin with a knowing grin. “I would say the duke is always interested in listening to a diverting story.”
Bronwyn came to an abrupt stop and firmly poked Ranulf in the chest. “And that is where the biggest flaw in your plan lives. You are taking a defensive posture, not a very persuasive one. It doesn’t allow the king to show you leniency without appearing weak.” Bronwyn recommenced her pacing. “What you need is a way to gain sympathy by depicting your acts as responses to hostility. Demonstrate this and the king, if he is a just man as you say he is, will have to find in your favor.”
Ranulf crossed his arms, curious. “Just how do you think I can accomplish this by tomorrow night?”
Bronwyn bit her bottom lip, stared at his discarded sword and arched her brows. Then with an impish smile turned back to face Ranulf. “Oh, you had the right plan, just the wrong king.”
A few minutes later, Ranulf gathered her into a bear hug and then swung her around the tent. “I may be clever, but you, angel, have a devilish quality about you I believe Henry is going to enjoy.”
“Really?” Bronwyn gasped, giggling in response to his excitement.
“Mm-hmm,” Ranulf said, leaning in for a long-drawn-out kiss. “Henry has probably the best sense of humor among anyone I know. And the one thing he appreciates is intelligent wit—and its source could come from anyone, even a chambermaid, and its topic could be anything or anyone.”
“I hope so,” Bronwyn purred as Ranulf slowly wove a spell around her.
“Trust me,” he said and winked at her with his good eye. Then he quickly re-dressed and pointed toward the tent’s opening. “Come on. For if this new plan of yours is going to work, everyone needs to know what to do upon our arrival…and even more importantly, just what not to do.”
Chapter Eighteen
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 5, 1154
TWELFTH NIGHT
Twelfth Night or the Eve of the Epiphany is the last celebration night of Christmastide as well as the ending of the winter festival that starts on All Hallows Eve, more commonly known as Halloween. For centuries, the merriment and festivities of Twelfth Night far surpassed the other feasts of the season, and included dancing, merrymaking, and the consumption of large amounts of food and wine. A common theme was to reverse the everyday normal order and the most prominent method included the bean cake or king’s cake in which a single slice held a bean allowing anyone the chance to be crowned “king.” Similar to the Lord of Misrule, the person who found the bean temporarily became royalty and had the power to rule over the Twelfth Night’s festivities until midnight when his reign ended. The ensuing “bean feast” was the highlight of the medieval Christmas, in which all classes could enjoy extravagant meals of various meats, spices, fruits, cheeses, ales, and delicious desserts.
Bronwyn had expected London to be more crowded than the towns littering the hills of Cumbria, but never could she have dreamed the numbers of people living practically on top of one another. Buildings stood side by side, some practically falling apart while others appeared to be newly erected. The mud and the stench, especially in the smaller alleys, were unavoidable, but so was the sheer excitement that oozed from everybody as the hour of Twelfth Night advanced. Only their small solemn group seemed impervious to the merriment.
At first, Bronwyn had assumed Ranulf’s tension stemmed from his plans for that evening, but as they traveled farther into town and onto increasingly crowded streets, she realized their relatively innocuous party was getting more attention than it rightly should. Either people ignored them or they openly stared as they went by, and those that did stare focused their attention on Ranulf.
She had forgotten just how the world viewed her husband. Large and menacing with short hair and a dark glare, Ranulf was unmistakably a fierce warrior. Even if he had not possessed the ominous scar across his cheek, a sheer look from him could make a person quake. Pride started to fill her when she noticed something else—some of those they passed displayed not just fear…but revulsion.
At Hunswick, no one cared about a person’s imperfections. Import was placed on how one treated their fellow man and the contributions they produced. But in London, among such masses of people, it would be difficult to truly know all those encountered, leaving one to judge his neighbor primarily by their appearance. Ranulf’s missing eye was not in any way frightening or even very obvious, but too many believed such a wound was akin to deformity.
The desire to demonstrably show just how much she loved and admired him was enormous, but she could not do so. So instead, Bronwyn beamed him a smile. In return, Ranulf’s face hardened into a threatening grimace. Unfazed, Bronwyn sighed, resigning herself from further attempts to cheer him until they were alone.
Ranulf urged Pertinax into a much wider road. Following him, Bronwyn nudged her horse closer to his until they were again side by side and pointed back to her sister. “I cannot believe Lily’s quiet demeanor now that we are here. After all her moaning about coming, she shows no signs of interest or excitement.”
Continuing to look straight ahead, Ranulf agreed. “She seems to understand her role.” Then with a quick but condemning look, he added, “Everyone does except you.”
Ranulf paused as they passed close by several people trying to cross the street before continuing his admonition. “Lily is acting like a grieving sister while you forget just who you are supposed to be. Would Edythe be enjoying the sites?”
Appropriately scolded, Bronwyn quickly transformed her expression into one of sorrow. Her eyes, however, reflected the hostility of one with nicked pride.
Either unaware or uncaring, Ranulf nodded in approval and directed his horse along the ever narrowing and widening road that matched the twists and turns of the River Thames. They traveled in silence until Bronwyn heard a short gasp escape from Lily when Thorney Island and Westminster Abbey came into view.
The large stone structure stood apart from the other buildings and was surrounded by a beautiful garden. It was hard to believe anything so peaceful-looking could be a central part of a government that in years past had both brought and fought against war. Beside it was the Palace of Westminster, the royal residence of the king and queen. Tonight, they would be visitors in the colossal building and putting on a show no one was expecting.
Bronwyn was still studying the distant fortress when Ranulf reached over to grab her reins and halt her horse. She glanced back and realized the group was stopping in front of what looked to be an inn. Slipping off her saddle, one of Ranulf’s men took her reins and those to the other mounts and headed toward the stables situated catty-cornered across the street.
She felt Ranulf’s hand upon the middle of her back and let him guide her and Lily inside to a small, but clean sitting area. “Wait here,” he half requested, half demanded and then turned to go back outside.
Bronwyn maneuvered around one of the empty tables and sat down by the window near the front. The shutters had been left open, so the area was cool from the winter air seeping in from small cracks along the sill. But it was the one place she and Lily could see and listen to the activity up and down the narrow street.
“Switch places with me,” Bronwyn whispered and stood back up. “Ranulf’s talking with the innkeeper and it doesn’t look like it is going well.”
Lily grimaced but did as asked. “Just what do you plan to do about it?” she remarked with unmistakable sarcasm.
Before Bronwyn could muster a like reply, the heated conversation ended and the innkeeper stomped inside and marched up the stairs. Ranulf slowly swaggered in behind him and she knew her husband had won…or at least he thought he had. He pressed a finger to his lips, and though difficult, Bronwyn muffled her questions. Several minutes later, the innkeeper escorted two very disgruntled people out of the building.
Lily gasped and Bronwyn blinked in surprise. She had not even considered the problem of where they were going to stay and the fact that it was the night of one of the biggest festiviti
es of the year. Of course all the inns were full. This one looked like an especially clean one, not to mention it was almost uncomfortably close to the palace, the place where their lives would soon be set free or ruined.
Once outside, the angrier of the two ousted figures swiveled to glare at the innkeeper. Then his dark eyes darted toward the window. The sparks flying from the midnight pools were aimed directly at her, as if he knew she was the reason he had no shelter, let alone bed for the night. Then the man beside him gave the darker fellow a firm elbow in the side to get his attention. Ranulf was handing them both small bags. Bronwyn suspected each held coin as the men’s anger quickly dissipated.
Less than a minute later, they were gone and Ranulf walked brusquely into the sitting area. Still in character, Ranulf’s stern face held no warmth and neither did his voice. “The innkeeper’s wife is preparing your rooms and a bath.” Then looking directly at Bronwyn, he stated, “I have to see someone, but I will be back in time to escort you tonight.”
Before he could leave, Bronwyn gestured for him to wait and turned to close the shutters. “Lily, can you give us a moment and make sure no one comes in here?”
With a sigh, her sister nodded and moved to stand guard by the stairs, where she could also see anyone coming from the kitchen or the entrance.
When they were finally alone, Ranulf’s stiff demeanor instantly thawed and he pulled Bronwyn into his arms, enveloping her in a long-needed hug.
Bronwyn pressed her cheek against his chest. “Remember to be charming.”
Ranulf chuckled and nestled his chin in her hair before planting a soft kiss on top of her head. “I’m always charming.”
An infectious grin crossed her lips. How he had changed. He was still rigid in public surrounded by strangers, very much aware of how others reacted to his scars, but no longer did Ranulf hold those same opinions of himself. And though the peaceful countenance that had slowly grown upon him the last few weeks had disappeared upon entering London, his affectionate embrace was not that of the wounded man who had marched into Hunswick just a few weeks ago, but her Ranulf…her rock and support and soul.
Lily poked her head around the corner and stepped inside, letting go a small cough. “I think the innkeeper’s coming.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Ranulf said and immediately pulled away. After sending a quick wink to Lily and a brief, targeted smile to Bronwyn, he turned and exited the room just as a slim, older woman with strays of thin mousy brown hair coming free of her bun entered. Bronwyn reopened the shutters to watch Ranulf mount Pertinax and disappear down the street toward the palace. He never looked back.
“The bath his lordship ordered for you both will be ready shortly,” the woman said with a tired voice. Bronwyn turned around and gave her what she hoped to be an understanding and undemanding smile. “Thank you. I know we were unexpected.”
The small encouragement seemed to reinvigorate the woman’s weary features and she stood a little straighter. “If you don’t mind waiting here a little longer, my daughters are preparing your rooms. Would you like some something to drink?”
“Thank you. No, but your help is appreciated,” Lily replied, picking up on Bronwyn’s friendly deportment. In the hall, two waiflike young women hustled up and down the staircase carrying at first buckets of water and then linens.
Minutes passed before Lily and Bronwyn were finally directed to their rooms. Both were sparse, but clean. The first room was slightly larger, just big enough to accommodate two individuals. The second held only a bed and a small table with a basin of water.
The thinner of the two girls smoothed the few wayward strands of her brown hair back and mumbled, “If you are looking for your things, they were put in the other room per his lordship’s instructions.”
Bronwyn thanked her and followed Lily into the larger of the two rooms as the young woman disappeared down the stairs. Collapsing on the bed, she turned her head to see Lily similarly sprawled in the single, wooden hearth chair. Next to her was a sprawled bathtub filled with what Bronwyn hoped to be warm water.
Minutes later, she immersed herself into the heated piece of heaven. “This is wonderful,” Bronwyn gushed as she reemerged from dipping her head underneath the surface.
Lily leaned forward and tugged the larger of their two bags toward her. “I hope our gowns survived the journey.”
Bronwyn closed her eyes and rested the back of her head on the tub’s rim. “I’m sure they are fine.”
Unconvinced, Lily rummaged through the bag and pulled out her gold gown and then Bronwyn’s silver one, laying them out on the bed. “They are wrinkled, but not as much as I feared.”
“Hand me the soap if you could.”
Lily tossed her the scented gray mound and then searched the second bag for their brushes and ribbons. When done, Bronwyn stepped out and Lily bathed, echoing her sister’s delight. Afterward, they sat silently, brushing their hair until it was dry, both minds churning on about what was to happen.
“Your hair,” Lily ground out as she fought Bronwyn’s difficult thick waves to create the fancy braiding designs she could so effortlessly fashion with her own dark locks.
“I know. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just put on a snood.” Almost instantly, pain shot through Bronwyn’s scalp. “Ow!”
“Mention your snood again and I’ll pull even harder…there. Perfect. Well, close at least.” Then after putting in a final pin to hold the twists and braids in place, she asked, “When do you think we should prepare and dress?”
Bronwyn opened her mouth, but before she could reply, a knock on the door made them both jump. The wooden bathtub had been removed sometime earlier but it was not nearly time for dinner. Pulling a worn bliaut over her head, a sense of alarm washed over Bronwyn as she rose to the door and opened it.
On the other side was the maiden who showed them to their rooms. Bronwyn’s apprehension mounted. The young woman was wringing her hands and a look of sheer panic was pasted on her face. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but…uh…you are both wanted at the palace. Immediately.”
Bronwyn forced her limbs to relax, refusing to be nervous—or at least appear to be so—as she followed the newest member of England’s royalty along the wooded path. Queen Eleanor’s brisk stride belied her very pregnant state with her and King Henry II’s second child. And yet despite her wide girth, she moved surprisingly gracefully and yet purposefully as the narrow path opened into a wider, more open view of the Westminster Abbey gardens.
Bronwyn took a deep breath and exhaled the cool, fragrant air. Impervious to winter, the Abbey gardens remained beautiful with flowers and greenery that thrived in cooler temperatures. The queen also seemed unaffected by the chilly breeze brought on by the lowering of the afternoon sun.
“Please sit here,” the queen said, pointing at a large, unadorned stone bench. Her inflection had not brokered argument, only that of agreement. Unfortunately, the brevity of the instruction was not enough for Bronwyn to gauge the emotion that prompted this private conversation, let alone why she and her sister had been brought to the palace in the first place.
Once told of the king’s desire for a meeting, Bronwyn hesitated, wondering just how His Grace had learned of their arrival so quickly, and more important, if he knew just why they were there. It had been Lily who had suspected the request to be a ruse and from the baron.
Both assumptions were quickly dispelled as wrong. It was not the baron or the king who had sent for them, but the queen.
Bronwyn had intended to leave a message for Ranulf, but when they descended the staircase, the queen’s soldiers were in the hall ready to escort them. The innkeeper was not in sight and his overly beset wife was not mentally able to digest anything that would have been said to her even if Bronwyn had found the opportunity. Resolved that Ranulf would undoubtedly learn just who’d sent for them, Bronwyn joined her overawed sister and journeyed the short distance to the palace.
Since Bronwyn was uncomfortable w
ith mysteries, her reaction to being welcomed into the Queen’s Presence Room was far different than her sister. Lily, noticeably engrossed with all that made up Westminster, stood riveted just inside the doors, her head following her eyes, taking in all the grandeur that was around her. Bronwyn’s focus, however, was on the person who brought them there.
“Ladies Edythe and Lillabet of the late Sir Laon le Breton of Syndlear, Your Grace,” called out one of the men who had escorted them through the palace.
The queen was standing at the far end of the room and gestured for them to come closer. Bronwyn clasped Lily’s hand in her own, forcing her younger sister to do as bid, and moved forward, never glancing away in hopes to discern just why they were there.
Unfortunately, with the exception of a brief, fleeting look of surprise, Queen Eleanor’s face revealed nothing nor did she say a word. Instead, she had just stared, assessing them. Bronwyn wondered if the queen was trying to make her feel uncomfortable, show deference, or something else entirely. Unknowing which, Bronwyn followed her instincts and openly returned the assessment.
The queen was just as all the rumors Lily had gleaned from visitors over the past year had claimed—very beautiful. Ranulf had mentioned Her Grace’s disdain for wimples, and whether it was true or not, she wasn’t wearing one nor did the intricately braided and coiled hairstyle around her face indicate she was going to don one in the near future. Her pearl-lined gown shimmered of deep blue fitted her, despite her motherly state. The jeweled pendant around her neck spoke of wealth and accentuated her long neck. Everything about Queen Eleanor was feminine and pretty—but it was her eyes that gave Bronwyn pause. Shrewd, they had the ability to peel back layers of a person’s shell to reveal the truth inside.
“I was told Sir Laon had three daughters and the youngest was married to the new Lord Anscombe.” The queen’s comment hinted at dangerous familiarity.
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