Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Ranulf hastily followed Owain from the tent. Ignoring the stares and speculation of his soldiers, Owain began to walk, and Ranulf fell in step beside him. A turquoise twilight was spilling over the hills, and the few clouds overhead were darkening to a deep purple. Off to the south, Ranulf thought he glimpsed the fading gleam of the River Elwy. They were just a few miles from Rhuddlan and the English army. A few miles and a few days and then Armageddon. Unless he could convince Owain to accept the English terms. Unless the Almighty deigned to work a miracle solely on his behalf.

  “What did you mean,” Owain asked abruptly, “when you said it would be up to me?”

  “King Henry’s terms are not easy to swallow. But if you can force them down this once, you’ll not have to drink from that cup again. If you keep faith with him, he’ll keep out of Wales.”

  “How can you be so sure of that?”

  “Because,” Ranulf said, “I know my nephew, about as well as any man can.”

  Owain had led them into the shadowed circle cast by a sky-scraping oak. “I’ve spoken to your uncle about you,” he said unexpectedly. “Rhodri swears that your soul is Welsh. He says you are that rarity, a man as honorable as he is honest. But can you be loyal to Wales and Henry, too?”

  Ranulf summoned up a grimacing smile. “God knows, I am trying.” “The English campaign has hardly been a rousing success so far. Your nephew’s attempt to outflank me almost cost him his life, and his fleet was badly mauled in that raid on Môn. Why should I make peace when I am winning?”

  “Because we both know that you can win battles, but not the war,” Ranulf said bluntly. “Wales can match neither the resources nor the armies of the English Crown. For every Welsh child born, the Lord God has chosen to let twenty be begotten across the border. I am not saying it would be easy to conquer Wales. But I fear it could be done.”

  “And you think this young lordling is the man to do it?”

  “You mock him at your peril, my lord Owain. Yes, Harry is young.

  He learns fast, though, rarely making the same mistake twice. And he gets what he wants. You need proof of that? Both his crown and his queen were once claimed by other men. But by the time he was one and twenty, he’d won the English throne and taken Eleanor of Aquitaine into his bed.”

  Ranulf paused, taking a deep, deliberate breath before saying then, with all the conviction at his command, “Trust me in this if nothing else, my lord. Henry Fitz Empress is no ‘young lordling,’ but the most dangerous foe you’ve ever faced. His will was forged in the same fire that tempered the blade of his sword. If you provoke him into war to the uttermost, he’ll do whatever he must to win that war.”

  “You say he gets what he wants. How do I know he does not want Wales?”

  “Harry is ambitious, not rapacious. For all that gluttony is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, it is not amongst his. He does not bite off more than he can chew, and he well knows that Wales would be a tough mouthful. Moreover, he has shown himself to be a fair and just liege lord to the diverse lands within his domains. He rules Anjou, Normandy, Maine, Touraine, England, and his wife’s Aquitaine, without meddling in their customs, laws, or languages. He told me once that was his father’s deathbed advice: Always to ride with a light hand on the reins.”

  “That may be so, but he is heavy-handed in his demands. He asks a lot for a man who has yet to gain a victory on Welsh soil.”

  “And that is telling, too, my lord. Another man might have forced a battle, just to prove to you—and himself—that he could win. Another man might also have made the terms much harsher, punishing you for his mistakes. But Harry needs to prove his manhood to no one. Nor does he seek out scapegoats. He accepts rebellion, fairly fought. It is betrayal he cannot abide—or forgive.”

  “I assume that is a warning,” Owain said dryly. “You put me in mind, Lord Ranulf, of a man trying to ride two horses at once. At the moment, you seem to have a foot planted firmly in each saddle. But I wonder how long you can keep such a precarious balance.”

  “I wonder, too,” Ranulf said, with a rueful smile. “I’ve tried to be honest with you, my lord, more honest than men usually are with kings. If I may, I’d do a bit more plain speaking now. I know that Harry’s terms leave a sour taste in your mouth. But in truth, they are not that unreasonable or onerous. It would vex you, I daresay, to have Cadwaladr underfoot again. We both know, though, that you can keep him in check. It might even be better to have him back under your control, rather than conniving freely at the English court. As for Tegeingl, you cannot truly blame Harry for wanting you out of a cantref that borders on Chester. He told me recently that if he turned a blind eye to the border for long, the people of Cheshire and Shropshire would soon be speaking Welsh, and that, my lord Owain, is the highest compliment he could pay you.”

  He’d taken a gamble with that last remark, saw that he’d won it when the corner of Owain’s mouth quirked, a smile almost too quick to catch. He did not dare to ask, though, if he’d been persuasive. There was too much at stake to risk hearing that he’d failed.

  “Stay the night,” Owain said. “I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Ranulf watched as Owain strode off into the darkness. Suddenly he felt very tired, body and soul. A tree stump was off to his right, a primitive seat at best, but close at hand. He was still sitting there when Hywel strolled over.

  “My father will say only that he has some thinking to do. Naturally, that has alarmed my brothers, few of whom do any thinking at all. They cannot understand why he does not just send you back to the English camp with a blistering refusal scorching your ears. Nor would they stop at that. If it were up to them, you’d be banished from ever setting foot on Welsh soil again, even in your dreams.”

  That was Ranulf’s secret fear, that even if he managed to stave off a war, he could still be the loser. “Am I likely to end up in exile, Hywel? Would your father do that?”

  Hywel looked surprised, then amused. “Do not be a dolt. Of course he will not.”

  Ranulf was heartened by the other man’s certainty. “You must have more influence than I realized.”

  “As much as I’d like to claim the credit, there is a simple reason why my father will let you remain in Wales. You’re the English king’s uncle. You might well become our window to the English court. Or,” Hywel added mischievously, “a useful pawn or hostage. No, rest assured that we’ll not be booting you out of Gwynedd, whatever my father decides on the morrow.”

  “I’m gladdened to hear that,” Ranulf admitted, for with Hywel he could let down his guard. “It would break Rhiannon’s heart to go off into English exile. Nor would I fancy it much, either.”

  Getting to his feet, he moved so stiffly that Hywel, who was a year younger, made a joke about aging English bones. By now the moon had risen above the surrounding hills, casting a soft, silvered light upon the Welsh encampment. Ranulf studied the face of his friend, familiar but not always expressive; Hywel could be as inscrutable as his father when he chose.

  “It is going to be a long night, Hywel. You know your father’s thinking, better than most. Do you believe he will agree to the English terms?”

  Hywel was quiet for a moment. “Well,” he said, “if I were a gambling man—and we both know I am—I’d put my money on peace. Or what passes for peace in Wales.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  August 1157

  Rhuddlan Castle

  Gwynedd, Wales

  HENRY’S CHARM WAS GENUINE, for it sprang from his love of life and his unquenchable curiosity. But it also contained an element of calculation. He’d learned at an early age the disarming power of a smile or jest. He’d learned, too, that not all men could be won over with charm, and he sensed at the outset that Owain Gwynedd was one of them. The Welsh king was courteous, dignified in his submission, and beyond reach. When Henry looked into his eyes, grey unto grey, he got only the most guarded glimpse into the older man’s soul. Gwynedd’s defenses might be vul
nerable to English attack, but Owain’s defenses were intact, impressive even in defeat.

  Across the great hall, Ranulf watched as Henry and Owain talked together, their voices low, their faces unrevealing. Occasionally, they smiled, seemingly oblivious of all the eyes upon them. The ceremony was over. Owain had done homage to Henry, yielded hostages and the cantref of Tegeingl and accepted the submission of his brother, Cadwaladr. Ranulf doubted if that particular peace would last long. Cadwaladr’s smirk did not bode well for future harmony. But Cadwaladr’s prospects held no interest for Ranulf. If he was foolish enough to provoke Owain again, he deserved whatever he got. The only peace that mattered to Ranulf was the one that now existed between Owain Gwynedd and Henry Fitz Empress.

  “Intriguing, is it not?” Hywel materialized without warning at Ranulf’s side; for a big man, he could move as quietly as any cat when he chose. “Watching them take each other’s measure, like two stallions vying for the same mares. The young challenger versus the seasoned sire. Which would you wager upon, Ranulf ? Youth or experience?”

  “Does it matter? They’ve agreed, after all, to share the herd.”

  Hywel smiled skeptically, for he thought that neither stallions nor kings were ones for sharing. But he refrained from saying so. It was hardly sporting, after all, to kick a man’s crutch out from under him. “So what happens next? I trust we get fed now that we’ve surrendered? Even the doomed Christians got a last meal ere being thrown to the lions.”

  “Actually, they were the meal and the lions were the ones who got fed. But we’ll have a better supper than you’ll usually see on the royal table, for Thomas Becket brought his cooks along. Tonight we’ll dine on venison stew and stuffed goose and the lord chancellor’s finest Gascon wines, and on the morrow, Harry will return to England, Owain to Aber, and you, I expect, will find some absent husband’s wife to help you celebrate the Peace of Rhuddlan.”

  Hywel grinned into his wine cup, not bothering to deny it; he loved to hunt and he loved women, and in pursuit of those twin passions, he felt no conscience pangs about trespassing. “What of you, Ranulf? When you return to Trefriw, will you be welcome?”

  “I do not know, Hywel,” Ranulf admitted reluctantly. “My uncle and sister-in-law were wroth with me for answering Harry’s summons. They may not want me back.”

  “But you did avert further bloodshed, convincing my lord father to accept the English terms. Surely that must count in your favor?”

  Ranulf shrugged. “It is not a popular peace, though. I’ve heard the talk. Many Welshmen feel that they were winning and do not understand why Owain yielded. My uncle and Eleri may well be amongst them.”

  “True enough,” Hywel conceded, but then he smiled. “Suppose I accompany you? After they hear me laud you as a blessed peacemaker, how can they not forgive you?”

  “Just be sure,” Ranulf warned, “that you do not lure Eleri off for some private persuasion. Her husband may be a man of few words, but you make a cuckold of him at your peril.”

  “Of course I will not try to seduce Eleri.” Hywel managed to look both innocent and offended, yet his dark eyes were gleaming. “I promise,” he said, “to confine my attentions to your wife,” and sauntered away with Ranulf’s laughing curse ringing in his ears.

  “That is Owain’s firstborn?” Henry arrived just as Hywel was departing. “The poet?”

  Poets were greatly esteemed in Wales, not so revered across the border. Henry had a higher regard for learning, though, than many of his countrymen; both his parents had valued education and had seen to it that he’d received an excellent one. Many lords scorned writing as a lowly clerk’s skill, but Henry never traveled without a book in his saddlebags. Knowing that, Ranulf had no qualms about confirmation and he nodded. “Yes, the poet.”

  Henry looked after Hywel with kindled interest. “Is he any good?”

  “Actually, he is. And he wields a sword as deftly as he does a pen. It was Hywel who rallied the citizens of Môn to repel your invasion.”

  “Can you not even pretend to regret our rout from Môn?” The reproach was playful, Henry’s smile sympathetic. “You deserve credit for this peace, Uncle. I’ll not be forgetting what you did.”

  “I hope the Welsh forget,” Ranulf said wryly, knowing they would not. Too many of his Welsh brethren would see his actions as proof that he was—and would always be—an alltud, a foreigner.

  “Let them grumble in the alehouses and taverns; you do have alehouses in Wales? When courting popularity, Ranulf, aim high. You’ve gained a king’s favor by this campaign. No, not mine; you’ve always had that. I meant Owain. You proved yourself to be honorable and, even better, useful.”

  Ranulf smiled in spite of himself. “I can see that you and Owain speak the same tongue, one common to kings. A pity poor Stephen never learned it.”

  “I’m glad he did not,” Henry said forthrightly, “for if he had, he might have held on to his stolen crown. You are right, though. I think Owain and I do understand each other.” For a moment, his gaze shifted, his eyes resting thoughtfully upon the Welsh king. All in all, Henry was pleased with the results of his campaign. He’d gotten what he wanted, and without paying too high a price for it. He knew, of course, that he had not bought peace with the Welsh, merely rented it for a time. He knew, too, that his uncle believed otherwise, and that would be the one regret he’d take back to England. But he said nothing, for in this, he and Hywel ab Owain were of one mind. Llawer gwir, gorau ei gelu. All truths are not for telling.

  DINNER WAS SERVED in England between eleven and twelve in the forenoon, in Wales at day’s end. Because Eleri had visited Trefriw rarely in the weeks since war began, her stepmother, Enid, had instructed their cook to prepare a more elaborate meal than usual: roast capon, cabbage and almond soup, gingered carp, and apple fritters. But the dinner was not a success. To Enid’s annoyance, Eleri and Rhiannon and Rhodri seemed indifferent to the fine fare set before them. Only the children ate with gusto. The adults pushed the food about on their trenchers, taking an occasional absentminded bite, and Enid realized she could have served them straw for all the notice they’d taken. Conversation was equally listless, desultory, and labored. Enid was soon wishing that her stepdaughter had stayed away.

  Rhiannon was wishing the same. It was unbearably painful, this estrangement with her sister. She could feel Eleri’s eyes upon her. When she misjudged her reach and almost tipped over her cider cup, Eleri had instinctively leaned over to help. As Rhiannon steadied the cup, their fingers touched, briefly, before Eleri pulled back. Rhiannon knew Eleri was hurting, too. But neither one knew how to mend this rift. Whenever they’d tried to talk about it, they ended up arguing again. Even the news of the Rhuddlan pact had not restored peace to their household.

  Picking up her spoon, Rhiannon dipped it into her soup. The silence was as oppressive as the heat; this was the hottest, driest summer she could remember. Rhodri was too disheartened by the family discord to keep the conversation afloat, Enid seemed to be sulking, and when shouts echoed across the bailey, Eleri grasped gratefully at an excuse to flee the table.

  “Someone is coming,” she announced, flinging her napkin aside; she was halfway across the hall before it landed. Swinging the door back, she gave a joyful cry, as sweet and clear as birdsong. “It is Celyn!” Her voice changing, she added flatly, “And Ranulf.” But then she gasped. “Jesú, Prince Hywel is with them, too!”

  As the men dismounted, Eleri came flying through the doorway and threw herself into Celyn’s arms. Rhiannon wisely elected to let Ranulf come to her, and they were soon enveloped in a close embrace. It was left to Hywel to accept Rhodri’s flustered greetings. Stammering a bit, for he was not accustomed to entertaining royalty, Rhodri bade the prince welcome, while Enid blessed her luck for having served a dinner fit for a king’s son.

  With squeals of “Papa!” Ranulf’s children bolted out into the bailey. Ranulf swung Gilbert up into his arms and then hastened to catch Mallt as she tripped. As strong-
willed as her namesake, the Empress Maude, Mallt took her stumble in stride, picking herself up with admirable aplomb. “Papa! What you bring me?”

  Ranulf laughed and then set the little girl upon her feet as his uncle limped toward him. For the span of a lifetime, they looked at each other. “Welcome back, lad,” Rhodri said at last. “Welcome home.”

  THE CELEBRATION LASTED long after darkness had fallen. As word got out, borne on the wind across the hills and down into the river valley, neighbors began to trickle in, for Hywel attracted crowds as surely as nectar enticed bees. He liked nothing better than an audience and soon had the men laughing and the women bedazzled, telling them of the English raid upon Môn, describing his father’s meeting with the English king at Rhuddlan, praising Ranulf extravagantly for the part he’d played in the peacemaking, shrewdly mentioning how pleased Lord Owain was with Ranulf’s efforts. That baffled some of Ranulf’s neighbors, impressed others, and offended a few. But even the most unforgiving of them dared not challenge their king’s verdict. Before the evening was done, Hywel would see to it that Ranulf was protected by armor far more effective than chain-mail, the redoubtable shield of Owain Gwynedd’s favor.

  It was almost midnight when Rhiannon slipped from the hall and crossed the bailey toward the chambers she shared with Ranulf. Both her children were in bed, Gilbert tangled up in the sheets and Mallt with her arms wrapped tightly around her cherished rag doll. Rhiannon leaned over their pallets, listening to the soft cadence of their breathing. Reassured that they slept, she backed away.

  The chamber was dark, but she navigated with confidence, for she knew the location of every chair, every coffer; it was a grave offense in her household to move furniture at whim. She had been blind for twenty-six of her thirty-four years, and she’d long ago learned how to cope with her disability, relying upon memory and her other senses and courage to compensate for her lack of sight. She invariably amazed people with her prowess, misleading them by how easy she made it appear. That was an illusion, for her victories were all hard won, her battle begun anew with each day’s dawning.