She’d not seen her children for hours. Gilbert was laboring over his lessons with Maud’s youngest son, who’d soon be sent off to serve as a page in some noble household, as his elder brother had. Mallt was in the nursery with Eleanor’s children, under a nurse’s care; it had shocked Rhiannon to realize how little the queen was involved in their daily routine. She supposed that was why royalty could bear to send their children away to be raised by strangers. Ever since she’d learned that the French queen would be yielding up her infant daughter to Henry, she’d been overwhelmed with pity for Constance. Princesses were bartered away for peace, for gain, for gold, their futures often determined while they were still in the cradle. Constance would have known that, expected that. But Rhiannon found herself wondering if the mother was as accommodating as the queen.
Across the hall, Eleanor was conversing with her husband’s justiciars, Richard de Lucy and Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester. Maud and Eleanor’s sister, Petronilla, were playing a game of hazard, under the disapproving eye of the Bishop of Salisbury, who felt that gambling was an even greater sin when engaged in by the female sex. Left to her own devices on this rain-soaked afternoon, Rhiannon let her defenses slip. Her sister was with child again, the babe due in January. Eleri’s two earlier pregnancies had been difficult ones, her birthings prolonged and painful. She ought to be there for Eleri, not stranded here at the English court, feeling like a flower put down in foreign soil.
“Rhiannon!” The familiar bellowing of her brother-in-law jolted her back to the castle’s great hall. By the time Rhiannon had gotten to her feet, Rainald had already reached her. “I’ve a surprise for you, lass,” he said jovially. “Guess who I just met out in the bailey?”
Rhiannon had already recognized the footsteps of Rainald’s companion. With a joyful cry, she flung herself into Ranulf’s arms, giving him the most enthusiastic greeting of their entire marriage. When they finally ended the embrace, they were surrounded by grinning spectators and Eleanor was moving swiftly toward them.
“Lord Ranulf! Did my husband come back with you?” Eleanor’s smile flickered. “No . . . I suppose not.”
Ranulf hastened to kiss her hand, murmuring a formal “My lady” for the benefit of their audience. “He has gone on pilgrimage with the French king to the abbey of Mont St Michel.”
Eleanor’s lips parted, freezing her smile in place. “Did he, indeed? Then he has no plans to return to England in the near future?”
“No, Madame. He wants you to join him at Cherbourg for Christmas, and he gave me a letter to deliver . . .” Ranulf was fumbling within his mantle. “Ah, here it is.”
Eleanor took the letter. “Welcome home, my lord Ranulf,” she said, and this time the smile was dazzling. Ranulf could not help noticing, though, that she seemed in no hurry to open Henry’s letter.
RANULF HAD RACED a winter storm from Southampton to Old Sarum, and it was soon besieging the castle in earnest. The wind was battering at closed shutters and barred doors, its high, keening wail chasing sleep away. Most people tossed restively, yearning for the coming of day. In Ranulf and Rhiannon’s bedchamber, though, the mood was one of drowsy contentment, for they were still basking in the afterglow of an especially passionate reunion.
“I must have been stark mad to be gone so long from your bed,” Ranulf confided, laughing softly when she agreed that indeed he must have been. “I had intended to return to England after we went to Paris, but then Harry summoned his knights in Normandy to Avranches, planning a campaign in Brittany, and I could not leave. Once Duke Conan submitted to Harry, I made plans again to depart. But then we had to ride south to deal with the Viscount of Thouars. It was never my wish to be gone three months, love.”
“Nigh on four,” she corrected. “At least you did not go off to tour the religious shrines of Brittany with Harry and the French king.”
“Eleanor seemed vexed about that, too.”
“Does that truly surprise you, Ranulf?”
“Yes,” he admitted, “it does somewhat. She is a queen, after all, and well accustomed to the demands of kingship.”
“She is a woman, too, and I doubt that there is a woman alive who’d not expect her husband to come home to see his newborn son. I’m sure she understands his reasons for threatening to make war against Conan, and she’d hardly complain about his success in rousting her rebellious vassal from Thouars Castle. But it is another matter altogether for him then to go off blithely on a pleasure jaunt with her former husband, especially when he has yet to lay eyes upon their babe!”
“But she approved of the marriage betwixt their children, Rhiannon. Harry assured me it was so.”
“I know, and I’ll own up that I was taken aback by that. Eleanor is far more pragmatic than I am, I fear. But I can assure you that she is not so pragmatic that she wants Harry and Louis to become the best of friends! She loves Louis not, with cause, for he will not allow her to see their daughters. And for all the talk about his saintly nature, he has not scrupled to besmirch her name and their memories of her. Can you blame her for being bitter about that?”
“No, of course not . . .” Ranulf pulled more blankets about them as the wind’s howling intensified. “Harry once told me that his father cautioned him against wedding a woman he loved. Geoffrey claimed that the best marriages were based upon goodwill or benign indifference. I thought that was unduly cynical, even for Geoffrey. But I can see that passion might not be the soundest of foundations for a marriage, especially a royal one. The expectations would be different, and marital wounds would cut more deeply, for the weapons would have sharper blades.”
He frowned, then was quiet for several moments. “I hope that Harry and Eleanor have the good sense not to let their wounds go untended, lest they fester. It would grieve me greatly to think there was a serpent in their Eden, just biding its time.”
Rhiannon realized that he was quite oblivious to their own snake, the woman he’d risked his mortal soul for, the dark-eyed Annora Fitz Clement. Whenever Ranulf crossed the border back into England, Rhiannon’s fear rode with him, the fear that this would be the time he’d encounter Annora at the English court. Was it true that a flame was more easily kindled from the embers of an old fire? She didn’t know, prayed to God that she never found out. “If you love me, Ranulf,” she whispered, “take me home.”
Turning, he kissed her mouth and then the hollow of her throat. “I do,” he said, “and I will. We leave for Wales on the morrow.”
ELEANOR’S SHIP LANDED at Barfleur in mid-December. From there she rode the few miles to Cherbourg, where she was reunited with her husband. Their Christmas court that year was said to be splendid.
CHAPTER SEVEN
April 1159
Trefriw, North Wales
IN JUST TWO DAYS, the churches of Gwynedd would be pealing out the advent of Palm Sunday, but winter still held fast in the high mountain passes and heavily wooded hillsides. Patches of snow glistened above the timberline of Moel Siabod and a raw, wet wind was making life miserable for men and animals alike. It would not normally be a day for visiting and so the dusk appearance of a lone rider caused a stir. A groom was soon hastening into the hall, blurting out that Lord Owain’s son was dismounting in the bailey.
Rhodri and Enid made much of their unexpected royal guest, ushering Hywel toward the hearth, taking his muddied mantle, calling for mead and cushions. Rhiannon’s greeting was equally warm, for Hywel was now firmly lodged in her good graces. All of them wanted to know what he was doing out in such wretched weather, expressing astonishment that he did not have an escort and reminding him that it was both dangerous and unseemly for a king’s son to venture about on his own.
Ranulf thought he had the answer to that particular puzzle. If Hywel was alone, it meant he’d been paying a discreet, clandestine visit to yet another light o’ love, one with either a protective father or a jealous husband. As their eyes met, he had confirmation of his suspicions in Hywel’s sudden grin. He wondered idly who this l
atest conquest was; women came and went with such frequency in Hywel’s life that it was hard to keep track of them, even for Hywel.
Hywel’s secret liaison had obviously gone well, for he was in high spirits, flirting with Enid and Rhiannon, joking with Rhodri, eating heartily of their plain Lenten fare. Over a dinner of salted herring, onion soup, and dried figs, he regaled them with tales of the recent English expedition into South Wales against the rebellious King of Deheubarth, Rhys ap Gruffydd. Henry had dispatched the Earls of Cornwall, Gloucester, and Salisbury to lift Rhys’s siege of Carmarthen Castle. Although Rhys was his sister’s son, Owain Gwynedd had been compelled by the English king to contribute a contingent to the royal force, too, led by his brother Cadwaladr and his sons, Hywel and Cynan. Yet this formidable English-Welsh alliance had failed to bring Rhys to heel and they’d had to settle for another truce, a rather inglorious end to such a redoubtable campaign.
Ranulf couldn’t resist pointing this out to Hywel, but the Welsh prince took the raillery in good humor. “You do not truly expect me to lose any sleep over the English king’s feuding with Rhys? Life is too fleeting to waste time fretting about other men’s troubles.”
They laughed and urged him to tell them more about the campaign. He did, relating several comical stories that ridiculed both the heroics of war and his English allies, garnering more laughter for his efforts. But Hywel had a poet’s keen eye and he was not deceived by the apparent harmony in Ranulf’s household. During the course of the dinner, he’d taken note of Rhiannon’s reddened, swollen eyes, and he’d noticed the sidelong, surreptitious glances Rhodri cast in his nephew’s direction from time to time. Even the complacent Enid was showing signs of distraction, for she had neglected to apologize profusely and needlessly to Hywel for the quality of their meal, as she’d unfailingly done in the past. As for Ranulf, his laugh was too hearty and his humor hollow, at least to one who knew him as well as Hywel.
Putting aside the last of his dried figs, Hywel complimented Enid extravagantly upon the dinner and then insisted that Ranulf accompany him out to the stables to see his new stallion. Ignoring Ranulf’s halfhearted protests, he collected their mantles and a lantern, then headed for the door, giving Ranulf no choice but to follow. The rainstorm heralded by the day’s damp wind had finally arrived, and they hastened across the bailey, pulling up their hoods.
The horses had been fed and bedded down for the night, their groom over in the hall having his own dinner. Raising the lantern, Ranulf started toward one of the stalls, saying, “Come on, show me this wonder horse so we can get back inside where it is warm.” When the flickering light revealed a dappled grey muzzle, he turned to stare at Hywel in surprise. “Either this new stallion of yours is a twin to your Smoke or you had far too much mead tonight. Which is it?”
“You’re right, that is Smoke. I needed an excuse to talk to you alone.”
Ranulf frowned. “Why? What is wrong?”
“You tell me.” Hywel moved closer so that they were both standing within the small pool of light spilling from the lantern. “What has your wife and uncle so distraught? And why do I suspect the King of England’s name will soon be creeping into our conversation?”
Ranulf smiled tiredly. “You do not miss much, do you?” Turning aside, he sat down on a workbench and gestured for Hywel to join him. “My nephew is about to go to war against the Count of Toulouse and he has issued a summons to his barons, myself included, to meet at Poitiers on June twenty-fourth.”
“And your family does not want you to go.”
“They are adamantly opposed, and I cannot seem to make them understand that I have no choice. Rhiannon has turned a deaf ear to my arguments, reminding me that she did not object when I answered Harry’s summons two years ago, as if that were a debt she can now collect. I know women can be unreasonable . . .” And for a moment, an unbidden ghost flitted across his memory, strong-willed and stubborn. Startled, he shook his head, banishing Annora Fitz Clement back to the past where she belonged. “But I thought Rhiannon would be more sensible—”
Hywel’s laughter cut off the rest of his complaint. “Let me see if I have this right. You will be going off to foreign parts to fight in a war that has nothing whatsoever to do with Wales and you have no idea how long you’ll be gone. And you wonder that your wife is balking?”
“Rhiannon does have a legitimate grievance. I know that. But it changes nothing. This is a summons from my king, not a neighbor’s invitation to dinner! Refusal is not an option, Hywel.”
“I know,” Hywel conceded. “You think I was eager to ally myself with that milksop Gloucester? I did it because my lord father wanted it done; why else?”
“Exactly. There are things men must do. Since we are speaking so plainly, I very much doubt that Lord Owain took any pleasure in helping the King of England defeat one of his own. Rhys is a rival and often a thorn in your father’s side, but he is still Welsh, and a kinsman in the bargain. Yet your father had done homage to the English king, so he had no choice. No more than I do. I only wish there were some way I could make Rhiannon see that.”
“You will not. She will never understand. But she will accept it, because she has no choice, either.” Hywel unhooked a flagon from his belt, passed it to Ranulf. “Take a swig and then tell me where Toulouse is and why the English king is willing to fight a war over it. Which motive are we dealing with—greed or revenge?”
“Most likely lust.”
Hywel blinked. “What?”
“This war can be explained in three words: Eleanor of Aquitaine. Toulouse is a rich region to the south, with Mediterranean ports and fertile harvests. The Count of Toulouse, Raymond de St Gilles, is not only the French king’s vassal, he is also his brother-in-law, for Louis wed his sister Constance to Raymond five years ago. Poor Constance has not had much luck with husbands. Previously she’d been wed to King Stephen’s son Eustace, about whom nothing good can be said. And gossip has it that Raymond maltreats her, too, for all that she has borne him three sons in as many years.”
“I like gossip as well as the next man, but this woman’s marital woes can wait. Where does Eleanor come into this?”
“Eleanor’s grandmother Philippa was the only child of Count William of Toulouse. But upon his death, Toulouse passed to his brother, not to Philippa. Philippa was wed to the Duke of Aquitaine, and they always viewed Toulouse as rightfully theirs.”
“I see. So you think Eleanor has prodded her husband into asserting her claim to Toulouse?”
Ranulf nodded. “Whilst wed to the French king, she coaxed him into taking that same road. Nigh on twenty years ago, Louis led an armed force into Toulouse, was soundly rebuffed, and withdrew in humiliating haste. But a second husband gives her a second chance, and she’s not one to let an opportunity go by unheeded.”
“Neither is Henry,” Hywel pointed out dryly. “I doubt that he needed much persuasion. But in their eagerness to return the lost sheep to the fold, so to speak, they seem to have forgotten about the sheepdog.”
“Would you care to translate that for me?”
“What about their most unlikely alliance with the French king? Surely they do not expect Louis to sit by placidly whilst they make war upon one of his vassals, his own sister’s husband?”
“Louis is in an awkward position. How can he refute Harry’s claim to Toulouse when it is the very same claim he once made himself on Eleanor’s behalf?”
“Somehow I suspect he’ll find a way. Men can be very inventive when their own interests are threatened.” Hywel took the flagon back, drank, regarded Ranulf thoughtfully, and drank again. “This sounds to me like the wrong war in the wrong place at the wrong time, fought for all the wrong reasons. So . . . when do we leave?”
“You’re not serious, Hywel? Why in God’s Name would you be willing to risk your life in Toulouse?”
Hywel shrugged. “I do not have any other plans for the summer. I’ve always wanted to see foreign lands. And what man would not leap at the chan
ce to meet Eleanor of Aquitaine?”
“I would be right glad of your company,” Ranulf acknowledged. “But I’ll not hold you to it if you change your mind once you sober up.”
Hywel grinned. “Some of my best decisions have been made whilst I was in my cups. Now let’s go back to the hall ere we both freeze.” And as they plunged out into the downpour, he soon had Ranulf laughing, for he’d begun to sing:Were the lands all mine
From the Elbe to the Rhine,
I’d count them little case
If the Queen of England
Lay in my embrace.
ON TUESDAY, the thirtieth of June in the French town of Périgueux, the English king bestowed the honor of knighthood upon his seventeen-year-old cousin, Malcolm, King of Scotland. The ceremony was an elaborate one and Hywel ap Owain found it fascinating, for he’d never witnessed the ritual before. Malcolm had been bathed to wash away his sins, then clothed in a white tunic, which symbolized his determination to defend God’s Law. Within the great cathedral of St Front, Malcolm’s sword was blessed, and Henry then gave him his gilded spurs and bright, shining blade, instructing him that he must use his weapon to serve the Almighty and to fight for Christ’s poor. A light blow to the shoulder and it was done.
As they milled about outside in the garth after the ceremony, Ranulf told Hywel that Malcolm’s grandfather had been the one to knight the sixteen-year-old Henry Fitz Empress. “I can scarcely believe that was ten years ago,” he said, “but I suppose I’ll be saying that, too, when another ten years have raced by and it is my son whom Harry is knighting.”
Hywel was only half-listening, his mind on getting back to the Castle Barière, where an abundance of wine and food and shade awaited them. Gazing up at the bleached-bone expanse of sky, he winced. The abbey was built upon a hill and afforded them a fine view of the cité’s brown-red roofs and the moss-green surface of the River Isle, as sluggish and slow-moving as the few townspeople out and about in the noonday sun. His temples were damp with perspiration and Hywel was suddenly very homesick, not for family or friends or even absent bedmates, but for the incessant rains, cooling winds, and early morning mists of Wales.
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