“I can assure you, Uncle, that few women age with ‘grace and ease,’ especially one so celebrated for her beauty. Eleanor is too shrewd not to know this is a war she cannot hope to win, but she is giving ground very grudgingly, making use of all the weapons at her disposal to keep the enemy at bay.”
Gilbert seemed daunted by the noise and crowds and confusion; he didn’t say anything, but he kept close by Ranulf’s side, his eyes roaming the hall as if seeking an avenue of escape. Aware of the boy’s edginess, Ranulf was about to suggest that they go outside to get some fresh air when Henry saw them and beckoned from the dais. His welcome was affectionate, and when Ranulf explained that he wanted to show Gilbert around the manor grounds, Henry at once voiced his approval, springing to his feet with alacrity.
“An excellent idea. Come on, let’s take the lad to see the springs,” he said, so enthusiastically that those around him smiled, aware that he’d have seized upon any pretext to avoid the ceremonial duties of kingship. Leaving Eleanor to preside over the hall, he headed for the closest door, accompanied by Ranulf, Gilbert, and Will. There was a time when Thomas Becket would have automatically been included in one of Henry’s Grand Escapes, and Ranulf could not help remembering that as he hastened after his nephew. Looking back at the tall, stately figure of Canterbury’s archbishop, he wondered if Becket was remembering, too.
Henry was in high spirits, acting like a schoolboy who’d managed to evade his lessons, and the others found his mood to be contagious; even Gilbert brightened up perceptibly. The sun had slid below the horizon, but the clouds drifting overhead were still painted in its hues, streaked with deep rose and soft purple. The sky had yet to lose its light, and the day’s warmth lingered. Gilbert soon forged ahead, racing one of Henry’s young wolfhounds, looking happier than Ranulf had seen him in weeks. The men followed at a more leisurely pace.
“How old is that lad of yours, Uncle?” Henry asked idly. “Nigh on twelve? I suppose he’d consider my Hal too young to bother with. A pity, for Hal has been complaining that there is ‘nothing to do here,’ which I take to mean he has no one to get into trouble with.”
“Hal is here at Woodstock? He is still in Thomas Becket’s care, is he not?”
Henry nodded. “I told Thomas to bring him along. I want the Scots king and the Welsh to do homage to Hal, too, when they do homage to me.”
Ranulf glanced thoughtfully at the younger man. “I was wondering about that,” he admitted. He could understand why Rhys ap Gruffydd should be required to do homage as a condition of regaining his liberty. But why summon the others? Now he had the answer: so they could swear to Hal, too. Before he could pursue this further, though, Henry asked abruptly:
“Have you spoken to Thomas yet?” When Ranulf shook his head, he looked disappointed. “I was hoping to get your impression of our lord archbishop.” Although said with a smile, the words held a slightly sardonic edge. “Talk to him tonight, Ranulf. I’ve tried talking to him myself, and he says what is expected of him. But—”
Henry came to a sudden halt, head tilted to the side, listening intently. “Did you hear that?” They hadn’t, but he paused before moving on. “Passing strange, I guess my imagination was playing me false. We’re almost at the springs. I’ve always loved this part of the park, have long had it in mind to build a house here—”
This time there was no mistaking the sounds: raised voices, a splash, a burst of sputtered cursing. The men quickened their pace and a moment later, a woman came running through the trees. She was casting glances back over her shoulder as she ran, and didn’t see the exposed root until it was too late. She stumbled, cried out sharply, and fell.
Henry reached her first, with Will and Ranulf only a step behind. She was already getting unsteadily to her feet, shrinking back at sight of the men. They could see now that she was very young, fifteen or sixteen at most. “We mean you no harm, lass,” Henry said swiftly, for her torn gown and her panicked flight told a story without need of words.
Just then her pursuer came into view. He was youthful and well dressed and would have been quite handsome under other circumstances; now his face was mottled and contorted with rage. “Look what that little bitch did!” he exclaimed, gesturing toward his muddied chausses and sopping shoes.
Henry swung back toward the girl, who’d taken refuge behind him. “Did you push him into the pool?” he asked and began to laugh. “Good for you, lass!”
The girl murmured something inaudible, and the man’s fury found a new target. “This is none of your concern,” he warned, but his belligerence lasted only until Henry stepped from the shadows cast by the oak tree. That he’d recognized Henry was obvious, for his angry flush gave way within seconds to a sickly pallor. When he started to stammer either an apology or an explanation, Henry cut him off impatiently. He did not need to be told twice, began to back away, and then bolted.
The girl kept close to Henry’s side until she was sure her assailant was gone. “Thank you, my lords,” she said softly. Gilbert had arrived in time to witness the man’s rout, and when the girl came forward, he drew a sibilant breath. Glancing at his son, Ranulf fought a smile, remembering the first time he’d seen girls in a new and dazzling light. Gilbert’s reaction was understandable, for she was very pretty in a delicate, fragile way. Too young to wear the fashionable wimple, she’d covered her head with a veil that had been lost in her flight, and her hair now tumbled loosely about her shoulders in a splash of silver. She had wide-set eyes, the darkest blue Ranulf had ever seen, a fair, ivory-tinted complexion, and a very appealing smile; when she turned it upon Gilbert, he flushed to the tips of his ears.
“Thank you,” she said again. “I did not mean to shove him into the pool, truly I did not. His foot must have slipped on one of the mossy rocks when I tried to pull away. He was sure, though, that I did it on purpose, and became so wroth . . .” She shivered visibly. “If you had not been here, I do not know what he might have done.”
They were puzzled by the contradictions between her appearance and her demeanor. She wore a rather plain gown, not at all stylish, but her speech indicated education; no serving girl sounded as this one did. “What were you doing out here, lass?” Henry asked, voicing the question in all their minds.
Twilight was deepening, a soft, shimmering lavender-blue, but they could still see the blush rising in her cheeks. “My father is in attendance upon the king, and he sent for me, Godstow being just a few miles away.”
“Godstow?” Henry echoed. “The nunnery . . . of course. You are being schooled there, then?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But how did you come to be with that lecherous lout?” Will asked tactlessly, and she bit her lip, looking so embarrassed that he at once regretted the question.
Notwithstanding her discomfort, she answered honestly. “I met him in the gardens. He said he was a knight in the Scots king’s household and we began to talk. He was very well spoken and courteous and when he offered to show me the springs, I saw no harm in it . . .”
“Ah, child . . .” Henry shook his head ruefully. “There is a great difference between the convent and the court.”
“The fault was mine, then?”
She sounded so forlorn that Will made gallant haste to assure her that indeed it was not, an assurance echoed by Ranulf and then Henry, who added, “The fault lies with your father, for letting a lamb loose with so many wolves on the prowl. He ought to be taken to task for—”
“Oh, please, no! Do not tell my father, for he’d be so angry with me . . .” She laid a hand on Henry’s arm in timid entreaty, and then gasped. “Blessed Lady, it is you! The king!” She sank down at once in a deep, submissive curtsy.
Henry gestured for her to rise. “Calm yourself, lass,” he said soothingly. “I did not mean to cause you greater distress, will say nothing to your father if that is your wish.”
A moment ago, she’d seemed on the verge of tears. But her smile now was radiant, so bewitching that Gilbert heave
d a small sigh. “Thank you, my lords, thank you!” The words were addressed to them all, but meant only for Henry. “This is not the first time you came to my rescue. You caught me when I fell out of a tree in my mother’s garden at Clifford Castle. Do you . . . do you remember, my liege?” she asked, so hopefully that Henry lied and nodded.
“Was that little lass you?” he asked, prodding his memory in vain. “So . . . you’re Walter Clifford’s daughter.”
“Yes, my lord king. I am Rosamund Clifford,” she said, and dropped another curtsy. She was so happy that Henry claimed to have remembered her that she now made Gilbert utterly happy, too, by turning to him and saying, “It was so long ago, the summer after the king’s coronation. He was putting down a Marcher lord’s rebellion and stayed one night at my father’s castle. I’d climbed the old apple tree in my mother’s garden and lost my balance when I tried to get down. I was clinging desperately to one of the branches when the king heard my cries and ran to my rescue. He caught me just as I fell, saved me from broken bones and mayhap even a broken neck, then dried my tears and agreed that my mishap would be kept a secret between the two of us.”
She smiled again at Henry. “So I owe you a debt twice-over, my liege, for that little girl in the apple tree and this foolish one at the Woodstock springs.”
It occurred to Ranulf that Rosamund Clifford was looking at Henry with the same starry-eyed adoration that his son was lavishing upon her. It was dangerous for a girl to be so pretty and so innocent, too; a convent was probably the safest place for her, at least until her father found her a suitable husband.
Henry was amused and faintly flattered, his thoughts echoing Ranulf’s own: that the sooner this little lamb got safely back to Godstow, the better. “The pleasure was all mine, Mistress Rosamund. But if you hope to keep your father in ignorance, we’d best see about repairing the damage done. We need someone who can be discreet, who can help the lass to stitch up the tear in her gown and find her another veil. Any ideas, Ranulf?”
“I know no one who appreciates intrigues more than Maud.”
“So I’ve heard,” Henry said, with a puckish smile that made Ranulf wonder suddenly if his nephew knew Maud had been the go-between in his long-ago liaisons with Annora Fitz Clement. It was soon agreed upon that Will would escort Rosamund Clifford to the manor and Gilbert would then go into the hall and fetch Maud, a plan that seemed to please Will and Gilbert more than Rosamund, who kept glancing back over her shoulder until she’d vanished into the gathering dusk.
Once she was gone, the two men looked at each other and laughed. “Were we ever that young?” Ranulf asked and Henry slapped him playfully on the back.
“Speak for yourself, Uncle. Need I remind you that I’m only thirty? I think I’ll have a word with Clifford, though, suggest that he send the girl back to Godstow without delay. Next time she might not be so lucky.” After a moment, Henry started to laugh again. “I was just thinking . . . Eleanor was about that lass’s age when she wed the French king. But somehow I doubt that Eleanor was ever that vulnerable or trusting. If any man had been fool enough to force his attentions upon her, I’d wager she’d have kicked him where it would hurt the most and then laughed about it afterward!”
Ranulf grinned. “I daresay you’re right.” The summer darkness was flowing about them now like a river, drowning the last traces of twilight. There was no point in continuing on to the springs and they started back. “Maud was a good choice,” Henry observed, “for she’ll not lecture the lass. Maud, bless her, is never judgmental. Did you hear about her brother?”
“No . . . what trouble has Will gotten himself into now?” Ranulf would never understand how his brother Robert, as fine a man as ever drew breath, could have sired a son as incompetent as Will. “I saw him in the hall, so if he got himself abducted by the Welsh again, he must have paid another ransom.”
“No, I’m talking of her younger brother, Roger. He is now the bishop-elect for the see of Worcester.”
Ranulf was delighted, for he’d always been very fond of Roger. “A pity his parents could not have lived to see that. How proud they would have been.”
“Roger is a good man, ought to make a good bishop. Even Thomas could find no objections to raise.”
“You make it sound as if Thomas is deliberately being contentious. Is that what you truly think, Harry?”
“In truth, Ranulf, I do not know what I think. I’d have sworn I knew Thomas to the depths of his soul. Now . . . now I look at him and see a stranger.”
By then they were almost upon the manor. It was clear that something out of the ordinary was occurring. Torches were flaring, voices raised, dogs barking. Ranulf figured it out first. “It is Owain Gwynedd,” he said.
The Welsh king’s entrance was so dramatic that Ranulf suspected he’d deliberately timed his arrival for nightfall. The molten-gold light of the torches flamed up into the darkening sky, casting eerie, wavering shadows, striking sparks against sword hilts and spearheads and the ruby pendant encircling the slender throat of Owain’s queen. Cristyn’s exotic, dark beauty had never struck Ranulf so forcefully, and he had the uneasy thought that this was a woman men would kill over, one with Delilah and Jezebel and Bathsheba. Did Hywel fully understand how dangerous it could be to underrate her?
Owain’s sons had accompanied him, well armored in pride and suspicion. Davydd and Rhodri, riding stirrup to stirrup, handsome and high-strung. Cynan, looking about with unabashed curiosity, and Maelgwn, meeting Woodstock with a scowl. Iorwerth, solitary even in a crowd. Several others, whose names Ranulf knew, but whose personalities eluded him. And then Hywel, reining in at Owain’s side, father and son gazing down upon their English audience, so impassive that even Ranulf, who knew them so well, could not be sure what they were thinking. With a silent, fervent hope that all would go well at Woodstock between his two kings, Ranulf stepped forward into the torch-glare to bid them welcome to his other world.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
July 1163
Woodstock, England
SITTING ON A BENCH in the gardens, Ranulf was watching his children romp with a silver-grey puppy when he heard his name called. Rising, he moved forward to meet Thomas Becket. Two of the men with the archbishop were familiar to Ranulf, for William Fitz Stephen and Herbert of Bosham had been clerks in the royal chancellory before following Becket to Canterbury, and they exchanged amiable greetings.
“Where is the Lady Rhiannon?” Becket asked, demonstrating that his manners were no less impeccable as archbishop than they’d been as chancellor.
“She is visiting with the queen and my niece, the Lady Maud, and whilst she does, I rashly offered to keep our two hellions from wreaking havoc upon an unsuspecting Woodstock,” Ranulf said with a smile.
“I see that the king has given you the puppy. He mentioned to me that he had it in mind. Apparently it is an uncommon breed?”
“Yes, a Norwegian dyrehund. The king remembered that I’d bred them years ago and thought it would please me to have one again.”
“He can be very generous,” Becket said, and Ranulf nodded. He was frustrated by the formality of the conversation, made necessary by the archbishop’s entourage. He wanted to take Becket aside, dispense with protocol, and talk not of the king, but of Harry, the man they both knew so well. But Becket was always surrounded by others and he did not invite any opportunities. To the contrary, he maintained an emotional distance, one Ranulf had been unable to breach. Friendly but not familiar, he used courtesy and the deference due his office as a shield, effectively deflecting curiosity and intimacy, too.
Becket was talking about Roger of Gloucester’s elevation to the bishopric of Worcester. He seemed to hold Roger in high esteem, which might explain his willingness to approve Roger’s election. For certes, it was not to please Harry. Becket’s interest in pleasing the king seemed minimal, and Ranulf yearned to know why. But that was not a question he could ask, mayhap not even one Becket could answer.
They continued mak
ing polite, meaningless small talk for a while longer and then the archbishop and his retinue moved on. Ranulf reclaimed his seat, watching until Becket was no longer in sight. What was motivating the man? Was it pride? Had his newfound independence gone to his head? Ranulf remembered his sister’s foolhardy behavior when it seemed as if the crown was finally within her grasp. She’d acted arrogantly and recklessly, alienating the Londoners to such an extent that they’d rebelled and chased her out of the city. She’d lost her chances of queenship in that wild rout, and doomed England to another twelve years of civil war. Could Becket be following that same perilous path?
Or did he truly believe himself to be unworthy of the archbishopric? Did he feel the need to prove to the Church—and to himself—that he was no longer Harry’s man? Did he think that to serve God, he must first sacrifice his other self, disavow the worldly chancellor who’d been the king’s friend? Was he shedding his old identity the way a snake would shed its skin? Ranulf frowned, then called out an admonition to Gilbert, who had scrambled precariously up onto the garden wall. It served for naught to speculate like this. He could only hope that Becket would realize in time that neither the Church nor the Crown benefitted from confrontation and conflict.
“Ranulf? Is it really you?”
The voice was one he’d not heard in years, but he knew it at once, for it still echoed at times in his dreams. He sat, frozen in disbelief, as Annora Fitz Clement came toward him across the grassy mead. It had been sixteen years since he’d seen her last, at Shrewsbury’s fair, a memory that had yet to fade, still sharply etched and achingly vivid. She’d been clad in green, pregnant with her husband’s child, glowing with contentment—until she’d seen him standing there. For at least a lifetime, they’d stared at each other, as she pleaded silently that he not betray her. He’d never forgotten that look of fear on her face; in that moment, he’d finally seen her for what she was—another man’s wife.
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