“Have the Welsh gone?” Maud asked, and then, “Good pitch, Hugh!”
“They departed a while ago. I tried to get Hywel to ride back with us, to no avail.”
“What ails him, Ranulf ? My impression of Hywel is that he’d be joking with the Devil on his deathbed. I’ve never seen him so somber as he was here at Woodstock. Why, when I told him that the Scots king was known as Malcolm the Maiden because he’d taken an ill-considered vow of chastity, Hywel merely nodded and made not a single jest! When he passed up an opportunity like that, I knew something must truly be amiss.”
“The Welsh are troubled by Harry’s demand for homage. They are worried that this new vassalage might well have strings attached, unseen as yet.”
Maud looked amused. “Strings? With Cousin Harry, most likely enough strings to weave a spider’s web.”
Ranulf frowned, for he thought his niece was a shrewd judge of men. “You think, then, that Harry truly covets Rhys and Owain’s domains?”
“Of course he covets, Uncle. That is what kings do, even saintly souls like Louis or our virginal young Malcolm. But I doubt that Harry is hatching any nefarious schemes to usurp Wales the way Stephen did England. To be unforgivably candid, Wales is not that great a prize. I think his true concern is to assure the succession for his son, and if that requires overawing the Welsh and the Scots, so be it. As like as not, he will—Jesú!”
Maud recoiled as an ill-aimed horseshoe thudded into the grass at her feet. “Are you so eager to be an orphan, Dickon?” she chided, and her younger son gave her an embarrassed grin. “Come on,” she said, linking her arm through Ranulf’s. “Apparently I am too tempting a target for my lads!”
Ranulf laughed and followed her out of the line of fire. “Quoits can be downright dangerous, especially when the players use stones instead of horseshoes. Add ale to the mix, and bystanders are likely to start dropping like ripe pears.” He was about to relate an account of a near-riot that had erupted after a quoit had bounced off the hob and clouted a London alderman, when he saw a familiar figure striding toward them.
“Rainald? Is the council done already?”
“Aye, it is done,” Rainald said, sounding so morose that Maud and Ranulf forgot about the game of quoits and hastened over. “Be glad you were not there, Ranulf, for it turned into a right ugly brawl. I’m half-deafened from so much shouting, am surprised you did not hear it all the way out here, for Harry can rattle shutters and raise the roof when he is in full cry.”
“What stirred up such a commotion? I thought it was just the sheriff’s aid that was under discussion.”
“Believe it or not, that was what kindled the fire. As soon as Harry announced that he wanted the sheriff’s aid to go into the Exchequer, Thomas Becket rose up in opposition to the plan, objecting most vehemently to the proposed change.”
Ranulf and Maud exchanged baffled looks. “Why? It would affect the sheriffs, not the Church.”
“So Harry pointed out. But Becket insisted that the sheriff’s aid was a free-will offering and was not to be changed into a royal revenue at the king’s whim. Harry was taken aback and instead of setting forth his reasons for wanting the change, he lost his temper and swore by God’s Eyes that the aid should be entered on the Pipe Rolls. And then Becket also lost his temper and he swore, too, by God’s Eyes, vowing that he’d not pay so much as a penny from his estates or Church lands. And all the while, the rest of us were sitting there openmouthed, unable to understand how it had come about.”
“Did Harry prevail?”
“No,” Rainald said, with astonishment that had yet to fade. “Becket did! He cleverly shifted his ground, arguing that our ancient, revered customs must be preserved against new and potentially dangerous innovations. That carried the day with barons and bishops alike, for who amongst us is not suspicious of change? When Harry saw the way the wind was blowing, he agreed to drop the matter, at least for now.”
“Why would Becket make so much ado about this? Why antagonize Harry over an issue that matters so little to the Church?”
“I’d have to be a soothsayer to answer that, Ranulf. This I can tell you, though, the bishops were asking that very question amongst themselves. For all that they rallied around Becket in public, they were as baffled by his behavior as we are. A wise man picks his quarrels with care, and Becket just squandered the king’s friendship for a trifle.”
“UNCLE RANULF?” Henry’s brother intercepted him as he started up the steps into the great hall. “May we talk?”
“Of course, lad.” Will’s open, freckled face was pinched and drawn, his distress so obvious that Ranulf took his elbow and steered him away from eavesdroppers. “Were you witness to the dispute over the sheriff’s aid?”
Will nodded. “I’ve never seen Harry so wroth, not ever. Few men would have dared to defy him like that, not to his face. I do not understand, Ranulf, how it has come to this.”
“Neither do I, Will.”
“Uncle . . . I had a troubling encounter with Thomas myself this morning, ere the council began. I honestly do not know if I have cause for concern or not, but I’ll admit to being disquieted about it. I told Thomas, you see, that I am to wed Isabella de Warenne. And he looked at me very gravely, shook his head, and said that such a marriage would not be acceptable in God’s Eyes, as Isabella is kin to me, by blood and marriage. It is true that Isabella and I are very distant cousins, and her late husband was my third cousin. But . . . but surely that is not an insurmountable impediment? Cousins get dispensations to wed all the time. Harry and Eleanor are cousins, after all, as were my parents. For certes, Thomas will be reasonable, will he not? He would not really forbid the marriage?”
Will’s composure was like a thin layer of ice, barely concealing the deep reservoir of panic just below the surface. Ranulf yearned to reassure his nephew that his fears were for naught, that not even the most scrupulous clerical conscience would be so inflexible. But how could he offer Will such a surety? Who would dare to speak for Thomas Becket now?
“We’ll talk to Harry about it . . . later, after his temper has cooled,” he promised, and, hoping that Will’s look of relief was justified, he continued on up the steps.
He was surprised to find that Henry and Becket were both still there, although at opposite ends of the hall. Like battle commanders, he thought, each one unwilling to withdraw from the field and give the advantage to his foe. Becket was talking to the elderly Bishop of Lincoln, never once glancing toward the king. But his clerks were hovering close at hand and his natural pallor was even more pronounced, his face the color of wax, his mouth ringed in white. His occasional stammer was more in evidence than usual, too. All in all, he struck Ranulf as a man with an unquiet soul, angry, agitated, and determined not to give ground. Rainald was wrong, he thought, for it was plain that Becket did not regard this as a quarrel over a trifle. Becket might be the only one who fully understood what the stakes were in this contest of wills between archbishop and king, but none could doubt that he knew they were high indeed.
The new Bishop of London was standing some distance away. Gilbert Foliot had an expressive face, and each time he gazed upon the archbishop, he gave himself away, his the queasy ambivalence of a man who’d just been proven right, at one and the same time grimly gratified and genuinely horrified. At his side was Ranulf’s nephew Roger, the Bishop-elect of Worcester. Roger was the son who most physically resembled his father, Robert, compact and spare of build, with oak-brown hair and eyes, a good-humored smile, an innate reserve. Now he was speaking quietly and persuasively into Foliot’s ear, like his sire, a born reconciler.
Several of the king’s lords were clustered around him upon the dais. Walter Clifford and Roger de Clare, Earl of Hertford, who was smiling so smugly that Ranulf knew he’d concluded that Henry was now sure to support his claim to Tonbridge Castle. Ranulf’s other nephew, Will of Gloucester, was gesturing emphatically to the Earl of Leicester, but Henry’s justiciar did not seem to be paying Will mu
ch mind. From time to time, he would nod politely or absently. All the while, though, he watched the king.
So did Ranulf. If Becket was ostensibly ignoring his sovereign, Henry’s gaze was following every move his archbishop made, with a falcon’s unblinking intensity. His face still deeply flushed, grey eyes smoldering, he seemed to be radiating heat; Ranulf could almost believe his skin would be hot to the touch. One glance was enough to show him that Rainald was not so wrong, after all, for the friendship between Henry and Becket was indeed doomed. It was dying here and now, on this July afternoon in Woodstock’s great hall.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
September 1163
Aberffraw
Môn, North Wales
HAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Ranulf had just dismounted in the bailey of Owain Gwynedd’s island manor. He did not realize that belligerent challenge was aimed at him, not until a hand clamped down roughly upon his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with Owain’s youngest son.
Rhodri had inherited his father’s height and topped Ranulf by several inches. His grip tightening, he repeated, “What are you doing here?”
Ranulf sought to keep his temper under rein, reminding himself that Rhodri was just eighteen and eager to prove his manhood. “I am here to see your lord father,” he said, as evenly as he could. “Now would you mind taking your hand off my shoulder?”
Rhodri scowled, but after a moment, his fingers unclenched. He did not step back, though, making a provocation of his very proximity, too close for comfort. “I’ll say this straight out,” he said. “We want no English spies at my father’s court.”
Rhodri’s voice carried across the bailey, quickly drawing an audience. Ranulf recognized several of the bystanders: two of Rhodri’s half-brothers, Cynan and Iorwerth, and Hywel’s foster brother Peryf, who nodded impassively before disappearing into the hall. Ranulf’s own men shifted uneasily from foot to foot, unsure what was expected of them. His brother-in-law Celyn pushed forward resolutely to stand beside him. Celyn had been so insistent upon accompanying him to Aberffraw that Ranulf realized he’d been anticipating just such a confrontation.
Ranulf had no intention of playing Rhodri’s game. “I agree with you,” he said pleasantly. “There is no place at Aberffraw for English spies.”
Rhodri’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. Cynan burst out laughing. A few others did, too, stopping abruptly when Rhodri glared at them. Ranulf had brushed past him, and he took several hasty steps to overtake the older man. “You are not welcome here!”
Ranulf turned reluctantly. “I was not aware,” he said, “that Lord Owain had abdicated in your favor. My congratulations.”
Rhodri had never learned how to deflect sarcasm and his cheeks reddened. Before he could decide how to retaliate, Hywel appeared in the doorway, smiling genially.
“There you are, my lord Ranulf. Come in, my father is awaiting you.”
The look Rhodri gave Hywel was both suspicious and uncertain. “Our father is expecting him? Why did no one tell me that?”
“Why, indeed?” Hywel asked, so innocently that those within hearing grinned and Ranulf felt an unwanted twinge of pity for Rhodri, so mismatched in any test of wits or will with Hywel. He could understand why Rhodri and Davydd were so consumed with jealousy, for it was like comparing a shooting star to the flickering of candles. How could they compete with a man so renowned, a man who wielded both sword and pen with daunting ease? Hywel’s youthful battlefield exploits were still talked of around winter hearths, on nights when mead and memories intermingled. Ranulf knew how rare it was for a great man to sire a son of equal abilities. Too often a Robert of Gloucester produced a son like Ranulf’s nephew Will, a sapling grown askew in his father’s shadow. But he did not doubt that Hywel, the most celebrated of Owain Gwynedd’s many sons, would also prove himself to be the most worthy.
Owain Gwynedd’s greeting was cordial enough to hearten Ranulf and to disconcert Rhodri and Davydd, who distrusted Ranulf as much for his friendship with Hywel as for his kinship to the English king. This was Ranulf’s first meeting with the Welsh king since Woodstock, and he was hoping for an opportunity to reassure Owain about Henry’s intentions toward Wales. Owain readily granted his request for a private audience and heard him out with grave courtesy. But whether his argument was persuasive, Ranulf could not judge. Owain guarded his thoughts the way a miser hoarded coins, giving away nothing of value.
Much to Celyn’s discomfort, he and Ranulf were invited to dine upon the dais. It was a signal honor, but one Celyn could have done without. Shy and soft-spoken, he had never expected to be consorting with the princes of the realm. While he tried to pay heed to what he ate and what he heard, knowing Eleri would want a full report, he took little pleasure in the experience.
Ranulf was almost as tense as Celyn, although for entirely different reasons. He was taken aback to find Rhys ap Gruffydd and Owain Cyfeiliog at Owain’s hearth. It was true that Rhys was Owain’s nephew and Owain Cyfeiliog was wed to Owain’s daughter, Gwenllian. But they were political rivals as well as kinsmen, feuding with each other as well as with Owain. He’d not have expected to find either man dining at Owain’s table, and as he watched them over the stuffed capon and venison stew, he could not help wondering what their presence here portended.
Owain Cyfeiliog was a noted poet himself, and after the meal was done, he allowed himself to be coaxed into performing his latest poem, The Long Grey Drinking Horn. It was a rousing success, enthusiastically received, although one line in particular resonated unpleasantly in Ranulf’s imagination: And many were the dead and dying there. If war were to break out again between the Welsh and the English Crown, Owain Cyfeiliog’s poetry might well become prophecy.
“You are doing it again,” Hywel chided softly, catching Ranulf by the arm and steering him toward a window seat. “I can understand a man’s wanting to borrow a horse or a knife or a winter blanket, but you are the only one I know who likes to borrow trouble. Let it lie, Ranulf. Just as babies come in God’s Own Time, so, too, do wars.”
“That is very comforting, Hywel,” Ranulf said dryly, and Hywel thumped him playfully on the shoulder.
“You know I am right,” he insisted. “No war was ever averted by fretting about it beforehand. Tell me, instead, what happened at Woodstock after we departed. Has Becket’s quarrel with the Earl of Hertford been settled yet?”
“The dispute was resolved in the earl’s favor. A fortnight after Woodstock, he successfully pleaded before the Common Bench at Westminster that he held Tonbridge Castle directly of the king.”
Hywel grimaced. “A pity, for the earl is no friend to the Welsh. Whilst we were at Woodstock, Rhys ap Gruffydd’s nephew was treacherously slain in his sleep by one of his own men. The killer escaped and took shelter with the earl, who refuses to turn him over to Rhys for justice to be done. Is there any chance you could intercede with the king on Rhys’s behalf ?”
Ranulf had already heard of Rhys’s latest clash with the Earl of Hertford. He suspected that sooner or later Rhys would have found some reason for breaking faith with the Crown, but he had to admit that the earl had provided a particularly good excuse. He could only hope that when war inevitably flared up again between Rhys and Henry, it would be confined to Rhys’s southern domains and not spill over into Gwynedd. “I doubt that it would do any good, Hywel. These days Harry has no thoughts for anything but his upcoming council with Becket at Westminster.”
“What are they bickering about now?”
Ranulf sighed. “You’ll be sorry you asked. Harry intends to demand that Becket cooperate with him in resolving the danger posed by criminous clerks, men in minor orders who rob and rape and plunder and then plead their clergy when apprehended. The Church insists they be tried before ecclesiastical courts, but the punishment meted out is often ludicrously light. They cannot pronounce a sentence of blood, so a murderer knows he’ll not face the hangman, no matter how heinous his offense. And whilst Church courts can cast
a man into prison in theory, it is rarely done in practice, owing to the expense of maintaining such prisoners.”
Hywel was entertained by Ranulf’s formal turn of phrase. “Feeding the poor bastards, you mean. Church law seems better crafted to find penance for sins than punishment for crime.”
“Now you sound like Harry,” Ranulf said with a smile. “The problem of criminous clerks has long been a thorn in his side, and he hoped to resolve it by putting Becket in Canterbury. He thought that by working together, they’d be able to come up with a solution satisfactory to the Church and Crown alike.”
Hywel grinned. “But then Becket experienced that inconvenient religious conversion or whatever it was that transformed him overnight from honey-tongued courtier to crusader for Christ.”
Ranulf nodded. “Becket has taken an utterly uncompromising stance, claiming that the king’s courts have no jurisdiction to try a man who has taken holy orders, even if that man has committed rape and murder.”
“It sounds as if you are speaking of a specific case.”
“Harry and Becket have clashed over a number of cases of late. The most outrageous one concerns a clerk in Worcestershire who raped a young girl and then murdered her father. Harry wanted the man brought before his court, but Becket ordered the Bishop-elect of Worcester, my nephew Roger, to imprison the man so the royal justices could not seize him.”
“That could not have been a popular decision, especially with the family and friends of the victims. Did people not protest?”
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