Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  March 1171

  Poitiers, Poitou

  HOW MANY DAYS until Maundy Thursday?” Raoul de Faye’s question seemed idly put, innocuous.

  Maud knew better. It was a sly thrust at her cousin the English king, for it was customary for the Pope to issue excommunications and interdicts upon that day, the Thursday before Easter.

  “I have not been keeping count,” she lied coolly, as if she had not been grudging every day’s dawning for the past month. Henry’s envoys had departed for the papal court weeks ago, racing the calendar to arrive before Maundy Thursday. Thomas Becket’s cross-bearer, Alexander Llewelyn, was known to be on the road to Italy, too, bearing letters from the French king and outraged French bishops. If he reached the Pope before Henry’s emissaries, a Maundy Thursday thunderbolt was almost a certainty.

  “It is less than a fortnight,” Raoul supplied helpfully. “I wonder how far the Angevin’s minions have gotten by now. For all we know, they are snowbound somewhere in the Alps, using his papal petitions for fire-wood.”

  “You sound as if you hope that to be true,” Maud observed, and he gave her what he thought was a candid, disarming grin, allowing that he’d not be heartbroken if Henry’s agents were lost until the spring thaw.

  Maud studied him with speculative, critical eyes. Raoul had been verbally sparring with her since her arrival in Eleanor’s capital the preceding week. At first she’d dismissed his sniping as an echo of Petronilla’s antagonism, but she was reassessing that assumption. Petronilla was jealous of her intimacy with Eleanor, and obviously so was Raoul. But Petronilla’s resentment was personal and his was political. He wanted no rivals for Eleanor’s ear, no trusted confidants to offer advice that was not his. Not for the first time in her life, Maud marveled that men could be such fools. As if Eleanor would ever be any man’s pawn, be he husband or uncle.

  Raoul’s smug satisfaction grated upon her nerves. They were jackals, she thought scornfully, nipping at Harry’s heels, hoping against hope that the lion was cornered at last. She had a weapon of her own—knowledge that Raoul did not possess—and she used it now to retaliate.

  “It grieves me,” she said gravely, “that you find such joy in wishing misfortune upon the king’s ambassadors. One of them is my beloved brother, the Bishop of Worcester.” Although addressed ostensibly to Raoul, her retort was actually aimed at their audience, and it achieved the desired result. Her sorrowful dignity stirred chivalric urges in the listening men and their disapproval discomfited Raoul. In the indolent, pleasure-seeking society of Aquitaine, bad manners were often judged more harshly than sins.

  MAUD HAD NOT LINGERED in the great hall after her victory; she had no interest in exchanging poisoned pleasantries with Raoul or Petronilla. Her confident pose was just that: a pose. She was deeply concerned for her cousin, fearing that Henry would be branded as an enemy of God by the enraged Pope. She worried, too, about Roger, for a winter crossing of the Alps was fraught with peril. And in the past few days, she’d become aware that Eleanor was troubled by more than her husband’s jeopardy.

  She discovered the queen’s secret later that night, purely by chance. She’d gone into the chapel upon discovering that it was unoccupied, for solitude was rarely found midst the clamor and commotion of a royal court. After saying prayers for the souls of her parents and dead brothers, for friends long gone and the husband who was surely burning in Hell these seventeen years past, she then prayed for the salvation of a Welsh prince whose laughter was stilled, his music silenced.

  She was about to depart when she heard footsteps out in the stairwell leading up to Eleanor’s private chamber. One of the queen’s men was escorting a woman muffled from head to foot in a dark, enveloping mantle, an odd choice of apparel on a mild spring eve. Maud’s curiosity was piqued by the clandestine behavior of the couple; had one of Eleanor’s ladies dared to tryst with a lover in her mistress’s own bed? As they passed the chapel door, whispering furtively, she acted on impulse and stepped out to confront them.

  Recoiling sharply, the woman grasped the hood of her cloak, drawing back into its folds like a turtle into its shell. The man reacted with equal dispatch, hurrying her by Maud before any words could be exchanged. Maud stood utterly still in the stairwell, staring after them. A cry rose in her throat, a name that never left her lips. For just the span of an indrawn breath, she’d looked upon the other woman’s face, no more than that, but time enough for recognition. This mysterious, shrouded figure being spirited from the queen’s chamber with such secrecy was Bertrade, her midwife.

  ELEANOR HAD unbraided her hair and was brushing it out, a nightly ritual that should have been soothing in its very familiarity. Not tonight; her thoughts continued to careen about: unwelcome, illogical, and unexpected. Picking up a mirror, she examined her metallic reflection with critical eyes, seeing a tired, pale woman gazing back at her, an aging stranger.

  The sudden pounding startled her and she frowned toward the door, vexed by this proof of the edgy state of her nerves. Before she could respond, it was pushed open and her cousin by marriage burst into the chamber. But this was a Maud she’d not seen before, white-faced and tense, so obviously agitated that Eleanor felt a surge of alarm.

  “Maud? What is wrong? It is not Richard—”

  “No,” Maud said hastily, “nothing like that. The last I saw of him, Richard was in the hall, playing chess with one of your household knights too new to know better.”

  Eleanor smiled faintly. “Richard turns every game into a life or death struggle. And when he loses, he demands an immediate rematch. But if nothing is amiss, why did you come running in here as if the palace was afire?”

  Maud hestitated, for this was one of the rare times when she’d reacted on instinct, not thinking out beforehand what she would do. The sight of Bertrade had propelled her up the stairs, for the memory of Eleanor’s last birthing was still harrowing even after the passage of more than four years. Not knowing what to say, she could only fall back upon the truth. “Eleanor . . . I saw her leaving.”

  “Saw whom?”

  “Bertrade. It was not her fault; she was being very circumspect.” Eleanor’s face was a graven mask, utterly unrevealing, but Maud forged ahead, nonetheless. “I know I am intruding and I know that trespassers risk being—”

  “Maud, I am not with child.”

  “If it is still early enough, there are herbs like artemisia and pennyroyal or savin—”

  “You are not listening to me. I am not pregnant.”

  This time Maud believed her. “But you thought you were.” Reading Eleanor’s silence as assent, she crossed the room and took the brush from the other woman’s hand. Eleanor didn’t object and for a time it was quiet. Maud concentrated upon brushing the queen’s hair until it gleamed like a long, dark rope.

  “You have beautiful hair,” she said. “Did you ever wish that it was a fashionable flaxen shade?”

  “No,” Eleanor said, and then, “I’ve had to start dyeing it.”

  “To hide the grey? Me, too.”

  “I thought I was . . . pregnant, I mean. I’ve not had a flux since December. But Bertrade says no, that I’ve reached that time in life when a woman’s menses cease. She says it usually happens by age fifty.” Eleanor’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I’m forty-eight.”

  Maud kept silent, continuing to brush Eleanor’s hair.

  “It makes no sense. I was horrified to think I was pregnant again, Maud. I’ve been drinking wine mixed with the juice of willow leaves so I’d not conceive. I should be so relieved . . .”

  “I understand,” Maud said softly. “Any woman would.”

  “But no man.” Eleanor rose suddenly, moved to the table, and poured wine into two gilded cups. Handing one to Maud, she said, “I took your advice, after all.”

  “Which advice was that?”

  “A long time ago, it was, more than eleven years. I was wroth with Harry for failing to win Toulouse, and Petra
was adding fuel to the fire. You told me—not in so many words—that I was being foolish and shortsighted. It took a while, but I came to see that you were right.”

  Maud glanced quickly toward Eleanor, their eyes catching and holding. She remembered. She had warned Eleanor that she must either accept Harry as he is or learn to love him less.

  POPE ALEXANDER was so appalled by the news of Thomas Becket’s murder that he refused to meet with Englishmen for more than a week. But Henry’s envoys were still able to persuade him not to issue a sentence of excommunication, taking oaths that the English king would abide by any papal judgment. The Pope contented himself with pronouncing a general sentence of excommunication against the murderers of the archbishop and all who had given them counsel, countenance, aid. Nor did he lay England under interdict, although he subsequently confirmed the interdict laid by the Archbishop of Sens upon Henry’s continental domains. He also confirmed the sentences of excommunication and suspension imposed by Thomas Becket upon the Bishops of London and Salisbury and the Archbishop of York, prohibited Henry from entering any church for the time being, and announced that he would be sending papal legates to Normandy to meet with the English king and judge whether he was “truly humbled.”

  GERALD DE BARRI always felt his heart swell upon his first sight of St David’s. Hidden away in a secluded hollow by the River Alun, the cathedral burst into view like a flower in sudden bloom, resplendent even in a chilly Welsh downpour. The original church had been built in the sixth century by the patron saint of Wales. The present cathedral was a lodestone for the faithful, attracting pilgrims from the far-flung corners of Christendom. For Gerald, it was much more; his uncle was the Bishop of St David’s.

  Urging his mount forward, Gerald vowed to make sure the poor beast got a rubdown and a bran mash, rich fare for a hired horse. He knew, though, that he’d pushed the animal mercilessly. The ride from Pembroke was less than twenty miles, but the day was wet, the September weather foul, and he’d set a punishing pace, so eager was he to reach Menevia while the English king was still there.

  After finding a trustworthy groom to take care of his horse, he took time for a quick wash-up before seeking his uncle and the king; both vanity and practicality dictated that he not appear before them in muddied disarray. He then plunged out into the rain again, hurrying toward the church. He arrived just as the Mass had ended and slipped inconspicuously in the south door, mingling with the canons and English lords as he awaited his chance.

  It came sooner than he expected. The king had halted in the nave, surrounded by his entourage and well-wishers and royal watchers. Murmuring an excuse to his highborn guest, the bishop hastened toward the door. Gerald darted forward to intercept him just as he stepped out onto the porch.

  “Uncle David!”

  The bishop blinked “Gerald! What are you doing here, lad?” Not waiting for his nephew’s response, he enfolded the young man in an affectionate embrace. “Why did you not write that you were coming home? Ah, but you’ll never guess who is inside the cathedral!”

  “I already know! I heard as soon as my ship dropped anchor at The Cross. He’s staying at Pembroke Castle whilst awaiting favorable winds for Ireland. People in the town were talking of nothing else. I had planned to head for Manorbier first, but when I heard the king was at Menevia . . . well, I thought if we met, he’d be likely to remember me in the future.” Gerald acknowledged his aspirations with a forthright grin; in his family, pride was not one of the Seven Deadly Sins. “Has a king ever visited St David’s ere this? When you heard he was at Pembroke, did you dare hope he’d come here?”

  “I hoped he would not,” Bishop David confided softly, and when Gerald stared at him in surprise, he glanced around surreptitiously to be sure they were not overheard. “It is a great honor, of course. But it is also a great burden, for we have not the resources of an English cathedral. We do not have enough in our larders and pantries to feed so many and I am loath to shame us by providing a meager meal for the king. Moreover, the longer he stays, the more dire our straits. A three-day visit could eat up our entire winter supplies.”

  Gerald was very fond of his uncle; David was paying for a first-rate education at the University of Paris. But he deplored his kinsman’s shortsighted approach to life. Were he the Bishop of St David’s, he’d gladly have put the canons on starvation rations if that earned him the favor of a king—even a king in disgrace.

  “Where does he stand with the Church these days, Uncle? In Paris, rumor had it that the Holy Father was still deliberating his fate. Is there any chance that you are entertaining an excommunicate?”

  Bishop David shuddered. “Jesú forfend!” Even though they were alone on the porch, he lowered his voice still further, continuing in a throaty whisper. “I assume you know that the Bishops of Worcester and Evreux and Lisieux were able to persuade the Pope not to issue an excommunication on Maundy Thursday. His Holiness then appointed a commission to investigate the king’s complicity in the murder of the martyred Thomas. But they have reached no conclusions. In fact, I believe they are still en route to Normandy. So at least I need not fear that I have invited Ishmael into God’s House!”

  Pope Alexander had also forbidden the English king to enter a church until his guilt or innocence could be determined, but Gerald kindly forbore to remind his uncle of that. For all he knew, the Holy Father had lifted this proscription; he had, after all, absolved the Bishops of London and Salisbury of their excommunication. Gerald was a student of history and he knew that kings were rarely cast out into darkness, for most Popes were astute practitioners of political power. Only outright defiance could guarantee a papal thunderbolt, and the English king was too shrewd to fall into that trap.

  “ ‘Ishmael’? Discussing Scriptures, my lord bishop?” This new voice was low-pitched and ironically amused, the voice of a man who never had to raise it to be heard. Gerald guessed the identity of the speaker even before he swung around to face the king of the English.

  Bishop David flushed and began to fling words about as if they were lifelines, hoping that one of them might be his rescue, distracting Henry from what he may have overheard. He made the introductions with over-hearty enthusiasm, and as his nephew knelt before the king, he babbled on nervously about Gerald’s accomplishments, the fine career ahead of him in the Church once his studies were done.

  Gerald was not easily embarrassed, scorned false modesty, and usually enjoyed hearing his virtues lauded. But not under these circumstances, and he earnestly entreated his uncle to desist, insisting that the King’s Grace could not be interested in the doings of an “obscure scholar.”

  “Not obscure for long, I’d wager,” Henry observed, for he knew Gerald’s family and there was not a one of them born without a craving for fame and fortune. Gerald de Barri was the grandson of a celebrated Marcher lord and a Welsh princess, a woman so lovely that men had called her the Helen of Wales. The Lady Nest gave Henry an incongruous link with the young clerk, for Gerald’s beautiful grandmother had become the mistress of his own grandfather, the lascivious old king, Henry I.

  Henry could think of any number of bawdy jokes to make about this dubious connection, but he regretfully refrained, for he was supposed to be on his best behavior. Reminding himself of that, he ignored the tempting subject of the Lady Nest, instead offered some courtesies about the cathedral, the saint’s shrine, and the bishop’s hospitality.

  Bishop David gulped and then did what he must, declaring that the King’s Grace and his entourage were welcome at St David’s for as long as it might please them, seeking to disguise his discomfort with lavish compliments and much talk about the “honor” of this royal visit.

  Henry knew better. “That is most kind of you, my lord bishop. We will, of course, be pleased to dine with you. But I regret that we cannot accept your generous invitation to stay at Menevia, for I must return to Pembroke this eve.”

  Bishop David’s relief was so transparent that Henry had to hold back a smile. His
uncle Ranulf had often joked that a royal visitation was about as welcome as a biblical plague of locusts, stripping bare every cupboard and blade of grass in their path. Had the bishop looked upon life with more humor, Henry might have jested about his plight. As it was, he contented himself with the knowledge that his pilgrimage to St David’s had gone so well. Facing a fearsome sea voyage to Ireland, it behooved a man of faith to court the goodwill of one of the most celebrated of Christendom’s saints. And if word of his visit—and his offerings of brocaded silk and silver coins—got back to the Holy See, so much the better. He well knew that his papal currency had dwindled down to a handful of farthings, not enough to buy delay, much less absolution.

  “I NEED HAVE NO FEARS of Purgatory when I die, for I am expiating all of my sins on the road to Pembroke,” Rainald moaned, no longer bothering to clutch his mantle close against the gusting rain; he was already drenched, wetter than any fish.

  “Somehow, Uncle, I doubt that your sins can be as easily shriven as all that.”

  Rainald turned in the saddle to glower at his companion. It wasn’t Roger’s joking that offended him. He was vexed that his nephew could sound so cheerful under such drear circumstances: riding along a muddy mountain path in a pouring rain as night came on, all because his other nephew was a lunatic. Who but a lunatic would drag them out into a storm when they could be snugly abed back at the bishop’s palace?

  Roger knew exactly what he was thinking, for Rainald had been complaining nonstop. “We’re almost there,” he said encouragingly. “Surely you can endure a few more miles?” Getting another groan in reply, he kicked his stallion lightly in the ribs and overtook his cousin, riding just ahead.