Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Henry slanted a smile over his shoulder. “Is Uncle Rainald hurling more curses at my head?”

  “Be thankful he does not practice the Black Arts or you’d have been struck down miles ago.” Roger grinned, for he was still young enough to share Henry’s indifference to the weather. “I think you are to be commended, Harry, for sparing the bishop’s larders and his pride. It was plain to see that he could not afford the openhanded hospitality that we’d find in Normandy or England. As it was, some of our men had to eat standing up even though you’d deliberately limited your escort to three hundred. If we’d stayed overnight, St David’s might never have recovered from the honor!”

  The rain was coming down too heavily for Henry to see his cousin’s face, but Roger’s voice held a levity that he hadn’t heard for almost a year. Roger had defended him before the French court, and then made the dangerous winter journey across the Alps to argue his case to the Pope. He’d accompanied Henry back to England in August, ending his self-imposed exile, yet Henry knew that Roger held him responsible for Thomas Becket’s death. Roger did not confuse the legal concepts of “innocent” and “not guilty,” nor would he pretend otherwise. But Henry had noticed a thawing in recent weeks.

  It had begun at Wolvesey Palace, when he and Roger paid a visit to Henry of Blois. The aged Bishop of Winchester was blind and feeble. He had not minced his words, though, bluntly telling the king that once he’d unleashed the hounds of Hell, he could not claim he was blameless for the destruction they did.Very few people had ever dared to speak to Henry with such uncompromising candor. Winchester had known he was dying and that may have unbridled his tongue. Henry had known he was dying, too, and so he’d accepted a judgment he thought to be unfair and biased; how likely was he to receive impartial justice from Stephen’s brother? He’d tried to view his silence as penance, for even at his most defiant, he could not deny that his reckless words had set in motion the bloody killing at Canterbury. But on this rain-sodden Michaelmas night, he saw the first flickering of light after months of darkness, the realization that his friendship with his cousin Roger might one day emerge from the shadow cast by Thomas Becket’s murder.

  ALTHOUGH HE’D NOT have admitted it, even Henry was relieved when they finally rode into the bailey of Pembroke Castle. Warming himself before the hearth in his bedchamber, he waved his squires aside when they would have helped him to undress. “Later, lads. For now, just fetch me some red wine.”

  The youths exchanged startled looks, for that was a rare request. Eager to please him, they made a hasty departure for the buttery, already starting to squabble over which wine to select, Gascon or Rhenish, even though they knew Henry would want whatever they chose watered down.

  As soon as they were gone, Henry sat down on a coffer, stretching his muddied boots toward the fire. He’d been detained at Pembroke for a fortnight, his will thwarted by westerly winds, and the delay was shredding his patience raw although his stay had been quite productive so far. In addition to his pilgrimage to St David’s, he’d made peace with the most powerful of the Welsh rulers, Rhys ap Gruffydd, accepted the submission of the erring Earl of Pembroke, and even enjoyed several successful hunts, the rain notwithstanding. But he was eager to be on his way and he knew these contrary winds could continue to blow for weeks to come.

  He’d just taken his boots off when a knock sounded. “Enter,” he said, not bothering to turn around. But it was not his returning squires. Glancing over his shoulder, he was surprised to see both Rainald and Roger beaming at him. “Why are you two not abed?”

  “We’ve brought you a visitor.”

  “At this hour? What would you have done if I’d been asleep?” Rainald dismissed the objection with an airy wave of his hand. “We’d have had to awaken you, of course.” He and Roger exchanged grins, looking more like gleeful coconspirators than earl and bishop, stalwarts of the king’s council.

  Puzzled and faintly irked by their complacent smiles and baffling behavior, Henry got to his feet as they stepped aside, revealing the man standing behind them in the doorway. And then a smile of his own slowly spread across his face.

  “What are you waiting for, Uncle?” he said. “Come on in.”

  After a barely perceptible hesitation, Ranulf did.

  HENRY’S SQUIRES had fallen asleep on their pallets. So had Rainald, who was sprawled, snoring, in the window seat. Roger held out longer, but at last he, too, was nodding drowsily and stifling yawns. “I’m going to bed now and leaving word that I’m not to be awakened until Friday.” Ignoring Henry and Ranulf’s gibes of “milksop” and “weakling,” he headed for the door.

  They’d been conversing easily, interrupting each other freely, lapsing back into the bantering familiarity of a lifetime, almost as if the past six years’ estrangement had never been. They had discussed Henry’s plans for Ireland, where he meant to foil the ambitions of his Marcher lords, put a halt to the ongoing strife, and aid the Irish bishops in their attempt to bring Irish Church practices into conformity with Roman law. They had talked of Henry’s family, scattered throughout the Angevin empire like feathers on the wind: Eleanor in Poitiers with Richard and Joanna and Aenor, Hal in Normandy, Geoffrey in Brittany, Tilda in Germany, and John with the nuns at Fontevrault Abbey. And they had spoken of the smoldering tinderbox that was Wales.

  North Wales had fragmented in the aftermath of Hywel’s death at Pentraeth. Gwynedd had been divided up amongst Owain’s surviving sons, with the lion’s share going to Davydd and Rhodri, Môn to Maelgwn, Nanconwy to Iorwerth, and the commotes in the west to Cynan. Few doubted, though, that this partitioned peace was doomed, kindling for yet another Welsh war of succession.

  In the south, it was different. Rhys ap Gruffydd had none to challenge his supremacy, none but the might of the English Crown, and he had made a coldly calculated decision to ally himself to that alien power. He’d come to Henry near the Welsh border, offering hostages, horses, oxen, and fealty. Ranulf understood why he’d done so, and thought that Owain might have understood, too. But he did wonder if any mention had been made of the hostage son who had suffered for Rhys’s broken faith, the son now known as Maredudd Ddall, Maredudd the Blind.

  When Roger shuffled sleepily off to bed, Henry had been telling Ranulf that he’d waived payment of most of Rhys’s proffered tribute, recognized Rhys’s right to lands claimed by the Marcher Houses of Clare and Clifford, and returned to him another son long held hostage at the English court. But now that he and Ranulf were alone for the first time, their conversation’s flow began to ebb, soon slowing to a trickle.

  They studied each other silently in the fire’s erratic glow, listening to the crackle of flames, the raspy sounds of Rainald’s snoring, the rhythm of rain upon the roof. Henry sipped his wine, oblivious to what he was tasting. “I grieved for you when I learned of Hywel ab Owain’s death,” he said softly. “He was a brave man, a gifted poet, and good company.”

  Ranulf inclined his head. “Yes . . . he was.”

  “I was concerned on your behalf, too, Uncle, for I very much doubted that Davydd ab Owain would let you dwell unmolested in domains now his.”

  “He did not.”

  Henry waited a moment and then prodded, “Well?”

  “I thought it best to depart Trefriw lest I drag my uncle Rhodri down with me. My elder son joined the service of Hywel’s brother Cynan, and Rhiannon and our younger children are dwelling now at my manor in Shropshire . . .”

  Color had crept into Ranulf’s face, spreading upward from throat to forehead, and Henry set his cup down in surprise once he noticed the older man’s discomfort. Ranulf was quiet again and Henry shifted impatiently, but this time he did not prompt, waiting for Ranulf to continue on his own.

  Ranulf was still deeply flushed. “I realize you might well think that this is why I am here, Harry, to mend fences now that I’ve returned to England. But that is not so. I came not to regain royal favor—”

  Henry had been staring at him incredulously and now
burst out laughing. “Jesus God, Ranulf! In all my life, I’ve never known a man so uncalculating, so lacking in avarice. Did you truly think I’d doubt your motives? After you turned down an earldom?”

  Ranulf joined in his laughter, somewhat sheepishly. “You will admit it was an awkward coincidence, though, that I should seek you out once I am back on English soil. I could hardly blame you for harboring some suspicions.”

  “And I usually breathe in suspicions as I breathe in air,” Henry conceded. “But not with you, Uncle.” He hoped that Ranulf understood his assertion for what it was, the rarest of compliments. Death had claimed his confidants one by one—his parents, his brother Will—leaving only Rosamund and Eleanor and his sons, who were still green, untried lads. “Whether it be the doings of the Almighty or your ‘awkward coincidence, ’ Ranulf, I am not likely to question it, just to be glad of it.”

  Ranulf’s smile was still the smile of his youth, curiously untouched by time. “I’m glad, too,” he said. “I’ve missed you, lad.”

  Henry’s answering smile never reached his eyes. “I ought to leave well enough alone,” he said, “but I’d not mislead you by my silence. I deeply regret our falling-out over the Welsh hostages. I am sorry that there are men who dwell in darkness because of my command. But in all honesty, if I had to do it over again . . . most likely I would, Ranulf.”

  “I know.” Ranulf had spent much of his life watching those he loved wrestle with the seductive, lethal lure of kingship. It had proved the ruination of his cousin Stephen, a good man who had not made a good king. For his sister Maude, it had been an unrequited love affair, a passion she could neither capture nor renounce. For Hywel, it had been an illusion, a golden glow ever shimmering along the horizon. He believed that his nephew had come the closest to mastery of it, but at what cost?

  Henry rose and padded barefoot across the chamber to pour more wine for Ranulf, spilling only a splash into his own cup. He detoured to snatch a blanket from his bed and drape it over Rainald’s shoulders before returning to the hearth. “The drawbridge is down, the parapets unmanned. You may not get another chance to catch me with my defenses in such disarray. Are there any questions you would put to me?”

  Ranulf smiled and shook his head, and Henry’s brows shot upward. “Not even about Thomas Becket?”

  “No.”

  Henry studied Ranulf’s face intently, and then exhaled a breath soft as a sigh, for he saw that his uncle was utterly sincere, free of all doubts or misgivings about the manner in which Becket met his death. “A pity the Pope does not share your certainty,” he said, with a flippancy that did not deceive Ranulf in the least.

  “I know that the Pope has dispatched two cardinal legates to investigate the killing, and I know, too, that both men are said to be strongly predisposed in Becket’s favor,” he said and Henry grimaced his agreement.

  “I think we can safely assume that there will be some finding of fault.” “Is that why you are going to Ireland, then, to delay the reckoning with the Church?”

  Henry feigned indignation. “Such cynicism ill becomes you, Uncle. Would you have me sit on my hands whilst my Marcher lords carve out Irish kingdoms for themselves?”

  “But Roger told me that the Earl of Pembroke hastened from Ireland to meet you at Newnham and made an abject submission to assuage your wrath,” Ranulf pointed out, and Henry shrugged.

  “Yes, he came to his senses right quickly. By that time, though, I already had an army assembled. If you go to the trouble of saddling a horse, you’re going to want to ride it.”

  Ranulf was amused by his nephew’s ability to avoid giving a direct answer. “If lamprey is not your favorite dish, it ought to be, for your slipperiness could put any eel to shame. I know you can give me reasons beyond counting why you must go to Ireland, beginning with that Papal Bull you were granted some years ago to bring Ireland under subjugation to Rome. Nor do I doubt that you want to teach your Marcher lords that if they try to fly too high, you’ll clip their wings. But I still say that if the Irish isle was not even more remote than Wales, you’d not be so keen to spend the winter there.”

  Henry yielded, then, with a grin. “I see these past six years have not robbed you of any of your stubbornness. If you must hear me say it, so be it. The longer I can stave off the Church’s verdict, the less likely it will be an excommunication or interdict and the more likely they’ll offer terms I can live with.”

  Ranulf raised his cup in a fond, sardonic salute. “Now that I think of it, there is a question I want to ask you. Rumors about the Canterbury killers have taken root in every alehouse, every marketplace, and are sprouting faster than the hardiest weeds. I’ve been told that they have gone on Crusade to make amends, that you’ve dispatched men to hunt them down without mercy, that in the months since the killing, they’ve all begun to sicken, stricken by unknown maladies that have no cure. What is the truth of it, Harry?”

  “The last I heard, they had gone to ground at Hugh de Morville’s castle at Knaresborough in Yorkshire, where I daresay they are hoping to ride out the storm.”

  “But you have not moved against them?”

  “No,” Henry said, frowning into the depths of his wine cup. “They thought they were doing my bidding, Ranulf. Even though they wounded me almost as grievously as they did Thomas, they were arrows launched from my bow, men who were acting upon my own angry, imprudent words. I admit that I have been known to dissemble at times, for that is an essential aspect of statecraft. But I am not a hypocrite.”

  “No,” Ranulf agreed, although not as wholeheartedly as Henry would have liked. It was not that Ranulf disbelieved him. But life had taught him that men learned to justify themselves almost as soon as they learned to talk, and he suspected that kings had more need than most to vindicate their acts. “What do you think will happen to them, Harry?”

  Henry shrugged again. “If they are wise, they’ll confess their sins, repent, and throw themselves upon the mercy of the Church. Of course the only penalties they’d face are spiritual. The ultimate absurdity of this, Ranulf, is that their crime is one the Church would deny me the right to punish. Thomas insisted unto his final breath that only the Church could judge the offenses of men in holy orders and any crimes committed against them.”

  “I do not imagine Thomas would appreciate the irony of that,” Ranulf said dryly. “From what I’ve heard, he cast off humor when he put on the sacred pallium.”

  “For certes, he did when he donned that wretched hair shirt,” Henry agreed, sounding more perplexed than sarcastic. He’d been shaken by the revelation of Becket’s secret mortification, and months later, he still could not reconcile that man with the one he’d known—or thought he’d known. He waved Ranulf off when his uncle would have refilled his cup, for wine was not the key to the enigma that was Thomas Becket.

  “I thought he was the hypocrite,” he admitted. “In that, I was wrong. No man would wear a filthy, lice-ridden garment next to his private parts if he did not believe utterly in the sanctity of his cause. The chafing alone must have driven him half-mad!” He smiled then, without much humor. “How could I have so misjudged him, Ranulf?”

  Ranulf did not answer at once, for he understood the honor inherent in the question; he was likely the only man to whom his nephew could pose that query. “I think,” he said slowly, “that Hywel saw him with the clearest eye. He said once that Thomas reminded him of a chameleon, changing his color to reflect his surroundings.”

  Henry raised his head, considering that. “Well,” he said, “if Hywel is right, the fault is still mine, then, for insisting he take the archbishopric. If I’d kept him as my chancellor, we both might have fared better.”

  “I’d heard that the Pope has agreed to absolve the Bishops of London and Salisbury. But what of the Archbishop of York? Does his suspension still hold?”

  “For now it does. I expect, though, that he’ll eventually get it lifted.”

  “And the de Brocs? What of them?”

 
That was a question Henry preferred not to answer. He didn’t doubt that they had been implicated in Becket’s murder, but he still had need of their services in Kent. He sought to divert Ranulf’s attention by changing the subject. “I do not suppose you’ve heard about the latest misfortune to befall Gilbert Foliot? He took ill this past August, was burning with fever until they began to despair of his life. The Bishop of Salisbury had come to give him comfort, and he kept urging Gilbert to let him pray to Thomas for deliverance. Gilbert finally agreed, his fever soon broke, and within a few days, he was well on the road to recovery.”

  Ranulf grinned. “Was his misfortune that he was so gravely ill . . . or that he may have owed his recovery to Thomas Becket?”

  “Both, I suspect,” Henry said and laughed. “Poor Gilbert. He is truly torn between his dislike of the man and his awe of the martyr!”

  It was quiet for a time after that, but it was a companionable quiet, bred of intimacy and affection. Henry absentmindedly scratched the ears of one of his wolfhounds and Ranulf smothered a yawn.

  “I think I shall have to be off to bed,” he said. “These old bones of mine need more rest than yours.”

  Henry glanced up, then nodded. “Ranulf . . . do you think Thomas Becket was a saint?”

  “I do not know, Harry.”

  “There is much talk of miracles at his tomb and the like. But surely that is not proof? There are fools aplenty who are credulous enough to believe any nonsense that reaches their ears.”

  “I’ve heard of these miracles,” Ranulf acknowledged, “and in truth, I do not know what to make of them. To us, Thomas was a mortal man, one like any other, with his share of flaws and follies. It is difficult to envision him a saint.”

  “Well nigh impossible,” Henry commented trenchantly. “Did I ever tell you what he was reported to have said about the expulsion of his kinfolk and servants? When he was told that some of them were on their way to join him at Pontigny, he replied that as long as their souls were saved, he cared not if they were flayed to the bone. How saintly does that sound?”