Geoffrey-or Geoff, as he’d brusquely corrected her-was no less unfamiliar, for great was the gap, too, between a five-year-old and one not far off from fourteen. Geoff had the same fair coloring as his brothers: bright, curly hair, a sprinkling of freckles, and wide-set grey eyes; no matter how troubled her marriage had been, not even Maude’s most virulent enemies could ever have challenged Geoffrey’s paternity. Geoff had some of his father’s swagger, too. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes guarded, for Maude had yet to recover from her initial misstep, when she’d remarked, before she could think better of it, that he bore a strong resemblance to Henry.
Geoffrey was also leaning against the wall, their poses too similar for coincidence; it was obvious to Maude that her sons sought to emulate him in all particulars, and that was not a comforting thought. This was not going well, not at all. The boys were wary, not readily tamed, and conversation was painfully stilted. They were just shy, Maude told herself, and that would pass. “I almost forgot,” she said, with forced cheer. “I brought you back presents from England.”
Putting Henry’s gift aside, an ivory and ebony chess set, she gave Will his gift first, a rare lodestone that acted as a magnet. Will seemed pleased, but her present for Geoff was not as successful. It was a book handsomely bound in red leather, The Song of Roland; she’d remembered Ranulf’s saying how much he’d enjoyed Roland’s adventures as a boy. Geoff thanked her politely enough, but then added snidely, “Harry is the only one who likes to read.”
“And the only one with manners, too,” Geoffrey observed. Although he’d spoken with a smile, it was clearly meant as a reprimand, and Geoff mumbled an apology. But it was Geoffrey he wanted to placate, not her. They were strangers, these sons of hers. Beloved strangers. Blessed Lady Mary, was it not enough that she’d lost her crown? Was she to lose her children, too?
Geoffrey was not surprised by the awkwardness of this meeting, nor that Will seemed so diffident, Geoff so sullen. He’d expected as much, for Will had no surviving memories of his mother, and Geoff resented what he saw as favoritism to his elder brother. But what Geoffrey had not expected was that he should actually feel a prickling of pity for Maude, laboring to bridge an eight-and-a-half-year gap in the space of a single afternoon.
They were all relieved by a sudden commotion in the outer chamber, welcoming the distraction. A moment later the door flew open and Maude’s firstborn burst in upon them. “Mama!” It had been almost a year since she’d seen Henry last, and he’d taken several consequential steps toward manhood in those intervening months. Had he not been her own, she’d have guessed him to be older than fifteen, for his shoulders were beginning to broaden, his voice had deepened, and he had none of the uncertainty, the gangling awkwardness of a boy growing into a man’s body; he seemed to have bypassed that stage altogether. But he still looked blessedly familiar and blessedly at ease with her, as he demonstrated now by striding forward eagerly and giving her a hearty, welcoming hug.
With Henry there, conversation no longer flickered like a spent candle; it flared brightly, feeding upon his enthusiasm, his obvious pleasure in having his mother home. During the next hour, the talk ranged far afield, touching upon a variety of topics. Maude’s voyage from Arundel. Memories of Robert. Archbishop Theobald’s dramatic arrival at Rheims. Henry’s new stallion. The latest news from the Holy Land, a bloody massacre of German crusaders by the infidel Turks. The Pope’s proposed elevation of their ally, Abbot Gilbert Foliot, to the bishopric of Hereford, an action sure to outrage Stephen. For it always came back to that, to Stephen and a stolen crown.
“I’d hoped to hold out for a few more years, until you were old enough to confront Stephen yourself,” Maude told her son, and Geoffrey could only marvel, for implicit in her apology was an admission of failure. He almost made a gibe about her newfound humility, remembered their tenuous truce just in time. Henry had turned aside to let Will show him how the magnet worked. But at his mother’s regretful words, he glanced up with a quick smile.
“You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, Mama. Without Uncle Robert, how could you have continued the war? But what you began, I will finish.”
Maude had assumed that years must pass before Henry could mount a serious challenge to Stephen’s sovereignty. Looking now at her son, though, she realized that she’d not long keep him in Normandy. He was already racing headlong toward manhood and his destiny, to be decided upon an English battlefield. It seemed such a cruel irony that she’d finally gotten him back, only to have to let him go, much too soon.
Picking up Geoff’s discarded book, Henry began to leaf through it, and the book immediately became a gift of great value to his brother. He tried to snatch it back, and a brief scuffle ensued, which revealed to Maude that Henry liked to tease, and that Geoff’s jealousy was a banked fire, ready to flare up at the least provocation. Theirs was a bond much in need of mending, if it was not already too late. Geoffrey ought to have taught them better. But then, what did he and Helie know of brotherly love? It saddened her that her sons should be rivals, not the steadfast allies her own brothers had been.
Almost as if he’d read her thoughts, Henry said suddenly, “Where is Uncle Ranulf? I assumed Uncle Rainald would stay behind in Cornwall, but surely Uncle Ranulf came back with you?”
“No…he did not.”
Henry’s disappointment was keen, for Ranulf was his favorite uncle. “Why not? I do not understand, Mama. Where is he, then?”
“I do not know, lad,” Maude admitted unhappily. “I do not know.”
39
Cheshire, England
March 1148
Ranulf was not sure where he was-somewhere along the Cheshire-Shropshire border-but it did not really matter, since he did not care where he ended up. Like a ship that had snapped its moorings, he just went wherever the wind blew him.
When he’d ridden away from Devizes Castle in such a rage, he’d wanted only to put as many miles between himself and his past as possible. But he could outrun neither his grief nor his guilt, and after a fortnight of aimless wandering, he’d realized what he needed to do if he was ever to have any peace of mind again. It was what he ought to have done as soon as he learned of Gilbert’s death. He had to face Gilbert’s widow and ask her forgiveness.
It had taken him a week to gird himself for it, and then another week to find her, for she’d returned to her father’s manor near Hereford. But if he’d hoped for absolution, he’d come to the wrong woman. Ella’s widowhood was too new to allow for perspective, too wretched to allow for mercy. Anger was easier than acceptance, and she blamed Ranulf. Gilbert had confided in her about Ranulf’s clandestine affair with Annora Fitz Clement, and she reasoned that if not for his ill-fated passion for another man’s wife, her husband would not have died. And Ranulf could not argue with her, for he believed that, too.
Afterward, he truly was a lost soul. He’d slowly drifted toward the north, indifferent to direction or destination, rousing himself only enough to make a wide detour as he neared Shrewsbury. Eventually he would run out of money. Although Robert had bequeathed him a generous legacy and he still held the Wiltshire manors Maude had given him, he would have to return to claim them, and that he was not yet able to do. And so he continued his erratic odyssey through a countryside blighted by war, no longer even sure what he was fleeing, sure only that he could not go back.
On this blustery March Monday in Lent, he’d covered less than ten miles, for the night before he had drunk too much, picked up a prostitute, and tried to blot out his pain with cheap red wine and bought caresses. All it gained him was a miserable morning-after, the worst headache of his life, and an ugly scene with the girl, who’d sought to steal his purse while he slept. Hours later, he still felt queasy and shaken. His head was throbbing, he’d not been able to tolerate the weight of his hauberk, and for most of the day, the mere thought of food was repellant.
By midafternoon, he’d begun looking for lodgings. But the few villages he pass
ed through were no more than hamlets and Chester was at least fifteen miles away, if not more. He was beginning to think he’d have to bed down out in the open when he encountered an elderly shepherd tending a handful of scrawny sheep. The man was fearful at first, for strangers were suspect in these parts; the border shires had never known much peace. But the fact that Ranulf spoke English reassured the shepherd somewhat, and after he’d stopped Loth from chasing off the man’s mangy dog, he got the directions he needed. Ahead lay the hamlet of Broxton, where a narrow lane forked off from the Chester Road, toward the west. If he followed it for a few miles, he’d reach the village of Farndon, and the priest there would put him up for the night.
It was a relief to know there would be a bed at the end of his journey, for the wind was rising and dusk settling in. Ranulf kept a wary eye on the sky as he rode; getting rained upon would be the final indignity of this utterly dismal day. Off to the side of the road, he caught sight of a grove of alder trees and he guided his stallion toward them, for alder trees were usually found near water. After dismounting, he led his horse forward, waiting while it drank its fill. Loth had ranged on, but Ranulf didn’t worry, knowing the dyrehund would not go far. Kneeling by the pond, he splashed water onto his face, and then cupped his hands so he could drink, too.
A watering hole just off a main road was a bandit’s dream come true, an ideal place to ambush thirsty travelers…and Ranulf should have known that. He did know that, but his hangover had dulled his caution as well as his senses. Oblivious of his surroundings, he did not notice as the men emerged stealthily from hiding. Only when his stallion snorted in alarm did he look up, and by then, it was too late. They were almost upon him, and before he could get to his feet, one of them lunged forward, an upraised cudgel poised to strike.
Ranulf flung himself sideways, and the cudgel missed by inches, so close that he felt a rush of air on his face as it plunged downward. Kicking out, he was lucky enough to rip the other man’s leg with his spur, and the man jumped backward with a startled oath. That gave Ranulf enough time to regain his feet, but not to draw his sword. It was only halfway out of the scabbard when the second bandit struck. The blow was hard enough to stagger him, but he felt no pain, and did not realize at first that he’d been stabbed, not until he saw the bloodied blade of the outlaw’s dagger.
There were three of them, and they knew what they were about. One grabbed for the reins of Ranulf’s horse; the other two closed in on Ranulf. He yelled for Loth, then grappled with the man brandishing the cudgel. A deadly sort of dance ensued, in which he struggled with one assailant while trying at the same time to keep the man’s body between him and the knife-wielder.
For a few frenzied moments, he actually managed it, immobilizing the one man in a bear hug, fending off the other’s thrusting dagger. The third man was still trying to stop the frightened stallion from bolting, but he’d soon join the fray, too. Desperation had lent Ranulf strength, but there was blood on both men, his blood, and he was being forced away from the pond, exposing his back to the knife. The second bandit saw his chance and moved in for the kill.
The light was fading and Ranulf did not see what happened next. The man seemed to trip, for suddenly he was not there anymore. Ranulf heard a scream, snarling, and then the sounds of a wild struggle, as the outlaw and Loth thrashed about in the shadows. But Ranulf’s reprieve was brief. He was weakening fast, and when his boot slipped in the mud, he went over backward into the pond.
His assailant landed on top of him. He’d lost his cudgel in the fall, but wasted no time groping for it in the shallows. Instead, he grabbed Ranulf’s hair and shoved his head under the water. Ranulf fought frantically to get free, but each time he gulped a lungful of air, he was pushed under again. The water was rapidly turning red, and then black, and he was spiraling down into that darkness, unable to break his fall.
He was almost unconscious when the killer’s grip slackened, but his body fought to survive even as his brain clouded, and he battled his way back to the surface, back to life. Gasping for breath, he had no strength to resist when he was seized again. As easy to drown as a newborn kitten, he choked and sputtered and sucked in as much air as he could in the moments he had left. But he was not being pushed down into the pond’s depths. Another bandit had waded into the water, was dragging him toward the shore. It made no sense to him. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself rolling clear, scrambling to his feet, getting away. Instead, he vomited weakly into the wet grass, bracing for the bite of steel as the outlaw’s blade found his throat.
“Easy, man, easy.” The voice was friendly, the words French. He’d heard his attackers as they sought to subdue him, their speech guttural and oath-laden and unmistakably English. Making an enormous effort, Ranulf turned over onto his back.
The bandits were gone. In the deepening dusk, he could make out the blurred outlines of a peddler’s cart, blocking the road. A muscular youth stood several feet away, a hefty club in one hand, a chain in the other; at the end of the chain was one of the most fearsome dogs Ranulf had ever seen, as broad-chested as a mastiff, as black as the darkening sky. A second stranger was kneeling by Ranulf’s side. As their eyes met, he repeated:
“Easy now. You’ve swallowed half the pond and you’re bleeding badly. But the danger is past. Those craven knaves took off like rabbits. I’d like to think the mere sight of my brother and me was enough to strike fear into their evil souls, but I suspect it was Cain there who put them to flight!” He chuckled and then gave an exclamation of dismay. “What are you doing? Just lie still, get your breath back.”
Ranulf ignored him. “My dog…where is my dog?”
The youth in the shadows moved forward as Ranulf struggled to sit up. “Over there,” he said, pointing off toward his right. “There is naught you can do for him, though. He’s dead.”
“No,” Ranulf exclaimed, “no!” Unable to rise, he crawled over to his dog. Loth lay on his side, tongue protruding, the fur on his chest matted and dark with blood. Ranulf’s rescuers had followed, were urging him away from the body. Ranulf never heard them. Cradling Loth’s head in his lap, he buried his face in the dog’s ruffled fur and wept.
Ranulf awoke to pain and a wrenching sense of loss. He remembered at once: the ambush by the pond, his panic as his lungs filled with water, bursting for air. Loth’s death. But that was his last memory, holding the dyrehund’s limp, lifeless body in his arms. After that, nothing.
Opening his eyes, he squinted up into midday sunlight. He was outdoors, wrapped in blankets before a smoking fire, wrapped, too, in makeshift bandages. The pain had begun to recede, but never had he felt so weak. He willed himself to move again, propping up on his elbow so he could look around. His movement attracted immediate attention: a low growl, disturbingly close at hand, a quick “Down, Cain!” and then, “Josce, he’s awake!”
Last night’s Good Samaritan was bending over him. He looked to be about Ranulf’s own age, in his late twenties, with a pleasant, bluff face, thick sand-colored hair, and uncommonly green eyes. “Well, you’re back with us at last. How are you feeling? Never mind, foolish question. You look puzzled. Do you not remember what happened?”
“Only some of it. Did I…pass out?”
His benefactor nodded. “You were set upon burying your dog, even if you bled to death doing it. We tried to talk some sense into you, for you were hardly in any condition to be digging graves and there was always the chance those swine might come back. But I’ll say this for you; once you get an idea into your head, you plough that furrow, no matter what. Fortunately you then swooned dead away-bad choice of words-ere we had to bury you with the poor beast. So we bundled you into the cart, stopped your bleeding as best we could, and set up camp once we’d gone far enough to feel safe from pursuit.”
Raising his voice, he beckoned to his brother. “Josce, fetch the man some of our dinner. You need to eat, even if you have to force it down. Ah, I almost forgot-we found your horse. And…and I did bury the dog for you.
You set such store by him…” He paused, sounding the way men often did when caught out in a kindness-somewhat embarrassed. “I thought you might want this,” he said, holding up Loth’s leather collar.
Ranulf took it, squeezing back tears. When he looked up again, the youth called Josce was offering a wineskin. Ranulf swallowed and discovered it held a pungent, tart cider. Josce watched him drink, then said, “From what we saw, your dog chewed up that wretch something fierce ere he got stabbed. That one’ll be limping off to Hell, and feeling those teeth ripping into him every time he hears a dog howl.”
“Loth saved my life,” Ranulf said, “and so did you. I’d have drowned for certes if you had not come to my aid. I thank Almighty God for you both. May He bless you with His Bounty for the rest of your days.”
Josce smiled oddly, as if at a private joke Ranulf could not be expected to understand. He was the younger of the two brothers, no more than twenty, and none would have taken them for kin. He was taller, leaner, far more intense, as taut as a notched bow and as ready to fire. “I wonder,” he said, “if the memory of your blessing will soon catch in your throat like a fish bone, gagging you whenever you remember making it.”
Ranulf frowned. “Why should it? I owe you both my life. How could I not be grateful?”
Josce shrugged. “You’d best give credit where due, to my softhearted brother. If it had been up to me, I might well have ridden by, keeping my eyes on the road.”
“No, you would not,” his brother contradicted. “Never in this lifetime.”
Josce shrugged again. “Mayhap not,” he conceded. “Kill a weasel and every man’s chickens sleep safer at night. I might even have fished you out of that pond. But after that, I’d have left you to fend for yourself. It was my brother’s foolhardy notion to load you into our cart, to tend your wounds as if you were our own kin. So if thanks are owed, you pay them to him, not me.”
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