“You spoke with him, but you did not find his reason for being in Wales?”
It was petty. She had known without asking that her mother had been too intimidated to ask him anything of the sort. But as lately happened, Gwenllian could not help reacting to Eluned’s peremptory commands by drawing attention to her mother’s weaknesses in return. They were falling into a pattern, a push and pull of authority that was like to drive them both mad.
“I should have waited for you. Is a rare man does cow me, but this one is like a caged lion. It was you who caged him,” she said, looking at Gwenllian with obvious pride. “And you who will take him to his king.”
Gwenllian lost her patience in a flash, exasperation bubbling up without a hope of being contained. “Why, mother? We have no right to hold him, nor force him to travel where we will. And why to Edward, pray?”
She could not regret losing her temper, not even when her mother flinched and said, “I knew you would not like this.”
“By Christ, I do not! You want him back in court, where he will tell Edward –Edward, mama! – who still suspects us of loving our Welsh prince too well. You would have Morency tell Edward that we struck him down and held him prisoner.”
“Do not call him that.” Her eyes flashed with a warning, but Gwenllian did not care.
“Call him not a prisoner, when that is what he is?” She looked at her mother’s rigid stance, at the anger that burned bright, and rolled her eyes in defiance of it. “Oh, no – you mean I should not call him Morency. Sweet Mary, let us not call a man by his lawfully given title and the lands he holds.”
“They are your lands!” her mother shouted back. “And his title bought with blood. I will not call him by a title that cheats you of your rightful claim.”
Gwenllian held up her hands, seeking to ward off the old argument. It was fruitless to tell her mother that she wanted no lands besides these. Ruardean would never be hers. Whether her father defied all expectations and returned at last, or stayed wrapped with madness in Jerusalem, or even did he die tomorrow, Ruardean would not be hers.
Little William, that sweet brother whose worshipful face she so missed, was heir to this marchland estate. The very thought of him calmed her. Would he be watching now, from Lancaster’s window, the same scene she watched here? Knights practicing in the yard and dreams of chivalry and glory lighting the long summer days. No matter his dreams, she hoped her brother made a good apprentice, that he watched and listened, that he learned enough in these tender years to be a worthy lord of this household she loved so well.
She did not resent it. But she wondered that it did not make her crave her own lands. Married by proxy when she was no older than William, she had been excited as a girl to imagine herself the great lady. But that excitement had died with her husband. She’d never met Aymer of Morency, the man who had been her lord husband in name only. She had not had a chance to meet him before Ranulf Ombrier had murdered him in his bed. And then had been named Lord Morency by a grateful king.
Drawing a calming breath, she looked away from her mother and tried to speak rationally, disciplining herself against the childish paths her temper followed when her mother led the way.
“Is an old argument, mother. I will never care for the Morency lands as you do, or the power they would bring us.” But even saying it, she knew she would do all she could to uphold the claim, if called upon by the court. It was pointless to fight her mother, who resented so deeply that Gwenllian was cheated of lands. “So let us be done with that and speak to this new madness of yours. It does not serve to take Lord Ranulf to Edward, even did he agree to go.”
“There is naught for him to agree to. Your guard will escort him there. And it is not madness, Gwenllian.”
“Not madness? We near killed the man, and he a favorite of Edward’s. The king will watch as Ombrier escorts our men to the block. Or he will levy a fine that can pauper even us. Think you it can be otherwise?”
A smile slowly spread across Eluned’s face. “I do think it. Is common knowledge that Ombrier has been summoned to court, and has avoided his king’s command.” She raised her eyebrows, an impish expression fleeting across her lined features. “We deliver a wayward subject to the crown, not an injured favorite. Edward will not doubt our loyalty when he sees how well we serve him.”
That was a shock. Gwenllian found it difficult to disguise her admiration, possibilities and implications immediately set to spark by her mother’s words. “What scheme is this, mother?” she murmured. In faith, it was a sound plan. If the king wanted his pet returned, so much the better to get the man away from Wales and whatever mischief he plotted there. And if they erased the king’s doubt of Ruardean’s loyalty with the act, more the better.
She went back to the window, glancing down to find that Lord Ranulf was matched against Thomas Moel. The sound did not reach her, and the drab clouds overhead did not even allow sunlight to flash on the blades. It was impossible to follow the contest closely, but the excitement of the match reached her even here. Thomas was one of Ruardean’s best, and she could see that he was struggling against Morency.
“I’ll have the best men escort him, whether he wills it or nay,” she said to her mother, absorbed now in the fighting that Eluned ignored. The anger that had flared abated with the knowledge that the act would make Ruardean safer. She would see to it that he was delivered to the king. She would do it for Ruardean, and for her mother. As she would pursue the suit for Morency, for the sake of her mother’s dreams.
As she watched the sparring escalate, the clouds opened in a sudden and violent summer shower. The men below broke apart, all of them heading for shelter, the day’s practice abruptly ended at the height of excitement. Gwenllian put her hand out the window, letting heavy drops pound on her open palm. He was still there, when all others had fled.
He stood alone in the falling rain, his face turned up to the sky, a shadow against the day-darkness. She remembered it like a long-forgotten dream, the letter she had received from Lord Aymer. It came with the marriage contract, signed and official. Only ten years old, she had read it herself, proud that she could understand all the words from her lord husband. He had described his foster-son, every line soaked in love and pride.
A week later, she had received word of his murder. In his sleep. By the hand of Ranulf Ombrier, the boy he had raised as a son.
Gwenllian watched the motionless figure in the practice yard, dim in the downpour. How happy she had been to read that letter. To learn that her husband, a stranger so much older than she, loved his foster-son so well. She had been jealous of the young Ranulf described in the letter, wishing that her own father had given her even a hint of affection before riding off on Crusade.
“Why do you think he came to Wales?” Her mother’s voice came to her from across the room, curious.
She drew her hand back inside, out of the warm rain, her elbow scraping lightly across cold stone. She could still feel his hand over hers, guiding her blade to hang suspended above his heart. He had lain helpless before her, the blade between them, an all-too-decipherable message writ large across his face.
Her eyes fixed on him for another long moment, droplets of water streaming from her fingers.
“Mercy,” she said, low enough so her mother could not hear.
Then she turned away and left him in the storm.
CHAPTER 4
Had he known that only mud awaited him outside the castle walls, he would not have so chafed at being confined. Now, looking at the endless churned-up earth surrounding him, he almost wished to be back at that strange estate. He had not deigned to sit at high board, taking his meals in chambers or outside – wherever he willed, so long as it was not with the mistress of Ruardean.
Lady Eluned had certainly waited long enough to carry out her promise. At the end of her week, she had waited two more days and then sent word to him that he would leave on the morrow. Now he walked in the companionship of the guard she had provided. An esc
ort, dragging him to Edward’s court.
Ranulf thought a hundred times of breaking away to flee. But without sword or shield or knowledge of where he was, escape was no better than death, even if it might be better than returning to court. They had not given him his weapons, and they traveled in lands that were unfamiliar to him. It could be Wales or Ireland or Gaul for all he knew, and bandits abounded in these less populated expanses of the realm.
He looked to his right, where Madog ap Rhys walked through ankle-deep mud in grim silence. To Ranulf’s left was another armed man, no less grim and watchful, with scraggly blond hair and an aspect that was Norman in every particular. There were fourteen who had led him through the wilds these four days now, all well-seasoned men and cautious, but they bore the unique attitude of Ruardean: a quiet camaraderie, as quick to work as to laugh, communicating in whatever language rose to the lips without fear of being misunderstood.
Most often it was Welsh they spoke, especially whenever the young one was near. It was a youth who led the party, thin and gawky, issuing what could only be orders in the strange tongue he had heard used as often as French in Ruardean’s halls. From what little he could see, the boy-leader shared the features of Madog and some of the other men, the same features of the nameless healer woman who had vanished and abandoned him to this fate. Perhaps it was her brother, but he could not see past the muck that dirtied the boy’s face and did not care to after the days of trudging through rain and mud.
He had counted three others of the same aspect, undoubtedly the Lady Eluned’s Welsh kin, and all from the party who had originally captured him. The rest he had seen at the keep, sparring in the yard. They were less hostile now, though no more friendly. The young one kept to his back; the others treated him with the wary respect most usually reserved for rabid hounds. Only Madog ap Rhys spoke to him directly, and that only when Ranulf addressed him.
It put him on edge. He felt seen and unseen at the same time. It was like it had been in his youth, his life at Morency. There was easiness and kinship among all who surrounded him, but he stood apart. He was watched carefully, treated with meticulous respect, and as separate from them as though an ocean encircled him.
At midday of the fourth day, they stopped at a clearing. The forest was so dense that he had thought no sun shone above the canopy, but they turned and found a green and open space that sparkled with new light. He squinted at his first sight of blue sky that day, not fooled into believing the respite would last long.
“Are Welsh skies always so fickle?” he asked the nearest man, the blonde Norman who never left his side.
The man accepted a hard cake of bread from another passing soldier, offering half to Ranulf as he answered. “As God wills it, so does the sun shine or hide in these hills. More often, He wills it to rain.” Which neatly avoided the answer Ranulf had wished for: whether he was under the sky of England or Wales. He grew abruptly tired of wondering, and decided not to care anymore. Wales may be a world apart from what he knew, but it was Edward’s domain, and no matter how the Welsh felt about that, it would remain under Edward’s heel.
“You are Norman,” he observed, accepting the bread and a strip of dried meat the other man held out. Ranulf looked to where Madog ap Rhys stood apart, surveying the men who held watch at the perimeter. They were a disciplined unit, each going uncomplaining to his mundane duties. “How comes it that Ruardean so happily mixes English and Welsh and Norman men? I have seen nothing of discord among you, neither here nor at the keep. Your Lady Eluned said it was not uncommon, but it seems a rare thing to me.”
“Sit you down to eat, my lord,” said the other man, gesturing to a boulder that provided the only dry place. “As to your question, I can offer little answer. Is the habit of Ruardean to keep peace in the marches, from times of old. I grew to manhood there, and cannot say how it is in other places, but it is true you’ll hear of no strife between Norman and Welshman coming from my valley, or near none.”
Ranulf sat and sank his teeth into the meat, grateful for rest and plain talking. They had been forced to travel afoot because of the rains, and his body was slow to gain strength. For more days than he cared to admit, he was bone-weary, close to dropping even before the noon hour had passed, and only pride kept him upright. But now his health was near restored, and it wanted only a little rest to keep his spine straight and eye clear.
“Was always thus?” he asked his companion.
“All marcher lords have borne the burden of Welsh raiding,” he said, tearing the bread and breaking his own fast. “Nor was my lord of Ruardean saved from it, until he took the Lady Eluned to wife and her Welsh kin did swear to leave his cattle in peace. And so they have.”
Ranulf snorted at that. “I call it a poor trade.”
“How’s that, my lord?”
“The cattle live in peace while the keep suffers a harridan, and her Welsh kin o’errun the place.”
“We live well with her kin, and always have with the Welshry. Is much to be admired in their ways. There are Welsh here I would die for, myself.” Beneath the blond beard, he saw the man’s quick smile. “And best you keep your thoughts on the lady to yourself.”
Ranulf looked about the clearing and saw that others were listening. A little devil woke in him, and he suddenly thought how well he would love to see this little group squabbling. For days, they had been so peaceable, comfortable as a happy family, and it nettled him. He did not question why he should care one way or the other. He only wondered if aught could make them lose their peace, and how well he would enjoy being the one who made them lose it.
He caught one man’s eye, the bald one against whom he had sparred. All his life, he had heard the Welsh called animals. So let him see how true it was, then. A distraction, he told himself. And he had learned in battle how a distraction might be used for gain.
“Is your Norman blood so weak to welcome a mix with savages?”
The quiet in the clearing deepened, all ears bent on him. He listened to his own breath, waiting to see if the arrow would strike home.
“The Welsh have the blood of dragons,” said one man from across the clearing. He was more boy than man, rash in his defense and a speech that was slurred with the peculiar accent of Wales.
Ranulf laughed. “And if it be so, then you tell me you do not shy to mate with wild beasts?”
“You think of your own birth, Norman.” It was Madog ap Rhys, stepping closer to Ranulf and speaking so all could hear him. “Is known you are more like a beast than a man. Haps was your own mother who mated with a passing fox, or dog, or rat.”
He was faintly amused to find how quickly Madog stepped into the breach. This must be how they kept peace, then – by stopping any words that might cause strife as soon as they were spoken. He wagered that most men would heed the warning in Madog’s voice. But Ranulf was not most men, and amused him to see how far the Welshman may be pushed. So he shrugged lightly and quirked his mouth in a mocking grin.
“You are mistaken. All know my mother mated with the Fiend himself. Your precious Lady Eluned but bedded with a madman.”
Immediately the words left his mouth, there was the smell of danger on the air. He could not tell if it was his insult against the lady or the lord of Ruardean that caused the greatest anger, but there was no mistaking the murderous looks aimed at him. All of them, he realized with a slight shock. Instead of inspiring discord in the party, he had unified them all in hatred of him.
From one breath to the next, he moved from amused and detached, from poking gently at them to see what might happen, to a black mood. They were so quick to hate him, as though they had only been waiting for him to speak discourteous words to give them the excuse to sneer at him. Always and everywhere, he was the villain. Because of Aymer, dead since before most of them had grown beards.
His hand itched for a weapon. His eyes moved back to Madog, thirsting for a fight with the man, seeing in him the best possibility of a long drawn-out battle. He kept his eyes fr
om the other man’s sword, resisting the urge to see if his hand had landed where Ranulf so wanted it. It made his blood surge, the knowledge that he could have a fight if he but pushed them enough. Let him have a sword, and he would show them that there was more to him than his ancient sins, and stop their righteous sneering.
“Tell me, good men, does it suit your honor more to take the orders of a woman than those of your fore-maddened lord? Hides he in the Holy Land, I hear, and talks with saints long dead.” He stood from the boulder and looked around at them. “Is it Judas he calls himself now, or the Christ himself? I cannot remember the latest report from that quarter.”
“Stop your tongue, or by Christ I will stop it for you!” came the heated response from the bald one. Thomas was his name. He fought well, too, Ranulf remembered.
“Ruardean would be proud of her men,” he muttered, as this latest man entered the fray. Not a man there stood without dagger at the ready, eager to defend the honor of their lord, no matter if the blood in their veins was Norman or Welsh. It reminded him of the days in the Holy Land, where men followed without question or hesitation, a place of undying loyalty and unending barbarism. He felt a grudging respect uncurl in him for these men, and a stab of the old outrage that he could only prove himself worthy of their respect through some show of violence.
“You are men of honor,” he said, “and I welcome your challenge.” He turned his eyes to Madog, standing taut beside him. “Only give me arms to defend myself, and I shall meet all who come against me. Or one,” he said more softly, his words for Madog alone. “One can stand as champion for all.”
The air was heavy with suspense, all men looking toward Madog, clearly hoping he would accept the challenge. But after a long moment, he shook his head sharply and dismissed it, letting out another stream of Welsh that meant nothing to Ranulf but set the men to their tasks. They dispersed slowly, some going back to their food and others tending to their weapons. All kept their cautious sight on Ranulf, watching him intently.
The King's Man Page 4
