In that moment in the woods, with her weakened mind half consumed with wanting more of his touch, and half consumed with panic at the sound of her approaching men, she had stared at him helplessly. She stood dumbly, waiting to see what would happen next, never thinking he would take her long dagger from his belt and hand it to her, then nod at the extra sword he had claimed as his own. She had followed his direction, picked up the sword and called out in Welsh to Madog. All the while, Morency watched her.
It was the look he gave her then stayed with her, visiting her dreams every night since he’d touched her and every minute since they’d come to Windsor. A rare look, direct and simple. As plainly as though he had spoken words under oath, she knew his mind. She knew he would protect her from scorn and shame. God alone knew why. She was more enslaved to the memory of that look than ever she had been to his mouth, his hands.
He had surrendered the weapons without her asking and silently waited to follow her lead, and she had turned and walked toward the sound of her men without doubting Morency followed her. It was a play, and she knew that he would act his part.
The next days had proven her right. He did not look directly at her again. Nor did he ask to be armed again, nor make any moves to escape. He only avoided her eyes and made his way toward Windsor with the rest of them. When they came at last to where Edward held court, she sent word ahead that the lord of Morency was at the king’s disposal, and it was not two hours before palace guards led him away.
Even then, he did not look in her direction. Even now, she tried to convince herself she had not betrayed him. It was inevitable. She must take him to Edward. It was a king’s command and her mother’s wish, to the advantage of Ruardean. There was no reason she should want to bar the soldiers from taking him, or to ask his forgiveness as he was taken away. None at all.
Lack-wit, she told herself. He is not your friend.
She found a curved stone bench and sat, listening to the bard sing to the end of the tale as he strolled to the nearby small pavilion where two ladies sat in private conversation. Their clothes and jewels spoke to great wealth. Gwenllian wondered if they might even be sisters to the king, so fine were their garments. As she watched, one of them bade the man sing something more suitable to the summer garden scene. The bard began some long and lovely French chanson – surely a vital addition to his Welsh repertoire, she reflected. He could not keep a full belly with only Welsh songs to offer, much less have a place at this king’s court.
“He waits now in the chapel, where Edward will come soon. Was last night the guard brought him, yet Edward would have him wait and catch him unawares, in hopes of surprising truth from him.”
Some trick made the lady’s words come to Gwenllian as clear as if they’d been spoken directly into her ear, though she and her companion sat at a distance that should require shouting. The music went on, but she could see now that the bard had been directed to stand a little away from the gossiping ladies in the pavilion. Instead, he diverted the maids waiting in attendance, who would no doubt be more than happy to hear the whispers that drifted so easily to where Gwenllian sat.
“Know you why Morency is come at last?” whispered the other woman. She was dressed in red and blue, colors so vibrant in the summer sun that Gwenllian could only stare and stare at the dress, feeling the color burn her eyes.
“Far more the wonder of where he has been, and more why he did not come at once when Edward asked him.” It was a light exclamation, but there was no mistaking the darker tones of import in their voices. “I am told those two have been like brothers since Acre, and ever has Morency come when Edward calls.”
“Until now,” observed the woman in red and blue. Then she leaned forward to retrieve her needlework, and her next words were lost. Gwenllian remained still, hoping that whatever luck that brought the words so clearly would hold. It seemed to depend on the speakers remaining in their spot, and so she sat rigid in her own position on the bench and waited in hopes of hearing more.
In a moment, their words came clear again. “…so fierce, but if he fears to come when Edward demands it, haps even the old rumors are true.”
The first woman was older, and spoke now with an air of authority. “Is a fact he killed old Morency, not rumor. I have seen his wicked smile when he is accused of it, like it is the fondest memory.”
“In truth, that I never doubted,” said the other woman. She leaned closer, with an air of scandalous delight. “Is the rumors of the women I mean. What if those be true?”
“Oh, you are bloodthirsty. He would have been a babe when the first died, but I grant is possible the other wives died by his design, if not by his hand.”
Gwenllian flinched. She had braced herself for talk of his mistresses, not his murders. “Maude would have tempted a saint to murder, I remember her well,” laughed the older woman, and Gwenllian heard no more as they chattered on, her mind now turned to the story he had told her about the wives who had come to Morency before her. The wives he said Aymer had killed. Had he said they were killed? No – beaten, he had said. One hanged herself after a beating, the other beaten badly and did not live. He had not seemed regretful or defiant when he spoke of them to her. Nor had he seemed proud, as he had when he spoke of killing Aymer. But why would he want to kill them? It made no sense. It was idle gossip, surely.
As if to answer her thoughts, the older woman said, “All with child when they died, of course. An estate with no natural heir, and the old king owed Lord Ranulf a debt for ending Aymer, who conspired with Kenilworth against the king, you know. None like to remember those evil days when the throne was uncertain, but old King Henry was known to mistrust Aymer of Morency and was glad to see him dead. The whispers then were that the king in secret ordered his death, and promised the young Ranulf the title and estate in return.”
At this, the young woman gasped and crossed herself. Pious cow, thought Gwenllian. It was all old news, anyway – she herself had heard these rumors years ago. She had never questioned that. Everywhere, Ranulf of Morency was known to be the king’s favorite trained killer. But never had she heard the rumor that he also killed Aymer’s wives, and the babes in their bellies. Were it true, it would mean that he had plotted for the Morency lands long before her betrothal, even. Little wonder, then, that he fought these many years in court against her claim on the estate. Many times, she had asked the lawyers if they could not come to some agreement that might satisfy both him and her mother, suggesting various ways they might settle the matter. The title but no lands, or the title and half the land, or any other combination of rights that might end the old argument. But he had made it clear that he would give no quarter. Not a blade of Morency grass will he yield, the lawyer had written to her.
She had thought perhaps it was her mother who would not settle for less than all of it. The lawyer had insisted, though, over and over again, that it was Morency who would not budge. And so the lawyers grew fat on their fees, and Ranulf of Morency held possession of the lands and title he had killed for. It was reasonable to believe, her Master Edmund would say, that a soul who can kill an old man in his bed and smile about it, can also kill a wife and her unborn babe without pain to his conscience. Easier still to lie about it later.
She did not know how long she sat, engrossed in her thoughts, trying to decide whether he would have killed women, whether he had lied. Above all, she tried to decide why either of these it should matter to her at all. She was not used to being so confused by a person. She had taken the measure of many a man; it was straightforward enough work. But it was proving an impossible task, to see him clearly. She thought of him and all she saw was the arrogant set of his mouth, then his grim determination as he swung his sword, then the curl of damp hair on his temple, up close while she smelled his skin and tasted his lips and heard his breath as quick and hot as her own.
“You are the Lady Gwenllian?” A girl stood before her, head cocked curiously. At Gwenllian’s nod of assent, she broke into a smile. “M
y lord de Vere sent me to fetch you. Will you come?”
The stone face of the Madonna held nothing but pity and patience. He prayed to her more ardently than he ever had, feeling the danger of this place press in upon him. Shield me from villainy, he begged silently, and from all wicked company.
It was not hard to recall his vision of Alice here, as he knelt in the Lady Chapel. Indeed, he had to wonder if it was the Virgin, wearing Alice’s face, who had come to him in his dreams all those months ago. Being no priest, he had not considered it, just as he had not considered why he had stopped praying to the Holy Mother or seeing Alice’s face everywhere, from the moment he had woken on a sickbed in the Welsh wilderness. But he found he must consider it now. Every man has a day of reckoning. Aymer had always said so.
Ranulf found he’d rather his reckoning come in the form of a knife in the night than as this collision of women, each of them waiting and watching, wanting something from him. Alice had come to him in a vision, demanding rectitude. So he had turned to the Holy Mother to ask her help in this, praying to her and carrying Alice’s ghost with him as he wandered west and avoided Edward. He had thought to hold to the vision of Alice and the face of the Holy Mother, and it would be enough save his soul from the fires of Hell. But then she had come, with her wide gray eyes and cool hands, and the reality of her cast his earlier visions into shadow. A living angel, he had thought, who would absolve him, lead him to truth. This woman, this new vision who had turned out to be Gwenllian of Ruardean. Instead of saving him, she captured him and humiliated him, and brought him back here. She may as well have hand-delivered him to the Fiend himself.
He should have consulted with a priest at once when Alice had come to his dreams those months ago, but his way forward had seemed so clear. The vision had come to him to warn him of the danger his soul was in, and he must go to the White Monks to seek guidance. He had not thought past that simple course of action, trusting to the Holy Mother to guide him. But he had been guided into a dark wood, led to injury and then captivity, and he had only his own waywardness to blame that he had shifted allegiance to a misty-eyed angel that was but a fancy of a fevered brain.
Now Edward would ask, and he must answer well or none could save him. Death, or sin – which would he choose, if it came to that? Help me, lady, with all thy might, he prayed, do not let me die in sin. Yet he also saw Alice, young and smiling, blond wisps of hair in her eyes, and he thought she would not want him to die, not for anything.
“My friend has become monkish, I think.” Edward’s voice came suddenly, startling him. He had not thought himself so deep in prayer. “I am told you asked leave to pray before aught else.”
Ranulf took one last lingering look at the Madonna before standing and turning to face the king. He did not bow, but stood straight to look unflinchingly into the eyes of his friend, his king. This was the moment he had feared for all those long muddy miles, and there was no hint in Edward’s face as to what his fate would be. No anger, no reassurance – just a polite inquisitiveness, as though he had asked a mundane question and waited for Ranulf to give an equally mundane answer.
In the end, he supposed, it really was quite mundane as that. And so he held Edward’s gaze and lowered himself, touching his right knee to the cold stone floor. At the slight lift of Edward’s brow, Ranulf hesitated only a moment, looking straight ahead and considering the richness of the ermine trim on Edward’s surcoat for the length of a breath, until he could feel the royal impatience prickling along his skin. Then he lowered his head, stared at the floor, and waited. He could hear the echoing whispers of others, no doubt standing just out of sight and wondering, just as he was, what Edward would do to him. He was visited by the sudden memory of sitting across from Edward on a hot and dusty day in Sicily, when Edward was still weak from a wound. They had just learned the old king had died, and Ranulf had been urging him to return to England with all haste, lest Robert Burnell could not be trusted. Burnell will act in my interest, Edward had said with an ease born of absolute confidence. Then he had clasped his hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. I know which men I can trust.
How flattered he had felt then, how fortunate. But also – how like a prized pet. Like a gyrfalcon, he must prove an obedient hunter or else risk the displeasure of the king. Now he waited on bended knee for judgment. Just as he began to wonder if he should say something, and to curse himself for not having prepared some pretty speech, he finally heard Edward’s footsteps coming toward him swiftly, decisively closing the little distance between them. The king held his hands out, and without thinking Ranulf reached up and grasped them in his own.
He tried to think of proper words, humble words, but they would not come to his mind. Instead, he heard himself saying, “My liege, it troubles me not to lose the favor of my king, if you tell me I have not lost the love of my friend.” He dared to raise his eyes to Edward now, looking up from their clasped hands.
“Alas, Sir Ranulf,” he answered quietly, “your king and your friend share the same heart. You cannot leave one without losing the other.” His look had a calculated distance in it that, while alarming, put Ranulf on surer ground. He was not forgiven, but he was equally not condemned. This was King Edward playing the wise judge, not Edward his friend who wanted to boast of battles won and women wooed. Indeed, he had seen little of the friend since the crown had been set on Edward’s head.
“Have I lost my friend, then?”
“Have you abandoned your king?”
It would gain him nothing to point out that he could not have been very successful at leaving since he was here in the king’s court. Instead, he tightened his grip on Edward’s hands and began to recite what he could remember of his oath. “I bear faith and allegiance to the king and his heirs, of life and limb and earthly honor. Faith and truth I bear—”
“Enough.” Edward dropped his hands and gestured him to stand before walking to the statue of the Blessed Mother. He studied it for a moment, then turned slowly on his heel and began to stroll around the small but elegant little chapel. Ranulf stood still, listening to the king’s footfalls in the silence.
“My father had this chapel put in when I was just a boy. He never ceased his fussing with this or any other palace.” He ran his hand along the stone that framed a narrow window. “Is not my nature, to tend to a nest while the tree is being chopped from beneath me.”
This was familiar ground. Many was the time he’d heard Edward complain that his father’s short-sightedness had caused a wholly unnecessary civil war that had weakened the throne. “None may doubt that your rule makes England strong again, sire.”
“Aye, and my crown secure, and yet my most faithful subject does not come when I call for him. Haps I am not so secure as I think, Lord Morency?”
Ranulf willed himself to breathe evenly. “Before God, I do not conspire against you, Edward. Nor would I. I would cut my throat first, I swear it.”
The king looked at him long then, an unbroken gaze that seemed to last an eternity. Ranulf considered saying more, further protestations of innocence and loyalty, but he knew words would make no difference now. Edward was ever a decisive man, and any more words would only annoy him. “You swear it, do you. You would cut a throat – or even stab a heart?”
Aymer. Yes, he had killed Aymer, who had conspired against the old king. They had never spoken of it except obliquely, long ago, and Ranulf had never said plainly that he had killed the old man out of loyalty to the crown. He had never said it because it would have been a lie.
He opened his mouth and drew breath to speak, not even knowing what he was going to say, but Edward waved a hand dismissively in interruption. “Nay, let us have no talk of murder in this holy place. Let us speak only truth. Say where you have been, and why you are brought back by a party out of Ruardean.”
He explained then, as briefly and reasonably as he could manage, how he had thought to travel to a place not far out of Hereford but had ventured too far along an obscure path in his efforts t
o avoid the hospitality of the Earl of Gloucester. His personal mislike for Gloucester was well-matched to Edward’s unease with that man’s ambition, so it was a sound enough reason to give. No doubt he had passed near the lands of any number of other earls and barons, and he was confident enough that he would be able to supply a ready excuse for not stopping at any of them. The eternal politics of the nobility was tiresome, but wonderfully useful at times like these. It was the fact that he had been discovered alone that was unavoidable, and inexplicable.
He focused on the drama of his injury, the sudden attack in the twilight and waking in a hut with wounds and fever dreams. There was no way of knowing if Edward had yet spoken with any of the Ruardean party, but Ranulf decided to speak truth in any case. Lies would serve no purpose except to save him the embarrassment of admitting infirmity, and to be caught in a lie would be yet more shameful, and dangerous.
“So you wander alone into a Welsh wood and are brought back by an armed guard. Am I to believe you were not avoiding me?”
“Never would I tell my lord king what he should believe. I can only say that I wished to…” He could not think of how to say it without telling all the embarrassing truth.
“What was this wish? Come now, we will have your story or we are forced to open our ears to the many tales that others are eager to invent.”
The sudden shift to regal language was like a slap across the face. It woke him up, as no doubt Edward meant it to. This was a displeased king and not a conversation between friends, like the many they had shared in years gone by.
“Before answering the call to court, I had urgent need to visit the White Monks there. I had not thought the journey would take so long, but is a place so isolate that a traveler is reduced to praying for a sign of sheep’s shit to show him which way civilization lies. By my right hand, it was to be naught but a few days’ detour.”
The King's Man Page 11
