The King's Man

by Elizabeth Kingston

  Edward seemed to consider this. “You never arrived then, at the White Monks?”

  “I know not if I even came close to the abbey. Is newly built, and still small. I did send word ahead to the brothers, if there be any doubt of my intent.” The unsigned note he had hastily sent to the abbey would do nothing to clear any doubts, if the abbot even remembered it after so many weeks.

  “And why, when I ask you to come to me, do you go think to go to this abbey instead?”

  “One of the brothers there is known to me of old.” This was clearly not enough, but he could not bring himself to say more. Edward’s silence began to raise a panic in his breast. As quickly as old King Henry had bestowed title, lands and status, so could Edward take them away. Give them in favor to some other worthy knight and lock me up in a tower for my trouble. Ranulf did not care to be on the receiving end of Edward’s famous temper.

  The silence grew, demanding that he speak to his innocence or be forever suspect. He stepped close to Edward and spoke in a low voice that would not carry to the unseen listeners just outside the chapel. “It was to speak with him on a matter of the soul. I would trust my king with any secret, and have gladly put my life in your keeping, but God charges us to trust our very souls with none but his most holy and ordained servants.”

  There was genuine surprise in Edward’s eyes, but not disbelief. So far was this from the expected that it could not be but the truth. “There is a brother there whom I thought to make my confessor and my conscience. I was sick in spirit, Edward. I could not come to you until I knew myself forgiven.”

  It was easier than he had thought it might be, with only Edward as his audience to this sliver of the truth. He could only be glad they spoke alone here in this private chapel, where he would not have to bear the incredulous and laughing murmurs of courtiers who would sooner believe a sturgeon could sing than that Ranulf of Morency should care for his immortal soul.

  “There are holy men enough in places less wild,” observed the king.

  He allowed himself a brief laugh. “Oh aye, they are near as holy as I, and easily found, if I but follow the trail of bastards and whores they leave in their wake.”

  At that, Edward laughed, and it was the laugh of the man he had known for years. He put an arm around Ranulf’s shoulder, leaned in with a fond smile and said warmly, “Next time I will spare you my very own confessor. And as your so generous liege lord, I very nearly gave you a fresh sin to confess, too. No, kill that curiosity I see in you, is a task needed doing while you were enjoying the hospitality of Ruardean. The time for it is gone and past, but we shall see if you may serve in other ways. Come tell us of the Lady Eluned, and how Ruardean fares without his master. Is too rare we have news from that corner of the March. Now your prayer is done, we will see you fed.”

  The next hour was spent in the king’s private chamber, with his closest counselors there to ask about the borderlands, the towns, the roads, the people, the keep of Ruardean – the questions seemed endless. It took too long for him to notice the design behind their many queries, distracted as he was by the excellent food and ale served to him. It only registered as an expected interest in a region mysterious to many Normans and English. None from Ruardean had been to court since the last uprising in Wales, though, and soon Ranulf began to understand that Edward’s counselors, if not Edward himself, considered this an unfriendly gesture from a potentially unfriendly and assuredly powerful estate.

  “Is the brother of Lord Walter who rules Ruardean now – Richard, is it?” asked Edward, who surely already knew the answer.

  “In truth, I kept to myself at Ruardean and saw little of the family, save the Lady Eluned.”

  A significant look seemed to pass between Burnell and King Edward. It was Burnell who spoke. “You are not the first to say the Welsh woman rules there.”

  Ranulf took a long drink of ale and considered his dislike of Lady Eluned. But it was her daughter who came to his mind, and the weight of suspicion behind that single word: Welsh. The last thing he wanted was to wade into these politics. He was fortunate enough that whatever had caused Edward to send for him was no longer needed, and involving himself in political talk was the surest way to stumble upon a problem that Edward would use him to solve. He must step lightly here to avoid entanglement. He would go home to Morency, finally, and tend to his lands there. He would write the abbot at the White Brothers and ask that Alice’s brother come to him. He would have nothing more to do with Ruardean, or political maneuverings, or the court of the king.

  He swallowed and said, “I saw naught to make me think the place does not prosper. Someone must rule in the absence of Lord Walter. If his brother is not fit for it, his wife does well enough, though in truth is a fortress strong enough that even an ignorant babe could keep it from any evil.”

  Burnell gave a grunt and looked keenly at him. “Strong, aye. And clever, that she sent you here. But you would have come even if she were not so strong, of course.”

  He thought it better not to answer that, and so merely looked at Burnell.

  “Is the daughter who has sent me word.” Robert de Vere spoke from the corner of the room where he had sat, silent and watching. “Lady Gwenllian. Sent no doubt to make her courtesy to the king, but also to speak to him on another matter, I believe.”

  All the men in the room turned their eyes on Ranulf, for reasons he could not fathom. When none spoke, he nodded slightly. “Aye, she was in the party that escorted me here.” And it would seem she had packed a dress.

  “Well, by all means, let us go and meet her, if all is ready.” Edward looked to Burnell, who nodded, and then they were all on their feet.

  He’d been too relieved that Edward had accepted his reasons for avoiding him, and giddy to know that some bloody task did not await him here. But now the warm glow he had begun to feel from a belly full of ale was replaced with a cold lump of apprehension as he perceived some hidden purpose in all this. He could sense that a decision had been made, almost certainly about Gwenllian or her home, and it unnerved him not to know what it was. His mind cast about in confusion of what it might be, trying to remember all that had been said in the last hour, while he ate and drank and felt safe again.

  It finally came to him as he stepped into the hall, his eye caught by Burnell leaning toward Edward’s ear to whisper something Ranulf could not hear. Burnell was head of Chancery, and a bishop of the Church.

  It must be the old law suit. A decision had been made about the suit.

  Barely had this thought occurred to him than he saw a woman hovering uncertainly at the front of the growing crowd of courtiers. She looked down at her feet and shifted nervously, as though she wished not to be noticed. He watched de Vere approach her and wondered if this was his daughter – had he ever met Robert de Vere’s daughter? – as Edward and Burnell crossed to a long table covered in parchments at the head of the room. Just then, she raised her face to de Vere. Even with her full face in view, it took a moment for it to register, that it was her. Yet another version of her. Not a healer in a white veil, or a muddy mannish terror with a sword, but a nervous woman in an ill-fitting dress.

  Suddenly he was striding toward her. It was an impulse not connected to rational thought. He had a vague idea that he must warn her of the suspicion he had felt coming from Edward’s counsellors, or protect her when she stood so exposed and unarmed amid the machinations of court. It was not until he stood an arms-length from her and felt the people around him fall silent, felt de Vere’s surprise and saw her pale, expectant expression, that he checked himself.

  It served no purpose, to rush to her side like this. It would set tongues to wagging. Indeed, he could hear already the chattering around him, soft exclamations of wonderment to see him with such a look of concern. His reputation at court was not one of compassion.

  He stood rooted to the spot, staring speechlessly at the yellow silk netting that covered her hair, and felt a fool. What was it about Gwenllian of Ruardean that cau
sed him to make an ass of himself, he wondered. Then he did his best to make it seem natural, bowing to her cordially and offering his greetings. She looked confused, as though she had expected something of great import, but sunk into a courtesy and returned his greeting.

  “Full well have you recovered from our travels,” he said, to fill the silence. The pale green of her gown was remarkably unflattering to her complexion, and the yellow netting binding her hair was worse.

  Though nothing in her manner or expression changed, he could feel her sudden panic. Her eyes remained steady on his, but her voice was a thin and unsubstantial thing when she murmured her thanks. After a moment, she turned her gaze downward at his own finest deep blue tunic, with an under tunic of snowiest white. “I trust you are also well recovered, my lord.”

  He could think of nothing to say to that, and so they stood there silent, with the eyes of half the court on them. He caught a scent of something, standing this close to her. Herbs, he thought. Lavender and rosemary and something else, and the fragrance soothed him until Edward’s voice reached them.

  “Lady Gwenllian of Ruardean, we bid you welcome.” The sound of Edward’s voice caused her to sink into a deep courtesy, but the king took little heed. “We are told you request a private audience with our Queen and she will happily receive you after our business here is done.”

  The king paused and turned to Burnell, and Gwenllian rose out of her courtesy. From the look on her face, Ranulf guessed that she had requested no such audience with the queen. From the look on de Vere’s face, it seemed likely that she had requested a private audience with the king. And from his own recent private audience with the king and de Vere and anyone else who truly mattered in Edward’s court, he did not think it likely that Gwenllian of Ruardean would like whatever might happen next.

  Burnell raised a sheaf of parchments and spoke. “The case long debated on the matter of Morency, its title and lands, granted to Ranulf Ombrier in the year 1267 by the late King Henry but claimed also by Gwenllian of Ruardean by right of marriage to Aymer, late of Morency, that same year but by proxy–”

  Edward dismissed all this with an impatient wave. “Yes, we are familiar in all the facts of consequence. We are to understand the case has lingered for a dozen years?”

  “It has, sire.”

  “And there is no issue from the marriage?”

  “Indeed not, sire.” Burnell was hiding a smirk.

  “And the lawyers rejoice and clerics grow old while you quarrel. We trust both parties would welcome an end to this dispute.” He looked inquiringly at Lady Gwenllian. “You wished to press your claim while here at court, did you not?”

  She opened her mouth to speak but seemed too shocked at the suddenness of it to summon a response. Blinking in confusion at the king, and then at de Vere, her glance skidded over Ranulf before she finally nodded. She drew a breath as though to gather herself and talk, but the king spoke before she could.

  “Very well, we have conceived a just solution that satisfies both families as well as it satisfies us. The right ruler of Ruardean is Lord Walter, gone these many years in the Holy Land, and he did promise his daughter to Morency and wished to wed her fortunes to that estate. We see no reason why this promise should not be fulfilled, and so we shall be most happy to attend the joyous nuptials of our beloved and faithful servants, Gwenllian of Ruardean and Ranulf of Morency.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Somehow, she had found her way into a chamber that she thought might be the queen’s solar. She believed it was Robert de Vere who had brought her here, but she could not remember it clearly. Indeed, she could remember nothing at all that had happened since the king had said she must be married, save for her overwhelming certainty that she must be very, very careful to reveal nothing of her true thoughts to the king. In that moment, she had entered that mood she knew when sparring, where the world shrank to only those things that fell within reach of her blade, her immediate surroundings, her next step. King Edward had looked at her, controlled and commanding, and spoke of a just solution, and her blood had turned cold.

  A few of the queen’s ladies were here, making conversation amongst themselves. When she had not responded to their greetings, they had decided she was overheated and, after pressing a goblet of some cool drink on her, they left her blessedly alone. She spent an immeasurable amount of time staring out the tiny window, seeing nothing.

  “Lady Gwenllian.”

  His voice roused her. It was him. The man who would be her husband. He did not look overcome with joy at the prospect. Truly, she was a fool for never having considered wedding him as a possible solution to the never-ending dispute. It was simple and expedient. It should have been proposed immediately when Aymer of Morency had died. Perhaps it had been proposed. Perhaps her mother had not wished it, having other plans for Gwenllian, and had simply never spoken of it. It should make her angry, but she could feel nothing at all. She only stood in a confused haze and realized that Morency had asked her something, was looking at her expectantly.

  “Be assured the selection is the finest to be found,” he said.

  She worked to understand him. “Selection?”

  “Of hawks,” he clarified, and his tone told her that he was repeating himself, and forcing himself to be patient. “I think it likely King Edward will make you a wedding gift of a falcon. If you be desirous of a particular bird, be assured he will discover your feelings.”

  Distantly she could hear the other ladies in the room murmuring appreciation of this evidence of her future husband’s thoughtfulness. But she only looked at him, at that little scar that cut across his eyebrow, and remembered how he had looked at her in his fever. And suddenly she knew absolutely, without question, that she could not trust herself with him. Too easily would she forget who she was, and who she must be. Guard against a soft heart, she thought with a fervor.

  He smiled politely, but his look was intent with some meaning he was trying to convey. “The hawk house is not far.” He offered his arm, and she took it, understanding that they were on display here.

  Somehow they managed light conversation as he led her through a door and out into the grounds. It was a small path, and she dimly recognized that he was steering them away from the press of court. He spoke of the fine weather and she spoke of her lack of skill in hawking and together they wondered, without any urgency, when they might join a party and he might teach her more of the sport. It could not be more clear that he did not want to teach her, and that she did not care to learn.

  Finally they were at the hawk house, and Morency was bidding a servant there to bring them to see a certain tiercel. It was far, far in the back corner, and when they reached it, the servant nodded and left.

  She stared at the bird, idly musing on its worth, as the sound of his footsteps faded and the silence stretched between them. When he said nothing, she turned to look at him. He seemed to wait for her to speak, but she could think of nothing to say. He shrugged slightly, an unusual air of apology about him, and nodded to where the servant had exited.

  “He joined Edward on crusade, Hubert, and I spoke for him when he wanted to work for the care and keeping of the royal mews. He is indebted to me. He will see that none will hear what we say here.”

  All by his design, this corner of privacy in a place notorious for its abundance of eyes and ears. There was nothing arrogant about him now, or angry or lustful or sneering. He spoke with a gravity she could not quite believe, so unfamiliar it was in him. “Where do your men lodge? You must send word to them quickly, that you remain here at the request of the queen, but I pray you show caution in your message. They will wonder why you have no maids to attend you.”

  In fact, she had hired a local girl last night, for the sake of appearance only. It was too strange that a daughter of Ruardean would come without several attendants, yet she had thought her escort of armed guards and one lone maid would answer the demands of propriety. But it would not do to have the girl stay with her her
e, lest the other servants should question her and wonder.

  “We shall say I had a maid from home who grew sick when we were but a day’s ride from Windsor.” He nodded readily, and her suspicion grew. Who was this man, who urged her to caution and would lie to help her? “Davydd awaits at the postern for my word, but I would lodge where my men are.” She could not imagine staying here among these ladies, but he shook his head as though staying elsewhere were unthinkable.

  “I described your traveling party to the king and his advisors when I arrived here.” He looked thoughtfully at the hooded bird nearest to him. “They would prevent you from fleeing ere we can be wed.”

  She let out a huff of air which, in better times, would have been a laugh. It startled him. “Why should I flee?”

  “You would not?”

  She could only shake her head weakly. To defy any king would be foolish, but to defy this one could be naught but madness. All her life she had lived among men, had learned how to divine at a glance the quality of their strength. Never before had she met a man such as King Edward. She had thought no man could overset her more than Ranulf of Morency had, with his murderous reputation, his famed skill with a weapon, and worst of all his look that cut through her and saw her most carnal thoughts.

  But if there was a keen edge of excitement in the fear Morency inspired, there was only a killing calm in the terror that had gripped her when the king had looked at her. The quality of King Edward’s strength was clear to her. It was unthinkable to disobey, and yet…

  “You did,” she said, comprehending all at once the risk he had taken.

  He looked at her sharply. “Nay. I wandered into your woods when I strayed from the road I traveled in answer to my king’s summons.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Never was it my intention to flee.”

  This is how it would be. He would keep her secrets, and she would keep his. It would bind them better than any church vows. Almost, it made her laugh. “Such a marriage we two shall make, from these lies.”