Time and Chance eoa-2

by Sharon Kay Penman

  They could see a pool of sunlight up ahead as the trail widened, dappled brightness briefly dispelling some of the deeper shadows. A small woodland creature darted across the path, too swiftly to be identified. As they rode on, there was a sudden flurry and a flock of chittering birds burst from a nearby tree, a shower of feathered arrows aiming at the sky. Ranulf gazed upward, following their soaring flight with the beginning of a smile. But then he saw Tegid, one of their guides. The young Welshman was staring up at the fleeing birds, too, and on his face was an expression of dawning horror.

  “Rhagod!” Only Ranulf understood that hoarse cry, a warning of ambush come too late. The urgency in the guide’s voice needed no translation, though. Henry checked his stallion, starting to draw his sword from its scabbard. Tegid’s second shout was choked off as he was slammed backward, knocked from his saddle by the force of the spear protruding from his chest.

  An arrow thudded into a tree trunk above Ranulf’s head. Another shaft found a target in flesh, and a knight slumped across his stallion’s neck, sliding to the ground as the horse reared up in fright. Then the killing began in earnest. With savage-sounding yells, the Welsh, charging from the woods on both sides of the road, sought to drag the English from their horses. The English in turn slashed and thrust with deadly effect in such close quarters, and blood splattered the combatants, the trampled grass, even the leaves of low-hanging branches.

  Ranulf had passed some sleepless hours in recent weeks, envisioning a battle in which he found himself fighting against the Welsh. What if he saw someone he knew amongst them? Celyn, his brother-by-marriage? Hywel? Now that the dreaded moment was here, he had no time to spare for such fears. His only concern was defending himself against men set upon killing him, and when a Welsh soldier grabbed his arm, jerking to pull him from the saddle, he spurred his stallion into rearing up. His attacker lost his balance, falling in front of those flailing hooves.

  A few feet away, Eustace Fitz John was not as lucky. His horse had bolted and a tree branch caught him in the throat. He crashed heavily to the ground and before he could regain his feet, a Welshman was astride him, plunging a spear downward. Ranulf tore his gaze away from the constable’s body, seeking his nephew. Henry was struggling to control his panicked stallion, while fending off a swarthy Welshman wielding a mace. His sword was already bloody, and as Ranulf watched, an arrow scorched past his face, almost grazing his cheek.

  Before Ranulf could go to Henry’s assistance, he was again under attack himself. When at last he looked back at Henry, the young king was still holding his own. But then he saw the royal standard dip, disappear into the dust churned up by the thrashing horses.

  The impact was immediate and devastating. “The king is dead!” The cry went up from a dozen throats, and Ranulf knew what would happen next. Believing that Henry was slain, his men would lose heart, think only of flight. Ranulf raced his horse across the clearing, leaned recklessly from the saddle and snatched up the fallen standard. Some of the English had already bolted, but the reassuring sight of that red and gold banner steadied the others, forestalling a rout.

  “Sound the retreat!” Ranulf thanked God that his nephew had a voice made for shouting. Henry’s command rose above the din of battle, followed by the blare of trumpets. Bunching together, the English began an agonizingly slow-paced withdrawal, keeping their horses under tight rein though they yearned to spur into a wild gallop, knowing that such a flight would doom them all.

  Ranulf had been in running battles before, but this one was night marish, for they were walled in by the dense woods, trapped on a winding trail that made speed impossible, and under unrelenting attack by the pursuing Welsh. They had to abandon their dead, even their wounded. But after several harrowing miles, they succeeded in fighting their way free.

  The danger had eased, but not ended. Henry was too tempting a target for Welsh bowmen; they’d be back, and in greater numbers. The English rode on, pushing their horses, relieved but still wary once they left the woods behind. They’d not yet counted their dead. Ranulf knew that the toll would be a high one. But it could have been worse, Christ Jesus, so much worse. Glancing from time to time at his nephew, he wondered if Harry realized just how close he’d come to dying.

  Henry did. He could still feel the hot rush of air on his skin as that Welsh arrow whistled past his ear. He was no novice to battle-he’d bloodied his sword for the first time at sixteen-but this had been different. This time his luck had almost run out.

  They were heading for the coast road, hoping to catch up with the rest of their army before the Welsh could rally for another attack. But they’d only covered a few miles before they saw dust up ahead. Drawing their swords, they waited, and soon were cheering, for the riders galloping toward them were friends, not foes.

  A scout on a lathered horse reached them first, explaining that a few of the English fugitives from the battle had overtaken the rearguard, claiming that the king had been slain, the rest lost. “But your uncle the earl would not believe it, my liege,” the scout told Henry. “Nor would the chancellor.” His begrimed, sweat-streaked face lit up in a wide grin. “The sight of you is going to gladden their eyes, and that’s God’s Blessed Truth!”

  Rainald began to whoop as soon as he was in recognition range. “I knew those fools were wrong, by God, I did!”

  Thomas Becket was more restrained in his greeting, but his jubilation burned no less brightly than Rainald’s, just at a lower flame. “Do you realize what you almost put me through, Harry?” He shook his head in mock reproach. “I’d have had to be the one to tell your queen that you got yourself killed in some godforsaken corner of Wales!”

  “That was foremost in my mind. Whilst I was fighting for my life, I kept thinking, ‘I cannot do this to Thomas!’ ”

  “You think telling Eleanor would have been rough? God pity the man who’d have had to tell my sister Maude!” Rainald’s grimace was partly for effect, partly quite genuine. “So… tell us. How bad was it, truly?”

  “Well, I’ve passed more pleasant afternoons,” Henry allowed, and they all grinned. But as his gaze met Ranulf’s, there was no levity, no laughter in either man’s eyes, only a haunted awareness of what might have been.

  After Henry’s escape from the Welsh ambush, Owain withdrew his forces before the advance of the much larger English army, and Henry continued along the coast to Rhuddlan Castle, awaiting the arrival of his fleet. But when word came, it was not good. Acting against orders, the English ships had anchored at Tal Moelfre on the island of Mon and the sailors had gone ashore, plundering and looting and burning the churches of Llanbedr Goch and Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf. The island residents were so outraged that they staged a counterattack, led by Owain’s son Hywel. In the fighting that followed, the English took much the worst of it, suffering many casualties, including a half-brother to Ranulf and Rainald.

  It was dusk when Ranulf and his men reached the encampment of the Welsh king at Bryn y pin. The day’s sweltering heat had yet to ebb and the English flag of truce drooped limply in the still, humid air. The Englishmen’s spirits were sagging, too, for they were convinced that Ranulf’s mission was doomed and they lacked his confidence in the worth of Owain’s word. They were greeted with predictable antagonism, subjected to jeers and catcalls as they were escorted through the camp. But no hands were raised against them, and the only weapons to threaten them were the fabled sharp edges of the Welsh tongue.

  Ranulf dismounted from his stallion, then stiffened at the sight of the man striding toward him. Slowly unsheathing his sword, he offered it to Owain’s son. Hywel accepted it awkwardly and they walked together across the encampment. The Welshman was finding this meeting as uncomfortable as Ranulf, and after a few moments he said, “So… how has your summer been so far, Ranulf? You keeping busy?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. How about you?”

  “You were there, were you not? With the English king in the Cennadlog Forest?”

  Not for th
e first time, Ranulf found himself marveling at the efficiency of Owain Gwynedd’s espionage system. “Tell me, Hywel, does a leaf fall in the forest without your father’s learning of it within the hour?”

  “A stray leaf or two may get past him. But we’ve tried to keep an eye on you-for your own good, of course.”

  “Of course.” Ranulf decided not to ask why, not sure he wanted to know the answer. “That ambush almost worked. If only they’d waited until we’d gotten deeper into the woods, we’d never have been able to fight our way out. Lucky for us you Welsh are such an impatient, impulsive people.”

  “Lucky for you I was not in command. That honor went to my brothers, Cynan and Davydd.” Hywel’s sly smile told Ranulf he was not entirely displeased that his brothers’ timing had been off. “I was occupied elsewhere, teaching greedy English sailors that plunder has its price.”

  They’d reached Owain’s tent, but neither man was in a hurry to enter. Hywel’s eyes were solemn now, for once devoid of all amusement. “I’ve always had a way with words; with a Welsh father and an Irish mother, how could I not? But tonight I hope you’re the eloquent one. You’ll have to be more than persuasive, Ranulf, if you expect to convince my father to make peace. You’ll have to be downright spellbinding.”

  Hywel didn’t wait for Ranulf’s response. Instead, he handed him back his sword. “It is never wise,” he said, “to go unarmed into the lion’s den.”

  Ranulf was not as cynical as Hywel; his expectations were usually much more optimistic. Not this time, though. He agreed wholeheartedly with Hywel’s pessimistic assessment of his chances. The tent was poorly lit by a single torch and crowded with as hostile an audience as he’d ever faced. Owain’s seneschal was regarding him balefully. So were his lords and four of his sons: Cynan, Davydd, Iorwerth, and Maelgwn.

  Owain was not as easy to read as the other men. He never was. They were seated on the ground, for the Welsh scorned the campaign comforts of their English enemies. Signaling for Ranulf to join them, Owain said, “Give the man some mead, Hywel.”

  Davydd started to object, caught Owain’s eye, and reconsidered. Ranulf gratefully accepted a cup from Hywel and took a deep, bracing swallow. “I am here, my lord Owain, at the behest of King Henry. He does not want all-out war with the Welsh. It is his hope that you and he can come to terms.”

  Owain drank from his cup, keeping his eyes on Ranulf all the while. “His terms, I’d wager.”

  There was no way to temper the blow, and Ranulf was wise enough not even to try. “King Henry would expect you to do homage to him for your domains, to offer up hostages as a show of good faith, to restore your brother Cadwaladr to his lands in Meirionydd, and to renounce all claims to the cantref of Tegeingl.”

  He knew what reaction he’d get, but it was even more heated than he’d expected. Owain’s sons were the most vocal in expressing their outrage. Cynan vowed passionately that he’d die ere he gave up his share of Meirionydd to Cadwaladr, Maelgwn and Iorwerth fumed at the insufferable arrogance of the English, while Davydd was reduced to sputtering incredulous oaths. Even Hywel dipped his oar in, pointing out acidly that the English fleet had been defeated at Tal Moelfre, just in case that had escaped King Henry’s notice.

  Ranulf made no attempt to defend himself, letting their indignation run its course. Owain, too, waited for the tumult to subside. “Your king’s notion of peace is a curious one. It sounds suspiciously like Welsh surrender to these ears. Suppose you tell me, Lord Ranulf, why I should even consider such one-sided terms. What could I possibly get out of it?”

  “You’d get the English army out of North Wales.”

  Owain smiled skeptically. “For how long?”

  Ranulf leaned forward tensely. “That would be up to you.”

  Owain’s eyes narrowed, but his expression did not change as the others began to heap scorn on this “English peace,” and when Owain got to his feet, Ranulf reluctantly rose too, taking it as a dismissal. So did Owain’s sons, and they were all caught by surprise when the Welsh king beckoned to Ranulf, saying, “Come with me.”

  Ranulf hastily followed Owain from the tent. Ignoring the stares and speculation of his soldiers, Owain began to walk, and Ranulf fell in step beside him. A turquoise twilight was spilling over the hills, and the few clouds overhead were darkening to a deep purple. Off to the south, Ranulf thought he glimpsed the fading gleam of the River Elwy. They were just a few miles from Rhuddlan and the English army. A few miles and a few days and then Armageddon. Unless he could convince Owain to accept the English terms. Unless the Almighty deigned to work a miracle solely on his behalf.

  “What did you mean,” Owain asked abruptly, “when you said it would be up to me?”

  “King Henry’s terms are not easy to swallow. But if you can force them down this once, you’ll not have to drink from that cup again. If you keep faith with him, he’ll keep out of Wales.”

  “How can you be so sure of that?”

  “Because,” Ranulf said, “I know my nephew, about as well as any man can.”

  Owain had led them into the shadowed circle cast by a sky-scraping oak. “I’ve spoken to your uncle about you,” he said unexpectedly. “Rhodri swears that your soul is Welsh. He says you are that rarity, a man as honorable as he is honest. But can you be loyal to Wales and Henry, too?”

  Ranulf summoned up a grimacing smile. “God knows, I am trying.” “The English campaign has hardly been a rousing success so far. Your nephew’s attempt to outflank me almost cost him his life, and his fleet was badly mauled in that raid on Mon. Why should I make peace when I am winning?”

  “Because we both know that you can win battles, but not the war,” Ranulf said bluntly. “Wales can match neither the resources nor the armies of the English Crown. For every Welsh child born, the Lord God has chosen to let twenty be begotten across the border. I am not saying it would be easy to conquer Wales. But I fear it could be done.”

  “And you think this young lordling is the man to do it?”

  “You mock him at your peril, my lord Owain. Yes, Harry is young.

  He learns fast, though, rarely making the same mistake twice. And he gets what he wants. You need proof of that? Both his crown and his queen were once claimed by other men. But by the time he was one and twenty, he’d won the English throne and taken Eleanor of Aquitaine into his bed.”

  Ranulf paused, taking a deep, deliberate breath before saying then, with all the conviction at his command, “Trust me in this if nothing else, my lord. Henry Fitz Empress is no ‘young lordling,’ but the most dangerous foe you’ve ever faced. His will was forged in the same fire that tempered the blade of his sword. If you provoke him into war to the uttermost, he’ll do whatever he must to win that war.”

  “You say he gets what he wants. How do I know he does not want Wales?”

  “Harry is ambitious, not rapacious. For all that gluttony is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, it is not amongst his. He does not bite off more than he can chew, and he well knows that Wales would be a tough mouthful. Moreover, he has shown himself to be a fair and just liege lord to the diverse lands within his domains. He rules Anjou, Normandy, Maine, Touraine, England, and his wife’s Aquitaine, without meddling in their customs, laws, or languages. He told me once that was his father’s deathbed advice: Always to ride with a light hand on the reins.”

  “That may be so, but he is heavy-handed in his demands. He asks a lot for a man who has yet to gain a victory on Welsh soil.”

  “And that is telling, too, my lord. Another man might have forced a battle, just to prove to you-and himself-that he could win. Another man might also have made the terms much harsher, punishing you for his mistakes. But Harry needs to prove his manhood to no one. Nor does he seek out scapegoats. He accepts rebellion, fairly fought. It is betrayal he cannot abide-or forgive.”

  “I assume that is a warning,” Owain said dryly. “You put me in mind, Lord Ranulf, of a man trying to ride two horses at once. At the moment, you seem to have a f
oot planted firmly in each saddle. But I wonder how long you can keep such a precarious balance.”

  “I wonder, too,” Ranulf said, with a rueful smile. “I’ve tried to be honest with you, my lord, more honest than men usually are with kings. If I may, I’d do a bit more plain speaking now. I know that Harry’s terms leave a sour taste in your mouth. But in truth, they are not that unreasonable or onerous. It would vex you, I daresay, to have Cadwaladr underfoot again. We both know, though, that you can keep him in check. It might even be better to have him back under your control, rather than conniving freely at the English court. As for Tegeingl, you cannot truly blame Harry for wanting you out of a cantref that borders on Chester. He told me recently that if he turned a blind eye to the border for long, the people of Cheshire and Shropshire would soon be speaking Welsh, and that, my lord Owain, is the highest compliment he could pay you.”

  He’d taken a gamble with that last remark, saw that he’d won it when the corner of Owain’s mouth quirked, a smile almost too quick to catch. He did not dare to ask, though, if he’d been persuasive. There was too much at stake to risk hearing that he’d failed.

  “Stay the night,” Owain said. “I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Ranulf watched as Owain strode off into the darkness. Suddenly he felt very tired, body and soul. A tree stump was off to his right, a primitive seat at best, but close at hand. He was still sitting there when Hywel strolled over.

  “My father will say only that he has some thinking to do. Naturally, that has alarmed my brothers, few of whom do any thinking at all. They cannot understand why he does not just send you back to the English camp with a blistering refusal scorching your ears. Nor would they stop at that. If it were up to them, you’d be banished from ever setting foot on Welsh soil again, even in your dreams.”

  That was Ranulf’s secret fear, that even if he managed to stave off a war, he could still be the loser. “Am I likely to end up in exile, Hywel? Would your father do that?”