Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Henry’s first instinct was to justify his absence, to remind her that he’d been occupied in chasing Louis’s brothers out of Normandy. But she’d spoken so matter-of-factly that he found himself conceding, “I suppose I may have been somewhat reluctant to face you then.” Adding, with just the glimmer of a smile, “After all, I could only fight one war at a time.” He waited for her response, but she continued to sip her wine, saying nothing. “Are you going to tell me that I was wrong?” he challenged. “That you were not wroth with me?”

  “No, I was indeed wroth with you, Harry. So it was probably for the best that you did stay away as long as you did.”

  “And now that I’m back?”

  She finished the last of her wine, reached for a nearby flagon, and poured another cupful. Coming to her feet, she leaned over the tub. “Now that you’re back,” she said, “I think we have better things to do than argue.”

  As she held out the cup, he made no move to take it, letting her tilt it to his lips. The water had begun to cool, but his body was suddenly flooded with heat, centering in his groin and radiating outward. He’d never known another woman able to stir his desire so fast, and he groped hastily for a towel, saying huskily, “I’ve spent enough time in this bath.”

  But as he started to rise, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. “No . . . wait,” she said, and as he watched, she unfastened her veil and wimple, began to loosen her long, dark braid. Lifting her skirt, she kicked off her shoes. He expected her to remove her stockings next, but instead she straightened up, and then swung her leg over the rim of the tub. A moment later, she’d slid down into the water, smiling at his startled expression. Running her fingers along the sopping silk that now molded to her body like a second skin, she said, “You owe me a new gown.”

  Henry began to laugh. “I owe you more than that,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. The water was soon spilling over the tub’s rim, drenching the floor rushes. But by then, they were too busy to care, even to notice.

  ELEANOR STIRRED and sighed. Usually she was an early riser. But this morning she and Henry had slept late, for their lovemaking had been ardent and frequent, and it was almost dawn before they’d finally fallen into an exhausted, satisfied sleep. Her thigh muscles were as sore as if she’d spent a day in the saddle, and she smiled drowsily as the night’s memories came surging back.

  The ruin of a favored gown had been well worth it, for that calculated plunge into his bath had aroused her husband even more than she’d dared hope. Once a man’s imagination was inflamed, his body kept catching fire of its own accord. Not that Harry ever needed much encouragement. His sexual hungers were usually as boundless as his energy. Unlike the monkish Louis, he was delighted when her own passion flared out of control, fondly calling her “hellcat” if she left scratches down his back, teaching her ways to pleasure a man that would have horrified her confessor.

  Beside her, Henry slept on, one arm draped across her hip, his face pillowed in her hair. Laying her hand over his heart, she entwined bright golden strands of chest hair around her forefinger, tugging gently. He already had an early morning erection, and she could feel it swelling against her thigh as her fingers trailed across his belly. He kept his eyes shut, pretending still to sleep until her intimate caresses evoked an involuntary gasp. Laughing, she rolled over into his arms, and did her very best to reward him for being so responsive to her overtures.

  Eleanor would never have admitted, even to herself, that she was beginning to feel the first stirrings of insecurity. She had a beautiful woman’s confidence, which had indeed often bordered on arrogance, for she’d been accustomed to bedazzling men since her fifteenth year. But marriage to a much younger man, one with a roving eye, had made her vulnerable in a way she’d never anticipated and was not yet willing to acknowledge, not consciously. For now, she assuaged these instinctive and unfamiliar pricklings of foreboding with the sweet balm of seduction, finding reassurance as well as pleasure in her husband’s eager embrace.

  THE FIRE HAD BURNED OUT during the night and servants were attempting to rekindle it. Henry’s squire was searching in a coffer, selecting his king’s clothes for the day while he flirted with Veronique, the newest and youngest of Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting. Listening to the commotion filling the chamber, Henry and Eleanor realized that they could no longer keep the world at bay. But for now, the bedcurtains remained drawn, giving them a few more moments of precious semiprivacy. Leaning over, Henry smoothed his wife’s dark cloud of hair back from her face. “I’d better get out of this bed ere you cripple me.”

  He didn’t move, though, and Eleanor smiled at him lazily. “Well, then you could boast it was a war wound, gotten in the service of your queen.”

  Henry laughed and tightened his arms around her. “Ah, but I am going to miss you,” he said, and then reluctantly reached out to open the bed hangings and start their day.

  Eleanor sat up, too, catching his hand. “You’re here but one night and already planning your departure?” she asked, not able to hide her dismay. “Where do you mean to go now?”

  “Not me, love . . . you. I need you to return to England.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been gone from its shores for more than a year and I cannot leave Normandy just yet, not until I’ve patched up a peace with Louis and made sure our plans to wed our children have not been jeopardized. I know I have a good man in Leicester. But I’d feel more secure, Eleanor, if you were there to watch over our English interests. Leicester is merely my justiciar; you’re my consort.”

  Eleanor was silent for a moment, sorting out conflicting urges. As Henry’s wife, she was troubled by the prospect of another long separation, and even more troubled that he was not. But as his queen, she was pleased that he had such faith in her. She’d been disappointed that he’d not given her a larger role in his decision-making, and she harbored an unwelcome suspicion that he valued his mother’s advice more than he did hers. It was heartening, therefore, that he wanted her to be his eyes and ears in England, even if it did mean sleepless nights in a cold, lonely bed.

  “When do you want me to go, Harry?”

  “Soon, love, mayhap after the Christmas revelries. Is that agreeable to you?”

  “No,” she said, “but it is acceptable.”

  THE SEACOAST MANOR OF ABER was the favorite residence of Owain Gwynedd. On this frigid night in late December, not even a well-stoked hearth could dispel the chill that was pervading his bedchamber. Settling back in his chair, Owain studied his son. Hywel was drinking deeply from a brimming cup of mead, putting the cup down with a satisfied smile.

  “I got to fancy some of the French wines, but I missed mead and, believe it or not, the wet Welsh climate. I suffered a few minor injuries in the course of Harry’s war, but nothing gave me more discomfort than the sunburn I got in Quercy!”

  Owain smiled, too. “And did you get to meet the English queen, as you’d hoped?”

  “At Poitiers. She is as beautiful as men say, and too clever by half, I suspect.” Hywel could not resist glancing toward his father’s concubine as he spoke, an insinuation that was not lost upon Cristyn. Taking up her mantle, she slipped unobtrusively from the chamber.

  Owain’s interest in Eleanor was peripheral. “Tell me,” he said, “of the English king. I notice you call him Harry now. You found him likable, then?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did. He looks upon life with a humorous eye, and for a man reputed to have the Devil’s own temper, I never saw him unleash it upon the truly defenseless. It helped, too, that he laughed at my jokes!”

  “What are his failings?” Owain asked, and leaned forward intently to hear his son’s answer.

  “He thinks he can get whatever he sets his mind upon.”

  “God help him, then,” Owain said dryly. “Is that why he attempted to lay claim to Toulouse?”

  “I think it was in part to please his woman, and in part because he thought he could win it without pay
ing too high a price. Becoming a king at one and twenty has made him rather cocky, prone to overvalue his own abilities and undervalue those of his opponents.”

  “Does he, indeed?” Owain said thoughtfully. “That is most useful to know, Hywel. But I’ll confess that I am uneasy about his hunger for lands not his. Your friend Ranulf sought to assure me that he had no desire to swallow Wales whole. Think you that he is right?”

  “Well . . . we are a much poorer country than Toulouse and that probably works to our advantage. Harry is a practical man for all his youth, and I cannot see him lusting after a land that has no towns, little sun, and more sheep than people!”

  “Ranulf said also that if we provoked him into all-out war, he’d be the most dangerous foe I’ve ever faced. What say you to that, Hywel?”

  Hywel didn’t hesitate. “Ranulf spoke true. I have no doubts whatsoever about that.”

  “I would say, then, that your time in these foreign lands has served us well.”

  Owain was usually sparing with his praise and Hywel flushed with pleasure. Draining his cup, he pushed his chair away from the table. “It is late,” he said, “and I’d best find a bed over in the hall ere they are all taken.”

  Owain nodded. “I am glad,” he said, “to have you home,” and Hywel departed with a light step and a lingering smile.

  Outside, the sky was clear, stars gleaming in its ebony vastness like celestial fireflies. It was bitterly cold, and Hywel’s every breath trailed after him in pale puffs of smoke. The glazed snow crackled underfoot as he started toward the great hall. He’d taken only a few steps when a ghostly, graceful figure glided from the shadows into his path.

  Hywel came to a halt. “Were you waiting to bid me good night, Cristyn? How kind.”

  Cristyn pulled down her hood. The face upturned to his was bleached by the moonlight, her eyes dark and fathomless. “I was hoping,” she said, “that you’d not come back.”

  “I missed you, too,” he drawled and heard her draw a breath, sharp as a serpent’s hiss.

  “I know what you are up to,” she warned, “and it will avail you naught. You may be Owain’s spy, but you’ll never be his heir.”

  “You might want to check with my father ere you settle the succession for him. I daresay he has an idea or two on that particular subject.”

  Cristyn gave him a stare colder even than the December night. “You will not cheat Davydd of his birthright.”

  Hywel laughed softly. “Now if I were facing you across a battlefield, darling, I might be worried. But little brother Davydd? He could not out-fight a flock of drunken whores. Ask him to tell you sometime about the night he balked at paying for services rendered and the outraged bawd chased him through the streets of Bangor, walloping him with a broom.”

  Hywel waited to see if she would respond. When she did not, he walked on, still laughing under his breath. Cristyn stayed where she was, as if rooted to the frozen earth, watching as he sauntered toward the hall. But he never looked back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  June 1160

  Chester, England

  FRIDAY, THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF JUNE, was the Nativity of St John the Baptist, and Chester’s annual fair was in full swing. Booths and stalls had been set up in front of the abbey of St Werbergh’s Great Gate, and merchants were doing a brisk business. Enticed by the aroma of freshly baked apple wafers, Eleri fumbled in the purse dangling from her belt. Finding only a few farthings, she scowled, then tugged at her sister’s sleeve.

  “I wish to God our kings minted money of their own. I hate having to use English coins for everything. Speaking of which, do you have any, Rhiannon? I want to buy the children some wafers.”

  “Ranulf gave me a full purse. Here, take what you need.”

  They’d been speaking in Welsh, and Eleri now glanced toward the young Englishwoman standing a few feet away, one of the Countess of Chester’s ladies-in-waiting. “Your French is much better than mine, Rhiannon. Ask her if she wants a wafer, too.”

  Isolda did, and Eleri was soon shepherding the children toward the baker’s booth. Left alone with Isolda, Rhiannon made polite conversation for a while, but the other woman’s responses were so terse that she soon gave up the attempt, unsure whether Isolda’s discomfort was a reaction to her blindness, her Welsh blood, or both. Reminding herself that there were plenty of Welsh made uneasy by her blindness, too, she concentrated instead upon the sounds and smells of the fair.

  The savory aroma of the baked wafers mingled with the fragrances of perfumes and spices and the more pungent odors associated with summer heat and crowds and animals. Rhiannon had never been to a fair before; they had nothing of this scope in Wales. But Eleri was skilled at acting as her sister’s eyes and she’d been providing vivid descriptions of the activities and fairgoers.

  The variety of goods for sale was truly amazing, she’d reported: bolts of linen and silk, cowhide boots, felt hats, jars of honey and olive and almond and linseed oil, wines and cider and candles and even a bright green African parrot in a wicker cage. Equally remarkable was the range of entertainment offered. There were acrobats and jugglers and musicians and a rope dancer and archery contests, bouts with the quarter staff, wrestling matches, and cock fighting. There were also cutpurses and thieves and harlots on the prowl, keeping their eyes peeled for the sheriff’s men, and an occasional belligerent drunkard. For Rhiannon, it was an experience both exhilarating and overwhelming.

  “Lady Isolda, where are they selling cider?” Getting no answer, Rhiannon repeated her question. But again there was no response. With a pang of dismay, she realized that the other woman had gone off, leaving her alone. She had a moment of instinctive panic, which quickly subsided once she remembered that Eleri would soon be back.

  Still, it was unnerving to be surrounded by jostling strangers, people she could neither see nor understand, for although Ranulf had taught her French, most of the Chester fairgoers were speaking English, and that only increased her sense of isolation. Damning Isolda under her breath, she stumbled when someone bumped her from behind. Her first fear was that a cutpurse had seen her as an easy target, but she soon realized that something else was amiss. All around her, people were pushing and shoving. They did not seem fearful, though, for they were laughing and shrieking. Confused, she struggled to keep her footing, but she was caught up in the surging crowd like a twig carried along by flood waters. She was soon dizzy and disoriented, her cries for Eleri going unheard. When an elbow slammed into her ribs, she reeled backward, losing her balance.

  She did not fall, though. An arm snaked around her waist, keeping her upright, and a familiar voice murmured soothingly in Welsh, “Easy, darling, I’ve got you.”

  Rhiannon gasped with relief, but also astonishment. “Hywel? Whatever are you doing here?”

  “What I do best, rescuing a damsel in distress. Of course I usually have to fend off dragons, not greased pigs, but—”

  “Greased pigs! What are you talking about, Hywel?”

  “That was the cause of all the commotion. One of the greased pigs escaped from its pen and made a dash for freedom, with a pack of eager youths in noisy pursuit.” Hywel chuckled and gave Rhiannon a hug. “It must have been a Welsh pig, for he ran circles around those English lads, and when last seen, was heading west as fast as those stubby little legs would carry him. Now . . . why are you wandering about Chester’s fair by yourself and where is that roving husband of yours?”

  “You first,” she insisted, as he led her toward the greater security of the closest booth.

  “We happened to be passing by and decided to stop in at the fair. Why else did we make peace with the English except for the opportunity to shop in Chester?”

  Rhiannon wished he wouldn’t joke about the peace, for she still fretted—especially late at night—that it would not last. “My turn,” she said. “We are visiting Ranulf’s niece. She was waylaid by the abbot, told us to go on into the fair. Eleri is at the baker’s booth with the children, hers and mine
.”

  “And Ranulf?”

  “He had to ride over to one of his Cheshire manors and meet with his steward. We’re staying with Maud until he gets back. Can you wait until she joins us? I would like you to meet her.”

  “We did meet,” Hywel said, smiling at her surprise, “in Poitiers last June. Did Ranulf never tell you?” Hearing his name called then, he gave an answering shout. “Over here!” Turning back to Rhiannon, he said, “You remember my foster brother, Peryf ap Cedifor?”

  “Of course,” she said, holding out her hand for Peryf to kiss. The sound of his voice was just as she remembered, gruff and so deep that she’d envisioned him as a veritable giant, a vast, sturdy oak of a man. It had come as a shock when Ranulf described Peryf as being only of average height, nowhere near as tall as Hywel.

  “And here is my son, Caswallon,” Hywel said fondly as they were joined by a youth of fifteen. “You remember the lovely Lady Rhiannon, lad?”

  The boy nodded, ducking his head. He had inherited neither his father’s uncommon height nor his coloring, the fair hair and dark eyes that gave Hywel such a striking appearance. Caswallon had hair the shade of rust, a multitude of freckles, and greyish-green eyes that looked at life sidelong, rarely head-on. Unlike Peryf, Caswallon’s physical description tallied well with Rhiannon’s mental image of the boy, as one easily overlooked. Each time Rhiannon had met him, he’d been so tongue-tied that all of her maternal instincts were aroused. The problem, she suspected, was most likely Hywel; it might well be daunting for a shy youngster, growing up in the shadow of such a celebrated and flamboyant father.

  “Rhiannon, I’ve been looking all over for you! Why did you not stay by the—Oh!” Eleri’s indignant protest was forgotten at the sight of the Welsh prince. “Lord Hywel, what a surprise! What brings you to Chester?”

  “Lady Eleri, you know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth,” Hywel professed gallantly. After dispatching his son to buy more wafers and cider for them all, he and Peryf ushered the women toward the shade of a nearby elder tree. “I’m sorry that we’ll miss seeing Ranulf. I rely upon him for gossip about the English king’s court.”