Time and Chance

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Christ on the Cross, woman!” Henry was stung by her criticism, for he was very proud of the Constitutions of Clarendon and could not understand why others were so leery of change. “How can rights be properly defined if they are not set down in writing?”

  “But that makes compromise so much more difficult! Why can you not see that?”

  “Because I have no intention of compromising with Thomas Becket, now or ever!”

  “Like it or not, you may have to, Harry. The man is still the Archbishop of Canterbury . . . and whose fault is that?”

  “I have admitted I made a mistake with Becket and do not need you to throw that in my face! But even the worst mistakes can be undone and I mean to undo this one.”

  “I suppose it is too much to ask how you intend to bring this about? Why should you share your plans with me, after all? I am merely your queen!”

  “Why should I want to tell you anything at all when this is the response I get—carping and disapproval?”

  A timid knock on the bedchamber door interrupted the quarrel, although not for long; both their tempers were still at full blaze. Henry took the proffered parchment, dismissed the messenger, glared at Eleanor, and broke the seal. As Eleanor watched angrily, he moved toward the nearest light, a tall candelabra. His back was to her, but she saw him stiffen, heard his gasp, a cry broken off in midbreath.

  “Harry?” When he didn’t answer, she moved toward him. “Harry . . . what is it?”

  He’d crumpled the parchment in his fist. “Christ have pity,” he said, very low. When he looked up, his eyes were brimming with tears. “My mother has written to tell me . . .” He swallowed painfully. “My brother is dead.”

  “God in Heaven! Will? What happened . . . a fall from his horse?”

  “No . . . he sickened. He sickened and died on Friday last. My mother says he was not ailing long. According to the doctors, he had no fight in him, just gave up . . .”

  Eleanor was shocked; Will was only twenty-seven. “I am so sorry, Harry,” she said, and put her arms around him. He held her so tightly that it hurt, burying his face in her hair. She could feel his breath rasping against her ear, could see the pulse throbbing in his temple. They stood in silence for a time and then he drew back. There were tear tracks upon his cheek, but his eyes were dry and hot.

  “Will died of a broken heart,” he said. “Even the doctors think so. In denying him the wife of his choosing, Thomas Becket brought about his death.”

  Eleanor did not argue with him. She reached out again, held him close, and let him grieve for his brother.

  HEEDLESS OF THE CHILL, Ranulf stood in the doorway of the great hall at Trefriw, gazing across the rain-sodden bailey at the chamber he shared with Rhiannon. Faint light gleamed through the chinks in the closed shutters, the only signs of life. The wind and rain were all he heard, although he doubted that Rhiannon would do much screaming; Eleri had once confided that during her previous birthings, she’d bitten down on a towel to stifle her cries. Thinking of the proud, vulnerable woman in that lying-in chamber, laboring to bring his child into the world, Ranulf felt fear prickle along his spine. Rhiannon was almost forty-one. Women died in childbirth all too often, and the older the woman, the greater the risk. What would he do if the Almighty took her, if she traded her life for the baby’s?

  “For the love of God, Ranulf, shut the door!” Hywel shivered as a blast of wind invaded the hall. He and Peryf had arrived in midmorning, only to learn that Rhiannon’s pains had begun before dawn. He assumed that the birthing was proceeding as it ought; Eleri’s occasional updates were hurried, not alarmed. He felt confident that Rhiannon would safely deliver her babe. But then Rhiannon was not his wife.

  “We’ve got the midwife to tend to Rhiannon. Mayhap we ought to fetch a doctor to tend to Ranulf ere the poor soul unravels like a ball of yarn.” While said ostensibly to Rhodri, the words were actually aimed at Ranulf. The gibe worked; Ranulf turned reluctantly from the door, joining them at the table. He stared down at the food upon his trencher, though, as if he’d never seen stewed chicken before, and had to be prodded into swallowing a few mouthfuls.

  “So . . . tell me,” Hywel said with determined cheer, “what names have you chosen for the child? If it is a lad, I think Hywel has a fine ring to it.”

  That roused Ranulf from his uneasy reverie. “You ought to have put in your bid sooner. Rhiannon and I have already settled upon the names.”

  “Let me guess. For a daughter . . . Annora, perchance?” Hywel murmured, grinning when Ranulf threw a wadded-up napkin in his direction.

  “If it is a girl, we shall name her Angharad, after my mother.”

  Hywel nodded approvingly. “A name I’ve always fancied. I’ve bedded two lovely Angharads.” He started to joke “but not at the same time,” then glanced over at Ranulf’s son and thought better of it. Ranulf’s daughter had been sent to stay with neighbors, but Gilbert was in his thirteenth year now, deemed old enough to remain. He was slouched at the end of the table, saying little and eating less, and Hywel decided circumspection was in order. “What if it is a son?”

  “We will name him Morgan, after one of Rhiannon’s brothers.”

  “My Morgan died young,” Rhodri began somberly. As proud as he was to have the name live on in one of his grandchildren, he still felt an old sorrow at the memory of that lost son. But before he could continue, Gilbert flung his knife down, shoving away from the table.

  “Why could you not have named me Morgan? Why was I the one saddled with an alien English name that no one can even pronounce?”

  They were startled by the boy’s outburst, Ranulf most of all. “I never knew you felt like that, lad. I named you Gilbert after my best friend—”

  “An Englishman!”

  “Yes, Gilbert was English. What of it? I am half-English myself, as you well know.”

  Gilbert was deeply flushed. No longer meeting his father’s eyes, he muttered something under his breath. Ranulf could not be sure, but he thought his son said that was nothing to boast about.

  “What did you say, Gilbert?”

  The boy shrugged. “I am not hungry. May I be excused?”

  Ranulf hesitated, then nodded, and Gilbert snatched up his mantle, bolting out into the bailey. “I had no idea that he was harboring such resentment,” he confessed. “I suppose I should not be so surprised, though. Your brothers are not alone in their suspicions of me, Hywel. For all that I’ve lived here fourteen years, some people will always see me as the alltud —the alien Englishman in their midst, who may or may not be the English king’s spy. Some of that suspicion must inevitably spill over onto Gilbert.”

  Hywel slid his mead cup across the table. “Do not make more of this than it deserves. I daresay the lad is scared and lashing out at the closest target—you. Once Rhiannon safely gives birth, it will be forgotten.”

  Ranulf was not convinced of that. But Rhiannon’s need was paramount; Gilbert’s grievances would have to wait. He drank from Hywel’s cup, then sent it skidding back across the table just as they heard sudden shouting out in the bailey. For a moment, he froze, his first fear for Rhiannon.

  Hywel’s hearing was more acute. “A rider is coming in,” he announced and within moments was proved correct. The messenger was soaked to the skin, trembling with the cold. Stumbling toward the hearth, he gratefully accepted a cup of mead, gulping it down before he drew a sealed parchment from his tunic.

  “My lord,” he said, dropping to his knees before Ranulf. “I bring you an urgent message from the king.”

  The hall quieted. Even those who did not understand French realized that something was amiss. All watched nervously as Ranulf broke the seal and read. He sat down suddenly in the closest seat, the letter slipping from his hand, fluttering into the floor rushes. “My nephew is dead.”

  “Which one?” Hywel asked, hoping it was the least of the lot, that fool Gloucester.

  “Will . . . the king’s brother.” Ranulf blinked back tears. But be
fore he could tell them any more, the door was flung open and his sister-in-law plunged into the hall.

  Eleri was wet and disheveled and jubilant. “God be praised, Ranulf, you have a son!”

  AFTER A VISIT with his wife and newborn son, Ranulf returned to the hall, where a celebration was in progress. Celyn soon arrived, and then their neighbors, for in Wales, word seemed to travel on the wind. Ranulf welcomed his young daughter home, assured her that her mother and baby brother were well, and generally tried to play the role expected of him, that of host and happy father. But Will’s plaintive ghost lingered in the shadows and Ranulf kept catching glimpses of him from the corner of his eye; once or twice, he even thought he heard Will’s voice, sounding sad and bewildered and wrenchingly young.

  “When will you tell Rhiannon?” Hywel had come up quietly behind him. “I did not get a chance to say I was sorry. I know how fond you were of Will. He was good company . . .” Hywel’s smile flickered briefly. “... for an Englishman.”

  “I did not want Rhiannon to know, not yet. She was fond of Will, too. I’ll tell her on the morrow.”

  Hywel had brought over a brimming cup. “Drink this,” he directed. “You look as if you need it.”

  “I do,” Ranulf acknowledged. “When Will died in Rouen, any chance of compromise between Harry and Becket died, too. Harry is very bitter, blaming Becket for his brother’s death.”

  “Then the accord they reached at Clarendon is not likely to last?”

  “No . . . not bloody likely. Becket seems to have repented of his submission almost at once. As soon as he returned to Canterbury, he did public penance, put aside his customary fine clothes for plain, dark garb, and suspended himself from saying Mass. You can well imagine Harry’s response to that.”

  Hywel whistled softly. “Say what you will about him, the good archbishop has quite a flair for the dramatic. So their war goes on.” He hesitated then, dark eyes studying Ranulf’s face. “I am loath to add to your worries. But you’ll find out sooner or later, and mayhap you ought to hear it from me. Rhys ap Gruffydd has gone on the attack, overrunning Dine-far and chasing the Marcher lord Walter Clifford back across the border with his tail tucked between his legs. And we recently got word that the English king’s stronghold at Carreghwfa fell to Owain Cyfeiliog at year’s end.”

  Ranulf’s breath caught. He’d known since the summer—since Woodstock—that trouble was brewing in the Marches. But he’d not expected the cauldron to boil over so soon. How long ere Owain Gwynedd cast his lot with Rhys ap Gruffydd and the lords of Powys? How long ere all of Wales took fire?

  “If anyone asks after me,” he said, “tell them I’ve gone to look in on Rhiannon.”

  Collecting his daughter as he left the hall, he agreed to take her along if she’d promise to be very quiet. Seeing Gilbert loitering a few feet away, he beckoned and the boy hurried over, with enough speed to give the lie to his feigned nonchalance. Leaving their guests to Rhodri and Hywel, he ushered his children out into the damp February night.

  The midwife had departed, but Eleri was dozing in a chair by the hearth. She smiled at the sight of them, putting her finger to her lips and pointing toward the bed. Ranulf kissed her on the cheek and said softly, “Celyn is awaiting you in the hall. I’ll stay with her now.”

  Mallt and Gilbert glanced at their sleeping mother, then followed Ranulf as he crossed to the cradle. Swaddled in linen strips and covered by warm woolen blankets, Morgan slept as peacefully as if he were still sheltered within his mother’s womb. He was larger than either Gilbert or Mallt at birth, with a faint bruise on his temple and a fringe of tawny hair, the exact shade of Ranulf’s own. The older children crowded eagerly around the cradle, but when Morgan continued to sleep on, their interest flagged and they soon slipped away. Picking up the chair, Ranulf carried it over to his wife’s bed.

  Rhiannon awakened about an hour later, raising up on her elbows to listen for the sound of a familiar step, a known voice. “Eleri?”

  “No, love, it is me.” Leaning over, he kissed her tenderly on the mouth. As quiet as they were, a sudden wail from the cradle signaled that Morgan was now awake and in need of attention. When Ranulf put the baby in Rhiannon’s arms, Morgan let out a few more tentative cries, as if testing the power of his lungs, and then settled down contentedly against his mother’s warmth. Rhiannon refused to engage a wet-nurse as ladies of rank usually did, unwilling to sacrifice the precious intimacy of that bond in the name of fashion. She guided Morgan’s mouth to a nipple, smiling as he began to suckle noisily.

  Ranulf slumped back in his chair. The chamber was lit only by firelight, the hearth flames offering just enough illumination for him to distinguish the shadowy forms of his wife and son. As he watched Rhiannon nurse their baby, it should have been a moment of tranquil joy. But his eyes were stinging, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. Trefriw was the first real home he’d ever known, and he’d been happier here than he’d have believed possible. Now a storm was gathering on the horizon: dark, foreboding clouds and a rising wind. When war came to Wales, how would he be able to keep his family safe? His earlier rebuke to Gilbert seemed to echo on the air. He was indeed half-English, half-Welsh. What if he could not be true to both halves of his soul? Could he choose without destroying the rejected self? He’d lived his entire life striving to keep faith. But what if his loyalties became irreconcilable?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  August 1164

  Woodstock, England

  AS THE ARCHBISHOP of Canterbury’s retinue approached the king’s manor at Woodstock, villagers thronged the road A to watch. William Fitz Stephen’s stomach was queasy, his skin flushed and damp with perspiration. He would have liked to blame the day’s sultry heat for his discomfort, yet he knew better—it was his lord’s looming confrontation with the king. He cast a sidelong glance at his companion, wondering if Herbert of Bosham shared his unease. But Herbert’s face was alight with anticipation. His outward appearance was so foppish and affected—tall and willowy, handsome and preening—that it was easy to forget his was the soul of a firebrand, one who thrived on controversy and scorned compromise. Fitz Stephen could only hope that Herbert’s thirst for turmoil would go unslaked this day. Why would Lord Thomas seek out the king like this if he did not intend to proffer an olive branch?

  They could see the manor walls now, sunlight glinting off the chain-mail of the sentries. Fitz Stephen had many pleasant memories of times spent at Woodstock, riding with Lord Thomas and the king as they hunted in these deep, still woods on hot summer afternoons like this one. Those were bygone days, beyond recall. He glanced at his lord’s taut profile and said a silent prayer that this meeting with the king would go well. It was then that guards stepped forward, blocking the gate.

  The archbishop’s men reined in. There was a flurry of confusion and the archbishop began to cough when he inhaled some of the dust kicked up by the milling horses. Fitz Stephen urged his mount forward. Before he could speak, Herbert demanded that the guards step aside. “Do you fools not recognize His Grace? Admit us at once!”

  The guards shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, looking so uncomfortable that Fitz Stephen knew at once something was terribly wrong. They did not move away from the gate. “We have our orders,” one mumbled, while the others let their raised spears speak for them.

  “What orders?” Thomas Becket frowned impatiently. “The king is expecting me. I sent him word that I would be arriving in midweek.”

  There was a silence, and then the boldest of the guards muttered, “The king does not wish to see you, my lord archbishop. We were told not to admit you.”

  Color burned into Becket’s face. He opened his mouth, no words emerging. For what was there to say?

  AFTER BEING TURNED away from Woodstock, Becket seemed to realize just how precarious his position had become. He secretly sought to flee England, not even confiding in his own household. His first try was thwarted by contrary winds, and his second attempt failed whe
n the sailors recognized him and balked, for fear of incurring the king’s wrath.

  BECKET’S NEXT RETURN to Woodstock was on a dreary August afternoon, under a weeping sky. The road was clogged in mud and the trees dripped with moisture, splattering the riders as they passed underneath. William Fitz Stephen tried not to glance over his shoulder at the smothering cloud cover, but his apprehension increased with each mile that brought them closer to Woodstock. He thought it was the true measure of his lord’s despair that he’d risk another public humiliation. But he knew Thomas feared the consequences of his failed attempts to flee the country, for they were breaches of the Constitutions of Clarendon. If the king did not yet know of these transgressions, it was only a matter of time until he did. Better to face him now and offer his own defense. Fitz Stephen understood his lord’s reasoning. Yet what if the king refused again to give him an audience? What if he would not even listen to the lord archbishop’s explanation? Fitz Stephen no longer harbored hopes that they’d make their peace, not after their last visit to Woodstock.

  This time they were admitted by the king’s guards and ushered across the bailey into the great hall. Henry was seated upon the dais, with Eleanor at his side. He greeted Becket with cool civility, his eyes as grey and opaque as the rain clouds gathering overhead. When Becket broached the subject of his abortive flight, Henry heard him out without interruption. The hall hushed then, waiting for the royal wrath to kindle. But Henry offered no rebukes, made no accusations. “Is my kingdom not big enough for the two of us,” he asked, “that you must seek to flee from it?”

  It was a barbed jest, yet a jest nonetheless. Relieved laughter rustled through the audience. Thomas Becket did not join in the laughter. Nor did William Fitz Stephen.