Rosamund was not deceived by his matter-of-fact recital of Hal’s complaints. “I think,” she said indignantly, “that he owes you more gratitude than this.”
Henry’s mouth tightened. “Hal insists that he be given the governance of either England or Normandy, and I know full well who planted that baneful seed. The lad has always paid heed to the wrong people, and when he opens his mouth these days, the French king’s words come tumbling out.”
“You refused him, of course.”
“Of course. He is far too young to govern on his own. Nor can his judgment yet be trusted. His susceptibility to Louis’s blandishments proves that all too well.”
“What happened when you denied his demand?”
“He went off in a rage, is sulking with the little Marguerite at Bonneville.” Henry was both angered and hurt by Hal’s willfulness, and with Rosamund, he had the luxury of candor. “I had no choice but to refuse him, Rosamund. He is not ready for such responsibilities. After his coronation, I’d instructed him to meet with the Canterbury monks. It is past time for the archbishopric to be filled again. But the monks have balked at accepting my nominee, the Bishop of Bayeux, and I’d hoped that Hal might make them see reason. He met with them only briefly at Windsor, showed little interest in resolving the dispute. It grieves me to say it, but he seems more intent upon the pursuit of pleasure than in learning the duties of kingship.”
She did not need to see his face now. She could hear the unhappiness in his voice, and she wanted desperately to offer comfort. It was her private opinion that Hal was flighty, spoiled, and immature, but she saw no reason to share it with Henry. “He is very young,” she ventured, and as she’d hoped, Henry seized upon that.
“Aye, that he is. He kept reminding me that I was just seventeen when my father turned Normandy over to me. But I doubt that I was ever as young as Hal.” He sounded more bemused now than irate. “It is not his fault. Life has been so much easier for him. I had to fight for my kingship, and Hal…well, Hal has always known he would be king after me. Mayhap it is not so surprising that he’d take longer to reach manhood.”
“Not surprising at all,” she said, knowing that was what he needed to hear, and when he slid an arm around her shoulders, she could feel that some of the tension had ebbed; his muscles were no longer so tightly corded.
“He’s a good lad, you know, a son to be proud of. He is too easily influenced, but that is a fault of youth and inexperience. He’ll learn better. He has the makings of a fine king, Rosamund. He does not lack for courage or wit, and he is amiable, spirited, and very generous…too much so.”
Although she could not see his face, it sounded as if he was smiling. “It is expected that a lord be open-handed and bountiful. Next to valor, that is the most admired of virtues. But Hal’s generosity is rapidly becoming the stuff of legend. He bestows his largesse upon his followers as if he were Midas, one reason why he has attracted so many drones, idlers, and parasites. But he ought not to be blamed for the greed of others. It is commendable that he wants to take care of his household knights. I only wish he were not quite so lavish, since the money he’s spending is mine!”
He laughed softly. “But it is his nature to share, and I doubt that will ever change. Last year he was out hunting with some friends and they stopped at a pond to water their horses and eat a meal. When Hal discovered that he did not have enough wine for them all, he emptied it into the pond so they all could have a taste!”
Laughing again, he gave Rosamund an affectionate hug. “Say what you will, the lad has a knack for the grand gesture! As king, that will stand him in good stead. He just needs seasoning, needs time.”
She murmured agreement, grateful that she’d been able to ease his mind. What harm did it do if he made allowances for his son’s bad behavior? If he was right and Hal’s shortcomings were those of youth, time would remedy them. And tonight at least, his sleep would be untroubled.
T
HE WELSH LOVE
of their homeland ran deep and they often sickened when uprooted from Welsh soil. They had a word for this heartfelt longing—
hiraeth
—which expressed the sorrow of exile, the sadness for what had been lost, a yearning for what could have been. Two years after their banishment from Gwynedd by a vengeful Welsh prince, Rhiannon and Ranulf had found little contentment in England.
Rhiannon’s pain was keener, for her husband was only half-Welsh, and he’d not adopted her country as his own until he was grown. Rhiannon had never known another world. Trefriw called to her in her nighttime dreams and in her daylight reveries. Her aged father was there, as was her younger sister and her newly married daughter. Her mother was buried in the tiny graveyard at Llanrhychwyn, the chapel in the hills above Trefriw where she and Ranulf had been wed. She’d gone blind in childhood, and the few memories she had of sight were visions of Gwynedd. England was an alien land, would never be hers.
But her love for her husband was greater than her love for Wales. When he’d told her that he was loath to tear her away from the only life she’d known, she had quoted Scriptures to him:
Entreat me not to leave thee, for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people will be my people and thy God my God.
If she had not been able to make his people hers, as she had pledged, she never regretted her decision to follow him into English exile. And because she knew how restless he was, how dispirited, she had not objected when he wanted to answer the English king’s summons. Even though it meant venturing into a world more foreign to her than England, she agreed to accompany him to his nephew’s Christmas Court at Chinon Castle in Touraine.
H
ENRY HAD FALLEN IN LOVE
with Chinon as a young boy, and his affection for the castle had only deepened over the years. He liked its location—rising up against the sky on a high hill overlooking the River Vienne. He appreciated its ancient history, for the site had once been occupied by a Roman fort. He valued its formidable defenses, protected on three sides by steep cliffs and blocked on the fourth side by a chasm of his making. He’d spent considerable sums on Chinon; the round Tour du Moulin was his work, as was the square Tour du Tresor, where Crown revenues were stored, and he’d renovated the royal residence and great hall along the south side of the castle bailey. When it had come time to choose where to hold his Christmas Court, his decision had been an easy one.
On the day before Christmas, the great hall echoed with the clamor of laughter and music. After a lavish midday meal, guests were dancing that popular favorite, the carol, while others preferred a less energetic activity, engaging in conversation enlivened by the region’s excellent wines. From his seat upon the dais, Henry watched the pageantry, a vibrant panorama of color and sound and motion. He was playing a rare role for him, that of a bystander, for he’d twisted his ankle spearing the wild boar that would grace his Christmas table, and he’d propped his injured leg upon a footstool, reluctantly acquiescing with his doctor’s orders, at least for a day or two. He did not mind missing the carol, for dancing was not one of his passions. But he did mind the enforced idleness; even during Mass, he was restless, impatient, known to pick his priests for the brevity of their sermons.
Hobbled now by a strained ankle, he could only occupy himself with mental musings. It puzzled him that he’d not found more pleasure at Chinon. It had been several years since he’d had so many of his family under one roof: his queen, his sons Richard, Geoffrey, and John; his daughter, Joanna; his uncles Rainald and Ranulf, his half brother and half sister, Hamlin and Emma; his cousins Roger and Maud. Only his eldest son was absent, expected daily to arrive from Normandy. Virtually all of his English and Norman and Angevin barons were there, most of his bishops, even many of Eleanor’s lawless Poitevin lords. His Christmas Court was a resplendent success, a dazzling reflection of his power and prestige, tangible proof of his status as the greatest king in Christendom. So why was he not better pleased by it?
His gaze swept the hall, coming to rest upon the regal, elegant figure of his wife. They’d often been apart during their two decades of marriage, but never so long as this last separation, nigh on two years. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but so far their reunion had gone well enough. No woman could act the queen more impressively than Eleanor; even after all these years, he was still proud to enter a hall with her on his arm.
As he watched his wife, the corner of his mouth curved and pleasurable warmth began to spread throughout his body, centering in his groin. Their night’s lovemaking had left him sated, scratched, and wondering how he could have stayed away from her bed for so long. In his thirty-nine years, he’d had women beyond counting or remembering, but none had ever stirred his lust so easily as the one he’d wed. He’d often joked that she could kindle a flame quicker than summer lightning and last night she’d done just that, radiating so much heat that he’d half-expected to find scorch marks on the sheets.
In some ways, she was still an enigma to him: strong-willed, passionate, stubborn, worldly, too clever by half, infuriating, seductive, prideful, daring, even reckless. Tallying up her vices and virtues, he was amused to realize he could not be sure which were which. But on this Christmas Eve at Chinon Castle, he was more than willing to give her the benefit of every doubt, for he missed their easy intimacy, the mutual, instinctive understanding that had been theirs since that rainy afternoon in a Paris garden. It had been a long time since he’d felt that they were in such natural harmony.
Beckoning to a servant, he instructed the man to fetch his queen and then, on impulse, his uncle. He’d planned to give Ranulf his surprise on Christmas morn, but he saw no reason to wait. Ranulf hastened over, shepherding his wife and young son Morgan up onto the dais. Henry ordered chairs to be brought out for them, watching from the corner of his eye as his servant caught Eleanor’s attention. She would not come at once, for she was not a woman to be summoned; she would wait just long enough to make it seem as if she were obeying a whim of her own. Stifling a smile, for he was pleased that he could still read her so well, he began to exchange the usual courtesies with Ranulf and Rhiannon.
As always, Henry was intrigued by Rhiannon’s ability to follow the sound of his voice; her head tilted, she turned her brown eyes toward him so unerringly that few would have suspected her blindness. After he’d inquired after their other children, a recently wed daughter and a grown son, he directed his attention to Morgan, asking his age and grinning at the boy’s answer, “Eight years, ten months,” for he could remember when he, too, had marked birthdays as milestones.
In accordance with custom, boys of good birth were sent to live in a lord’s household to receive their education, and Henry was surprised that no such provisions had been made for Morgan. When Ranulf admitted that they had not yet chosen a lord to supervise his son’s instruction, Henry suggested that Morgan join the royal household. Ranulf was momentarily at a loss, both honored and conflicted by the offer. He was well aware what a great opportunity this would be for the boy. But it was complicated by Morgan’s Welsh-Norman blood. His elder son had chosen Rhiannon’s world over Ranulf’s, even changing his baptismal name of Gilbert to the Welsh Bleddyn, and he’d chosen, too, to remain in Wales. With Gilbert’s example in mind, Ranulf was not sure what was best for Morgan.
For Rhiannon, it was much simpler. She did not want to be separated from her son, yet she knew it was inevitable. Sons were sent away at an early age; in Wales, too, that was the practice. Because she’d steeled herself for just such a moment, she kept silent, waiting with outward composure for Ranulf to decide their son’s future; only the tightening of her hand on Morgan’s shoulder revealed her inner turmoil.
Ranulf opened his mouth, still not sure what he would say. But Morgan was quicker. He’d overheard his parents discussing his education on several occasions, knew that they were deciding between the households of the Earl of Cornwall, the Earl of Chester, and a Welsh lord named Cynan ab Owain. Glancing from his father to his cousin the king, he made his own choice. “Say yes, Papa,” he entreated, “say yes.”
Ranulf knelt so they were at eye level, his eyes searching the boy’s face. “Are you sure?” And when Morgan nodded, he said, “Well, Harry, it seems to be settled.”
“Good. I’ll keep an eye on the lad, never fear. Now we have another matter to discuss. I’ve had an interesting offer recently from a Welsh prince you love not—Davydd ab Owain.” Henry broke off then as Eleanor drifted over to the dais, and invited her to join them. Once she was seated beside him, he said, “You are just in time, love. We were talking about a prince of North Wales, Davydd ab Owain.”
“The one who banished Ranulf?”
“The very one. I never understood, Uncle, just why he was so out of sorts with you. What did you do to earn his disfavor?”
“I was a friend of the man he killed, the man who ought to have been ruling Gwynedd in his stead.”
“Ah, yes, Hywel…the poet prince. A good man, a far better one than Davydd.” Henry shifted in his seat, turning toward Eleanor. “I am not sure if you remember, love, but Hywel and Davydd were both sons of Owain Gwynedd, Hywel being the eldest, the most capable, and the best-loved. But Davydd and another brother Rhodri lay in wait for Hywel after Owain’s death, and he was slain in their ambush. Owain’s surviving sons then divided up his lands. Davydd is no longer content with his share of the pie, though, is casting a covetous eye upon his brother Maelgwn’s portion, the isle of Anglesey. So in order to war upon Maelgwn, he wants to make peace with England, having figured out that only a fool would fight battles on two fronts.”