Time and Chance (46 page)

His physical discomfort on the road was a minor matter, though, when compared to the emotional abyss awaiting him at journey’s end. How could he tell Rhiannon that they must leave the only home she’d ever known, start life anew in an alien land? What of Gilbert? He was nigh on fourteen, the age of majority in Wales. Would he agree to come with them? Their entire family would be torn asunder and it was his doing. His uncle would face the eventual loss of his lands. Rhodri’s sons were dead and without near male kin to inherit, his manor would go upon his death by default to his Welsh king. Eleri and Rhiannon would be separated by distance and ill will, as would their children. Mallt and Morgan would grow up never knowing their own kin, their own customs, in time even their own tongue.
Hiraeth—
the Welsh longing for one’s homeland—would shadow their days in English exile.

He could not even be sure that English exile would be open to him. What if his nephew chose to declare his English manors forfeit? It was difficult for him to imagine Harry being that vindictive, that petty. But then it would have been difficult a fortnight ago to imagine that Harry would ever have given the order to maim the Welsh hostages.

When he at last reached the Conwy valley, the rain had dwindled to a light mist, its cooling touch welcome on his hot skin. He halted by the river so his stallion could drink, but he was putting off the inevitable and he knew it. Tugging on the reins, he headed for Trefriw.

His arrival was heralded by barking and, as soon as he dismounted, he was surrounded by dogs, their tails whipping about like waterwheel paddles as they welcomed him home. He was fending off his ecstatic dyrehund when his daughter came flying from the hall. With a joyful squeal, she flung herself upon him, telling him how happy she was that he had not been killed by the English.

Ranulf supposed that was something to be thankful for, and decided it definitely was a few moments later when Rhiannon appeared in the doorway of the hall. He reached her in several quick strides and found fleeting comfort in her arms. She clung so tightly that he knew she, too, dreaded what was to come.

When his uncle came limping out into the bailey, Ranulf reluctantly ended the embrace and turned to face Rhodri. His leave-taking had been angry, with Rhodri crying after him in frustrated fury that he was one of God’s greatest fools. He was expecting his return to be no less resentful. But his uncle was beaming, and a bewildered Ranulf was soon enveloped in a hearty, welcoming hug.

“I knew you’d come back safe,” Rhodri enthused, “I knew it.”

“I wish you’d shared that certainty with me,” Rhiannon murmured. “Ranulf, you feel feverish. Are you ailing?”

“I’ll live,” he said and slipped his arm through hers. “Let’s go into the hall. There is something I must tell you all.”

 

 

 

RANULF’S ACCOUNT of the maiming of the Welsh hostages seemed to echo in the stillness that had engulfed the hall. Rhodri’s outraged oaths had soon spluttered out. Mumbling that he felt greensick of a sudden, he stumbled toward the door and Enid hurried after him. Rhiannon had listened in silence, one hand softly stroking Mallt’s brown braids. Her face was shuttered and drawn; Ranulf found it difficult to guess her thoughts. When it seemed clear that he had nothing more to say, she started to rise. “You must be hungry.”

“No,” he said, “I could not choke down a morsel to save my soul. Rhiannon, wait. There is more. On the morrow I must ride to find Owain Gwynedd, tell him what has befallen his sons and the other hostages—”

“No! Let someone else be the bearer of that news. Not you, Ranulf, not you!”

“I must,” he said, and although he spoke softly, that tone was all too familiar to her. Once he made up his mind, it was almost impossible to turn him in another direction. She did not even have a chance to try, though, for at that moment the door to the hall banged open and their son lurched across the threshold.

As clumsy in his growth spurt as a long-legged colt, Gilbert was usually self-conscious about his ungainliness, for he had always been easily embarrassed. But now he didn’t even seem to notice his stumble. His face lit up, dark eyes shining. “I just heard that you’d come home!”

It had been a long time since Ranulf had heard such unguarded pleasure in his son’s voice. “Yes,” he said, “I am home.” His last encounter with Gilbert had been even more turbulent than the one with Rhodri, and he had been braced for hostility, accusations, anything but this awkward offer of an olive branch. Getting to his feet, he started toward his son, expecting at any moment that Gilbert would back away. But the boy stood his ground, ducking his head with a shy smile as his father put an arm around his shoulders. To Ranulf, his son’s sudden thawing was more than he could have hoped for, and he accepted the transformation for what it seemed to be—as close as he would ever come to a miracle in this life.

IN THE COURSE of the evening, Ranulf’s cough worsened and the next morning, Rhiannon insisted that he remain in bed. When he agreed, her anxiety flared anew, for she needed no greater proof that he was indeed ailing, and she hovered by his bedside for most of the day, bringing him honey for his cough, freshly baked bread and venison soup to tempt his indifferent appetite, and the rambunctious eighteen-month-old Morgan to raise his spirits. Ranulf ate what she brought him, played games in bed with his youngest son, and took a doomed man’s pleasure in the respite, knowing that his time in Wales was running out.

Just before dusk, Eleri and her children arrived in response to Rhodri’s summons. When they were ushered into Ranulf’s bedchamber, his sister-in-law greeted him with an elated smile and fond kisses so poorly aimed that his face was soon smeared with her lip rouge. Ranulf began to feel as if he were at a celebration where he was the only sober guest. What was going on?

What happened next was even more baffling. Their nearest neighbors, Sulien and his wife, Marared, arrived soon after Eleri, for in Wales news spread faster than summer wildfire. The last time Ranulf had run into Sulien, the older man had called him a misbegotten English Judas and spat onto the ground at his feet. Yet now that same man was approaching the bed with a jovial smile, so apparently pleased to see the Judas again that Ranulf half-expected him to announce that a fatted calf had been killed in his honor. But when he made mention of their altercation, Sulien dismissed it as a “lamentable misunderstanding,” adding a wink and a nudge as if they were allies in the same conspiracy.

That night Ranulf waited until his wife joined him in bed. “Rhiannon, when I rode off to fight with the English, I was reviled and denounced by all but you. Why has that changed? Why are Eleri and Rhodri and Gilbert suddenly so forgiving? Jesú, even Sulien and Marared! This makes no sense to me.”

He was not reassured by her reply. Rhiannon, usually so forthright, gave him an answer that was as evasive as it was uncomfortable. She knew more than she was telling. He did not press further, though, not yet, for there was another confession to be made. She had to be prepared for the worst. And so he told her, as gently as he could, that the least he could expect from Owain Gwynedd was banishment.

She was silent for a time. “Do you know my favorite verse of Scriptures? I learned it by heart as a girl and remember it well, even now. ‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’ ”

There was only one possible response to that. Ranulf drew her close, holding her in his arms until they both slept.

 

 

 

TO RHIANNON’S DISMAY, Ranulf arose the next morning determined to ride out to find Owain Gwynedd. They argued as he dressed, during breakfast in the hall, and in the stables as he began to saddle his stallion. Having failed with logic and anger, Rhiannon was not too proud to resort to entreaty, not if it would keep Ranulf at Trefriw. “At least wait until you are stronger,” she implored, entwining slim, stubborn fingers in the sleeve of his tunic. “What harm can a few more days do?”

“I am already on the mend,” Ranulf insisted. But he undercut his own argument when he could not suppress a coughing fit, so prolonged that he sank down upon a wooden bench as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Compared to what—a man newly lain in his grave?” This sardonic query startled them both. Rhiannon swung toward the sound of that familiar voice and Ranulf’s head came up sharply, his eyes blinking as he sought to focus upon the man standing in the open doorway, haloed in sunlight.

“Hywel?” Incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

Hywel stepped from the light into the shadowed gloom of the stable. “What I do best,” he said, “which is saving you from yourself. What is this nonsense about riding off when you’re as weak as a mewling kitten?”

“I have to find your father . . .” Ranulf was on his feet now, trying to disguise the effort it had cost.

Hywel shrugged. “Do what you must, then. But it is only fair to warn you that I’ll be amongst the first to be courting your lovely widow.”

Ranulf started to speak, began to cough instead. When the spasm passed, he conceded defeat. “Hywel . . . we need to talk.”

“Yes, we do,” Hywel agreed. “But not here.”

As they headed for the door, Rhiannon stood without moving, listening to their muffled footsteps in the straw. Hywel’s coming was a blessing, putting off Ranulf’s reckoning with Owain Gwynedd, at least for a while longer. But his arrival also brought risk, for he was the source of the secret she’d been keeping from her husband. She waited a moment longer, drawing several deep bracing breaths, and then followed the men from the stable.

RHIANNON STIRRED honey and wine in a cup, then handed it to Ranulf. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let some of the syrupy liquid trickle down his throat, but he had yet to take his eyes from Hywel. “How is it that you’re here? Why are you not still with Lord Owain at Corwen?”

“My father has returned to Aber, waiting to see what the English king does next. I am here because I know you, Ranulf, down to your very bones. Sure as hellfire and brimstone, you’d be on the road to Aber within a day of your homecoming. I thought it best to head you off.”

Ranulf considered that response, which was uncommonly straightforward for Hywel, who was a master of misdirection and equivocation. “How did you know I’d returned to Trefriw? Did you have it under watch?”

“I did.”

“You are a good friend, better than I deserve. Hywel . . . I have something to tell you. There is no easy way to say it. A great evil has befallen your brothers Cadwallon and Cynwrig. They and the other Welsh hostages—I do not know how many—were blinded and unmanned at Chester, upon the orders of my nephew.”

Hywel thought it was very like Ranulf to stress his blood bond to Henry, assuming his share of the blame. “Twenty-two,” he said softly, and repeated it when he saw that Ranulf did not understand. “Twenty-two hostages were maimed at the English king’s pleasure.”

“You . . . you already know?”

“My father has eyes and ears wherever there is a need for them, and that includes Chester.”

“Christ, Hywel, I am sorry,” Ranulf said hoarsely and Hywel twitched a shoulder.

“My father has sired so many sons that some of them are almost strangers to me. Cadwallon and Cynwrig were too young to be boon companions as I came to manhood, so I never knew them all that well. But I’d not wish such a fate upon a convicted felon, much less blood kin.”

“Your father . . .” Ranulf could not find the words to ask how a man coped with the mutilation of his sons, and his voice died away.

“About as you’d expect. My father never lets anyone see him bleed, even me.”

“One of Rhys ap Gruffydd’s sons was amongst the twenty-two. Does he know that?”

Hywel’s mouth turned down. “He knows.”

Ranulf forced himself to drink more of Rhiannon’s honeyed concoction; his throat was so raw that it was like swallowing sawdust and ashes. “Your father tried to warn me that a man could not ride two horses at once. Fool that I was, I would not listen.”