“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 foot 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?”
Hywel looked surprised, then amused. “Do not be a dolt. Of course he will not.”
Ranulf was heartened by the other man’s certainty. “You must have more influence than I realized.”
“As much as I’d like to claim the credit, there is a simple reason why my father will let you remain in Wales. You’re the English king’s uncle. You might well become our window to the English court. Or,” Hywel added mischievously, “a useful pawn or hostage. No, rest assured that we’ll not be booting you out of Gwynedd, whatever my father decides on the morrow.”
“I’m gladdened to hear that,” Ranulf admitted, for with Hywel he could let down his guard. “It would break Rhiannon’s heart to go off into English exile. Nor would I fancy it much, either.”
Getting to his feet, he moved so stiffly that Hywel, who was a year younger, made a joke about aging English bones. By now the moon had risen above the surrounding hills, casting a soft, silvered light upon the Welsh encampment. Ranulf studied the face of his friend, familiar but not always expressive; Hywel could be as inscrutable as his father when he chose.
“It is going to be a long night, Hywel. You know your father’s thinking, better than most. Do you believe he will agree to the English terms?”
Hywel was quiet for a moment. “Well,” he said, “if I were a gambling man-and we both know I am-I’d put my money on peace. Or what passes for peace in Wales.”
CHAPTER FOUR
August 1157
Rhuddlan Castle
Gwynedd, Wales
Henry’s charm was genuine, for it sprang from his love of life and his unquenchable curiosity. But it also contained an element of calculation. He’d learned at an early age the disarming power of a smile or jest. He’d learned, too, that not all men could be won over with charm, and he sensed at the outset that Owain Gwynedd was one of them. The Welsh king was courteous, dignified in his submission, and beyond reach. When Henry looked into his eyes, grey unto grey, he got only the most guarded glimpse into the older man’s soul. Gwynedd’s defenses might be vulnerable to English attack, but Owain’s defenses were intact, impressive even in defeat.
Across the great hall, Ranulf watched as Henry and Owain talked together, their voices low, their faces unrevealing. Occasionally, they smiled, seemingly oblivious of all the eyes upon them. The ceremony was over. Owain had done homage to Henry, yielded hostages and the cantref of Tegeingl and accepted the submission of his brother, Cadwaladr. Ranulf doubted if that particular peace would last long. Cadwaladr’s smirk did not bode well for future harmony. But Cadwaladr’s prospects held no interest for Ranulf. If he was foolish enough to provoke Owain again, he deserved whatever he got. The only peace that mattered to Ranulf was the one that now existed between Owain Gwynedd and Henry Fitz Empress.
“Intriguing, is it not?” Hywel materialized without warning at Ranulf’s side; for a big man, he could move as quietly as any cat when he chose. “Watching them take each other’s measure, like two stallions vying for the same mares. The young challenger versus the seasoned sire. Which would you wager upon, Ranulf? Youth or experience?”
“Does it matter? They’ve agreed, after all, to share the herd.”
Hywel smiled skeptically, for he thought that neither stallions nor kings were ones for sharing. But he refrained from saying so. It was hardly sporting, after all, to kick a man’s crutch out from under him. “So what happens next? I trust we get fed now that we’ve surrendered? Even the doomed Christians got a last meal ere being thrown to the lions.”
“Actually, they were the meal and the lions were the ones who got fed. But we’ll have a better supper than you’ll usually see on the royal table, for Thomas Becket brought his cooks along. Tonight we’ll dine on venison stew and stuffed goose and the lord chancellor’s finest Gascon wines, and on the morrow, Harry will return to England, Owain to Aber, and you, I expect, will find some absent husband’s wife to help you celebrate the Peace of Rhuddlan.”
Hywel grinned into his wine cup, not bothering to deny it; he loved to hunt and he loved women, and in pursuit of those twin passions, he felt no conscience pangs about trespassing. “What of you, Ranulf? When you return to Trefriw, will you be welcome?”
“I do not know, Hywel,” Ranulf admitted reluctantly. “My uncle and sister-in-law were wroth with me for answering Harry’s summons. They may not want me back.”