John reached for the door and slammed it shut, almost in the other man’s face. There was a flagon on a nearby table and he quickly crossed to it, filling a wine cup with an unsteady hand. Hugh de Nonant was the sort of worldly, devious cleric he most despised, a man who saw the Stations of the Cross as rungs on the ladder of his own advancement. Like his uncle, his piety was befouled by ambition, his intelligence corrupted by amorality. John was convinced that Arnulf never did anything without an ulterior motive, and Hugh was cut from the same shabby cloth.
Was he the king’s agent, sowing seeds of dissension amongst the archbishop’s clerks and councilors? Was he seeking to spread rumors about the archbishop’s troubled state of mind? Thomas had enemies in plenitude: men he’d antagonized during his years as Henry’s chancellor, those who mistrusted his abrupt and enigmatic conversion from king’s man to king’s foe, those who’d profited from his exile and feared his return to royal favor. Was Hugh de Nonant in league with some of them? It was not that difficult to believe. But there had been enough truth in what Hugh had said to leave John with a lingering sense of unease.
CHAPTER THIRTY
November 1170
Trefriw, Wales
Rain was as much a part of the Welsh landscape as its mountains and ice-blue lakes and low-lying valley mists. But even for Wales, the weather that November had been exceedingly wet, day after day of ash-colored skies and relentless downpours. The rivers and streams were swollen with weeks of runoff, the roads clogged in mud, and Ranulf’s family began to curse the rain with as much rancor as Noah. An invitation to the court of Owain Gwynedd was a great honor, and Enid vowed that they’d attend even if they had to swim the miles between Trefriw and Aber.
Two days before the fete, though, the inhabitants of Gwynedd were dazzled by the sight of an almost forgotten phenomenon-the sun. And so on a Thursday in Martinmas week, Ranulf, Rhodri, and Enid were where they’d hoped to be, dining in the great hall of their prince’s palace in celebration of his seventieth birthday.
Rhiannon was present, too, but Ranulf knew it was a sense of duty that had prompted her to accept the invitation. She did not enjoy being on display, and a blind woman at a banquet was enough of a novelty to guarantee that she’d be the object of unwanted attention. He had tried to convince her that she need not attend, knowing all the while that she would insist on accompanying him. Watching as she concentrated carefully upon the venison frumenty that had been ladled onto her trencher, it occurred to Ranulf-not for the first time-that there was a manifest measure of gallantry in his wife’s brand of quiet courage.
Taking a swallow of mead, he resumed his role as her eyes, continuing his description of the hall and guests. “Cristyn looks bedazzling, as usual, in a gown the color of plums. And Owain… well, the only word for him would be ‘regal.’ He most definitely does not look like a man who has reached his biblical three-score years and ten. Three of his sons are seated at the high table: Hywel, of course, and Cristyn’s fox cubs. Neither Davydd nor Rhodri seems very pleased to see me; if looks could kill, I’d have breathed my last ere the servers brought in the roast goose.”
They’d been speaking softly in French, for discretion’s sake. Rhiannon wiped her mouth with her napkin, then murmured, “Ni wyr y gog ond ungainc,” and Ranulf grinned, for that was an old Welsh proverb: The cuckoo knows but one tune. Hywel had once said of his half-brothers that they’d ever been ones for fleeing the smoke so they could fall into the fire, and as he intercepted their sullen, baleful glares, Ranulf found himself in full agreement with his friend; Davydd and Rhodri had so far shown no sign whatsoever that they were capable of learning from past mistakes. The most successful rulers-like Owain or Harry-knew when to hold fast and when to give ground. The ones who did not were likely to end their days like Stephen, dying alone and unmourned.
But Ranulf did not want to harbor any regrets today, and made a conscious effort to banish these ghosts, casting both his doleful dead cousin and his estranged nephew out of his thoughts. Mead helped, he soon discovered, and as his eyes met Hywel’s across the hall, he raised his cup in a playful salute.
“Who else is here?” Rhiannon resumed, and Ranulf took another look at their fellow guests.
“Owain’s brother, Cadwaladr. He’s been given a seat at the high table as a courtesy, but no one seems to be paying him much mind. Passing strange that he was once considered a threat to Owain’s rule, so completely has Owain brought him to heel. Also on the dais is Owain’s son-in-law, Gruffydd Maelor of Powys, and Owain’s daughter Angharad. And at Owain’s right is Rhys ap Gruffydd.”
Ranulf was impressed by Rhys’s presence at Aber, for his own lands lay many miles to the south. Rhys had come with a large entourage, as much to reflect his own prestige and power as to honor his ally and uncle, but his wife, Gwenllian, had remained behind in Deheubarth; Rhys was not known for being uxorious.
“Several of Owain’s other sons are here, too, although not at the high table. Cynan seems to be enjoying himself; that one could find sport at a wake. And Iorwerth, who always looks as if he is attending a funeral, Lord love him. There are clergy present, as well; I recognize the Archdeacon of Bangor and I overheard someone say that the Cistercian monk with Rhys is the abbot of Strata Florida, that abbey in Dyfed.”
Rhiannon found that as interesting as Ranulf did. “So the Welsh Church is not recognizing Owain’s excommunication?”
“It would seem not.” Ranulf was not surprised by the recalcitrance of the Welsh clergy, not if the views of his neighbors in Trefriw were any gauge of public opinion. When the Archbishop of Canterbury had excommunicated Owain for his refusal to end his marriage to Cristyn, most of Owain’s subjects reacted with outrage, sure that Becket was punishing Owain for their conflict over the bishopric of Bangor. Ranulf had his suspicions, too, although he usually tried to give Becket the benefit of every doubt. But the timing did seem odd to him, that as soon as Owain had defied Becket by having his candidate consecrated as Bishop of Bangor in Ireland, his marriage to his cousin was suddenly a matter of grave concern to the Church.
Cristyn had never been popular with her husband’s people, for her position was by its very nature an ambiguous one. She was scorned by some as a concubine who’d usurped the place of Owain’s lawful wife, and to these judgmental souls, she had not been redeemed by her subsequent marriage. To others, she was seen as guileful and sly, willing to do whatever was necessary to disinherit Hywel and ensure that her sons would succeed Owain as rulers of Gwynedd. But the animosity of Thomas Becket had done what she herself could not, transforming her into a more sympathetic figure to many of the Welsh.
Once the meal was done, the trestle tables were cleared away and the entertainment began. Owain’s pencerdd came forward as the hall quieted. Poets were accorded great respect in Wales and he had an attentive, enthusiastic audience for his songs, the first celebrating the glory of God and the second a paean in praise of his lord. After his performance, it was the turn of Owain’s bardd teulu, the chief minstrel of the court, and as the sky darkened over the Menai Straits, the prince’s palace at Aber resounded with music and mirth.
Servers were circulating throughout the hall with mead and wine, and Hywel’s foster brother Peryf amused Hywel and Ranulf by appropriating a large flagon for himself. “You need not fear,” he assured them, “for I might be persuaded to share.”
“Assuming there is so much as a drop left,” Hywel scoffed. “I’ve seen you in action, Peryf, remember?”
They had withdrawn to a window seat alcove. Seeing that Rhiannon had concluded her conversation with Owain’s daughter Angharad, Ranulf hastened over to bring her into their charmed circle, where they had an unobstructed view of the dancing and the intermingling of the other guests. Once she was settled onto the cushioned seat and Hywel’s flirting had run its course, Ranulf asked the question that was foremost on his mind.