“Better you should risk drowning out here, lad, than certain death inside,” he chided, and Morgan did his best to look as if he was being punished, although he had no objections whatsoever to getting wet and muddy. He was trying to coax Ranulf into wading across the bailey toward the dovecote when shouts erupted from the direction of the gatehouse.
To Morgan’s delight and Ranulf’s astonishment, a lone rider was being admitted. Swathed in a soaked mantle, plastered with mud, the man staggered as soon as he slid from the saddle, and Ranulf, remembering his manners, came forward hastily to bid this miserable traveler welcome.
“Good God, you’re half-frozen! Come inside and thaw out.”
Their guest did not argue, and as soon as a groom hurried out to take his horse, he stumbled after them toward the hall. Ranulf still did not recognize him, able to discern only that he was of middle height and stocky. He could hear the chattering of the man’s teeth, could see the reddened chilblains on his hands, and wondered what urgent mission had put him out onto the roads on such a foul day.
Their arrival in the hall created a flurry of confusion and noise. Silencing the barking dogs with difficulty, Ranulf led the man toward the hearth as Rhodri limped over with a cup of hot, mulled cider and Enid sent a servant for blankets and towels. Gulping down the cider in three swallows, the man began to struggle with his mantle, emerging from its dripping folds like a rumpled butterfly from a soggy cocoon. To Ranulf’s surprise, the face revealed when the hood fell back was a familiar one.
“Peryf? What are you doing so far from home?”
Peryf started to speak, began to cough instead. Signaling for more cider, he drank as if he could not get enough. He was standing so close to the open hearth that steam rose off his sodden clothes. “So tired…,” he panted, “… left Aber at dawn…”
Ranulf’s sudden chill had nothing to do with the winter weather. “Peryf, what is wrong?”
“Lord Owain… he is dead.”
There was a muffled cry from one of the women, a choked oath from Rhodri. Ranulf had to swallow before he could speak, for his mouth had gone dry. “How? What happened?”
“Monday morn… he… he complained of a pain in his arm, said he felt queasy of a sudden.” Peryf’s voice was still hoarse, but steadier now. When Ranulf shoved a stool toward him, he sank down upon it gratefully. “Then he fell over. Everyone panicked, people rushing about, bumping into one another, Cristyn shrieking like a madwoman, dogs underfoot, children crying. Lord Owain was the only one who kept calm… Lying there in the floor rushes, his head cradled in his wife’s lap, he told us to fetch a doctor and… and a priest.”
Rhodri hastily crossed himself and Enid began to sob; so did her maid and their cook. “Was there time for him to be shriven?” This voice was Rhiannon’s and Ranulf reached out, drew her to his side, thinking that she always went straight to the heart of the matter. Their relief was enormous when Peryf nodded vigorously.
“Aye, there was. He lived long enough to confess his sins and to be given extreme unction… and to name Hywel as his heir.”
The full import of Owain’s death hit Ranulf then. “Hywel… he’s gone?”
“Aye,” Peryf echoed, looking at Ranulf with swollen, fear-filled eyes. “Hywel sailed for Ireland ten days ago.”
THE DAY was surprisingly mild for late November, and England’s young king was taking full advantage of the weather’s clemency to practice in the tiltyard of Winchester Castle. Rainald cheered loudly each time Hal made a successful pass at the target, but even allowing for his avuncular partiality, Hal’s performance was deserving of applause. Astride a spirited white stallion, Hal was displaying both skilled horsemanship and a deft control of his lance, and he’d soon drawn an admiring audience. He would make a fine king one day, for certes, blessed with good looks, good health, and winning ways. If his judgment was still unduly influenced by impulse and whim, Rainald preferred to believe that these were flaws which would be remedied with maturity.
Reining in his stallion, Hal accepted a flask from one of his friends. As his eyes met Rainald’s, he grinned. “What do you think of Favel, Uncle? This is only the third time I’ve ridden him and already he anticipates my every command.”
“You’ve got a good eye for horseflesh,” Rainald agreed amiably. “Listen, lad, there is someone here who’d like a word with you. See that anxious soul in the brown mantle?”
The man pointed out by Rainald was small of stature and modestly garbed, and Hal’s gaze flicked over him and then away, without interest. “I was about to make another run at the quintain.”
“It will take only a few moments,” Rainald insisted, raising his hand in a beckoning gesture. “You met him earlier today, at your public audience in the great hall.” Seeing no recollection on Hal’s face, he added helpfully, “John of Salisbury.” Hal still looked blank. “He’s a noted scholar, a good friend to Thomas Becket, who has sent him on ahead to make sure the Freteval accords are being implemented.”
By then John of Salisbury was within hearing range and Rainald could offer no more prompting. He knew Hal was not pleased, but the youth dismounted as John approached, and that, too, Rainald had known he would do. He was more good-natured than his younger brothers, rarely showed flashes of his family’s infamous Angevin temper, and was usually willing to be accommodating if it didn’t inconvenience him greatly.
John bestowed a grateful glance upon Rainald before making a deep obeisance to the young king. Hal had greeted him with affable courtesy during their initial meeting, reminiscing about his years in Archbishop Thomas’s household, but he’d been flanked at all times by the chief lords of his court, men so hostile to the archbishop that their very presence hobbled John’s tongue. This chance to speak more candidly with the youth was God-sent.
“Lord Thomas will be returning to England within the week. When we last spoke in Rouen, he expressed his desire to see Your Grace as soon after his arrival as can be arranged. May I write and assure him that you, too, are eager for this reunion, my lord?”
“Of course I would be gladdened to see the archbishop again,” Hal said politely. “But you need to consult with my lord father’s chancellor about such matters.” If Hal appreciated the irony of fortune’s wheel-that the chancellorship which had once been Becket’s was now held by Geoffrey Ridel, one of his bitterest adversaries-it was not evident upon his face. “He will be better able to tell you when the archbishop can be made welcome.”
“Thank you, my lord,” John said hesitantly. At fifteen, Hal was already as tall as many men grown, towering over the diminutive scholar. His smile was easy, his manners polished, his hair sun-burnished, his eyes the color of the sky.
There was so much that John had planned to say. He’d meant to stress the dangers that awaited the archbishop upon his arrival to England, to speak of the archbishop’s many enemies, men of wealth and power who feared being dispossessed of the estates and honors they’d been enjoying during his long exile. He’d hoped to gain the young king’s assurances that he would not heed these enemies, nor listen to the malicious gossip they’d be murmuring in his ear. With King Henry still in Normandy, his son’s attitude was of the utmost importance, both to the archbishop and his foes.
“My lord king!” Geoffrey Ridel was striding hastily toward them, poorly concealing his alarm that his young charge should have slipped his tether. Giving John an irate look that spilled over onto Rainald, too, he was breathless by the time he reached them, intent upon ending this impromptu audience straightaway.
He need not have worried, for John had already realized that his mission was doomed to failure. The archbishop had been sure that Hal would be on his side. But John was an astute judge of men and he’d seen only one emotion in the depths of those sapphire-blue eyes: indifference.