“And Ranulf?”
“He had to ride over to one of his Cheshire manors and meet with his steward. We’re staying with Maud until he gets back. Can you wait until she joins us? I would like you to meet her.”
“We did meet,” Hywel said, smiling at her surprise, “in Poitiers last June. Did Ranulf never tell you?” Hearing his name called then, he gave an answering shout. “Over here!” Turning back to Rhiannon, he said, “You remember my foster brother, Peryf ap Cedifor?”
“Of course,” she said, holding out her hand for Peryf to kiss. The sound of his voice was just as she remembered, gruff and so deep that she’d envisioned him as a veritable giant, a vast, sturdy oak of a man. It had come as a shock when Ranulf described Peryf as being only of average height, nowhere near as tall as Hywel.
“And here is my son, Caswallon,” Hywel said fondly as they were joined by a youth of fifteen. “You remember the lovely Lady Rhiannon, lad?”
The boy nodded, ducking his head. He had inherited neither his father’s uncommon height nor his coloring, the fair hair and dark eyes that gave Hywel such a striking appearance. Caswallon had hair the shade of rust, a multitude of freckles, and greyish-green eyes that looked at life sidelong, rarely head-on. Unlike Peryf, Caswallon’s physical description tallied well with Rhiannon’s mental image of the boy, as one easily overlooked. Each time Rhiannon had met him, he’d been so tongue-tied that all of her maternal instincts were aroused. The problem, she suspected, was most likely Hywel; it might well be daunting for a shy youngster, growing up in the shadow of such a celebrated and flamboyant father.
“Rhiannon, I’ve been looking all over for you! Why did you not stay by the-Oh!” Eleri’s indignant protest was forgotten at the sight of the Welsh prince. “Lord Hywel, what a surprise! What brings you to Chester?”
“Lady Eleri, you know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth,” Hywel professed gallantly. After dispatching his son to buy more wafers and cider for them all, he and Peryf ushered the women toward the shade of a nearby elder tree. “I’m sorry that we’ll miss seeing Ranulf. I rely upon him for gossip about the English king’s court.”
Eleri giggled; her sister had long ago noted that she laughed immoderately at all of Hywel’s jokes. “Well, you are in luck,” she declared, “for Rhiannon and I have a truly wicked scandal to relate, one involving a nun and a count’s son!”
Hywel was immediately intrigued. “Do not keep us in suspense, sweetheart. And spare none of the lurid details!”
Eleri was happy to oblige. “You remember when the Count of Boulogne died on that ill-fated expedition against Toulouse? Naturally the English king at once began to think about finding a suitable husband for the count’s sister Mary, the new heiress to Boulogne. Unfortunately, Mary also happened to be the abbess of Romsey’s nunnery. Now that would have discouraged most men from pursuing any matrimonial schemes.”
Eleri stifled another giggle, adding archly, “The Church does not look kindly upon marriage for its Brides of Christ, after all. But the English king is not one to balk at trivial obstacles like holy oaths of chastity. So… he either coerced or coaxed our Mother Abbess out of Romsey, somehow obtained a dispensation-to the horror of his own chancellor, Becket-and married the new countess off to his cousin Matthew, younger son of the Count of Flanders!”
Rhiannon saw no humor in the tale, for it troubled her that Henry felt so free to play by his own rules; moreover, she could not help sympathizing with the convent-bred Mary, wondering how willing a bride she’d been. But Hywel and Peryf were roaring with laughter.
“Bless you, lass, that is more than choice gossip. It is almost too good to be true, for it has all the classic elements of a truly great scandal; the best ones always involve the Church, the Crown, and clandestine conspiracies. Throw in a virgin nun-bride and it is well nigh perfect!”
Eleri joined in their mirth, delighted with the success of her story. They were laughing too hard to hear the approaching female footsteps, lightly treading upon the summer grass. “What,” Maud asked, “is provoking so much merriment?” Her dark eyes widened as they turned toward Hywel. “If it is not the poet-prince!”
Hywel kissed her hand with his usual panache. “I am flattered beyond words that you remember me, my lady.”
“You… beyond words? Now why do I doubt that?”
Hywel grinned. “Why are the most beautiful of women always the cruelest?” After introducing Maud to Peryf, he collected his son, just returning with a sackful of wafers and several cider flasks. Munching on the wafers, they corralled the children and sauntered back toward the booths, stopping to watch as a daring youth juggled knives and axes and even flaming torches.
It was a dazzling performance, and the audience responded with generous applause and a shower of coins. Leaving the juggler to count his booty, they moved on. Eleri soon dropped back to walk beside her sister. “It is shameless,” she hissed, “the way Maud is flirting so blatantly with Hywel! You’d think she’d have more pride, would you not?”
Rhiannon made a noncommittal reply. She would much rather Hywel do his flirting with Maud than with Eleri, for the widowed countess was far more worldly than her little sister and better able to deal with Hywel’s formidable charm. While she was convinced that Eleri loved her husband, she knew, too, that Hywel was dangerously adept at seduction, and she wasn’t sure his friendship with Ranulf would restrain him if Eleri offered encouragement. No, better that he turn that beguiling smile upon Maud, a more worthy adversary in every sense. Even without sight, she could detect the unmistakable sparks flying between them, and she found herself wondering about that first meeting of theirs in Poitiers.
They were strolling side by side, Maud’s arm linked in Hywel’s, and their laughter drifted back upon the breeze, bringing a fresh frown to Eleri’s face. Peryf had fallen in behind them, escorting Maud’s ladies-in-waiting, Clarice and Isolda, who’d hastily reappeared to attend her mistress. Eleri was keeping watch over the children, and Caswallon trailed after the others, digging in his sack for the last of the wafers.
Up ahead, a crowd had gathered and they were starting in that direction when Maud was intercepted by another woman. What drew Rhiannon’s attention was the contrast between their voices. While the stranger seemed delighted by the chance meeting, Maud showed little enthusiasm, sounding polite but wary. The woman was talking with considerable animation, arousing Rhiannon’s curiosity, for her demeanor bespoke an intimacy that Maud was not acknowledging. She was almost upon them when her husband’s name was unexpectedly thrust into the conversation.
“I am gladdened that you are so well, Lady Maud. Tell me… how is Ranulf? How has he been faring?”
Rhiannon came to an abrupt halt. She knew suddenly, with a certainty that owed nothing to logic, that this was Annora Fitz Clement, the woman Ranulf had once loved to distraction. She felt the blood rushing to her face, and for a moment, all she could hear was the thudding of her own heart. And then Maud had slid an arm around her shoulders, saying warmly:
“Ranulf has been faring very well indeed, Annora. And here is the proof, a woman dearer to me than any sister could be, the Lady Rhiannon… Ranulf’s wife.”
The rest of the introductions passed in a blur for Rhiannon. Annora made the proper responses, saying that she’d heard Ranulf had wed a Welsh cousin, and offering her belated congratulations and well-wishes. But the liveliness had drained from her voice and the conversation soon trailed off into an awkward silence. Rhiannon did not doubt that she was being subjected to a critical scrutiny, and she felt a rush of rage, directed against Annora and the Almighty in equal measure, that she could not even look upon her rival’s face.