“How old is that lad of yours, Uncle?” Henry asked idly. “Nigh on twelve? I suppose he’d consider my Hal too young to bother with. A pity, for Hal has been complaining that there is ‘nothing to do here,’ which I take to mean he has no one to get into trouble with.”
“Hal is here at Woodstock? He is still in Thomas Becket’s care, is he not?”
Henry nodded. “I told Thomas to bring him along. I want the Scots king and the Welsh to do homage to Hal, too, when they do homage to me.”
Ranulf glanced thoughtfully at the younger man. “I was wondering about that,” he admitted. He could understand why Rhys ap Gruffydd should be required to do homage as a condition of regaining his liberty. But why summon the others? Now he had the answer: so they could swear to Hal, too. Before he could pursue this further, though, Henry asked abruptly:
“Have you spoken to Thomas yet?” When Ranulf shook his head, he looked disappointed. “I was hoping to get your impression of our lord archbishop.” Although said with a smile, the words held a slightly sardonic edge. “Talk to him tonight, Ranulf. I’ve tried talking to him myself, and he says what is expected of him. But-”
Henry came to a sudden halt, head tilted to the side, listening intently. “Did you hear that?” They hadn’t, but he paused before moving on. “Passing strange, I guess my imagination was playing me false. We’re almost at the springs. I’ve always loved this part of the park, have long had it in mind to build a house here-”
This time there was no mistaking the sounds: raised voices, a splash, a burst of sputtered cursing. The men quickened their pace and a moment later, a woman came running through the trees. She was casting glances back over her shoulder as she ran, and didn’t see the exposed root until it was too late. She stumbled, cried out sharply, and fell.
Henry reached her first, with Will and Ranulf only a step behind. She was already getting unsteadily to her feet, shrinking back at sight of the men. They could see now that she was very young, fifteen or sixteen at most. “We mean you no harm, lass,” Henry said swiftly, for her torn gown and her panicked flight told a story without need of words.
Just then her pursuer came into view. He was youthful and well dressed and would have been quite handsome under other circumstances; now his face was mottled and contorted with rage. “Look what that little bitch did!” he exclaimed, gesturing toward his muddied chausses and sopping shoes.
Henry swung back toward the girl, who’d taken refuge behind him. “Did you push him into the pool?” he asked and began to laugh. “Good for you, lass!”
The girl murmured something inaudible, and the man’s fury found a new target. “This is none of your concern,” he warned, but his belligerence lasted only until Henry stepped from the shadows cast by the oak tree. That he’d recognized Henry was obvious, for his angry flush gave way within seconds to a sickly pallor. When he started to stammer either an apology or an explanation, Henry cut him off impatiently. He did not need to be told twice, began to back away, and then bolted.
The girl kept close to Henry’s side until she was sure her assailant was gone. “Thank you, my lords,” she said softly. Gilbert had arrived in time to witness the man’s rout, and when the girl came forward, he drew a sibilant breath. Glancing at his son, Ranulf fought a smile, remembering the first time he’d seen girls in a new and dazzling light. Gilbert’s reaction was understandable, for she was very pretty in a delicate, fragile way. Too young to wear the fashionable wimple, she’d covered her head with a veil that had been lost in her flight, and her hair now tumbled loosely about her shoulders in a splash of silver. She had wide-set eyes, the darkest blue Ranulf had ever seen, a fair, ivory-tinted complexion, and a very appealing smile; when she turned it upon Gilbert, he flushed to the tips of his ears.
“Thank you,” she said again. “I did not mean to shove him into the pool, truly I did not. His foot must have slipped on one of the mossy rocks when I tried to pull away. He was sure, though, that I did it on purpose, and became so wroth…” She shivered visibly. “If you had not been here, I do not know what he might have done.”
They were puzzled by the contradictions between her appearance and her demeanor. She wore a rather plain gown, not at all stylish, but her speech indicated education; no serving girl sounded as this one did. “What were you doing out here, lass?” Henry asked, voicing the question in all their minds.
Twilight was deepening, a soft, shimmering lavender-blue, but they could still see the blush rising in her cheeks. “My father is in attendance upon the king, and he sent for me, Godstow being just a few miles away.”
“Godstow?” Henry echoed. “The nunnery… of course. You are being schooled there, then?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But how did you come to be with that lecherous lout?” Will asked tactlessly, and she bit her lip, looking so embarrassed that he at once regretted the question.
Notwithstanding her discomfort, she answered honestly. “I met him in the gardens. He said he was a knight in the Scots king’s household and we began to talk. He was very well spoken and courteous and when he offered to show me the springs, I saw no harm in it…”
“Ah, child…” Henry shook his head ruefully. “There is a great difference between the convent and the court.”
“The fault was mine, then?”
She sounded so forlorn that Will made gallant haste to assure her that indeed it was not, an assurance echoed by Ranulf and then Henry, who added, “The fault lies with your father, for letting a lamb loose with so many wolves on the prowl. He ought to be taken to task for-”
“Oh, please, no! Do not tell my father, for he’d be so angry with me…” She laid a hand on Henry’s arm in timid entreaty, and then gasped. “Blessed Lady, it is you! The king!” She sank down at once in a deep, submissive curtsy.
Henry gestured for her to rise. “Calm yourself, lass,” he said soothingly. “I did not mean to cause you greater distress, will say nothing to your father if that is your wish.”
A moment ago, she’d seemed on the verge of tears. But her smile now was radiant, so bewitching that Gilbert heaved a small sigh. “Thank you, my lords, thank you!” The words were addressed to them all, but meant only for Henry. “This is not the first time you came to my rescue. You caught me when I fell out of a tree in my mother’s garden at Clifford Castle. Do you… do you remember, my liege?” she asked, so hopefully that Henry lied and nodded.
“Was that little lass you?” he asked, prodding his memory in vain. “So… you’re Walter Clifford’s daughter.”
“Yes, my lord king. I am Rosamund Clifford,” she said, and dropped another curtsy. She was so happy that Henry claimed to have remembered her that she now made Gilbert utterly happy, too, by turning to him and saying, “It was so long ago, the summer after the king’s coronation. He was putting down a Marcher lord’s rebellion and stayed one night at my father’s castle. I’d climbed the old apple tree in my mother’s garden and lost my balance when I tried to get down. I was clinging desperately to one of the branches when the king heard my cries and ran to my rescue. He caught me just as I fell, saved me from broken bones and mayhap even a broken neck, then dried my tears and agreed that my mishap would be kept a secret between the two of us.”
She smiled again at Henry. “So I owe you a debt twice-over, my liege, for that little girl in the apple tree and this foolish one at the Woodstock springs.”
It occurred to Ranulf that Rosamund Clifford was looking at Henry with the same starry-eyed adoration that his son was lavishing upon her. It was dangerous for a girl to be so pretty and so innocent, too; a convent was probably the safest place for her, at least until her father found her a suitable husband.