She was garbed again in green, a moss-colored gown with tight-fitting bodice and wide skirts, the sleeves billowing out like streamers from her slender wrists. The black hair he’d loved to stroke was hidden away under a wimple of crisp white linen. She’d never been a great beauty, short and dark and so quick-tempered that he’d fondly called her “hellcat,” but from the time he was sixteen, she’d been the woman he wanted, the one he had to have, at whatever cost.
She’d almost reached him and he got hurriedly to his feet, kissing her hand and then her cheek. “You always were one for taking a man by surprise,” he said, with a strained smile. “It’s been a long time, Annora.” He winced as soon as the platitude left his mouth. It was bad enough that he suddenly felt like a tongue-tied raw lad, without sounding like one, too.
She laughed and let him seat her beside him on the bench. The conversation that followed was as proper as it was awkward: polite queries about family and health, as if there had been nothing between them but friendship. He offered his condolences for her father’s death, very belatedly, for Raymond de Bernay had gone to God four years ago. She assured him that her brothers were well and related a humorous story about Ancel, the friend of his youth. Ranulf smiled and nodded and tried not to recall the day Ancel had caught them together, calling his sister a slut and Ranulf a Judas.
“I do not believe it,” Annora exclaimed suddenly. “That puppy across the garden looks just like your dyrehund, just like Loth!”
“Loth was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of dog, but I have hopes for the pup… if only the children can stop squabbling long enough to agree upon a name for him.”
“Those are your children? Gilbert and Mallt?” She made a credible attempt at the Welsh pronunciation and gave him an impish smile. “You must wonder how I know that. I met them, you see, three years ago at the Chester fair.”
“Yes, I know. Rhiannon told me,” he said, and saw her surprise.
“Ancel named one of his sons after Gilbert, too. What was it I called the three of you… the unholy trinity? I was so sorry to learn of his death… a riding mishap of some kind?”
He stared at her. She did not know! But then, how could she? “Gilbert died,” he said, “because of me.”
“Because of you? I do not understand.”
“After I got your letter, telling me that you could not see me again, I set out for Shrewsbury hoping that I’d find you at the fair. When Gilbert learned that I’d gone off alone into an area under Stephen’s control, he was alarmed and rode after me. He never reached Shrewsbury, though. His horse bolted and threw him, breaking his neck.”
“Oh, Ranulf…” Reaching over, she gently touched his hand. For a time, they sat in silence, remembering and grieving and watching his children play with the dyrehund puppy. “I had to end it,” she said, very softly. “I promised God that I would, if only He’d let my baby live. I could not bear to miscarry again…”
“I know, lass,” he said sadly, “I know.” But he did not want to go down that road again. “How is your daughter?” he asked hastily, and her face lit up.
“Matilda is well nigh grown, almost sixteen. She looks like me, I’m told, but she has none of my faults. She thinks ere she acts and never breaks a promise and she brightens a room just by walking into it. I wish you could know her, Ranulf.” She paused. “I wish she were yours.”
“Ah, Annora…” He hesitated, not knowing what to say, and she reached again for his hand, lacing her fingers through his.
“The Shrewsbury fair is next month,” she said. “I expect to be there. Will you?”
He let his breath out slowly. “No,” he said, “I will not.”
Her fingers twitched, then jerked away from his. He knew how fast her temper could kindle, but she looked wounded, not angry. “I see,” she said stiffly. She made no move to rise, though. “I think I have a right to know why, Ranulf.”
He could give her the easy answer, that he was not free. But she’d never been one for taking the easy way, and he knew what her forthright response would be: why should his marriage vows matter more than hers? He could tell her that he loved his wife and it was the truth. He did not think she’d believe him, though. She’d never believe he could love another woman as he’d loved her. And he did not want to take that certainty from her if he could help it. “I am sorry, Annora,” he said at last. “Some wounds never fully heal.” He thought that sounded woefully inadequate, but at least it was not an outright lie.
She was gazing intently into his face. “Ah, Ranulf… I understand now.” Getting to her feet, she waited until he had risen, too, and then touched her hand to his cheek in a light, lingering caress. “I shall pray for Gilbert’s soul,” she said, “and for your peace.”
He understood then, too. Just as he’d seen her weave intricate wall hangings, she was creating a pattern out of loose threads of fact, transforming his rejection into a response she could live with. They were tragic lovers, doomed by fate and an unruly horse, kept apart by guilt and the ghost of Gilbert Fitz John. Rhiannon would remain the Welsh cousin he’d wed out of pity, a shadowy figure of no consequence, not a rival for his affections, never that. But how could he fault her for that fantasy? Had he not done the same? He’d spun out deluded daydreams about their future, justified their adultery, and given nary a thought to the impact of their affair upon her husband and stepchildren. It seemed like one of God’s more ironic jokes that he could see so clearly now, years too late.
“Papa?” Mallt was sprinting toward them. “Look what I’ve got!” Carefully uncupping her hands, she revealed a small grasshopper. “If I put it in a jar, will it live?”
“No, love, it will soon die.”
Mallt looked disappointed, but it never occurred to her to argue, for she was still at the age when a father’s wisdom was absolute. Carrying her prize over to the grass, she set it free. Ranulf and Annora watched, then looked at each other in what they both knew to be a final farewell. She was smiling, but he thought he could detect a glimmer of tears behind her lashes. He stood motionless as she moved away, and then called out to his children. “Catch the puppy. I think it is time we went looking for your mother.”
“Hywel? you look as if you’ve just swilled a flagon full of vinegar. What is amiss?”
“Ask your nephew,” Hywel snapped, and would have turned away had Ranulf not grabbed his arm.
“I am asking you. What is wrong?”
“Why did you not warn us, Ranulf? You think my father would have given in to Cristyn’s coaxing and let her come if he knew what awaited us at Woodstock? How could you let us ride into that ambush?”
“Hywel, I do not know what you are talking about. I swear by all the saints that I do not!”
“You did not know about the act of homage?”
“Yes, of course I knew about that. What of it? Harry has had the English barons swear homage to his son, so it makes sense that he would want Hal acknowledged by the Welsh, too. Surely that is not what has your hackles rising? Owain did homage to Harry at Rhuddlan Castle and the sun did not plummet from the sky. So why should it matter if he repeats the oath?”
“You truly did not know, did you? Your nephew has more in mind than a formal recognition of his heir. He means to put our kings on the same footing with his English barons, and he has begun to whittle away at our liberties and rights, imposing new demands and restrictions. He insists that we can no longer offer sanctuary to those he considers enemies of the Crown, and that is but the beginning. How long ere he attempts to introduce English laws and customs? How long ere he seeks to turn Gwynedd into an English shire?”