Ranulf was stunned by the outburst. Hywel usually diluted all of life’s problems with a healthy dose of humor. He’d not known the other man was capable of a stark, searing anger like this, one that burned to the bone. He wanted to assure Hywel that the Welsh were borrowing trouble, but how honest would that assurance be? He’d told Owain that Harry had no intention to swallow Wales whole. But would he keep nibbling away until Welsh sovereignty was well nigh gone? There was a time when he could have answered that question with an emphatic “no.” That was before Toulouse. His nephew’s needless war against Count Raymond had been an eye-opening lesson in the cynical lore of kingship. He still did not believe that Harry meant to annex Wales outright; he was surely too shrewd to expend so much to get so little. Harry could be goaded, though, into a war of conquest. He’d warned Owain of that, could only hope that the Welsh king had taken the warning to heart.
“The English king is indeed my nephew, as you rather pointedly reminded me. But I am also Welsh, partly by blood and wholly by choice. For all that I hold English estates, my true home is at Trefriw. Your fears for Wales are mine, too, Hywel. It saddens me that I should have to assure you of that.”
“Your kinship to the English king is a fact, Ranulf, not an accusation. I was not implying that you are some sort of royal spy. Only an utter idiot could suspect that you’d been dwelling amongst us for more than thirteen years, even going so far as to take a Welsh wife, all on the odd chance that should war come, you might possibly be of use to the English Crown.” The corner of Hywel’s mouth quirked. “So of course my brilliant half-brothers are convinced it is true!”
Ranulf took comfort in the jest, but he knew that if relations between the English and Welsh worsened, there would be others to question where his loyalties lay. “I will talk to Harry,” he promised. “It may well be that you are all shying at shadows.”
Hywel did not argue. His skeptical silence spoke volumes, though, and Ranulf began to realize that his nephew’s actual intent might matter less than what the Welsh perceived it to be.
The ceremony of homage was performed in Woodstock’s great hall, in an atmosphere so charged with tension that Ranulf half-expected to hear rumblings of thunder echoing in the distance. Six years ago, the Scots king had done homage to Henry for the English earldom of Hunt ingdon, but the vassalage demanded of Malcolm now was more circumscribed and restrictive; he was also required to yield up his younger brother David as a hostage for his good faith. The Welsh were compelled, too, to accept a vassalage that went beyond what had been demanded of Owain at Rhuddlan Castle, a subordinate status that the Welsh found both demeaning and threatening.
If the ritual of homage to Henry and his son was an impressive demonstration of English power, the feasting that followed offered a lavish display of English hospitality. But Ranulf had no appetite for the bountiful repast, and he doubted that the Scots or Welsh did, either.
The revelries dragged on through the evening. Ranulf’s edginess was only exacerbated by the presence of Annora Fitz Clement, her husband, and a stepson. Rhiannon did not yet know Annora was at Woodstock and he wanted to be the one to tell her. Feeling guiltily grateful that she could not detect Annora on her own, he kept a cautious watch upon his old love, trying to keep the two women well apart.
Hywel and Maud had eventually noticed Annora Fitz Clement, too. Hywel confined himself to a raised brow, a quizzical glance in Ranulf’s direction. Maud took more direct action, pulling Ranulf aside for a hurried interrogation. Satisfied with his response, she went off to make sure that the unpredictable Annora did not take it into her head to seek Rhiannon out for an exchange of social pleasantries, and Ranulf breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he’d just gained an invaluable ally.
Not unexpectedly, he’d gotten no chance to talk privately with Henry; that would have to wait. By the time the interminable festivities had drawn to a close, he was exhausted and so thoroughly out of humor that others had begun to notice. All in all, it was a day he wanted only to forget.
Once they were back at their lodgings in New Woodstock, he sprawled on the bed, still fully dressed, watching as Rhiannon loosened her braids. She’d dismissed her attendant, a sure sign that she wanted to talk of matters not for other ears, and as she began to brush out her hair, she soon gave voice to her own anxiety.
“Do you think the Welsh are justified in their suspicions, Ranulf?”
“Well… I do not believe that Harry is laying secret plans to overrun Wales. He had a perfect opportunity to rid himself of Rhys ap Gruffydd this spring, chose instead to restore Rhys to power. If his intentions were as sinister as the Welsh believe, why would he have done that?”
“Then you believe the Welsh are in the wrong?”
“I would that it were so simple,” he said wearily. “The problem, lass, is that the Welsh and English do not view homage in the same light. I’ve tried to explain to Harry that Welsh history and customs are unlike those in his other domains. In England and Normandy, the act of homage is not humbling or degrading. It is a cornerstone, the foundation upon which all else rests. A Duke of Normandy or a Count of Anjou can do homage to the French king without being diminished in his own eyes or those of his subjects. But it is different in Wales. There, it is an alien concept, imposed by the force of arms. So when Harry compels Owain and Rhys to swear public homage to him, they do not see it as part of the natural order, but rather as an act meant to humiliate, salt rubbed into their wounds. It is not surprising, therefore, that they should be so quick to suspect the worst. But Harry can no more grasp their point of view than they can comprehend his.”
He sounded so dispirited that Rhiannon came over, sat beside him upon the bed. “The Almighty did you no favor by giving you such keen eyesight, my love. The man who can see both sides in a conflict earns himself thanks from neither side.”
Taking the brush, he drew it through her hair. It was a beautiful color, a rich shade of chestnut; he thought it such a pity that she could never see that autumn entwining of russet and copper and sorrel. “Let’s talk no more of this tonight. I’ve something to tell you. This morning in the gardens, I laid a ghost to rest… Annora Fitz Clement.”
Rhiannon stopped breathing for a moment. “She is here at Woodstock?”
“It came as quite a surprise to me, too.”
Not for Annora, though. She’d have known he’d be in attendance upon the king on such an occasion. Rhiannon waited until she was sure her voice would not betray her. “Was it a… a painful meeting, Ranulf?”
“It churned up memories long buried. But painful… no,” he said, not altogether truthfully. “I was not sure how I’d feel upon seeing her again. It was… was like listening to a song I’d once loved. The words were the same, but I could no longer hear the music.”
Just as on the night that he’d proposed marriage, she sat utterly still, afraid that if she moved, it would break the spell. “You have no regrets, then?”
“For Gilbert, yes, a lifetime of regrets. But for Annora… no. I have the life-and the woman-I want, consider myself a lucky man.” When he touched her cheek then, he discovered it was wet. “Sweetheart, I am sorry. I never knew Annora caused you such unease.”
“It does not matter,” she said, “not anymore. Now I have something to tell you, too. I was going to wait until I was sure. But what better time than now? I think I am with child again. My flux did not come last month and we are now into the second week of July, so I am six weeks late.”