Will’s composure was like a thin layer of ice, barely concealing the deep reservoir of panic just below the surface. Ranulf yearned to reassure his nephew that his fears were for naught, that not even the most scrupulous clerical conscience would be so inflexible. But how could he offer Will such a surety? Who would dare to speak for Thomas Becket now?
“We’ll talk to Harry about it… later, after his temper has cooled,” he promised, and, hoping that Will’s look of relief was justified, he continued on up the steps.
He was surprised to find that Henry and Becket were both still there, although at opposite ends of the hall. Like battle commanders, he thought, each one unwilling to withdraw from the field and give the advantage to his foe. Becket was talking to the elderly Bishop of Lincoln, never once glancing toward the king. But his clerks were hovering close at hand and his natural pallor was even more pronounced, his face the color of wax, his mouth ringed in white. His occasional stammer was more in evidence than usual, too. All in all, he struck Ranulf as a man with an unquiet soul, angry, agitated, and determined not to give ground. Rainald was wrong, he thought, for it was plain that Becket did not regard this as a quarrel over a trifle. Becket might be the only one who fully understood what the stakes were in this contest of wills between archbishop and king, but none could doubt that he knew they were high indeed.
The new Bishop of London was standing some distance away. Gilbert Foliot had an expressive face, and each time he gazed upon the archbishop, he gave himself away, his the queasy ambivalence of a man who’d just been proven right, at one and the same time grimly gratified and genuinely horrified. At his side was Ranulf’s nephew Roger, the Bishop-elect of Worcester. Roger was the son who most physically resembled his father, Robert, compact and spare of build, with oak-brown hair and eyes, a good-humored smile, an innate reserve. Now he was speaking quietly and persuasively into Foliot’s ear, like his sire, a born reconciler.
Several of the king’s lords were clustered around him upon the dais. Walter Clifford and Roger de Clare, Earl of Hertford, who was smiling so smugly that Ranulf knew he’d concluded that Henry was now sure to support his claim to Tonbridge Castle. Ranulf’s other nephew, Will of Gloucester, was gesturing emphatically to the Earl of Leicester, but Henry’s justiciar did not seem to be paying Will much mind. From time to time, he would nod politely or absently. All the while, though, he watched the king.
So did Ranulf. If Becket was ostensibly ignoring his sovereign, Henry’s gaze was following every move his archbishop made, with a falcon’s unblinking intensity. His face still deeply flushed, grey eyes smoldering, he seemed to be radiating heat; Ranulf could almost believe his skin would be hot to the touch. One glance was enough to show him that Rainald was not so wrong, after all, for the friendship between Henry and Becket was indeed doomed. It was dying here and now, on this July afternoon in Woodstock’s great hall.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
September 1163
Aberffraw
Mon, North Wales
"What are you doing here?” Ranulf had just dismounted in the bailey of Owain Gwynedd’s island manor. He did not realize that belligerent challenge was aimed at him, not until a hand clamped down roughly upon his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with Owain’s youngest son.
Rhodri had inherited his father’s height and topped Ranulf by several inches. His grip tightening, he repeated, “What are you doing here?”
Ranulf sought to keep his temper under rein, reminding himself that Rhodri was just eighteen and eager to prove his manhood. “I am here to see your lord father,” he said, as evenly as he could. “Now would you mind taking your hand off my shoulder?”
Rhodri scowled, but after a moment, his fingers unclenched. He did not step back, though, making a provocation of his very proximity, too close for comfort. “I’ll say this straight out,” he said. “We want no English spies at my father’s court.”
Rhodri’s voice carried across the bailey, quickly drawing an audience. Ranulf recognized several of the bystanders: two of Rhodri’s half-brothers, Cynan and Iorwerth, and Hywel’s foster brother Peryf, who nodded impassively before disappearing into the hall. Ranulf’s own men shifted uneasily from foot to foot, unsure what was expected of them. His brother-in-law Celyn pushed forward resolutely to stand beside him. Celyn had been so insistent upon accompanying him to Aberffraw that Ranulf realized he’d been anticipating just such a confrontation.
Ranulf had no intention of playing Rhodri’s game. “I agree with you,” he said pleasantly. “There is no place at Aberffraw for English spies.”
Rhodri’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. Cynan burst out laughing. A few others did, too, stopping abruptly when Rhodri glared at them. Ranulf had brushed past him, and he took several hasty steps to overtake the older man. “You are not welcome here!”
Ranulf turned reluctantly. “I was not aware,” he said, “that Lord Owain had abdicated in your favor. My congratulations.”
Rhodri had never learned how to deflect sarcasm and his cheeks reddened. Before he could decide how to retaliate, Hywel appeared in the doorway, smiling genially.
“There you are, my lord Ranulf. Come in, my father is awaiting you.”
The look Rhodri gave Hywel was both suspicious and uncertain. “Our father is expecting him? Why did no one tell me that?”
“Why, indeed?” Hywel asked, so innocently that those within hearing grinned and Ranulf felt an unwanted twinge of pity for Rhodri, so mismatched in any test of wits or will with Hywel. He could understand why Rhodri and Davydd were so consumed with jealousy, for it was like comparing a shooting star to the flickering of candles. How could they compete with a man so renowned, a man who wielded both sword and pen with daunting ease? Hywel’s youthful battlefield exploits were still talked of around winter hearths, on nights when mead and memories intermingled. Ranulf knew how rare it was for a great man to sire a son of equal abilities. Too often a Robert of Gloucester produced a son like Ranulf’s nephew Will, a sapling grown askew in his father’s shadow. But he did not doubt that Hywel, the most celebrated of Owain Gwynedd’s many sons, would also prove himself to be the most worthy.
Owain Gwynedd’s greeting was cordial enough to hearten Ranulf and to disconcert Rhodri and Davydd, who distrusted Ranulf as much for his friendship with Hywel as for his kinship to the English king. This was Ranulf’s first meeting with the Welsh king since Woodstock, and he was hoping for an opportunity to reassure Owain about Henry’s intentions toward Wales. Owain readily granted his request for a private audience and heard him out with grave courtesy. But whether his argument was persuasive, Ranulf could not judge. Owain guarded his thoughts the way a miser hoarded coins, giving away nothing of value.
Much to Celyn’s discomfort, he and Ranulf were invited to dine upon the dais. It was a signal honor, but one Celyn could have done without. Shy and soft-spoken, he had never expected to be consorting with the princes of the realm. While he tried to pay heed to what he ate and what he heard, knowing Eleri would want a full report, he took little pleasure in the experience.