“I must obey it. Harry is my nephew. But he is also my king.”
“So is Owain Gwynedd!”
“I do not need you to remind me of my loyalties, Eleri!”
“I think you do! You’ve not thought this through, Ranulf. Let’s say you go into Cheshire to meet with the English king. What then? Lest you forget, whilst you are visiting and catching up on family news, he is making ready to invade Wales. What will you do as he turns his army loose upon Gwynedd-wish him well?”
“Stay out of this, Eleri. I owe you no explanations, for this is none of your concern.”
“And what of me?” Rhodri demanded. “You are my son by marriage and my heir. I would not stand by and watch as you plunged off a cliff, nor will I keep silent now. You cannot do this, lad.”
Shifting awkwardly on his crutch, he limped toward Ranulf, dragging the leg broken and imperfectly set last year after he’d been trampled by a panicked, runaway horse. Pointing at his twisted limb, he said bitterly, “This crippled leg will keep me from riding to fight beside our lord king, Owain. But Celyn will answer his summons to arms. So will our neighbors, our friends. Do you want to face Celyn and your countrymen across a battlefield, Ranulf?”
Ranulf’s face contorted. “Christ Jesus, Rhodri, you know I do not!”
“Listen to your heart, then, lad,” the older man pleaded. “Tell the English king to rot in Hell as he deserves!”
“If you do not,” Eleri warned, “you will never be welcome again in my house, and I say that who has loved you like a brother. Tell him, Celyn.”
Celyn looked acutely unhappy, for he hated confrontations and was genuinely fond of Ranulf. But he did not hesitate. “If you do this,” he confirmed bleakly, “our door will be closed to you.”
“You hear them?” Rhodri grabbed for Ranulf’s arm. “If you back the English in this, Lord Owain might well cast you out of Gwynedd, and how could I blame him? You must-”
“Stop!” The cry was shrill, filled with such pain that they all fell silent.
The color had drained from Rhiannon’s face and her dark, sightless eyes were brimming with unshed tears. “Stop,” she entreated again, and when Ranulf called out her name, she followed the sound, moving swiftly toward him.
Rhiannon had been blind since childhood and had long ago memorized the boundaries of the only home she’d ever known. It often seemed to Ranulf as if she carried a mental map, so detailed that every stone, every tree root, found its reflection in her memory’s mirror. Now, though, she was too distraught to heed her interior landscape, and as Ranulf and the others watched, appalled, she headed straight for the well.
Shouting a warning, Ranulf lunged forward, but it was too late. Rhiannon hit the well’s stone wall with bruising impact, the windlass crank striking her on the temple, just above her eye. She reeled backward, blood streaming down her face.
Ranulf reached her first, with Rhodri a step behind. She had yet to utter a sound, but she was trembling visibly. She had a deep fear of falling, for she had more at risk than contusions or scratches. What to a sighted person would be a minor mishap was to Rhiannon a cruel reminder of her vulnerability, painful proof that her defenses were forever flawed.
Knowing that, Ranulf fought back the urge to sweep her up into his arms and carry her to safety. “You’re bleeding freely,” he said, “but head wounds usually do. Let’s go inside and tend to it.”
She nodded, fumbling for his arm. But when Rhodri and Eleri started to follow, she said, “No! I want only Ranulf.”
Bringing a laver of water to the bed, Ranulf sat beside his wife and sponged the blood from her face. She lay still, her lashes shadowing her cheek, her breathing soft and shallow. Putting the basin aside, he took her hand. “I did not mean for you to find out like this …”
“I knew,” she said. “As soon as you got the letter, I knew you’d go to him.” A tear squeezed through her lashes and she turned her face away so he’d not see. Her father and sister kept talking about Ranulf’s loyalty to the English king. She would to God it was that simple.
“He is my nephew, Rhiannon.”
She could have reminded him that he had Welsh kin, too. But what good would it do? He was bound to Henry Fitz Empress by more than blood, by more than love. Another tear escaped, trickling slowly down her cheek. Her husband was an honorable man and he’d long ago pledged his honor to the English Crown, first to his sister and now to her son. His heart might belong to Wales, but his soul would forever be England’s. She’d always known the time would come when the English king would claim his own.
Ranulf was silent. When he’d refused to forsake his sister, Annora had stormed and wept and threatened, warning that she’d never forgive him. Nor had she. She’d committed a grave sin for him, betraying her husband and risking the safe, comfortable life she’d thought she wanted, but she’d never understood why he could not accept Stephen’s stolen kingship, why he could not put her first. What could he say to make Rhiannon understand?
“If you ask me not to go, Rhiannon…”
She did not need to see his face. His voice was hoarse, hurting. He was offering her what he’d not offered Annora. Sitting up, she held out her arms. She could hear his heart thudding against her cheek, and she listened intently until it seemed as if there was no other sound in her world, just the rapid rhythm of her husband’s heartbeat.
“Ranulf!” the ebullient bellow rang out even above the considerable clamor of an army encampment. “Ranulf, over here!”
Ranulf recognized the voice at once; his brother could out-bay a pack of lymer hounds on the scent of prey. Turning, he saw Rainald Fitz Roy bearing down upon him. He’d put on weight since Ranulf had seen him last, a paunch and jowls testifying to the good living he was enjoying as Earl of Cornwall. Like Ranulf, he was one of Henry I’s many by-blows. Ranulf was the youngest but one of that misbegotten crop, and his elder brothers had all taken it upon themselves to look out for him, whether he’d liked it or not. He was thirty-eight now and his boyhood only a memory, but Rainald’s vision was clouded by nostalgia and he still saw Ranulf as the little brother, in need of older and wiser guidance, preferably his.
“I’m right glad to see you, lad. Not that I ever doubted you. It was the others who did. I wagered Fitz Alan and Clifford ten marks each that you’d come. Let’s go find them so I can collect my winnings and do a bit of gloating!”
Ranulf was not surprised that William Fitz Alan and Walter Clifford would wager against him. They were Marcher lords, men of Norman-French stock whose wealth was rooted in Wales, founded upon conquest. They often intermarried with the Welsh, so neither Ranulf’s Welsh wife nor his Welsh blood made him suspect in their eyes. It was that he did not share the cornerstone of Marcher faith-their belief that the Welsh were a primitive people in need of the civilizing influence of their superior culture.
“Who else is here besides the Marcher lords?”
Rainald cursed good-naturedly when a soldier lurched clumsily into their path. “Who else? Becket, of course, for wherever you find Harry these days, you’ll find our chancellor; a dog should be so faithful. Harry’s brother, the likable one, not Geoff. A few earls: Leicester and Salisbury and Hertford.” As an afterthought, he added, “And our nephew Will.
“The Welsh are here, too,” Rainald continued, “so that ought to ease your conscience somewhat. Owain Gwynedd’s own brother will be fighting against him.”
“It is hardly surprising to find Cadwaladr in the English ranks. In the five years since Owain chased him out of Gwynedd, he has done whatever he could to kindle a border war. For the chance to avenge himself upon Owain, he’d have made a pact with the Devil himself, or in this case, the King of England.”
Hearing his own words then, Ranulf smiled bleakly, knowing full well that his Welsh kin would say he, too, was making a Devil’s deal with the English king.