“God in Heaven! Will? What happened… a fall from his horse?”
“No… he sickened. He sickened and died on Friday last. My mother says he was not ailing long. According to the doctors, he had no fight in him, just gave up…”
Eleanor was shocked; Will was only twenty-seven. “I am so sorry, Harry,” she said, and put her arms around him. He held her so tightly that it hurt, burying his face in her hair. She could feel his breath rasping against her ear, could see the pulse throbbing in his temple. They stood in silence for a time and then he drew back. There were tear tracks upon his cheek, but his eyes were dry and hot.
“Will died of a broken heart,” he said. “Even the doctors think so. In denying him the wife of his choosing, Thomas Becket brought about his death.”
Eleanor did not argue with him. She reached out again, held him close, and let him grieve for his brother.
Heedless of the chill, Ranulf stood in the doorway of the great hall at Trefriw, gazing across the rain-sodden bailey at the chamber he shared with Rhiannon. Faint light gleamed through the chinks in the closed shutters, the only signs of life. The wind and rain were all he heard, although he doubted that Rhiannon would do much screaming; Eleri had once confided that during her previous birthings, she’d bitten down on a towel to stifle her cries. Thinking of the proud, vulnerable woman in that lying-in chamber, laboring to bring his child into the world, Ranulf felt fear prickle along his spine. Rhiannon was almost forty-one. Women died in childbirth all too often, and the older the woman, the greater the risk. What would he do if the Almighty took her, if she traded her life for the baby’s?
“For the love of God, Ranulf, shut the door!” Hywel shivered as a blast of wind invaded the hall. He and Peryf had arrived in midmorning, only to learn that Rhiannon’s pains had begun before dawn. He assumed that the birthing was proceeding as it ought; Eleri’s occasional updates were hurried, not alarmed. He felt confident that Rhiannon would safely deliver her babe. But then Rhiannon was not his wife.
“We’ve got the midwife to tend to Rhiannon. Mayhap we ought to fetch a doctor to tend to Ranulf ere the poor soul unravels like a ball of yarn.” While said ostensibly to Rhodri, the words were actually aimed at Ranulf. The gibe worked; Ranulf turned reluctantly from the door, joining them at the table. He stared down at the food upon his trencher, though, as if he’d never seen stewed chicken before, and had to be prodded into swallowing a few mouthfuls.
“So… tell me,” Hywel said with determined cheer, “what names have you chosen for the child? If it is a lad, I think Hywel has a fine ring to it.”
That roused Ranulf from his uneasy reverie. “You ought to have put in your bid sooner. Rhiannon and I have already settled upon the names.”
“Let me guess. For a daughter… Annora, perchance?” Hywel murmured, grinning when Ranulf threw a wadded-up napkin in his direction.
“If it is a girl, we shall name her Angharad, after my mother.”
Hywel nodded approvingly. “A name I’ve always fancied. I’ve bedded two lovely Angharads.” He started to joke “but not at the same time,” then glanced over at Ranulf’s son and thought better of it. Ranulf’s daughter had been sent to stay with neighbors, but Gilbert was in his thirteenth year now, deemed old enough to remain. He was slouched at the end of the table, saying little and eating less, and Hywel decided circumspection was in order. “What if it is a son?”
“We will name him Morgan, after one of Rhiannon’s brothers.”
“My Morgan died young,” Rhodri began somberly. As proud as he was to have the name live on in one of his grandchildren, he still felt an old sorrow at the memory of that lost son. But before he could continue, Gilbert flung his knife down, shoving away from the table.
“Why could you not have named me Morgan? Why was I the one saddled with an alien English name that no one can even pronounce?”
They were startled by the boy’s outburst, Ranulf most of all. “I never knew you felt like that, lad. I named you Gilbert after my best friend-”
“An Englishman!”
“Yes, Gilbert was English. What of it? I am half-English myself, as you well know.”
Gilbert was deeply flushed. No longer meeting his father’s eyes, he muttered something under his breath. Ranulf could not be sure, but he thought his son said that was nothing to boast about.
“What did you say, Gilbert?”
The boy shrugged. “I am not hungry. May I be excused?”
Ranulf hesitated, then nodded, and Gilbert snatched up his mantle, bolting out into the bailey. “I had no idea that he was harboring such resentment,” he confessed. “I suppose I should not be so surprised, though. Your brothers are not alone in their suspicions of me, Hywel. For all that I’ve lived here fourteen years, some people will always see me as the alltud — the alien Englishman in their midst, who may or may not be the English king’s spy. Some of that suspicion must inevitably spill over onto Gilbert.”
Hywel slid his mead cup across the table. “Do not make more of this than it deserves. I daresay the lad is scared and lashing out at the closest target-you. Once Rhiannon safely gives birth, it will be forgotten.”
Ranulf was not convinced of that. But Rhiannon’s need was paramount; Gilbert’s grievances would have to wait. He drank from Hywel’s cup, then sent it skidding back across the table just as they heard sudden shouting out in the bailey. For a moment, he froze, his first fear for Rhiannon.
Hywel’s hearing was more acute. “A rider is coming in,” he announced and within moments was proved correct. The messenger was soaked to the skin, trembling with the cold. Stumbling toward the hearth, he gratefully accepted a cup of mead, gulping it down before he drew a sealed parchment from his tunic.
“My lord,” he said, dropping to his knees before Ranulf. “I bring you an urgent message from the king.”
The hall quieted. Even those who did not understand French realized that something was amiss. All watched nervously as Ranulf broke the seal and read. He sat down suddenly in the closest seat, the letter slipping from his hand, fluttering into the floor rushes. “My nephew is dead.”
“Which one?” Hywel asked, hoping it was the least of the lot, that fool Gloucester.
“Will… the king’s brother.” Ranulf blinked back tears. But before he could tell them any more, the door was flung open and his sister-in-law plunged into the hall.
Eleri was wet and disheveled and jubilant. “God be praised, Ranulf, you have a son!”
After a visit with his wife and newborn son, Ranulf returned to the hall, where a celebration was in progress. Celyn soon arrived, and then their neighbors, for in Wales, word seemed to travel on the wind. Ranulf welcomed his young daughter home, assured her that her mother and baby brother were well, and generally tried to play the role expected of him, that of host and happy father. But Will’s plaintive ghost lingered in the shadows and Ranulf kept catching glimpses of him from the corner of his eye; once or twice, he even thought he heard Will’s voice, sounding sad and bewildered and wrenchingly young.
“When will you tell Rhiannon?” Hywel had come up quietly behind him. “I did not get a chance to say I was sorry. I know how fond you were of Will. He was good company…” Hywel’s smile flickered briefly. “… for an Englishman.”
“I did not want Rhiannon to know, not yet. She was fond of Will, too. I’ll tell her on the morrow.”
Hywel had brought over a brimming cup. “Drink this,” he directed. “You look as if you need it.”
“I do,” Ranulf acknowledged. “When Will died in Rouen, any chance of compromise between Harry and Becket died, too. Harry is very bitter, blaming Becket for his brother’s death.”
“Then the accord they reached at Clarendon is not likely to last?”