“No… not bloody likely. Becket seems to have repented of his submission almost at once. As soon as he returned to Canterbury, he did public penance, put aside his customary fine clothes for plain, dark garb, and suspended himself from saying Mass. You can well imagine Harry’s response to that.”
Hywel whistled softly. “Say what you will about him, the good archbishop has quite a flair for the dramatic. So their war goes on.” He hesitated then, dark eyes studying Ranulf’s face. “I am loath to add to your worries. But you’ll find out sooner or later, and mayhap you ought to hear it from me. Rhys ap Gruffydd has gone on the attack, overrunning Dine-far and chasing the Marcher lord Walter Clifford back across the border with his tail tucked between his legs. And we recently got word that the English king’s stronghold at Carreghwfa fell to Owain Cyfeiliog at year’s end.”
Ranulf’s breath caught. He’d known since the summer-since Woodstock-that trouble was brewing in the Marches. But he’d not expected the cauldron to boil over so soon. How long ere Owain Gwynedd cast his lot with Rhys ap Gruffydd and the lords of Powys? How long ere all of Wales took fire?
“If anyone asks after me,” he said, “tell them I’ve gone to look in on Rhiannon.”
Collecting his daughter as he left the hall, he agreed to take her along if she’d promise to be very quiet. Seeing Gilbert loitering a few feet away, he beckoned and the boy hurried over, with enough speed to give the lie to his feigned nonchalance. Leaving their guests to Rhodri and Hywel, he ushered his children out into the damp February night.
The midwife had departed, but Eleri was dozing in a chair by the hearth. She smiled at the sight of them, putting her finger to her lips and pointing toward the bed. Ranulf kissed her on the cheek and said softly, “Celyn is awaiting you in the hall. I’ll stay with her now.”
Mallt and Gilbert glanced at their sleeping mother, then followed Ranulf as he crossed to the cradle. Swaddled in linen strips and covered by warm woolen blankets, Morgan slept as peacefully as if he were still sheltered within his mother’s womb. He was larger than either Gilbert or Mallt at birth, with a faint bruise on his temple and a fringe of tawny hair, the exact shade of Ranulf’s own. The older children crowded eagerly around the cradle, but when Morgan continued to sleep on, their interest flagged and they soon slipped away. Picking up the chair, Ranulf carried it over to his wife’s bed.
Rhiannon awakened about an hour later, raising up on her elbows to listen for the sound of a familiar step, a known voice. “Eleri?”
“No, love, it is me.” Leaning over, he kissed her tenderly on the mouth. As quiet as they were, a sudden wail from the cradle signaled that Morgan was now awake and in need of attention. When Ranulf put the baby in Rhiannon’s arms, Morgan let out a few more tentative cries, as if testing the power of his lungs, and then settled down contentedly against his mother’s warmth. Rhiannon refused to engage a wet-nurse as ladies of rank usually did, unwilling to sacrifice the precious intimacy of that bond in the name of fashion. She guided Morgan’s mouth to a nipple, smiling as he began to suckle noisily.
Ranulf slumped back in his chair. The chamber was lit only by firelight, the hearth flames offering just enough illumination for him to distinguish the shadowy forms of his wife and son. As he watched Rhiannon nurse their baby, it should have been a moment of tranquil joy. But his eyes were stinging, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. Trefriw was the first real home he’d ever known, and he’d been happier here than he’d have believed possible. Now a storm was gathering on the horizon: dark, foreboding clouds and a rising wind. When war came to Wales, how would he be able to keep his family safe? His earlier rebuke to Gilbert seemed to echo on the air. He was indeed half-English, half-Welsh. What if he could not be true to both halves of his soul? Could he choose without destroying the rejected self? He’d lived his entire life striving to keep faith. But what if his loyalties became irreconcilable?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
August 1164
Woodstock, England
As the Archbishop of Canterbury’s retinue approached the king’s manor at Woodstock, villagers thronged the road A to watch. William Fitz Stephen’s stomach was queasy, his skin flushed and damp with perspiration. He would have liked to blame the day’s sultry heat for his discomfort, yet he knew better-it was his lord’s looming confrontation with the king. He cast a sidelong glance at his companion, wondering if Herbert of Bosham shared his unease. But Herbert’s face was alight with anticipation. His outward appearance was so foppish and affected-tall and willowy, handsome and preening-that it was easy to forget his was the soul of a firebrand, one who thrived on controversy and scorned compromise. Fitz Stephen could only hope that Herbert’s thirst for turmoil would go unslaked this day. Why would Lord Thomas seek out the king like this if he did not intend to proffer an olive branch?
They could see the manor walls now, sunlight glinting off the chain-mail of the sentries. Fitz Stephen had many pleasant memories of times spent at Woodstock, riding with Lord Thomas and the king as they hunted in these deep, still woods on hot summer afternoons like this one. Those were bygone days, beyond recall. He glanced at his lord’s taut profile and said a silent prayer that this meeting with the king would go well. It was then that guards stepped forward, blocking the gate.
The archbishop’s men reined in. There was a flurry of confusion and the archbishop began to cough when he inhaled some of the dust kicked up by the milling horses. Fitz Stephen urged his mount forward. Before he could speak, Herbert demanded that the guards step aside. “Do you fools not recognize His Grace? Admit us at once!”
The guards shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, looking so uncomfortable that Fitz Stephen knew at once something was terribly wrong. They did not move away from the gate. “We have our orders,” one mumbled, while the others let their raised spears speak for them.
“What orders?” Thomas Becket frowned impatiently. “The king is expecting me. I sent him word that I would be arriving in midweek.”
There was a silence, and then the boldest of the guards muttered, “The king does not wish to see you, my lord archbishop. We were told not to admit you.”
Color burned into Becket’s face. He opened his mouth, no words emerging. For what was there to say?
After being turned away from Woodstock, Becket seemed to realize just how precarious his position had become. He secretly sought to flee England, not even confiding in his own household. His first try was thwarted by contrary winds, and his second attempt failed when the sailors recognized him and balked, for fear of incurring the king’s wrath.
Becket’s next return to Woodstock was on a dreary August afternoon, under a weeping sky. The road was clogged in mud and the trees dripped with moisture, splattering the riders as they passed underneath. William Fitz Stephen tried not to glance over his shoulder at the smothering cloud cover, but his apprehension increased with each mile that brought them closer to Woodstock. He thought it was the true measure of his lord’s despair that he’d risk another public humiliation. But he knew Thomas feared the consequences of his failed attempts to flee the country, for they were breaches of the Constitutions of Clarendon. If the king did not yet know of these transgressions, it was only a matter of time until he did. Better to face him now and offer his own defense. Fitz Stephen understood his lord’s reasoning. Yet what if the king refused again to give him an audience? What if he would not even listen to the lord archbishop’s explanation? Fitz Stephen no longer harbored hopes that they’d make their peace, not after their last visit to Woodstock.
This time they were admitted by the king’s guards and ushered across the bailey into the great hall. Henry was seated upon the dais, with Eleanor at his side. He greeted Becket with cool civility, his eyes as grey and opaque as the rain clouds gathering overhead. When Becket broached the subject of his abortive flight, Henry heard him out without interruption. The hall hushed then, waiting for the royal wrath to kindle. But Henry offered no rebukes, made no accusations. “Is my kingdom not big enough for the two of us,” he asked, “that you must seek to flee from it?”