“I had not thought of that aspect of it,” Henry conceded. “That does explain why he took it so personally.” After a pensive silence, he gave his uncle an inquiring look. “You think I ought to talk to him?”
Rainald, who could occasionally be more subtle than others realized, concealed a smile. “I think that is a good idea,” he said solemnly. “Shall I fetch him for you?”
“Yes,” Henry said and, as usual, once he made up his mind, he wanted to act upon it straightaway. “Go get him, Uncle.”
But Rainald was gone a surprisingly long time and when he eventually returned to Henry’s chamber, his demeanor was so subdued that Henry immediately knew something was amiss. “Well? Where is he?”
Rainald hesitated. “I searched the camp over, Harry,” he said at last. “But he is gone.”
“Gone where?” Henry said tautly, even though he already knew the answer.
“He rode out last night after your quarrel. By now I fear he is well on his way into Wales.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
September 1165
Gwynedd, Wales
The road home was long and hard and Ranulf rode it alone. He owed the Crown the service of four knights for his English manors, but Henry had not claimed it of him in the Welsh war. Spared the need to provide fighting men, he’d taken along only two English-born squires, and he dispatched them to his closest Cheshire manor before heading west into Wales.
A state of war still existed and so he thought it prudent to avoid the main roads, where he’d be most likely to encounter Owain Gwynedd’s scouts and patrols. After fifteen years in Wales, he knew of the alternate routes, the deer tracks and woodland trails and local byways. His roundabout, circuitous journey was prolonged by the continuing wet weather. While the rains were nothing like the torrential deluge that had assailed the English in the Berwyns, they were still substantial enough to make travel both arduous and unpleasant. By the third day in the saddle, Ranulf had developed a low fever and a troublesome cough.
His physical discomfort on the road was a minor matter, though, when compared to the emotional abyss awaiting him at journey’s end. How could he tell Rhiannon that they must leave the only home she’d ever known, start life anew in an alien land? What of Gilbert? He was nigh on fourteen, the age of majority in Wales. Would he agree to come with them? Their entire family would be torn asunder and it was his doing. His uncle would face the eventual loss of his lands. Rhodri’s sons were dead and without near male kin to inherit, his manor would go upon his death by default to his Welsh king. Eleri and Rhiannon would be separated by distance and ill will, as would their children. Mallt and Morgan would grow up never knowing their own kin, their own customs, in time even their own tongue. Hiraeth-the Welsh longing for one’s homeland-would shadow their days in English exile.
He could not even be sure that English exile would be open to him. What if his nephew chose to declare his English manors forfeit? It was difficult for him to imagine Harry being that vindictive, that petty. But then it would have been difficult a fortnight ago to imagine that Harry would ever have given the order to maim the Welsh hostages.
When he at last reached the Conwy valley, the rain had dwindled to a light mist, its cooling touch welcome on his hot skin. He halted by the river so his stallion could drink, but he was putting off the inevitable and he knew it. Tugging on the reins, he headed for Trefriw.
His arrival was heralded by barking and, as soon as he dismounted, he was surrounded by dogs, their tails whipping about like waterwheel paddles as they welcomed him home. He was fending off his ecstatic dyrehund when his daughter came flying from the hall. With a joyful squeal, she flung herself upon him, telling him how happy she was that he had not been killed by the English.
Ranulf supposed that was something to be thankful for, and decided it definitely was a few moments later when Rhiannon appeared in the doorway of the hall. He reached her in several quick strides and found fleeting comfort in her arms. She clung so tightly that he knew she, too, dreaded what was to come.
When his uncle came limping out into the bailey, Ranulf reluctantly ended the embrace and turned to face Rhodri. His leave-taking had been angry, with Rhodri crying after him in frustrated fury that he was one of God’s greatest fools. He was expecting his return to be no less resentful. But his uncle was beaming, and a bewildered Ranulf was soon enveloped in a hearty, welcoming hug.
“I knew you’d come back safe,” Rhodri enthused, “I knew it.”
“I wish you’d shared that certainty with me,” Rhiannon murmured. “Ranulf, you feel feverish. Are you ailing?”
“I’ll live,” he said and slipped his arm through hers. “Let’s go into the hall. There is something I must tell you all.”
Ranulf’s account of the maiming of the Welsh hostages seemed to echo in the stillness that had engulfed the hall. Rhodri’s outraged oaths had soon spluttered out. Mumbling that he felt greensick of a sudden, he stumbled toward the door and Enid hurried after him. Rhiannon had listened in silence, one hand softly stroking Mallt’s brown braids. Her face was shuttered and drawn; Ranulf found it difficult to guess her thoughts. When it seemed clear that he had nothing more to say, she started to rise. “You must be hungry.”
“No,” he said, “I could not choke down a morsel to save my soul. Rhiannon, wait. There is more. On the morrow I must ride to find Owain Gwynedd, tell him what has befallen his sons and the other hostages-”
“No! Let someone else be the bearer of that news. Not you, Ranulf, not you!”
“I must,” he said, and although he spoke softly, that tone was all too familiar to her. Once he made up his mind, it was almost impossible to turn him in another direction. She did not even have a chance to try, though, for at that moment the door to the hall banged open and their son lurched across the threshold.
As clumsy in his growth spurt as a long-legged colt, Gilbert was usually self-conscious about his ungainliness, for he had always been easily embarrassed. But now he didn’t even seem to notice his stumble. His face lit up, dark eyes shining. “I just heard that you’d come home!”
It had been a long time since Ranulf had heard such unguarded pleasure in his son’s voice. “Yes,” he said, “I am home.” His last encounter with Gilbert had been even more turbulent than the one with Rhodri, and he had been braced for hostility, accusations, anything but this awkward offer of an olive branch. Getting to his feet, he started toward his son, expecting at any moment that Gilbert would back away. But the boy stood his ground, ducking his head with a shy smile as his father put an arm around his shoulders. To Ranulf, his son’s sudden thawing was more than he could have hoped for, and he accepted the transformation for what it seemed to be-as close as he would ever come to a miracle in this life.
In the course of the evening, Ranulf’s cough worsened and the next morning, Rhiannon insisted that he remain in bed. When he agreed, her anxiety flared anew, for she needed no greater proof that he was indeed ailing, and she hovered by his bedside for most of the day, bringing him honey for his cough, freshly baked bread and venison soup to tempt his indifferent appetite, and the rambunctious eighteen-month-old Morgan to raise his spirits. Ranulf ate what she brought him, played games in bed with his youngest son, and took a doomed man’s pleasure in the respite, knowing that his time in Wales was running out.
Just before dusk, Eleri and her children arrived in response to Rhodri’s summons. When they were ushered into Ranulf’s bedchamber, his sister-in-law greeted him with an elated smile and fond kisses so poorly aimed that his face was soon smeared with her lip rouge. Ranulf began to feel as if he were at a celebration where he was the only sober guest. What was going on?