What happened next was even more baffling. Their nearest neighbors, Sulien and his wife, Marared, arrived soon after Eleri, for in Wales news spread faster than summer wildfire. The last time Ranulf had run into Sulien, the older man had called him a misbegotten English Judas and spat onto the ground at his feet. Yet now that same man was approaching the bed with a jovial smile, so apparently pleased to see the Judas again that Ranulf half-expected him to announce that a fatted calf had been killed in his honor. But when he made mention of their altercation, Sulien dismissed it as a “lamentable misunderstanding,” adding a wink and a nudge as if they were allies in the same conspiracy.
That night Ranulf waited until his wife joined him in bed. “Rhiannon, when I rode off to fight with the English, I was reviled and denounced by all but you. Why has that changed? Why are Eleri and Rhodri and Gilbert suddenly so forgiving? Jesu, even Sulien and Marared! This makes no sense to me.”
He was not reassured by her reply. Rhiannon, usually so forthright, gave him an answer that was as evasive as it was uncomfortable. She knew more than she was telling. He did not press further, though, not yet, for there was another confession to be made. She had to be prepared for the worst. And so he told her, as gently as he could, that the least he could expect from Owain Gwynedd was banishment.
She was silent for a time. “Do you know my favorite verse of Scriptures? I learned it by heart as a girl and remember it well, even now. ‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’ ”
There was only one possible response to that. Ranulf drew her close, holding her in his arms until they both slept.
To Rhiannon’s dismay, Ranulf arose the next morning determined to ride out to find Owain Gwynedd. They argued as he dressed, during breakfast in the hall, and in the stables as he began to saddle his stallion. Having failed with logic and anger, Rhiannon was not too proud to resort to entreaty, not if it would keep Ranulf at Trefriw. “At least wait until you are stronger,” she implored, entwining slim, stubborn fingers in the sleeve of his tunic. “What harm can a few more days do?”
“I am already on the mend,” Ranulf insisted. But he undercut his own argument when he could not suppress a coughing fit, so prolonged that he sank down upon a wooden bench as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Compared to what-a man newly lain in his grave?” This sardonic query startled them both. Rhiannon swung toward the sound of that familiar voice and Ranulf’s head came up sharply, his eyes blinking as he sought to focus upon the man standing in the open doorway, haloed in sunlight.
“Hywel?” Incredulously. “What are you doing here?”
Hywel stepped from the light into the shadowed gloom of the stable. “What I do best,” he said, “which is saving you from yourself. What is this nonsense about riding off when you’re as weak as a mewling kitten?”
“I have to find your father…” Ranulf was on his feet now, trying to disguise the effort it had cost.
Hywel shrugged. “Do what you must, then. But it is only fair to warn you that I’ll be amongst the first to be courting your lovely widow.”
Ranulf started to speak, began to cough instead. When the spasm passed, he conceded defeat. “Hywel… we need to talk.”
“Yes, we do,” Hywel agreed. “But not here.”
As they headed for the door, Rhiannon stood without moving, listening to their muffled footsteps in the straw. Hywel’s coming was a blessing, putting off Ranulf’s reckoning with Owain Gwynedd, at least for a while longer. But his arrival also brought risk, for he was the source of the secret she’d been keeping from her husband. She waited a moment longer, drawing several deep bracing breaths, and then followed the men from the stable.
Rhiannon stirred honey and wine in a cup, then handed it to Ranulf. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let some of the syrupy liquid trickle down his throat, but he had yet to take his eyes from Hywel. “How is it that you’re here? Why are you not still with Lord Owain at Corwen?”
“My father has returned to Aber, waiting to see what the English king does next. I am here because I know you, Ranulf, down to your very bones. Sure as hellfire and brimstone, you’d be on the road to Aber within a day of your homecoming. I thought it best to head you off.”
Ranulf considered that response, which was uncommonly straightforward for Hywel, who was a master of misdirection and equivocation. “How did you know I’d returned to Trefriw? Did you have it under watch?”
“I did.”
“You are a good friend, better than I deserve. Hywel… I have something to tell you. There is no easy way to say it. A great evil has befallen your brothers Cadwallon and Cynwrig. They and the other Welsh hostages-I do not know how many-were blinded and unmanned at Chester, upon the orders of my nephew.”
Hywel thought it was very like Ranulf to stress his blood bond to Henry, assuming his share of the blame. “Twenty-two,” he said softly, and repeated it when he saw that Ranulf did not understand. “Twenty-two hostages were maimed at the English king’s pleasure.”
“You… you already know?”
“My father has eyes and ears wherever there is a need for them, and that includes Chester.”
“Christ, Hywel, I am sorry,” Ranulf said hoarsely and Hywel twitched a shoulder.
“My father has sired so many sons that some of them are almost strangers to me. Cadwallon and Cynwrig were too young to be boon companions as I came to manhood, so I never knew them all that well. But I’d not wish such a fate upon a convicted felon, much less blood kin.”
“Your father…” Ranulf could not find the words to ask how a man coped with the mutilation of his sons, and his voice died away.
“About as you’d expect. My father never lets anyone see him bleed, even me.”
“One of Rhys ap Gruffydd’s sons was amongst the twenty-two. Does he know that?”
Hywel’s mouth turned down. “He knows.”
Ranulf forced himself to drink more of Rhiannon’s honeyed concoction; his throat was so raw that it was like swallowing sawdust and ashes. “Your father tried to warn me that a man could not ride two horses at once. Fool that I was, I would not listen.”
“Well, you gave it as good a ride as you could,” Hywel said, with a faint smile. “Nigh on eight years ere you finally lost your balance. I doubt if there is another horseman in Christendom who could have done as well.”
“Oh, I did right well,” Ranulf said, with a bitter edge that was aimed not at Hywel but at himself. “I alienated my family, friends, neighbors, broke faith with Lord Owain, and made it impossible for my wife and children to live in their own land.”
“And on the seventh day, you rested.”
Ranulf was taken aback. “You mock me, Hywel? I can find no humor in the wreckage I have made of our lives!”
“What wreckage? As usual, you see only the brightest white, the darkest black, and none of the colors in-between. I am simply saying you ought not to be overhasty in packing up and racing for the border. It is not as if you have a band of angry neighbors baying at your heels, now is it?”
“No,” Ranulf said slowly, “it is not. And that is passing strange, for the Welsh have many virtues, but they are not a forgiving people. I would not have blamed my uncle if he’d turned me away from his door. Instead, he welcomed me back with open arms. So did my son and my sister-by-marriage and even our neighbors. It occurs to me, Hywel, that you might know why.”
Hywel feigned innocence and, as always, did it quite well. But Ranulf had caught a telltale flicker, enough to confirm his suspicions. “Hywel, what have you done? I have a right to know.”
Hywel regarded him pensively. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said, “but you’ll not like it much. I put the word out that you’ve been our man at the English court, spying all along on my father’s behalf.”