Sharon Penman: Devil's brood

Eleanor assured him that she would do whatever he asked of her, and he smiled, but then startled her by saying, “You know, Maman, you’ll have to see Johnny sooner or later. He’s as nervous as a treed cat, so why not put him out of his misery and let me get him?”

She hadn’t realized that he’d sensed her ambivalence about John. “You are too sharp-eyed for my own good. Very well, go and fetch him.”

“If you do not mind, I’ll send someone for him. I am a king now,” he joked, “and it is not seemly to be running my own errands.” He got to his feet, but took only a few steps toward the door before he halted. “Do you blame me for my father’s death?”

Eleanor was taken aback. “No, Richard, I do not.” She studied his face intently, and then said quietly, “Do you?”

“No! No, I do not.” But despite the vehemence of his denial, she was not convinced and waited for him to reveal more. “Others do, though,” he said, with enough heat to tell her that this had been preying on his mind. “No one dares say it to my face, of course, but I know what is being whispered behind my back. There is even talk that when I stood beside Papa’s body, he began to bleed from the nose and mouth. That is not so!”

Eleanor was not surprised by the story, for it was a widely accepted belief that a murder victim would often bleed in the presence of his killer. “That is foolish folklore, Richard. No one of any sense would believe it.”

“I would hope not,” he said brusquely, obviously vexed with himself for paying any heed to superstition. He was not yet ready to let it go, though, shooting her a searching glance. “I did not believe Papa was ill,” he said abruptly. “I was positive he was feigning, that this was yet another of his cunning tricks, and I assured Philippe of that. It was only when he dragged himself from his bed to ride to Colombieres that we saw he’d not been lying.”

“Well, your father gave you reason to suspect his good faith. He was always too clever by half, and it was inevitable that it would eventually catch up with him.”

Richard nodded as if agreeing, but he was gnawing his lower lip. “But I still did not believe he was dying, Maman. It was obvious at Colombieres that he was ailing. I still expected him to recover, though. How did I not see what everyone else did?”

Eleanor smiled sadly. “Sons always find it difficult to see their fathers as they truly are, and how much more true that would be for a living legend like Harry. Now wives rarely have that defect of vision, but I suspect most sons are like you, finding it hard to realize their fathers are mere mortal beings, no longer the all-powerful patriarchs they remember from childhood.”

“So you are saying I was not willfully blind, merely immature,” he said wryly. “Philippe insisted that he give me the kiss of peace. For the first time, I saw how frail he’d become, almost feeble. But then he growled that he asked only to live long enough to revenge himself upon me, and I found myself looking into a hawk’s eyes, fierce and proud and still defiant.”

“Yes,” she said, “according to Will, his spirit burned brightly to the end. It was his body that failed him.”

Richard was silent for a moment. “I truly did not think I had a choice but to do what I did.”

“I know.”

He tossed his head then, as if shaking off the past. “Well, let me get Johnny for you.” He stepped forward, gave her a brief hug, and then strode from the chamber. Eleanor paced as she waited, still not sure what she would say to John. With her other sons, she could argue convincingly that they’d had legitimate grievances, especially in Richard’s case. It was not that easy to absolve her lastborn, for he’d been the best-loved by Henry and his betrayal seemed the cruelest of all.

When John entered the chamber, she saw what Richard meant. His unease was evident. What struck her most forcefully, though, was how young he seemed. At his age, Henry had already made himself England’s king, and Geoffrey and Richard were putting down rebellions in Brittany and Poitou; even Hal had carved out a niche for himself upon the tournament circuit. Why had John not crossed the border from boyhood to manhood by now? She reminded herself this was Harry’s doing, not hers. But she had her own sins to answer for, and she owed a debt, if not to this faithless young prince, to the wounded child he’d once been.

When he greeted her formally and warily, she smiled and held out her hand to him. “We are alone,” she said. “Greet me as your mother, not the queen.” John’s relief was as obvious as his discomfort had been. He came quickly toward her, took her hand in his.

“Mother…I want to explain, to make you understand why-”

“Hush, John,” she said, stopping his words by putting her fingers to his lips. “We need not talk of it.”

The summer heat that had seared France and England did not reach North Wales. August was cool and rainy, but on the day the message arrived from Morgan, the sky was clear of clouds and the manor at Trefriw was dappled with mellow sun. Ranulf regarded his son’s missive with some trepidation. He knew of Henry’s dismal death at Chinon, thanks to his niece Emma. He sensed, though, that this news was not likely to be good. Escorting his wife out into their hillside garden, he seated her on a wooden bench and only then did he break the seal, scan the contents.

Rhiannon waited patiently until he was ready to read it to her. “Morgan is not coming home, is he?” she said at last, and Ranulf nodded before remembering that his wife needed verbal, not visual cues. Passing strange that after so many years of marriage, he occasionally forgot that.

“No, love, I think not. He does not say so, but I expect he will take the cross and accompany Richard to the Holy Land.”

Sitting beside her on the bench, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and read her their son’s letter. They were regretful, but resigned, for they’d realized long ago that Wales was too small to hold their youngest. Rhiannon’s fears were more immediate, her concern for her aging husband, not her adventuresome son. “I suppose…” she began, trying to sound matter-of-fact, not wanting him to hear any echoes of reproach in her voice. “I suppose you will want to go back to England, to attend Richard’s coronation.”

Ranulf did not answer at once, regarding her fondly, this brave woman who’d done so much to heal his wounds, who’d assured him on their wedding night that she understood his loyalties would always be divided, understood that England would always exert a powerful pull upon his soul.

“No, Rhiannon,” he said, “I will not be going back to England. I can grieve for Harry here in Gwynedd. I wish Richard well, but that is Morgan’s world now, not mine. I am home.”

Her smile was luminous. He read Morgan’s letter again for her, and they lingered in the garden afterward, sharing the quiet contentment that had no need of words.

As she rode along Winchester’s High street, Eleanor soon drew a cheering crowd. She smiled and waved before turning into the narrow street that led into the cathedral close. Later that day, she and her sons would be departing the city for Sarum and then Marlborough. This visit to the cathedral of St Swithun’s had been an impulsive one; she was still enjoying being able to indulge her whims as she chose. It amused her that she was being escorted by her erstwhile gaolers, Ralf de Glanville and Sir Ralph Fitz Stephen. Richard had given her the right to punish them if she wished, but she could not blame them for merely obeying Henry’s orders, and in his unobtrusive way, Sir Ralph had done what he could to mitigate the severity of those early years of confinement.