Sharon Penman - Time and Chance

A scout on a lathered horse reached them first, explaining that a few of the English fugitives from the battle had overtaken the rearguard, claiming that the king had been slain, the rest lost. “But your uncle the earl would not believe it, my liege,” the scout told Henry. “Nor would the chancellor.” His begrimed, sweat-streaked face lit up in a wide grin. “The sight of you is going to gladden their eyes, and that’s God’s Blessed Truth!”

Rainald began to whoop as soon as he was in recognition range. “I knew those fools were wrong, by God, I did!”

Thomas Becket was more restrained in his greeting, but his jubilation burned no less brightly than Rainald’s, just at a lower flame. “Do you realize what you almost put me through, Harry?” He shook his head in mock reproach. “I’d have had to be the one to tell your queen that you got yourself killed in some godforsaken corner of Wales!”

“That was foremost in my mind. Whilst I was fighting for my life, I kept thinking, ‘I cannot do this to Thomas!’ ”

“You think telling Eleanor would have been rough? God pity the man who’d have had to tell my sister Maude!” Rainald’s grimace was partly for effect, partly quite genuine. “So… tell us. How bad was it, truly?”

“Well, I’ve passed more pleasant afternoons,” Henry allowed, and they all grinned. But as his gaze met Ranulf’s, there was no levity, no laughter in either man’s eyes, only a haunted awareness of what might have been.

After Henry’s escape from the Welsh ambush, Owain withdrew his forces before the advance of the much larger English army, and Henry continued along the coast to Rhuddlan Castle, awaiting the arrival of his fleet. But when word came, it was not good. Acting against orders, the English ships had anchored at Tal Moelfre on the island of Mon and the sailors had gone ashore, plundering and looting and burning the churches of Llanbedr Goch and Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf. The island residents were so outraged that they staged a counterattack, led by Owain’s son Hywel. In the fighting that followed, the English took much the worst of it, suffering many casualties, including a half-brother to Ranulf and Rainald.

It was dusk when Ranulf and his men reached the encampment of the Welsh king at Bryn y pin. The day’s sweltering heat had yet to ebb and the English flag of truce drooped limply in the still, humid air. The Englishmen’s spirits were sagging, too, for they were convinced that Ranulf’s mission was doomed and they lacked his confidence in the worth of Owain’s word. They were greeted with predictable antagonism, subjected to jeers and catcalls as they were escorted through the camp. But no hands were raised against them, and the only weapons to threaten them were the fabled sharp edges of the Welsh tongue.

Ranulf dismounted from his stallion, then stiffened at the sight of the man striding toward him. Slowly unsheathing his sword, he offered it to Owain’s son. Hywel accepted it awkwardly and they walked together across the encampment. The Welshman was finding this meeting as uncomfortable as Ranulf, and after a few moments he said, “So… how has your summer been so far, Ranulf? You keeping busy?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. How about you?”

“You were there, were you not? With the English king in the Cennadlog Forest?”

Not for the first time, Ranulf found himself marveling at the efficiency of Owain Gwynedd’s espionage system. “Tell me, Hywel, does a leaf fall in the forest without your father’s learning of it within the hour?”

“A stray leaf or two may get past him. But we’ve tried to keep an eye on you-for your own good, of course.”

“Of course.” Ranulf decided not to ask why, not sure he wanted to know the answer. “That ambush almost worked. If only they’d waited until we’d gotten deeper into the woods, we’d never have been able to fight our way out. Lucky for us you Welsh are such an impatient, impulsive people.”

“Lucky for you I was not in command. That honor went to my brothers, Cynan and Davydd.” Hywel’s sly smile told Ranulf he was not entirely displeased that his brothers’ timing had been off. “I was occupied elsewhere, teaching greedy English sailors that plunder has its price.”

They’d reached Owain’s tent, but neither man was in a hurry to enter. Hywel’s eyes were solemn now, for once devoid of all amusement. “I’ve always had a way with words; with a Welsh father and an Irish mother, how could I not? But tonight I hope you’re the eloquent one. You’ll have to be more than persuasive, Ranulf, if you expect to convince my father to make peace. You’ll have to be downright spellbinding.”

Hywel didn’t wait for Ranulf’s response. Instead, he handed him back his sword. “It is never wise,” he said, “to go unarmed into the lion’s den.”

Ranulf was not as cynical as Hywel; his expectations were usually much more optimistic. Not this time, though. He agreed wholeheartedly with Hywel’s pessimistic assessment of his chances. The tent was poorly lit by a single torch and crowded with as hostile an audience as he’d ever faced. Owain’s seneschal was regarding him balefully. So were his lords and four of his sons: Cynan, Davydd, Iorwerth, and Maelgwn.

Owain was not as easy to read as the other men. He never was. They were seated on the ground, for the Welsh scorned the campaign comforts of their English enemies. Signaling for Ranulf to join them, Owain said, “Give the man some mead, Hywel.”

Davydd started to object, caught Owain’s eye, and reconsidered. Ranulf gratefully accepted a cup from Hywel and took a deep, bracing swallow. “I am here, my lord Owain, at the behest of King Henry. He does not want all-out war with the Welsh. It is his hope that you and he can come to terms.”

Owain drank from his cup, keeping his eyes on Ranulf all the while. “His terms, I’d wager.”

There was no way to temper the blow, and Ranulf was wise enough not even to try. “King Henry would expect you to do homage to him for your domains, to offer up hostages as a show of good faith, to restore your brother Cadwaladr to his lands in Meirionydd, and to renounce all claims to the cantref of Tegeingl.”

He knew what reaction he’d get, but it was even more heated than he’d expected. Owain’s sons were the most vocal in expressing their outrage. Cynan vowed passionately that he’d die ere he gave up his share of Meirionydd to Cadwaladr, Maelgwn and Iorwerth fumed at the insufferable arrogance of the English, while Davydd was reduced to sputtering incredulous oaths. Even Hywel dipped his oar in, pointing out acidly that the English fleet had been defeated at Tal Moelfre, just in case that had escaped King Henry’s notice.

Ranulf made no attempt to defend himself, letting their indignation run its course. Owain, too, waited for the tumult to subside. “Your king’s notion of peace is a curious one. It sounds suspiciously like Welsh surrender to these ears. Suppose you tell me, Lord Ranulf, why I should even consider such one-sided terms. What could I possibly get out of it?”

“You’d get the English army out of North Wales.”

Owain smiled skeptically. “For how long?”

Ranulf leaned forward tensely. “That would be up to you.”

Owain’s eyes narrowed, but his expression did not change as the others began to heap scorn on this “English peace,” and when Owain got to his feet, Ranulf reluctantly rose too, taking it as a dismissal. So did Owain’s sons, and they were all caught by surprise when the Welsh king beckoned to Ranulf, saying, “Come with me.”

Ranulf hastily followed Owain from the tent. Ignoring the stares and speculation of his soldiers, Owain began to walk, and Ranulf fell in step beside him. A turquoise twilight was spilling over the hills, and the few clouds overhead were darkening to a deep purple. Off to the south, Ranulf thought he glimpsed the fading gleam of the River Elwy. They were just a few miles from Rhuddlan and the English army. A few miles and a few days and then Armageddon. Unless he could convince Owain to accept the English terms. Unless the Almighty deigned to work a miracle solely on his behalf.