Sharon Penman - Time and Chance

“What did you mean,” Owain asked abruptly, “when you said it would be up to me?”

“King Henry’s terms are not easy to swallow. But if you can force them down this once, you’ll not have to drink from that cup again. If you keep faith with him, he’ll keep out of Wales.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because,” Ranulf said, “I know my nephew, about as well as any man can.”

Owain had led them into the shadowed circle cast by a sky-scraping oak. “I’ve spoken to your uncle about you,” he said unexpectedly. “Rhodri swears that your soul is Welsh. He says you are that rarity, a man as honorable as he is honest. But can you be loyal to Wales and Henry, too?”

Ranulf summoned up a grimacing smile. “God knows, I am trying.” “The English campaign has hardly been a rousing success so far. Your nephew’s attempt to outflank me almost cost him his life, and his fleet was badly mauled in that raid on Mon. Why should I make peace when I am winning?”

“Because we both know that you can win battles, but not the war,” Ranulf said bluntly. “Wales can match neither the resources nor the armies of the English Crown. For every Welsh child born, the Lord God has chosen to let twenty be begotten across the border. I am not saying it would be easy to conquer Wales. But I fear it could be done.”

“And you think this young lordling is the man to do it?”

“You mock him at your peril, my lord Owain. Yes, Harry is young.

He learns fast, though, rarely making the same mistake twice. And he gets what he wants. You need proof of that? Both his crown and his queen were once claimed by other men. But by the time he was one and twenty, he’d won the English throne and taken Eleanor of Aquitaine into his bed.”

Ranulf paused, taking a deep, deliberate breath before saying then, with all the conviction at his command, “Trust me in this if nothing else, my lord. Henry Fitz Empress is no ‘young lordling,’ but the most dangerous foe you’ve ever faced. His will was forged in the same fire that tempered the blade of his sword. If you provoke him into war to the uttermost, he’ll do whatever he must to win that war.”

“You say he gets what he wants. How do I know he does not want Wales?”

“Harry is ambitious, not rapacious. For all that gluttony is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, it is not amongst his. He does not bite off more than he can chew, and he well knows that Wales would be a tough mouthful. Moreover, he has shown himself to be a fair and just liege lord to the diverse lands within his domains. He rules Anjou, Normandy, Maine, Touraine, England, and his wife’s Aquitaine, without meddling in their customs, laws, or languages. He told me once that was his father’s deathbed advice: Always to ride with a light hand on the reins.”

“That may be so, but he is heavy-handed in his demands. He asks a lot for a man who has yet to gain a victory on Welsh soil.”

“And that is telling, too, my lord. Another man might have forced a battle, just to prove to you-and himself-that he could win. Another man might also have made the terms much harsher, punishing you for his mistakes. But Harry needs to prove his manhood to no one. Nor does he seek out scapegoats. He accepts rebellion, fairly fought. It is betrayal he cannot abide-or forgive.”

“I assume that is a warning,” Owain said dryly. “You put me in mind, Lord Ranulf, of a man trying to ride two horses at once. At the moment, you seem to have a foot planted firmly in each saddle. But I wonder how long you can keep such a precarious balance.”

“I wonder, too,” Ranulf said, with a rueful smile. “I’ve tried to be honest with you, my lord, more honest than men usually are with kings. If I may, I’d do a bit more plain speaking now. I know that Harry’s terms leave a sour taste in your mouth. But in truth, they are not that unreasonable or onerous. It would vex you, I daresay, to have Cadwaladr underfoot again. We both know, though, that you can keep him in check. It might even be better to have him back under your control, rather than conniving freely at the English court. As for Tegeingl, you cannot truly blame Harry for wanting you out of a cantref that borders on Chester. He told me recently that if he turned a blind eye to the border for long, the people of Cheshire and Shropshire would soon be speaking Welsh, and that, my lord Owain, is the highest compliment he could pay you.”

He’d taken a gamble with that last remark, saw that he’d won it when the corner of Owain’s mouth quirked, a smile almost too quick to catch. He did not dare to ask, though, if he’d been persuasive. There was too much at stake to risk hearing that he’d failed.

“Stay the night,” Owain said. “I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Ranulf watched as Owain strode off into the darkness. Suddenly he felt very tired, body and soul. A tree stump was off to his right, a primitive seat at best, but close at hand. He was still sitting there when Hywel strolled over.

“My father will say only that he has some thinking to do. Naturally, that has alarmed my brothers, few of whom do any thinking at all. They cannot understand why he does not just send you back to the English camp with a blistering refusal scorching your ears. Nor would they stop at that. If it were up to them, you’d be banished from ever setting foot on Welsh soil again, even in your dreams.”

That was Ranulf’s secret fear, that even if he managed to stave off a war, he could still be the loser. “Am I likely to end up in exile, Hywel? Would your father do that?”

Hywel looked surprised, then amused. “Do not be a dolt. Of course he will not.”

Ranulf was heartened by the other man’s certainty. “You must have more influence than I realized.”

“As much as I’d like to claim the credit, there is a simple reason why my father will let you remain in Wales. You’re the English king’s uncle. You might well become our window to the English court. Or,” Hywel added mischievously, “a useful pawn or hostage. No, rest assured that we’ll not be booting you out of Gwynedd, whatever my father decides on the morrow.”

“I’m gladdened to hear that,” Ranulf admitted, for with Hywel he could let down his guard. “It would break Rhiannon’s heart to go off into English exile. Nor would I fancy it much, either.”

Getting to his feet, he moved so stiffly that Hywel, who was a year younger, made a joke about aging English bones. By now the moon had risen above the surrounding hills, casting a soft, silvered light upon the Welsh encampment. Ranulf studied the face of his friend, familiar but not always expressive; Hywel could be as inscrutable as his father when he chose.

“It is going to be a long night, Hywel. You know your father’s thinking, better than most. Do you believe he will agree to the English terms?”

Hywel was quiet for a moment. “Well,” he said, “if I were a gambling man-and we both know I am-I’d put my money on peace. Or what passes for peace in Wales.”

August 1157

Rhuddlan Castle

Gwynedd, Wales

Henry’s charm was genuine, for it sprang from his love of life and his unquenchable curiosity. But it also contained an element of calculation. He’d learned at an early age the disarming power of a smile or jest. He’d learned, too, that not all men could be won over with charm, and he sensed at the outset that Owain Gwynedd was one of them. The Welsh king was courteous, dignified in his submission, and beyond reach. When Henry looked into his eyes, grey unto grey, he got only the most guarded glimpse into the older man’s soul. Gwynedd’s defenses might be vulnerable to English attack, but Owain’s defenses were intact, impressive even in defeat.