Sharon Penman - Time and Chance

Across the great hall, Ranulf watched as Henry and Owain talked together, their voices low, their faces unrevealing. Occasionally, they smiled, seemingly oblivious of all the eyes upon them. The ceremony was over. Owain had done homage to Henry, yielded hostages and the cantref of Tegeingl and accepted the submission of his brother, Cadwaladr. Ranulf doubted if that particular peace would last long. Cadwaladr’s smirk did not bode well for future harmony. But Cadwaladr’s prospects held no interest for Ranulf. If he was foolish enough to provoke Owain again, he deserved whatever he got. The only peace that mattered to Ranulf was the one that now existed between Owain Gwynedd and Henry Fitz Empress.

“Intriguing, is it not?” Hywel materialized without warning at Ranulf’s side; for a big man, he could move as quietly as any cat when he chose. “Watching them take each other’s measure, like two stallions vying for the same mares. The young challenger versus the seasoned sire. Which would you wager upon, Ranulf? Youth or experience?”

“Does it matter? They’ve agreed, after all, to share the herd.”

Hywel smiled skeptically, for he thought that neither stallions nor kings were ones for sharing. But he refrained from saying so. It was hardly sporting, after all, to kick a man’s crutch out from under him. “So what happens next? I trust we get fed now that we’ve surrendered? Even the doomed Christians got a last meal ere being thrown to the lions.”

“Actually, they were the meal and the lions were the ones who got fed. But we’ll have a better supper than you’ll usually see on the royal table, for Thomas Becket brought his cooks along. Tonight we’ll dine on venison stew and stuffed goose and the lord chancellor’s finest Gascon wines, and on the morrow, Harry will return to England, Owain to Aber, and you, I expect, will find some absent husband’s wife to help you celebrate the Peace of Rhuddlan.”

Hywel grinned into his wine cup, not bothering to deny it; he loved to hunt and he loved women, and in pursuit of those twin passions, he felt no conscience pangs about trespassing. “What of you, Ranulf? When you return to Trefriw, will you be welcome?”

“I do not know, Hywel,” Ranulf admitted reluctantly. “My uncle and sister-in-law were wroth with me for answering Harry’s summons. They may not want me back.”

“But you did avert further bloodshed, convincing my lord father to accept the English terms. Surely that must count in your favor?”

Ranulf shrugged. “It is not a popular peace, though. I’ve heard the talk. Many Welshmen feel that they were winning and do not understand why Owain yielded. My uncle and Eleri may well be amongst them.”

“True enough,” Hywel conceded, but then he smiled. “Suppose I accompany you? After they hear me laud you as a blessed peacemaker, how can they not forgive you?”

“Just be sure,” Ranulf warned, “that you do not lure Eleri off for some private persuasion. Her husband may be a man of few words, but you make a cuckold of him at your peril.”

“Of course I will not try to seduce Eleri.” Hywel managed to look both innocent and offended, yet his dark eyes were gleaming. “I promise,” he said, “to confine my attentions to your wife,” and sauntered away with Ranulf’s laughing curse ringing in his ears.

“That is Owain’s firstborn?” Henry arrived just as Hywel was departing. “The poet?”

Poets were greatly esteemed in Wales, not so revered across the border. Henry had a higher regard for learning, though, than many of his countrymen; both his parents had valued education and had seen to it that he’d received an excellent one. Many lords scorned writing as a lowly clerk’s skill, but Henry never traveled without a book in his saddlebags. Knowing that, Ranulf had no qualms about confirmation and he nodded. “Yes, the poet.”

Henry looked after Hywel with kindled interest. “Is he any good?”

“Actually, he is. And he wields a sword as deftly as he does a pen. It was Hywel who rallied the citizens of Mon to repel your invasion.”

“Can you not even pretend to regret our rout from Mon?” The reproach was playful, Henry’s smile sympathetic. “You deserve credit for this peace, Uncle. I’ll not be forgetting what you did.”

“I hope the Welsh forget,” Ranulf said wryly, knowing they would not. Too many of his Welsh brethren would see his actions as proof that he was-and would always be-an alltud, a foreigner.

“Let them grumble in the alehouses and taverns; you do have alehouses in Wales? When courting popularity, Ranulf, aim high. You’ve gained a king’s favor by this campaign. No, not mine; you’ve always had that. I meant Owain. You proved yourself to be honorable and, even better, useful.”

Ranulf smiled in spite of himself. “I can see that you and Owain speak the same tongue, one common to kings. A pity poor Stephen never learned it.”

“I’m glad he did not,” Henry said forthrightly, “for if he had, he might have held on to his stolen crown. You are right, though. I think Owain and I do understand each other.” For a moment, his gaze shifted, his eyes resting thoughtfully upon the Welsh king. All in all, Henry was pleased with the results of his campaign. He’d gotten what he wanted, and without paying too high a price for it. He knew, of course, that he had not bought peace with the Welsh, merely rented it for a time. He knew, too, that his uncle believed otherwise, and that would be the one regret he’d take back to England. But he said nothing, for in this, he and Hywel ab Owain were of one mind. Llawer gwir, gorau ei gelu. All truths are not for telling.

Dinner was served in England between eleven and twelve in the forenoon, in Wales at day’s end. Because Eleri had visited Trefriw rarely in the weeks since war began, her stepmother, Enid, had instructed their cook to prepare a more elaborate meal than usual: roast capon, cabbage and almond soup, gingered carp, and apple fritters. But the dinner was not a success. To Enid’s annoyance, Eleri and Rhiannon and Rhodri seemed indifferent to the fine fare set before them. Only the children ate with gusto. The adults pushed the food about on their trenchers, taking an occasional absentminded bite, and Enid realized she could have served them straw for all the notice they’d taken. Conversation was equally listless, desultory, and labored. Enid was soon wishing that her stepdaughter had stayed away.

Rhiannon was wishing the same. It was unbearably painful, this estrangement with her sister. She could feel Eleri’s eyes upon her. When she misjudged her reach and almost tipped over her cider cup, Eleri had instinctively leaned over to help. As Rhiannon steadied the cup, their fingers touched, briefly, before Eleri pulled back. Rhiannon knew Eleri was hurting, too. But neither one knew how to mend this rift. Whenever they’d tried to talk about it, they ended up arguing again. Even the news of the Rhuddlan pact had not restored peace to their household.

Picking up her spoon, Rhiannon dipped it into her soup. The silence was as oppressive as the heat; this was the hottest, driest summer she could remember. Rhodri was too disheartened by the family discord to keep the conversation afloat, Enid seemed to be sulking, and when shouts echoed across the bailey, Eleri grasped gratefully at an excuse to flee the table.

“Someone is coming,” she announced, flinging her napkin aside; she was halfway across the hall before it landed. Swinging the door back, she gave a joyful cry, as sweet and clear as birdsong. “It is Celyn!” Her voice changing, she added flatly, “And Ranulf.” But then she gasped. “Jesu, Prince Hywel is with them, too!”

As the men dismounted, Eleri came flying through the doorway and threw herself into Celyn’s arms. Rhiannon wisely elected to let Ranulf come to her, and they were soon enveloped in a close embrace. It was left to Hywel to accept Rhodri’s flustered greetings. Stammering a bit, for he was not accustomed to entertaining royalty, Rhodri bade the prince welcome, while Enid blessed her luck for having served a dinner fit for a king’s son.