Sharon Penman - Time and Chance

As they drew nearer, the sails unfurled and took the wind, a sudden burst of brightness against the hazy sky, and then the ship was in flight, gracefully cresting the waves of the bay as it headed for open water. They began to yell, spurring their horses forward. But then they saw the men standing at the water’s edge, saw the one taller by a head than the others, hair the color of the sun, legacy of the silver fox, and their shouting changed timbre, soaring skyward with great relief and even greater joy.

The reunion was noisy, jubilant, and somewhat chaotic, for two of Peryf’s brothers had accompanied Hywel to Ireland and now had to be welcomed home, too, as did Hywel’s son Caswallon, and Ranulf’s son, the newly named Bleddyn. For a time, voices merged, laughter rang out, and they were able to forget that death had brought them together, the death of a well-loved father and a formidable prince.

Tathan was the man of the hour, lavishly praised for accomplishing his challenging mission with dispatch and aplomb. He had located Hywel within two days of his arrival in Dublin, bearing his heavyhearted message of Owain’s death. Hywel had at once made plans to return to Wales straightaway, but the Irish weather was even more erratic than in Wales and winter gales had stranded him for weeks, unable to find any ship’s master foolhardy enough to venture out into the cauldron of the Irish Sea.

“Is it true,” Hywel demanded, “that you were really going off in search of me?” When Ranulf nodded, he burst out laughing. “Once or twice in your cups, you pledged to go to Hell for me if need be, but nary a word was ever said about Ireland!”

“Rhiannon made me do it,” Ranulf said, and Hywel laughed all the harder. Caradog joined in with mock indignation, wanting to know why he was not being commended for his willingness to accompany Ranulf, and his brothers roared when Hywel pointed out that he was crazed enough to think a sea voyage to Ireland in the dead of winter was an opportunity for adventure.

Hywel wanted to know all that had happened during his absence, more amused than alarmed by Peryf’s dour suspicions about Davydd and Rhodri. “I know folklore holds that an apple never falls far from the tree, but Cristyn’s Dead Sea Fruit landed halfway between Limbo and Purgatory.”

That sally sparked much merriment among Hywel’s audience, and Ranulf thought, not for the first time, that Hywel could transform words into weapons with the ease of an alchemist. He shared what little he knew of happenings in England, then, that Thomas Becket had landed on English shores on the first of December, after excommunicating the bishops on the very eve of his departure. Hywel did not seem surprised by this, commenting dryly that Becket would do well to heed an ancient Welsh proverb; a wise man ought not to let his tongue cut his own throat.

Hywel also had news to impart, briefly relating the current turmoil in Ireland, where Dermot, the King of Leincester, had allied himself with one of the most powerful of Henry’s Marcher barons, Richard de Clare, Lord of Pembroke, in an attempt to stave off his Irish adversaries. “Dermot offered de Clare his daughter and the promise of his realm upon his death. I daresay the English king would like to see a Norman kingdom in Ireland about as much as he’d enjoy watching Becket consecrated as the next Pope. So I think it safe to say that the next time he gets to hungering for lands not his, he’ll be looking toward Ireland, not Wales.”

Among Hywel’s talents was one particularly valuable to a prince: the ability to inspire confidence and hope in his followers. Now that he was back on Welsh soil, safely back in their midst, the morrow was once more full of promise. They well knew that the loss of Owain could have dealt a death blow to Gwynedd if he’d not had a son worthy to succeed him, if he’d not had Hywel.

The day was done, which meant that the night must be passed on Mon, for no man in his senses would attempt an evening crossing of the Menai Straits. In his urgency to return to Wales, Hywel had taken the first ship from Ireland whose master was willing to make a January voyage, one that had been too small to transport horses. Now, after some discussion, it was decided to head for Llan-faes, where Owain had a manor and stables. Amid much good-natured bickering and jesting, some of Peryf’s men offered their mounts for the use of the new arrivals, and horses were found for Caswallon, Bleddyn, and Peryf’s brothers Iddon and Aerddur. The rest of Hywel’s men agreed to wait at the Pentraeth church until additional horses could be dispatched from Llan-faes, and by the time it was all sorted out, dusk had staked its claim to the island and sea fog was swirling in to hide the horizon.

Hywel had brought back an Irish keepsake, a young wolfhound as big as a pony, and it loped easily beside his stallion as they rode toward Llan-faes. He’d named it Cuchoigriche, he explained, which meant “hound of the border,” laughing at Ranulf’s futile attempts to get his tongue around the unfamiliar Irish. He’d said little of his father so far, asking only for assurances that Owain had been buried in consecrated ground despite dying excommunicate. Ranulf knew him well enough not to push, though. Hywel’s grieving had been done in private, for he did not find it easy to offer up glimpses of his inner soul, not even to so close a friend as Ranulf. Instead, he entertained Ranulf and Peryf and the others with a rollicking account of Bleddyn’s romantic conquests, claiming that the lad had broken numerous female hearts in Dublin during his short stay. Bleddyn flushed and denied all, but Ranulf could see that his son was secretly pleased by the attention and he made careful note of the names Hywel was bandying about-Aine and Mor and Sorcha-to tease him in the days to come.

Llan-faes was just five miles from Pentraeth, and Ranulf was thankful for it, as his back had begun to protest so many hours in the saddle. Slackening the reins, he let his stallion ease its pace, not wanting Hywel to notice his discomfort, knowing he’d be tormented mercilessly if he did. Dropping back inconspicuously, he was soon riding in the rear, where he occupied himself by trying to think of a suitable gift for his niece; Maud’s birthday was coming up after Candlemas. He had no warning, would never know what caused his stallion’s misstep, but he could tell at once that something was wrong. Dismounting by the side of the road, he examined the animal in the dimming light and quickly discovered the injury, a back tendon hot and tender to the touch.

Ranulf swore softly and with considerable feeling. Only his stallion’s obvious distress kept him from losing his temper entirely. After briefly contemplating his options, none of which appealed, he took the reins and started to lead the horse slowly back toward Pentraeth. It was not long before he heard hoofbeats behind him. Turning toward the sound, he let his hand drop to his sword hilt from force of habit, and then smiled at the sight of his son.

“Papa?” Reining in beside him, Bleddyn gazed over at the limping stallion. “Roland’s gone lame? What foul luck!”

Ranulf was inutterably touched that Bleddyn should have observed his disappearance and come back to check up on him. He said nothing, of course, not wanting to embarrass them both, and so they spent several moments discussing Roland’s injury. “He seems to have strained a sinew. It could be much worse, but he cannot be ridden like this. I’ll have to walk him back to Pentraeth, soak the leg in water, and make a bran poultice. Most likely I’ll have to leave him overnight with the priest, damn the luck.”

“I’ll keep you company,” Bleddyn said and would have dismounted if Ranulf had not shaken his head.

“No, Bleddyn, I’d rather you catch up with Hywel and tell him of my mishap. Tell him, too, that if he laughs, I might remember the time he was flirting with two sisters at Nefyn and Smoke shadow-jumped, tossing him head over heels into a briar patch.” Bleddyn said nothing, but there was such an odd look on his face that Ranulf added, “Is something amiss?”