Sharon Penman - Time and Chance

While we were seven men alive, not three sevens

Challenged or routed us;

Now, alas, dauntless in battle,

Of that seven, three are left.

Ranulf balled his fists at his sides, grateful that Peryf was not the one performing his lament. Four brothers he’d lost at Pentraeth, and Hywel, brother in all but blood. He was no longer listening to the bard’s words, his eyes misting with tears. But then the tone changed, from mournful to embittered.

Because of the treachery brewed, unchristian Briton,

By Cristyn and her sons,

Let there be left alive in Mon

Not one of her blotched kindred!

Despite what good comes from holding land,

World is a treacherous dwelling:

Woe, to you, cruel Davydd,

To stab tall Hywel, hawk of war!

Only Ranulf, Rhys, and his men understood the elegy, as it had been recited in Welsh. But the hall had fallen silent, for there were haunting echoes of heartbreak in the pulsing plaint of the harp. Henry moved toward Ranulf, his eyes marking the tear tracks upon his uncle’s face. “I thought it would please you to honor Hywel. Was I wrong?”

“No… I’m glad you did. It would have pleased Hywel, too.” Ranulf mustered up a shadowy smile. “He always did have a liking for center stage.”

As Henry turned away in response to a query from the Earl of Pembroke, Ranulf took the opportunity to withdraw. He’d lost enough loved ones to know that even the greatest pain would eventually dull its edges. His grieving for Hywel no longer pressed against his chest like the heaviest of stones, no longer tore at his lungs with each constricted breath. If not fully tamed yet, the hurt was becoming accustomed to being handled; almost broken to the saddle, he thought, with a flicker of black humor that Hywel would have approved. It was the regret that he found hardest to live with. He sometimes pictured a wheel in his brain, spinning over and over in remorseless rhythm to those most tragic and futile of words: if only, what if.

It was then that he overheard it, a casual comment made by Rhys to one of his retainers. Peryf’s lament drew its strength from his sorrow, not his style, Rhys observed, adding that his poetry could not hold a candle to Hywel’s.

Noticing for the first time that Ranulf was within hearing range, the Welsh lord gave a half-humorous, half-embarrassed grimace. “You caught me out,” he conceded. “I did not mean to slight Peryf’s talent. It is just that I think Hywel was a better poet, one who’ll be remembered far longer than Peryf.”

“No offense taken,” Ranulf said. “I doubt that even Peryf would argue with your assessment. Hywel’s poetry will live on even after his memory fades.” And when he realized how much truth there was in that prediction, he found it gave him considerable solace. Hywel had made words soar higher than hawks, his songs celebrating his love of life, women, and Wales. That might be a legacy more lasting than even a kingship.

Henry’s fleet had assembled at The Cross, just downstream of the castle at the mouth of the River Pembroke. It was an impressive sight, for he’d required four hundred ships to transport thirty-five hundred men, five hundred knights, horses, and provisions. On this Saturday in mid-October, the waiting was finally over. With favorable winds at last, anchors were raised, shrouds tightened, sails unfurled, and the fleet got underway.

Ranulf and Rainald had bade Henry farewell, then mounted their horses to ride along the north shore so they could watch the ships enter the estuary. The sun was sinking in the west and the sky was a dusky copper, obscuring the horizon in a golden haze. The first stars had not yet appeared, but the absence of clouds promised a clear, moonlit night. The tranquillity of the scene was illusory, though, for sixty miles of open sea had to be navigated before the ships saw land again.

Waving frantically at the fleet’s flagship, Rainald shouted, “Go with God, Harry!” Much to his delight, a man in the bow waved back. “You think that is him?” He squinted, uncertain but hopeful. “By the Rood, it is! He’s got the lass with him, Ranulf. See her blue mantle?”

Ranulf swung around in the saddle. “ ‘The lass,’ ” he echoed. “You mean… Rosamund Clifford?”

“Well, with all due respect to Eleanor, I’d hardly refer to her as a lass, now, would I? Yes, I mean the little Clifford. You did not know he was taking her along?” When Ranulf shook his head, Rainald grinned, pleased to be the bearer of scandalous tidings. “Mind you, he does try to be discreet. He did not even sail with her on the same ship for Portsmouth. And he kept her hidden away at Pembroke, too. But he told me that she has a fear of the sea-sensible lass-so I suppose he thought it would be easier for her if they traveled together to Ireland. That is a longer voyage than a Channel crossing, after all.”

Ranulf said nothing and they sat their horses in silence as the ships were piloted from the river mouth into the estuary. The sunset was flaming out and in that fleeting, ephemeral interval between day and night, it seemed as if the world was afire, as if time itself was suspended until the last dying rays were submerged in the crimsoning waters of the sea. And then the moment was over, the spectacle ended, and darkness began to descend. Ranulf continued to watch, though, as long as the sails were still in sight.