Sharon Penman: Time and Chance

“Who else is here besides the Marcher lords?”

Rainald cursed good-naturedly when a soldier lurched clumsily into their path. “Who else? Becket, of course, for wherever you find Harry these days, you’ll find our chancellor; a dog should be so faithful. Harry’s brother, the likable one, not Geoff. A few earls: Leicester and Salisbury and Hertford.” As an afterthought, he added, “And our nephew Will.

“The Welsh are here, too,” Rainald continued, “so that ought to ease your conscience somewhat. Owain Gwynedd’s own brother will be fighting against him.”

“It is hardly surprising to find Cadwaladr in the English ranks. In the five years since Owain chased him out of Gwynedd, he has done whatever he could to kindle a border war. For the chance to avenge himself upon Owain, he’d have made a pact with the Devil himself, or in this case, the King of England.”

Hearing his own words then, Ranulf smiled bleakly, knowing full well that his Welsh kin would say he, too, was making a Devil’s deal with the English king.

The English King was not in his encampment at Saltney, having ridden over to inspect the defenses of Shotwick Castle. As it was only six miles away, it was not long before Ranulf saw in the distance the sun-glazed sheen of the Dee estuary. He found the young king on the castle battlements. Shouting down a cheerful greeting, Henry beckoned him up, and they were soon standing side by side, elbows resting upon the embrasure, looking out across the estuary.

They’d not seen each other since Henry’s coronation more than two years ago. They had much to share in consequence, and for a while, they were able to ignore the awkward fact that an English army was encamped just six miles to the south.

Henry had surprising news about his black sheep brother. He’d contrived to have the citizens of Nantes accept Geoffrey as their count. Buying Geoff’s cooperation was a gamble, he acknowledged wryly. “But Geoff is too boneheaded to scare and too highborn to hang. If I were Almighty God, I’d have decreed that all kings be only children.”

“If I were Almighty God,” Ranulf countered, “I’d have adopted the Welsh law code and allowed bastards to inherit.” He hesitated, then, not wanting to open an old wound. But would the wound left by a child’s death ever truly heal? “I was very sorry about your son,” he said, sounding as awkward as he felt.

“I know.” Henry’s tone was terse, almost curt, but Ranulf understood. They were silent for several moments, listening to the waves surging against the rocks below them. Down on the beach, gulls were shrieking, squabbling over a stolen fish. The sun was warm on their faces and Ranulf lamented that cloudless, summer sky. Welsh weather was usually as wet as it was unpredictable; more than one English army had been defeated by those relentless rains and gusting mountain winds. It was just Harry’s luck, he thought, to pick the driest, warmest August within memory for his invasion. Did even the weather do his bidding?

“I suppose you have not heard, then,” Henry said at last. “Eleanor is with child, the babe due in September.”

“Again?” Ranulf marveled. Four children in five years. Not bad for a “barren” queen. “Congratulations, although you truly are pouring salt into poor Louis’s wounds!”

Henry swung away from the battlements with a grin. “As hard as it may be for you to believe, Uncle, when I’m in bed with my wife, I have nary a thought to spare for the French king.”

Henry waited until echoes of their laughter had floated away on the wind. “I think it is time,” he said, “to talk of less pleasant matters. I know you do not want to be here, Uncle. I knew you would come, though, and it gladdens me greatly.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“It is not as bad as you think, Ranulf. I want your counsel, not your sword. What I have in mind is not conquest. I know full well what it would take to subdue the Welsh: more than I’m willing to spend, in lives or money. I mean to remind Owain of the respective realities of our positions, preferably with as little bloodshed as possible. No more than that.”

“You truly do not intend to claim Gwynedd for the English Crown?”

Ranulf sounded so dubious that Henry laughed. “You doubt me? You ought to know by now that I do my lusting in the bedchamber, not on the battlefield.”

Ranulf did know that. His nephew had never lacked for courage, but his early introduction to war had left him with a jaundiced view of combat. He fought when he had to, and fought well, yet took no pleasure in it. Unlike most men of youth and high birth, Henry saw no glory in war and drank sober from the cup that sent so many into battle drunk on illusions. Remembering that now, Ranulf felt a flicker of hope.

“So why, then, are you leading an army into Gwynedd?”

Henry raised a mocking brow. “Since when are you so disingenuous? You may not want me here, but you know why I am here. Owain Gwynedd poses a serious threat to the English Crown. He is an able, ambitious man and if I turned a blind eye to his scheming for long, Cheshire and Shropshire would soon be speaking Welsh.”

“You exaggerate, Harry.”

“A king’s prerogative, Uncle. But I do not exaggerate by much.

Owain has proved himself to be much too adroit at exploiting English weaknesses. Look what happened during the chaos of Stephen’s reign. He seized control of the entire cantref of Tegeingl. Need I remind you how close that is to Chester? Or that the present Earl of Chester is a ten-year-old boy? Moreover, Owain has been casting out bait toward the Marcher lords, and some of them are greedy enough to snap it up, hook and all. After all, loyalty has never been a conspicuous Marcher virtue.”

When Ranulf did not respond, Henry correctly interpreted his silence as reluctant assent. “You know I speak true, Uncle, however little you want to admit it. But I do not begrudge your affection for the Welsh.” He glanced sideways at the older man, grey eyes glinting in the sun. “I never said, ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me,’ now did I?”

Ranulf smiled. “You’re your father’s son, for certes, lad. That perverse humor of yours most surely does not come from my sister, God love her! So… why am I here, then? What do you want from me?”

“I am hoping that a show of force will be enough to tame Owain’s rebellious urges. If so, I’ll need you to negotiate peace terms. Right now I want the benefit of your seven years in Wales. You know the man, Ranulf. Tell me about him. What sort of foe-or friend-is he?”

Ranulf leaned back against the wall, shading his eyes from the glare of sun on water. “I respect him,” he said, doling out the words with miserly precision. “And there are few men I’d say that about.”

“Dare I ask if you include me in that small, select group? No.. better you do not answer,” Henry joked. “So you respect him. Why?”

“On your side of the border, the Welsh are viewed as a rash, passionate people. Whether that be true or not, Owain is neither. He is as shrewd as any fox, farsighted and pragmatic, deliberate in all that he does. He keeps his temper in check, his enemies close, and his thoughts to himself. He forgives, but I doubt that he forgets. Above all, he understands what Stephen never did-that he must put the king’s needs above the man’s.”

“He sounds like a man worthy of your respect,” Henry conceded. “A pity he is not more like his brother. Cadwaladr is a ship without a rudder; no one ever knows where the winds or his whims will take him. Owain is much the older of the two, is he not?”

“I think there are about ten years between them, mayhap a few years less. I know Owain’s next birthday is his fifty-seventh, for he was born in God’s Year 1100. But he is aging like an oak, stunting the sons growing in that vast shadow. He has nigh on a dozen, some by his wife, several by his current concubine, the rest by other bedmates, including the best of the lot, Hywel, whom I count as a friend. I would not want to encounter Hywel on a battlefield, Harry.”