Sharon Penman: When Christ and his Saints Slept

Tossing and turning in the bed, she tried to imagine what her father and sister would be doing now. Sleeping, most likely. Eleri might still be awake, though, for she’d gotten pregnant within two months of her summer wedding. Where would she be when Eleri’s time was nigh? How could she not be there for her little sister in the birthing chamber?

Pummeling her pillow, she wondered if Ranulf understood about hiraeth. It translated as “longing,” but meant so much more, the love of the Welsh for their homeland, a sense of belonging, pride in their past, why they did not thrive when uprooted, like plants set down in foreign soil. If Ranulf wanted them to live in England, she would offer no protest, for she would have followed him to Hell if need be. But it would be a life in exile.

Rhiannon was sure she’d be awake till dawn, but sometime before midnight, she fell into an uneasy doze. Her dream was not a pleasant one, and she awoke with relief, to find her husband in bed beside her. As soon as she moved, he drew her into his arms. “Harry and Eleanor asked after you, Rhiannon. How is your headache?”

“Much better,” she lied. “How was your evening?”

“Interesting.” Ranulf tightened his arms around her, breathing in her fragrance, familiar and flower-sweet. “It’s begun to snow,” he murmured, “just in time for Christmas.”

“Gilbert will be right glad,” she said softly. Their first Christmas away from Wales. How much snow could make up for that?

“Harry is a whirlwind on two feet, lass. King only four days and already with plans enough to keep him busy for years. He means to name Thomas Becket as his chancellor and Robert Beaumont as a justiciar. To punish William Peverel for poisoning the Earl of Chester, to expel the last of the foreign mercenaries, and reclaim those crown castles which Stephen lost and appoint new sheriffs and make the King’s Peace more than just a hope and a prayer. And all that is just for a start!”

“I hope he plans to rest on the seventh day.”

Ranulf laughed. “That is what Eleanor said, too!” Leaning over, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “Harry offered me an earldom tonight,” he said, and Rhiannon went rigid in his arms, for a moment able to hear nothing but the beating of her own heart.

“I…I thought he would,” she managed to whisper at last.

“I knew he would, too. He takes pleasure in giving, and who can give more than a king? It was no easy task, convincing him that I did not want it-”

“You turned down an earldom?”

“You sound like Harry did, love-like you swallowed your tongue! Yes, I did. I told Harry I’d be right pleased to accept as many manors as he can spare, preferably in the Marches, but I’ll be wanting no English earldom. That is why I was late getting back. It took me nigh on two hours to persuade him that I was not drunk!”

“But…but why?”

“I think you know, Rhiannon. Our son is three quarters Welsh. I want him to grow up in Wales, to know where he belongs. An English earldom would yoke him to England, whether he willed it or not. When he is of an age to know his own mind, mayhap he might choose that golden yoke. But the choice ought to be his. Until he can make it, though, I must choose for him-and I choose Wales.”

“Ranulf…are you sure?”

“Very sure. I just hope our lad finds half the happiness in Wales that I did.” He kissed her again, and tasted tears. “Rhiannon? Have I let you down? Mayhap I ought to have talked it over with you first, but I thought we were in accord on this. You do want us to go back to Wales?”

“Yes,” she said, “dear God, yes!”

“Well, then,” he said, “after Christmas, we’ll go home.”

The January sky was a glazed, boundless blue, and Bermondsey was adrift in a sea of snow, glistening like crystal as the sun rose overhead. The air was cold and clear, the wind stilled. “You’ve a good day for travel,” Henry said. “Take care of my uncle, Rhiannon. Any man who’d turn down an earldom needs looking after!”

Rhiannon heard laughter, caught an elusive hint of summer roses, and was then enveloped in a brief, perfumed embrace by England’s queen. “Godspeed,” Eleanor said warmly. “Yn iach, Rhiannon.”

Rhiannon flashed a startled smile. “Yn iach,” she echoed, touched that Eleanor should have taken the trouble to learn how to bid her a Welsh farewell. Ranulf was now back beside her, and after he’d assured her that Gilbert and Gwen were settled into the horse litter, she let him assist her up into the saddle.

Ranulf was bantering again with Henry, who was about to depart in a day or so for Oxford, telling Eleanor that if Harry did not get back in time for the birth of their babe, she ought to have sole say in picking the name. Eleanor agreed, and warned her husband that she might be tempted to name the child Stephen, or mayhap even Louis.

Rhiannon politely joined in the laughter, but she marveled at Eleanor’s sangfroid. Had Ranulf not been there for Gilbert’s birth, it would have been a far greater ordeal. No, as much as she liked Harry and Eleanor, they were a breed apart, this king of twenty-one and his celebrated queen, surely the only woman who would ever wear the crowns of both England and France. She wished them well, but she was so very glad to be going home with Ranulf, who did not yearn to soar up into the heavens, who felt no need to see how close he could get to the sun without being scorched.

“Are we ready?” she asked, and Ranulf made one last joke, wished Eleanor a safe and easy lying-in, and promised to be back ere the new babe could learn to walk. Swinging up into the saddle then, he reached for the lead attached to Rhiannon’s mare, and they started off on their long journey back to Wales.

Ranulf had no regrets about what he was leaving behind. After nineteen years of fighting over the English throne, he had no doubts whatsoever that the most dangerous quarry was neither wild boar nor wolf. No hunt was so hazardous as the pursuit of power. Fortunately, his nephew Harry was a skilled huntsman, one of the best he’d ever seen.

He glanced back once. Henry and Eleanor were still out in the snow-blanketed bailey. They waved as Ranulf turned, and that was to be the memory he would carry into Wales: the two of them, standing together in the bright winter sunlight, smiling, sure that the world, like the English crown, was theirs for the taking.