hunt, I was taught that if you go after dangerous prey-like wild boar-you never strike unless you are sure your blow can kill.”
“Sometimes it is enough,” Matilda interjected, “for a blow to maim, Willem,” and the Fleming did not demur. But neither was he convinced, and because they knew that, the disgraced earl’s presence seemed to linger on in their midst, long after he’d been returned to his prison cell.
Nature that year was unrelenting. An arid, sweltering summer had brought a poor harvest to a land already ravaged by four years of war, and to add to the miseries of the English people, winter came early. Even for November, the weather was unusually wretched: day after day of icy downpours, gusting winds, and sleet. By early December, the first snow of the season had blanketed half the country, and Annora was thankful when the walls of Lincoln at last came into view, for there a hot meal, a soft bed, and a lover’s embrace awaited her.
Ranulf had been awake since dawn, cocooned in coverlets, blissfully content to lie abed on this frigid December morn, watching the young woman asleep in his arms. It was easy to pretend they were snowbound, that the world beyond the boundaries of his chamber did not exist, easy to convince himself that their love affair was a secret from even the castle servants, for Annora’s bed was in Maud’s chamber and who but Maud would know where she really slept? It was always easy to hold on to his hopes while holding on to Annora, too. It was even possible to forget the living, breathing impediment to their union, Annora’s husband-almost.
Annora stirred eventually, giving him a sleepy smile. “I love waking up with you,” she murmured, leaning over to claim a kiss. “But I almost did not get to come, for Gervase was uneasy about my being out on the roads, even with Maud’s escort.”
Ranulf frowned; any mention of her husband, however fleeting or casual, was sure to sour his mood. “Because of Geoffrey de Mandeville’s arrest?” he asked, and when she nodded, he drew her in against him, propping pillows behind their heads.
“It is passing strange, Annora. Stephen reached manhood at my father’s court, had ample opportunities to learn the lessons of kingship from a master. Whatever his other failings, Papa understood the uses and perceptions of power, and his mistakes were few, indeed. He knew how to handle men, whereas Stephen…with the best will in the world, he just lurches from one blunder to another.”
“Because he arrested Mandeville at his court, the way he did with the Bishops of Ely, Salisbury, and Lincoln? I grant you that does make him a dubious host,” Annora teased, “but why is that so damaging to his kingship?”
“Because it makes men think he cannot be trusted, because it makes him look weak-”
“Be fair, Ranulf! No one-not even your sister-could fault Stephen’s courage.”
“Nor do I. I said men think him a weak king, not a cowardly one. I am not saying that Mandeville did not deserve to be arrested, but there was something sly about the way it was done. That might not matter if men respected Stephen as they did my father. But they do not, Annora, for they do not fear him…and fear and respect are horns on the same goat.”
Annora was rapidly regretting ever having brought the topic up, for she had no interest in hearing Ranulf hold forth upon the flaws in Stephen’s kingship; she got enough of that from her husband, who was increasingly disillusioned with his king’s failure to end the war. “Can we not talk of something besides politics? I would much rather hear about the doings in Winchester, for,” she added hopefully, “was there not some sort of scandal involved?”
The recent calamity in Winchester was a sore subject with all of Maude’s partisans. But Ranulf knew how much Annora loved gossip, and so he overcame his reluctance, told her the rather sad and sordid story of William Pont de l’Arche, his young, fickle wife, and the Flemish mercenary, Robert Fitz Hildebrand. The former castellan of Winchester’s royal castle had taken advantage of the Wilton debacle to regain control of the stronghold, and then appealed to Maude and Robert for aid. They’d dispatched Hildebrand-to their eternal regret-for welcomed as an ally by William Pont de l’Arche, he’d promptly set about seducing the latter’s wife, and with her connivance, his men overpowered the castle garrison, cast the cuckolded husband into his own dungeon, and then struck a deal with the bishop and Stephen. All in all, it was a sorry tale, a deplorable commentary upon the way this war was unraveling the country’s moral fabric, and Annora found it highly entertaining.
“How do you know this Robert Fitz Hildebrand seduced the castellan’s wife? Mayhap she was the one seduced him,” she suggested impishly, and then demonstrated that she was not lacking in seduction skills herself. They kissed and rolled, laughing, to the very edge of the bed, where they kissed again. But then Annora bolted upright and let out a piercing scream. “A rat! Ranulf, a rat bit my hair!”
As he started to look, she grabbed his arm. “Wait-get your sword first!” she insisted, and then, indignantly, “Ranulf! Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” he said, “you’re about to meet a rare Norse rat,” and she peered cautiously over the edge of the bed, frowning at sight of the dog looking gravely back at her.
“I knew no rat would dare venture into the chamber with Loth here. He’s the best hunter of Shadow’s sons. I once saw him take down a deer all by himself,” Ranulf bragged, reaching out to ruffle the dyrehund’s thick fur. “When your hair swung down, he probably thought you were playing with him.”
“Tell him, please, that I was playing with you, and three are not wanted in this game.” Annora frowned again; she liked dogs, but there was something unnerving about this one’s unblinking stare. “What did you call him-Loth? Wherever did you get an outlandish name like that?”
She was at once sorry she’d asked, for she’d unwittingly given Ranulf an opportunity to expound upon one of his more peculiar passions-his love of reading. It was called The History of the Kings of Britain, he informed her, written by an Augustinian canon named Geoffrey of Monmouth, and dedicated to Robert. The book was the most remarkable one he’d ever read, tracing English history back through the ages. He’d especially fancied the story of Arthur, King of the Britons, the people known today as the Welsh. He’d gotten Loth’s name from the book, he explained; Loth was Arthur’s brother-in-law, and with Arthur’s help, he’d become King of Norway. So what better name for a Norwegian dyrehund?
Annora agreed politely that Loth was indeed an inspired choice, only half listening, for she neither shared nor understood Ranulf’s enthusiasm for books. Her brothers had been taught to read and write-against their will-for her father had an almost monkish respect for education. When she’d wanted to learn, too, jealously intent upon following in her brothers’ footsteps, he’d indulged her, as always, even though their priest had insisted that women had no need for worldly knowledge. She’d soon lost interest, would not have persevered had Ranulf not come into her life when he did, Ranulf who truly took pride in being able to wield a pen like a common clerk. Now, of course, Annora was thankful for her education, scanty as it was, for her rudimentary skills enabled her to write to Ranulf and to read his letters. But as he continued to extol the virtues of this Geoffrey of Monmouth’s book with its oddly named heroes-Brutus, Arthur, Merlin, Loth-her eyes glazed over and her jaw began to ache from the yawns she was suppressing.
Not wanting Ranulf to know he was boring her, she took diversionary measures, with such success that they soon attracted Loth’s attention. Puzzled and protective, the big dog rose to his feet, head cocked to the side as he tried to make sense of the strange noises coming from the bed, not moving away until he had satisfied himself that all this sudden thrashing about did not put his master in peril.
Ranulf and Annora’s idyllic stay at Lincoln Castle came to an abrupt end the next day with the unexpected arrival of Maud’s husband. Their unease was soon dissipated, though, for it was apparent that Chester had no recollection of ever having met Annora before. Ranulf, of course, he did remember, greeting the younger man with a caustic “You here again? It is well that you are Maud’s uncle or else I might start wondering why you seem to be underfoot all the time.” But the insult was offhand; he had weightier matters on his mind than baiting Ranulf. “Set the servants to packing what you need,” he instructed his wife, “for I am taking you back to Cheshire, and I want to depart on the morrow.”
Ranulf and Annora were dismayed, Maud irked. “Why?” she demanded, and Chester scowled.
“It ought to be enough for you that I say so.” His complaint was perfunctory, though, for he was in suspiciously high spirits. Maud regarded him warily, knowing from past experience that he was never so cheerful as when contemplating the troubles of others. And indeed, his black eyes were agleam with the perverse pleasure that people so often take in being the bearer of bad news. “Like ancient Egypt, we have a plague loosed upon us,” he declared dramatically. “Geoffrey de Mandeville has rebelled.”
His revelation was fully as explosive as he’d hoped, and he found himself fending off questions faster than arrows. “If you’ll all stop talking at once,” he protested, “I’ll tell you what I know. Mandeville took advantage of Bishop Nigel’s absence to seize the Isle of Ely and capture Aldreth Castle. He then advanced upon Ramsey, drove
