meant as a reprimand, and Geoff mumbled an apology. But it was Geoffrey he wanted to placate, not her. They were strangers, these sons of hers. Beloved strangers. Blessed Lady Mary, was it not enough that she’d lost her crown? Was she to lose her children, too?
Geoffrey was not surprised by the awkwardness of this meeting, nor that Will seemed so diffident, Geoff so sullen. He’d expected as much, for Will had no surviving memories of his mother, and Geoff resented what he saw as favoritism to his elder brother. But what Geoffrey had not expected was that he should actually feel a prickling of pity for Maude, laboring to bridge an eight-and-a-half-year gap in the space of a single afternoon.
They were all relieved by a sudden commotion in the outer chamber, welcoming the distraction. A moment later the door flew open and Maude’s firstborn burst in upon them. “Mama!” It had been almost a year since she’d seen Henry last, and he’d taken several consequential steps toward manhood in those intervening months. Had he not been her own, she’d have guessed him to be older than fifteen, for his shoulders were beginning to broaden, his voice had deepened, and he had none of the uncertainty, the gangling awkwardness of a boy growing into a man’s body; he seemed to have bypassed that stage altogether. But he still looked blessedly familiar and blessedly at ease with her, as he demonstrated now by striding forward eagerly and giving her a hearty, welcoming hug.
With Henry there, conversation no longer flickered like a spent candle; it flared brightly, feeding upon his enthusiasm, his obvious pleasure in having his mother home. During the next hour, the talk ranged far afield, touching upon a variety of topics. Maude’s voyage from Arundel. Memories of Robert. Archbishop Theobald’s dramatic arrival at Rheims. Henry’s new stallion. The latest news from the Holy Land, a bloody massacre of German crusaders by the infidel Turks. The Pope’s proposed elevation of their ally, Abbot Gilbert Foliot, to the bishopric of Hereford, an action sure to outrage Stephen. For it always came back to that, to Stephen and a stolen crown.
“I’d hoped to hold out for a few more years, until you were old enough to confront Stephen yourself,” Maude told her son, and Geoffrey could only marvel, for implicit in her apology was an admission of failure. He almost made a gibe about her newfound humility, remembered their tenuous truce just in time. Henry had turned aside to let Will show him how the magnet worked. But at his mother’s regretful words, he glanced up with a quick smile.
“You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, Mama. Without Uncle Robert, how could you have continued the war? But what you began, I will finish.”
Maude had assumed that years must pass before Henry could mount a serious challenge to Stephen’s sovereignty. Looking now at her son, though, she realized that she’d not long keep him in Normandy. He was already racing headlong toward manhood and his destiny, to be decided upon an English battlefield. It seemed such a cruel irony that she’d finally gotten him back, only to have to let him go, much too soon.
Picking up Geoff’s discarded book, Henry began to leaf through it, and the book immediately became a gift of great value to his brother. He tried to snatch it back, and a brief scuffle ensued, which revealed to Maude that Henry liked to tease, and that Geoff’s jealousy was a banked fire, ready to flare up at the least provocation. Theirs was a bond much in need of mending, if it was not already too late. Geoffrey ought to have taught them better. But then, what did he and Helie know of brotherly love? It saddened her that her sons should be rivals, not the steadfast allies her own brothers had been.
Almost as if he’d read her thoughts, Henry said suddenly, “Where is Uncle Ranulf? I assumed Uncle Rainald would stay behind in Cornwall, but surely Uncle Ranulf came back with you?”
“No…he did not.”
Henry’s disappointment was keen, for Ranulf was his favorite uncle. “Why not? I do not understand, Mama. Where is he, then?”
“I do not know, lad,” Maude admitted unhappily. “I do not know.”
39
Cheshire, England
March 1148
Ranulf was not sure where he was-somewhere along the Cheshire-Shropshire border-but it did not really matter, since he did not care where he ended up. Like a ship that had snapped its moorings, he just went wherever the wind blew him.
When he’d ridden away from Devizes Castle in such a rage, he’d wanted only to put as many miles between himself and his past as possible. But he could outrun neither his grief nor his guilt, and after a fortnight of aimless wandering, he’d realized what he needed to do if he was ever to have any peace of mind again. It was what he ought to have done as soon as he learned of Gilbert’s death. He had to face Gilbert’s widow and ask her forgiveness.
It had taken him a week to gird himself for it, and then another week to find her, for she’d returned to her father’s manor near Hereford. But if he’d hoped for absolution, he’d come to the wrong woman. Ella’s widowhood was too new to allow for perspective, too wretched to allow for mercy. Anger was easier than acceptance, and she blamed Ranulf. Gilbert had confided in her about Ranulf’s clandestine affair with Annora Fitz Clement, and she reasoned that if not for his ill-fated passion for another man’s wife, her husband would not have died. And Ranulf could not argue with her, for he believed that, too.
Afterward, he truly was a lost soul. He’d slowly drifted toward the north, indifferent to direction or destination, rousing himself only enough to make a wide detour as he neared Shrewsbury. Eventually he would run out of money. Although Robert had bequeathed him a generous legacy and he still held the Wiltshire manors Maude had given him, he would have to return to claim them, and that he was not yet able to do. And so he continued his erratic odyssey through a countryside blighted by war, no longer even sure what he was fleeing, sure only that he could not go back.
On this blustery March Monday in Lent, he’d covered less than ten miles, for the night before he had drunk too much, picked up a prostitute, and tried to blot out his pain with cheap red wine and bought caresses. All it gained him was a miserable morning-after, the worst headache of his life, and an ugly scene with the girl, who’d sought to steal his purse while he slept. Hours later, he still felt queasy and shaken. His head was throbbing, he’d not been able to tolerate the weight of his hauberk, and for most of the day, the mere thought of food was repellant.
By midafternoon, he’d begun looking for lodgings. But the few villages he passed through were no more than hamlets and Chester was at least fifteen miles away, if not more. He was beginning to think he’d have to bed down out in the open when he encountered an elderly shepherd tending a handful of scrawny sheep. The man was fearful at first, for strangers were suspect in these parts; the border shires had never known much peace. But the fact that Ranulf spoke English reassured the shepherd somewhat, and after he’d stopped Loth from chasing off the man’s mangy dog, he got the directions he needed. Ahead lay the hamlet of Broxton, where a narrow lane forked off from the Chester Road, toward the west. If he followed it for a few miles, he’d reach the village of Farndon, and the priest there would put him up for the night.
It was a relief to know there would be a bed at the end of his journey, for the wind was rising and dusk settling in. Ranulf kept a wary eye on the sky as he rode; getting rained upon would be the final indignity of this utterly dismal day. Off to the side of the road, he caught sight of a grove of alder trees and he guided his stallion toward them, for alder trees were usually found near water. After dismounting, he led his horse forward, waiting while it drank its fill. Loth had ranged on, but Ranulf didn’t worry, knowing the dyrehund would not go far. Kneeling by the pond, he splashed water onto his face, and then cupped his hands so he could drink, too.
A watering hole just off a main road was a bandit’s dream come true, an ideal place to ambush thirsty travelers…and Ranulf should have known that. He did know that, but his hangover had dulled his caution as well as his senses. Oblivious of his surroundings, he did not notice as the men emerged stealthily from hiding. Only when his stallion snorted in alarm did he look up, and by then, it was too late. They were almost upon him, and before he could get to his feet, one of them lunged forward, an upraised cudgel poised to strike.
Ranulf flung himself sideways, and the cudgel missed by inches, so close that he felt a rush of air on his face as it plunged downward. Kicking out, he was lucky enough to rip the other man’s leg with his spur, and the man jumped backward with a startled oath. That gave Ranulf enough time to regain his feet, but not to draw his sword. It was only halfway out of the scabbard when the second bandit struck. The blow was hard enough to stagger him, but he felt no pain, and did not realize at first that he’d been stabbed, not until he saw the bloodied blade of the
