“That need not be so,” Rhiannon protested. “He seems happy here. He could decide to stay.”
“Ah, lambkin…you are fooling yourself.”
That was Rhodri’s pet name for Rhiannon. She never liked her stepmother to use it, especially in such solicitous, sympathetic tones. Theirs was an awkward relationship, not friends, no longer enemies…although that had not been true in the beginning. Rhiannon had, by her own admission, reacted badly to her father’s decision to remarry. Her mother was just dead a year and Rhiannon was not ready to accept another woman in Nesta’s place. Nor had Enid known how to deal with a blind stepdaughter. Her kindnesses seemed condescending, her good intentions invariably went astray, and her patience hovered on the border between sainthood and martyrdom; only her bafflement rang true.
Looking back upon those first troubled months, Rhiannon could admit now that Enid was unfairly cast as the wicked stepmother, guilty of missteps and gaffes, not mortal sins. But she was-quite unknowingly-serving as a scapegoat, for that was the year that Rhiannon collided with reality, the brutal reality that men feared blindness only a little less than they feared leprosy. She was old enough by then for marriage and motherhood. Her father could find no suitable husband for her, though. A blind wife was a contradiction in terms, a bizarre joke, a curse besotted men might fling at one another in an alehouse brawl. At eighteen, Rhiannon had finally understood just how barren her future was to be, and she’d taken out much of her heartbroken rage and frustration upon her beautiful, well-meaning, obtuse stepmother.
Seven years had passed since then, and they’d long ago made their peace, for whatever their differences, they both loved Rhodri. But Rhiannon would never have chosen Enid for her confidante, and she resented Enid now for voicing her own secret fear. She knew that Enid was right, that Ranulf was unlikely to stay in Wales. Saying it aloud, though, gave her a superstitious shiver. Hoping that her silence would communicate her unwillingness to discuss it further, she bent over her sewing again.
But Enid was never one for taking hints. “It is only a matter of time until Ranulf goes back to England-for good. The longer he lives with us, the more it will hurt when he does leave. That is why I said it might be better if he stayed in Chester, better for my Rhodri and Eleri…and above all, for you, Rhiannon.”
Rhiannon felt heat rising in her face. She wanted to demand that Enid explain herself, but she did not dare, for she was suddenly afraid of what Enid might answer. Was it possible that her stepmother could somehow have seen into her heart? “You are wrong, Enid,” she said tautly. “Ranulf will come back. He promised.”
During his six months in Gwynedd, Ranulf had been as secluded as any hermit, but Maud soon brought him up to date on the happenings in the world beyond Wales. Her most startling news was of the intensifying feud between Stephen and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Upon Theobald’s return from the Council of Rheims, a furious Stephen had punished his defiance by expelling him from England. He had settled in Flanders, at Matilda’s urgings, as she and an unlikely peacemaker, William de Ypres, sought in vain to reconcile this rift between Stephen and the Church. On September 12th, the archbishop’s patience wore out and he placed England under Interdict. This was the Church’s ultimate weapon, but this time it misfired. The Interdict was ignored throughout England, observed only in Theobald’s own diocese of Canterbury. As to what would happen next, none could say. But it was a blessing, indeed, for the Angevin cause, Maud and Ranulf agreed, that Stephen should have estranged himself from the most powerful churchman in his realm.
Maud had other news, as well, for Ranulf. She confirmed that his sister was now living in Rouen with her sons. She informed him that Matilda had spent much of the year in Canterbury, supervising the building of Faversham, the abbey she and Stephen were founding; rumor had it that she was in poor health. She told him that the Bishop of Winchester had been suspended by the Pope for supporting Stephen over the archbishop. She shared another rumor, that William de Ypres’s sight was clouding over. She had the latest stories from the Holy Land, where the French king was blundering badly, lurching from one mistake to another, nearly losing his life in a Turkish ambush. But the most shocking gossip concerned his queen. During their stay in Antioch, Eleanor had announced that she wanted to end their troubled marriage. Louis refused to let her go, and when they resumed their trek toward Jerusalem, Eleanor was taken by force from the city, compelled to accompany them.
This was high scandal, indeed. But Ranulf was even more astonished by what Maud revealed about Brien Fitz Count. Brien had turned Wallingford Castle over to his kinsman, William Boterel, and he and his wife had both taken holy vows, renouncing the world and their marriage and pledging the remainder of their lives to the service of Almighty God.
Maud bent over her son’s cradle, satisfying herself that he slept. “Are you still set upon leaving on the morrow, Ranulf? A fortnight is not a very long visit, not after vanishing into smoke for nigh on eight months.”
“I promised my Welsh kin that I’d be back by the first frost,” Ranulf explained, adding with a grin, “But I’ll come to see that new babe of yours, lass. Believe it or not, your husband actually invited me back once the babe is born, and how could I resist such an unlikely invitation?”
Maud returned his grin with one of her own. “Who would have guessed,” she said, “that hating Stephen would have such a beneficial effect upon Randolph’s manners? It seems he’ll go to any lengths to bring Stephen down, even if that means being polite to my kinfolk!”
Ranulf joined her at the cradle, gazing at her sleeping little son. “I think he looks like Robert,” he said, and Maud agreed readily, for she wanted to believe that, too.
“Well, if you must go, at least take Nicholas and some of our men with you. They dare go no farther than the abbey at Basingwerk, though. Are you sure you and Padarn can get safely back on your own to your uncle’s lands?”
When Ranulf nodded, Maud sighed, only half convinced. “Remember to talk to the abbot about the letters. If we are generous in our almsgiving, he ought to be willing to send one of his monks to Trefriw with letters for you. And they can also take letters of yours to me here at Chester. Even in these accursed times, monks are rarely attacked-if only because they have so little to steal.”
“You have a very practical turn of mind, Maud,” Ranulf said fondly. “Diolch yn fawr.”
He’d taught her that was Welsh for “thank you.” “Can you really speak Welsh all that well?” she asked curiously. “Randolph has not mastered a word of it, for all the time he has spent in Wales.”
“I doubt that he tried very hard. Since I used to speak it as a lad, I had a head start.”
“But your uncle knows French, does he not?”
“Yes…from what I gather, most of the men attending Owain Gwynedd’s court speak some French. Whether a man knows any French depends upon how much contact he has with England. As for their women, most speak only Welsh.”
“What of your cousins?”
“I’ve begun teaching them French…or trying to. Eleri loses interest too easily, but Rhiannon is a better pupil, most likely because her memory is honed sharper than my best blade. It has to be, for she must carry a mental map in her head in order to do the most simple task. Even crossing the hall can be fraught with peril if you cannot see where you are going.”
“You think highly of her,” Maud said, and he smiled.
“I always thought Maude was the bravest woman I’d ever known. Rhiannon has a quieter kind of courage, but in its way, it is even more impressive, for Rhiannon’s war will last until her dying breath.”
“Whenever I passed a blind beggar on the road,” Maud confessed, “I would throw a coin and then hurry on by, averting my eyes. I did not know what life must be like for the blind, did not want to know.”
“I asked Rhiannon once what it was like to be blind. She said, ‘I do not know. I can only tell you what it is like to be me.’”
“She sounds,” Maud said, “like a remarkable woman.”
“I hope I have not made her seem too good to be true. A saint, she is not. She can be vexingly stubborn, and she has the same sort of prickly pride as Maude does.”
“Why does that surprise you? For them both, pride is a defense, the only shield available to them. We all do what we can with what we have, Ranulf.” Maud bent over and brushed a soft kiss against her son’s dark hair. “Say something for me in Welsh,” she asked. “Something poetic or profound.”
Ranulf was quiet, considering. “Rhag pob clwyf eli amser,” he said. “‘For every wound, the ointment of time.’”
Their eyes met. “I thought you might quote me the Welsh equivalent of that Latin saying you always fancied, ‘Carpe diem.’”
“‘Seize the day’?” Shaking his head, he said softly, “I like this one better.”
