she’d not cry aloud in protest or pleading. But her sister had less restraint. “You cannot go, Ranulf! We need you here as much as Harry does, for we’re your family, too!”
Ranulf looked unhappily at his young cousin, not sure what to say. But his uncle said it for him. “You are not being fair, Eleri. Ranulf has to go, for it is a matter of duty and honour. What would you have him do, entrust his nephew’s safety to a knave like Chester?”
Eleri was more than willing to let Henry fend for himself, but she eventually subsided, on the verge of tears. Only then did Rhiannon reach out and touch Ranulf’s arm. “When,” she asked uneasily, “will you be coming back?”
She had her answer in Ranulf’s prolonged hesitation. “I do not know, Rhiannon,” he admitted. “I just do not know.”
Ranulf found it more difficult than he’d expected to bid farewell to his Welsh family. They’d followed him to the gateway to see him off, and were doing their best to be cheerful and matter-of-fact about his departure. But only Padarn’s enthusiasm was real, for he’d talked his father and Rhodri into letting him accompany Ranulf. For the others, Ranulf’s leave-taking was a painful one, and he well knew it. For Rhodri, he’d been a substitute son, a bandage for the wound caused by Cadell’s death. For Eleri, he’d been a big brother and a window to the world, able to give her intriguing glimpses of foreign lands and great cities. And for Rhiannon, he’d been what she needed most-a friend. When he rode away, he’d be leaving a jagged hole in their household, one that would not be easy to mend.
Spring had come to the Conwy Valley, and the hills were green with new growth and gold with wild gorse. The first butterflies of the season were fluttering about like flying flower petals, and high overhead, Ranulf heard the shrill cry of a kestrel, a soaring shadow against the halo cast by the sun. Never had Wales looked so beautiful, so deceptively peaceful, so hard to leave.
“I want to thank you all,” he said, “for the best year of my life.” He was embraced, then, by Rhodri, a vigorous, bone-bruising hug that squeezed the air out of his lungs. Enid gave him a languidly lovely smile, a decorous kiss on the cheek, and Eleri hurled herself into his arms, making a feeble joke about Englishmen and their bristly beards; it was, she complained tearfully, like nuzzling a hedgehog. From Rhiannon, he got a brief, heartfelt embrace, delicately scented with a fragrance of the Welsh meadows; it suited her better, he thought, than Maud’s more exotic perfume.
“God keep you all safe,” he said huskily, “until we are together again.” Padarn was already mounted, impatiently eager to be off. Swinging up into the saddle, Ranulf sent his stallion cantering toward the gate. He waved once, but after that, he did not dare to look back again.
43
Yorkshire, England
July 1149
On Whitsunday, May 22nd, the King of Scotland knighted his nephew Henry and Roger Fitz Miles, the Earl of Hereford. David then made a public peace with his old enemy the Earl of Chester. Chester agreed to acknowledge David as Lord of Carlisle, and for that concession, he was given the Honour of Lancaster by David. They propped up their precarious alliance with a Sacrament, the proposed marriage of one of Chester’s infant sons to one of David’s young granddaughters. They were then ready to strike at Stephen. After some discussion, they decided to launch a surprise attack upon York, for they hoped the fall of England’s second-largest city would deliver a crippling blow to Stephen’s embattled kingship.
By the end of the second week in July, they were within striking distance of York. It began to rain as they set up camp for the night, but the men didn’t mind a summer soaking after a hot, dusty day on the road. By the time he’d made certain, though, that the sentries had been posted, Ranulf was drenched. He shared a tent with Henry and Roger Fitz Miles, but the Scots king, his son, and the Earl of Chester had their own tents, and it was toward the former that Ranulf headed. As he expected, he found them all in David’s tent, discussing plans for the morrow’s attack.
Ranulf had pessimistically predicted that Chester and David would soon be at each other’s throats. Much to his surprise, the tenuous truce seemed to be holding, due in large measure to the youth who was David’s grandnephew and Chester’s first cousin by marriage. Henry showed a deft touch for defusing tension, a skill Ranulf suspected he’d learned in Normandy, caught in the crossfire of his parents’ marital warfare.
No one noticed Ranulf’s entrance, for they were gathered around the Earl of Chester as he drew for them a map of York’s defenses. The city was protected by two rivers, the Ouse and the Fosse, and high earthen banks, erected over the ancient Roman walls. There were four main gates, all of stone, and two motte-and-bailey castles shielded behind timber palisades and deep ditches. Capturing York sounded like a formidable undertaking to Henry, and he kept interrupting with questions, all of which Chester answered with uncharacteristic patience.
Ranulf listened in amusement; who would have guessed that Chester, of all men, would have relished the role of tutor? But Henry had disarmed them all with his unabashed, eager curiosity. He’d so far shown none of the defensive bravado that infected so many sixteen-year-olds. He did not bluster; if he did not know something, he asked. He asked often, listened and learned, and he’d soon won over not only his Scots uncle and cousin but even the notoriously irascible Chester.
Ranulf, who’d always been extremely fond of Henry, now found himself feeling proud of his nephew, too, so much so that he’d begun to wonder if he’d judged Geoffrey too harshly. As far back as he could remember, he’d loathed his brother-in-law, detesting him for the misery he’d caused Maude. But during Henry’s formative years, he’d been in Geoffrey’s care, not Maude’s. If Geoffrey could raise a son like Harry, Ranulf reasoned, he could not be such a worthless wretch, after all. Whatever grief the man had given Maude, he deserved credit for Harry, a fine young king in the making. God Willing, Ranulf added hastily, for he’d learned, at bitter cost, that only fools took victory for granted in a world so fraught with peril.
The talk had now shifted from York’s defenses to its populace. When Chester and David both agreed that its citizens were almost as loyal to Stephen as the steadfast Londoners were, Henry wanted to know why.
Chester shrugged; he had no more interest in what motivated other people than he did in the history of the Druids. David was more politically astute, one of the reasons why his had been such a successful kingship for Scotland, and he said promptly, if somewhat pedantically, “Stephen has always had support in the towns, for they think he favors trade. He has been generous in granting them charters and he courts their guilds quite shamelessly. And then, too, York has prospered under Stephen’s reign, for it has been spared the turmoil and lawlessness that have so troubled the southern parts. In contrast to shires like Oxford and Wiltshire and the godforsaken Fens, Yorkshire has seen little bloodshed.”
“Not since Cowton Moor, anyway,” Chester muttered, unable to resist this snide mention of the Scots king’s calamitous defeat by the English eleven years ago.
David gave him a cool glance of dismissal, more insulting in its way than outright anger would have been. “Moreover,” he continued, “Stephen has made several visits to York and each time he was open-handed with royal boons. When the hospital of St Peter’s burned down in the great fire of ’37, Stephen and Matilda paid for its repairs, and then founded a leper hospital outside the city. These are the sort of goodwill gestures that people remember, lad.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully. Ranulf teased him occasionally that he seemed to be storing away information like a squirrel hoarding acorns, and he always laughed, but it was more than a joke and they both knew it. This was a great adventure for him, but it was also an education. He was well aware that he lacked seasoning and he was even willing to admit it-to a select few-for he had no false pride. But it was a lack he was eager to remedy, and besieging York would make a good beginning.
There was a sudden commotion outside, and a few moments later, Bennet de Malpas was escorted into the tent. He was soaked to the skin, splattered with mud, and stumbling with fatigue as he hastened forward to greet his lord and the Scots king. But what riveted all eyes upon him was not his haggard, disheveled appearance; it was that he was supposed to be in York, spying for the earl. When he knelt before Chester, the earl said tensely, “You look like a man on the way to his own hanging. Go on, spit it out, Bennet. What do you have to tell us that we’ll not want to hear?”
