unsaid. Instead, she reminded herself that their marital war was over at last. No more uneasy truces, just the eternal peace of the grave. As she embraced Henry, she could not help thinking, though, that the final victory had been Geoffrey’s. She knew that her sons loved and respected her; at least Henry and Will did. But she doubted that they’d have grieved as much for her as they now grieved for Geoffrey.
The storm caught North Wales by surprise, for it was only November. The snow started during the night, and the Welsh awoke to find that winter had arrived with a vengeance. By midday the wind had intensified; soon even the silhouetted peaks of Eryri were no longer visible. Ranulf had not seen so much snow since he’d been trapped in the siege of Oxford. As the storm increased in severity, it began to seem as if Trefriw were under siege, too, but by a more formidable foe than Stephen. Fortunately, this was an enemy that could be safely waited out, and the only weapon the besieged needed was patience. But that evening Rhiannon went into labor.
She was not due for another fortnight, and they hoped at first that these were false labor pains. It soon became apparent, however, that the baby was coming-in the midst of a blizzard, with no midwife. Ranulf had been desperate enough to try to fetch the woman; he got no farther than the stable, barely made it back to the hall.
That night seemed endless. Neither Ranulf nor Rhodri slept at all, huddled by the fire, waiting for word. Above-stairs in the birthing chamber, Rhiannon struggled to deliver her child, attended by the willing but inexperienced hands of Enid, Eleri, Olwen, and Heledd, their elderly cook. Downstairs, Ranulf struggled, too, seeking to convince himself that all would go as it ought. But Enid was barren, Eleri and Olwen were virgins, and Heledd’s own childbearing more than thirty years distant.
Men were barred from the birthing chamber, but from time to time, Enid or Eleri would emerge with forced smiles and assurances that grew less and less convincing with repetition. Bechan, the serving-maid, crept about like a stray cat, shrinking into corners and daubing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. It was obvious that she was already mourning her mistress, and Ranulf could not trust himself to glance in her direction, lest he banish her from the hall. But how could he blame the wench for lacking faith when he had so little of it himself?
With the coming of dawn, the blizzard at last showed signs of abating. White waves no longer swept across the bailey, obscuring all traces of land; for the first time in many hours, Ranulf could make out the sloping contours of the stable roof. Pulling up the hood of his mantle, he plunged out into the bailey. The cold seared his lungs, brought tears to his eyes. Wading through drifts deep enough to drown in, he slogged toward the stable. It was slow, hazardous going, but he battled on until he reeled into the stable, sinking down on a bale of hay. The horses peered over their stall doors, grateful for the human company, hungry for their breakfast of fodder and hay. Ranulf was still trying to get his breath back when the door banged again and two more hooded figures staggered in.
He’d not realized that he was being followed, for their cries had been carried away by the gusting snow. Like him, they headed toward the bales of hay and collapsed against the wall. Padarn recovered first, his the resilience of youth, and volunteered to tend to the horses. Panting and wheezing, Rhodri blew on his chapped hands, stamped his feet to warm them, and brushed snow off his eyebrows, mustache, and even his lashes. “Have you lost your wits altogether?” he accused. “How far did you think you’d get?”
“The storm seemed to be easing up. Since the midwife lives only a few miles from here, I thought I could make it-”
“Christ Jesus, Ranulf, where is your common sense? This was a fool’s gamble if ever I saw one!”
Ranulf could not argue the point. “I did not realize how bad it still was, not until I was out in it. But I had to try, Uncle. It has been more than twelve hours. I know the women say that is not unusual, but would they tell us if it were? So much can go wrong in a birthing, and without a midwife…” His shoulders sagged and he said, very low and fast, “My mother died in childbed, and the babe with her.”
“I know, lad, I know. It is never easy for the woman, nor for the man, either. I remember all too well what the waiting was like, each time my Nesta was brought to bed of one of our bairns. I could not help noticing how raw your nerves became as Rhiannon’s time drew nigh. None of us reckoned upon this accursed storm, but you were already sorely afeared. You would not even choose names for the baby, lest you tempt fate. This is not like you, Ranulf. Why are you so loath of a sudden to let yourself hope for the best?”
Ranulf’s smile was bleak. “For most of my life, I not only hoped for the best, I expected it, as if it were my god-given birthright. That was the worst sort of arrogance, Uncle, and it brought nothing but grief-not just to me, but to the innocent, too. I truly thought the rest of my life would be penance for these sins; I deserved no less…”
“But you do not deserve Rhiannon and your babe…is that what you fear? That God means to punish you for daring to be happy?” Rhodri slid over on the bale until he was close enough to grasp the younger man’s arm. “Why is it that the Almighty forgives us more readily than we forgive ourselves? Listen to me, lad. I cannot tell you there is no danger in childbirth. But I can tell you how good you’ve been for my daughter, how much-”
“Come quick!” Padarn had been keeping vigil at the door. Spinning around, he gestured urgently. “They are shouting for us!”
Lurching to their feet, Ranulf and Rhodri hastily followed Padarn out into the snow. Linking arms, they ploughed through the drifts, for they now had the wind at their backs. As they stumbled toward the hall, Eleri appeared in the doorway. Her hair was in disarray, her color ashen, her eyes swollen with fatigue, her gown splattered with blood. But her smile was incandescent.
The entire household had crowded into Rhiannon’s chamber to admire her newborn son, everyone from the timid Bechan to the burly stable grooms. She accepted their congratulations and good wishes with exhausted aplomb, but was grateful when Eleri eventually took charge and insisted that they all withdraw so she could rest. She groped quickly for Ranulf’s hand, letting him know she wanted him to stay, needlessly so, as nothing short of force could have dislodged him from her bedside. A reluctant Rhodri was the last to leave, pushed out by his wife and daughter as he craned to get one more loving look at his grandson. Once they were finally alone, Ranulf leaned over and kissed his wife, then his son.
Rhiannon smiled tiredly. The baby had begun to whimper, and she drew back the bed covers, guiding his little mouth toward her breast. He needed no further urging, was soon sucking contentedly upon her nipple. She’d refused from the outset to consider a wet nurse, and Ranulf now understood why; nursing was an especially intimate act for a mother unable to see her child.
“What color is his hair?” she asked, and he reached over to stroke the infant’s head; the silky, scant hair was as soft as the downy plumage of a baby chick.
“It is hard to say,” he teased, “for he is well-nigh bald. If I had to guess, I’d say a flaxen shade. It’s like to change anyway. Which is fine with me; I’d not mind if it turned green.”
“I think I’d prefer a more conventional color.” Rhiannon’s smile ended as a yawn. “I want you to name him, Ranulf.”
“Are you sure, love? It would not be a Welsh name.”
She squeezed his hand in reply. “You wish to call him Robert, after your brother?”
Ranulf gently wiped away the milk dribbling down his son’s chin. “No,” he said, “I want to name him Gilbert.”
49
Beaugency, France
March 1152
In late September, Louis and Eleanor had begun a royal progress through her domains. They were welcomed with enthusiasm, for Eleanor had always been extremely popular with her people, and they were heartened by rumors of an impending split with her “foreign” French husband. These rumors gained credence as the weeks passed, for in the course of the progress, French garrisons and Crown officials were replaced with men of Eleanor’s choosing, men of Aquitaine. The French sovereigns celebrated their Christmas court at Limoges; it was to be their last one as man and wife. In February, they parted, Eleanor returning to Poitiers, Louis to Paris. By now all knew a divorce was both imminent and inevitable.
On the Friday before Palm Sunday, the Archbishop of Sens convened a Church Council at the royal castle of Beaugency, not far from Orleans. Evidence was presented that the French king and his queen were related within the prohibited degree, for her great-grandmother had been a granddaughter of his great-grandfather. The clerics
