“I wish you’d reconsider. Will and my uncles and cousins will be there to witness my coronation, as will Eleanor’s brothers and Petronilla. Even Geoff,” he added dryly, glancing over his shoulder toward the ship, but failing to find his disgruntled brother midst the passengers milling about on the deck. “You ought to be there, too, Mama- you above all others.” He saw, though, that she would not relent, and yielded reluctantly. “As you wish, then. I do not understand your decision, but I will accept it.”
“Just as I’ve accepted your decision to sail on such a foul day,” she pointed out, “although I like it not.”
“I could wait no longer, Mama. But you need not fear, for we will outrun the storm. I am just sorry the seas were so rough on St Catherine’s Day. What could have been more fitting than to sail on the same day as the White Ship?”
She suspected he was joking, yet the very suggestion gave Maude a superstitious chill. “Jesu forfend! That would have been tempting Providence for certes, and had you been foolhardy enough to do so, I very much doubt that anyone would have dared to sail with you!”
“No?” Henry said and laughed. “I’d wager Eleanor would have!”
Maude looked across at the ship, soon spotted her daughter-in-law, warmly wrapped in a fur-trimmed red mantle, and nearby, a nurse, holding Maude’s small grandson. “Yes,” Maude conceded, “Eleanor probably would.” For better or worse, her son and his wife were well matched, hawk mating hawk and flying high.
And then it was time. Stepping forward, she gave him a hasty farewell hug. “God keep you safe, Henry.”
“He will,” he assured her, “and when next I see you, Mama, I’ll bring back a crown…and another grandson for you.” A quick kiss, haphazardly aimed at her cheek, and he was gone, crossing the gangplank with a swift, confident step, eager to depart, to claim his kingdom.
Alone on the quay, Maude watched as her son’s ship headed out into the harbor. The sails were billowing, the mast lantern swaying wildly, and she said a brief, silent prayer for her sons, for all those crossing the Channel on this raw December morning, and then, for the souls of the doomed passengers who’d drowned in the wreck of the White Ship.
Braving the wind, Minna ventured out onto the quay. Maude did not seem aware of her approach, keeping her eyes upon the fleet. But then she said softly, “Henry does not understand why I’d not come. But how could I tell him, Minna? He’d think that I begrudged him his kingship, and nothing could be more untrue than that. I am so proud that he is to be king. It is just that I could not watch as the crown was placed upon his head, for that would have stirred up too many hurtful memories, too many regrets. England is Henry’s kingdom, but it was never mine…”
Minna said nothing, for between them, there was no need of words. The wind was knifing across the quay, and freezing rain had begun to splatter onto the wet wooden planks. Beyond the harbor, Henry’s fleet was disappearing into the fog.
Henry’s fleet had scattered in the fog, but all eventually came ashore safely. Henry and Eleanor’s ship dropped anchor in a cove near the New Forest, after fighting raging seas for twenty-four turbulent hours. Without waiting for a royal escort, they rode for Winchester, and within days, were welcomed into London. Coronation plans were rushed forward, and on the 19th of December, Henry and Eleanor were crowned in a splendid ceremony at Westminster’s great abbey. What would become known as the Plantagenet dynasty had begun.
Westminster Palace was not habitable, for it had been despoiled after Stephen’s death, and Henry and Eleanor were forced to lodge across the river at Bermondsey, in a once-royal manor now owned by the Cluniac priory of St Saviour. Ranulf and Rhiannon had found lodgings at Bermondsey, too, in one of the priory guesthouses. They had very comfortable quarters, for the monks had been lavish with their hospitality. Rhiannon had been puzzled at first by such solicitude, for she’d been slow to comprehend how important her husband now was, as kinsman and close confidant of the young king. And once she did understand, she was frightened, for never had England’s siren songs sounded so tempting, so seductive. How long could Ranulf resist their blandishments?
She no longer feared losing Ranulf to Annora, or even to England. After nearly five years of marriage, she did not doubt that he loved her. Her fear was of losing Wales. Lying awake on this cold December night, waiting for Ranulf to return from a private meeting with his nephew, she made herself face a troubling truth: that her husband might well want her and Gilbert to live in England now that Harry was king.
Ranulf did not know how unhappy she was in this alien land, for she’d confided only in the Almighty. How could she complain? His family had tried to make her welcome. Harry and Eleanor, Maud, Amabel, even Rainald, in his bluff, hearty way-they’d all been kind. But there was no acceptance beyond their small, select circle. She knew that to most people, she would always be an oddity, an object of curiosity, pity, and suspicion. Ranulf Fitz Roy’s blind, Welsh wife.
Across the room, Gilbert mumbled in his sleep, and Rhiannon sat up, listening intently until she was sure he was dreaming. He was not happy in England, either, as homesick as she was. She’d been assuring him that they’d be going home soon, but no longer, for there was no comfort in a lie. Tonight when he’d complained of “missing Grandpapa and Aunt Eleri,” she’d said only, “Me, too, Gilbert, me, too…”
Tossing and turning in the bed, she tried to imagine what her father and sister would be doing now. Sleeping, most likely. Eleri might still be awake, though, for she’d gotten pregnant within two months of her summer wedding. Where would she be when Eleri’s time was nigh? How could she not be there for her little sister in the birthing chamber?
Pummeling her pillow, she wondered if Ranulf understood about hiraeth. It translated as “longing,” but meant so much more, the love of the Welsh for their homeland, a sense of belonging, pride in their past, why they did not thrive when uprooted, like plants set down in foreign soil. If Ranulf wanted them to live in England, she would offer no protest, for she would have followed him to Hell if need be. But it would be a life in exile.
Rhiannon was sure she’d be awake till dawn, but sometime before midnight, she fell into an uneasy doze. Her dream was not a pleasant one, and she awoke with relief, to find her husband in bed beside her. As soon as she moved, he drew her into his arms. “Harry and Eleanor asked after you, Rhiannon. How is your headache?”
“Much better,” she lied. “How was your evening?”
“Interesting.” Ranulf tightened his arms around her, breathing in her fragrance, familiar and flower-sweet. “It’s begun to snow,” he murmured, “just in time for Christmas.”
“Gilbert will be right glad,” she said softly. Their first Christmas away from Wales. How much snow could make up for that?
“Harry is a whirlwind on two feet, lass. King only four days and already with plans enough to keep him busy for years. He means to name Thomas Becket as his chancellor and Robert Beaumont as a justiciar. To punish William Peverel for poisoning the Earl of Chester, to expel the last of the foreign mercenaries, and reclaim those crown castles which Stephen lost and appoint new sheriffs and make the King’s Peace more than just a hope and a prayer. And all that is just for a start!”
“I hope he plans to rest on the seventh day.”
Ranulf laughed. “That is what Eleanor said, too!” Leaning over, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “Harry offered me an earldom tonight,” he said, and Rhiannon went rigid in his arms, for a moment able to hear nothing but the beating of her own heart.
“I…I thought he would,” she managed to whisper at last.
“I knew he would, too. He takes pleasure in giving, and who can give more than a king? It was no easy task, convincing him that I did not want it-”
“You turned down an earldom?”
“You sound like Harry did, love-like you swallowed your tongue! Yes, I did. I told Harry I’d be right pleased to accept as many manors as he can spare, preferably in the Marches, but I’ll be wanting no English earldom. That is why I was late getting back. It took me nigh on two hours to persuade him that I was not drunk!”
“But…but why?”
“I think you know, Rhiannon. Our son is three quarters Welsh. I want him to grow up in Wales, to know where he belongs. An English earldom would yoke him to England, whether he willed it or not. When he is of an age to know his own mind, mayhap he might choose that golden yoke. But the choice ought to be his. Until he can make it, though, I must choose for him-and I choose Wales.”
“Ranulf…are you sure?”
“Very sure. I just hope our lad finds half the happiness in Wales that I did.” He kissed her again, and tasted
