“When I called you a misbegotten, witless whelp without the brains God gave a flea…I was being too kind.”
Ancel laughed even harder at that, then waved an arm expansively about the tavern. “A great place you picked for our reunion, Ranulf. What…the lepers would not let you use their lazar house?” Catching a serving maid’s eye, he pantomimed a drink order. “If I pay for the next round of the local poison, can we agree to a truce? So tell me, why are you not barricaded with Geoffrey behind Argentan’s walls? Poor Maude-her luck has soured for certes. What irked her more, being penned up with her loving husband or missing the wedding in Bordeaux?”
Ranulf knew at once what he meant, for there were only two topics of conversation that summer, the war and the wedding. The Duke of Aquitaine had gone off on pilgrimage after his abortive campaign with Geoffrey, and he’d died that past April in Spain, lingering long enough to arrange a marriage between his fifteen-year-old daughter, Eleanor, and Louis, the son of the French king. It was his deathbed hope that he was thus safeguarding Aquitaine for Eleanor, giving her a husband powerful enough to protect her inheritance. The wedding was to take place in July, and had the circumstances been different, Ranulf would have enjoyed attending the revelries, watching Eleanor the Fair take her first step onto the road that led to the throne of France. But he was not amused by Ancel’s jest, for he resented its implications, that Maude was a vain, frivolous female, one who’d give equal weight to a crown and a wedding fete. He’d become very protective of his sister in these past eighteen months, had long since forgotten that he’d once harbored the same doubts about feminine resolve or womanly valor, and he said impatiently:
“There is not a soul to be found in all of Christendom who could distract Maude from what truly matters- claiming the throne Stephen stole. And if you think I’d rather talk about Eleanor of Aquitaine than Annora, you’re either drunk or demented or both. I’ve gone a year with no word from your sister, and that was long enough to last a lifetime. So let’s strike a deal here and now. You hand over Annora’s letters and I’ll not inspect her seal to see if you read them on the sly!”
Ranulf grinned and reached across the table for Annora’s letters. But Ancel had turned, was glaring accusingly at Gilbert. “You did not tell him?”
“Me? It was not my place to tell him,” Gilbert protested. “She is your sister, not mine!”
Ranulf frowned. “Tell me what? Annora is not ailing?”
“No,” Ancel said reluctantly, “she is well enough. But you’d best put her out of your mind, Ranulf, for she is married.”
Ranulf stared at him, then laughed. “How gullible do you think I am, Ancel? Next you’ll be telling me she has decided to become a nun!”
“Ranulf, I am not jesting. She is married, I swear it.”
Ranulf half rose from the bench, grabbed Ancel’s wrist. “That is a lie!”
“No…it is not. She was wed last Michaelmas to Gervase Fitz Clement.” Ancel tried unsuccessfully to break Ranulf’s grip. “I know you do not want to hear this, but it was for the best. It was a good match, for he is a kinsman of my father’s liege lord, Simon de Senlis, and holds manors in Shropshire and Leicestershire and Yorkshire-”
“Why are you lying like this? I know your father, know how he dotes upon Annora. He’d never force her to wed against her will, no matter how many manors the man had!”
“For Christ’s sake, lower your voices,” Gilbert urged, “for we are starting to attract attention!”
“Annora was not forced! She wanted the marriage!” Ancel was suddenly free. He rubbed his wrist, drew a deep breath, and repeated, “She wanted it, Ranulf, and that is God’s Truth.”
AS soon as he moved, Ranulf was assailed by pain. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lay very still, waiting for it to pass. It didn’t, though, and he forced himself to sit up, fighting back a wave of nausea. He had no idea where he was. It seemed to be a tiny cubicle up under the eaves of a roof, a dingy, sparsely furnished room that reeked of perfume and held only a straw mattress, a chamber pot, and several coffer chests that doubled as seats. The lone window was shuttered, and the air fetid and stale, oppressively hot. His clothes were scattered about in the floor rushes, and by gritting his teeth, he managed to ignore his throbbing head long enough to collect his crumpled tunic, linen shirt, and braies. He had to hunt for his chausses, finally finding the striped hose entangled in the sheets. But a search of the entire room did not turn up his money pouch.
He was slowly pulling on his boots when the door opened and a woman entered. “Awake at last, are you? I was beginning to think I’d have to charge you rent, sweeting!”
The light was so dim that Ranulf could tell only that she was young and plump. “What time is it?” he mumbled, and then, “No! Do not open the window!” But he was too late. Pulling the shutters back, she blinded him with a sudden surge of bright afternoon sunlight.
Groping his way down a narrow stairway, Ranulf emerged into an inn’s common chamber. A few men were seated in the shadows, and one of them now beckoned. As he moved closer, he recognized Ancel.
“Jesus God, you look like somebody pried off the lid of your coffin! Sit down ere you fall down, over here at the table. I do not suppose you want anything to eat yet?” Ranulf was not able to suppress a shudder, and Ancel grinned. “No, I thought not. I’m not surprised you’re so greensick, for you damned near drank Falaise dry. Oh…ere I forget, here is your money pouch. We thought I’d better hold on to it, since you were in no shape to fend off a mewling kitten, much less any of the cutthroat knaves prowling about this hellhole.” He watched as Ranulf slumped onto a stool, then slid a clay goblet across the table. “Have a few swallows of ale.”
Ranulf peered into the cup, thirst warring with queasiness. “So you paid the wench above-stairs, then? I owe her no money?”
“I even chaffered her price down, and a good deal I got for you, too. She was worth it, I trust? Ah…but you do not remember, do you? I suppose you do not remember the doxy at the Crane on Tuesday, either? A pity, for that one looked hotter than Hades!”
Ranulf took a tentative sip of the ale. “Where is Gib?”
“He’d begun to fret so about letting Lord Robert down that I finally sent him back to Caen. You’ll have to help me concoct a plausible excuse for my absence, or Lord Simon will have my hide.”
Ranulf blinked. “Tuesday, you said? What day is this?”
“Thursday.” Ancel laughed at Ranulf’s startled look. “Indeed, you have not drawn a sober breath for nigh on three days! Is that a record, you think?”
Ranulf glanced at Ancel, then away. Three days lost and he could remember none of it-Jesu! “I suppose I ought to thank you and Gib for making sure I did not do anything crazy-like breaking into another nunnery,” he said, with a grimace of a smile. “Ancel…tell me what happened.”
“When we got to England, Annora was hurting and angry and of a mind to listen when my father proposed the match with Gervase Fitz Clement. I know what you’re thinking, that she did it to spite you, and mayhap that is so, for Annora always did have a hellcat’s temper. But the marriage was the right choice, even if she did make it for the wrong reasons. Gervase is a man of breeding and wealth and influence. As I told you on Monday eve, he is kin to my lord, Simon de Senlis.”
“That I remember,” Ranulf snapped. “What of it?”
“He’ll be able to take good care of Annora, Ranulf. She’ll want for nothing. And he seems right fond of her, seems pleased to have such a lively young wife. His first wife died two years ago, leaving him with three children… and they took to Annora straightaway. Sometimes a second wife loses out when there are children from an earlier marriage. But Gervase has enough to provide well for his heir, and for any sons Annora gives him-”
Ranulf set the goblet down with a thud, sloshing ale onto the table. Annora naked in another man’s bed, bearing his children: the image was so vivid that he gasped. Tears burned his eyes and his throat closed up as he struggled with emotion just as raw and ravaging as physical pain. When he finally won his battle for control, he looked up, shaken, to find Ancel watching him with helpless pity.
“Ranulf, I am truly sorry. But it was for the best, and you’ll come to see that in time. You and Annora are too much alike; your marriage bed would have become a battlefield ere the year was out.”
Ranulf slammed his fist onto the table, a foolish move that triggered so much pain he feared his head would split wide open. “Damn you, shut your mouth!”
Ancel took no offense; in fact, he even looked contrite. An awkward silence fell between them, until Ranulf forced himself to ask, “Is…is she happy?”
Ancel hesitated. “When I saw her at Christmas, three months after her wedding, she seemed content. I’m sorry if that is not what you want to hear…”
