There was a muffled cry from one of the women, a choked oath from Rhodri. Ranulf had to swallow before he could speak, for his mouth had gone dry. “How? What happened?”
“Monday morn… he… he complained of a pain in his arm, said he felt queasy of a sudden.” Peryf’s voice was still hoarse, but steadier now. When Ranulf shoved a stool toward him, he sank down upon it gratefully. “Then he fell over. Everyone panicked, people rushing about, bumping into one another, Cristyn shrieking like a madwoman, dogs underfoot, children crying. Lord Owain was the only one who kept calm… Lying there in the floor rushes, his head cradled in his wife’s lap, he told us to fetch a doctor and… and a priest.”
Rhodri hastily crossed himself and Enid began to sob; so did her maid and their cook. “Was there time for him to be shriven?” This voice was Rhiannon’s and Ranulf reached out, drew her to his side, thinking that she always went straight to the heart of the matter. Their relief was enormous when Peryf nodded vigorously.
“Aye, there was. He lived long enough to confess his sins and to be given extreme unction… and to name Hywel as his heir.”
The full import of Owain’s death hit Ranulf then. “Hywel… he’s gone?”
“Aye,” Peryf echoed, looking at Ranulf with swollen, fear-filled eyes. “Hywel sailed for Ireland ten days ago.”
THE DAY was surprisingly mild for late November, and England’s young king was taking full advantage of the weather’s clemency to practice in the tiltyard of Winchester Castle. Rainald cheered loudly each time Hal made a successful pass at the target, but even allowing for his avuncular partiality, Hal’s performance was deserving of applause. Astride a spirited white stallion, Hal was displaying both skilled horsemanship and a deft control of his lance, and he’d soon drawn an admiring audience. He would make a fine king one day, for certes, blessed with good looks, good health, and winning ways. If his judgment was still unduly influenced by impulse and whim, Rainald preferred to believe that these were flaws which would be remedied with maturity.
Reining in his stallion, Hal accepted a flask from one of his friends. As his eyes met Rainald’s, he grinned. “What do you think of Favel, Uncle? This is only the third time I’ve ridden him and already he anticipates my every command.”
“You’ve got a good eye for horseflesh,” Rainald agreed amiably. “Listen, lad, there is someone here who’d like a word with you. See that anxious soul in the brown mantle?”
The man pointed out by Rainald was small of stature and modestly garbed, and Hal’s gaze flicked over him and then away, without interest. “I was about to make another run at the quintain.”
“It will take only a few moments,” Rainald insisted, raising his hand in a beckoning gesture. “You met him earlier today, at your public audience in the great hall.” Seeing no recollection on Hal’s face, he added helpfully, “John of Salisbury.” Hal still looked blank. “He’s a noted scholar, a good friend to Thomas Becket, who has sent him on ahead to make sure the Freteval accords are being implemented.”
By then John of Salisbury was within hearing range and Rainald could offer no more prompting. He knew Hal was not pleased, but the youth dismounted as John approached, and that, too, Rainald had known he would do. He was more good-natured than his younger brothers, rarely showed flashes of his family’s infamous Angevin temper, and was usually willing to be accommodating if it didn’t inconvenience him greatly.
John bestowed a grateful glance upon Rainald before making a deep obeisance to the young king. Hal had greeted him with affable courtesy during their initial meeting, reminiscing about his years in Archbishop Thomas’s household, but he’d been flanked at all times by the chief lords of his court, men so hostile to the archbishop that their very presence hobbled John’s tongue. This chance to speak more candidly with the youth was God-sent.
“Lord Thomas will be returning to England within the week. When we last spoke in Rouen, he expressed his desire to see Your Grace as soon after his arrival as can be arranged. May I write and assure him that you, too, are eager for this reunion, my lord?”
“Of course I would be gladdened to see the archbishop again,” Hal said politely. “But you need to consult with my lord father’s chancellor about such matters.” If Hal appreciated the irony of fortune’s wheel-that the chancellorship which had once been Becket’s was now held by Geoffrey Ridel, one of his bitterest adversaries-it was not evident upon his face. “He will be better able to tell you when the archbishop can be made welcome.”
“Thank you, my lord,” John said hesitantly. At fifteen, Hal was already as tall as many men grown, towering over the diminutive scholar. His smile was easy, his manners polished, his hair sun-burnished, his eyes the color of the sky.
There was so much that John had planned to say. He’d meant to stress the dangers that awaited the archbishop upon his arrival to England, to speak of the archbishop’s many enemies, men of wealth and power who feared being dispossessed of the estates and honors they’d been enjoying during his long exile. He’d hoped to gain the young king’s assurances that he would not heed these enemies, nor listen to the malicious gossip they’d be murmuring in his ear. With King Henry still in Normandy, his son’s attitude was of the utmost importance, both to the archbishop and his foes.
“My lord king!” Geoffrey Ridel was striding hastily toward them, poorly concealing his alarm that his young charge should have slipped his tether. Giving John an irate look that spilled over onto Rainald, too, he was breathless by the time he reached them, intent upon ending this impromptu audience straightaway.
He need not have worried, for John had already realized that his mission was doomed to failure. The archbishop had been sure that Hal would be on his side. But John was an astute judge of men and he’d seen only one emotion in the depths of those sapphire-blue eyes: indifference.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
November 1170
Wissant, France
Thomas Becket was walking along the beach, gazing out across the sun-sparkled waters of the Channel. It was a cold d ay but clear, and the chalk cliffs of Dover could be seen glimmering in the far distance. Now that they were so close to ending their exile, some of his clerks were eager to return to their homeland and they’d been complaining among themselves about the delay in sailing. Although they were trailing behind the archbishop, the wind carried the words of one grumbler to Becket’s ears. Looking back over his shoulder, he queried, “What was that you said, Gunter?”
Gunter of Winchester smiled self-consciously, but his years of exile with the archbishop entitled him to speak candidly. “I said, my lord, that I was feeling like Moses, who saw the promised land and could not enter.”
Becket’s smile came and went so fast that some of the clerks missed it. “You ought not to be in such a hurry, Gunter. Before forty days are up, you will wish yourself anywhere but in England.”
This was not the first time that he’d made such ambivalent statements about their homecoming, and his companions exchanged worried glances. Becket had resumed walking and they hastened to catch up, Herbert of Bosham jockeying for position beside their lord, to the amusement of the others. When Becket stopped without warning, Herbert nearly ploughed into him, but the archbishop didn’t appear to notice, his attention drawn to a man striding purposefully across the sand toward them.
The newcomer was elegantly attired in a fur-trimmed woolen mantle and leather ankle boots, carrying in one hand a knitted pair of cuffed silk gloves. He looked like a royal courtier; in fact, he was a highly placed churchman, the Dean of Boulogne. He was also a fellow Englishman, and there was genuine pleasure in Becket’s cry of recognition.
“What are you doing here, Milo? Ah, I know… you heard we are about to sail and you’re hoping for a free ride with us to visit your kinfolk.”
Milo acknowledged the jest with a polite, perfunctory smile. “If I might have a word alone with you, my lord archbishop…?”
Becket acquiesced and, as the clerks watched intently, the two men walked together for a time along the shore, heads down, their mantles catching the wind and swirling out behind them. When they moved apart, Becket smiled and clapped Milo on the shoulder, then beckoned to his companions. “We are going back to our lodgings, where the Dean of Boulogne has graciously agreed to dine with us.”
The offer of hospitality was made with deliberate wryness, acknowledging the reduced circumstances of an
