refrained, for he was supposed to be on his best behavior. Reminding himself of that, he ignored the tempting subject of the Lady Nest, instead offered some courtesies about the cathedral, the saint’s shrine, and the bishop’s hospitality.
Bishop David gulped and then did what he must, declaring that the King’s Grace and his entourage were welcome at St David’s for as long as it might please them, seeking to disguise his discomfort with lavish compliments and much talk about the “honor” of this royal visit.
Henry knew better. “That is most kind of you, my lord bishop. We will, of course, be pleased to dine with you. But I regret that we cannot accept your generous invitation to stay at Menevia, for I must return to Pembroke this eve.”
Bishop David’s relief was so transparent that Henry had to hold back a smile. His uncle Ranulf had often joked that a royal visitation was about as welcome as a biblical plague of locusts, stripping bare every cupboard and blade of grass in their path. Had the bishop looked upon life with more humor, Henry might have jested about his plight. As it was, he contented himself with the knowledge that his pilgrimage to St David’s had gone so well. Facing a fearsome sea voyage to Ireland, it behooved a man of faith to court the goodwill of one of the most celebrated of Christendom’s saints. And if word of his visit-and his offerings of brocaded silk and silver coins-got back to the Holy See, so much the better. He well knew that his papal currency had dwindled down to a handful of farthings, not enough to buy delay, much less absolution.
“I need have no fears of Purgatory when I die, for I am expiating all of my sins on the road to Pembroke,” Rainald moaned, no longer bothering to clutch his mantle close against the gusting rain; he was already drenched, wetter than any fish.
“Somehow, Uncle, I doubt that your sins can be as easily shriven as all that.”
Rainald turned in the saddle to glower at his companion. It wasn’t Roger’s joking that offended him. He was vexed that his nephew could sound so cheerful under such drear circumstances: riding along a muddy mountain path in a pouring rain as night came on, all because his other nephew was a lunatic. Who but a lunatic would drag them out into a storm when they could be snugly abed back at the bishop’s palace?
Roger knew exactly what he was thinking, for Rainald had been complaining nonstop. “We’re almost there,” he said encouragingly. “Surely you can endure a few more miles?” Getting another groan in reply, he kicked his stallion lightly in the ribs and overtook his cousin, riding just ahead.
Henry slanted a smile over his shoulder. “Is Uncle Rainald hurling more curses at my head?”
“Be thankful he does not practice the Black Arts or you’d have been struck down miles ago.” Roger grinned, for he was still young enough to share Henry’s indifference to the weather. “I think you are to be commended, Harry, for sparing the bishop’s larders and his pride. It was plain to see that he could not afford the openhanded hospitality that we’d find in Normandy or England. As it was, some of our men had to eat standing up even though you’d deliberately limited your escort to three hundred. If we’d stayed overnight, St David’s might never have recovered from the honor!”
The rain was coming down too heavily for Henry to see his cousin’s face, but Roger’s voice held a levity that he hadn’t heard for almost a year. Roger had defended him before the French court, and then made the dangerous winter journey across the Alps to argue his case to the Pope. He’d accompanied Henry back to England in August, ending his self-imposed exile, yet Henry knew that Roger held him responsible for Thomas Becket’s death. Roger did not confuse the legal concepts of “innocent” and “not guilty,” nor would he pretend otherwise. But Henry had noticed a thawing in recent weeks.
It had begun at Wolvesey Palace, when he and Roger paid a visit to Henry of Blois. The aged Bishop of Winchester was blind and feeble. He had not minced his words, though, bluntly telling the king that once he’d unleashed the hounds of Hell, he could not claim he was blameless for the destruction they did. Very few people had ever dared to speak to Henry with such uncompromising candor. Winchester had known he was dying and that may have unbridled his tongue. Henry had known he was dying, too, and so he’d accepted a judgment he thought to be unfair and biased; how likely was he to receive impartial justice from Stephen’s brother? He’d tried to view his silence as penance, for even at his most defiant, he could not deny that his reckless words had set in motion the bloody killing at Canterbury. But on this rain-sodden Michaelmas night, he saw the first flickering of light after months of darkness, the realization that his friendship with his cousin Roger might one day emerge from the shadow cast by Thomas Becket’s murder.
Although he’d not have admitted it, even Henry was relieved when they finally rode into the bailey of Pembroke Castle. Warming himself before the hearth in his bedchamber, he waved his squires aside when they would have helped him to undress. “Later, lads. For now, just fetch me some red wine.”
The youths exchanged startled looks, for that was a rare request. Eager to please him, they made a hasty departure for the buttery, already starting to squabble over which wine to select, Gascon or Rhenish, even though they knew Henry would want whatever they chose watered down.
As soon as they were gone, Henry sat down on a coffer, stretching his muddied boots toward the fire. He’d been detained at Pembroke for a fortnight, his will thwarted by westerly winds, and the delay was shredding his patience raw although his stay had been quite productive so far. In addition to his pilgrimage to St David’s, he’d made peace with the most powerful of the Welsh rulers, Rhys ap Gruffydd, accepted the submission of the erring Earl of Pembroke, and even enjoyed several successful hunts, the rain notwithstanding. But he was eager to be on his way and he knew these contrary winds could continue to blow for weeks to come.
He’d just taken his boots off when a knock sounded. “Enter,” he said, not bothering to turn around. But it was not his returning squires. Glancing over his shoulder, he was surprised to see both Rainald and Roger beaming at him. “Why are you two not abed?”
“We’ve brought you a visitor.”
“At this hour? What would you have done if I’d been asleep?” Rainald dismissed the objection with an airy wave of his hand. “We’d have had to awaken you, of course.” He and Roger exchanged grins, looking more like gleeful coconspirators than earl and bishop, stalwarts of the king’s council.
Puzzled and faintly irked by their complacent smiles and baffling behavior, Henry got to his feet as they stepped aside, revealing the man standing behind them in the doorway. And then a smile of his own slowly spread across his face.
“What are you waiting for, Uncle?” he said. “Come on in.”
After a barely perceptible hesitation, Ranulf did.
Henry’s squires had fallen asleep on their pallets. So had Rainald, who was sprawled, snoring, in the window seat. Roger held out longer, but at last he, too, was nodding drowsily and stifling yawns. “I’m going to bed now and leaving word that I’m not to be awakened until Friday.” Ignoring Henry and Ranulf’s gibes of “milksop” and “weakling,” he headed for the door.
They’d been conversing easily, interrupting each other freely, lapsing back into the bantering familiarity of a lifetime, almost as if the past six years’ estrangement had never been. They had discussed Henry’s plans for Ireland, where he meant to foil the ambitions of his Marcher lords, put a halt to the ongoing strife, and aid the Irish bishops in their attempt to bring Irish Church practices into conformity with Roman law. They had talked of Henry’s family, scattered throughout the Angevin empire like feathers on the wind: Eleanor in Poitiers with Richard and Joanna and Aenor, Hal in Normandy, Geoffrey in Brittany, Tilda in Germany, and John with the nuns at Fontevrault Abbey. And they had spoken of the smoldering tinderbox that was Wales.
North Wales had fragmented in the aftermath of Hywel’s death at Pentraeth. Gwynedd had been divided up amongst Owain’s surviving sons, with the lion’s share going to Davydd and Rhodri, Mon to Maelgwn, Nanconwy to Iorwerth, and the commotes in the west to Cynan. Few doubted, though, that this partitioned peace was doomed, kindling for yet another Welsh war of succession.
In the south, it was different. Rhys ap Gruffydd had none to challenge his supremacy, none but the might of the English Crown, and he had made a coldly calculated decision to ally himself to that alien power. He’d come to Henry near the Welsh border, offering hostages, horses, oxen, and fealty. Ranulf understood why he’d done so, and thought that Owain might have understood, too. But he did wonder if any mention had been made of the hostage son who had suffered for Rhys’s broken faith, the son now known as Maredudd Ddall, Maredudd the Blind.
When Roger shuffled sleepily off to bed, Henry had been telling Ranulf that he’d waived payment of most of
