CHAPTER SEVEN
April 1159
Trefriw, North Wales
In just two days, the churches of Gwynedd would be pealing out the advent of Palm Sunday, but winter still held fast in the high mountain passes and heavily wooded hillsides. Patches of snow glistened above the timberline of Moel Siabod and a raw, wet wind was making life miserable for men and animals alike. It would not normally be a day for visiting and so the dusk appearance of a lone rider caused a stir. A groom was soon hastening into the hall, blurting out that Lord Owain’s son was dismounting in the bailey.
Rhodri and Enid made much of their unexpected royal guest, ushering Hywel toward the hearth, taking his muddied mantle, calling for mead and cushions. Rhiannon’s greeting was equally warm, for Hywel was now firmly lodged in her good graces. All of them wanted to know what he was doing out in such wretched weather, expressing astonishment that he did not have an escort and reminding him that it was both dangerous and unseemly for a king’s son to venture about on his own.
Ranulf thought he had the answer to that particular puzzle. If Hywel was alone, it meant he’d been paying a discreet, clandestine visit to yet another light o’ love, one with either a protective father or a jealous husband. As their eyes met, he had confirmation of his suspicions in Hywel’s sudden grin. He wondered idly who this latest conquest was; women came and went with such frequency in Hywel’s life that it was hard to keep track of them, even for Hywel.
Hywel’s secret liaison had obviously gone well, for he was in high spirits, flirting with Enid and Rhiannon, joking with Rhodri, eating heartily of their plain Lenten fare. Over a dinner of salted herring, onion soup, and dried figs, he regaled them with tales of the recent English expedition into South Wales against the rebellious King of Deheubarth, Rhys ap Gruffydd. Henry had dispatched the Earls of Cornwall, Gloucester, and Salisbury to lift Rhys’s siege of Carmarthen Castle. Although Rhys was his sister’s son, Owain Gwynedd had been compelled by the English king to contribute a contingent to the royal force, too, led by his brother Cadwaladr and his sons, Hywel and Cynan. Yet this formidable English-Welsh alliance had failed to bring Rhys to heel and they’d had to settle for another truce, a rather inglorious end to such a redoubtable campaign.
Ranulf couldn’t resist pointing this out to Hywel, but the Welsh prince took the raillery in good humor. “You do not truly expect me to lose any sleep over the English king’s feuding with Rhys? Life is too fleeting to waste time fretting about other men’s troubles.”
They laughed and urged him to tell them more about the campaign. He did, relating several comical stories that ridiculed both the heroics of war and his English allies, garnering more laughter for his efforts. But Hywel had a poet’s keen eye and he was not deceived by the apparent harmony in Ranulf’s household. During the course of the dinner, he’d taken note of Rhiannon’s reddened, swollen eyes, and he’d noticed the sidelong, surreptitious glances Rhodri cast in his nephew’s direction from time to time. Even the complacent Enid was showing signs of distraction, for she had neglected to apologize profusely and needlessly to Hywel for the quality of their meal, as she’d unfailingly done in the past. As for Ranulf, his laugh was too hearty and his humor hollow, at least to one who knew him as well as Hywel.
Putting aside the last of his dried figs, Hywel complimented Enid extravagantly upon the dinner and then insisted that Ranulf accompany him out to the stables to see his new stallion. Ignoring Ranulf’s halfhearted protests, he collected their mantles and a lantern, then headed for the door, giving Ranulf no choice but to follow. The rainstorm heralded by the day’s damp wind had finally arrived, and they hastened across the bailey, pulling up their hoods.
The horses had been fed and bedded down for the night, their groom over in the hall having his own dinner. Raising the lantern, Ranulf started toward one of the stalls, saying, “Come on, show me this wonder horse so we can get back inside where it is warm.” When the flickering light revealed a dappled grey muzzle, he turned to stare at Hywel in surprise. “Either this new stallion of yours is a twin to your Smoke or you had far too much mead tonight. Which is it?”
“You’re right, that is Smoke. I needed an excuse to talk to you alone.”
Ranulf frowned. “Why? What is wrong?”
“You tell me.” Hywel moved closer so that they were both standing within the small pool of light spilling from the lantern. “What has your wife and uncle so distraught? And why do I suspect the King of England’s name will soon be creeping into our conversation?”
Ranulf smiled tiredly. “You do not miss much, do you?” Turning aside, he sat down on a workbench and gestured for Hywel to join him. “My nephew is about to go to war against the Count of Toulouse and he has issued a summons to his barons, myself included, to meet at Poitiers on June twenty-fourth.”
“And your family does not want you to go.”
“They are adamantly opposed, and I cannot seem to make them understand that I have no choice. Rhiannon has turned a deaf ear to my arguments, reminding me that she did not object when I answered Harry’s summons two years ago, as if that were a debt she can now collect. I know women can be unreasonable…” And for a moment, an unbidden ghost flitted across his memory, strong-willed and stubborn. Startled, he shook his head, banishing Annora Fitz Clement back to the past where she belonged. “But I thought Rhiannon would be more sensible-”
Hywel’s laughter cut off the rest of his complaint. “Let me see if I have this right. You will be going off to foreign parts to fight in a war that has nothing whatsoever to do with Wales and you have no idea how long you’ll be gone. And you wonder that your wife is balking?”
“Rhiannon does have a legitimate grievance. I know that. But it changes nothing. This is a summons from my king, not a neighbor’s invitation to dinner! Refusal is not an option, Hywel.”
“I know,” Hywel conceded. “You think I was eager to ally myself with that milksop Gloucester? I did it because my lord father wanted it done; why else?”
“Exactly. There are things men must do. Since we are speaking so plainly, I very much doubt that Lord Owain took any pleasure in helping the King of England defeat one of his own. Rhys is a rival and often a thorn in your father’s side, but he is still Welsh, and a kinsman in the bargain. Yet your father had done homage to the English king, so he had no choice. No more than I do. I only wish there were some way I could make Rhiannon see that.”
“You will not. She will never understand. But she will accept it, because she has no choice, either.” Hywel unhooked a flagon from his belt, passed it to Ranulf. “Take a swig and then tell me where Toulouse is and why the English king is willing to fight a war over it. Which motive are we dealing with-greed or revenge?”
“Most likely lust.”
Hywel blinked. “What?”
“This war can be explained in three words: Eleanor of Aquitaine. Toulouse is a rich region to the south, with Mediterranean ports and fertile harvests. The Count of Toulouse, Raymond de St Gilles, is not only the French king’s vassal, he is also his brother-in-law, for Louis wed his sister Constance to Raymond five years ago. Poor Constance has not had much luck with husbands. Previously she’d been wed to King Stephen’s son Eustace, about whom nothing good can be said. And gossip has it that Raymond maltreats her, too, for all that she has borne him three sons in as many years.”
“I like gossip as well as the next man, but this woman’s marital woes can wait. Where does Eleanor come into this?”
“Eleanor’s grandmother Philippa was the only child of Count William of Toulouse. But upon his death, Toulouse passed to his brother, not to Philippa. Philippa was wed to the Duke of Aquitaine, and they always viewed Toulouse as rightfully theirs.”
“I see. So you think Eleanor has prodded her husband into asserting her claim to Toulouse?”
Ranulf nodded. “Whilst wed to the French king, she coaxed him into taking that same road. Nigh on twenty years ago, Louis led an armed force into Toulouse, was soundly rebuffed, and withdrew in humiliating haste. But a second husband gives her a second chance, and she’s not one to let an opportunity go by unheeded.”
“Neither is Henry,” Hywel pointed out dryly. “I doubt that he needed much persuasion. But in their eagerness to return the lost sheep to the fold, so to speak, they seem to have forgotten about the sheepdog.”
