She wanted to ask about the issue weighing most heavily upon her mind: if her son’s friendship with Thomas Becket had survived Becket’s elevation to an archbishopric. But Will had been monopolizing the conversation since the meal began, and she hadn’t the heart to interrupt; he’d always seemed so much younger than his years, in need of more coddling than his brothers.
Will was recounting their recent foray into South Wales to punish that unrepentant rebel, Rhys ap Gruffydd. “I would that all of our Welsh campaigns were so easy,” he enthused. Almost at once, though, he reconsidered and glanced apologetically toward Ranulf and Rhiannon. “No offense, Uncle. I know you are friendly with Owain Gwynedd. But Rhys is a horse of another color. He deserved whatever he got, and then some.”
Ranulf shrugged. “To tell you true, lad, I was glad to stay out of it. These old bones would rather sleep in my own bed, not on a rain-sodden field off in the middle of nowhere.”
“You’re not so old as that,” Will insisted, with more courtesy than conviction, for to twenty-six, forty-four did indeed seem much closer to the grave than the cradle. Having assured himself that Ranulf was indifferent to Rhys’s fate, he plunged back into his narrative with enthusiasm.
“In truth, it was more like a procession than an invasion, for we encountered little resistance. We even had Merlin on our side!” Will grinned at his mother’s puzzled expression. “It seems that Merlin had prophesied of ‘the coming of a freckled man of might,’ whose crossing of the ford at Pencarn would set chaos loose upon their lands. Of course we did not yet know of this prophecy and the ford was an ancient one, so Harry started to cross the stream at the ford in use now. But just then trumpets sounded and spooked his stallion, who balked at crossing. To calm him, Harry rode him along the bank and crossed at the abandoned ford-just as Merlin had predicted! After word of that got about, Rhys’s men lost heart and he had no choice but to surrender. How could he hope to defeat Harry and Merlin, too?”
“The fact that Rhys was badly outnumbered may have played a part in his decision,” Ranulf observed dryly, and Maude seized the opportunity to divert the conversation out of Wales, toward Canterbury.
“I am glad that Henry was able to punish this Welsh rebel with a minimum of bloodshed. I can only hope that he is as successful in his dealings with his new archbishop. You sailed with Henry back to Southampton in January, Will. I understand that Thomas Becket was there to greet Henry and Eleanor. Tell me how the reunion went. Did you detect any tension?”
Will shook his head. “No… not that I can remember. Harry and Thomas seemed glad to see each other, joking the way they always do.”
A faint frown creased Maude’s brow. As much as she loved her youngest son, he was not the ideal eyewitness, blind to nuance and oblivious to undercurrents. “What of you, Ranulf? You saw Henry ere you sailed for Barfleur. What is your judgment? Think you that their friendship is still intact?”
“That is not an easy question to answer. They’d both probably insist it was, if asked. When Harry proposed that Gilbert Foliot be chosen to fill the vacant see of London, Becket agreed to his translation from the see of Hereford. And when Becket attacked the abuses of multiple benefices and demanded that the king’s clerks yield them up, Harry did not object. He did insist, though, that Becket ought to practice what he preached and surrender the archdeaconry of Canterbury. I suppose you could argue that this shows they are both striving to be reasonable. But it is not an argument I could make with much conviction.”
Maude leaned toward Ranulf, her gaze intent. “I’ve heard troubling rumors about Becket’s efforts to reclaim those Church lands lost during the chaos of Stephen’s reign. I am not faulting him for that, mind you. But if the stories are true, he has been arbitrary and high-handed, ordering his men-at-arms to seize disputed estates rather than seeking to regain them in court. What do you know about this?”
“The stories are true. He has revoked all leases for the Canterbury demesne. In some cases, I think he merely meant to renegotiate the terms, but many are complaining that they have been denied legal process.”
“And he has rashly challenged the Earl of Hertford,” Maud interjected, “laying claim to the castle and Honour of Tonbridge. Admittedly, I do not know the particulars, so I cannot judge the validity of his claim. But surely it would have been more prudent to seek recovery in the king’s court? Instead, he demanded that Hertford do homage to him for Tonbridge. You can well imagine, Aunt Maude, how the earl responded to that!”
Maude could, indeed; she’d had a lifetime of dealing with prideful, thin-skinned barons. “That was foolishly done,” she said disapprovingly. “What does Henry think of these doings?”
“He has been flooded with complaints and petitions coming out of Kent, and he is understandably vexed. Yet he is puzzled, too. When he granted Becket a royal writ to regain alienated Church property, he never expected Thomas to go about it in such a tactless and overbearing way. So far he is trying to give Becket the benefit of every doubt. I’ve been surprised by the patience he has shown, I’ll admit. But then he still thinks of Thomas as his friend.”
“Not for long, I’d wager.” The Countess of Chester took a swallow of hippocras. “That flag of friendship may still be flying, but it is becoming more tattered by the day. Harry has been trying to convince himself that Becket just needs time to settle in, that once he feels comfortable as archbishop, all will revert back to the way it was between them. But how much longer can he cling to that hope?”
Maude was silent for a time, reflecting upon what she’d heard. “It sounds as if Becket is bound and determined to assert his independence at every opportunity. Whilst that may be understandable, it is also foolhardy and does not bode well for the future.”
The silence that followed was a somber one, broken only when Rhiannon asked her husband to cut her another piece of bread. At home, she would have done it herself, but she felt self-conscious in the presence of Ranulf’s formidable sister. Will had begun to fidget, for he knew from past experience that discussions about Thomas Becket might drag on endlessly, and he had news of his own to share.
“Tell me, Mama,” he said quickly. “How would you like to start planning a wedding?”
“A wedding? Whose?”
“Mine,” he said cheerfully. “Harry has found me a wife. I am eager for you to meet her, Mama, for she is as close to perfect as mortal woman has the right to be: fair to look upon and sweet-natured and soft-spoken and pious and-”
“An heiress, I trust?” Maude interrupted uneasily. It was obvious that her son was smitten with his future bride, and that was well and good, as long as the girl had more to recommend her than a pretty face.
“Indeed she is.” Will was now grinning from ear to ear. “I am to wed Isabella de Warenne, Countess of Surrey.”
“The widow of Stephen’s son?”
Will nodded. “Isabella was wed as a child, was just fourteen when she was widowed nigh on four years ago. She is old enough now to be a wife and mother, and we would like to be married here in Rouen. You missed Harry’s wedding, so I’d not have you miss mine.” Will waited then, for her verdict. He was reasonably certain that she would approve, but he needed to hear the words; he could not imagine wedding without his mother’s blessing.
The irony was not lost upon Maude that even in death, Stephen continued to shadow her path. She would have preferred that Will marry a woman with no links to the House of Blois, had never expected to share a daughter-in-law with Stephen. But it was not fair to blame the girl for a marriage made in childhood, a marriage in which she’d been given no say. And she was more than an enemy’s widow; she was a great heiress in her own right, would bring the earldom of Surrey to her husband. Henry had indeed done well by his younger brother. How jealous Geoffrey would have been, she thought sadly, and then smiled at her lastborn. “I am very pleased,” she said. “I am sure that Isabella will make you a good wife.”
Will beamed. “So am I,” he said, and when Ranulf proposed a toast to the new Earl of Surrey, he looked so joyful that Maude was able to forget, at least for a time, her qualms about Thomas Becket.
“I have long looked forward to the day of your wedding,” she said, and hoped that her son would find more happiness and contentment in his marriage than she had found in either of hers.
On the first day of July in God’s Year 1163, the King of Scotland and the Welsh rulers were summoned to do homage to Henry at Woodstock. As a Great Council meeting was scheduled afterward, the barons of the realm and princes of the Church were also expected to attend, and accommodations were soon filled to overflowing. By the time Ranulf arrived, he and his family had to settle for lodgings in New Woodstock, the borough Henry had founded a half-mile to the northeast.
Ranulf had fond memories of Woodstock. As a boy, he’d enjoyed visiting his father’s menagerie, and he was sorry to discover that the lions and leopards and camels were long dead, for he’d wanted to show them to his
