“She is visiting with the queen and my niece, the Lady Maud, and whilst she does, I rashly offered to keep our two hellions from wreaking havoc upon an unsuspecting Woodstock,” Ranulf said with a smile.
“I see that the king has given you the puppy. He mentioned to me that he had it in mind. Apparently it is an uncommon breed?”
“Yes, a Norwegian dyrehund. The king remembered that I’d bred them years ago and thought it would please me to have one again.”
“He can be very generous,” Becket said, and Ranulf nodded. He was frustrated by the formality of the conversation, made necessary by the archbishop’s entourage. He wanted to take Becket aside, dispense with protocol, and talk not of the king, but of Harry, the man they both knew so well. But Becket was always surrounded by others and he did not invite any opportunities. To the contrary, he maintained an emotional distance, one Ranulf had been unable to breach. Friendly but not familiar, he used courtesy and the deference due his office as a shield, effectively deflecting curiosity and intimacy, too.
Becket was talking about Roger of Gloucester’s elevation to the bishopric of Worcester. He seemed to hold Roger in high esteem, which might explain his willingness to approve Roger’s election. For certes, it was not to please Harry. Becket’s interest in pleasing the king seemed minimal, and Ranulf yearned to know why. But that was not a question he could ask, mayhap not even one Becket could answer.
They continued making polite, meaningless small talk for a while longer and then the archbishop and his retinue moved on. Ranulf reclaimed his seat, watching until Becket was no longer in sight. What was motivating the man? Was it pride? Had his newfound independence gone to his head? Ranulf remembered his sister’s foolhardy behavior when it seemed as if the crown was finally within her grasp. She’d acted arrogantly and recklessly, alienating the Londoners to such an extent that they’d rebelled and chased her out of the city. She’d lost her chances of queenship in that wild rout, and doomed England to another twelve years of civil war. Could Becket be following that same perilous path?
Or did he truly believe himself to be unworthy of the archbishopric? Did he feel the need to prove to the Church-and to himself-that he was no longer Harry’s man? Did he think that to serve God, he must first sacrifice his other self, disavow the worldly chancellor who’d been the king’s friend? Was he shedding his old identity the way a snake would shed its skin? Ranulf frowned, then called out an admonition to Gilbert, who had scrambled precariously up onto the garden wall. It served for naught to speculate like this. He could only hope that Becket would realize in time that neither the Church nor the Crown benefitted from confrontation and conflict.
“Ranulf? Is it really you?”
The voice was one he’d not heard in years, but he knew it at once, for it still echoed at times in his dreams. He sat, frozen in disbelief, as Annora Fitz Clement came toward him across the grassy mead. It had been sixteen years since he’d seen her last, at Shrewsbury’s fair, a memory that had yet to fade, still sharply etched and achingly vivid. She’d been clad in green, pregnant with her husband’s child, glowing with contentment-until she’d seen him standing there. For at least a lifetime, they’d stared at each other, as she pleaded silently that he not betray her. He’d never forgotten that look of fear on her face; in that moment, he’d finally seen her for what she was-another man’s wife.
She was garbed again in green, a moss-colored gown with tight-fitting bodice and wide skirts, the sleeves billowing out like streamers from her slender wrists. The black hair he’d loved to stroke was hidden away under a wimple of crisp white linen. She’d never been a great beauty, short and dark and so quick-tempered that he’d fondly called her “hellcat,” but from the time he was sixteen, she’d been the woman he wanted, the one he had to have, at whatever cost.
She’d almost reached him and he got hurriedly to his feet, kissing her hand and then her cheek. “You always were one for taking a man by surprise,” he said, with a strained smile. “It’s been a long time, Annora.” He winced as soon as the platitude left his mouth. It was bad enough that he suddenly felt like a tongue-tied raw lad, without sounding like one, too.
She laughed and let him seat her beside him on the bench. The conversation that followed was as proper as it was awkward: polite queries about family and health, as if there had been nothing between them but friendship. He offered his condolences for her father’s death, very belatedly, for Raymond de Bernay had gone to God four years ago. She assured him that her brothers were well and related a humorous story about Ancel, the friend of his youth. Ranulf smiled and nodded and tried not to recall the day Ancel had caught them together, calling his sister a slut and Ranulf a Judas.
“I do not believe it,” Annora exclaimed suddenly. “That puppy across the garden looks just like your dyrehund, just like Loth!”
“Loth was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of dog, but I have hopes for the pup… if only the children can stop squabbling long enough to agree upon a name for him.”
“Those are your children? Gilbert and Mallt?” She made a credible attempt at the Welsh pronunciation and gave him an impish smile. “You must wonder how I know that. I met them, you see, three years ago at the Chester fair.”
“Yes, I know. Rhiannon told me,” he said, and saw her surprise.
“Ancel named one of his sons after Gilbert, too. What was it I called the three of you… the unholy trinity? I was so sorry to learn of his death… a riding mishap of some kind?”
He stared at her. She did not know! But then, how could she? “Gilbert died,” he said, “because of me.”
“Because of you? I do not understand.”
“After I got your letter, telling me that you could not see me again, I set out for Shrewsbury hoping that I’d find you at the fair. When Gilbert learned that I’d gone off alone into an area under Stephen’s control, he was alarmed and rode after me. He never reached Shrewsbury, though. His horse bolted and threw him, breaking his neck.”
“Oh, Ranulf…” Reaching over, she gently touched his hand. For a time, they sat in silence, remembering and grieving and watching his children play with the dyrehund puppy. “I had to end it,” she said, very softly. “I promised God that I would, if only He’d let my baby live. I could not bear to miscarry again…”
“I know, lass,” he said sadly, “I know.” But he did not want to go down that road again. “How is your daughter?” he asked hastily, and her face lit up.
“Matilda is well nigh grown, almost sixteen. She looks like me, I’m told, but she has none of my faults. She thinks ere she acts and never breaks a promise and she brightens a room just by walking into it. I wish you could know her, Ranulf.” She paused. “I wish she were yours.”
“Ah, Annora…” He hesitated, not knowing what to say, and she reached again for his hand, lacing her fingers through his.
“The Shrewsbury fair is next month,” she said. “I expect to be there. Will you?”
He let his breath out slowly. “No,” he said, “I will not.”
Her fingers twitched, then jerked away from his. He knew how fast her temper could kindle, but she looked wounded, not angry. “I see,” she said stiffly. She made no move to rise, though. “I think I have a right to know why, Ranulf.”
He could give her the easy answer, that he was not free. But she’d never been one for taking the easy way, and he knew what her forthright response would be: why should his marriage vows matter more than hers? He could tell her that he loved his wife and it was the truth. He did not think she’d believe him, though. She’d never believe he could love another woman as he’d loved her. And he did not want to take that certainty from her if he could help it. “I am sorry, Annora,” he said at last. “Some wounds never fully heal.” He thought that sounded woefully inadequate, but at least it was not an outright lie.
She was gazing intently into his face. “Ah, Ranulf… I understand now.” Getting to her feet, she waited until he had risen, too, and then touched her hand to his cheek in a light, lingering caress. “I shall pray for Gilbert’s soul,” she said, “and for your peace.”
He understood then, too. Just as he’d seen her weave intricate wall hangings, she was creating a pattern out of loose threads of fact, transforming his rejection into a response she could live with. They were tragic lovers, doomed by fate and an unruly horse, kept apart by guilt and the ghost of Gilbert Fitz John. Rhiannon would remain the Welsh cousin he’d wed out of pity, a shadowy figure of no consequence, not a rival for his affections, never that. But how could he fault her for that fantasy? Had he not done the same? He’d spun out deluded daydreams about their future, justified their adultery, and given nary a thought to the impact of their affair upon her husband and stepchildren. It seemed like one of God’s more ironic jokes that he could see so clearly now, years too late.
