Rainald reported, grimacing as if he’d tasted something foul. “But he soon wore out his welcome. His Flemings thought they could take anything that caught their eye-food, livestock, women. And his countess had her nose so far up in the air that she’d have drowned if it began to rain. Bigod’s wife decided she’d rather entertain starving wolves as guests, and there was so much tension that Leicester and his wife-who fancies herself his chief military advisor-decided that they’d march west to Leicester Castle.”
“We have to stop them!” Geoff exclaimed, with such intensity that the older men smiled and Rainald could not resist teasing him a bit.
“Are you planning to ride with us, lad? I thought Harry meant to make you a prince of the Church. As a priest, your choice of weapons is somewhat limited. I guess you could always put the curse of God upon Leicester. He deserves it if any man does!”
Geoff tensed, hurt and offended. But then he caught Ranulf’s wink and relaxed, reassured that Rainald’s maladroit humor was not meant to wound. “I am not a priest yet,” he said, adding ruefully, “and in no hurry to take holy vows. My father believes that I’d make a far better cleric than I do, but he did agree to let me receive a knight’s training. I bloodied my sword when the French army fled Verneuil, so I am not such a novice as you think, Granduncle Rainald.”
“Jesu, lad, do not call me that! That makes me sound downright ancient, like a holy relic or one of those churchyard yew trees. Uncle Rainald will do just fine.”
“And we will stop them, Geoff,” Ranulf said. “You need not fret about that. Three days ago they took Haughley Castle. They ransomed the knights, but they burned the village to the ground. Haughley is just twelve miles east of St Edmundsbury. Leicester will not dare an attack upon the town, though, and he’ll try to circle around us. Once he does, we’ll strike.”
“And with God’s Blessings,” Geoff said emphatically, although his nerves throbbed with the realization that a battle could be looming within days. “I’d risk the surety of my soul to see Leicester called to account for his sins. At Gisors, he actually dared to draw his sword on my father!”
“So that really happened? We heard the story,” Ranulf said, shaking his head in bemusement, “but could scarce believe it.”
“And it is not as if Leicester has youth as an excuse,” Rainald pointed out, “not like my niece Maud’s idiot son Hugh, doing penance these days in a Falaise dungeon. Leicester was born the year after the sinking of the White Ship, which makes him more than fifty!”
“I suppose Leicester could plead madness,” Geoff commented acerbically, “for nothing less than lunacy can explain his actions. But what of his wife? If Peronelle is not welcome at Framlingham, where will she go when he heads for Leicester?”
“She’ll go with him,” Ranulf said with absolute certainty. “On the march to Framlingham, she rode at his side, wearing chain mail and bearing a lance and shield.”
Geoff was dumbstruck, but before he could respond, Rainald gave a short bark of laughter. “That must have been a sight to behold. Ranulf says there is a Greek myth about women warriors, and I suppose Peronelle thinks she is one of those…Amazons, was it, Ranulf? Not even Eleanor ever dared to arm herself as if she were a man!”
Eleanor’s name sank like a stone in the conversational waters and an awkward silence fell, for Henry’s uncles understood her conduct no more than he did. Rainald had been impressed by her beauty and her willingness to swap bawdy stories with him, and she’d won Ranulf over by befriending his wife, Rhiannon. She was now the enemy, though, for her glamour and past kindnesses counted for little against a betrayal of such magnitude. It was Ranulf who gave voice to their bitterness. “Raimon St Gilles warned Harry at Toulouse that he was ‘nurturing a viper in his nest.’ He did not believe it, of course. What man would believe that of his own wife?”
“No man would,” Rainald concurred. “Poor Harry. That Clifford chit is said to be a pretty little thing, but was there ever so costly a piece of tail? Not Harry’s fault, though. How could he have known Eleanor’s jealousy would turn her into a madwoman?”
Geoff could not defend Rosamund, for in the eyes of the Church, she was a wanton. Having met her, he did not like to hear her described so crudely, though, and since he did not feel comfortable taking Rainald to task for it, he chose to change the subject. “Is it true that the Earl of Gloucester is here with you?”
Ranulf nodded and Rainald explained cheerfully that Gloucester did not seem happy about it, but he had no choice. “He knows Harry thinks he is weak-willed, and since he is wed to Leicester’s sister, Harry would naturally wonder how susceptible he’d be to the earl’s blandishments. So he is here to prove that he is not as daft as his nephew Hugh.”
Geoff did not like the Earl of Gloucester, thought he was pompous and just as feckless as Henry suspected. But he felt an unwelcome prick of pity for the earl now; it did not seem fair that he should be tainted by his wife’s Beaumont blood. He was thinking that civil wars were the cruelest of all wars when a man stopped by their table. He was of medium height with closely clipped brown hair and beard, and looked to Geoff to be in his mid-twenties. His familiarity with Rainald and Ranulf indicated to Geoff that he was someone of substance, but he was taken aback when the introductions were made, for the newcomer bore a well-known name: Sir Roger Bigod.
“Bigod? Are you kin to the Earl of Norfolk?”
His query might have been tactless, but it was not ill-intentioned. He’d never outgrown his boyhood habit of speaking his mind. But Sir Roger bristled at the question. “The earl is my father,” he said defiantly. “What of it? Are you suggesting that we are trying to keep a foot in both camps and that is why I am supporting the king?”
Geoff blinked. “Good Lord, no! The thought never entered my head. I’d be the last man in Christendom to cast aspersions upon another man’s family loyalties. Look at mine. My half brothers could put Judas to shame, and whilst my lord father is willing to forgive them, I doubt that I ever can.”
Roger was disarmed by his candor and regarded Geoff with amused approval. “A few friends and I are going into town to get something to eat. You want to come along? Afterward we’ll show you the sights-taverns, alehouses, and mayhap a nunnery.”
Geoff grinned, for he knew “nunnery” was slang for a bawdy-house, and knew, too, that this was Roger’s way of apologizing for his flare of temper. “What are we waiting for?” he asked, pushing away from the table.
Roger grinned, too, but then his gaze fell upon Ranulf and Rainald. “You are also welcome to come,” he said, politely but not very enthusiastically.
Ranulf declined with a smile, and watched as Geoff and Roger headed for the door. Rainald watched, too, saying indignantly, “They think we are too old and decrepit for a night of drinking and whoring!”
“Well,” Ranulf said, “we are,” and after a moment, Rainald sighed.
“Yes, I suppose we are,” he agreed, somewhat sadly. But then he brightened. “At least we are not too old to fight!”
Ranulf thought that was debatable, for Rainald was sixty-three and he was just weeks away from his fifty- fifth birthday. He’d much rather have spent these past months back in Wales with Rhiannon, savoring their homecoming. But his nephew’s need must come first. There had been a time when he’d briefly been estranged from his eldest son, and he still remembered the pain of it. How much greater must Harry’s pain be, betrayed by his own blood, by those he had most reason to trust.
“We have a saying in Wales, ‘Dangos y cam a’i faddau yw’r dial tostaf ar elyn.’ It translates as ‘To disclose the wrong and forgive it is the severest revenge upon an enemy.’ But when it comes to those involved in this rebellion, Rainald, I find myself agreeing with Geoff, that there can be no forgiveness.”
Rainald signaled to a passing servant, snared two cups of ale, and passed one to his brother. “Let’s drink,” he said, “first to victory and then to retribution.”
They were making their way up Churchgate Street, having been warned by the Watch that curfew had rung, but in no hurry to return to the restrictive environs of the abbey. Geoff was in good spirits, for he’d enjoyed his outing with Roger Bigod and his friends. He’d had enough ale to feel mellow but not enough to suffer from it on the morrow, and he’d had a very satisfactory encounter with a young whore named Eve, was already looking forward to a return visit. When he said as much, though, Roger laughed.
“I’d not count on that, Geoff. Chances are that we’ll be leaving St Edmundsbury in the dust within a day or two at most.”
Geoff turned to look at the other man. “You think it will be as soon as that?”
“I do. Our scouts are keeping a sharp eye on Leicester. Once we know which road he means to take, we can
