The Innocent

anointed king.

Thibault, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had gathered together all the bishops of importance to await the king’s arrival in London. The coronation would take place in Westminster, although the great cathedral was in poor condition from long neglect. Still, it was the traditional crowning place of England’s kings, and on the Sunday before Christmas in 1154, Henry Plantagenet and Alienor of Aquitaine were crowned king and queen of England. He was twenty-one, and she thirty.

Afterward the king and queen rode through London, showing themselves to the people, magnificent in their coronation garb. The king’s white velvet tunic was embroidered with lions and lilies. He was young, handsome, healthy. His willingness to come to England despite the season and the hard crossing told his people that here was a man who would rule with vigor and enthusiasm. The beautiful queen was garbed also in white velvet, her gold and be-jeweled girdle glittering in the rare sunshine on this cold December day, her gold hair caught up in a golden and pearl caul, a bejeweled crown upon her head. She looked no older than her husband.

'Vivat rex!' cried the Normans.

'Waes hael!' shouted those English of Saxon descent.

The king and queen acknowledged the joyful greetings of their new subjects as they made their way through the city, and from there to Bermondsey, where they had taken up residence. The palace at Westminster, rebuilt on the original Saxon site by the king’s great-uncle, William Rufus, and made even more beautiful by his grandfather, Henry I, had, like the great cathedral, been despoiled and given over to neglect in the civil war between Stephen and Matilda. A feast was held that night, and bonfires blazed all over the city and surrounding countryside in celebration of the new king.

The following morning Ranulf took his leave of the court, along with his friend, Sir Garrick Taliferro. Together the two men rode for a time until finally Garrick turned onto the road west into Glouster and Ranulf headed northwest toward Ashlin. With luck, he would be home in time for Christmas. Home! His Eleanore! Their son!

'My lord! My lord!' Pax called shortly after Garrick had left them. 'We must stop and rest the horses. They are sorely winded. I, too, am anxious to get home, but 'twill take far longer if the horses die under us, and we must walk.'

Laughing at himself for his boyish impatience, Ranulf heeded his squire’s warning. They slowed their mounts to a walk and finally stopped at a small inn nearby to rest the night. The innkeeper’s wife fed them bread and stew. They slept with their animals, however, for the area was remote and poor. They could as easily awaken in the morning to find their beasts gone and Ranulf’s armor with them. The following day the lord of Ashlin manor kept a more reasonable pace. The weather, while cold, was at least dry. The next few nights they managed to find shelter at monastery guest houses, where there was at least some element of safety for them and their horses.

Finally on the afternoon of December twenty-fourth, they realized the landscape about them was familiar, and now they unconsciously hurried their horses. Coming over a hill, they saw Ashlin valley below them and the manor with its village just beyond its hill. Even the animals, sensing home, moved more quickly. Ranulf saw the sheep in the meadows and the cattle browsing in the pastures nearby. Relief swept over him. The Welsh had left them in peace despite their active raiding season of the summer past. He noted with pleasure that while the drawbridge was down, one side of the gates were firmly shut. His instructions had been followed to the letter.

There was no one in the fields at this time of day except two cowherds preparing to bring the cattle in for the night; and a few shepherds watching over the sheep. He waved to them. He could see the men-at-arms patrolling the walls, and then he heard the trumpet that was sounded to alert the gate that visitors were coming. He longed to push his mount into a gallop and race through his gates. Instead he held the warhorse to a sedate walk, clopping across the drawbridge and into the village.

'Welcome home, my lord,' the man on the gate said, but there was no smile for him.

Ranulf and Pax rode down the village street to the manor house. It was growing dark, and he could barely see the smoke from the chimneys, the flickering light from the tiny windows of the cottages. A sheaf of light poured suddenly onto the ground before his home as the door was flung open. Ranulf dismounted and handed the reins of his mount to Pax.

'Take the horses to the stables,' he said, and hurried inside.

'My lord, welcome home!' Cedric came forward, signaling a servant to take the master’s cloak.

Ranulf looked about the hall, recognizing the servants and Father Oswin, and saw a cradle by the fireplace that obviously contained his son. He walked over and was amazed at the child who stared back up at him. This could not possibly be his son. 'Where is Simon?' he asked to no one in particular.

Alyce giggled, then reached into the cradle and picked up the child. 'This is your son, my lord.'

'But…'

'You have been gone five months, my lord,' Alyce explained. 'Babies grow quickly. Here.' She thrust Simon into Ranulf’s arms.

Father and son stared at each other with the same eyes, the same expression. Ranulf was astounded, seeing himself mirrored so clearly in Simon’s face. 'By the rood!' he exclaimed. 'He surely is my spit!'

'He is, my lord,' Alyce agreed, taking back her charge.

'Welcome home, my lord,' Father Oswin said, coming to his side. 'I am well pleased that the lord of the manor will be here to celebrate the first of Christ’s Mass tonight.'

Ranulf nodded, looking about the hall, searching. 'Where is my wife?'

'Come, my lord, and let us sit,' the priest said.

He stood stock-still. 'Where is Eleanore, good Father?'

'Kidnapped by the Welsh last autumn, my lord,' the priest replied bluntly, then added quickly, 'but she is alive.'

Cedric pushed a goblet of wine into his master’s hand.

Ranulf drank deeply. 'How do you know? And how did it happen that my wife was vulnerable to such an attack? Where was Fulk and the rest of you that my lady was stolen away so easily? Why have you not yet recovered her safely?' Ranulf’s voice was rising, as was his temper, which few had ever seen, and certainly not here at Ashlin. There was a red mist forming before his eyes as his rage rose.

'Sit down, my lord,' the priest instructed, drawing his master to a chair by the fire. 'I will explain it all if you will but sit.'

Ranulf sank heavily into the carved armed chair.

'Shortly after you left, a girl, badly beaten and as thin as a willow wand, came to Ashlin and begged sanctuary. The lady gave it to her. We healed the girl’s wounds and fed her, and the lady included her among her women. Some weeks later a swineherd from the convent of St. Frideswide’s came to say the convent was under attack. The abbess had sent this man for our help. Nothing would do, my lord, but that the lady must send Fulk and enough men to drive off the Welsh.'

'Had there been an attack on the convent?' Ranulf asked.

'Yes, and no,' the priest said, and went on to explain the rest, concluding, 'When we realized the lady was gone, we were frantic.'

Fulk, who had hurried into the hall, took up the tale. 'I rode with my men through the night to reach Ashlin when I realized we had been deliberately drawn away, and that the swineherd had been sent by the Welsh themselves to lure us off. It rained for the next three days, my lord, and we could not search because there was no trail to follow. Finally, when the weather cleared a bit, I sent Sim out to find