Time and Chance (45 page)

One of the Flemish sergeants lay bleeding in the road, struck by a large rock that had come plummeting from the heights above them. Before anyone could reach the injured man, other rocks began to roll down the slope, and then there was a roaring sound and part of the cliff crumbled away, a wave of mud and turf and boulders engulfing the dazed soldier and those who’d hastened to his aid. Henry clung to his plunging stallion’s reins, somehow kept the petrified animal from bolting. Hitching it to the closest wagon, he ran forward. But there was nothing to be done. Their broken bodies swept along like debris in a floodtide, the men caught in the avalanche were gone.

As soon as they could find a suitable place to pitch camp, Henry ordered it done even though it was not yet dusk. He’d seen the stunned faces of his men, staring down mutely at the torn-up, flattened grass that marked the mudslide’s track, and he ordered, as well, an extra ration of ale with supper. But that night he was awakened by the sound he most dreaded to hear: the drumbeat of rain upon the canvas roof of his tent.

 

 

 

ALL EYES were upon Henry. But no one spoke. It had already been said, the arguments made for retreat. The wretched weather. The danger of another mudslide. Men with empty bellies and loose bowels and a weakened will to fight. The specter of hunger stalking them as relentlessly as the shadowy, unseen wolves who’d learned that armies were worth trailing. Henry knew that the arguments were right, rooted in common sense and a realistic assessment of their worsening plight. But still the words stuck in his throat as he turned and finally said, “So be it. Make ready to withdraw at first light.”

Every man in the tent was relieved by that grudging command, none more so than Ranulf. He sagged down on one of Henry’s coffers, drawing his first easy breath in weeks. But then Henry said grimly, “We will go back to Chester and await the arrival of the fleet I hired from the Danes in Dublin. This war is not over yet.”

 

 

 

THE ENGLISH RETREAT was disorderly and hurried, as retreats usually are. Harassed by the Welsh, Henry’s army retraced its route through the Ceiriog Forest and headed back toward the border. There was some skirmishing between the more zealous of the Welsh pursuers and the English rearguard, but eventually Henry’s men reached safety in Shropshire. After halting in Shrewsbury to treat the wounded and ailing, Henry collected the hostages surrendered to the Crown eight years earlier by the Welsh princes, and continued north to Chester. There he encamped his army on the Wirral Peninsula northeast of the city and settled in at Shotwick Castle to plan the next stage of his Welsh war.

 

 

 

HENRY’S CHAMBER in Shotwick Castle’s great square keep had been transformed into a council of war. The trestle table was littered with maps of Wales—none of them very accurate, for mapmaking was not an advanced science. As the men crowded around the table, Henry gestured with a quill pen, splattering ink upon the parchment as he pointed out the proposed route his army would follow upon their return—along the coast road toward Owain Gwynedd’s manor at Aber—while his fleet ravaged the fertile lands of the island called Môn by the Welsh and Anglesey by the English.

Glancing up as the door banged open, Henry flashed a smile at the sight of Ranulf. “Ah, there you are, Uncle. Come take a look at this new map—”

“Tell me it is not true, Harry! You cannot mean to take your vengeance upon the Welsh hostages?”

“Of course not,” Henry said indignantly and the hurtful, heavy pressure squeezing Ranulf’s ribcage began to ease.

“Thank God!”

“You, of all men, ought to know me better than that, Ranulf. That would be an unworthy act, both cruel and mean-spirited. The hostages are not scapegoats, but pledges of Welsh loyalty. It is as pledges that they must be punished, and for no other reason—”

Ranulf’s mouth was suddenly so dry he could not even spit. “You cannot kill them, Harry!”

“I do not want to kill them, Uncle. They must pay the price for the treachery of Owain Gwynedd, Rhys ap Gruffydd, and the others, but I will forbear to make this a blood debt. That is why I have given the command that they are only to be blinded and maimed, not delivered to the gallows.”

“ ‘Only blinded and maimed . . .’ ” Ranulf’s voice thickened. “Jesú, do you hear yourself? Two of the hostages are Owain Gwynedd’s sons, another is Rhys ap Gruffydd’s. What if you’d turned one of your sons over to the Welsh? Could you talk so calmly of a mere maiming if it were your own facing the knife?”

“If I’d given up my son as a hostage, I would have kept faith with his captors! If you must lay blame about, lay it then at Owain Gwynedd’s feet! If he cared for his sons, why did he put their lives at risk?”

“What choice did he have? He loves Wales as he loves his sons!”

The other men had been listening, openmouthed, to this quarrel so unexpectedly sprung up in their midst. Their faces were as familiar to Ranulf as his own—his brother Rainald; his nephew Hamelin and cousin Hugh, the young Earl of Chester; the Earls of Leicester and Arundel—but he could find in none of them echoes of his outrage. They were staring at him without comprehension, unable to understand either his rage or his sickened sense of betrayal. Pushing his chair back, Rainald said, in the soothing tones one might use to placate a drunkard or madman:

“Ranulf, the whole point of taking hostages is that they must be sacrificed if faith is breached. Otherwise, the system makes no sense. Surely you see that? By sparing the lives of these Welsh hostages, Harry is showing considerable magnanimity and mercy, more than the Welsh deserve after such treachery—”

“There is no mercy in gouging out a prisoner’s eyes or taking a knife to his manhood! It is barbaric,” Ranulf charged, and blood surged up into Henry’s face.

“I have been more than patient with you, Uncle. Again and again, I have made allowances for your wavering loyalties. But no more. You have sworn an oath to the English Crown—to me, your father’s grandson and your lawful king. It is time you remember it!”

“Owain Gwynedd is my king, too!”

There were loud gasps at such heresy. “And a right fine king he is,” Henry said scathingly. “You think I do not know about Owain Gwynedd’s bloody vengeance against his own kin? He had his nephew blinded and gelded, by Christ! Where is the honor or mercy in that?”

“I care naught for Owain Gwynedd’s sins. They are between him and God. I do care about your sins, Harry. For the love I bear you, do not put your soul at risk like this. Would you truly sacrifice your chance of salvation just to avenge a battlefield loss?”

“I am not after vengeance! I am doing what must be done, and it matters little if I like it not. Not only do you know nothing about the duties of kingship, you plainly know nothing about me!”

“Stephen would never have committed this cruelty!”

That was the one insult Henry could not forgive. “You dare to hold Stephen up as an example—the usurper who stole my mother’s crown? Need I remind you that Stephen once hanged the entire garrison of Shrewsbury Castle, more than ninety men? Is that what you would have me do with these Welsh hostages? You tell me, Ranulf—is it to be the punishment I ordered or the gallows?”

Ranulf looked at his nephew, saying nothing. And then he turned abruptly on his heel, strode out of the chamber.

Henry stared at that closing door before swinging around to face the other men. “I have no choice in this. If I let their rebellion go unpunished, the Welsh would take my mercy for weakness. You do all see that?”

They hastened to affirm their agreement, with convincing sincerity. Somehow, though, their approval did not give Henry the balm he needed. “Why,” he said, “does Ranulf not see that, too?”

 

 

 

HENRY SLEPT POORLY that night. His anger at what he considered an unjust accusation continued to smolder. He was not introspective by nature. Rarely did he attempt to probe beneath the surface for hidden emotions, covert motivations. But he was troubled by Ranulf ’s challenge, that he was taking out his frustration and anger upon the Welsh hostages. Lying awake during those solitary hours before dawn, he sought to convince himself that he was not lashing out in vindictive, retaliatory rage. Not to punish the Welsh hostages would be to subvert the entire process. If men could offer up hostages with impunity, sure they’d never be harmed, what inducement had they to keep faith? Hostages were only demanded from untrustworthy allies or disaffected vassals, when honor alone was not enough to guarantee a man’s loyalty. The Welsh princes had failed to live up to their part of the bargain. It was up to him now to exact a penalty for that breach. In mutilating and blinding the hostages, he would be teaching the Welsh that there were always consequences in this life, even for the highborn. Such a lesson might well deter future rebellions.

Yet his sense of disquiet lingered. As far back as he could remember, his mother’s brother had been there for him—fighting in the bloody civil war to oust Stephen, offering wry advice and affection that was more paternal than avuncular. Henry’s own father had died when he was eighteen, and although Ranulf and Geoffrey could not have been more different, his bond with Ranulf had helped to ease his feelings of loss. This sudden threatened rupture in their relationship disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.

He’d hoped to get word that day about the projected arrival of his fleet. It did not come. Surely they must have sailed from Dublin by now? It was September already, and as much as he wanted to quell this Welsh rising here and now, he was not so sorely crazed as to attempt a winter campaign. Welsh weather was vile enough under the best of circumstances.

After dispatching a courier with a letter to Eleanor at Angers, where she awaited the birth of another child, he found an excuse to confer with his other uncle, Rainald of Cornwall. Rainald was not usually his choice of confidants. Despite the fondness between them, Henry had never shared any secrets of his soul with Rainald, not as he had with Ranulf and Thomas Becket. Rainald was a companion for good times, a practical jokester whose bluff heartiness hid sorrows that few suspected: a mad wife, a sickly heir, and a dearly loved bastard son who would never inherit his earldom. But Rainald was the one most likely to know the state of Ranulf’s mind on this morning after their quarrel.

Henry wasted no time in coming to the point. “Have you talked with Ranulf yet?”

Rainald shook his head. “I thought it best to give his temper time to cool. Now your mother and my sister, God love her, can hold a grudge until her last mortal breath, but that is not Ranulf’s way. He’s always been quick to flare up, no less quick to forgive. That is not to say he is not still hurting, Harry. He has a soft spot where the Welsh are concerned, for certes, but in fairness, how can we fault him for it? Not only did he have a Welsh mother, but he positively dotes upon that blind Welsh wife of his.”

“I’ve always liked Rhiannon,” Henry said, and Rainald looked at him in surprise.

“Well, I like the lass, too, Harry. But that does not change the fact that she is bat blind, now does it? What I’m trying to say is that a man with a blind wife is going to feel more pity than most for hostages about to lose their sight.”

“I had not thought of that aspect of it,” Henry conceded. “That does explain why he took it so personally.” After a pensive silence, he gave his uncle an inquiring look. “You think I ought to talk to him?”

Rainald, who could occasionally be more subtle than others realized, concealed a smile. “I think that is a good idea,” he said solemnly. “Shall I fetch him for you?”

“Yes,” Henry said and, as usual, once he made up his mind, he wanted to act upon it straightaway. “Go get him, Uncle.”

But Rainald was gone a surprisingly long time and when he eventually returned to Henry’s chamber, his demeanor was so subdued that Henry immediately knew something was amiss. “Well? Where is he?”

Rainald hesitated. “I searched the camp over, Harry,” he said at last. “But he is gone.”

“Gone where?” Henry said tautly, even though he already knew the answer.

“He rode out last night after your quarrel. By now I fear he is well on his way into Wales.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ROAD HOME was long and hard and Ranulf rode it alone. He owed the Crown the service of four knights for his English manors, but Henry had not claimed it of him in the Welsh war. Spared the need to provide fighting men, he’d taken along only two English-born squires, and he dispatched them to his closest Cheshire manor before heading west into Wales.

A state of war still existed and so he thought it prudent to avoid the main roads, where he’d be most likely to encounter Owain Gwynedd’s scouts and patrols. After fifteen years in Wales, he knew of the alternate routes, the deer tracks and woodland trails and local byways. His roundabout, circuitous journey was prolonged by the continuing wet weather. While the rains were nothing like the torrential deluge that had assailed the English in the Berwyns, they were still substantial enough to make travel both arduous and unpleasant. By the third day in the saddle, Ranulf had developed a low fever and a troublesome cough.