Once Henry did take action, he moved with characteristic dispatch. By November 7th, he was at Barfleur, assembling a large fleet. But for all that Henry ruled Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and Aquitaine, and was now to rule the kingdom of England, he had no dominion over the weather. That November saw storm after storm raking the Channel, battering the seaports, churning up towering waves, and making it too hazardous to attempt a crossing. Barfleur’s inns and taverns overflowed with Henry’s entourage, brawls broke out among his bored soldiers, tempers frayed, and anxious eyes scanned the evening skies, searching in vain for signs of clearing. After four weeks of waiting, Henry lost all patience. They would sail on the morrow, he announced, and let the storms be damned.
A HIGH wind was whipping through the streets of Barfleur, tearing ale poles from their hangings, banging shutters, and discouraging all but the hardiest souls from gathering to watch as the royal fleet got under way. No rain had fallen since dawn, but the sky looked angry, splotched with ominous, leaden clouds, and patches of pale fog hid the horizon. Out in the harbor, the ships were pitching, masts bobbing up and down, queasy passengers huddled at the gunwales for one last glimpse of shore. Anchors were being winched up, sails unfurled, but the king’s ship was still moored at the quay, waiting for Henry to board.
The quay was almost deserted. “Watch your step,” Henry cautioned. “The footing is slippery in spots.” Maude nodded, tightening her hand on his arm. He stopped, then, for they’d reached the gangplank. “So…this is farewell, Mama. Unless you change your mind and come with us?”
She smiled, shaking her head. “We’ve already discussed this, Henry. It is best that I remain here, keeping an eye on Normandy in your absence.”
“I wish you’d reconsider. Will and my uncles and cousins will be there to witness my coronation, as will Eleanor’s brothers and Petronilla. Even Geoff,” he added dryly, glancing over his shoulder toward the ship, but failing to find his disgruntled brother midst the passengers milling about on the deck. “You ought to be there, too, Mama—you above all others.” He saw, though, that she would not relent, and yielded reluctantly. “As you wish, then. I do not understand your decision, but I will accept it.”
“Just as I’ve accepted your decision to sail on such a foul day,” she pointed out, “although I like it not.”
“I could wait no longer, Mama. But you need not fear, for we will outrun the storm. I am just sorry the seas were so rough on St Catherine’s Day. What could have been more fitting than to sail on the same day as the White Ship?”
She suspected he was joking, yet the very suggestion gave Maude a superstitious chill. “Jesú forfend! That would have been tempting Providence for certes, and had you been foolhardy enough to do so, I very much doubt that anyone would have dared to sail with you!”
“No?” Henry said and laughed. “I’d wager Eleanor would have!”
Maude looked across at the ship, soon spotted her daughter-in-law, warmly wrapped in a fur-trimmed red mantle, and nearby, a nurse, holding Maude’s small grandson. “Yes,” Maude conceded, “Eleanor probably would.” For better or worse, her son and his wife were well matched, hawk mating hawk and flying high.
And then it was time. Stepping forward, she gave him a hasty farewell hug. “God keep you safe, Henry.”
“He will,” he assured her, “and when next I see you, Mama, I’ll bring back a crown…and another grandson for you.” A quick kiss, haphazardly aimed at her cheek, and he was gone, crossing the gangplank with a swift, confident step, eager to depart, to claim his kingdom.
Alone on the quay, Maude watched as her son’s ship headed out into the harbor. The sails were billowing, the mast lantern swaying wildly, and she said a brief, silent prayer for her sons, for all those crossing the Channel on this raw December morning, and then, for the souls of the doomed passengers who’d drowned in the wreck of the White Ship.
Braving the wind, Minna ventured out onto the quay. Maude did not seem aware of her approach, keeping her eyes upon the fleet. But then she said softly, “Henry does not understand why I’d not come. But how could I tell him, Minna? He’d think that I begrudged him his kingship, and nothing could be more untrue than that. I am so proud that he is to be king. It is just that I could not watch as the crown was placed upon his head, for that would have stirred up too many hurtful memories, too many regrets. England is Henry’s kingdom, but it was never mine…”
Minna said nothing, for between them, there was no need of words. The wind was knifing across the quay, and freezing rain had begun to splatter onto the wet wooden planks. Beyond the harbor, Henry’s fleet was disappearing into the fog.
HENRY’S fleet had scattered in the fog, but all eventually came ashore safely. Henry and Eleanor’s ship dropped anchor in a cove near the New Forest, after fighting raging seas for twenty-four turbulent hours. Without waiting for a royal escort, they rode for Winchester, and within days, were welcomed into London. Coronation plans were rushed forward, and on the 19th of December, Henry and Eleanor were crowned in a splendid ceremony at Westminster’s great abbey. What would become known as the Plantagenet dynasty had begun.
WESTMINSTER PALACE was not habitable, for it had been despoiled after Stephen’s death, and Henry and Eleanor were forced to lodge across the river at Bermondsey, in a once-royal manor now owned by the Cluniac priory of St Saviour. Ranulf and Rhiannon had found lodgings at Bermondsey, too, in one of the priory guesthouses. They had very comfortable quarters, for the monks had been lavish with their hospitality. Rhiannon had been puzzled at first by such solicitude, for she’d been slow to comprehend how important her husband now was, as kinsman and close confidant of the young king. And once she did understand, she was frightened, for never had England’s siren songs sounded so tempting, so seductive. How long could Ranulf resist their blandishments?
She no longer feared losing Ranulf to Annora, or even to England. After nearly five years of marriage, she did not doubt that he loved her. Her fear was of losing Wales. Lying awake on this cold December night, waiting for Ranulf to return from a private meeting with his nephew, she made herself face a troubling truth: that her husband might well want her and Gilbert to live in England now that Harry was king.
Ranulf did not know how unhappy she was in this alien land, for she’d confided only in the Almighty. How could she complain? His family had tried to make her welcome. Harry and Eleanor, Maud, Amabel, even Rainald, in his bluff, hearty way—they’d all been kind. But there was no acceptance beyond their small, select circle. She knew that to most people, she would always be an oddity, an object of curiosity, pity, and suspicion. Ranulf Fitz Roy’s blind, Welsh wife.
Across the room, Gilbert mumbled in his sleep, and Rhiannon sat up, listening intently until she was sure he was dreaming. He was not happy in England, either, as homesick as she was. She’d been assuring him that they’d be going home soon, but no longer, for there was no comfort in a lie. Tonight when he’d complained of “missing Grandpapa and Aunt Eleri,” she’d said only, “Me, too, Gilbert, me, too…”
Tossing and turning in the bed, she tried to imagine what her father and sister would be doing now. Sleeping, most likely. Eleri might still be awake, though, for she’d gotten pregnant within two months of her summer wedding. Where would she be when Eleri’s time was nigh? How could she not be there for her little sister in the birthing chamber?
Pummeling her pillow, she wondered if Ranulf understood about hiraeth. It translated as “longing,” but meant so much more, the love of the Welsh for their homeland, a sense of belonging, pride in their past, why they did not thrive when uprooted, like plants set down in foreign soil. If Ranulf wanted them to live in England, she would offer no protest, for she would have followed him to Hell if need be. But it would be a life in exile.
Rhiannon was sure she’d be awake till dawn, but sometime before midnight, she fell into an uneasy doze. Her dream was not a pleasant one, and she awoke with relief, to find her husband in bed beside her. As soon as she mov
ed, he drew her into his arms. “Harry and Eleanor asked after you, Rhiannon. How is your headache?”
“Much better,” she lied. “How was your evening?”
“Interesting.” Ranulf tightened his arms around her, breathing in her fragrance, familiar and flower-sweet. “It’s begun to snow,” he murmured, “just in time for Christmas.”
“Gilbert will be right glad,” she said softly. Their first Christmas away from Wales. How much snow could make up for that?
“Harry is a whirlwind on two feet, lass. King only four days and already with plans enough to keep him busy for years. He means to name Thomas Becket as his chancellor and Robert Beaumont as a justiciar. To punish William Peverel for poisoning the Earl of Chester, to expel the last of the foreign mercenaries, and reclaim those crown castles which Stephen lost and appoint new sheriffs and make the King’s Peace more than just a hope and a prayer. And all that is just for a start!”
“I hope he plans to rest on the seventh day.”
Ranulf laughed. “That is what Eleanor said, too!” Leaning over, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “Harry offered me an earldom tonight,” he said, and Rhiannon went rigid in his arms, for a moment able to hear nothing but the beating of her own heart.
“I…I thought he would,” she managed to whisper at last.
“I knew he would, too. He takes pleasure in giving, and who can give more than a king? It was no easy task, convincing him that I did not want it—”
“You turned down an earldom?”
“You sound like Harry did, love—like you swallowed your tongue! Yes, I did. I told Harry I’d be right pleased to accept as many manors as he can spare, preferably in the Marches, but I’ll be wanting no English earldom. That is why I was late getting back. It took me nigh on two hours to persuade him that I was not drunk!”
“But…but why?”
“I think you know, Rhiannon. Our son is three quarters Welsh. I want him to grow up in Wales, to know where he belongs. An English earldom would yoke him to England, whether he willed it or not. When he is of an age to know his own mind, mayhap he might choose that golden yoke. But the choice ought to be his. Until he can make it, though, I must choose for him—and I choose Wales.”
“Ranulf…are you sure?”
“Very sure. I just hope our lad finds half the happiness in Wales that I did.” He kissed her again, and tasted tears. “Rhiannon? Have I let you down? Mayhap I ought to have talked it over with you first, but I thought we were in accord on this. You do want us to go back to Wales?”
“Yes,” she said, “dear God, yes!”
“Well, then,” he said, “after Christmas, we’ll go home.”
THE January sky was a glazed, boundless blue, and Bermondsey was adrift in a sea of snow, glistening like crystal as the sun rose overhead. The air was cold and clear, the wind stilled. “You’ve a good day for travel,” Henry said. “Take care of my uncle, Rhiannon. Any man who’d turn down an earldom needs looking after!”
Rhiannon heard laughter, caught an elusive hint of summer roses, and was then enveloped in a brief, perfumed embrace by England’s queen. “Godspeed,” Eleanor said warmly. “Yn iach, Rhiannon.”
Rhiannon flashed a startled smile. “Yn iach,” she echoed, touched that Eleanor should have taken the trouble to learn how to bid her a Welsh farewell. Ranulf was now back beside her, and after he’d assured her that Gilbert and Gwen were settled into the horse litter, she let him assist her up into the saddle.
Ranulf was bantering again with Henry, who was about to depart in a day or so for Oxford, telling Eleanor that if Harry did not get back in time for the birth of their babe, she ought to have sole say in picking the name. Eleanor agreed, and warned her husband that she might be tempted to name the child Stephen, or mayhap even Louis.
Rhiannon politely joined in the laughter, but she marveled at Eleanor’s sangfroid. Had Ranulf not been there for Gilbert’s birth, it would have been a far greater ordeal. No, as much as she liked Harry and Eleanor, they were a breed apart, this king of twenty-one and his celebrated queen, surely the only woman who would ever wear the crowns of both England and France. She wished them well, but she was so very glad to be going home with Ranulf, who did not yearn to soar up into the heavens, who felt no need to see how close he could get to the sun without being scorched.
“Are we ready?” she asked, and Ranulf made one last joke, wished Eleanor a safe and easy lying-in, and promised to be back ere the new babe could learn to walk. Swinging up into the saddle then, he reached for the lead attached to Rhiannon’s mare, and they started off on their long journey back to Wales.
Ranulf had no regrets about what he was leaving behind. After nineteen years of fighting over the English throne, he had no doubts whatsoever that the most dangerous quarry was neither wild boar nor wolf. No hunt was so hazardous as the pursuit of power. Fortunately, his nephew Harry was a skilled huntsman, one of the best he’d ever seen.
He glanced back once. Henry and Eleanor were still out in the snow-blanketed bailey. They waved as Ranulf turned, and that was to be the memory he would carry into Wales: the two of them, standing together in the bright winter sunlight, smiling, sure that the world, like the English crown, was theirs for the taking.
Afterword
HENRY II was one of England’s greatest kings, a man whose successes and failures were all on a grand scale. Even readers untutored in British history are familiar with the story of Henry and Eleanor’s turbulent, passionate, and—ultimately—disastrous marriage. Their firstborn son, William, died in 1156, at age three. But they were far luckier than most medieval parents, for Eleanor bore Henry eight children and all but William survived the perils of a twelfth-century childhood. Two of their sons, Richard Lionheart and John, succeeded to the English throne, and the dynasty they began would rule England for more than three hundred years. Henry died in 1189, betrayed by his own sons and murmuring, “Shame, shame upon a conquered king.” Eleanor survived him by nigh on fifteen years, dying in 1204 at the remarkable age of eighty-two. At a later time, I hope to continue with Henry and Eleanor’s unique saga.
Maude was one of the few people whom her son truly trusted, and he relied upon her judgment and advice until she sickened and died on September 10, 1167, in her sixty-sixth year. She was buried in the abbey church of Bec, although her body was reinterred at Rouen’s great cathedral in the nineteenth century. Chroniclers report that her epitaph read, “Great by birth, greater by marriage, greatest in her offspring, here lies the daughter, wife, and mother of Henry.”
Henry’s troublesome brother Geoffrey was made Count of Nantes but died unexpectedly on July 25, 1158, at age twenty-four. Henry’s brother William fared better, holding the vicomté of Dieppe and rich estates in fifteen English shires, but he, too, died young, on January 30, 1164, at age twenty-seven.
Maude’s half-brother Rainald prospered under his nephew’s reign. One of Henry’s most steadfast supporters and advisers, he died on July 1, 1175. Robert’s widow, Amabel, did not remarry and died in 1157. Their daughter, Maud, does not seem to have remarried either, after Chester’s death; she died in July of 1189. Her grandson Ranulf de Blundevill was the Earl of Chester who figured so prominently in my second novel, Here Be Dragons.
Stephen’s brother the Bishop of Winchester had a falling-out with Henry in 1155 and spent several years in French exile. He eventually returned to England, and in 1168, he gave away virtually all of his considerable wealth to charity. He died on August 8, 1171, “full of days.”
Stephen’s son William died childless in 1160. His sister, Mary, had lived most of her life in the cloistered quiet of the nunnery, becoming abbess of the convent at Romsey. Suddenly she found herself a great heiress, the Countess of Boulogne. Coerced by Henry into leaving the nunnery, she was wed to the son of the Count of Flanders. This marriage created a firestorm of controversy, and the outraged Pope excommunicated Mary’s new husband. Mary bore him two daughters and eventually gained his permission to return to
the convent. In 1169, she took the veil again at the French nunnery at Austrebert, and died there in 1182 at age forty-five.
William de Ypres returned to his native Flanders at Easter, 1157. He spent his last years at the monastery of St Peter at Loo, dying there in January of 1165, at age seventy-five.
Waleran Beaumont’s influence waned drastically after Henry’s coronation. He died in April 1166. His twin brother’s star continued to rise, and until Robert’s death in April 1168, he stood high in Henry’s favor. John Marshal died circa 1164. His son William, spared the hangman’s noose by Stephen at Newbury, played a major role in the reigns of Henry’s sons, becoming Earl of Pembroke and a celebrated soldier-statesman, even serving as a regent of England at one point.
The French king wed twice more after divorcing Eleanor. He and his second wife had a daughter, who—improbably enough—was wed as a child to Henry and Eleanor’s eldest surviving son. His third wife bore him the son he so craved. Louis died in 1180.
After Eustace’s death, Constance returned to France, and the following year the French king married her to the Count of Toulouse. Regrettably, her second marriage was no happier than her first, and in 1165 she returned to her brother’s court.
Bernard, the Abbot of Clairvaux, died on August 20, 1153, and probably never knew that Eleanor had given Henry a son just three days earlier. The Catholic Church canonized Bernard as a saint in January 1174.
I was unable to find a death date for Eleanor’s sister, Petronilla. Abbot Bernard had placed a curse upon her adulterous union with Raoul de Péronne, and when her son contracted leprosy and both her daughters had troubled, childless marriages, there were those to say that Bernard’s dire prophecy had been borne out. It is not likely, though, that Eleanor agreed.
Owain Gwynedd ruled North Wales for more than thirty years, until his death in November 1170. His actual name was Owain ap Grufydd, but he became better known to his countrymen as Owain Gwynedd, and eventually as Owain Fawr—Owain the Great. Readers of Here Be Dragons may be interested to learn that he was the grandfather of Llewelyn Fawr.