“I cannot go to Shrewsbury, Aaron. Wise or not, I cannot.”
“Why not?”
Ranulf hesitated. He could not tell them about Annora, the unforgivable botch he’d made of his life. But he owed them more than evasion or rebuff. “I was not completely truthful with you ere this.”
“What a surprise,” Josce murmured dryly, and his brother scowled in his direction.
“Not now, Josce. What did you lie about, Ranulf?”
“It was not a lie, more like a…a sin of omission.” Did Jews know about such things? Now was not the time, however, to elaborate upon the finer points of Christian doctrine. “When I called myself Ranulf Fitz Henry, that was indeed my father’s given name. What I omitted was his title—Fitz Roy.”
There was a brief silence as they absorbed this. Josce whistled softly, and Aaron said carefully, “You are saying, then, that you are one of the old king’s…natural sons?”
“One of his bastards,” Ranulf said bluntly. “No need for delicacy, Aaron. But you see now why I cannot go into Shrewsbury. The town and castle are held by Stephen, and I’ve been fighting for my sister. I cannot risk being recognized.” That had never kept him away from Shrewsbury in the past, an inner voice jeered, but Aaron and Josce could not hear it, and they took his excuse at face value.
“No, I suppose you cannot,” Aaron agreed, sounding worried. “The problem is that we have business dealings in Shrewsbury. Mayhap if we let you off ere we reached the town and then came back for you afterward…?”
“That is a right generous offer, but I’d not impose further upon your goodwill. You’ve a wife eager to welcome you home, Aaron. It would be ill done on my part if I repaid your kindness by making her fret over your safe return.”
Aaron could not deny that he was impatient to get back to Bristol and Belaset. “I will not feel easy in my mind, watching you go off by yourself. There is a doctor in Chester, but that is too long and dangerous a ride on your own. Have you no friends or kindred closer at hand?”
Ranulf shook his head, but he knew Aaron was right. It would indeed be foolhardy to ride all the way to Chester, as weak as he was, and without Loth to watch over him. Pain rippled toward the surface; he resolutely pushed it back into the depths. In any event, he had no intention of going to Chester; he was not yet ready to deal with Maud’s curiosity or—worse—her pity. After some reflection, he had the answer.
“William Fitz Alan,” he said triumphantly. “He used to be castellan of Shrewsbury Castle, until Stephen chased him out. But he still holds a castle at Blancminster, on the Welsh border. I’d be sure of a welcome there, and if he does not have a doctor in his household, he’ll send for one.” Best of all, there’d be no awkward questions, no prying, no pity, for Fitz Alan was an ally, not a friend.
“As you will,” Aaron agreed dubiously. A wounded man going off into the Marches alone…not a reassuring prospect. But it was not his choice. It was Ranulf’s. Rolling over into his blankets, he comforted himself with the thought that come morning, Ranulf might change his mind.
Ranulf did not, though. He arose determined to seek out Fitz Alan at Blancminster, and after a hurried breakfast, he stood beside them in the road, not sure how to say farewell. How could he just ride off? But he knew they’d have been insulted had he offered them money. There must be something he could do for them…and then he smiled, for he knew what it was.
“Thanking you seems a meagre response, indeed, for giving me back my life. I will remember you, Aaron and Josce of Bristol, and wish you well all your days. And if—God forbid—you ever find yourself in trouble on one of your trips to Chester, get word to the Countess of Chester and she will come to your aid, for I will let her know what you did for me. She makes a good ally, does my niece,” he said, and his smile twisted awry. Too good an ally. How selfish he’d been to entangle her in his adultery. But surely God would forgive her, when his sin was so much greater?
“That is most generous,” Aaron said, and Josce made a jest about friends in high places, but he looked pleased, too. It was no small boon Ranulf was offering; to be a Jew was to ride always along the cliff’s edge, and in Chester, where no Jews dwelled, there would have been none to speak up for them. Aaron came forward, Josce following, and they helped Ranulf up into the saddle. He smiled again, wished them Godspeed back to Bristol, and then turned his stallion toward the west, toward Wales.
The brothers stood in the road, watching him ride away. He looked back once, waved, and Aaron waved, too. Somewhat to his surprise, so did Josce.
“I ought to have wished him good luck,” Aaron said suddenly. “I wish I’d remembered.”
Josce nodded. “He’ll need it.”
40
The Welsh Marches
March 1148
RANULF had been to Blancminster once before, with Robert, and he remembered that it was sixteen miles northwest of Shrewsbury. That would make it, by his reckoning, fourteen or fifteen miles due west. Even if he kept his mount to a slow canter and stopped often, he should still be able to reach Fitz Alan’s stronghold before dark.
He soon realized, though, that this would be the longest fifteen-mile ride of his life. He had to halt and rest frequently, and each time it became more difficult to get back into the saddle. By noon, he was already wondering why he’d been such a fool, and if he’d had it to do over again, he’d have elected to ride into Shrewsbury with Aaron and Josce, and let Annora and his overblown pride and Stephen’s sheriff be damned. But that was a regret four hours and five miles too late. All he could do now was to make the best of a bad bargain.
With that in mind, he resolved to seek the first shelter he could find, no matter how shabby or meagre. But the narrow road was deserted, the land uninhabited. He passed no hamlets, not even an occasional secluded cottage. Villages did not thrive in the shadow of the border, for this was bloody, disputed ground, English today, Welsh yesterday, who knows on the morrow. Ranulf felt as if he were riding through a ghost country, watched by unseen eyes, and his unease increased apace with his exhaustion. He plodded on, telling himself that he must be almost there, that the castle was likely to come into view at any time, just around the next bend in the road. But what he encountered was a river, swollen with the spring thaw.
He drew rein, staring in dismay at the expanse of muddy brown water. The River Dee snaked its way south from Chester, twisting and doubling back on itself like a fugitive seeking to throw off pursuit. Could this be the Dee? If so, he was miles to the north of where he’d hoped to be. How could he have gone so far astray?
Oddly enough, his very fatigue enabled him to slough off his despair; he was just too tired to be truly alarmed. He would, he decided, camp there by the river for the night. Come morning, he could decide whether to retrace his path back to the Chester Road or follow the river south toward Blancminster.
He’d been accustomed from boyhood to caring for horses, but never had such simple tasks exacted such a toll. By the time he’d unsaddled and watered his stallion and tethered it to graze, the sun was retreating west into Wales. Making a fire was an even more laborious effort, for first he had to gather and shred birch bark and dry moss to use as tinder, and then find a hard stone to strike sparks against his dagger. Once he finally got a fire going, he forced himself to eat some of the bread and salted fish he’d gotten from Aaron. It troubled him that he had so little appetite; he knew that was not a good sign.
It was not yet dark, but he laid out his blankets by the fire, wincing as he pulled his hauberk over his head. The interlocking metal links weighed more than twenty pounds and seemed to have gotten heavier as the day dragged on, but if he’d been wearing it on the Chester Road, it might have deflected that outlaw’s dagger. Rolling up his tunic, he slowly unwound the bandage Aaron had fashioned from a shirt, fearing what he would find. Red streaks radiated outward from the wound, like spokes on a wagon wheel, pus oozed around the edges of the plantain poultice, and the lightest touch of his fingers caused pain. Aaron had
prophesied true when he’d argued the need for a doctor’s care. Well, God Willing, he’d find one on the morrow.
Ranulf awoke with a start. The sky was still dark, speckled with stars above his head. The air held a damp chill, but he’d flung the blankets off in his sleep, and when he touched his face now, his skin felt as if it were afire. Trying not to panic, he lay back upon the blanket. A fever was not always fatal. He was ill, there was no denying that. But he might be better by morning. If not, then he’d spend another day here, recovering his strength. There was no need to fear, not yet. He kept telling himself that until he finally fell asleep again.
He slept fitfully for the next few hours, but as the fire burned down, his temperature soared. Sweating and shivering by turns, he drifted in and out of a feverish sleep. His dreams were suffused with heat and hectic color, full of confusion and vague, unspecified menace. And when he was prodded awake in midmorning, he still seemed to be in that world of shadows and sinister foreboding, for two men were standing over him and one of them had a lance leveled at his throat.
Bandits! That was his first guess, followed almost immediately by—No, Welsh—for their faces were clean-shaven, mustached. There was no comfort in that realization, though, for the Welsh were just as likely to slay him—a Norman-French knight—as outlaws would. He swallowed dryly, taking care not to move, not flinching even as the spear dipped lower, hovering scant inches now from his chest. They were regarding him impassively. Did they understand French? And even if they did, what could he say to keep that spear from continuing its downward thrust?
“I am a king’s son,” he said hoarsely, “and worth more alive than dead.” Not even a flicker crossed those inscrutable faces. He repeated himself, in English this time. Again, no response, and that spear never wavered. Powys lay across the river, but the name of its ruler eluded him. The man had fought with them at the Battle of Lincoln; why could he not remember? Seizing upon the one name he did recall, Cadwaladr’s brother, the King of Gwynedd, he said hastily, “Owain Gwynedd!” At last he got a reaction; at least Owain’s name meant something. “I was seeking Lord Owain out,” he improvised, “with a message from the English king. Lord Owain will want to hear it.”
Did they understand? Impossible to tell. He lay very still, watching the spear as they conversed briefly in Welsh. He could taste sweat on his upper lip, hoped they knew it was from fever, not fear. Why it should matter what they thought of him, he could not have explained, but it did, if only because these enigmatic Welshmen might well be the last men he’d ever see.
They seemed to have reached a decision. The spear was shifting, being withdrawn. Ranulf’s sword had already been claimed while he slept. Reaching down, one of the men drew Ranulf’s dagger from its sheath, then produced a thin leather thong, which he used to lash Ranulf’s wrists together. And Ranulf expelled a shaken breath, knowing now that he had gained himself some time. How much time was still very much in doubt.
THEY followed the river upstream to a ford, splashed across into Wales, and then headed north. The road narrowed until it became little more than a deer track. They were in hill country now. The woods had not yet begun to show spring buds, and wherever Ranulf looked, he saw bare, wintry branches rising up, stabbing at the sky. Each time he swayed in the saddle, he grabbed the pommel, somehow managed to hold on. He was soon drenched in sweat, though. His ears were echoing with the labored, rasping sound of his own breathing. And by afternoon, a dark stain was spreading across his tunic.
When one of the Welshmen noticed the bleeding, he gestured toward the road ahead and then held up five fingers. Ranulf interpreted that to mean they had only five more miles to go. He clung to that hope as tightly as the saddle pommel. Five miles was not so very far. He could endure another five miles. In the past few months, life had lost its sweetness and he’d lost his way. But no longer. Death was once again the enemy, his indifference and apathy drowned in a Cheshire pond. And as his captors led him deeper into Wales, he clutched at that—his will to live—as his armor, his shield against whatever awaited him in this alien land.
The sun vanished with surprising swiftness, and the sky was soon the color of smoke. A hill loomed out of the twilight dusk, encircled by a timber palisade. As they rode toward it, it slowly took on a familiar shape, materializing into an English-style castle. But it was garrisoned by Welsh; mustached faces were peering over the palisade as the gate swung open to admit them.
Ranulf suddenly knew where he was—at Mold, the Welsh stronghold of Robert de Montalt, steward to the Earl of Chester. He remembered hearing of its fall, captured by Owain Gwynedd after a fierce three-month siege. Castles were not native to Wales, unknown until Marcher lords such as Montalt began to encroach across its borders, buttressing their claims with fortresses of timber and stone. So this must be Mold, Ranulf reasoned, Owain Gwynedd’s conquered castle. But as they rode across the deep ditch that separated the inner and outer baileys, Ranulf had another flash of memory. Mold had more than one name. According to William Fitz Alan, the Welsh called it Yr Wyddgrug—“the burial mound.”
Ranulf had to be assisted from the saddle. Once he was on his feet, his bonds were cut. Leaning heavily upon his guard’s arm, he was taken into the great hall. A number of men were standing by a huge open hearth, and he knew at once which one was Owain Gwynedd. He needed neither throne nor crown to proclaim his rank; the man himself was impressive enough to require no external trappings of authority. It helped that he was tall and tawny-haired, for his were a people more commonly dark and slightly built. But Ranulf knew his impact could not be explained away as easily as that. God had granted Stephen a handsome face and athletic body, too, but not a king’s “presence.” Whereas his own father—stout and bowlegged and balding—had been able to dominate any gathering, to awe and intimidate by the sheer force of his royal will.
When Ranulf was brought forward and forced to kneel before Owain Gwynedd, the Welshman regarded him thoughtfully. “There was no message from the English king, was there?” he said, in accented but understandable French. When Ranulf shook his head, he smiled slightly. “And are you truly a king’s son?”
“So they did understand me…”
“Enough to get you here. What happens next remains to be seen.” Owain had dark-grey eyes, a direct, incisive gaze. “Who are you? And more to the point, who’d want to ransom you?”
“I can afford to ransom myself.” Did his voice sound as odd to Owain as it did to him? Slurred and strangely muffled, as if coming from a great distance. “I am what I claimed to be—the son of an English king and a free woman of Wales.”
Owain smiled again, this time with ironic amusement. “Welsh blood? How convenient.”
“But true. My mother was Angharad ferch Rhys. She lived in your domains…the Conwy Valley…and my uncle dwells there still, Rhodri ap Rhys…”
Ranulf had just expended the last of his family lore, but what little he knew was apparently enough, for the Welsh king no longer looked so skeptical. “Rhodri ap Rhys is your uncle? A good man, I know him well.” He gestured then, giving Ranulf permission to rise. Ranulf made a game try, lurching to his feet, but then the ground seemed to fall away and the room began to tilt alarmingly. The next that he knew, he was on a bench, choking on a mouthful of mead. He sputtered, waved away the wineskin, and Owain leaned over him, holding up his hand, the palm smeared with red. “How were you hurt…and when?”
“Cheshire bandits, four days ago…I think.” Surely it was longer than that? He was being urged backward now, onto the bench, and he was quite willing to obey. Mayhap if he closed his eyes, the hall would stop spinning.
Owain stepped aside, beckoning to one of his men. “Fetch a doctor straightaway.” Glancing back at Ranulf’s chalky pallor, he added prudently, “And a priest.”
RANULF knew he was very ill, but he was too weak to worry about it. He wanted only to sleep, yet people would not leave him alone. When they were not changing his bandage, they insisted upon piling wet com
presses onto his forehead and chest, or spooning hot liquids into his mouth. He’d protest peevishly, yet they paid him no heed. They were patient and persistent and engulfed him in a sea of Welsh, not a word of which he understood. Sooner or later, though, they would go away, allowing him to slide gratefully back into oblivion.
Ranulf had lost all sense of time. He could not have said whether it was hours or days later when he opened his eyes, saw Owain Gwynedd standing by the bed. “I…I am not doing so well, am I?” he whispered, and the Welshman shook his head.
“The doctor says your wound has festered.”
“Am I going to die?”
“You are in God’s Hands, lad, as are we all.”
Ranulf pondered that evasive answer. “I think,” he said, “that I’d best see a priest…”
Owain nodded. “I’ve sent to Basingwerk Abbey for one who speaks French.” Ranulf seemed to be trying to speak again and he leaned closer so he could hear.
“If…if I die, will you let the Countess of Chester know?”
Owain nodded again. “I’ve sent word to your uncle Rhodri, too,” he said, and Ranulf lay back, too weak to talk further, but oddly comforted by Owain’s assurance that if he did die, his kin would be told.
RANULF’S dreams trapped him in a fever-induced world of darkness and loss. Sometimes he was in familiar surroundings, back at Devizes or Bristol. More often he was under siege again at Oxford, watching Winchester go up in flames, thrashing about in a murky Cheshire pond. And always…there was trouble. Maude was in danger and he could not protect her. Annora was lost and he could not find her. He kept hearing her cry his name, but she was always out of sight, out of reach. Gilbert was trapped in that burning church, and he could do nothing. Again and again those he loved needed his help. Again and again he failed them.