A Winter's Tale

A Winter’s Tale

Published by Alestro Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2010-2015 Cecily Felber

Cover art and map copyright 2010-2015 D.T. Felber

ISBN 978-1-4523-7787-2

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For Danu, Chris and Elizabeth…and Madog

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From time out of mind, the Cymry had lived on the island of Prydain. Because they were heroes, fighting and the measuring of strength against rivals had ever been part of their lives, whether neighbor against neighbor over livestock, or chieftain against chieftain over lands and folk, or all banded together against an invader. But they were not only a warrior people. Bards composed intricate poetry and songs to praise everything from the deeds of kings to a drop of dew in the sun’s first light, seeking to preserve both the momentous and the fleeting for all time. The wise and learned compiled works of law and guidance, safeguarding ancient customs and knowledge so that their descendants would also live and govern rightly. Above all was the love the Cymry had for their land—their mother and their lady—and their land cherished in return her children, her guardians, her treasure.

Yet not to be wondered at, the invaders would come, hearing tales of the riches of the Isle of the Mighty, seeking that wealth for themselves out of greed or a desire to escape life in places less blessed. The Romans came and assured themselves they had conquered, but when Macsen Wledig became Emperor Maximus for his brief time, his Empress was a Cymry princess. The Saxons came and Arthur withstood them, putting spark to a beacon of glory that would shine out through the ages so that even folk who would never hear of the Cymry would know its light and his name. The Danes came and the Cymry were the staunch allies at the Saxon King Alfred’s back. Last of all, the Normans came, a bastard descendant of sea raiders at their head, leading younger sons with no hope of lands of their own, shattering the Saxons and sending the Cymry reeling. These new interlopers valued power and wealth above all, seeing the land and the folk as only tools and chattels, and so they rode roughshod over all who withstood them, caring nothing for ancient custom or lineage, wanting only to possess—and then to possess more. And though the Cymry would never be destroyed, they had not the strength to prevail against this new foe and so began to falter and fade as their lands were gradually overrun and their kings they called Brenins weakened and diminished. Yet just as a flame about to die will flare up with renewed vitality, so it was with the Cymry, seizing moments of Norman folly in desperation and hope that their light might never be extinguished, let alone be lost and forgotten.

From such times would come many tales, of deeds noble and base, of high folk and low, of love and dreams, of tragedy and death, and of life lived in the bright heat of the moment with one’s feet rooted in the land, one’s eyes on the stars, and a hand reaching back to the ancients.

And one of these was a winter’s tale…

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Chapter One

Mathrafal, in Powys

Christmas, 1140

I should probably not have danced so much.

Madog sighed, regarded his empty cup. Though it was late, there were still plenty of folk in the hall, talking quietly in corners, or else settling down to sleep in the spaces where the tables had been while the serving folk cleared up, helping themselves to uneaten delicacies and wine from the high table. Though he’d asked to be left alone a while earlier and sent his young Penteulu off to join his friends, he had only to call if he wanted more drink, and perhaps he would in a moment. They’d kept finding him partners, his niece Myfanwy and his younger brother’s wife Tegwen, and he’d not wanted to seem to slight anyone, even after his feet had begun to ache and his breath was coming short. They’d decided between the two of them that he’d not spend another Yule sitting at the high table brooding and somber, as seemliness and his mood had enjoined the year before, with his wife of fifteen years only a few months dead. He knew it was what folk needed to see now, that their Brenin was not lost in grief, and besides he’d enjoyed the bright smiles of the lasses and the harmless flirting. He hoped they were all damned well impressed with the old man.

But forty-five was not so old. He could still stay in the saddle all day, could still swing a sword and hit what he was shooting at most of the time, could still wrestle his little brother to the ground and lay a lass down and please her. For nigh on eight years he had ruled Powys, had kept his borders against the Normans, had even taken land back from them in the year after the old king had died and left the kingdom to his daughter in his folly. Bad for England and her overweening, covetous nobility—no surprise one of them had seized the crown for himself. Bad for England, but not so bad for Powys.

But how long would it last? Though the Normans’ squabbling over whom should wear their crown did not look like ending anytime soon, eventually one claimant would triumph over the other. Then he—or she—would be in need of land to reward allies and likely turning their attention to the west and Powys, so that the bad times began again. Such had been the way of it since Duke William had claimed England’s crown seventy-something years before, giving himself the authority to portion out lands as he pleased to his followers, irregardless of right and custom. Of course, the Saxon lords before him had fought over the border with the Cymry, but that was a game all had played from time out of mind, without the idea of conquest and subjugation that William had brought across the sea, wrecking havoc and suffering amongst the common folk whose business was the land, not fighting. The world had changed for the worse on that autumn day in 1066, and the Cymry—the three kingdoms of Deheubarth, Powys and Gwynedd—had been among those to suffer the most, their rulers not realizing in their folly and stubbornness that they faced a new sort of foe. There was hardly anything left of Deheubarth now, and if young Anarawd and his brothers did not hold together, they’d see all the old southern kingdom become part of England in their own lifetimes. But Powys was still strong, Powys and Gwynedd to the northwest, where proud Owain ruled and looked down—literally—upon his eastern neighbor though they were—had been—brothers-in-law. Ah, Sanna, he thought, closing his eyes and feeling the all-too-familiar twinge in his chest when he thought of her. I miss you so much.

Madog? You’re not asleep, are you?

He opened his eyes to find Llywarch bending over him, foster-brother, closest advisor, closest friend. When he saw Madog was not truly asleep, he slid into the chair beside him, filled two cups from a flagon that had come from somewhere. Don’t scare me like that, you’ll put me in mind of my Da falling asleep at table, he murmured, lifted his cup. Happy Christmas.

Happy Christmas, Fox, Madog replied. It was a good year, wasn’t it?

Is that where we are? Llywarch shook his head. Every Yule Madog would do this, drink a fair amount of strong French wine and tell over the events of the last twelvemonth, looking for opportunities missed, matters to be handled better in future. Indeed it was a good year, he assured the other man. The Normans are still playing with themselves and leaving us alone, we’ve held onto Caus, we got rain and sun at all the right times—and I’ve survived a six-month married to Myfanwy. I’d call that a good year. He stretched himself contentedly, thinking of his young red-haired wife, Madog’s niece, asleep in their bed, exhausted from overseeing the cooking and serving of the feast, the housing of guests and a hundred other little details—the demanding job she’d inherited as Madog’s closest female relative when Susanna had died. All you would have needed to make the year perfect was to get Rhodri married off. We’ll do that this next year, and I’ll get a son by my Vixen into the bargain.

He regretted the mention of Rhodri’s marriage as soon as the words were out, though Madog’s only reaction was a slight clenching of his jaw. For Rhodri was Madog’s nephew and heir, before his own sons who were too young to be considered as rulers. Madog had given him that honor soon after he’d become Brenin, over even his own brothers, and Rhodri had repaid that trust many times over—except that he had steadfastly refused to marry. Not that he had any aversion to women—that was far from Rhodri’s trouble. The lasses vied for his attention, for he was kind-hearted and open-handed and common talk had it that even a tumble in a hayloft with him was a memorable occasion. But marry he would not, though more than one advantageous connection had been suggested and a number of ladies had been proposed or made their casts at him. Since the latest refusal the previous summer, the subject had begun to be a sore one and Llywarch now wished he’d avoided it. I came looking for you to tell you something I’d heard, he forged on hopefully, getting a narrow-eyed look for an answer as Madog drank pensively from his cup.

Very well, he said after a silence. What wonderful thing have you heard?

Come outside.

You’re asking a lot, lad, Madog replied, but he set down his cup and eased himself to his feet, relieved when he stayed steady. The two men slipped out, barely noticed by those who were still awake.

Outside there was a light drizzle of mist in the air, the night cold but not unduly so, the half moon dimly visible. By unspoken consent, they made their way to the midden to relieve themselves in silence and then began a slow stroll about the confines of the yard, cloaks wrapped tight against the damp cold.

I’ve been talking to a lad your brother Cadwgan brought with him, Llywarch said after a bit. He has a sister who is married to some serjeant of Ranulf’s.

Between the other man’s manner and the brisk night air, Madog felt the wine fumes leaving him. Llywarch was not one to bring trivial gossip to him in such a way, and nothing concerning Earl Ranulf of Chester was trivial in any case. And what has this lad heard of interest from his sister?

Part of it we already knew, Llywarch continued. Ranulf and Brother William have gone to Winchester to keep Christmas with Stephen and continue trying to wheedle Lincoln castle and the earldom out of him. But what this fellow had to say was that before he left, Ranulf gave orders that two hundred of his men were to be secretly encamped within three miles of Lincoln well before Epiphany. There was quite some grumbling because it would mean traveling and living outdoors in foul weather and missing part of the Christmas feast.

I take it this brother-in-law the serjeant is one of those sent off to Lincoln.

He is, and his wife is fair unhappy about it, enough to be sure to get word to her brother, like the true woman of Powys she is.

We’ll see that’s remembered, Madog murmured. Two hundred men. Too many for an escort or guard, not enough to storm a castle. And last I heard Ranulf was certain his marriage to Robert of Gloucester’s daughter had made Stephen uneasy enough about his loyalty to give William what he wanted. Do you suppose that’s changed and we just haven’t heard?

Llywarch sighed heavily. I’d like to think that if there was a falling-out between Stephen and men such as Ranulf and his brother, we’d hear about it. But that’s our on-going weakness that we’ve so few ears at the Norman courts.

Well I know it. If it were anyone but Ranulf— Madog muttered a curse. The Earl of Chester was Madog’s nearest neighbor to the north and east, an old friend, but also an old adversary whose quick wits, devious mind, and tremendous ambition Madog tried never to underestimate.

Perhaps the men are to invest the castle as soon as it’s given, Llywarch was saying. Or perhaps he’s gotten wind of some Scottish mischief—there’s no love for Ranulf in the north. Or perhaps he’s expecting a challenge from someone nearer. With such a holding, the two of them will be virtual kings over the north of England. I know if I were Stephen, I’d never give those two that much power. There must be more than a few who want to see it doesn’t happen.

If you were Stephen, Madog mused. They were nearing a line of storage sheds, where a dim line of light could be seen spilling from under one doorway and a murmur of laughing voices, male and female, carried out into the yard. If you were Stephen, you’d have come straight after Robert the moment he renounced his loyalty instead of wasting all that effort on Shrewsbury and if Maud had still turned up, you’d have blockaded Arundel Castle, taken her prisoner, and held her until she agreed to renounce her claim to the throne and content herself with being Countess of Anjou. There’d have been no safe-conducts and certainly none of this hide-and-seek warfare if you were Stephen.

Probably not, Llywarch agreed, laughing. But if he does win in the end, it will be in spite of Maud being given every advantage. There’s something to be said for doing it so.

Oh, indeed—stupidity, folly, overweening pride—

God keep us, where’s your chivalry, Brenin of Powys?

—imbecility, hubris—chivalry, you say? If chivalry hangs a hundred half-starved garrison rats, burns out townsfolk and farmers and then treats the source of all the conflict as though she’s a holy relic, I think it’s a thing I can do without. But then, I am merely an unprincipled, bumptious Cymro—what are you looking at?

I think, said Llywarch, frowning into the darkness toward the sheds they’d just passed, that we ought to go back that way. He changed direction without waiting for Madog’s assent, and the other turned to follow in time to see three men go striding up to the door with light coming from under it, the foremost one jerking it open so that brightness streamed out into the yard as all three pushed inside. Almost at once, raised voices came floating out, first a man’s and then a woman’s.

Damn, muttered Madog as he shouldered past Llywarch to be the first in the door. If some husband had caught his wife misbehaving, there could be a bloodletting and little he could do. —dare you disgrace me so! he heard a man shout as a woman’s voice lifted in objection, and then another man’s voice that Madog knew well, speaking with a quiet intensity that got him momentary silence.

There’s nothing for you to feel disgrace about here, Huw ap Cawdor, Rhodri was saying as Madog and Llywarch came through the door. Your daughter is keeping us company, nothing more. You do yourself and her no credit by speaking so.

Do you think I haven’t seen what you’re about? Huw snarled, his voice over-loud and slurred with drink. You’ve been for seducing my daughter since we got here, I’ve no doubt you’ve had her at least once—

Which accusation the girl herself interrupted with a cry of indignation. How dare you say such things in front of the men when you’re drunk! she cried. If Mama were here—

Good evening, said Madog loudly to get everyone’s attention. He stepped forward into the glow of the oil lamp sitting on a low wooden crate that also held dice and cups of drink. Rhodri and the girl—a lively, dark-eyed lass named Liana who attended his sister-in-law Tegwen—stood full in the light, facing her father. Beyond them Madog could see two other men also on their feet, ready to back Rhodri up: Gwilym whose wary glance was flicking everywhere, and Morgan, with a lass shrinking into the shadows behind him—Rhodri’s cousins and foster-brothers. The usual culprits, Madog couldn’t help thinking as he fixed Cadwgan’s man Huw with a stern regard. There’s no need for you to cause such a disturbance, he declared, noting that the two men who’d come along eager for a fight were suddenly glancing back to see how far it was to the door. If you want your daughter safe in her bed, he glanced over at Liana, well, that’s your right, but you need not hurl accusations about, or bring your friends in here to risk breaking my peace.

Brenin— Huw began.

Go on, lass, Madog said, ignoring him to look at her and nod toward the door. Your father wants you elsewhere than carousing with these mischiefs. Go on. I’ll see he understands there was no harm done.

Liana sent a resentful glance at him, obviously not wanting to leave, but he was the Brenin and could not be argued with. With a last spiteful glare as she passed her father, she wrapped her brychan around her and strode off through the door, her father’s friends stepping hastily out of her way. As she passed, Madog glanced back at Llywarch and motioned him to follow.

Now, Huw, Madog continued as Llywarch went out, I think you’ve let the drink run away with you, which can happen to a man—

Brenin, she was in here, making free with—

We were having a bit of conversation along with some dicing, Uncle, Rhodri said in a voice heavy with contempt. Nothing more.

Yet, Madog couldn’t help thinking, though of course he would take up for the girl, no more than Madog would expect.

Brenin— A note of pleading had entered Huw voice.

Madog leaned closer, laid an easy hand on Huw shoulder and lowered his voice as though there were only the two of them. Lad, listen to me, he said. Don’t go thinking so ill of your lass—she’s fine and pretty and of course the lads seek her company. This is all a misunderstanding, no harm has been done. Go on to your bed, you and your friends, he cast a stern glance at the two behind Huw, and we’ll all just forget this happened. Eh? Can we do this?

It was slowly penetrating to Huw’s drink-fogged wits that to pursue the matter in defiance of his Brenin, even with men at his back, would be an unwise course. I— he began, glanced back at the men with him, registered their uncertainty and eagerness to be gone. As you say, Brenin, he said then, all the fight suddenly gone out of him, as Madog had hoped would happen. He glanced again at Rhodri and the other men, looking for a moment as though he might change his mind, then abruptly stalked out of the barn, his friends all too quick to follow.

Madog watched him go, seeing out the corner of his eye Gwilym and Morgan exchanging relieved, sardonic glances, Morgan reaching back to put a reassuring arm around the shoulders of the lass with him.

Thank you, Brenin, said Gwilym, as always the spokesman, when Huw had had time enough to be out of ear-shot. It could have gotten ugly, him bringing men with him like that.

And I’ve no doubt the three of you would have trounced them soundly—and woken up half the maenol doing it. Gwilym cast his eyes down at that and then over at Morgan again, both obviously prepared to submit to a scolding. Rhodri, however, sighed in obvious exasperation and looked away.

Uncle— he began, then paused.

Well?

Nothing, the younger man murmured. Go on with it.

So that was how it was to be. Keep on with your dicing, Madog said softly, with a brief glance at Gwilym and Morgan, adding, Rhodri, walk with me, as he turned, and left the shed.

Never doubting the younger man would follow, Madog led him well out into the yard in silence, retracing the course he and Llywarch had followed a short time before, still saying nothing, not entirely certain what it was he wanted to say, only aware that there was something here that needed addressing.

You’re angry, Rhodri said when the silence continued too long for him. It’s with me, not them, so over what? A lass?

Until that moment, Madog would not have acknowledged that such was the case, but now he had to. I grant you, lad, you spoke up well enough in there, but do you have to be having these sordid little episodes in the first place?

The man was drunk and looking for a fight—

And why shouldn’t he be? Madog demanded, rounding on Rhodri. He was right, you and his lass were making yourselves quite clear all evening, and you were certainly missed when you left during the dancing.

Well and what of it? Rhodri sighed, obviously perplexed.

Don’t you see? Madog pursued. You are not just any man. What you do gets noticed. You need men as your allies, not hating you for always dallying with their daughters and sisters!

Well, I’ve yet to notice so much animosity coming my way, Rhodri retorted. All well and good if you’ve reached the stage where you want to turn monk, but I’ll thank you not to expect me to join you!

God and Christ, lad, don’t you take such a stance with me! Madog gasped. If it’s a fight you missed back there, be sure I can oblige you!

Rhodri had well caught the clear warning signs of the other man’s temper. Go on then, Uncle, and take your swing if it will mend matters for you, he said with a sigh, striving for a more conciliatory tone. I’m sorry there was an unpleasantness, I do thank you for your help. Perhaps if we just go to bed—

Madog would later wish he’d taken Rhodri’s suggestion, but there was a perverseness in him at that moment, spawned of drink and worry and lateness of the hour that was determined to badger the matter into something larger. No, we will not just go to bed, he shot back. No, we will not just overlook this business as if you were a green lad barely twenty. I’m tired of constantly wondering who you’re tumbling and if this will be the time you take a knife in your ribs over it. Why in bloody hell you can’t take a wife and sleep with her like other men—

Is that what this is all about? Rhodri demanded, the ire returning to his voice. Can you not get that business off your mind even for a night? Why you think being bound to some hapless child or a spoiled little conniver is going to mend anything is beyond—

By God, Rhodri—

I am done with this notion that I must marry now regardless or all is lost! Rhodri went on, having passed somewhere his own point of being reasonable. Especially considering what choices I’ve had. To be sure, I could have stomached Little Maud, but no surprise her father preferred to marry her to Ranulf—

Ifor’s daughter is still unspoken for—

Ifor’s daughter is a selfish, prideful little baggage, Rhodri snapped, though he lowered his voice. Why the rest of you can’t see it, I don’t know. If that still rankles, you’re going to have to learn to live with it, because nothing will change my mind on that score.

Then choose someone else, no one said it had to be her! Owain has pretty daughters! What of Anarawd’s sisters?

They’re children!

They’re old enough to marry and if you don’t take one of them, someone else will, and there goes another perfectly good chance for an alliance!

I don’t need a stronger alliance with Anarawd!

Oh, indeed, the two of you have fought and wenched together up and down the border since you were pups. But you might give a thought for closer ties with Owain. You’ll not find his regard in the bottom of an ale cup!

Owain— Rhodri made a sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh. "Owain will never turn right or left for the sake of a marriage connection—you ought to know that! You were married to his sister and what did it ever really get you from him?"

What it got me was a woman who was like a right arm to me—

You need not teach me to praise Aunt Sanna!

The sort of woman you very badly need curbing your temper and folly—

To which Rhodri responded with a bark of derisive laughter. My temper! He laughed again. "You stand there and lecture me on my temper! So be it! If I’m such a disappointment to you, if I’m so despised and detested, then disinherit me and have done with it! But don’t pretend the answer is to marry me off to some poor innocent scarcely old enough to bear children or have two thoughts in her head. No, you’ve said enough—I should have realized to start with that the drink’s addled your wits—"

Whatever Madog would have replied to this went unsaid at the sound of a man loudly clearing his throat close by. Both men turned toward the sound, ready without thinking to forget their own quarrel and confront the intruder.

The lass is back safe where she belongs, came Llywarch’s voice as he moved to stand next to them and slide a hand onto each man’s shoulder. Her father has been persuaded that going back into the hall to drink more would be a bad idea. And I’m going to have to ask you gentlemen in the Brenin’s name to keep your voices down, perhaps to find your own beds.

Damn it, Llywarch— Madog began. At the very sound of the other man’s voice his anger had begun to dissipate, leaving a vaguely foolish feeling in its place.

Go to bed, Madog, and stop badgering the lad, Llywarch went on, unperturbed. Ill enough he’ll have a cold bed to sleep in tonight when he’d planned otherwise. Though the light in the yard was dim, Llywarch still managed to catch Rhodri’s attention and motion him off with a nod of his head.

Good night, Uncle, Llywarch, and thank you again, Rhodri murmured, relieved to take the opportunity given. Happy Christmas to you both.

Llywarch murmured a reply, started moving in the opposite direction from Rhodri, keeping his hand firmly on Madog’s shoulder to make sure he followed. Now what in bloody hell started all that? he asked when he’d judged Rhodri out of earshot. I could hear the two of you the moment I stepped outside.

Why in hell he has to be so damned obstinate— Madog began, paused as Llywarch began laughing quietly.

I can’t imagine where he’d learn to be obstinate around here, Llywarch said, still laughing. We’ve none of that in Powys, we’re all meek, biddable men. If you want to hear what I think, he went on, and you’re going to whether you like it or not, it’s that you need to follow the lad’s lead a little more, instead of the other way round. Unless there’s somewhat I’ve missed besides a few bondwomen and that lass at Builth last summer, you have been playing the monk for a while now. Sanna’s been gone near a year and a half, God rest her. Find some eager lass to keep company with and you’ll have no time to be out in the yard picking fights of an evening. You’re the Brenin, for pity’s sake—all you need do is smile and crook your finger.

So I’ve become unbearable to live with because I need a woman, is that it?

Well, you’re overstating it as usual, but—

And I’m all wrong that there’s no need for Rhodri to stop all this foolishness and marry?

Of course he needs to marry, Llywarch sighed, exasperation creeping into his voice. What sort of paragon he’s looking for I don’t know, but you won’t get him to see it differently by depriving him of a lass and then taking him to task when you’ve been drinking and your temper is muddling your arguments. He knows what he needs to do, but he’s Rhodri and he’ll do it his way or not at all, and the harder you push, the harder he’ll push back. You of all people should know—you as good as raised the lad and he’s just like you.

Ah, don’t remind me, Madog sighed, rubbed his eyes, suddenly very tired, the feeling he’d made a fool of himself increasing every moment.

Go to bed, Madog, Llywarch said again. Come on, I’ll walk you over.

All right, Madog sighed. But that lad of Cadwgan’s, he went on. I want to see him come morning. Don’t be forgetting.

Oh, I’ll not forget that, Llywarch assured him. I want to hear more of that tale as well—for certain, Ranulf’s up to something.

Unseen in the blackness by the sheds, Rhodri watched them go, two shadows in the hazy light of the moon. If anyone could talk sense to his uncle, Llywarch could, and so Rhodri had been happy to bow out and leave him to it so that on the morrow they could mutter apologies to one another, blame everything on the wine so that all would be right between them once more.

Or so Rhodri hoped. Certainly he’d meant no harm with Liana, and she’d been eager enough earlier when they’d slipped away. But regardless of what his uncle said, Rhodri was reluctant to be like the men who could take a wife for nothing more than alliance and property and the getting of children, expecting to be unfaithful to her whenever inclination and opportunity presented. Sometimes it turned out well enough so that a way was found to regard and even love, as had happened with his uncle. Other times—he had seen that all too well with his own parents and the bitterness a slighted woman was capable of, such that even a man’s death would not put to rest.

And a wife was not only laughter, good company, and eagerness in bed, else the Lianas of the world would easily do. There needed to be something more, something that would satisfy his spirit and not only his body. Something he could not simply walk away from come morning without the least regret, what he’d once thought he’d had only for it to slip through his fingers—

There was a sudden burst of muffled laughter from inside, quickly hushed. Part of him wanted to go back into the shed, forget about the words he’d had with his uncle, drink some more so that when he did go to bed, he’d sleep and not mind that he was alone when he hadn’t wanted to be. But no, he’d be poor company now—

A movement caught his eye, a shadow crossing the yard from the hall and heading toward him, something familiar about it. He stepped away from the pitch blackness by the buildings, heard a woman gasp in surprise at the sudden sight of him. Rhodri? Is it—what are you doing out here?

Silent laughter welled up in him. I might ask you the same thing, lass, he said. Come here, you must be freezing.

Liana came to him, winding her arms around him beneath his cloak as he wrapped its warm folds around them both, then bent his head to kiss her. In a very few moments, she’d left him in no doubt as to why she’d come out in the cold to find him.

But lass, he murmured, catching hold of her hands that had begun to explore, what of your father? That’s not a man I feel any need to know better.

My father, she answered, her voice heavy with contempt, is snoring fit to wake the dead and won’t crawl out of bed until noon at least. He’s already had time to think what will happen when my mother hears of how he insulted the Brenin’s heir and argued with the Brenin himself along with saying such things of me in front of his lack-wit friends—

To which Rhodri could only laugh aloud, though softly, and release her hands to let them go where they would. At least, he thought as his mouth found hers again, the night’s not a total loss.

Chapter Two

Gloucester Castle

Epiphany, 1141

Alicia, it simply cannot be true! Eustace would never do such a thing without a word to you!

The younger woman’s whispered words, so full of fervent assurance, made Alicia smile ironically. Isabel, let it be, she sighed. Eustace has never loved being the bearer of bad news and for something such as this— She took yet another sip of wine. It was heady and sweet—only the finest wines were served at Empress Maud’s feasts and of those, the best had been saved for Epiphany, the culmination of the Christmas season. She could feel it doing its work, numbing the shock and heartache. I must be careful, she thought, forbearing to take another sip, with a glance past her sister to where their father sat listening to an elderly gentleman from Caen holding forth about the current state of affairs in the Holy Land, something of far greater interest to him than the whisperings of his daughters.

And I tell you, you should find him and speak to him! Isabel declared. Now, before they bring the food in and folk cease moving about so. And look—here he comes—

Indeed, a handsome nobleman was wending his way along the tables with a young man’s easy assurance, his expression that of someone extremely satisfied with life. Knowing him as she did, Alicia had no doubt of what that look told her and as if to confirm it even as Isabel drew breath to urge her further, he drew nigh to a group of older men conversing, one of whom broke off and welcomed him with a friendly hand on the shoulder.

Isabel’s words went unspoken and she instead sent an abashed, wide-eyed look over at Alicia. For the older man was Empress Maud’s steward, Lord Humphrey de Bohun, whom Alicia had overheard a short time before happily imparting the news of his daughter’s betrothal to Eustace de Bretteville to the same group of friends.

It’s not fair! Isabel gasped, dismayed realization in her voice now.

Fair— Alicia managed a shrug she would have been incapable of a short time before. ‘Fair’ is for the children none of us are any longer.

And after the all the attention he’s been paying you—he danced with you five times last night—

Isabel, enough, you are being a goose! This was becoming too much—for it was true enough that over the course of nearly two weeks of festivities, Eustace’s attention had gravitated increasingly to her, culminating in the previous evening when he had been full of compliments for her fashionable new gown, hardly able to forebear her dancing with some other man and finally had drawn her outside for a whispered, foolish conversation that had involved some kisses, albeit interrupted by Earl Robert and some others deciding to have a short but earnest discussion a few yards away. Alicia had assured herself repeatedly that it was only more of the careless flirtation that had crept into their friendship since Eustace had returned from his time with Maud’s husband in France several years before. For all that they had been close companions since childhood and that he’d entrusted her with a chatelaine’s role in the running of his household in lieu of mother or wife, for all that her father seemed to take it as a given and had not exerted himself at all to make some other alliance for her, a man with Eustace’s advantages and connections did not marry his vassal’s daughter. Yet after the dancing—and the kisses, particularly the last with his cloak wrapped close around her to shield her from the sight of the passing lords—some small, hopeful thing had begun to grow in her that, having no parents or other elders to raise objections, he might after all decide to marry for affection rather than advantage. With the men off hunting all day, she’d had ample opportunity to spin fancies—only to have them abruptly crumble as she’d passed Lord Humphrey on her way into the hall. He will marry Heloise de Bohun, she continued to Isabel in a quiet, even voice. It is only sensible—she will bring him far more than I ever could. But what is all that shouting?

For indeed there was a commotion of raised voices outside the hall that had begun to catch attention and cause conversations to falter, not only Alicia’s but the group of men Eustace was with as well. From the high table, where Empress Maud sat in state with her senior nobles, a frowning man came hurry down, Lord Humphrey breaking away to intercept him.

Well before they met, however, the outer double doors burst open and a group of guards in maille and the Empress’s colors came striding into the room. In their midst, obviously being escorted but not as a prisoner, was a man cloaked and booted for travel, his garments liberally spattered with mud, who limped as he made his way through the suddenly-silenced company, his attention all on the Empress before him, unmindful of the wide-eyed consternation and whispering of those he passed by. Reaching the open space just below the dais, he dropped precipitously to one knee, wincing, as he bowed his head deeply.

Good my lady Queen and august nobles, the puissant lords Earl William Roumare and Earl Ranulf of Chester, besieged in Lincoln Castle by the false and treacherous Stephen, have sent me to bring you greetings—

The rising tide of voices set off by the man’s words was threatening to overwhelm them until Earl Robert, on his feet now, called out for silence. My lady Queen, the man continued, Earl William and Earl Ranulf send me not only with their greetings, but bid me declare that they acknowledge their most grievous error of withholding their support and homage from the true sovereign of England until this time. That they most humbly and abjectly beg their lady’s forgiveness and pardon and swear to be henceforth her men unto the death—and to that end they pray she will succor them now in their time of need and send men to raise this siege and deliver them and their folk.

Having heard so much, the shouting and questions burst out anew, Robert adding to it this time, demanding word of his daughter, Chester’s countess.

She was safe and well when I left, my lord Earl, the man answered, though trapped in the castle along with her sister-in-law the Countess of Lincoln.

The Empress had as yet given no sign of how she was receiving the unlooked-for interruption, but now she stirred and rose to her feet, regarding the man kneeling before her. This sent a hush over the room as nothing else could, deference as well as a desire to hear what she would say. She was a splendid sight—tall for a woman, willowy in figure despite having borne three sons, resplendent in a gown of forest green silk embroidered with rubies and pearls, which also adorned the gold diadem holding her pale silken veil in place. Having risen, she still did not speak, but regarded the messenger, now kneeling with head bowed reverently, while the last murmurings and whispers in the room were silenced.

Well, she said then, her deep voice carrying easily into the room, tidings such as these we did not look for—and we cannot help but be pleased to learn that men such as Ranulf of Chester and William Roumare have learned wisdom, however late. But more to the point— She paused to glance at Earl Robert on one side of her and her host Miles of Gloucester on the other. It seems to us, my lords, that all counsels for patience have reached their end and the time has come to give due answer to this usurper. It is in our mind to ask that all here assemble what men they have in their followings and ride to Lincoln with all possible speed to settle accounts once and for all. And yet, we are but a woman unversed in the arts of war. Perhaps it would be the wiser course to gather all in council and let each voice be heard. What say you, my lords?

Robert, already on his feet and clearly agitated, did not hesitate in his answer. My liege and sister, he said, I say the time for talk is indeed past! I say there are but two words that should now be on the lips of every man here and every man who would support the true sovereign. To Lincoln! He turned his gaze on Miles as a buzz of commentary began to fill the room once more. What say you, my lord?

Miles, a hale and capable man, though graying and well into his middle years, rose to his feet with an air of considered gravity, clearly savoring the moment to judge by his expression. What say I? As one who welcomed our lady from the moment she set foot on this shore, who has put all that I own at her disposal, I also have but two words. To Lincoln!

And that was more than enough to set men and not a few women all over the room surging to their feet to take up the cry of, To Lincoln! while the Empress surveyed the scene, nodding her head in approbation.

Once more Robert held up his hand. Then to Lincoln we shall go, my liege, and may God’s blessings for victory go with us! And as the shouting rose up once more, he left his place to go down to speak to the messenger, a group of men collecting around him from all over the room as he did so.

Not every face looked pleased, however, though those at least of men were endeavoring to hide it, while any number of women were sitting silent with frightened or worried expressions, their thoughts on their menfolk who would soon be at risk. Alicia had only to give her father the barest glance to know this was a time for deferential silence as he set his goblet down with a thump and muttered at her, I expect you’ll be needed. You know what to do, girl, and then left to join Eustace without a backward glance or hearing Alicia’s murmur of, Aye, Father.

Well, Ponceau, I confess you have exceeded expectations.

The Frenchman inclined his head with graceful deference. Men of experience and discernment, such as yourself, my lord FitzOsbern, demand nothing less. But now that this little drama has played out as I said it would, you can see how all knew their parts as surely as the mummers we enjoyed earlier in the evening.

So it would seem, FitzOsbern muttered. And yet—

Be sure it is as I said, my lord, Ponceau assured him. "Once my lady Empress’s rival Stephen is dispatched, whether to captivity or to God, neither she nor my lord Count Geoffrey will have any further use for such a tiresome personality as Roumare. Be sure they would just as readily be done with his brother the Earl of Chester as well, but they must tread more carefully there, seeing how his wife is niece to my lady Empress and he himself is far more formidable. Consequently, whoever is put in Roumare’s place as Earl of Lincoln must be someone of resolution, aye, even ruthlessness at need, who will curb the rashness and ambition of Chester. There are few enough who have such ability and of those, most already possess honours enough or else are not willing to separate themselves so far from the center of matters. But a person such as yourself, my lord, whose lack of rank and standing is no fault of his own but solely due to the misfortunes of his fathers—that is the sort of man whose name will be spoken of to be the next Earl of Lincoln. Indeed, who already is spoken of—"

So you say, FitzOsbern growled. And yet the Earl of Gloucester, whose voice will figure the loudest in such a matter, has no love at all for me.

Indeed, there is no disputing that, my lord, Ponceau replied. Suffice to say, however, that his is not the only voice to speak in councils and there are those—closer in mind to my master Count Geoffrey—who view you in a far more favorable light and think you admirably suited to take on such a position. Though he strives to aspire to high ideals, my lord of Gloucester is nonetheless a pragmatic man, one who enjoys his place at the pinnacle of power. He well realizes that in order to maintain that position once my lord Count has arrived to assume the kingship, he must endeavor to align himself with my lord Count’s thinking—in any number of matters, not only his estimation of you.

FitzOsbern, however, was not really paying attention—the Frenchman loved the sound of his own voice and was liable to use twenty words where five would do. Very well, then, he muttered. Regardless, I must make preparations to leave to muster my men with all speed. But— He paused for a moment, considering the step he was contemplating once more and then abruptly committing to it. I have a potential ally, he continued. A man who is also dissatisfied with matters as they stand now and who would be glad to hear that Count Geoffrey intends to involve himself sooner rather than continuing to allow his wife and her lackeys to order matters here. I should like you to say to him what you have said to me. He reached into his tunic then, took out a small leather purse he’d prepared ahead of time and set it on the table standing against the wall, pleased at the satisfying clink of coins. He also will be busy but I should think he would be able to meet us in some inconspicuous place in the town sometime tomorrow.

Ponceau lifted an eyebrow, his glance flicking for the barest moment to the purse. I of course must prepare myself to travel north as well, he said, but I am at your disposal, my lord, in anything you believe will serve our mutual interests.

Good, FitzOsbern said. Speak with my captain, Hugh FitzJohn, tomorrow around noon—he will have particulars. In the meantime, I bid you good night, Ponceau. And without looking around—especially without a glance at the purse he’d left behind, he turned and strode down the corridor, intent on returning to the main hall.

At last, he thought, at last, this may very well be the chance I have been waiting for. It was a never-ending source of gall that he, Fulk FitzOsbern, whose grandfather had been Earl of Hereford, the Conqueror’s cousin and right hand, whose father had been King Henry’s boon companion from childhood in spite of his illegitimate birth, had ever been shunted aside and ignored throughout his own childhood and youth, so that he must spend years scheming and conniving, showering money on fools, enduring marriage to a worthless, puling woman for the lands and connections she had brought, all in order to achieve the status and rank that should have come rightfully to such as he, what his own weak worm of a father had refused to reach for in spite of being ever at the king’s side. Yet it was how the world worked and since the old king’s death, with his overlord taking first one side and then the other, he had needed to exert all his cunning to ensure that whichever one of the rivals for the crown eventually triumphed, Fulk FitzOsbern would not be the loser.

Luc Ponceau had approached him the second night of the Christmas festivities. He was far too unctuous for FitzOsbern’s tastes, but that was only to be expected in an Angevin, what he claimed to be—as well as being in Count Geoffrey’s employ, sent to keep an eye on matters unobtrusively and report directly to the Count about the activities of his wife and those close to her. FitzOsbern had initially laughed at Ponceau’s flattery, but the man had proven surprisingly knowledgeable and when his most outrageous assertion had proven true to the letter this very night—that Ranulf of Chester and his brother would seize Lincoln Castle in such a way as to force Stephen to retaliate or look an utter weakling along with opening the way for a reconciliation with the Empress and providing the chance for prevailing against Stephen once and for all, FitzOsbern had begun to think he had not misplaced his albeit guarded trust in the man.

He was gratified to see that the hall had not emptied in his absence, though the festivities had clearly come to an end and most of the women had left, doubtless to either set their servants to work packing or else sit wringing hands in the chapel. The Empress as well had withdrawn, but Earl Robert was seated at one of the lower tables now, with most of those who mattered gathered about him. On the outskirts of this group, FitzOsbern caught sight of a shock of white hair that belonged to the man he was looking for. Joining them as though returning from an errand of nature, he waited a few moments before leaning to murmur in the man’s ear. A word with you later, de Lessay.

***

Godrey Castle, Herefordshire

Three Days Later

Lady. The quiet voice of Gedric, steward of Godrey, penetrated through the noise of busy women’s chatter that echoed in the stone hall, causing Alicia to quickly look up from the rounds of bread she was packing into baskets. My lady, the carts have returned, and your sister.

Thank you, Gedric, she answered, dusting off her hands, unconsciously returning the gentle smile of affection Gedric always seemed to have for her. She’d been anxiously awaiting Isabel since the evening before, wanting to know she was safe and also wanting what further news there was of the marshalling of Empress Maud’s army to march to Lincoln. I think with these next batches of loaves that are coming out of the ovens we’ll have enough—

Never trouble yourself, my lady, I’ll see to it, Gedric answered. Take your time hearing Lady Isabel’s news. I’ve had some hot wine sent to your room.

You are too good, Gedric, Alicia sighed, looking around for the cloak she had shed in the close warmth of the hall. I hope Lady Heloise appreciates what she’s getting.

An expression of something that might have been humor briefly crossed Gedric’s face. I’m sure the lady will have due regard for all Lord Eustace’s possessions, he said.

Alicia gave him a sharp, wide-eyed look that he would say such a thing, even to her. I was speaking in jest, Gedric, she said.

Well do I know it, my lady, Gedric returned easily. How else? But go, I beg—I delay you with my prattle.

She took him at his word, fastening her cloak and hurrying off toward the hall doors that led out into the yard. Outside all was equally chaos, but there was Isabel picking her way through the bustle to hurry up the steps to the keep, calling Alicia’s name. Saints above, I’m frozen! she declared. Is there any chance in all this to-do of a cup of warm wine?

Gedric has sent for some, Alicia answered, drawing her inside and to the small room off the main hall where a brazier glowed bright red and a tiring woman was already pulling out fresh, dry garments for Isabel to be warmed in front of the hall fire.

When will they leave? Isabel asked as she drew her chair close to the brazier and gratefully wrapped her hands around the cup of wine Alicia poured for her.

Tomorrow at first light, Alicia answered, pulling her own chair closer. I think I’ll sleep for a whole day once they’re off—we’ve done nothing but rush to prepare since we got back, I’ve barely slept at all. Alicia, with her experience in supervising the manor folk as well as being able to ride well enough to keep pace with the men, had come straight back from Gloucester with them, while Isabel, no rider at all, had followed with the carts carrying their clothing and belongings. Lord Miles has promised Eustace a place beside him in the vanguard and so they are all on fire to head north to rendezvous with the Earl of Chester, who is apparently trying to convince some of the Welsh to join him along with gathering more of his own folk.

Isabel made a small noise of annoyance. So you already know Chester was not desperately trapped in his castle as the messenger told the tale, she said.

The messenger told his truer tale that very night, Alicia answered, smiling a little at Isabel’s disappointment at not being the first with news. Of course Eustace and Father were discussing it on the way home.

And what of Eustace? Isabel asked, eyeing Alicia sidelong. Has he had anything to say for himself yet?

Alicia sighed impatiently, looked away and took a sip of her wine to hide her annoyance at the unwelcome reminder. No, he’s said nothing. And what of it? It’s as I said before—he was offered a fine chance and he took it and there’s an end of the matter. And in any case, we’ve not had a moment for private speech since we got back.

They say he will marry Heloise as soon as may be. That Stephen took only a small force to Lincoln and is certain to be defeated and that the Empress will be crowned by Easter. And I am to ask you from Lady Margaret to make all right with Father and Eustace so that I can come to stay with the de Courcys until my marriage to John since she will need my help so now. The youngest son of the Empress’s chamberlain Robert de Courcy had offered for Isabel the previous fall and been accepted. It was a good enough match, though Alicia had no great opinion of John—with neither martial skills nor a courtier’s wits, he was not the sort of man likely to ever gain any large estate except what his father might manage to gift him with. If you don’t come with me, you’ll be all alone. What will you do?

I? Alicia shrugged. Why should I do anything differently?

You’ll hardly be spending so much time at Godrey once there is a new mistress here. With Geoffrey in attendance on Lord Miles now, there’s nothing left but to look after the holding and Father and be buried there in the middle of nowhere until you are an old maid.

Alicia shrugged, speaking as lightly as she could manage, Well, but you’ve already said you will find me a much worthier husband than Eustace with the connections to the court you will have through John—

Alicia— Isabel sighed, took a sip of wine, knowing she was being teased. It is a serious matter. You have not been well served by Father—perhaps if he had exerted himself for you, Eustace might have made an offer after all. And Eustace will likely not help you, though he should. For certain I will do all I can, but—

Isabel, let it be, for pity’s sake, Alicia sighed. So much is at stake in these next few weeks, so many will lose their lives regardless. Perhaps I do not want to marry. I’m not so certain I want to be tied to a man I barely know, who barely knows me in return. Who knows, perhaps I will take the veil.

Alicia!

There are worse lives. It was all Mother ever wanted, she only married Father out of duty to Grandfather de Guimont.

Of course, I know that, but—very well, I will let it be. But I do not want to lose you so. And I am frightened.

Of what? Alicia got up to fetch the flagon of wine from its place close to the brazier and refill both their cups. Of what? she asked again when Isabel bit her lip and did not answer.

Where is Father? she asked.

He’s been home and all about the countryside to collect all the men he can. He himself offered to go to the outlying assarts. Eustace was happy to have him doing that rather than having to send William FitzGilbert or Roger Tesson.

What would you say if I were to tell you that instead, he rode right back to Gloucester, was there night before last?

What?

Was in a tavern near the waterfront with Fulk FitzOsbern and some French-looking fellow.

At the name of Fulk FitzOsbern, Alicia sank into her chair without even realizing it. The name and its owner had first darkened their lives some two years before, just after the Empress had returned to England to actively strive for her crown. A lesser scion of a once-prominent family eager to improve his standing, their father, Guy de Lessay, had met him somewhere and he had appeared at their holding, a hard, ruthlessly ambitious man fueling de Lessay’s hatred of being ruled by a woman, something he must perforce tolerate as a vassal of Eustace de Bretteville. Alicia had overheard FitzOsbern counseling her father to forswear his fealty and declare for Stephen, which would have been treason and meant disgrace and the certain loss of their lands. And though it had all come to nothing in the end, the episode had frightened Alicia and Isabel and increased the animosity between their father and younger brother, fearful of losing his place in the world before he was old enough to claim it. It can’t be, she murmured. Are you certain?

Of my own father when I see him? Isabel sent her a look of exasperation. "Of course he would never expect me to be in such a place and so late at night. But Lady Margaret wanted to hear evensong and her woman had taken ill, so John and I went with her to the church instead and we took a wrong turn coming back. It