Rhuddlan by Nancy Gebel

missing for some time. While
it was a relief to most to live under a strong king, there was that
faction of men who saw in the stability of government a decline of
their own power, and in the swift execution of justice a hindrance
of their own law.
    “I’d say the Young King has backing that he
hasn’t even got to look for,” Haworth said. “Obviously, there’s his
father-in-law, the king of France. But there’s also the king of
Scotland, the earl of Leicester, the earl of Norfolk, almost all
the barons in Aquitaine and Brittany, and perhaps even the princes
of Wales.” He paused, frowning slightly as he mulled over his
words. With an air of sudden realization, he added, “In fact, Henry
would be hard put to win a war against his son because he’d be
facing rebellion from every direction.”
    Hugh snorted. “Henry pére has the devil’s own
luck. That would only even out the odds.”
    A cheer went up from the ring; another match
had ended. Two men staggered to the sideline, one trying to stanch
with his hand the oozing of blood from a gash on his thigh and the
other sporting a rapidly blackening eye.
    “Then you’ll answer ‘no’ to the letter?”
    “I didn’t say that,” Hugh said. “But I need
more than three days to think it over. I need to determine who
among my tenants will stand with me and allegiance to the king be
damned, and who will not. I think my answer will reflect polite
interest but no commitment—for the time being. Right now,” he said,
his voice hardening as something in the distance caught his eye, “I
have trouble of a different sort.”
    Haworth followed his gaze and saw the
countess and her companion walking across the ward towards the
chapel. “I thought all was well between you and your wife.”
    “It’s a mystery to me why she isn’t yet
pregnant, Roger. Just one or two heirs and then I can be rid of
her.”
    “You try often enough,” Haworth said as if
sheer probability was sufficient for ensuring conception.
    Hugh gave him a sly look. “Not jealous, are
you?”
    “Of a woman?” Haworth’s sudden laugh sounded
like a harsh cough.
    “She’s in that damned church
for hours every day. I asked her once what the hell she was doing
in there for so long and she told me she was praying to have a
child to please me. I told her obviously she was lying since she
continued to fail to conceive. I said she was probably
praying not to have
a child but that I would get one out of her one way or
another.”
    “I don’t see what’s so difficult about it,”
Haworth commented. “Women do it all the time.”
    “She was probably a bad bargain. I might ask
my mother to start inquiring about an annulment. Get rid of her—and
that sour-faced bitch she brought with her. She’s never liked me
and I’ve never liked her lack of respect for me.” He remembered
Bolsover advising him to leave Gwalaes at Oakby. ‘She’s Eleanor’s
crutch,’ Bolsover had said. ‘She protects Eleanor as if Eleanor
were a child. I think it’s time Eleanor’s been weaned, don’t you?’
The memory made Hugh smile bitterly. The Bolsovers had certainly
wreaked havoc in his life for the past year and a half. He thought
he was tired of it. Perhaps this overture from the Young King
heralded a fresh beginning.
     
    The evening was clear and unusually mild for
October. Gwalaes loosened her cloak and stared up at the sky. The
moon was rising; in another hour it would be stark as daylight in
the ward. Now it was still dusky and the twinkling stars were
brightly visible against the black backdrop above. But she saw none
of the beauty.
    Gwalaes wished heartily to be gone from
Chester. She and Eleanor did nothing but argue, mostly over Hugh
but also over Eleanor’s reluctance to appeal to her father for
help. Gwalaes was certain that Sir Thomas would demand his
daughter’s return if Eleanor desired it since he already believed
Hugh was responsible for the death of his beloved son. Eleanor,
however, flatly