Stronghold

CHAPTER NINE

Ranulf was in the castle kitchen, with a hunk of bread under one arm and a bowl in his hands, when Hugh du Guesculin caught up with him. After the events of the last few days, Ranulf wasn't particularly hungry, but he now had a full night's watch duty ahead and knew that he had to get something into his belly. In addition, the game broth, which Otto, the earl's corpulent Brabancon cook, now ladled into his bowl from a huge, steaming pot, smelled delicious.

"I've been looking for you," du Guesculin said.

Ranulf didn't at first respond, even though, with nobody else in the kitchen, du Guesculin could hardly have been addressing anyone else.

"FitzOsbern, I said…"

"I hear you," Ranulf said, picking up a spoon.

Du Guesculin smiled in that usual self-satisfied way of his. Stripped of his mail, he now wore comfortable clothes: green hose and a hooded green tunic, with long, unbuttoned sleeves. He had donned a dagger at his belt in place of his sword. He'd even brushed his bobbed black hair and clipped his short moustache; all the more remarkable given that he was sharing the earl's spartan accommodation in the Constable's Tower.

"I hear you've formed quite an attachment to our prisoner?" he said.

Ranulf shrugged. "Then you hear wrongly."

"Ahhh… so you object to being replaced as her personal jailer because you deemed that an easier tour of duty than standing sentry on these walls?"

"At least I'd be out of the weather." Ranulf made to move through the archway into the refectory, but du Guesculin stepped into his path.

"Except that I don't believe a word of it, FitzOsbern."

Ranulf feigned shock. "You don't?"

"I believe that you feel sorry for the girl, or guilty about the way she's been treated, and are now concerned for her welfare."

"What you believe or don't believe is of no importance to me."

Ranulf pushed his way past and sauntered down a flight of four steps into the refectory, a low, vaulted chamber, lined with benches and long tables, but currently empty due to the lateness of the hour. He sat, tore his bread into pieces and, one by one, began to dunk them in the broth. He tried not to show irritation when du Guesculin sat down across the table from him.

"You really dislike me, don't you, FitzOsbern?"

"I don't have any feelings about you at all."

"Do I disgust you?"

Ranulf smiled. "You don't really want me to answer that question, do you?"

Du Guesculin pursed his lips. "You consider that you're not part of this tragic affair, is that right?"

"I wish I wasn't."

"How noble of you. But let's not conveniently forget the past, FitzOsbern. You are only in the earl's service because you yourself are a murderer."

Ranulf eyed him coldly, but continued to eat.

"Don't be embarrassed about it," du Guesculin added. "There are few men who reach your age in the order of merit without making… shall we say 'errors of judgement'. Even fewer reach Earl Corotocus's age. Tell me, what did you think of his wife, Countess Isabel?"

"I never met her," Ranulf said, wondering where this was leading.

"She died a considerable time ago, of course. Now that I think about it, well before you joined the earl's mesnie." The banneret hooked his thumbs under his straining belt in an effort to get more comfortable. "Contrary to popular legend, it was not the earl's dark moods that drove Countess Isabel to her early grave. In fact, he was very devoted to her. When they married, she had few prospects. She was the daughter of a landless troubadour, who came to England during the reign of Henry III. She brought no title, no dowry. It was a love-match, you see. Earl Corotocus hoped to raise a family with her — to have many children. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. Four times she failed to deliver a living child. The final occasion was the death of her. Earl Corotocus was devastated. He never tried to marry again, and his entire personality changed. He became a colder, harder man…"

"What are you trying to say, du Guesculin? That having failed to build an empire of the heart, Earl Corotocus sought to build an empire of land?"

"Something like that."

"And why are you telling me all this?"

"I thought I should give you some insight into his character."

Ranulf laughed as he dunked more bread and crammed it into his mouth.

Du Guesculin watched him carefully. "And into mine."

"I don't need insights into your character, du Guesculin. I know it perfectly well already. You're the earl's device, a mechanism, a thing of cogs and wheels rather than flesh and blood."

"How eloquently you speak… for a rogue knight without a penny to his name."

"You can thank my mother for that. At her insistence, I was taught much more than the skills to bear arms. Many lessons I learned at her knee, du Guesculin. I loved her deeply. When she died, I too was devastated. But I didn't become a tyrannical savage."

"Again, how noble of you. You're too perfect, FitzOsbern. It's almost a pity to sully your angelic thoughts with harsh practicalities, but I shall do it anyway, as we all will benefit. You're aware that the Welsh girl we hold is lawful heiress to most of Powys, the largest province in Wales?"

"Of course. And?"

Du Guesculin chuckled. "You may be a fierce warrior and a learned speaker, but you clearly lack a political grasp. Think about this. Earl Corotocus already holds the March, and a number of disparate lordships on both sides of the Welsh border, but they are dotted here, there and everywhere. Were he to be made undisputed lord and master over all of Powys, he would control the entire middle section of Wales, its absolute heartland. Think of the potential of this. There would be no more scope for rebellion running the length and breadth of the country. In fact, there would be no scope for rebellion at all. The border wars would end."

"And would the people of Powys serve the earl willingly after the things he's done here?"

"What matter? They would still serve him — willingly or unwillingly — because they would have no choice. Oh certainly, there would be hostility. But you know the truth about Wales — their own princes have been as cruel or incompetent, or both, as any Anglo-Norman lord imposed by the Crown. In time they would acquiesce, and the earl could relax his stranglehold. Life would become easier for everyone."

"They might not acquiesce so quickly if they perceive that he has wrested the province by force from their rightful liege, Countess Madalyn."

Du Guesculin smiled. "This is the clever part, FitzOsbern. Perhaps there is no need for him to wrest it by force… if he can acquire it by marriage."

Ranulf shook his head with slow disbelief. "You mean to Lady Gwendolyn?"

"No, of course not — to her invisible twin sister! Who else do you think I mean?"

"The king would never agree to that."

"Of course he would. The king is in the process of fully incorporating Wales into the realm. And he'll use any method available to him. If that means investing one of his most loyal vassals with a significant portion of it, why should he even hesitate?"

"Countess Madalyn would never agree."

"What does that matter?"

"Lady Gwendolyn would never agree."

"Ah!" Du Guesculin raised a finger. "That is where you play your part, FitzOsbern. If you have genuine feelings for the girl, perhaps it would suit all of us if you were to, shall we say, 'advise her where her best interests might lie'?"

"I see. And where do you play your part?"

Du Guesculin puffed his cheeks at the burdensome task that he himself faced. "I need to convince Earl Corotocus. He has no patience with these Welsh. He sees them as outsiders, barbarous brutes. He'd want to spend as little time here as possible."

"In which case he would appoint a seneschal to rule his Welsh lands for him, no?"

Du Guesculin made a vague gesture. "Quite possibly."

"And that, du Guesculin, is where you really play your part?"

"I have served his lordship faithfully for twenty years. Is it not time I was rewarded?"

Ranulf gave a wry smile. "If I'm not mistaken, you have extensive lands around Whitchurch, with matching estates at Oswestry?"

"You are not mistaken, FitzOsbern. But Wales is new territory, and much wilder. I think there will be a greater degree of autonomy."

Ranulf laughed. "You mean you can rule like a great nobleman? Maybe even take a title? Count of Lyr? What about Earl of Powys… how does that sound?"

Du Guesculin stiffened at the mocking tone. "What I propose is perfectly reasonable."

"Why don't you just go the whole hog, du Guesculin? Travel to Rome, make up some scandalous lies about your own wife's lack of fidelity, get an annulment, then return and woo the Welsh girl yourself?"

"I've explained the situation," du Guesculin said, standing up. "From this point it's up to you. As things stand, the Lady Gwendolyn is our enemy and our hostage. Becoming her friend would not be the wisest course. The earl already has half an eye on you as someone he doesn't fully trust. On the other hand, were you to make your relationship with the girl profitable to us, things could be very different."

"Different for whom?"

"You and your father have nothing, boy. When you are released from the earl's service, assuming you survive that long, you will still have nothing. I, however, may have important posts to fill here in Wales. Why not think about that?"

He strode from the table.

"Du Guesculin!" Ranulf called after him.

Du Guesculin turned on the steps.

"Du Guesculin, what do you not understand about the meaning of the word 'atrocity'? These people hate us with a passion that you apparently can't conceive."

Du Guesculin shrugged. "Hatred is one emotion that can be bought and sold, FitzOsbern. Some day, I will prove that to you."