Time and Chance by Sharon Kay Penman Read Free Book Online Page A

proper!” An uproar at once ensued, as the Marcher lords began to object strenuously to the idea of turning over command to Cadwaladr.
    Henry heard them all out. Ranulf sensed that he was intrigued by the Marcher suggestion. There was an inherent boldness in the idea that was sure to appeal to him. Ranulf said nothing as the discussion swirled about him, drawing further back into the shadows. He was accustomed to feeling like an outsider, for he’d lived much of his life as one, half Welsh, half Norman-French, a king’s bastard, neither fish nor fowl, as he put it in his more whimsical moods. But rarely had he felt as isolated as he did now, or as helpless, watching as war’s insidious fever claimed first one victim and then another. Was it burning, too, amongst the Welsh?
    His silence did not go unnoticed by Henry, who rarely missed much. “It is getting hotter than Hades in this tent,” he complained. “I am going to take a walk around the camp, and will give my decision when I return. Uncle . . . you want to help me walk the wolf?” he asked, gesturing toward the large black alaunt napping under the table.
    Rainald half-rose from his seat, then sank back in disappointment as he realized he was the wrong uncle. Ranulf got slowly to his feet, waiting as Henry slipped a lead on the dog’s collar, and then followed his nephew out into the night.
    Henry’s pretext had some basis in truth, for it had been an uncommonly hot August so far. The sky above their heads held not even a wisp of cloud, just stars beyond counting. Soldiers nudged one another as they recognized the king, and one of the inevitable camp-followers, a buxom young woman with fiery red hair, called out cheekily, “Good hunting, my liege!”
    “You, too, sweetheart,” Henry shot back, stirring laughter in all within hearing range. Glancing over at Ranulf as they paused to let the alaunt sniff a wagon wheel, he said quietly, “You do not like this flank attack. Tell me why, Uncle.”
    “I do not like this war!” Ranulf said, too loudly, for heads turned in their direction. “I know you say this campaign is meant only to intimidate Owain and the Welsh, and I do not doubt your intent, Harry. Set a fire to contain a fire. But what if it gets away from you? If you and Owain misread each other, all of Wales could go up in flames.”
    Henry did not deny it. “I never promised you that there would be no fighting, Uncle. I’d not lie, at least not to you. I would much prefer that we come to terms with the Welsh, but if it take some bloodshed to bring that about, so be it. However little you like to admit it, Ranulf, I have the right in this argument.”
    Ranulf knew that Owain Gwynedd would say the same. But there was no use in pointing that out to his nephew. He had an uneasy sense that events were taking on their own momentum, already beyond the power of either Henry or Owain to control.
    “What do you think of this flank attack?” Henry persisted. “Is it worth the risk?”
    “I have a bad feeling about it.” Even to Ranulf, that sounded lame. Henry whistled to the dog and they started back toward his tent. Neither spoke for several moments. Ranulf studied his nephew’s moonlit profile; it was bright enough to see the freckles scattered across Henry’s nose. “You’re going to do it, though,” he concluded. “So who gets the command? Cadwaladr? Hertford or Salisbury?”
    He caught a sudden flash of white as Henry smiled. “The command,” he said, “goes to me.”
     
     
     
    HENRY HAD NEVER seen woods so thick and tangled. Clouds of rustling foliage shut out the sun, and by the time it filtered through that leafy web, the summer heat had lost its oppressive edge. The forest trail was overgrown in spots, but at least it was not mired in mud, and their Welsh guides followed its meandering track as if every hollow and fallen log and brambled barrier were branded into their memories. They’d only ridden a few miles so far, but they’d