Time and Chance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Acknowledgements

  ALSO BY SHARON KAY PENMAN

  The Sunne in Splendour

  Here Be Dragons

  Falls the Shadow

  The Reckoning

  When Christ and His Saints Slept

  The Queen’s Man

  Cruel as the Grave

  A MARIAN WOOD BOOK

  published by

  G.P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Marian Wood Book

  Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Publishers Since 1838

  a member of

  Penguin Putnam Inc.

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2002 by Sharon Kay Penman

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not

  be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission

  to reproduce from the following:

  “A Love Poem,” by Hywel ab Owain, translated by Carl Lofmark,

  Bards and Heroes (Llanerch Enterprises); “Battle of Tal y Moelfre,” by

  Hywel ab Owain, translated by Joseph Clancy, The Penguin Book of

  Welsh Verse (Penguin Books); “The Killing of Hywel,” by Peryf ap

  Cedifor, translated by Tony Conran, Welsh Verse (Poetry Wales Press,

  Ltd); “Ceridwen,” by Hywel ab Owain, translated by Robert

  Gurney, Bardic Heritage (Chatto & Windus Ltd).

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Penman, Sharon Kay.

  Time and chance / Sharon Kay Penman.

  p. cm.

  “A Marian Wood book.”

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15741-1

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  TO JILL DAVIES

  MAP TO COME

  A gain I saw that under the sun the race is

  not to the swift,

  nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise,

  nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to men of skill

  but time and chance happen to them all.

  ECCLESIASTES

  CAST of CHARACTERS

  ROYAL HOUSE OF ENGLAND

  Henry Fitz Empress, second of that name to rule since the Conquest, also Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou; first king of the Plantagenet dynasty

  Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine in her own right, Henry’s queen; former consort of Louis VII, King of France

  The Empress Maude, Henry’s mother, daughter of English king, Henry I; widow of Holy Roman Emperor and Count of Anjou

  Geoffrey, late Count of Anjou, Henry’s father

  Geoffrey and Will, Henry’s younger brothers

  Rainald, Earl of Cornwall, illegitimate son of Henry I; Henry’s uncle

  Ranulf Fitz Roy, illegitimate son of Henry I; Henry’s uncle

  Rhiannon, Ranulf’s first cousin and wife

  Maud, widowed Countess of Chester, daughter of Robert Fitz Roy, Earl of Gloucester; Henry’s first cousin and Bishop of Worcester’s sister

  Petronilla, widowed Countess of Vermandois, Eleanor’s sister

  ROYAL HOUSE OF WALES

  Owain Gwynedd, Welsh king

  Cristyn, his concubine

  Davydd and Rhodri, their sons

  Hywel ab Owain, Owain’s firstborn son by an Irish noblewoman

  HOLY ROMAN CHURCH

  Thomas Becket, Henry’s chancellor

  Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury

  John of Salisbury, Theobald’s secretary

  William Fitz Stephen and Herbert of Bosham, Becket’s chancellery clerks

  Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of Hereford and later, London

  Roger, Bishop of Worcester, son of Robert Fitz Roy, Earl of Gloucester; Henry’s cousin

  Henry of Blois, Bishop of Winchester, King Stephen’s brother

  Roger de Pont l’Eveque, Archbishop of York

  Hilary, Bishop of Chichester

  Jocelin de Bohun, Bishop of Salisbury

  PROLOGUE

  IT BEGAN WITH A SHIPWRECK on a bitter-cold November eve in God’s Year 1120. The English king Henry, son of William the Bastard, conqueror of England, lost his only lawfully begotten son in the sinking of the White Ship. In his despair, he named his daughter Maude, widow of the Holy Roman Emperor, as his heir. But his lords balked at being governed by a woman, and when the old king died, Maude’s cousin Stephen seized the throne.

  Stephen was not feared by his lords, who dismissed him as a mild man, gentle and good, who did no justice. When the Empress Maude and her bastard brother Robert, the Earl of Gloucester, led an army onto English shores, many rallied to her cause. Even more served only themselves or the Devil. Outlaws roamed the roads and barons became bandits, raising up stone castles by forced labor, emerging from these wolf lairs to raid towns and plunder the countryside. Women, pilgrims, priests—none were spared by the lawless and the damned. Because men feared to venture into the fields, the earth was not tilled, crops did not grow, and hunger stalked the land. In this wretched way did nineteen years pass, years of suffering and anarchy, and people said openly that Christ and his saints slept.

  The Empress Maude failed in her attempt to reclaim her stolen crown. But by her marriage to Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, she had given birth to a son who vowed to recover his lost birthright. He called himself Henry Fitz Empress and men began to hope that he might deliver them from their misery. It was said that he was Fortune’s favorite; when that was reported to him, he said a man makes his own luck and some thought that was blasphemy. He was only nineteen when he stunned Christendom by wedding Eleanor, the beautiful and headstrong Duchess of Aquitaine, less than two months after she’d been freed from her marriage to the King of France. He then turned his gaze upon Stephen’s unhappy realm. Within a twelvemonth, he had forced Stephen to recognize him as the rightful heir, and it was agreed that Stephen would rule for the rest of his days and then Henry would be king. In less than a year, it came to pass. He was but one and twenty when he was crowned as the second Henry to rule England since the Conquest, and the people rejoiced, for he promised them justice and peace.
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  CHAPTER ONE

  July 1156

  Chinon Castle

  Touraine, France

  AS THE KING OF ENGLAND crossed the inner bailey of Chinon Castle, his brother watched from an upper-story window and wished fervently that God would smite him dead. Geoffrey understood perfectly why Cain had slain Abel, the firstborn, the best-beloved. Harry was the firstborn, too. There were just fifteen months between them, fifteen miserable months, but because of them, Harry had gotten it all—England and Anjou and Normandy—and Geoffrey had naught but regrets and resentments and three wretched castles, castles he was now about to forfeit.

  He’d rebelled again, and again he’d failed. He was here at Chinon to submit to his brother, but he was not contrite, nor was he cowed. His heart sore, his spirit still rebellious, he began to stalk the chamber, feeling more wronged with every stride. Why should Harry have the whole loaf and he only crumbs? What had Harry ever been denied? Duke of Normandy at seventeen, Count of Anjou upon their father’s sudden death the following year, King of England at one and twenty, and, as if that were not more than enough for any mortal man, he was wed to a celebrated beauty, the Duchess of Aquitaine and former Queen of France.

  Had any other woman ever worn the crowns of both England and France? History had never interested Geoffrey much, but he doubted it. Eleanor always seemed to be defying the natural boundaries of womanhood, a royal rebel who was too clever by half and as willful as any man. But her vast domains and her seductive smile more than made up for any defects of character, and after her divorce from the French king, Geoffrey had attempted to claim this glittering prize, laying an ambush for her as she journeyed back to Aquitaine. It was not uncommon to abduct an heiress, then force her into marriage, and Geoffrey had been confident of success, sure, too, that he’d be able to tame her wild nature and make her into a proper wife, dutiful and submissive.

  It was not to be. Eleanor had evaded his ambush, reached safety in her own lands, and soon thereafter, shocked all of Christendom by marrying Geoffrey’s brother. Geoffrey had been bitterly disappointed by his failure to capture a queen. But it well nigh drove him crazy to think of her belonging to his brother, sharing her bed and her wealth with Harry—and of her own free will. Where was the justice or fairness in that?

  Geoffrey was more uneasy about facing his brother than he’d ever admit, and he spun around at the sound of the opening door. But it was not Harry. Their younger brother, Will, entered, followed by Thomas Becket, the king’s elegant shadow.

  Geoffrey frowned at the sight of them. As far back as he could remember, Will had been Harry’s lapdog, always taking his side. As for Becket, Geoffrey saw him as an outright enemy, the king’s chancellor and closest confidant. He could expect no support from them, and well he knew it. “I suppose you’re here to gloat, Will, as Harry rubs my nose in it.”

  “No, I’m here to do you a favor—if you’ve the wits to heed me.” The most cursory of glances revealed their kinship; all three brothers had the same high coloring and sturdy, muscular build. Will’s hair was redder and he had far more freckles, but otherwise, he and Geoffrey were mirror images of each other. Even their scowls were the same. “Harry’s nerves are on the raw these days, and he’s in no mood to put up with your blustering. So for your own sake, Geoff, watch your tongue—”

  “Poor Harry, my heart bleeds for his ‘raw nerves,’ in truth, it does! Do you never tire of licking his arse, Little Brother? Or have you acquired a taste for it by now?”

  Color seared Will’s face. “You’re enough to make me believe those tales of babes switched at birth, for how could we ever have come from the same womb?”

  “Let him be, lad.” Thomas Becket was regarding Geoffrey with chill distaste. “ ‘As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.’ ”

  “You stay out of this, priest! But then,” Geoffrey said with a sneer, “you are not a priest, are you? You hold the chancellorship, yet you balk at taking your holy vows . . . now why is that?”

  “I serve both my God and my king,” Becket said evenly, “with all my heart. But you, Geoffrey Fitz Empress, serve only Satan, even if you know it not.”

  Geoffrey had no chance to retort, for the door was opening again. A foreigner unfamiliar with England would not have taken the man in the doorway for the English king, for he scorned the trappings of kingship, the rich silks and gemstones and furred mantles that set men of rank apart from their less fortunate brethren. Henry Fitz Empress preferred comfort to style: simple, unadorned tunics and high cowhide boots and mantles so short that he’d earned himself the nickname “Curtmantle.” Equally indifferent to fashion’s dictates and the opinions of others, Henry dressed to please himself, and usually looked more like the king’s chief huntsman than the king.

  To Geoffrey, who spent huge sums on his clothes, this peculiarity of his brother’s was just further proof of his unfitness to be king. Henry looked even more rumpled than usual today, his short, copper-colored hair tousled and windblown, his eyes slate-dark, hollowed and bloodshot. Mayhap there was something to Will’s blathering about Harry’s “raw nerves” after all, Geoffrey conceded. Not that he cared what was weighing Harry down. A pity it was not an anchor.

  What did trouble Geoffrey, though, was his brother’s silence. The young king was notorious for his scorching temper, but those who knew Henry best knew, too, that these spectacular fits of royal rage were more calculated than most people suspected, deliberately daunting. His anger was far more dangerous when it was iced over, cold and controlled and unforgiving, and Geoffrey was soon squirming under that unblinking, implacable gaze. When he could stand the suspense no longer, he snapped, “What are you waiting for? Let’s get it over with, Harry!”

  “You have no idea what your rebellion has cost me,” Henry said, much too dispassionately, “or you’d be treading with great care.”

  “Need I remind you that you won, Harry? It seems odd indeed for you to bemoan your losses when I’m the one who is yielding up my castles.”

  “You think I care about your accursed castles?” Henry moved forward into the chamber so swiftly that Geoffrey took an instinctive backward step. “Had I not been forced to lay siege to them, I’d have been back in England months ago, long ere Eleanor’s lying-in was nigh.”

  Geoffrey knew Eleanor was pregnant again, for Henry had announced it at their Christmas court. Divorced by the French king for her failure to give him a male heir, Eleanor had then borne Henry two sons in their first three years of marriage. To Geoffrey, her latest pregnancy had been another drop of poison in an already noxious drink, and he could muster up no sympathy now for Henry’s complaint.

  “What of it? You’d not have been allowed in the birthing chamber, for men never are.”

  “No . . . but I’d have been there to bury my son.”

  Geoffrey’s mouth dropped open. “Your son?”

  “He died on Whitsunday,” Henry said, softly and precisely, the measured cadence of his tones utterly at variance with what Geoffrey could read in his eyes. “Eleanor kept vigil by his bedside as the doctors and priests tried to save him. She stayed with him until he died, and then she made the funeral arrangements, accompanied his body to Reading for burial. He was not yet three, Geoff, for his birthday was not till August, the seventeenth, it would have been—”

  “Harry, I . . . I am sorry about your son. But it was not my fault! Blame God if you must, not me!”

  “But I do blame you, Geoff. I blame you for your treachery, your betrayals, your willingness to ally yourself with my enemies . . . again and again. I blame you for my wife’s ordeal, which she need not have faced alone. And I blame you for denying me the chance to be at my son’s deathbed.”

  “What do you want me to say? It was not my fault! You cannot blame me because the boy was sickly—” Geoffrey’s breath caught in his throat as Henry lunged forward. Twisting his fist in the neck of his brother’s tunic, Henry shoved him roughly against the wall.

  �
�The boy has a name, damn you—William! I suppose you’d forgotten, for blood-kin means nothing to you, does it? Well, you might remember his name better once you have time and solitude to think upon it!”

  Geoffrey blanched. “You . . . you cannot mean to imprison me?”

  Henry slowly unclenched his fist, stepped back. “There are men waiting outside the door to escort you to a chamber in the tower.”

  “Harry, what are you going to do? Tell me!”

  Henry turned aside without answering, moved to the door, and jerked it open. Geoffrey stiffened, eyes darting in disbelief from the men-at-arms to this stranger in his brother’s skin. Clutching at the shreds of his pride, he stumbled across the chamber, determined not to plead, but betraying himself, nonetheless, by a panicked, involuntary glance of entreaty as the door closed.

  Will untangled himself from the settle, ambled over to the door, and slid the bolt into place. “Harry . . . do you truly mean to imprison him? God knows, he deserves it . . .” He trailed off uncertainly, for his was an open, affable nature, uncomfortable with shadings or ambiguities, and it troubled him that his feelings for his brother could not be clear-cut and uncomplicated.

  Henry crossed to the settle and took the seat Will had vacated. “If I had my way, I’d cast him into Chinon’s deepest dungeon, leave him there till he rotted.”

  “But you will not,” Becket predicted, smiling faintly as he rose to pour them all cups of wine.

  “No,” Henry admitted, accepting his cup with a wry smile of his own. “There would be two prisoners in that dungeon—Geoff and our mother. She says he deserves whatever punishment I choose to mete out, but that is her head talking, not her heart.” After two swallows, he set the cup aside, for he drank as sparingly as he ate; Henry’s hungers of the flesh were not for food or wine. “I’m going to try to scare some sense into Geoff. But since he has less sense than God gave a sheep, I do not have high hopes of success.”