Free Time and Chance by Sharon Kay Penman

you as a blessed peacemaker, how can they not forgive you?”
    “Just be sure,” Ranulf warned, “that you do not lure Eleri off for some private persuasion. Her husband may be a man of few words, but you make a cuckold of him at your peril.”
    “Of course I will not try to seduce Eleri.” Hywel managed to look both innocent and offended, yet his dark eyes were gleaming. “I promise,” he said, “to confine my attentions to your wife,” and sauntered away with Ranulf’s laughing curse ringing in his ears.
    “That is Owain’s firstborn?” Henry arrived just as Hywel was departing. “The poet?”
    Poets were greatly esteemed in Wales, not so revered across the border. Henry had a higher regard for learning, though, than many of his countrymen; both his parents had valued education and had seen to it that he’d received an excellent one. Many lords scorned writing as a lowly clerk’s skill, but Henry never traveled without a book in his saddlebags. Knowing that, Ranulf had no qualms about confirmation and he nodded. “Yes, the poet.”
    Henry looked after Hywel with kindled interest. “Is he any good?”
    “Actually, he is. And he wields a sword as deftly as he does a pen. It was Hywel who rallied the citizens of Môn to repel your invasion.”
    “Can you not even pretend to regret our rout from Môn?” The reproach was playful, Henry’s smile sympathetic. “You deserve credit for this peace, Uncle. I’ll not be forgetting what you did.”
    “I hope the Welsh forget,” Ranulf said wryly, knowing they would not. Too many of his Welsh brethren would see his actions as proof that he was—and would always be—an alltud, a foreigner.
    “Let them grumble in the alehouses and taverns; you do have alehouses in Wales? When courting popularity, Ranulf, aim high. You’ve gained a king’s favor by this campaign. No, not mine; you’ve always had that. I meant Owain. You proved yourself to be honorable and, even better, useful.”
    Ranulf smiled in spite of himself. “I can see that you and Owain speak the same tongue, one common to kings. A pity poor Stephen never learned it.”
    “I’m glad he did not,” Henry said forthrightly, “for if he had, he might have held on to his stolen crown. You are right, though. I think Owain and I do understand each other.” For a moment, his gaze shifted, his eyes resting thoughtfully upon the Welsh king. All in all, Henry was pleased with the results of his campaign. He’d gotten what he wanted, and without paying too high a price for it. He knew, of course, that he had not bought peace with the Welsh, merely rented it for a time. He knew, too, that his uncle believed otherwise, and that would be the one regret he’d take back to England. But he said nothing, for in this, he and Hywel ab Owain were of one mind. Llawer gwir, gorau ei gelu. All truths are not for telling.
     
     
     
    DINNER WAS SERVED in England between eleven and twelve in the forenoon, in Wales at day’s end. Because Eleri had visited Trefriw rarely in the weeks since war began, her stepmother, Enid, had instructed their cook to prepare a more elaborate meal than usual: roast capon, cabbage and almond soup, gingered carp, and apple fritters. But the dinner was not a success. To Enid’s annoyance, Eleri and Rhiannon and Rhodri seemed indifferent to the fine fare set before them. Only the children ate with gusto. The adults pushed the food about on their trenchers, taking an occasional absentminded bite, and Enid realized she could have served them straw for all the notice they’d taken. Conversation was equally listless, desultory, and labored. Enid was soon wishing that her stepdaughter had stayed away.
    Rhiannon was wishing the same. It was unbearably painful, this estrangement with her sister. She could feel Eleri’s eyes upon her. When she misjudged her reach and almost tipped over her cider cup, Eleri had instinctively leaned over to help. As Rhiannon steadied the cup, their fingers touched,