The Running Vixen tor-2

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Adam tossed his shirt on to the ground and sat down beside it, his back to Miles so that the latter did not see his frown. ‘Did she?’ He twisted his fingers around a clump of grass growing near his feet, uprooting it from the dry soil.

  Adam’s back might be turned, but Miles could see the tension in his neck and shoulders, could feel it in the quality of the atmosphere, and thanked Christ that Renard had gone to investigate the training. He nodded towards the three stallions and said, ‘She sent them by way of an apology. She knows she treated you unfairly.’ The wrinkles deepened around his mouth and eyes. ‘She’s also very stubborn.’

  Adam looked round at Miles. ‘Did she tell you everything?’

  Miles spread his hands. ‘As much as any woman. A carefully adjusted version of the truth, I hazard. She did not explain what the two of you were doing in the solar at midnight in the first place.’

  Adam lowered his gaze to the grass clod dangling between his fingers. ‘We spoke of another matter too, concerning Ralf and what may be an affair of treason. Heulwen was worried, and so was I when she told me — and one thing led to another.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me? About Ralf, I mean?’

  Adam threw away the grass and stood up in one lithe movement that made Miles envious. ‘No.’ He rotated his left arm to ease a muscular ache and eyed the horses. ‘Not yet. Not until I know more.’

  Miles inched far more circumspectly to his own feet, pain knifing through his knees.

  Adam went to the three stallions and began to look them over again with a knowing hand and admiring eye. He stroked Vaillantif ’s muzzle. The stallion butted him and mouthed the bit. He took the bridle and led him towards the training ground, a deep frown knitting his brows. He had his truce. Now all he had to do was find the grace to accept it and forget.

  ‘It’s a great pity,’ Miles added, limping beside him. ‘If only you hadn’t grown up with her, she wouldn’t be thrusting the obstacle of “brother” under your nose, and in my opinion, you’re far more suited to her needs than the strutting cockerel she’s determined to wed.’

  They passed between the shadows cast by the corridor of two storesheds and Adam did not see the quick, calculating glance that Miles shot his way. ‘I am not and have never been a brother to her,’ Adam said curtly. The word sent a shudder through him. ‘But it does not mean your opinion is right — with respect. I am not some willing hound to come at a whistle and be leashed because it suits the need of others.’

  ‘That is not what I meant, and you know it. You are as difficult as my granddaughter.’

  ‘Let it be, sire,’ Adam said stiffly. Gathering the reins, he mounted Vaillantif and trotted him across the training yard to a bundle of lances that were stacked against the far wall.

  The men paused in their sword practice and turned to watch him. Jerold took another swig of wine from the skin and passed it to Renard, who was now stripped to his shirt and in possession of a whalebone sword and a kite shield.

  Adam leaned over the saddle and took up a lance, then rode Vaillantif to the quintain course down the long edge of the ground.

  Smiling slightly, Miles strolled over to the knot of expectant men and paused beside his grandson.

  ‘He’s using the French style,’ Renard said with interest as Adam couched the lance under his arm and fretted Vaillantif back on his hocks.

  ‘Well that’s because it’s a French sport,’ said Jerold. ‘Besides, underarm’s better than over. More thrust behind it when it’s positioned like that.’

  Renard shook his head. ‘I’ve tried, but God’s life, it’s difficult.’

  ‘Watch,’ said Jerold, giving him a silencing look. ‘Hold your tongue, and learn.’

  The quintain was a crossbar set on a pivot, with a shield nailed to one edge and a sack of sand to the other, the objective being to strike the shield cleanly in the centre and thus avoid being struck from the saddle or severely bruised by a knock from the bag of sand.

  Adam crouched behind the shield and positioned the lance across his mount’s neck. He tightened the reins and Vaillantif ’s forefeet danced left-right on the ground. ‘Hah!’ he cried, and drove in his heels. Vaillantif arrowed down the tilt run, dust spurting from beneath his hooves, sunlight flashing on the bit chains, stirrup irons and bright sorrel hide. He moved effortlessly, eating the ground, and each stride that he took hammered the word brother into Adam’s skull. The tip of the lance wavered and readjusted. Adam hit the target precisely where he intended and cried out in triumphant rage as he ducked over the pommel, his face buried in Vaillantif’s flying blond mane. The sandbag kicked violently on the post and grazed the air over his spine.

  Vaillantif galloped on to the end of the tilt. Adam sat up and reined him round, set heels to his flanks again and repeated the manoeuvre, swirled in the dust, and charged back down the tilt. The lance cracked the shield and the sandbag hurtled round. Adam ducked, drew on the bridle, and hurled the lance point-down into the dust. There was no sense in foundering a good horse just to take the edge off his frustration. No sense in anything. He looked at the quivering ashwood shaft, wrenched the tip free of the ground and walked Vaillantif over to his audience.

  ‘Christ!’ declared Renard, eyes round with admiration. ‘I’d hate to face you across a battleground!’

  Jerold FitzNigel was watching his lord with a peculiar look in his pale eyes. He knew Adam playing and Adam for real, and just now they had been permitted a rare, deadly glimpse of the latter.

  Miles kept his own eyes lowered and his thoughts to himself, but when Renard began to demand enthusiastically to be shown how it was done, he cut him short with an elder’s brusque prerogative.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Adam managed a smile as he slid down from Vaillantif ’s back. ‘We all have to learn some time — don’t we?’

  Chapter 5

  France, Late Autumn 1126

  William le Clito, claimant to the Duchy of Normandy and the English crown, both currently held most firmly by his uncle Henry, shoved the girl impatiently off his lap and scowled across the room at the immaculately dressed man sitting on the hearth bench drinking wine. ‘You said it would be simple,’ he complained, and pitched his voice in singsong mimicry, ‘An arrow from the rocks above, or a sudden ambush in the forest, or even a second White Ship — but there she is, safe at her father’s court in London without so much as a scratch to show for your efforts, and all the barons and bishops preparing to do her homage!’

  Warrin de Mortimer stroked his close-cropped beard and regarded the petulant man opposite with an irritation that did not show on his heavy, handsome features. Le Clito — the Prince. Prince of nothing. King Henry had robbed le Clito’s father of England, Normandy and his freedom in that order; but stung by conscience and the protests of his nobility, had left his son at liberty. The boy, now grown to manhood, had a genuine claim to the English crown. His father was the King’s older brother and William the Conqueror’s eldest son. King Henry was the youngest son of the Conqueror, and the Empress Matilda his only surviving legitimate child. ‘Yes,’ he said to the glowering young would-be king. ‘And it would have been simple if she hadn’t had so vigilant an escort and you had provided me with more than fools. We made several attempts, but de Lacey was ready for each one.’

  ‘He knew?’

  Warrin gave an irritable shrug. ‘For the most part I would say he was too experienced in that sort of warfare to be caught out. You don’t grow up with men like Miles le Gallois and Guyon of Ravenstow for tutors and emerge a simpleton in the art of skirmish. The Empress’s escort did take wounds, but none of them fatal.’

  The girl sat down on a rug before the hearth and, piqued at being ignored, hitched one side of her gown up her leg. Unfastening a garter, she began to roll down one of her hose — slowly and provocatively. Le Clito’s focus faltered and swivelled to his mistress. She curved a triumphant smile at de Mortimer.

  ‘So much for all the silver paid out to get the information, ’ le
Clito said angrily. ‘We might as well have saved ourselves the time and expense.’

  King Louis’s time and expense, Warrin thought cynically. William le Clito had no serious funds of his own, but relied on Henry’s enemies to provide them for him so that he could continue to be a thorn in his uncle’s side.

  ‘I intend recouping some of it before next Candlemas,’ Warrin said with a smile, as he contemplated le Clito’s mistress. Her hair was as brown and glossy as a palfrey’s hide, her face dainty, with clear grey eyes. A tasty morsel, but not the remotest challenge to the feast awaiting him at home.

  Le Clito raised his brows. ‘How?’

  ‘I’m taking the next galley to England and once there, I’m marrying our informant’s widow.’

  Le Clito started to laugh, realised that his companion was not jesting, and leaned forward, his mouth hanging open. ‘You’re what?’ The girl extended her toes and wiggled them at the fire.

  ‘That way I can legally lay my hands on the silver and whatever else is bestowed in his strongboxes. I’ll get a castle, three manors and a blood bond with Guyon of Ravenstow whose daughter the widow happens to be — and a very fetching widow at that.’

  Le Clito stared at him. ‘You sly bastard!’ he chuckled.

  ‘God helps those who help themselves, sire.’

  ‘And is the lady in question agreeable?’ Le Clito picked up his wine and grinned at him over the rim of the goblet, beckoning the girl from her sulky pose on the rug.

  ‘I don’t foresee any difficulties.’ Warrin rose, extending his tall, powerful frame in a luxurious stretch. ‘I’ve trodden very softly around her these last few months and spoken her father fair. My own father’s a personal friend of his and anxious for the match, so there’s been some persuasion from that side too. All there is left to do is obtain your uncle Henry’s permission, as le Chevalier’s lands are in his gift. I have no reason to think he will refuse me.’

  The girl snuggled herself down beside le Clito and rubbed her hand over the V-shape of dark chest hair exposed by his loosened shirt laces. ‘All well and good for you,’ le Clito grumbled. ‘A fat purse and a warm bed, but what of the future? I’m the heir in direct male tail to my grandsire the Conqueror, the eldest son of the eldest son. Are you going to abandon me and bow to my uncle’s will? Are you going to accept that high-handed bitch to rule you — and whatever cur he drags from the gutter to be her husband?’

  Warrin grimaced. ‘My father will give his fealty for our lands, not I. You know I’d rather sit in the stink of air from the devil’s fart than put my hands between hers in homage. I’ll be at Windsor for the swearing because I’ve got to be. I’ll let you know what happens and find out who we can depend upon to renege at the first opportunity. I had to get rid of le Chevalier, he was playing both sides of the coin, but I’ve still got some contacts at court.’

  The girl’s expert hand wandered lower and le Clito shifted on the settle to accommodate her ministrations.

  ‘You ought to get married again,’ Warrin advised as he lifted the curtain to leave. ‘No good begetting bastards. Ask your uncle. He’s got twenty-two of them, and not one of them can inherit his crown.’

  Chapter 6

  The pied bitch yawned and scratched vigorously at a tender spot behind her ear. Four pups, bright-eyed, fat-bellied and inquisitive, tumbled and played beside her. Sunlight shafted down from an unshuttered window and bathed their fuzzy infant fur. Judith pushed the shears through the crimson wool marked out on her sewing trestle, the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips as she concentrated. It was to be a court robe for Renard and there was precious little time left to sew it, for they were well into November now, the slaughter month. The boy kept on growing; his best tunic, stitched only this midsummer, now revealed his wristbones and barely touched his knees, when it had been made to hang below them. Flanders cloth it had been, of an expensive, bright deep blue, lavishly embroidered with scarlet silk thread. It would do for Henry later on, so all was not lost, but the new garment had still to be stitched, and prayers said with the sewing that Renard would not grow again for a while at least.

  The curtain clacked on its rings. Heulwen exclaimed as she tripped over a curious pup, then swore as it dug its sharp little milk teeth into the hem of her gown, intent on a growling tug-of-war. With some difficulty, she persuaded it to let go, and toed it gently sideways towards its dozing dam.

  ‘Have you finished?’ Judith deftly turned a corner. Crunch, crunch went the shears. She looked a brief enquiry across the richly coloured cloth.

  ‘For the moment.’ Heulwen picked up a small pot of scented goose-grease salve from the coffer, took a dollop and began to work it into her dry, cold-reddened hands. Several pigs had been slaughtered for salting, and the supervising had involved a certain degree of demonstration. Washing excrement from pigs’ intestines, scraping them and then packing them down in dry salt for later use as sausage skins was a form of purgatory, but then so was needlecraft and, on balance, Heulwen thought that she would rather wash sausage skins.

  ‘I’ve left Mary filling the bladders with lard and Gytha and Edith making a brine solution. I’ll go down and check it in a while, but they’ve done it a hundred times before and should be all right. Thomas is dealing with the hams. We’ll need more salt before Christmas.’

  ‘I know.’ Judith worked her way to the end and laid down the shears. ‘You can help me pin this now you’re here.’

  Heulwen screwed up her face. Judith began to smile. ‘You need the practice,’ she teased gently. ‘Soon you will have a man of your own to sew for again.’

  Heulwen felt heat warm her cheeks and brow. She picked up a pincushion. ‘Nothing is settled yet,’ she muttered defensively. ‘I know Papa’s had Warrin’s letter formally asking for me, but the King has yet to approve — and for that matter, so have I. Besides, Warrin’s still in Normandy.’

  ‘But due home any day now?’ Judith started to pin the cut edges together, working nimbly. Then she paused and looked thoughtfully at her stepdaughter. ‘In some ways the sooner the better for you, I think.’

  ‘And you too, Mama.’

  Judith’s scrutiny sharpened, but she took no offence. Several weeks of each other’s company had begun to rub the amity a little threadbare. Much as Judith was fond of her stepdaughter, she did not possess the calm, maternal patience that would have served in her best interests. Instead she was wont to snap, or say something tart, and Heulwen would bristle and retort in kind. It was hardly surprising that there should be friction, Judith thought. Heulwen had married Ralf at fifteen, and had been a chatelaine in her own right for more than ten years. Adjusting to the codes of her former life for no matter how temporary a time must be difficult, especially when faced with an older woman who smiled, but resented the intrusion. ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘For me too. I will relish the peace and quiet!’ And then she sobered. ‘But daughter, you must be certain this match with Warrin is what you truly want for yourself. You know your father and I would never push you against your wishes.’

  Heulwen drew breath to say that yes, it was what she truly wanted; her mind was made up, but what emerged from her mouth was different. ‘Mama, do you think Warrin is a suitable match?’

  Judith pondered the matter while she set half a dozen more pins into the fabric. ‘Suitable, yes,’ she said at length. ‘But whether he is the right choice, only time will tell. You have known him since childhood. He’s ambitious, self-opinionated, and about as sensitive as a wall. He’ll expect you to decorate his bed and board as befits a man of his standing.’ She straightened up and glanced at Heulwen’s anxious face, seeking something to say that would even the balance. ‘You certainly won’t lack for anything. Warrin’s always been generous. I dare say you’ll even have maids enough to do all your sewing.’ She smiled briefly, then grew serious as she added, ‘But if you have a need to go beyond the gilded trappings, then I advise you to think again. To Warrin de Mortimer you will be a trophy, cherished for how hig
hly others will envy him, rather than cherished for your own sake.’

  ‘I realise that, Mama, and it does not bother me,’ Heulwen said determinedly, ‘In fact I—’

  ‘Heulwen, you’ve got a visitor,’ Renard announced as he sauntered into the bower. He was eating a cinnamon and apple pasty filched from beneath the cook’s nose, and his narrow grey eyes were alight with mischief.

  ‘Warrin?’ She abandoned the pincushion and raised her hands to check the set of her veil and the tidiness of her braids.

  ‘Wrong,’ he said cheerfully, coming further into the room. Having crammed the rest of the pasty into his mouth, he stooped at the hearth to pick up one of the hound pups. It wriggled and sought to lick him with an ecstatic pink tongue. ‘Adam de Lacey.’

  Her hands fell from her braids. ‘Adam?’ she repeated weakly. ‘Why does he want to see me?’

  Renard gave her a mocking grin, head flung back to avoid the strivings of the pup. ‘Perhaps he wants to arrange another midnight tryst in the solar,’ he suggested.

  ‘Renard!’ snapped his mother, glaring at him with disfavour. ‘If you spent as much time exercising your brain as you did your tongue, you would have a wit to be feared indeed!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said with the graceless joy of one who is not sorry in the least. ‘He’s brought you your horses. You did say you were going to sell them in Windsor, didn’t you? And you’ll have to face him sooner or later.’ He held the pup in the crook of his arm like a baby and wandered over to the sewing trestle to look with idle interest upon his mother’s endeavours.

  Judith frowned at him, although she was secretly proud. His height dwarfed hers, although childhood was still stamped on the features of the emerging man. There were crumbs on his upper lip amidst the dark smudge of a soft moustache line. The crimson wool would suit him very well. He was tall like Guyon and dark-haired, but his eyes were the grey impenetrable ones of his grandfather the King. He also possessed his grandfather’s sleight of tongue, married to a lethal adolescent lack of tact. The future lord of Ravenstow and the responsibility, God help her, lay at her feet.