Le Clito took in the evidence and looked down at Warrin who was now sitting up, his helm on the grass beside him. His face was ashen, and against it a pink scar high on his cheekbone stood out like a brand. ‘What have you to say?’ le Clito asked with a raised brow.
‘I never touched his precious horse. I wanted to tumble de Lacey in the dust and bloody his pride as he did mine, and I took it too far.’
‘Horseshit!’ Adam rasped.
Geoffrey looked around. The mêlée was winding to a halt as men drifted over to listen to the altercation. ‘My lord?’ he said to le Clito.
Le Clito saw that he had no choice and gestured to the knight beside him. ‘Etienne, escort Warrin from the field and keep him confined in my quarters until I come.’
Geoffrey nodded curtly and remounted the grey. To Adam he said in a low, furious voice, ‘Is this a sample of the kind of behaviour I can expect from English barons?’
Adam made no reply, which was the best he could manage in his present mood. He stared at a thick streak of mud on his surcoat, and forced his limbs into rigid quiescence.
‘I suggest you go to your lodgings and have yourself and your horse tended.’ Geoffrey wrestled his horse around.
Adam watched him ride away, le Clito beside him, and became aware of the pain thundering through his arm. Warrin de Mortimer did not look at Adam as he straddled the piebald and departed from the field with le Clito’s knight. The flail hung down from his saddle, catching glints from the sun.
‘Will he be all right?’ The straw crackled.
Adam turned to regard his wife in the swinging light of the horn lantern. She was carrying his fur-lined mantle over her arm and also the morning’s abandoned picnic basket. ‘I thought you were abed?’
‘I was, but I couldn’t sleep knowing you were down here alone. How is he?’ She knelt beside him and laid a gentle hand on Vaillantif’s stretched red-gold neck. The horse was spread out in the straw, his breathing regular but noisy, his limbs twitching now and again in strange muscular spasms.
‘No real change, but if he was going to die he would have done so by now, I think.’ He compressed his lips and looked at her from the corner of his eye. ‘You warned me, didn’t you?’
‘It is no comfort that I was right.’ She took her hand from the horse’s neck to set it over his. ‘When I saw you go down this afternoon. ’ She swallowed. ‘Oh Dear Jesu!’
He felt her shudder and, a little awkward because of his bruised arm, drew her against him and kissed her. She began to cry then, burying her face in his chest, her fingers clutching his tunic and shirt.
Adam was taken aback by this sudden outburst of emotion. Saving an incident with one of his serjeants, who now sported a badly scratched face and the beginnings of a black eye in recompense for his efforts to prevent her from hurtling herself into the midst of the mêlée, she had been as remote as an effigy. When he had walked off the field she had neither cast herself hysterically into his arms nor turned the termagant, but had greeted him with about as much warmth as a stone. She had seen efficiently to his injuries, which consisted mainly of heavy bruising. That he had no broken ribs or fingers was a miracle, and she had said so a trifle tartly, but there had been no more reprimand than that. She had treated him with the dutiful courtesy she might yield to a stranger.
‘Come, sweeting,’ he said tenderly, ‘it’s over now. There’s no need for tears.’
Sniffing, she drew away to wipe her face on her cloak. ‘Blame my stepmother,’ she said, and suddenly there was an undercurrent of laughter in her voice. She busied herself finding a wine costrel and two cups from the depths of the basket.
He looked at her in puzzlement.
‘She trained me — drilled it into my head that in times of crisis the worst thing you can do is panic. When that crisis is past, then you can weep and turn into a jibbering half-wit if that is your need.’ She sniffed again and handed him the wine and a hunk of bread topped with a slice of roast beef.
He looked wry. ‘That sounds like the lady Judith,’ he said, and took a hungry bite of food. He had not eaten since the breaking of fast that dawn, indeed had not realised until now that he was ravenous.
‘I’ve never been so near to a blind rage as I was this morning,’ he said as he ate. ‘If Geoffrey of Anjou had not prevented me, I’d have killed Warrin there and then. Jesu God, all those high words about not jeopardising my errand, and then I go and lean on my blade.’ He shook his head in self-disgust and took a swallow of the cold, sharp wine. ‘Austin says one of the city’s beggar children fed Vaillantif a couple of wrinkled apples. He saw no harm in it, and I don’t suppose I would have done either — only in hindsight. A beggar child would not feed apples to a warhorse unless paid to do it. He’d eat them himself.’
‘You think that was what brought Vaillantif to this?’
‘Assuredly. What better way of evening the odds than to have Vaillantif founder at the wrong moment? All Warrin had to do was watch for the coming opportunity.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘Not a great deal, I suspect. For the sake of political diplomacy the whole thing will be forgotten as quickly as possible. Le Clito will go back to France with his retinue, and we’ll return to England and the ripples in the pool will drift to the bank and disappear.’ He made a face. ‘Christ’s blood,’ he said softly as he put the empty goblet down, ‘I wish we were home now.’
She leaned her head upon his shoulder. A shiver of foreboding rippled down her spine. ‘So do I,’ she said in a heartfelt whisper. ‘Adam, so do I.’
‘How could you be such an idiot?’ snapped William le Clito and glared at the man stretched out on the bed. ‘All right, Adam de Lacey owes you a debt that can only be paid with his life, but what’s your hurry? Surely you could have arranged something a little less obvious? It is no wonder my cousin reached England in safety if this is the level of your ability!’
‘It was not supposed to be obvious,’ Warrin said, sulkily, and folded his arms behind his head, revealing armpits tufted with wiry blond hair. ‘There was nothing wrong with the idea. It was just pure mischance that the whelp interfered at the wrong moment. If he hadn’t, the world would now be rid of Adam de Lacey and no one any the wiser.’
‘You think no one would notice his horse staggering about like a drunkard!’ Le Clito scraped an exasperated hand through his thinning hair. ‘You think no one would notice the hoofprints all over your victim’s corpse, or not recognise that piebald you were riding? God’s balls, you truly are an idiot!’
‘Accidents happen in tourneys all the time. His horse was struck on the head. I could not prevent mine from trampling him. I got carried away in the heat of battle. It frequently happens, and I had a witness to corroborate my version of the truth, one of de Lacey’s own men, the little Angevin with the red boots who likes the dice more than he should.’
Le Clito snorted contemptuously. ‘Be that as it may, you are more than fortunate to be lying on that bed and not on the straw of a cell floor. I had the devil of a task persuading Count Fulke not to throw you in his oubli ette. Indeed, the only thing that saved you was the fact that we’re returning immediately to France.’
Warrin jerked up on his elbows. ‘France?’ he repeated, startled.
‘You weren’t there in the hall to hear it, were you? A messenger arrived from my father-in-law. Charles of Flanders has been murdered at his prayers, and mine have been answered.’ A grin split le Clito’s round face. ‘I’ve been offered the vacancy — William, by the grace of an opportune knife, the Count of Flanders. How do you fancy settling down to a Flemish fief and a broad-beamed wife with yellow plaits?’
‘You have been offered Flanders?’ Astonishment increased, verging upon incredulity.
‘By Louis of France as the overlord of the Duchy. But there are others who have a claim, and that’s why we have to go back straight away. There’s some hard fighting ahead, but when I come through it, I’m not just going to be a thorn i
n my uncle Henry’s side, I’m going to be an enormous barbed spear.’
Warrin closed his eyes and lay back again. A fief in Flanders. A Flemish wife. Earning his bread by the sword. His eyelids tensed in pained response to the particular barbed spear in his own side. ‘It is wonderful news, my lord,’ he said, meaning it, but not having the enthusiasm to colour the words.
Le Clito looked at him speculatively and grunted. ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ he said in Warrin’s tone. He picked up a dried fig from the dish on the low trestle and bit into it. ‘What I do wonder is what my uncle Henry wants with Count Fulke. Nothing he desires the world to know, that much is certain.’
‘The Count has given you no hint?’
Le Clito chewed and swallowed. ‘Not a word. Even when delicately pressed he changed the subject, so it’s obviously to his advantage and not ours.’ He eyed the bitter-mouthed knight on the bed. ‘You could of course make amends for your behaviour today and do yourself a great benefit at the same time.’
Warrin eyed his benefactor warily. ‘My lord?’
‘I want you to find out why my uncle has seen fit to send a messenger here to Anjou and I want you to find out before de Lacey and his wife leave for England. They’re bound to have some communication with Fulke, even if it’s a verbal one. I want to know what it is, and as long as I’m not implicated I don’t care how you go about getting it.’
Behind the bitterness, something else uncoiled in Warrin’s eyes, exultant and savage. ‘Money, my lord,’ he began. ‘I will need—’
‘You will be given what you require, and more by way of appreciation when you bring me some proof of your success.’ Le Clito rose smoothly to his feet and went to wash his hands and face in the laver. ‘The details are yours to command. I trust you not to fail — this time.’ He stretched for the towel and dried his hands thoroughly, the gesture almost symbolic.
‘I won’t,’ said Warrin, and then softly on a breath that scarcely stirred the air, ‘by Christ on the cross, this time I won’t.’
Chapter 21
‘Hot pies, hot pies!’ a vendor bawled close to Heulwen’s shrinking ear. ‘Fresh lily-white mussels!’ another exhorted in counterpoint, a laden basket balanced on top of her head, her wide-brimmed hat protecting her wimple from the dripping shellfish. Her wares did not smell particularly fresh to Heulwen, or perhaps it was just the fact that down here near the wharves the air was more pungent anyway, replete to surfeit with the watery aromas of a busy river and the numerous vessels plying their trade. Fishing craft in various stages of decrepitude, inshore cogs, larger merchant galleys, sleek nefs with striped sails and rows of decorated oar-holes.
Heulwen paused beside Adam to watch sailors rolling barrels of wine on to one of the galleys. Water slapped against the stone. Rain had been in short supply that year and a green weedy line showed how far the river level had fallen, although the lowering sky and the damp warm wind suggested this was soon to be remedied. She looked at the water, thought of the Channel crossing and grimaced to remember the cold choppy sea. That she had not been sick on the first crossing was owing to the relative calm of the waves and her own iron determination not to burden her husband or put him off wanting to take her anywhere again. Adam’s travel-hardened constitution was impervious to most discomfort, and he treated those who suffered with surprise and mild impatience.
Adam set his good arm across her shoulders. He was wearing his injured one in a sling. ‘Not long now, love,’ he said, as if he had caught the drift of her thoughts. ‘Once I have Count Fulke’s reply, we can be on our way.’
‘Tomorrow dawn, then.’ She wrinkled her nose, and not just at the sudden stink of hot pitch as they passed some men caulking a galley’s strakes.
‘Too late to set out today,’ he confirmed with regret. ‘I don’t go to him until this afternoon and it’s bound to be vespers at the earliest before I can get away, if not compline and full dark…Are you hungry?’
Arm in arm they left the blended stenches of the wharves and warehouses and found a space to sit and eat hot mutton pasties, bought from one of the ubiquitous street vendors and surprisingly good, washed down with a costrel of the local wine. Adam had purchased several barrels to take home with them, for being bought at source, it was of high quality at an attractive price.
The sun was a warm white halo beyond the clouds and the breeze blew the market-place smells at them. Spring came earlier to Anjou than it did to England. Here the trees were preparing to blossom; in the marches the snow was still skittering in the wind. Heulwen found herself longing to put out her tongue and taste it.
Repast completed, they moved on through the seething mass of humanity. A woman, her teeth rotten stumps, tried to sell Heulwen a caged bird and was rejected with a shudder, for Heulwen had never been able to tolerate the sight of a creature in a cage. She did, however, succumb at Adam’s insistence to some new hairpins and a pair of beautifully worked silver braid fillets from a haberdasher’s stall.
Adam looked critically at the horses that were for sale. A young black Flemish mare caught his eye. She was compact and solid without being overly thickset and possessed of a bold, confident carriage. Her winter coat was coming away in handfuls, making her look patchy, but this was no detriment save to appearance and probably the reason she was still for sale. He ran his good hand down her legs and found them well formed and sound.
‘Adam.’ Heulwen touched his shoulder.
He turned at the warning in her voice and looked at the entourage winding its way through the market-place: William le Clito with an escort of knights in their finest array. No women this time, their presence replaced by a string of laden pack ponies, and all headed in the direction of the city gates.
‘Well well,’ he said, lips curving into an arid smile. ‘What a pretty sight, and Warrin doing rearguard duty. It’s a pity I’ve never been much use at left-handed knife-throwing.’
The piebald was limping from a hip strain incurred the previous day. Straight-backed, Warrin rode him competently. Beneath his helm, his square jaw jutted with determination and his left, ring-bedecked hand was clenched hard on his thigh, hinting at the violence that was so much a part of the determination.
After one hard stare Adam deliberately turned his back to continue his examination of the black mare. Although he affected indifference, his body was rigid.
‘I will sleep easier in my bed tonight,’ Heulwen said on a relieved note.
The group moved on. Warrin glanced once and briefly at Heulwen and Adam, his expression blank. Then his gaze fixed on the Angevin Thierry, who was whittling a piece of wood with his meat dagger, tiny slivers and shavings dropping on to his tunic. Thierry raised his head and returned Warrin’s stare blandly, then returned to his whittling.
‘He’s gone,’ Heulwen murmured.
‘Deo gratias,’ Adam said through his teeth, some but not all the tension leaving his body.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, sensing the residue.
Adam shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He twitched his shoulders. ‘A knife’s echo between my shoulder blades.’ He spoke abruptly to the horse coper. ‘How much do you want for her?’
Heulwen chewed her lip and considered him with exasperation. Tail-chasing again, she thought, and to no good purpose.
He bought the black mare for twelve marks, haggling the coper down from the fifteen he had first asked. Bargain struck, he turned to his pensive wife. ‘Can you take her home with you if I go to see the Count now?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She forced a smile. ‘Compline, you said?’
He grimaced. ‘Most probably…I’m sorry, love, but I cannot bring you with me. I wish I could.’
Heulwen pouted. ‘You’ve taken a fancy to one of the court whores,’ she accused him, ‘and you want me out of the way.’
‘They are rather engaging,’ he admitted, his face as straight as her own, but then his eye corners crinkled, marring the deception. ‘But I’d rather share a bed with you any day.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘For your sake.’
When Adam arrived at the castle, Geoffrey of Anjou was tilting at a ring that had been set up on a quintain in the bailey, and he was making a commendable job of it. Adam joined the gaggle of spectators, among them the kitchen girl with whom Thierry had been so familiar two nights before. She blushed and giggled behind work-roughened hands. Adam ignored her to concentrate on Geoffrey’s performance.
Geoffrey lifted the ring on the end of his lance and came away cleanly without encountering the sandbag. Turning the grey at the end of the tilt he saw Adam, and having handed the lance to a squire, jogged over to him. ‘What do you think?’ He was panting slightly, his lips parted in a grin that only just fell short of being smug. He knew he was good.
A rainy gust of breeze flurried across the ward. Adam hooked the fingers of his uninjured hand in his belt. ‘Not bad, my lord,’ he nodded in reply, ‘you check yourself slightly before you go for the strike. It would be better if you could maintain the pace.’
Geoffrey favoured Adam with a glittering look. ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said, and then gestured at Adam’s slung arm. ‘How do you fare?’
‘It is sore, my lord, but no lasting damage, I think.’
Geoffrey dismounted gracefully. ‘And your horse?’
‘He’s got his legs back and took a handful of oats from my hand this morning, but he’s still subdued. A splitting skull, I hazard.’ His lips tightened. ‘God knows the kind of potion he was given.’
Geoffrey snapped his fingers at a groom, and as the grey was led away drew Adam across the bailey in the direction of the hall. ‘We found the lad who gave him those apples,’ he said, watching Adam through eyes half shut against the rain.
Adam checked. ‘Did you? What did he say?’
The Running Vixen tor-2 Page 24
