She raised her lashes. Without the cosmetics she had now washed off, they were a thick, dark gold, darker than the sun-bleached hair cloaking her shoulders but a match for the curly triangle between her thighs. The thought initiated a fresh surge of desire. Renard put the cup down and reached for her. When he fumbled at her gown, she pushed his hand aside and dragged it off herself, then pulling him down on top of her, spread her thighs, and guided him desperately into her body.
Her complete lack of inhibition both surprised and aroused him. Abandoning control, he gave himself up to the violent, driving pleasure, as brief but powerful as a storm wave crashing on a rock. Her nails scored his flesh and her cry of release was wild and high with triumph as she brought him with her, stranded to the shore.
‘Christ Jesu!’ Renard panted when he could speak. ‘Are you trying to kill me!’
She raised heavy lids to reveal blue, pleasure-glazed eyes. A smile parted her lips. ‘Didn’t you like it?’
He gave a flesh-muffled laugh and lifted his head. ‘It is what Ancelin would call “good honest futtering” — yes, I liked it, but I would not make it my daily diet.’ He slid out of her and pillowed his head on his bent forearms.
‘What would you make your daily diet?’ she stretched luxuriously.
Renard half smiled and ran an idle forefinger between her breasts and over the smooth curve of her belly. ‘I am not sure I want to give you the power of knowing.’
Olwen closed her eyes to his searching grey stare. Aloud, but half to herself she said, ‘It is the first time I have stayed with any man until dawn.’ She moved her body away from the delicate play of his fingers.
‘Is that what you told all the others?’
‘I told them what they wished to hear.’ She lifted a scornful shoulder. ‘If they believed it, that was their folly.’
‘And am I foolish too?’
‘That depends on what you believe.’ She opened her eyes again. ‘Madam FitzUrse asked me to seek you out. She said you had been away all winter and she wanted to welcome you home in a fitting style.’
‘And charged me half a mark for the privilege!’ he said indignantly.
‘The more you pay, the more it is worth.’
He shot her a dubious glance and leaving the bed began to dress. ‘Being as you have stayed beyond cockcrow, you might as well break fast with me too,’ he said. ‘After a night like last night I’m starving, and if you are not, you ought to be!’
‘Ravenous,’ she said demurely.
His grin became outright laughter.
She cocked her head. ‘Do you have a wife or a mistress?’
Renard hesitated, belt half buckled. ‘Why, are you angling to fill the position?’
She shrugged. ‘I hazard that others have angled many times before and had their bait refused. I was merely curious.’
He finished fastening the belt in silence. ‘I have a betrothed,’ he said at length, ‘but it is a business arrangement. Pleasure is my own to organise.’ Inclining his head, he left the room.
Olwen picked up her rumpled gown and slowly put it back on, an absent expression in her eyes and her thoughts deep.
They were in the midst of breaking bread when Johad led a tall, travel-stained stranger into the room and unobtrusively began arranging another place at the board.
‘Adam!’ Renard stepped over the trestle to heartily hug and clasp the older man. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here!’ The surprised delight at seeing his brother-by-marriage was suddenly overriden by anxiety. ‘What’s happened at home?’
Adam de Lacey returned the embrace with a similar enthusiasm before standing back.
‘Nothing as yet,’ he reassured Renard. ‘Have you got a drink? The stuff they served on that galley was straight out of the bilges!’ His gaze flickered to Olwen.
Clearing his throat, Renard made a brief introduction as Johad poured wine.
‘Olwen?’ Adam gave a quizzical smile. ‘That’s a name from home if ever I heard one.’
‘My father was Welsh.’ Olwen studied him as keenly as he did her and saw a man past youth but only just into his middle years. The lines on his face were, she judged, graven by weariness rather than time. Fanned by new creases caused by staring into a salty wind, his eyes were a light, amber-brown and disconcertingly shrewd as they took in the rumpled state of her silk gown.
He drank the wine and she saw him take note of the red bite marks on Renard’s throat. ‘Home comforts too,’ he said drily.
‘Some of them,’ Renard qualified. ‘How’s Heulwen?’
‘Very well, if a little annoyed at being made a widow for the better part of a year. She sends you her love and bids you not to do anything she would not.’
Renard chuckled. ‘That gives me plenty of leeway.’
Adam grinned, but quickly sobered. ‘Miles is still at home with her because it isn’t safe to send him anywhere to train, and I dare not consider betrothing either of the girls. I have had offers from both camps, Matilda’s and Stephen’s. I suppose I ought to give one to each.’ He broke a piece off one of the flat loaves and put it in his mouth. ‘It is the still before the storm, Renard, and you’re needed.’
‘When did you set out?’
‘January, from Anjou, with letters from Count Geoffrey to his father. Nothing too secret or treasonous, just greetings and news. My main purpose is to bring you home.’
‘Letters for King Fulke? You’ve to travel down to Jerusalem too?’
Adam nodded and washed down the bread with a mouthful of wine. ‘I’ll probably sail down the coast. It’s quicker and I want to be home by the autumn myself. A pilgrim’s lands might be sacrosanct in theory, but it does not always work in practice.’
‘My father … No, finish eating first, and bathe if you want. There’s a tub in the rooms across the courtyard.’
Adam gave him a single bright look and cut free a cluster of grapes from the mound in the centre of the table. ‘It might be best,’ he agreed. ‘Elene sends you her love. There’s one of her famous letters in my baggage.’ He glanced at Olwen. ‘She’s become a fine young woman in your absence. Pretty too.’
‘Has she?’ Renard stared at the wall behind Adam’s head. He had been forewarned by that piercing glance, by the very fact that Adam was here in Antioch. The smell of the goat’s cheese was suddenly so strong it was nauseating. He pushed his bowl aside, and standing up went to the doorway and looked out on the fountain. De Lorys, groggy-legged, was ducking his head in it and groaning. Renard clenched his fingers in his belt. He leaned one shoulder against the gritty white wall and watched the sunlight pattern the tiles around the fountain. Now he knew why he had been thinking of the marches yesterday.
Fingers pressed his sleeve. Startled, he looked round at Olwen. Already he had forgotten her. She was as unreal to him now as a fevered dream.
‘It is best if I leave, my lord. You know where to find me if you have need. I am sorry if your news is not good.’
She saw him make the effort to concentrate, to bring his mind and eye back from the distance and focus on her. ‘I am sorry too,’ he said with a forced smile. She remembered the touch of his lips on her body, the words they had formed, and shivered. ‘Thank you for last night,’ he added. ‘It was a …’ he hesitated, seeking the words, ‘… a memory to treasure on a cold winter’s night.’ He kissed her lightly on the mouth in farewell and dismissal.
Was, not is, she noted with a feeling of panic that did not show on her face. She had no intention of being shown a feast hall through an open door only to have that door slammed in her face. ‘If you have need,’ she repeated softly and, returning his kiss with a light brush of her lips on his cheek, left him.
He heard the rustle of her gown, caught the drifting scent of her perfume, attar of roses and something spicier, and then even that was gone. He went back inside.
Finished, Adam was leaning back from the crumb-covered table, a cup cradled in his hands. ‘Who was she?’ he asked. ‘Or am I
treading on forbidden ground?’
Renard shrugged. ‘A tavern dancer. It was my first night at home in Antioch after a round of duties for Prince Raymond.’
‘Attractive,’ Adam said appreciatively.
‘Yes.’ Renard sat down in the place Olwen had been occupying and once more caught the echo of her perfume. He moulded a piece of bread into a pellet, then broke it apart.
Adam studied his goblet for a moment, then looked at Renard from beneath his brows. ‘Your father will see another winter snow if he is fortunate, but not beyond.’
Renard stared at Adam and felt the hair rise at his nape.
‘The damp got into his lungs last year. We had to ford the Dee in the spring spate and his horse put a foot wrong. He was wearing mail and the wonder of it was that he was still alive by the time Henry and I finally managed to drag him out. He took the lung fever and it was only by a miracle and your mother’s skill that he survived at all, but there was permanent damage. He can’t take out the patrols like he used to. The first breath of cold or damp air and he starts coughing. Before I left at Christmastide he had begun to bring up blood.’
Renard swallowed. His own lungs stopped working. He struggled for a breath.
‘It was your father who sent me to fetch you,’ Adam said gently. ‘Before it is too late … are you all right?’ Anxiously he leaned across the trestle to touch Renard’s shoulder.
‘Struck by lightning,’ Renard answered woodenly. ‘What do you expect?’ He shrugged off Adam’s compassionate hand. ‘Yes, I’m all right.’
‘There is more,’ Adam warned. ‘Ranulf de Gernons is making a nuisance of himself and your father can’t hold him any more. Henry’s doing his best but …’ He grimaced. ‘Well you know Henry. All brave heart and nothing but solid stone in the head.’
‘What manner of nuisance?’
‘He’s nibbling at Caermoel. Claims that the castle stands on land belonging to him, not Ravenstow.’
Renard’s eyes flashed. ‘That’s a lie! We have a charter from the time of the great survey to prove it, and reaffirmed by King Henry!’
‘I know that. There’s no need to blaze at me!’ Adam raised and lowered his hands in a calming gesture. ‘It is the excuse that’s important, not the truth. There have been a couple of nasty clashes between Chester’s and Caermoel’s patrols, and when your father has complained, it has fallen on deaf ears. De Gernons merely laughs and goes his own way, and Stephen does not want to anger one of his most powerful tenants-in-chief over a fly-biting dispute so he just mutters platitudes into his beard and looks the other way.’
Renard put his hands down on the trestle and stared at a white scar on one of his knuckles, legacy of a skirmish with the Welsh when he was scarcely old enough to wield a war sword. The sun-brown skin would eventually fade like a dream, but the scar would remain with him for life.
‘De Gernons has also been hinting to the King that a certain betrothal might be broken and placed more profitably elsewhere,’ Adam said. ‘To his credit, Stephen has taken scant notice thus far, but he’s apt to change his mind under persuasion.’
Renard felt a burden settle on him, heavy as a black cloak with a gilded border — the responsibility for his family’s estates. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Ravenstow still stands by Stephen then?’
‘For the moment. Your father would rather have Stephen for king than the Empress for queen, but it eats at his conscience that he swore to uphold her claim while her father was still alive.’
‘Everyone swore, and under duress,’ Renard grunted. ‘What about you, where do you stand?’
Adam grimaced. ‘Precariously on the fence, like your father. Were it practicable, I would support Matilda. Her son might only be seven, but the throne is his by right, not Stephen’s. The pity is that she is not fit to be regent while he’s growing up, and his father is too occupied with matters in Normandy and Anjou to be bothered with England. As matters stand, I’m too close to Stephen’s stronghold at Shrewsbury to risk renouncing my fealty. For now I’m a crusader, beholden to neither, and it’s a relief.’
Renard made some swift mental calculations. ‘It will take about a month to make ready. That should give you time enough to reach Jerusalem and return — unless you plan to stay longer?’
‘There is not the time.’
‘No,’ Renard agreed and saw that his hands, flat a moment ago, had clenched into fists. ‘It will soon be winter, won’t it?’
Chapter 3
Hand steady, Olwen painstakingly applied a line of kohl beneath and within her lower eyelid, stepped back from the tiny sliver of polished steel to study the effect, and picking up a pot of red paste and a dainty camel-hair brush, started to paint her mouth. A sodden snore stopped her in mid-stroke. She looked round at the couch and scowled at her Uncle Gwylim. Her sister had taken pity on him last night and given him drinking money and sleeping space — more fool her, the stupid slut. Gwener was never going to be anything more than a common soldier’s whore; this tiny hovel in the wrong quarter of Antioch a reflection of her capabilities.
Olwen returned to her preparations. Her sister brushed through the curtain that separated the house into two squalid rooms. She was wearing a gold silk over-dress that Olwen recognised as her own, and new at that. Gwener had larger breasts and the seams were straining to contain her flesh. Yesterday Olwen might have made a cat-fight out of such blatant misappropriation. Tonight, the glimpse of another world in her eyes, she was merely filled with contempt. Bestowing on her sister a single, cold look, she returned to her toilet.
Gwener yawned and scratched her armpit. ‘Who is he?’ She picked up Renard’s knife that was lying on Olwen’s pallet and examined it.
‘That is my business.’
Gwener tossed her head. ‘He wasn’t there last night, was he?’ she said spitefully. ‘I’ve never seen you come home in such a temper before.’
‘And is it any wonder when I find you writhing on the floor with one of your foul clients and yonder drunken sot lying across the door in a pool of vomit!’ Olwen smacked down the pot of red paste so hard that it cracked in half. ‘He wasn’t there last night because he had company — some relative from England.’
‘Ah, he’s English then.’
Olwen tightened her lips and turned her back.
Gwener stretched like a cat. Her eyes were sleepy and feline, blue like Olwen’s, but lacking their size and clarity. ‘Nobility?’ She fondled the knife in a suggestive fashion. ‘What’s he like between the sheets?’
Olwen snatched the weapon from her sister, and seizing a fistful of her straggling hair, jerked back Gwener’s head and let the blade glide against her jaw. ‘Are you really so desperate to know?’
Gwener screeched and struggled. Gwylim’s snores ceased in a stertorous series of grunts and he sat up, blinking, disorientated like a day-wakened owl.
Gwener’s wild threshing caused the knife to slip. It was only a shallow cut, but there was enough blood to drip on to the gown, staining the silk. Gwener flapped like a half-wrung chicken. Gwylim staggered to his feet with some vague thought of separating the girls, tripped over the piss pot that no one had bothered to empty last night, and pitched headlong. A pungent, stink filled the room.
An elderly, inquisitive neighbour poked her head around the door to see what all the noise was about.
‘She tried to kill me!’ Gwener howled, pointing a dramatic finger at Olwen. ‘Look, she’s still got the knife! I’m bleeding! Oh, God’s love, someone help me!’
Olwen threw a rag at her sister. ‘Staunch it yourself, you stupid slut. I wish I’d cut your throat!’
Their neighbour started to jabber her own advice and condemnation. Other curious faces clustered the doorway as Gwylim struggled to sit up, his clothes stinking of stale urine.
Olwen stared round the squalor of the room where she had been born and raised, first in poor decency then in hand to mouth desperation. She detached herself from it in a single stroke, like a knife severing an um
bilical cord, and stalked past Gwylim. He cowered away from the dagger. Ignoring him, she took her best silk gown and another of good linen from her clothing pole and also the black wool robe that she wore when she went out at night to dance.
Gwener howled and dabbed at the nick on her jaw. The neighbour snatched a half-loaf from the table and tucked it away inside her shawl. Olwen saw but made no comment. It was not her concern now, nor ever would be again. She had other battles to fight.
Without a backward glance or even a word of farewell, she went out of the door, and the onlookers made way for her like a crowd parting before a queen. She had that air about her as she took the first steps of a decision made two days ago in the bed of a man she had known for the space of a single night.
Stripped to the waist, Renard curried Gorvenal, a task he could have left to his groom, but the rhythmic motion of his arm working the comb over the glossy black hide and the rich, warm stallion smell were comforting.
Adam had gone to Jerusalem and he had begun to make his own preparations for leaving Antioch. An Italian galley was anchored at St Simeon, bound for Brindisi once she had been refitted for the voyage, and her master had been willing to take him, Adam and their retinues providing they could be ready within five weeks.
A chapter of his life was ending with the same scrambled haste in which it had begun. It was an interlude, already almost a dream. He put down the comb and wiped his brow on his forearm. Outside, the light was hot and somnolent. Gorvenal whickered and nudged him imperatively. Renard fondled the stallion’s plush muzzle and smiled, knowing full well that the horse was snuffling around him for the dates he adored.
‘It is a taste you will have to forget,’ he told the stallion with a hint of wistfulness as he threw the embroidered saddlecloth over the glossy back.
Ancelin arrived in search of a halter he had earlier been mending. ‘You’re not going out in this heat, surely?’ he asked in amazement.
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