Renard shrugged. ‘I’ve a sort of pilgrimage to make.’
‘Oh yes?’ Ancelin gave a knowing grin.
‘Not that kind!’
‘You’ll fry your brains.’ Shaking his head, the knight departed with the halter.
Renard finished saddling Gorvenal and picked his tunic off a pile of straw. It was made of the finest white cotton, stained now with the marks of the stable and sweat, but it was only an undergarment to the dark Arab robe that he donned on top of it to quench the sun’s rays. For further protection, he wound a turban round his head in true eastern fashion.
When he rode out into the city, he more resembled a native of the land than a Norman lord. Foreigners who stayed beyond the length of a pilgrimage were wise to adapt their ways to suit the climate. Those who did not, frequently died.
Following the line of the high city wall, Renard rode past St George’s Gate and the Tower of the Two Sisters until he reached the lower slopes of Mount Silipus, its summit crowned by Antioch’s vast citadel. His destination was the grotto of St Peter, a cave shrine frequented by pilgrims in droves, but quiet now and cool in the scorching midday heat. The priests there knew him and did not intrude as he dismounted, flipped a coin to one of the regular horse boys, and entered the dim, candlelit cave.
Genuflecting, Renard knelt to pray. He had come to worship in this tiny chapel on the evening of his first arrival in Antioch, the stars like spangled embroidery on a royal gown, the citadel a crown thrusting to meet them. The grotto had been silent then too, steeped in ancient tranquillity and aglow with the pinprick candles of a thousand hopes and prayers. He often came here in the quiet times, drawing on that tranquillity as if it was cold water from a well in the desert.
Renard was not of a particularly pious nature but he had always found himself genuinely moved by this little mountainside chapel where St Peter and his disciples had met and prayed in persecuted secret and where the word ‘Christian’ had been coined. It gave him a sense of continuity, breathed life into the dry words of sermons that usually sent him to sleep and brought him much closer to God than he was ever aware of feeling on other, more grandiose occasions.
He emerged from the grotto refreshed and filled with a sense of well-being and peace. The sun made him blink, but it was not as fierce as before and the light had mellowed from white to pale gold. He walked down the slope to where Gorvenal was tethered in the shade, spoke briefly to the lad and, without mounting, led the stallion by a goat track further up the mountainside.
Wild thyme, crushed by his boots, scented the air. A goatherd passed him, urging his small flock downwards, and their pungent ammoniac aroma added evocatively to the smell of the herb.
Renard found a small, rock-shaded overhang. A lizard darted away into a crevice as he released the bridle to let Gorvenal crop the scrubby grass. He unslung his water-skin from the saddle, took half a sun-warmed loaf and some grapes from his saddlebag, and sat down to eat, drink and contemplate the vast city spread out before him.
A warm wind gusted into his face, forcing him to half close his eyes. Behind him Gorvenal champed and snorted. Renard looked at the document he had pulled from his saddlebag along with the food. After a moment’s hesitation, he wiped his hands on his robe and reached for his knife to slit the seal. A curved Saracen dagger came to his grip instead. He swore on a smile. His body tingled, responding like an adolescent’s to the mere stimulus of thought. Olwen, as golden as a lioness, Olwen tumbling beneath him or riding triumphantly aloft. The biting, scratching, melting pleasure. Grinning, he shook his head, took several swallows from the waterskin, and cut open the package containing Elene’s letter.
Her handwriting was clear and precise and had developed a firm character of its own since the first childishly executed smudged offerings had arrived haphazardly to discomfort him during their four years apart. The content, however, was much the same. The usual domestic chatter. A travelling huckster had got one of the maids with child. One of the serfs had murdered his mother-in-law. The steward’s wife at Ravenstow had produced twins — a rambling description of the infants. Renard skimmed over that part impatiently and spat a grape pip into the dust.
There were regrets and a genuine concern for his father’s ill health. Elene, as he recalled, had a heart as soft as warm butter. He doubted from what he knew of her that a single calculating thought had ever entered her head, which, if this letter were any indication, appeared to be stuffed with feathers.
His youngest brother, William, had acquired a new horse, white with black spots like a currant pudding, speaking of which, Elene had discovered a wonderful recipe for preserving fruits. Renard flipped the parchment over and stared in growing dismay at the efficient flow of trivia. Groaning softly, he cast his eyes rapidly over it, then stopped at the last third of the page. There was a description of a social event she had attended and a list of the lords who had been present.
‘Ranulf de Gernons was there. I do not like him. He looks at me the way a wolf might look at a sheep it wants to devour. He spent much time with his brother William de Roumare. I do not care for him either. Rumour has it that they want to unite their lands in one line from east to west. Your father says it is probably true and that it bodes ill for Caermoel, Woolcot and Ravenstow, because they lie in the path of their ambition.
‘The wool clip was excellent this year. I have bought two new rams for the Woolcot herds …’
Renard lifted his head and sighing, pinched the bridge of his nose. Ranulf de Gernons, Earl of Chester and lord of the world, given half a chance. Elene’s lands lay on his borders as did the northernmost of his father’s keeps, Caermoel.
Renard spread his hand, brought it down over his face, and looked at the view stretching away before him without really seeing it. If de Gernons took Caermoel, he would easily swallow Henry’s small keep at Oxley, and advance on Woolcot, then Ravenstow, the caput of his father’s lands.
‘No,’ Renard said softly, his eyes narrowing. He abandoned Elene’s letter, apart from noting that she had signed herself in loving obedience his wife, and lay back on the slope, head pillowed on his clasped hands to think — and fell asleep.
A group of pilgrims toiling up to the grotto woke him some hours later; that and Gorvenal snorting gustily into his face. The sunlight was more diffuse now, turning the Orontes into a river of molten gold. His face was tight, a little sore from having lain so long exposed. It was a newcomer’s trick, inexcusable for one so long accustomed to the terrific heat of northern Syria.
He caught Gorvenal’s bridle and rode back down into the city, returning to his villa by way of the high-walled garden entrance. The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the citrus trees and the first stirrings of an evening breeze rustled the cypresses and drifted the scent of lavender from the plants growing along the top of the wall.
Gorvenal went immediately to the stone fountain, dipped his muzzle and drank. Renard dismounted and did likewise, splashing the water in relief over his hot face. The horse pricked his ears and turned. His face water-sluiced and blinded, Renard was unaware of the danger until he felt the blade against his ribs. Body and breath both froze. Murder by stealth was a common way to die out here in Outremer.
The tip indented his skin but did not puncture it. He breathed out again and slowly lowered his hands.
‘Fortunate for you that I am not one of the hashishin,’ Olwen said scornfully as she lowered the weapon. ‘You should guard yourself better. Here, this is yours.’
Renard took his dagger from her in silence.
Her lip curled. ‘You have been lying out in the sun too.’
‘I fell asleep.’ He fumbled at his sheath for the Turkish blade currently occupying it.
Olwen sat down on the edge of the fountain, trailed one hand in the water, and with the other accepted back her own knife, her eyes on him.
Recovering from the shock, he stared back at her and said coolly, ‘That is the excuse dealt with. Are you going to tell me why else yo
u are here?’
‘Why do you think?’
He rested his hands on his belt. ‘Because a quarter of a mark is an irresistible sum? Because there is something you want of me?’
Olwen smiled and began slowly unhooking the neck fastening of her gown. ‘Or that you want of me, my lord?’
Renard opened his mouth to say that the thought had not occurred to him, that she was mistaken if she believed she could manipulate him, but the words went unspoken and his eyes drifted to the throat of her gown and travelled down the shadowed declivity between her breasts. She rose and came to him, twining her arms around his neck and half nipping, half kissing his jaw and throat, seeking his lips, her body rubbing.
Renard ceased thinking at all.
It was release and oblivion, an indulgence of the senses that temporarily obliterated the mind, and he did not realise how much he had needed it until he surfaced from the exquisite sensations to become aware of the breeze playing over his sweat-coated muscles.
He propped himself up. ‘How did you know before I knew myself?’
Olwen tilted him a smile. ‘It is my profession to know, and I learn very quickly.’
Renard rolled over and sat up, frowning. ‘A profession demands payment. What is your price this time?’
‘It wasn’t just for gain.’
Gorvenal lipped experimentally at a clump of rosemary and shook his mane irritably at the flies. Renard touched her face. ‘I know it wasn’t,’ he said sombrely. ‘But I am not sure that it is something to be continued. It is too hot, too wild to be safe, and it will break one of us, I am certain of it.’
‘But you are leaving soon, are you not?’ She sat up beside him and placed her lips against his throat. ‘Where is the harm in a few weeks? You do not have to pay me. I need somewhere to sleep.’
‘Surely you have money enough for a roof over your head.’ He gave her a disbelieving look.
Olwen made a face. ‘Until today, I lived with my sister and my uncle — that drunk who accosted me in the courtyard of the Scimitar. I’ve quarrelled badly with both of them and I’m not going back. Yes, I could afford to rent a room, but I would rather stay with you.’ Her lips travelled persuasively over his skin.
Renard moved away from her, and scraping his hands through his hair, tried to assemble his scattered wits. In little more than a month he would be on board a pilgrim ship bound for Brindisi. Surely there was no harm in playing with fire for so short a time. It would suit them both well.
Standing up, he extended his hand to her. ‘You can stay for tonight,’ he temporised. ‘After that, well, we’ll see.’ And knew that he was deceiving himself as Olwen gave him a melting smile.
Chapter 4
The Welsh Borders, Summer 1139
The fields of the demesne were like an expanse of green-coloured sky clumped with creamy bleating clouds — the sheep that were, as the name of the village suggested, Woolcot’s main source of wealth. Gold upon the cloven hoof.
On top of the knoll, Elene drew rein and gazed out over both land and flocks with a proprietorial eye. ‘It will be a good clip this year,’ she informed her female riding companion. ‘There were a lot of twin lambs born too. I’m glad I bought that new ram.’
‘You know almost as much as your bailiffs and shepherds, don’t you?’ laughed Heulwen de Lacey, her future sister-in-law.
Elene returned the laughter. ‘I suppose I do. Papa was always telling me how much the sheep were worth and now he’s gone it’s a sacred trust, an honour to his memory.’ The curve of her lips became wry. ‘Besides, they are the better part of my dowry, the main reason the arrangement was made. A castle to defend the land between Ravenstow and Caermoel, and the sheep to pay for its upkeep.’ She plucked at a burr in Bramble’s mane. ‘I sometimes have the ridiculous daydream that Renard will want me for myself. Stupid, isn’t it?’
Heulwen considered Elene’s fine, almost sharp features. Beneath silky black brows, her eyes were the green-flecked gold of turning leaves and quite beautiful in a face that was otherwise ordinary. ‘Renard is fond of you,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Oh yes, I know that.’ Elene turned her gaze from contemplation of her wealth and rested it on Heulwen. ‘Before he left with Prince Raymond, he gave me a bridle hung with bells for my new pony, and ruffled my hair. He’s fond of me the way he would be fond of a pet animal. Do you know what I gave him?’
Heulwen shook her head.
‘A bracelet of my plaited hair woven with gold thread.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘You should have seen his face!’
‘Elene …’ Heulwen laid her hand on the girl’s sleeve, unsure whether to comfort or reason.
‘Oh, it’s all right.’ Elene shook her head. ‘I was still a child then. I didn’t understand.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I could not think of anything to say to him when Adam set out. I just wrote down the first things that came into my head. He probably thinks he is going to get a sheep for a wife, as well as in payment of my marriage portion!’
‘He will discover differently when he sees you,’ Heulwen soothed. Her eyes clouded. ‘The situation being what it is, I expect you’ll be wed as soon as he sets foot in England. I only hope my father will be well enough to see you married.’
Elene shook the reins and started the mare down the slope. ‘He has been very ill, hasn’t he? Even with the coming of the warmer weather his cough has little improved.’ She was fond of Lord Guyon, and had come to regard him as a father in the years since her own father’s death.
‘He doesn’t have the time or opportunity to rest it. No sooner does Mama get him settled by the fire than someone wants him, or a problem arises, and even if he cannot ride out with the patrols he has to brief them and listen to their reports. It eats at him that he’s so confined when before he lived such a vigorous life.’
‘He is not the best of patients,’ Elene agreed wryly, having assisted at his sickbed during the crisis time immediately after his near drowning.
Side by side they rode towards the flocks and did not speak again, each burdened by heavy thoughts.
Elene was questioning a shepherd about an outbreak of sheep fly among the herd and absently fondling his good-natured dog when Heulwen exclaimed and pointed. Riders were splashing across the shallow ford of the river beyond the flocks and advancing purposefully towards them. Elene quickly gestured her groom to boost her back into the saddle, for she knew it was not one of her own Woolcot patrols.
Heulwen stared hard for a moment, then slackened her grip on the reins as she recognised the red chevrons adorning the leading rider’s shield. ‘Rest easy,’ she said. ‘It’s Henry.’
Elene’s shoulders relaxed. Kicking Bramble’s flanks, she cantered through the herds to meet the approaching men.
Henry, one of Renard’s brothers and four years the younger, slowed his destrier and brought him round. The shield by which Heulwen had recognised him was dinted and Elene saw that his horse was cut about the chest and fore quarters.
‘My lady!’ he saluted her in a light voice, quite at odds with his stolid, powerful appearance. ‘May we beg a night’s hospitality at Woolcot?’
‘You do not need to ask, you know you are welcome whenever you choose to visit!’ Elene responded. ‘But what in the name of all the saints have you been doing to yourself?’
He followed the direction of her worried gaze and screwed up his face. ‘We skirmished with a band of Earl Ranulf ’s mercenaries. They were helping themselves to some cattle from the Caermoel herds.’
‘What!’
‘Oh, it’s nothing new.’ He removed his helm and used the cuff of his gambeson to wipe sweat from his eyes. They were a round, tawny-grey, quite unlike Renard’s. His hair was straight and ginger-brown, as was his sparse moustache. ‘It saves de Gernons feeding them if they can steal their food from someone against whom he has a grudge.’ He nodded a greeting to his half-sister as she rode up to join them, and gave her a preoccupied smile.
She had heard the tail end of t
he conversation and asked, ‘Did Chester’s men escape then?’
He shrugged. ‘The bastards doubled back on us. I’m no good on a trail. They had to leave the cows, though. I thought I’d ride down this way and make sure your flocks weren’t being molested.’
Elene shook her head. ‘All’s been peaceful here.’
Henry rested one square, strong hand on his thigh, guiding his stallion with the other. ‘Renard has always been much better at this sort of thing than I am,’ he said glancing wistfully at Elene. ‘If he and I were dogs, I’d be short and pot-bellied, tripping over my ears while I followed a stale scent, and Renard would be hot and graceful on the trail like a lean gazehound.’
‘Henry, you shouldn’t—’
‘It’s true!’ he said.
‘At least you come when whistled for,’ Heulwen patted her brother’s shoulder. ‘No, that’s not really fair,’ she temporised. ‘Renard was going to return home two years ago and Papa stopped him because he didn’t want him used as a lever on his loyalty.’
‘But now there is no choice,’ Elene said as they turned towards the comforting solidity of Woolcot’s walls, her young face tight with resolution.
Feeling Henry watching her, she looked round at him, but he immediately dropped his gaze and made himself busy with his stirrup leather. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There isn’t.’
Chapter 5
The Principality of Antioch
‘I said I am with child,’ Olwen repeated. ‘And it is yours.’
Renard carefully stoppered the bottle of oil and put down his sword and the rag with which he had been cleaning the blade. ‘You can’t be.’
Olwen set her hands on her hips and tossed her hair. ‘My flux is more than two weeks late. It is never late. I feel fat and sick.’ She spoke with calm finality. ‘I know.’
Renard swore and rising to his feet paced to the end of the room and stared at the crucifix nailed there. ‘You can’t be,’ he said again.
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