Four other grinning young men emerged from the trees and lounged, their bodies brimming with arrogance, but their expressions uncertain as they glanced between their leader and Renard.
Renard’s mouth tightened, but his irritation was mostly self-directed. Leaping down from Gorvenal, he closed the ten strides between himself and his youngest brother and embraced him heartily.
‘Scare me like that again and I’ll break that bow of yours over my knee and collar you with it!’ he promised, shaking the youth.
‘I couldn’t resist it!’ his brother laughed, punching himself out of Renard’s grip. ‘Pwyll saw you sitting with those two cottars while he was getting a stone out of his horse’s hoof and came to warn the rest of us!’ He looked curious. ‘How did you know it was me?’
It was Renard’s turn to grin. ‘The old man mentioned he had seen you pass through earlier and if there had been anyone more dangerous waiting to ambush us in these woods the alarm would have been sounded long before we fell prey. It’s too small a wedge of forest for any raiders to enter it without being seen on a day like this with all the gleaners out and folk clearing the woodland.’
William gave a quick tilt of his head in rueful acceptance. ‘It still put a look of dread on your face though,’ he said, smugly.
Renard grabbed a fistful of his brother’s profuse black curls and tugged them in a not altogether fraternal way. ‘I will put a look of dread on yours in a minute, you wretch!’
William wriggled like a fish and almost twisted free. Renard recognised his strategy and used a fast counter-move, taught to him in Tripoli by a Turcopol mercenary. William’s shoulder blades struck the ground with bruising force and the air whistled from his lungs. He stared up at Renard, his eyes immense with surprise.
‘How did you do that?’ he gasped when he had breath enough to speak. ‘Show me!’
‘Not now, Fonkin.’ Grinning, Renard addressed William by the pet name of his childhood. It meant little fool but was a term of endearment rather than an insult. ‘Wait until we’re back at Ravenstow.’ Stooping, he grasped a handful of William’s jerkin, pulled him up and dusted him down, then ruffled his palm over the springy black curls to rectify the damage of his earlier grip. ‘I thought you’d grown beyond all reason but half of it’s your hair, isn’t it? You’re as wild as a Welshman!’
‘Better than being an Arab, or half of each, if what I hear about your mistress is true!’ He gestured to one of his companions who smiled and sauntered off to fetch their horses.
‘How do you know about that?’ Renard demanded.
William smirked. ‘Not now,’ he parodied. ‘Wait until we reach Ravenstow.’
‘William, so help me God …!’
The youth turned to take his mount’s bridle. ‘It’s easy enough,’ he shrugged. ‘You paid off one of your men at Shrewsbury. He met up with the carrier who services Ashdyke and I had the news while you were still snoring in your bedstraw yesterday morning. I was coming up to Ravenstow to greet you.’ He paused then added, ‘Is it really true that you’ve brought a Saracen tavern dancer home to comfort your nights, or is it just embroidery for the sake of an audience?’ He settled himself in the saddle, a leggy boy of almost nineteen with feline grace and an impish smile.
Renard swung into his own saddle and heeled Gorvenal forward alongside William’s mount. ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘It’s true, or at least more than is usual of such tales.’ And found himself telling William everything, for despite their earlier needling and the ten years separating them, their minds worked to a similar pattern. Renard would not have dreamed of speaking thus to Henry. ‘And don’t ask me what I’m going to do with her or I’ll throttle you!’ he concluded.
‘You don’t need any advice on that score, not unless four years have altered you!’ William retorted with a grin, but then he looked thoughtful. ‘You can’t keep her at Ravenstow.’
‘I know.’ Renard busied himself adjusting his stirrup leather.
‘A nice cosy hunting lodge somewhere then, or a private house in the town.’ He cocked his head when Renard did not respond. ‘I’d like to see her dance. Is it also true that …?’
‘Oh, it’s all true!’ Renard interrupted with a grim laugh. ‘Just be thankful that you haven’t been corrupted. Are you still living half in Wales?’
William darted Renard a curious look. It was almost as if he was unsure of himself, running on quicksand, and that, for Renard, was a very rare occurrence. Perhaps Outremer really had altered him. ‘Some of the time,’ he said cagily. ‘I’m mostly at Ashdyke. It’s the stronger of my two holdings and a fraction nearer to Wales should I need to run for my life or make myself scarce.’
‘What do you do about your forty days’ service?’ Renard asked. ‘King Stephen won’t brook you running over the border every time you’re summoned.’
‘Oh, that part’s easy,’ William said airily. ‘I send the King what he’s owed — two knights, fully accoutred, to serve for the whole period and apologies that I’m too busy dealing with the Welsh to attend in person. The men I do send are usually the oldest, laziest or most bad-tempered in the garrison and the same goes for their horses.’
Renard gave an amused grunt.
‘Papa’s done it too, but he has to be more careful. Two suspect knights astride broken-winded nags from a small tenant like me doesn’t really matter, but twelve from Papa’s holdings and four times that number of footsoldiers and archers is a somewhat more serious offence.’ Thoughts of Stephen led him on to another grumble. ‘I’ve had to graze my stud herd on the Welsh side of the border with Rhodri ap Owain’s permission to stop Stephen commandeering half of it for remounts. He sent twenty mares to Papa’s stud herd for covering. Papa was furious. He said that Beaucent had enough work to do already with the Ravenstow mares without servicing a score of Stephen’s jades too!’
Renard bit his lip.
‘You can stop laughing!’ William warned. ‘That black you’re riding is ideal for the King’s intentions. If Stephen can’t have you in his army, he’ll have a damned good try for your stallion!’
Renard sucked in his cheeks. ‘He can have his services for a price,’ he murmured, and slapped the sleek raven hide.
‘What sort of price? The head of Ranulf de Gernons on a platter?’
‘Something like that, although unfortunately Stephen’s not susceptible to dancing girls, is he?’ Renard kicked Gorvenal into a canter.
* * *
Wrapped in a fur robe and sitting close to the fire, Guyon looked up from conversation with his steward to see the blond-haired beauty his son had brought home standing uncertainly in the arched entrance that led from the sleeping quarters. It was well into the morning, all the trestles had been cleared away and the uneaten food either returned to the kitchens or given to the needy at the castle gates.
‘And if you think it wise, my lord …’ The steward halted in response to Guyon’s half-raised hand and followed the direction of his stare. ‘Oh,’ he said.
Guyon told a loitering servant to bring Olwen over and to go and bring food from the kitchens. Olwen advanced on the two men with her fluid dancer’s walk and sat on the stool that Guyon indicated to her.
Despite her superficial air of calm, Guyon noticed the rapid pulse beating in her throat and the way that her hands shook before she hid them in her lap. She was wearing the blue silk gown that she had worn at table last night. It suited her well, but silk was a fabric for high summer and hotter climates and she was trying hard not to shiver.
‘Bring your stool closer to the fire, child,’ he said, making room for her, and when the maid returned with bread, honey and wine, he sent her to fetch a spare cloak.
‘The climate will seem different to you,’ he said, making conversation as Olwen ate.
‘I will grow accustomed to it, my lord.’
Guyon rubbed his jaw, unsure what to make of her. He knew that Judith was worried about the hold the girl had on Renard and whether to let it run its course or
actively interfere. Difficult, when faced with this beautiful enigma and a son who in four years had changed from boy to man.
‘Although while she’s here,’ Judith had said to him grimly as they had lain in bed last night, ‘she may sleep in the bower with the other unattached women and Renard will preserve the decencies even if I have to tie him up and knock him senseless!’
The maid returned with a cloak made of Welsh plaid. Olwen put it on, finished her meal, and looked around the hall.
‘Renard isn’t here,’ Guyon said as he saw her search. ‘He rode out with a patrol at dawn.’
Olwen clutched the edges of the cloak together and tightened her lips.
He took pity on her. ‘This might be a good opportunity to organise some warmer clothing for you. Come above to the sewing room and my lady wife will see what we have in our coffers.’ Commanding the maid to find Judith, he pushed himself to his feet.
The steward eyed him doubtfully. The lady had settled her lord by the warmth of the fire and was going to be vexed that he had moved. Probably she would blame the girl, although it was none of her fault.
Olwen followed Guyon from the hall and up the winding stairs. He paused for a moment beside a window slit to gain the breath to go on and pretended, despite the fact that he could hardly speak, that he was showing her the view.
She stared over the ploughlands towards the dark smudge of forest and the Welsh hills beyond. The smell of damp stone invaded her nostrils and lungs and she contrasted it with the memory of the sun-baked dustiness of Antioch.
‘Is it all yours?’ she asked, after a while, wanting to know if one day it would all be Renard’s.
The seams at Guyon’s eye-corners deepened with grim humour. ‘The hills are sometimes Welsh and sometimes Norman,’ he wheezed. ‘Just now they’re both, the Norman part belonging all except my keep of Caermoel to Earl Ranulf of Chester.’ He braced one forearm on the stone, pressed the other against his ribs. ‘He’d like the rest of what you see too. That’s why Renard is out on patrol.’
‘Earl Ranulf of Chester?’ she repeated. ‘He is your enemy?’
Guyon snorted. ‘Anyone who stands in his way is his enemy. We’re not on the best of terms with him, never have been, but we’ve got by in uneasy peace until now. This war between Stephen and Matilda is making him more powerful by the moment. Both sides want him so he holds them both to ransom. The more power he obtains, the more he wants and the more he flouts the law to get it.’
Olwen’s expression became deeply thoughtful. ‘Is he old in years to have gained so much power?’ she queried as they continued slowly up the stairs to the next level.
‘Unfortunately, no. There’s no chance of him withering off the tree yet. He has less than ten years’ advantage over Renard.’ He paused again for respite and coughed harshly before leading her along a gallery and into Judith’s sewing room.
Judith was there before them and her tight lips and rigid spine told their own story. ‘So help me God!’ she snapped at Guyon. ‘You spend all night coughing and then have no more sense than to leave the warmth of the fire and climb stairs! Have you run mad?’ She glared at him and then at Olwen.
‘And if I have, it is my entitlement,’ he said to her calmly before swallowing down another cough. ‘I’d rather be mad than caged any further than I am.’
Judith continued to frown but she did not argue beyond her first outburst, knowing that it would probably provoke him to worse folly.
‘Olwen needs warmer gowns than this.’ He gestured to the blue silk. ‘We have the fabric, do we not?’
Arching one brow, Judith looked Olwen up and down. ‘We may have,’ she said.
Another window looked out on to the bailey. Olwen went to it and gazed down at the bustling activity below. She heard Guyon speaking to his wife in placatory tones and her murmured but vehement responses, followed by the sound of a coffer lid being slammed back. When Olwen drew up the courage to look round again, Renard’s father had gone and Lady Judith was examining a length of fawn wool.
‘No sign of moths.’ She gave it a shake. ‘There should be enough here for two gowns and an under-dress if we use this blue as well.’ In almost the same breath she added, ‘It is no use watching and waiting at the window like that. Renard won’t be back until vespers at the earliest. And tomorrow will be the same, and the day after that, and the day after that.’ A ball of string and some shears in her hand, she advanced on Olwen to take her measurements.
Olwen stood tense but still and let the older woman work. Every now and then Judith would stop and put a knot in the string to mark the length from shoulder to wrist, or back of neck to hem, and then cut off the relevant strand.
‘If you think you are the core of Renard’s life you are wasting your time,’ Judith added in a hard voice when she finally stepped back, the measurements complete. ‘This is the core, this stone, this land, bred into him blood and bone and soul. All you are is a means to vent the heat and soon even for that need he will have a wife.’
Olwen tossed her head. ‘I realise that Renard has duties that do not involve me, but duty is not pleasure, and I know more about that than his bride ever will. If I so choose, she will be no match for me.’
‘If you so choose!’
‘Yes, my lady.’
Judith turned abruptly away to the pile of fabric on the coffer. ‘I think you have a great deal to learn,’ she said. ‘Not least about Elene, and about me. I will not stand by and watch you bring mayhem upon us. I have other duties more important to attend than this. If you would have clothes, then you had best set about making them.’ She stalked from the room.
For a while Olwen did not move, but when at last she did, it was to return to the window slit and lean against the wall, her eyes on the distant lands belonging to Ranulf of Chester.
Chapter 8
Renard sighed, tossed the quill on to the heap of parchments beside him on the table, and rubbed his eyes. The hound dozing beside the brazier raised its head and thumped its tail on the floor. Renard snapped his fingers and held out his hand and Cabal padded over to nuzzle him with his moist, black nose. He thrust his fingers into the wiry grey coat and made a fuss of the dog. It was a brief comfort, a momentary diversion from the difficult task of sorting out which of their vassals owed what and when in terms of military service, and making up for the inevitable shortfall around harvest time, which was nigh on impossible. Some lords, taking a page out of William’s book, were not averse to sending the most shoddy goods they could get away with.
A dull ache of fatigue throbbed behind his eyes. It was the middle of the night, everyone asleep but himself and Cabal, and he had to be up at the crack of dawn to take out another patrol. Later it would not matter, he could delegate the task, but for the moment he needed to make himself known as a leader, had to impose his own codes and methods on men who either did not know him, or still thought of him as a feckless youngster. He ruffled Cabal’s coat, and reaching across the table to the flagon, refilled his cup with the indifferent Norman wine. Then, with another heavy sigh, he drew a fresh sheet of parchment towards him and began to set down the results of his rough calculations in a neater hand that FitzBrien the Constable would be able to understand and act upon. He knew that there were bound to be disagreements and he would have to prepare himself for some hard negotiating. At least, he thought, as he drank the wine and wrote, his forthcoming marriage to Elene would be a convenient meeting ground for all the vassals and tenants to air their opinions, form new ones and pay their dues.
The wedding day had been set for the first of November. It had been mooted in a letter taken up the march by Adam when he went to collect his wife from Woolcot, and his return had furnished Elene’s reply — brief this time and to the point, in full agreement on the date and welcoming him home.
Pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead, he leaned his elbow on the trestle and continued to write. The dog lifted its head and a soft growl rumbled up from the depths of its th
roat. ‘Quiet, Cabal,’ he commanded, frowning in concentration.
A shadow passed before the candlelight. Startled, he looked up.
‘May I?’ Without awaiting his reply, Olwen picked up his cup and took a swallow of the wine. Her hair, pillow-tousled, tumbled over her unfastened chemise. The silky skin of one shoulder gleamed, as did the smooth upper curve of her breast. Perching herself on the table’s edge, she put her free hand down to balance her weight and leaned sideways and slightly forwards to give him more than just a glimpse of her cleavage.
He put down the quill, carefully set the inkhorn out of reach, and folded his arms to regard her warily. ‘What do you want?’
‘Do you not know?’ She tossed her head. The wine glistened on her lips. She licked them slowly.
She said, ‘You have been avoiding me.’
‘I’ve been …’ He cleared his throat and started again. ‘I’ve been too busy seeing to the affairs of the estate. I cannot just walk into your chamber as you have walked in here now. It is a matter of common courtesy to my mother and father.’
Yawning, she slipped from the table, but only to come round and sit down next to him. ‘You’ve been trying to pretend you don’t want me, but I can see straight through you.’
Renard looked rueful. ‘You’re wrong. I haven’t been pretending at all. I do want you, Olwen … too much.’
‘Ah,’ she murmured, stalking him with claws unsheathed. ‘Proving to yourself that you can abstain if you have to.’
He shrugged, conceding her the point. She looked at the parchments and tally sticks strewn upon the table, and then through her lashes at Renard. ‘This man you all keep talking about — Ranulf de Gernons? Is he very powerful?’
‘Yes, on his own territory. He wants some of ours to add to it and there is a personal grudge between us going back ten years.’
She teased her hand up his thigh, kneading gently. ‘Do you fear him?’
Renard hesitated. Her hand moved higher and his senses swam. ‘I fear his ambition,’ he said in a distracted voice. ‘And his greed. The man himself … No, I do not acknowledge him my master.’ Gasping, he caught her hand. She gave him a bone-melting look and slowly eased her fingers from his grasp and pushed down her chemise, baring herself to him. Round, full breasts, the nipples puckered by the cold of sudden exposure, slender waist, taut belly and generous hips framing the gate to heaven … or hell. Renard could no more resist the lure than a wasp could resist the jar of honey in which it would ultimately drown.
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