‘Better rouse the cook, love,’ he said. ‘We’ll need hot water for the wounded and food for later.’ His eyes gleamed as he stooped to kiss her cold lips. ‘Best tell him to make it pottage. I don’t know how many men William has brought with him.’ Then he gave her a squeeze and hurried after Adam.
Hugh squealed and held out his hands towards his retreating father. Elene bowed her head over his silky hair for a moment and whispered a prayer.
In the stables everywhere was harness and chaos as the grooms and drafted servants worked furiously to saddle up the destriers. Renard caught Gorvenal’s bridle and led him out into the open bailey. Adam mounted his red-chestnut destrier, the progeny of the stallion he had lost before Elene’s wedding, and mustered his own half-dozen knights. Renard had another ten and himself. Then there were eight serjeants who had experience of fighting horseback, and another twenty on foot.
‘Ready?’ Renard enquired of Adam. The torchlight shone on his helm, on the rivets of his mail, and on his smile which was more than half-snarl.
Adam saluted him briefly and returned his hand to the bridle to control his restive horse.
Renard gestured to the guards in the gatehouse and the double portcullises were smoothly raised. There was no sound. Renard had had them thoroughly greased and checked over for this very occasion. The draw-bars on the huge gates were run back and noiselessly they swung inwards.
Silence. On the slopes the watchfires burned and the guards lolled at their posts. From the direction of the fox’s bark, an owl hooted softly and closer to hand.
‘That’s the attack,’ Renard muttered to Adam. ‘We count to a slow fifty, then we go.’
Adam nodded and fastened his ventail, glad that he was not one of the men about to be ground like grain between two crushing millstones.
He had reached forty when the first bellow of alarm was throttled short and the sound of a single sword blade scraping across a shield reached them. There was silence again, suspended like a raindrop trembling on a thread, and suddenly exploding outwards into confusion.
Renard adjusted his grip on his shield straps and unwound the spiked flail from his saddle bow, his lips silently counting. The weapon was much less refined than a sword, but its effect was devastating and excellent for lashing out at men in the darkness when it was difficult to see where to place blows. Behind him he could feel the restlessness of his men, their eyes boring into his spine, holding on his command. In the darkness beyond the gates a shriek of mortal agony rose above the battle clamour. ‘Now!’ he said, and squeezed Gorvenal’s flanks between his knees.
It was not a full charge which would have been suicidal down a haphazard rocky slope in darkness, but Renard took the men down as swiftly as he dared. There were no guards to cry warning of the new assault because they were already caught up in the chaos of the first battle. Awareness only came as Renard hit the outskirts of the fighting.
A soldier attacked Gorvenal with a lighted brand plucked from one of the fires. The stallion shied. Renard altered his grip on the reins and brought the horse under control and round in a semicircle. The soldier fell beneath the vicious lash of the studded ball on the end of the flail. Renard rode over him, leaning over Gorvenal’s withers to take up the brand himself and set fire to the nearest tent. A coughing soldier bolted out of it and Renard struck him down. More tents flared, blossoming the night with fire. Illuminated smoke billowed away towards Wales. A cluster of pitch barrels caught fire and exploded, scattering mayhem. Supplies were trampled, wains overturned and horse lines cut. Men panicked, broke and fled. Those who did not run fast enough or mistook their direction, died. Hamo and Lucas were not among them. Both had sufficient experience of saving their own skins to make the correct decisions rapidly.
Panting, Renard drew rein. Gorvenal sidled and half bucked, a raw patch on his rump where a fragment of molten pitch had burned the hair away. Another knight rode up alongside on a handsome liver chestnut, its hide shining red with the reflection of the fires. William, his face smoke-streaked and ablaze with a triumph as high as the flames, slapped Renard’s mail-clad sleeve. ‘ Cadno! ’ He used the Welsh word they had agreed upon to determine friend from foe in the thick of the fighting. ‘They’re running like coneys from a fox.’ His eyes gleamed with humour at the joke, for cadno was the Welsh word for fox.
Renard coughed, his throat rough with smoke. ‘What took you so long? I was expecting you by last week at the latest!’
‘Business elsewhere.’ William gave a maddening shrug. ‘Earl Ranulf ’s not among this rout, you know.’
‘It had not escaped my attention.’ Renard’s glance focused hard. ‘That was no idle remark. You know where he is, don’t you?’
William glowered. ‘I can’t keep anything from you, can I?’
‘Well?’
‘He’s up the border and across it, meeting with Prince Owain.’
‘Is he now?’
‘One of my men has a brother in the Prince’s service, so I receive regular reports, the most recent only a few hours old. Ranulf asked the Welsh to combine with him in attacking Caermoel.’ He flicked at his horse’s mane, drawing the moment out.
‘All right, have your revenge,’ Renard said impatiently. ‘Just don’t make me wait all night. What did Prince Owain say?’
Grinning William told him.
Chapter 27
The forest was a pale green froth of tender new leaves spotted and rayed with sunlight. It was late April and hot enough to be a full month later. Ranulf of Chester was cooking inside his armour. His destrier’s hide was patched with sweat and plodding along with its head carried low. The jingle of harness was loud, the atmosphere somnolent, almost oppressive, as if a thunderstorm was about to break.
Ranulf ’s shoulder blades itched, and not just because of the sweat trickling between them. He knew that the Welsh were in the vicinity and it made him uneasy. Even the most civilised of them were as unpredictable as the boar and wolves with which they shared the forest.
Colour flickered between and behind the trunks. Ranulf set his hand on his sword hilt. Welsh soldiers were riding parallel with him and his men. They made no move to approach, but nevertheless ensured that they were seen. Ranulf clenched his teeth and swallowed the urge to bellow at them to come out and fight, aware that they would only laugh and he was tired of being laughed at.
It had begun on the day he arrived at Caermoel when he first inspected the new stone defences. His spies had informed him that Renard was building the site up, but he had not expected to see so much and so professionally accomplished. It was a nasty shock. Renard had always been a wild one at old King Henry’s court, unable to settle at anything for long.
Revising the time it would take to capture Caermoel and the coin he would have to spend, Ranulf had begun his preparations. Trees had been cut and siege machines fashioned — night sorties by the garrison had twice razed these to the ground and wrought havoc among Ranulf ’s camped troops. When he finally did manage to get the rams and ballistas constructed and brought up to the walls, they had been destroyed by Greek fire, along with the soldiers manning them. Ranulf had started to realise, with extreme annoyance, that without heavy expenditure in terms of silver, men and time, he was not going to take Caermoel.
Leaving Hamo le Grande seeking the source of the keep’s water with a view to poisoning it, and soaking the latest battering ram and pick in vinegar in the hopes of proofing them against the dreaded Greek fire, he had come to this meeting with Owain Gwynedd. After that, he was bound for the Empress’s court in Gloucester. Stupid, sullen bitch. He almost thought he preferred Stephen, whom at least he could run rings around while fleecing him of lands and titles.
An increasing number of Welsh flanked him and his men as the trees began to thin out. The sense of oppression eased, although not the tickling sensation between his shoulder blades or the feeling of anticipation.
Beyond the forest stretched a broad, green meadow, usually sheep-grazed to judge by the closeness of the
grass and the crumbly evidence of old droppings. Waiting for him in the middle of the meadow, seated upon a carved stool that was set upon a sheepskin rug, was a wiry young man. He was brown-haired and brown-eyed and robed in rich garments, dyed a deep madder-red and embroidered with silver thread.
Rising unhurriedly, he advanced to greet Ranulf as he dismounted. Ranulf returned the greeting warily. The lack of height and the boyish good looks were traps. There were lines of experience around his eyes and the full, brown moustache was lightly scattered with grey. Compared to Owain Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, Matilda and Stephen were political innocents.
They talked and ate sweet young mutton and white bread washed down by mead and accompanied by the gentle, unobtrusive music of a Welsh harp. The flies were a nuisance and the sun was hot, but Prince Owain was better at pretending not to notice such things and thus gained an immediate advantage.
Towards the end of the meal, Ranulf raised the subject of Caermoel and enquired whether Prince Owain would be interested in helping him take it.
The Welshman widened his eyes. ‘You mean you are unable to do so by yourself?’
Ranulf cleared his throat and scowled. ‘It is taking too long, that is all. Your aid would bring it to a swifter conclusion.’
‘I see.’ Owain stroked his moustache and pretended to think. ‘And if I gave it, what then?’
‘We could share the spoils and you would be free to raid down into the Ravenstow lands.’
Owain was unimpressed. ‘Until you re-garrisoned,’ he pointed out. ‘It would suit me better if Caermoel were torn down, stone by stone.’
‘You talk of the impossible. Its position is too strategic — ally valuable.’
‘Then you have my answer, my lord.’ The Prince spread his hands and stood up, indicating that as far as he was concerned, the meeting was at an end.
‘Ravenstow is rich in herds and flocks,’ Ranulf said persuasively. ‘The finest destrier stud in England, and sheep by the thousand. Think of the wealth grazed on lands that were once Welsh.’
Owain raised a cynical eyebrow. Most of Chester’s earldom had once been Welsh land too. ‘If your troops garrison Caermoel, we’ll never get past it except as corpses to behold such bounty. It is not in your interests to let us raid the best from estates you are hoping to claim.’
‘It is in my interests while their revenue is of benefit to FitzGuyon. Once the earldom is mine, we would have to negotiate, of course.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Owain and snapped his fingers at the young groom holding his horse. ‘I will have to think on it. I’m not prepared to commit myself here and now.’
Ranulf glanced towards the youth, drawn by something familiar about the tilt of the head and the straight-backed stance. The lad was slender and wore a cap set at a jaunty angle. Handing the reins to the Prince, he lifted his head and bestowed a freezing glance upon Ranulf. His eyes were as dark blue as the sea in shadow.
Ranulf choked.
Prince Owain smiled benevolently at his guest’s mottled complexion and swung the horse around. ‘Whatever your Normans take, it always returns to Welsh hands,’ he said.
The youth mounted his own cream mare, deliberately revealing a lithe expanse of leg.
‘You treacherous bitch!’ Ranulf snarled.
‘Like will know like,’ she answered with contempt and started turning her own mount in pursuit of Owain’s.
Ranulf leaped at her bridle. A Welsh spear barred his way and suddenly the situation was ugly as his own soldiers reached to their hilts.
‘Ease back,’ Owain commanded his men, and swung his horse alongside Olwen’s. Spears rattled and hesitantly retreated.
Ranulf subsided, breathing hard. He glared at Olwen. ‘Where’s my son?’ he demanded.
She gave him a small, cool smile. ‘Your son?’ she laughed. ‘What makes you think he’s yours? I’d have swallowed black-spurred rye before I’d have given life to a child of your siring.’
‘Olwen, enough!’ Owain commanded as Ranulf ’s colour faded and he began to shake as though he had an ague. The grinding of his teeth was audible.
‘He owes it to me,’ she replied. ‘And he always did want to know. Well, now he does.’ Her hand twitched. Responding, the cream mare broke into an ambling trot.
Ranulf coughed and spat. ‘Whose?’ he croaked as if he was being strangled. ‘Tell me, you conniving whore!’
She kept on riding, did not answer.
‘Mine now,’ said Owain as he followed her. ‘By right of conquest. You Normans understand all about that, don’t you?’
* * *
Olwen lay across Owain’s chest and played an idle game with the wiry mat of curls beneath her fingers. The glade where they dallied was sun-dappled, warm as a caress, and silent except for the sound of their horses cropping the grass.
‘Woman, you’re dangerous!’ he chuckled ruefully.
Olwen tasted the salt in the hollow of his throat with a pointed tongue. ‘Why is it that men always accuse or blame the woman for their own weaknesses?’ she demanded.
‘We’re hardly going to accuse or blame ourselves, are we!’ he retorted, the laughter deepening. He wound a silken coil of her hair around fore and middle fingers and held it up to watch it sparkle in the sunlight. ‘I suppose that we should be on our way,’ he added, but made no effort to move.
‘Will you do as Ranulf de Gernons asks?’ She lowered her eyes to her gently playing hand and watched the rise and fall of his chest. Neither breathing nor heartbeat changed, but she was aware of the intensity of his gaze. When she flashed a glance at him, he was admiring the lock of hair between his fingers.
‘Was your passion just now by way of bribery?’ he enquired of the tress. ‘If so, you are wasting your time.’
It was Olwen’s breathing that changed, and hearing it, he said, ‘I do not respond to that kind of bargaining, cariad. Learn it now, learn it fast and well, or seek another man’s hearth.’
Olwen bit her lip. ‘It wasn’t bribery.’
‘Not entirely,’ he allowed, ‘but you are like a falcon, my Olwen. You only come to my fist because I feed you. It is not unconditional. You want me to refuse the Earl of Chester, don’t you?’
‘It matters not to me, my lord,’ she shrugged indifferently.
Owain saw through it immediately and laughed at her. ‘Oh, I think it matters very much indeed,’ he contradicted and half sat up, bracing his weight on his elbows. ‘What he proposes is an excellent idea in principle,’ he said, ‘but Ranulf de Gernons is about as genuine as a piece of the True Cross bought from a huckster at Ravenstow Fair. If I helped him to take that keep, he’d have it re-garrisoned faster than I could say the paternoster, and he would use it to raid into my territory. FitzGuyon’s use of it so far has been defensive. I leave him alone, he leaves me alone, and at least his blood is part Welsh.’ He slanted a thoughtful glance at Olwen. ‘Perhaps you still hold him in some degree of affection, fy curyll fach?’
‘He was good to me by his code — more than I deserved.’
‘Then why in Christ’s name did you leave him for a toad like Ranulf de Gernons? … No,’ he said as she flounced away from him. ‘I truly want to know.’
Olwen tugged at the moist blades of grass beneath her fingers. ‘I wanted Renard because he was different, a challenge, but the only way to win that challenge was to lose. I had heard all about Ranulf de Gernons — how import — ant and powerful he was. I wanted to show Renard how high I could rise if I so chose, far beyond what he could give to me. The pleasure was never important, except when it got in the way.’ She tossed her handful of grass into the air and watched the green blades scatter down.
He was silent for a time, digesting this and seeing a glimmer of the reasons for her flying to his fist like a lost hawk sighting a falconer’s glove. ‘And the child that came of this challenge?’ He sat up further and linked his hands around his upraised knees. ‘Does Renard of Ravenstow know that he has sired him?’
; Olwen laced up her shirt and picked her hat off the grass. They had rolled on it in their passion and the jaunty peacock’s feather in the brim was broken. She shook her head. ‘No, he doesn’t know.’ She plucked at the feather.
‘Do you want him to?’
Olwen gnawed at her bottom lip, then shaking her head, raised her eyes to meet his. ‘Jordan is mine,’ she said. ‘Perhaps when he is older …’
Owain arched his brow. He watched her dust off the hat and set it back on her head. No stranger to women, he found her exquisitely beautiful, intricate and intriguing, worth every moment of the time he had spent coaxing her to the lure. His gain that the other two had been fools. ‘He’s better fostered in my household than in any saeson ’s,’ he added. ‘Come to think on the matter, we probably share several common ancestors through the FitzGuyon line and that’s reason enough to take and raise the child.’ He stretched with loose-limbed satisfaction manner and rose to follow her to their cropping mounts. ‘Although I’d have taken him without that for the sake of his mother,’ he said, and kissed Olwen.
He saw that her eyes were bright with tears.
Chapter 28
‘John!’ Elene hastened to embrace her brother-in-law as he dismounted from his palfrey in Woolcot’s courtyard. ‘This is indeed a welcome surprise!’ She hugged him hard, cheek pressed to the rough wool of his habit, then stood back to look into his eyes, fear present even in the midst of her delight lest he bear evil tidings. His face, however, was open and smiling, the only lines on it those around his eyes from constantly narrowing them in order to focus.
‘Where’s my nephew?’ he asked as she led him across the bailey towards the keep.
‘Crawling after dog bones in the hall and leading Alys a merry caper! You won’t recognise him.’ She looked along her shoulder. ‘Have you ridden far?’
‘Only from Ravenstow. Mama told me that she thought Renard was here?’ He squinted around as they walked. She had to grab his arm and steer him to avoid a pile of dirty rushes that had recently been forked from the hall. He said ruefully, ‘When I write letters for Lord Leicester, I look through a glass orb of water to see the page better. If there was some way of carrying such a thing around on the end of my nose, I might be able to see where I was going.’
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