The Leopard Unleashed

Chapter 11

Elene fed a strand of wool from her distaff to her spindle, twirled and let it drop, and repeated the move with an expert sleight of hand that required very little mental concentration. The motion, however, was familiar and soothing, occupying her hands and anchoring her to stability while she sat her turn of vigil at Henry’s bedside. He slept uneasily, dosed with willow bark and poppy syrup. His wound was packed with clean linen bandages smeared with honey to try and prevent the gash from festering. Judith said that it had been very difficult to dig the arrow head free. ‘Like butchering an ox in the kitchens,’ she had said in her usual forthright way, and then burst into tears. ‘I hate this time of year.’

It had seemed a strange non sequitur, until Elene remembered that Judith had lost her first son Miles in November when the White Ship went down. King Henry had died in that month too and the door had blown open to wolves such as Ranulf de Gernons.

It was too soon to know if Henry would live or die, and, if the former, how much use he would have of his right arm. Not a great deal, she suspected, by the look of the terrible wound she had helped to dress yesterday. Everything was too badly lacerated. Everything …

She continued to feed wool from the distaff to the spindle. The first night and day of her arrival at Ravenstow were a merciful blur, and the events leading up to that arrival little more than shadowy images in her mind. The nightmare figures smirched with blood, the sound of her own weeping; Renard’s arms in comfort around her and the look in his eyes.

A hot bathtub, salve for her bruises and one of Judith’s sleeping draughts had dealt with the physical trauma of her ordeal, and despite her earlier hysterics, Elene’s nature was resilient. There were others in far worse case, she told herself, and the ending could have been so different. If Renard and William had not been so swift and decisive in their pursuit, she might be lying in a marriage bed of an entirely different making than the one to be hers in two days’ time.

As it was, those of Hamo’s men who had survived the initial fight had been hanged on the town gibbet. All of Ravenstow had turned out to witness the event. Guyon had arranged it for market day so that as many people as possible could witness and cheer. Hamo had not been among the half-dozen men entertaining the crowd with their death throes. While being granted a brief spell of daylight in the ward, he had escaped while his guard was distracted by the sight of a woman washing her legs in a trough. Having seized a horse tethered in the yard, he had ridden hell for leather out of the gates. By the time pursuit was organised, it had been too late. Hamo had escaped both net and noose.

In disgust, Renard had ridden up to Caermoel to survey the keep with an eye to strengthening it against Chester’s greedy eye. That had been four days ago and there had been no messenger as yet. The wedding guests had begun to arrive and there were only two days left.

The curtain parted and a face peered though. Somehow she managed a smile for John, Renard’s older brother and a priest in the Earl of Leicester’s household and now home at Ravenstow to officiate at their wedding. Leicester was here too, bearing blandishments and good wishes from the King to his somewhat reluctant vassals at Ravenstow and inviting them to court for the Christmas gathering of the faithful.

‘How is he?’ John approached the bed.

‘Sleeping.’ Elene stated the obvious because there was not a great deal else to say. ‘At least the wound fever hasn’t set in, but it’s still very early.’

‘It’s a pity he wasn’t born with my eyes,’ John murmured in a subdued tone.

Elene looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’ John’s eyes were his most arresting feature — a melting, deep brown, set beneath black, strongly marked brows. They were also so myopic that he was liable not to see objects in his way until it was too late to avoid them. It was a family joke that John had more scars on his shins and ankles from tripping over things than the rest of them had from all their battles put together.

‘He’d have been the priest then. You don’t go to war if you can’t see. Henry would have made a good priest too, he’s so good-natured and innocent — more innocent than I’ll ever be.’

‘He may yet take his vows,’ she said grimly and rose to stand beside him. ‘I doubt he’ll have much use in that right shoulder even if he does make a good recovery otherwise.’ Leaning, she smoothed the coverlet with an almost maternal hand. ‘Did you come here to see Henry, or was it me you wanted?’

‘A little of both, really. I wanted to make sure you are familiar with all parts of the wedding ceremony. It’s all been rather rushed, and now this.’ He gestured at Henry. ‘If there’s anything that worries you, you only have to speak.’

He was looking at her with compassion. She raised her chin and returned his gaze with steadiness. ‘I know my part,’ she said stoutly. ‘All you need do is pull the strings and I’ll sit, kneel, stand, say what has to be said and do what has to be done.’

He looked troubled. ‘Listen Nell …

’ ‘Why don’t you go and talk to Renard when he returns from his latest jaunt?’ she said tersely. ‘I’m sure he’s in more need of advice about the ceremony than I am.’

John grimaced. ‘It would be more than my life is worth. From what I hear, Renard’s about as amiable just now as a barrel of hot pitch. I thought I might get more sense out of you, and you are the one who will be in the best pos — ition to keep him from exploding all over the rest of us.’

Elene stared at him in astonishment. ‘Me? He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even want to know me! He thinks I’m witless, a clinging, drizzling ninny.’

‘Oh Nell, that’s foolish talk!’ John laughed.

‘It’s not,’ she said grimly. ‘I behaved like one. Renard was very patient with me, but I knew what he was thinking.’

‘Then that augurs well, because none of us ever do.’

‘None of us ever do what?’ Renard asked, walking through the archway into the room and dumping his helm and gauntlets on the coffer. His eyes were alight, dangerous glints of quartz in their darkness.

‘Ever know what you are thinking,’ John answered amiably and gave Elene a reassuring smile. ‘And by the way you’re scowling at a priest, a virgin and a sick man, I don’t believe I really want to. Is it confessable?’

Renard glared at him, but then, amid a three days’ dark stubble of beard, his lips started to curve. ‘Oh, it’s confes — sable all right,’ he said, ‘but not in the present company. How’s Henry?’

Elene spread her hands. ‘No better, no worse, my lord.’

‘No wound fever then?’ He stooped over the sickbed. ‘He’s hot.’

‘A little, but nothing serious. I’ll have a tub prepared for you.’

He looked round at her and stood up. ‘Do I smell that bad?’

She blushed. ‘No, my lord. I only thought that with the Earl of Leicester present and the other wedding guests …’ Her voice trailed off beneath his stare.

‘Of course, you’re right,’ he said with a curled lip. ‘A bridegroom should not come reeking to the feast. By all means prepare a tub. Scent it with bay and spikenard and whatever other concoctions you can find in the coffer. We don’t want to offend the Earl of Leicester’s nose, do we?’

‘Renard!’ John said sharply.

‘If you’ll excuse me then, I’ll go and see to it.’ Lowering her gaze, lips compressed together, Elene almost ran from the room.

‘There was no need for that.’ John glowered at Renard. ‘She’s only concerned for your welfare.’

Renard thrust his right hand into his hair, grabbed a handful, and released it. ‘I know, I know,’ he puffed out in exasperation. ‘But the moment I walk in she starts twittering about bathtubs!’ He gave a caustic laugh. ‘Christ, the future of our lands is in jeopardy and all I get is, “do you want to bathe?”’

‘It was the offer of comfort and you’d do well to accept it. Half a candle notch with your eyes shut in a hot tub would do wonders for your temper. You haven’t even greeted me properly yet, and after a gap of four years!’

Renard had the grace to look ashamed, and embraced John. ‘Take no notice. I’m glad to see you, but I’m not so sure about Robert of Leicester. Did you have to bring him?’

John shrugged. ‘I asked him for leave to officiate at your wedding and he decided to invite himself too. More in the cause of diplomatic persuasion, I think, and he cannot abide Ranulf de Gernons. You want to think about that.’

‘I’ll see if I can find the time.’ Renard looked again at Henry. ‘I don’t think Leicester’s revulsion can ever reach the depths of mine.’

A maidservant entered the room and curtseyed to the men. ‘Mistress Elene has sent me to keep vigil over Lord Henry.’

John gestured to the bed, giving her full leave.

‘Where’s Mama?’ asked Renard.

‘Resting. She took the night watch with Henry, and Papa insisted that she went to bed until vespers at least. Papa’s in the solar with Lord Leicester and Adam. His cough seems better than it was. Having you home has made all the difference.’

Renard looked down and beat dust from his travel-grimed clothing. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he grunted. ‘I’m the one running my arse into the ground now.’

The words were spoken in a brittle tone, but without malice, and John did not take him up on them but said instead, ‘I hear you’ve got some solace at Hawkfield, an Outremer dancing girl, no less?’

‘God’s death!’ Renard hissed with irritation. ‘That news has travelled faster than a dose of corn cockles through the bowels. Does Elene know?’

‘Not as yet, at least I don’t think so, but you’ll have to tell her soon.’

‘I know.’ He tried to close the subject by walking towards the curtain, unhitching his swordbelt as he strode.

‘Let her down lightly,’ John pleaded. ‘I know you have a lot on your mind, but for other reasons so has she.’

Renard sighed. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘if only to stop you from preaching me a sermon.’

Renard stepped into the bath water, noting that it was neither scented, herb-scattered, or anything else. It was, however, very hot and made him gasp and clutch at the sides of the tub.

‘Are you trying to boil me!’ he demanded.

‘It will soon cool, my lord. You undressed more quickly than I expected,’ Elene said. ‘Shall I put in some more cold?’

‘No, leave it now.’ Gingerly he relaxed and looked at her. She was like a young deer poised for flight — a tall, slim girl with enormous, haunted eyes. Her lips were full and looked as though they would be quite kissable when set in a different expression. ‘You were not so formal four years ago,’ he said. ‘Or have you forgotten my name?’

She blushed and shook her head and looked at her toes.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he mused. ‘I used to slap your rump and ruffle your hair, but we’ve each gone beyond that kind of familiarity now, haven’t we?’

‘Yes my lo— Renard,’ she said.

‘Where’s the soap?’

She brought it to him and he saw that her hands were shaking, and her chin dimpling with the effort of holding on to her composure. Guilty irritation washed over him, and then a wave of compassion. He sighed. ‘I’m sorry if I was bad-tempered, Nell.’ My mind was dealing with more difficult matters. You were right about the bath.’

She turned away to fiddle with the towels that were laid out. ‘My thoughts were only for your comfort.’ It was the customary duty of the wives and daughters of a great household to see to the well-being of all new arrivals to the keep, be they visitors, friends or family. The offer of a bathtub and comfortable clothing was always the first hospitality. Elene had performed the function of hostess so many times now that this particular occasion should have come as second nature. The fact that it hadn’t and that she was intensely aware of him, naked and in a volatile mood, was unsettling.

‘Yes, I know.’ He began to wash. There was an awkward silence. More out of desperation to break it than anything else, he asked her how the flocks up at Woolcot were faring.

Her reply commenced in a quavery voice. He did not look at her as he washed, but occasionally intercepted with a question. Gradually her tone brightened with a spark of confidence. He discovered that the discussion, far from boring him, was a diversion from mental worries of vassals and supplies, stratagems and defences, sickness and death.

‘I have ideas for the wool clip too,’ she said, as he stepped from the tub and she handed him towels holding them out at arm’s length.

‘Oh yes?’ he said drily, but Elene, not looking at his face, heard only the sarcasm without reading the humour.

‘I … I know they will be yours to deal with as you see fit after our wedding. I wasn’t presuming. I …’

Renard ceased drying himself, tucked the towel around his waist, and took hold of her shoulders. ‘Stop making excuses and apologies, Nell, and we’ll get along much better.’

‘I thought that you were annoyed.’ He was so close that she could not think properly. There was a queasy knot where her stomach should have been, part fear, part something else. She wanted to touch his skin, run her hands up his forearms over the smooth muscles until she linked her fingers around his neck. Of course, innocent girls did not do such things uninvited, but when they had lived under Lady Judith’s tuition, they knew about them all the same, even if not in graphic detail.

‘I was teasing.’ He tipped up her chin. ‘Next time, just answer me back. I promise not to beat you.’

Blushing furiously, she broke away from his light grip.

Renard frowned at her obvious discomfort and picked up his braies. ‘So then, what are you going to do with the wool clip if not sell it to the Flemish?’

‘Oh, some of it will still go to Flanders, we need that security.’ She started to breathe more easily now that there was space between them.

‘And the rest?’

‘I thought of weaving and dyeing it at Woolcot to sell in Ravenstow and Shrewsbury and the other towns.’ After handing him chausses and leg bindings, she fetched a shirt and tunic from a pole near the brazier where they had been airing.

‘That’s already being done elsewhere,’ he pointed out, ‘although it would probably bring in some profit.’

‘I don’t mean homespuns, I mean high-quality fine cloths for those who usually buy from Flemish looms, but of course mine will cost that much less without all the transport tariffs.’

It was an audacious idea and not one, on the face of it, he would have expected to come from Elene. ‘Where are you going to find the skills?’ he tested her as he wound the leggings round his calves and secured them. ‘Do we have them locally?’

‘We do now.’

He looked up as she came over to him. She was confident again, a gleam brightening in her hazel-green eyes as she expounded her plan, her face a warm, rosy pink. ‘Who possesses the skills that our weavers and dyers lack?’

‘The Flemings,’ Renard said.

She nodded. ‘And what kind of mercenary does King Stephen employ in high numbers?’

‘Incompetent ones?’ he could not help commenting with a grin, but then he sobered. ‘Flemings. I see what you mean.’

‘Some want to retire from service, others are injured out of it. Many have families whom they want to see settled while they are at war and there are bound to be a good many with the skills I seek. I’ve found one experienced weaver and a dyer already and settled them on land in the village.’

Renard grasped the shirt she handed him and after a moment remembered to put it on.

She looked at him anxiously. ‘What do you think?’

‘What do I think …?’ He laughed and dug his fingers through his hair. ‘Elene, I think I’ve been looking at a fish out of water suddenly gliding into a lake.’

‘But …’

‘Yes, it’s an excellent idea!’

She gave him a radiant stare, compounded of the puppy-like adoration he remembered and something more elusive. ‘Your tunic is a sample of the kind of cloth I’m hoping to produce,’ she offered shyly.

Renard took the second garment from her hands. The fabric was smooth and soft and of a rich, dark blue, embroidered in the same colour of thread to give it an understated but undeniably rich appearance.

‘It’s from this year’s clip,’ she said. ‘I used woad for the dye and a Flemish loom to weave the piece. I hope it fits you because I had to go by the measurements taken four years ago, although I did add some extra width to the shoulders.’

Thoughtfully he looked at the shirt he was already wearing. ‘You made this too?’

Her small gesture was defensive. ‘I become bored without a use for my hands, and I enjoy needlecraft.’

Rapidly reassessing his first impression of her, he put the tunic on. The fit was excellent and he saw that the embroidery consisted of tiny sheep and coils of grass and even a shepherd and a dog. ‘You took no small time over this,’ he said softly, a hint of awe in his voice.

‘It is my wedding gift to you.’ She blushed again. ‘I know you must have serviceable tunics aplenty and Outremer silks, but you will need some warm court garments too. Besides, I wanted to see how the cloth would look as a finished garment. There’s another tunic too, but you’re not allowed to see that yet.’

Her expression became enchantingly shy, almost mischiev — ous. She darted him an upward look through her lashes in totally innocent provocation. His breath caught. Before he could rationalise the move, he had slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her against him, and bent his mouth to hers.

Elene had been kissed by men before — her father, her vassals, Earl Guyon, Renard’s brothers in rumbustious play at the Christmas feast, by Renard himself in a playful mood, but this sensual, deliberate intimacy was different. She had imagined it often enough, but the reality was out of her control and all in Renard’s, the pressure of his lips delightful and frightening.

Sensing her uncertainty, he started to withdraw. Elene did what she had wanted to do earlier and ran her palms up his sleeves, across his shoulders, and laced her fingers in his hair. Their lips remained joined, hers parting as she pressed forward against him and heard the catch in his throat, the change in his breathing. His hands tightened on her waist. The kiss broke on a mutual gasp. Elene shuddered and buried her face in his neck. Renard held her and closed his eyes. The pressure of Elene’s body, the slight movements she was making filled him with raw desire. Putting his hands up, he removed hers from around his neck, and still holding them, took a step back and a deep breath.

Elene went as red as fire and bit her lip in confusion. She had liked the feel of his arms around her and the touch of his lips, but the inevitable power channelling through their bodies had been a shock, the difference between observing a river in full spate and being tossed into it.

Releasing her, he turned away and began to buckle on his belt. ‘It was only meant to be a kiss,’ he said with a wry shrug. ‘But sometimes one thing leads too quickly to another. I’m living on a knife edge just now and what I need to ease the tension is …’

She stared at him with round eyes, half knowing what he meant and half curious.

‘What I need, I can’t have. Hell’s death!’ he growled, thoroughly discomfited. ‘How did we ever get on to this from wool production! I’d better go, the Earl of Leicester will be waiting.’

Biting her lip, she watched him leave. One of the maids giggled behind her hand that it was going to be a fine wedding but nothing compared to the wedding night.

Elene snapped at the girl to hold her tongue and, for something to do, picked up Renard’s discarded clothing to send down to the laundry. His shirt smelt of stale sweat and something far less identifiable and far more un settlingly pleasant. Her body quivered with the memory of that kiss, the feel of his hands on her. Her loins felt heavy and dull with pressure. Hastily she bundled the soiled garments into the arms of a waiting maid and sought a task with less evocative associations.

Robert, Earl of Leicester was thirty-five years old, a handsome man with heavy-lidded grey eyes that missed very little despite their sleepy appearance. Renard greeted him with a smile that did not conceal any of his wariness and sat down on a vacant stool near the brazier.

‘I don’t blame you,’ Leicester said, amiably cynical. ‘If I were you, I’d be looking at me that way too.’

Renard laughed and relaxed. ‘Everyone’s hunting everyone else. You spend so much time looking over your shoulder that finally you disappear up your own backside.’

‘The Earl has invited us to guest with Stephen at the Christmas court,’ Guyon said huskily and cleared his throat. ‘But I think he can appreciate that in the present circumstances it is impossible.’

‘The King was hoping particularly to greet you,’ Leicester said smoothly to Renard. ‘And your new wife. Has she ever been to the Christmas court? It may be her only opportun — ity before she is burdened with little ones.’

Renard gave the Earl a speculative glance. ‘Will Ranulf de Gernons and William de Roumare be there?’

‘Probably, although with them, nothing is ever certain.’

Renard rose from the stool and paced the room. A woman’s distaff lay on top of a pile of prepared wool in a wide willow basket. He thought of Elene and felt a renewed flash of warmth. He swung round. ‘Then I’ll come.’

‘Renard—’ Guyon began, and broke off, coughing. Adam moved from his seat in the candle shadows and quickly poured him some wine.

Renard turned to his father. ‘Sire, if you had been that keen to see Matilda wear a crown you’d have done more by now than just sit on the fence. You were persuaded to swear for her twelve years ago by Robert of Gloucester, but it was always a forced oath.’

‘Matilda has a son,’ Adam pointed out, his voice calm but with an edge to it like the bite of good steel.

‘Who could either save or sink us depending on how he matures, and don’t say he cannot be any worse than what we have because it wouldn’t be true.’

‘I was not going to moot anything of the sort,’ Adam said. ‘I was just going to remind you that the oath was not to Matilda alone, but to the heirs of her body.’

Leicester scowled at Adam. ‘Perhaps you ought to be with the rest of the rebels in Bristol,’ he suggested.

Adam spread his hands. ‘I make no bones as to where my sympathies dwell, but my family’s interests and my lands come first. If Shrewsbury was to be regained by the Empress, it might be a different matter. For the moment, I am content to fence-sit and see what else Miles of Gloucester can accomplish apart from tucking Worcester, Hereford and Winchcomb beneath his belt. He’s quite a thorn in Stephen’s side, isn’t he?’

Leicester glared at Adam, who glared implacably back.

Guyon, struggling for breath tonight, gathered himself to intercept before the atmosphere became too volatile for it to end in anything less than a quarrel, but Renard preempted him.

‘It’s me you want, isn’t it?’ he said to Leicester. ‘I have said I will come to court and bring Elene with me, and as you know I am not constrained by oaths to anyone. For the rest, an agreement to differ might be best. My mother’s very proud of that screen. It’s Lebanese cedarwood you know, straight from the Song of Solomon, and if it gets damaged while you’re each trying to persuade the other, you’ll have a war of an entirely different kind on your hands, one you’d lose.’

Robert of Leicester subsided with a reluctant chuckle and held out a broad, fleshy palm to Adam who sheepishly smiled and took it. Renard exchanged eloquent looks of relief with his father.

‘Don’t make me laugh!’ Guyon wheezed and took a sip of wine. ‘Did you look in on Henry?’

‘He was asleep.’ Renard’s mouth levelled and tightened. ‘I’ll be seeking reparations at court.’

‘You won’t get them,’ said Leicester. ‘Leave well alone. Only an idiot kicks a wasp’s nest when he’s been stung.’

Renard said nothing, but his expression was closed.

‘Did you raid while you were up at Caermoel?’ Adam asked.

‘I thought about it, but there wasn’t enough time. I was too busy at the keep itself to hare about the country with a burning torch in my hand.’ He looked at Leicester, poured himself some wine and made himself busy with it.

‘And you’re not going to talk about what you were doing in front of me?’ said the Earl with a good-natured smile.

‘No.’ Renard did not smile in reply. ‘You saw the bodies on the gibbet as you rode in? Beautiful adornments for a wedding feast. I only wish that Ranulf of Chester was dangling among them.’

That evening, as Ravenstow settled down to sleep, Renard showed his father a parchment upon which were rough sketches of suggested alterations to the castle at Caermoel. ‘Not the keep as such, let that stay,’ Renard said, finger advancing across the sheet, ‘but extend the curtain wall across this part and build towers here and here to guard the approach, and also put some at intervals along the wall. And I have added plans for two more well shafts to be dug in these areas.’

Guyon stared at the plans in amazement. ‘Are these your own ideas?’

‘Borrowed and improvised from places I saw in Outremer. Sayhun and Kaukab al-Hawa. They’re better than anything we’ve got.’

Judith looked over their shoulders. ‘Expensive?’ she queried.

‘Depends what you set against it,’ Renard shrugged. ‘Not really. I can probably raise a relief from the vassals — with Papa’s permission,’ he added quickly. The physical responsibility for the lands might now lie with him, but the verbal control was still his father’s.

‘I remember when the walls first went up,’ Judith said mistily. ‘It was in the early years of our marriage. You were conceived and born there.’

‘And you don’t want to see it all change?’ He looked round at her.

‘It was a long time ago,’ she said with a briskness that covered emotion. ‘Too long.’

‘The changes are all to the good,’ Guyon said. ‘Providing you can do it without beggaring us.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘I remember those times too!’ His tone was both rueful and poignant. ‘Half a mind to the passion and the other half worrying about what to do if the Welsh made a full-scale assault. It’s too strong for the Welsh now, but Ranulf de Gernons could probably take it if he made a determined effort.’

Renard tapped the parchment. ‘Not when these have been implemented. I’ll engage engineers and stone workers and start the work immediately.’

‘Before you go to court?’

‘As soon as all this nuptial frivolity is over. I’ll leave this with you.’ He headed towards the door of his parents’ bedchamber.

‘Nuptial frivolity?’ Guyon repeated as his son reached the curtain. ‘Renard, go gently with the girl. It might not be to your taste, but do not spoil it for her.’

Renard’s shoulders stiffened and his hands clenched at his sides.

‘It is my prerogative to deal you crusty advice,’ Guyon added with a mixture of humour and warning.

‘And mine to do as I see fit,’ Renard replied, but relaxed his stance. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be as meek as a unicorn in a virgin’s lap.’

‘You don’t expect me to believe that!’

Judith fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘Did you visit Hawkfield on your way home?’

‘No I didn’t.’ He fingered the heavy crimson wool of the curtain. There was hunting on the morrow for fresh meat and he intended returning by way of Olwen, but he was not about to make such an admission to his mother, who would not see his need in the same light as he did. She was still looking at him suspiciously. He could feel her eyes boring into his spine. Without turning round he bid her and his father good-night and quickly made his escape.

‘I knew you would come,’ Olwen said. She stood in the doorway and watched Renard dismount in the gathering dusk. His courser hung its head and rested on one hip. Salty sweat caked its shoulders and flanks and there was a bloody score across its chest where a branch had whipped it during the chase. Renard was in a similar state to his mount, burrs and snags in his cloak and a dried cut on the hand that delivered the reins to a groom.

‘Water him, but not too much, and wipe him down but don’t unsaddle him,’ he instructed the man. ‘I’m not staying long.’

‘How long is not long?’ Olwen asked, leaning against the door jamb and folding her arms.

A bitter autumn wind rustled dead leaves across the courtyard. The coming night smelt cold. The warmth behind Olwen beckoned Renard and the faint, spicy aroma of food he had not tasted since leaving Antioch. A smile twisted his lips. In Outremer he had longed for salt beef and rye bread. Now it was the smell of lamb pilaff that was enticing him. ‘As long as it takes,’ he said, drawing her into his arms.

Her loose hair felt like silk, her mouth was warm and experienced like her body and he could have taken her there and then on the threshold.

‘Not long then,’ she said against his lips, and slipped her hands down his body. ‘My, my, you are eager aren’t you?’ She drew away from him and went into the hall, looking over her shoulder at him in a provocative manner.

Renard scraped his fingers through his hair and wondered why he was not riding homewards with the rest of the hunting party with the kills from an excellent if rough day’s sport. He looked towards the door, half meaning to stride back out and catch up with them. Then he looked at Olwen and knew that the other half was the stronger and the reason he was here in the first place.

They sat down to a shared bowl of lamb pilaff, flat-bread, and the potent, cloudy local cider. She made no more attempts to bait him and her tongue when she answered his questions while they ate was civil, if stilted.

He noticed that the servants trod warily around her and the atmosphere made him uncomfortable, as if a nocked bow was aimed at the space between his shoulder blades. One of the younger girls accidentally splashed cider on to Olwen’s gown and received a stinging slap out of all proportion to the offence.

The girl retreated, trembling. Renard said nothing, just looked at Olwen, and beneath his stare, she coloured and dropped her lids. He found himself thinking that whatever the crime, Elene would never have struck a servant like that. He pushed his bowl away and drained his cup.

‘You haven’t finished your food.

’ ‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ he retorted and stood up.

A frisson of fear tingled down Olwen’s spine. She had thought she would be content with everything she had gained, but instead found herself dissatisfied, wanting more, and her growing frustration was taken out on the servants and on Renard now that he was here. Supposing he did not come again? Supposing he left her here to rot? She had seen it in his eyes. They had so little in common apart from the bed. Gesturing to another maid to remove the remains of the meal she decided that it was time to invoke that common ground before it was too late.

‘Do you not still hunger?’ she asked, eyeing him from between half-closed lids as she slowly unhooked the neck opening of her gown. Her actions were slow and deliber — ate. ‘I thought this was what you came for.’ She tossed her hair, sending a blond ripple down her spine. Turning round, she undulated slowly towards the bedchamber. On the threshold, she turned towards him and parted her lips.

Renard had intended to walk out, but instead, caught like a fish on a hook, he went to Olwen and allowed her to reel him in.

Propping herself up on one elbow, Olwen watched the candlelight play over Renard’s back as he set about finding his clothes. He twitched when she put a languid hand on his skin. She had revelled in the effect she had on him, had enjoyed toying with him until he was on the verge of madness, but tonight, for her, release had been elusive, hovering just out of reach.

‘When will you ride this way again?’ she asked.

Renard moved his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. After the wedding I’ve to return to Caermoel, and from there to the Christmas court.’

Olwen dropped her gaze. ‘Will the Earl of Chester be at court?’ She made her voice neutral, as if she was indulging in conversation for the sake of it while he dressed, but her heart was thumping in great, heavy strokes.

‘All the tenants-in-chief will be there, except the rebels of course. They’ll be in Bristol.’

She rose to her knees, put her arms around his neck and snuggled her cheek against his. ‘Take me with you?’

‘I can’t. It’s official and Elene will be with me to be presented to the King and Queen.’

Olwen pouted. ‘Am I supposed to stay in this poky, back-of-beyond byre for the rest of my life?’ she demanded.

‘You could have remained in Antioch to dance for your living,’ he reminded her as he donned his braies and chausses.

She lowered her arms and rolled over away from him. Tears of frustration and rage prickled behind her lids. ‘At least I would not be dying of boredom!’

He shot her a look full of impatience. ‘This land is yours. Far from being a “poky, back-of-beyond byre”, it’s prosperous and productive, one of the best beholden to Ravenstow, and if you had wit or wisdom about you, you’d nurture it, not mock and sneer. I need not have given you anything at all.’

‘Oh, generous indeed!’ she scoffed. ‘Put a hoe in my hand and expect me to be overcome with gratitude!’

In a move that was whiplash swift he grabbed her, pushing her down. For a moment it hung in the balance. He had never in his life struck a woman before, because a man who beat a woman was no man at all. He struggled, his whole body trembling as she goaded him towards the edge of a different kind of passion. She curved her thigh along the length of his and he saw the bloom of naked hunger in her eyes. His body answered hers, but this time he denied the temptation, and breathing hard, almost sobbing, thrust himself away from her. Without stopping to put on his remaining garments, he gathered them up in his arms, and stormed out.

Panting, her body strung as taut as a resonating harp, Olwen stared after him. She heard the shouts of the grooms and the neigh of a horse, the drumming of hooves and then silence. The heat of lust and temper cooled from her skin, leaving her cold, as if she had been sitting too long at a hearth where the fire had gone out.