The Leopard Unleashed

Chapter 17

The boy stared down at his feet and shuffled them as if the concentration of eye alone was responsible for their motion. A shock of straw-coloured hair stopped just short of his thin, dark brows beneath which his downcast lashes were long and thick enough to be the envy of every woman within the keep.

‘Owain?’ said Elene gently. ‘Look at me.’

He raised his head and then his lids. His eyes were as wary and dark as a deer’s, his mouth set so firmly that it defied his will and trembled anyway. He had just watched his mother ride away from him in the company of his despised stepfather-to-be, stranding him here among strangers, ostensibly for his own good, but he felt nothing but betrayed.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eleven, madam.’

‘Almost a man then,’ she flattered him. ‘Past time you began your training. Lord Renard won’t be home for at least another month. You can use the time to grow accustomed to your new home. Is this your pony?’ She indicated the sturdy grey gelding that was lipping at a clump of twitch spiking from the base of the wall.

‘Yes, madam.’

‘What’s his name?’ She stroked the pony’s neck, noting that he was well groomed and cared for.

‘Grisel, madam.’

‘Well then, Owain, unlatch your saddle roll and come with me. We’ll find you somewhere to sleep.’ She beckoned to a groom. ‘Kenrick will take care of Grisel for now. Other times he will be your responsibility.’ She scratched the grey beneath his whiskery chin and fondled his plush muzzle.

The boy relaxed slightly and began to unfasten his small bundle of belongings from the pony’s crupper. He paused in mid-motion as more horses clopped into the yard, his expression becoming one of blazing hope before sinking once more into apathy as he saw that the newcomers were two men astride working coursers.

William jumped down easily from his saddle and stood close to the second horse, ready to help Henry if he failed. ‘Come on, you can do it!’ he encouraged him with exaggerated joviality.

‘Shut up, I’m not a babe!’ Henry snapped, nettled by his brother’s tone of voice, and completed his own move to the ground somewhat more clumsily. ‘I’ve still got two good legs!’ His face was white with strain as he fumbled the shield from his right arm. Retraining himself to fight left-handed, his damaged arm protected behind his adapted shield, was a process so difficult that in private he wept with the sheer frustration of his inability to co-ordinate.

Hands on hips, William took his gaze from his grumpy brother and rested it on Elene and her charge.

‘Is this the new squire Renard was telling me about before he left?’

Elene nodded. ‘Owain ap Siorl.’ She put her hand on the boy’s shoulder.

William considered him gravely, remembering what Renard had told him of the boy’s recent past and the reasons for his placement here. He addressed him in Welsh. Owain looked doubtfully at Elene before replying in the same language, but his face visibly brightened, and once begun, an almost defiant torrent of words poured from his lips.

Elene exchanged a brief, meaningful glance with William over the top of the boy’s head.

‘Well, Owain ap Siorl,’ William said, reverting to French for his sister-in-law’s benefit. ‘Let us go within and show you the surroundings of at least one of your new homes. Your lord has three other keeps beside this one, and more manors and lodges than I can count.’ He replaced Elene’s hand on the boy’s shoulder with his own and gave her a conspiratorial wink as he drew the boy away in the direction of the hall, reverting to Welsh as he walked.

Elene smiled gratefully after him, then turned back to Henry. ‘Are you all right?’

He gave her a toothless smile, his complexion peaky. ‘Just gaining my breath. Was that the lad’s mother and her new beau we met riding out just now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Poor little beggar.’ He avoided her eyes to watch the groom unsaddling the grey pony.

‘He’s better than he would have been had he stayed at home. He’s defensive of his father’s memory; resents another man’s encroachments on his mother’s affections when it’s not been a year since Siorl’s death. That is how Renard sees the situation anyway.’

Henry grunted and started to turn away, fumbling at his swordbelt and trying one-handed to unlatch it.

‘Here, let me do it.’ Elene came round to help him. The latch was fairly new and therefore stiff and she had to struggle to get it undone.

Henry’s good hand clenched into a fist at his side. ‘I can do it myself,’ he rasped. ‘I have to learn.’

‘It’s all right, it’s coming now. You might as well let me finish.’

Henry muttered something beneath his breath, and without warning Elene suddenly found herself swept round on his good arm and embraced. For the space of ten rapid heartbeats he kissed her, without finesse, just hard, desperate passion.

Elene tried to scream, but her voice was stifled in her throat. She managed to wriggle one arm free and struck the side of his head with all the force she could muster. Henry let her go, the last of his breath spending itself in a groan. ‘I’m sorry, Nell, I’m sorry,’ he said wretchedly. ‘God’s love, don’t look at me like that!’

‘How else should I look at you!’ she gasped, hand across her mouth. ‘No, don’t touch me — stay away!’ Ducking under his arm, she fled for the safety of the keep.

Henry stared wretchedly at the stable wall and wished that the arrow that had maimed him had killed him outright.

‘Can I come in?’

Elene glanced up at Henry, gestured reluctant assent, and continued setting pins into the gown she was making for herself — one that would accommodate her increasing girth in the coming months.

Henry cleared his throat and tentatively stepped just inside the sewing room doorway. He shuffled his feet as awkwardly as the new squire had done that morning and stared at the thongs fastening his soft indoor shoes.

Elene eyed him warily and kept to her side of the trestle, the sewing shears close to hand.

He raised his stubby ginger eyelashes. ‘I came to apolo — gise for this morning. If I could wipe it from the slate I would.’

‘So would I,’ Elene said grimly.

‘I never meant to hurt or frighten you. It’s just that …’ He made a movement with his good arm. ‘I tire easily and then things happen that I don’t mean to happen. You were so close and …’ He stopped and tugged viciously at his moustache. ‘Christ’s death, I can’t even say I’m sorry without digging myself into a deeper hole!’

A wave of compassion stirred among the other emotions that were disturbing Elene. This morning she had been shocked and frightened by his sudden assault. Having always viewed him in an affectionate, fraternal light, she had been horrified to discover that his affections coursed through a different and potentially dangerous channel. Supposing Renard came to hear of it by rumour and misconstrued it? She had not yet told him about her pregnancy. Supposing he misconstrued that too? The implications were terrifying, both for Henry and for herself.

‘You have said enough,’ she answered him in as level a tone as she could muster. ‘I do not think an explanation will benefit either of us.’

‘Are you still angry?’

‘I wasn’t angry before, just very frightened. I still am.’

‘So am I,’ he said bleakly and leaned against the wall. His right arm, strained from the work he had forced upon it, was resting in a linen sling. He crossed his left arm beneath it. ‘God knows, it crept up on me unawares. I couldn’t even tell you when it changed. I only knew it was there when I saw you and Renard together; the way you looked at him …’ He made a choked sound and turned his head aside.

‘Henry, stop it!’ Elene quivered. She could not go to him and comfort him; neither could she pick up the shears and drive him from the room. ‘I told you, you have said enough!’

‘No, as usual, I have said too much.’ His throat worked. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff but controlled. ‘Apart from apologising, I also came to tell you that I’m going home to Oxley tomorrow. I’m mended enough for that now, and it would be too difficult if I stayed.’

Elene bit her lip and nodded. She pretended to busy herself with the length of cloth on the sewing trestle.

Henry remained in the doorway staring at her the way a hungry but well-trained dog might stare at a meal it was not permitted to have. ‘I want to part as friends,’ he pleaded softly. ‘Will you forgive me?’

A small, darker coloured blot began to spread on the pale green linen beneath Elene’s fingers, then another one. ‘I forgive you,’ she said, her throat constricted as she tried to speak and breathe without giving herself away. She dared not lift her gaze from the trestle, not for a long time, and when she finally did, Henry was gone and the first hint of dusk was beginning to deepen the shadows in the room. Free to cry, she found that she was no longer able.