The Leopard Unleashed

Chapter 29

Chester, November 1141

Ranulf de Gernons stood in his wife’s chamber, hands on his hips, and watched her fussing with their younger daughter’s tiny braids. They stuck out at right angles from her head, were shorter than his own moustaches, only half their thickness and of a light, mousy brown that no amount of adorning would enhance. Her sister, three years older, was sitting on her mother’s bed, playing a counting game with some carnelian beads.

‘Is there any news of my father?’ Matille looked at him anxiously.

‘Only that he’s being treated well and the Queen is refusing to bargain. They want Stephen in exchange for him or nothing.’ He scowled, revealing what he had thought of that particular idea. The smaller child climbed into her mother’s lap and hid her face against Matille’s gown. Ranulf ’s scowl deepened. Thus far Matille had borne him three children — two girls, alive and healthy, but the all-important boy miscarried. She was pregnant again. God willing this time she would give him what he desired. To that end he had been unduly gentle with her these past three months, particu — larly during the last one that had seen the Empress’s forces reduced to chaos at the siege of Winchester and the sub — sequent capture of her father, the Earl of Gloucester.

Ranulf had quickly distanced himself from the Empress, had returned to his marches to wait out events like a spider lurking on the edge of its web. Lincoln had been the Empress’s pinnacle. Since then, everything had begun to slip away. At Winchester, Bishop Henry had turned against her, and Stephen’s queen had appeared with her army beneath the city walls. Overwhelmed, deserted by many of her supporters, the Empress had been forced to flee towards Oxford. During the rout, Matille’s father had been captured and now Queen Malde wanted to exchange him for Stephen. Negotiations were in slow progress, but it was obvious to Ranulf that whatever came of them, the best course was to do nothing until he saw which way the wind blew for certain.

‘But he is well?’ Matille persisted.

‘Better than for a long time,’ Ranulf grunted. ‘He hasn’t got that sulky bitch bleating in his ear. Why won’t Lucy look at me?’

‘You frighten her, Papa,’ said Adela, his elder, looking up from her game. ‘She doesn’t like it when you shout.’

‘Hah!’ Ranulf said, dismissing the comment, although inside it hurt him. It always did. He had the power to make people do whatever he wished — except love him, and he was aware of that lack most strongly when he tried to be at ease with his wife and children.

‘Ranulf, I’ve been thinking about Lucy,’ Matille said hesitantly.

‘Indeed?’

‘Have you any plans for a betrothal yet? I know you have for Herleve, but …’ She broke off and cuddled her whimpering daughter. Her stomach moved queasily. Some of the nausea was her new pregnancy. As usual she was not carrying well, but the rest was caused by her fear of Ranulf. These days he was as unpredictable as a wild bull, but if she could arrange a favourable marriage for her daughter and help Elene of Ravenstow into the bargain, then she was willing to brave his temper.

‘Whom did you have in mind?’

Matille swallowed. ‘Ravenstow’s heir.’

Ranulf ’s bellow almost blew the shutters off their hinges. ‘God’s balls, woman, you dare to suggest that to me!’ he roared.

Lucy screamed in terror and the older girl stopped her game, her eyes becoming round with fear in case their father should use his fists.

‘I only thought that an alliance with Ravenstow might leave you free to deal with the Welsh and pay more attention to your other concerns,’ she said far more calmly than she felt. Her heart jumped and jumped and the sickness almost made her heave.

‘I’d rather have her wed to a gong farmer than joined to that kind of blood!’ Spittle flecked his moustaches.

‘Ranulf, please don’t shout, you’re making me ill.’

He cleared his throat. The red mottling faded slightly from his face and throat and he looked at her anxiously. ‘The answer is no,’ he growled.

‘Heir to Ravenstow means heir to Caermoel,’ she said, after a moment, a sly look in her eyes.

Ranulf turned away and stared out of the open shutters at the vista of autumnal colours. Golds and oranges and woodsmoke grey. The news of the burning of Woolcot had pleased him, but the cost had been high. He had lost almost a full mercenary troop. This was gradually being replaced although not yet up to full raiding strength. Thus far Renard had not retaliated, but his patrols had tightened up considerably, and he too had been hiring men.

The fighting was indeed tiresome. Ranulf had looked forward to rubbing Renard’s nose in the dirt, to humiliating him, but had discovered quickly that it was an ambition not to be realised. He was realistic enough to abandon the attempt to take Caermoel, but sufficiently vindictive to continue raiding.

A marriage alliance. He discarded his first, gut reaction and looked at it objectively. Yes, it would leave him free to deal with the Welsh, with Prince Owain, the presumptuous cocky bastard. It would stop him from having to constantly patrol the border with Ravenstow, and if, as Matille said, Ravenstow’s son was also Caermoel’s heir, his grandchildren would inherit the land, and there was scope for manipulation and appropriation there in plenty. The fact that Renard’s son and Lucy were second cousins would require a dispensation, but that was no real barrier, and an escape route should a more propitious marriage offer come his way.

‘Heir to Caermoel,’ he mused, and looked round at the child. It would only be an agreement to a betrothal anyway. Both parties were much too young to even begin to lisp the words of acceptance. It would be saving face with certain, implicit advantages.

‘I’ll make up my mind later,’ he said, just to let her know that he was the master, and stalked out of the room.

Weak, soaked with perspiration, Matille leaned back against her pillows and fought her nausea, but mingled with it was the relief that he had gone, and the triumph that she knew he would do what she had suggested.