The Running Vixen

Chapter 13

The Empress Matilda’s slender body was encased in a tunic and gown of royal purple, trimmed with ermine tips at cuff and knotted hem. Apart from the colour, she might have been an effigy. Adam set his own hands between hers and received an icy kiss of peace in return for his oath of loyalty to her and the future heirs of her body. Unsmiling, tepid, she took his fealty as her due, her expression remote, declining to acknowledge how many times over she owed him her life. Had she permitted herself to smile, she would have been attractive. Beneath her gauze veil, her braids were a bright brown, and her eyes were of an arresting lake-water blue, challenging every man who dared to look into them. On all sides of the great hall, the high barons and bishops of the land stood as witnesses to each other’s swearing: Bigod, Ferrers, de Clare, de Blundeville, Salisbury, Winchester, Canterbury. Adam stepped back and another lord took his place and swore allegiance.

Henry was smiling in lieu of his daughter, not just a flimsy parchment smile to put a good grace on the proceedings, but one of deep and genuine satisfaction. Adam supposed that it was indeed gratifying to him that his barons had agreed to acknowledge Matilda as his successor, which was in part due to the tireless persuasion of Robert of Gloucester. But if they had been brought to swear, then so had Henry — that he would not seek a foreign husband for his daughter without the baronial consent. But then what had oaths of that kind ever meant to the King, except the buying of time to break them later? Adam thought. Henry would marry his daughter to whomsoever he chose; that smile said so.

The celebration feast commenced with the pomp and ceremony befitting such a grand occasion and the presence of so many important men. Adam, as a minor tenant-in-chief, was relegated to a place at the far end of the hall, for which he was grateful. He had no great fondness for these gatherings with their rife hypocrisy, everyone trying to outdo each other and glancing sidelong to see if they had succeeded. There was the back-stabbing, there were the sly insults and, for him also, the hostile shoulder-nudges of men who wanted to see him lose the forthcoming trial by combat. Men who supported Warrin de Mortimer for the sake of his father, who was well thought of and respected at court, and undeserving of the scandal visited upon his house by a young man whose own family reputation was considerably more tarnished. And then of course there was the gossip; the jests at his expense, the sniggers and the sly innuendoes. Adam bore them stoically, but it did not mean that inwardly he was not goaded raw.

‘I’m either going to marry you to Heulwen or officiate at your funeral, so you might as well speak to me!’ complained a rich, deep voice at his hunched left shoulder.

Adam swivelled and stared at the grinning young priest who had just squeezed his way on to the trestle beside him. He found a sudden answering grin of his own. ‘John! I hadn’t thought to see you here!’

‘The Earl of Leicester might feel in need of a confessor after swearing to an oath like that,’ laughed Guyon’s second son and namesake. To avoid confusion, he had early on been called for the saint on whose eve he had been born, and only on the most formal occasions ever went by his christened name.

‘So might we all,’ Adam said ruefully, ‘the King in particular.’ He stretched out his arm and playfully patted the bald island of scalp ringed by a thick sea of reddish-black waves. ‘You’re ordained now?’

‘Since last Martinmas.’

‘So I’ve got to call you Father and treat you with a proper respect?’

John’s dark, beautiful voice rumbled with laughter. ‘Is that so much of a trial?’ He folded his arms on the trestle. A serving girl dimpled at him as she leaned over to pour wine. He smiled back, but without noticing how pretty she was, not because he was unaffected by pretty women — indeed on occasion, celibacy had been a discipline he had failed — but because he simply could not see her clearly enough to know. Ever since early childhood when he had fallen over cradles, sewing baskets and hound puppies rather than walk around them, when he had been defeated in sword practice because he could not see the blows coming until it was too late, he had known he was destined either for the priesthood or an early death. It was an obvious choice, and he had flourished, and already had a responsible post in the Earl of Leicester’s household.

Adam glanced sidelong at the young man. ‘Aren’t you going to lecture me from your pulpit, then?’

John squinted at a dish of eels stewed in herbs and wine, and answered with a question of his own. ‘Do you know why my Lord Leicester chose me above several others to be his household chaplain?’

Adam shook his head.

‘Because he knew I wouldn’t keep lecturing the soldiers about mere peccadilloes. Men will always gamble, take the Lord’s name in vain, and fornicate where they shouldn’t with someone else’s woman, and then brawl about it. They’re unlikely to take much notice of the bleatings of a mealy-mouthed priest young enough in some instances to be their grandson. I suppose I could hurl hellfire and damnation at them, but I prefer to keep that for the sins that really matter — like murder.’

Adam looked sharply at John. A soft, myopic doe-brown his eyes might be, but they bore the clarity of knowledge. ‘You believe me then?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘No one else does.’

‘That is not true,’ John contradicted. ‘It is just that empty vessels make the most noise, and if you’ve noticed, it’s all coming from de Mortimer’s side. Don’t worry, Adam, we’re not all out to knife you in the back. That’s Warrin de Mortimer’s particular vice.’ He took a mouthful of the eel stew, swallowed, and added thoughtfully, ‘I saw Warrin de Mortimer in the early spring when I was returning from my studies in Paris. He was a member of a hawking party that included William le Clito when they crossed our path.’

‘He was what?’ Adam stared.

‘There were a lot of other young men present, mostly from the French court, I think. I do not suppose there is any harm in going hawking with William le Clito, it just depends what they were talking about, but I didn’t hear any of that.’ He reached for a piece of the fine white bread that had been baked especially for the feast. ‘I saw Ralf, too.’

‘What, with them?’

‘No, the following day just outside Les Andelys. He was kicking his heels beside a water trough, obviously waiting for someone. I would not have recognised him, my eyesight being what it is, but my horse needed to drink and Ralf was too close for me to miss. He wasn’t pleased at being discovered either, and not just because there was a woman clinging to his arm or because I’m Heulwen’s half-brother.’ He bit into the crust and moistened it with a sip of wine. ‘He asked me not to say anything, tapped his nose and told me he was about the King’s private business, and at the time I believed him. I had no reason to doubt then.’ He gave Adam a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, the King knows. I told my Lord Leicester last night as soon as I realised its significance and he took it straight to Henry, so even if this trial by combat doesn’t favour your cause, it’s not a lost one. Warrin de Mortimer is marked.’

‘I thought that the victor’s arm was aided by divine intervention,’ Adam said drily, as he attempted a morsel of the fish stew himself and grimaced. A favourite dish of Henry’s it might be, but in Adam’s opinion, Henry was welcome to it.

‘That is the theory,’ John said with spurious gravity. ‘But divine intervention is a fickle force to depend upon, and I should know, I’m a priest.’ Then he sobered and fixed Adam with a troubled stare. ‘Warrin used to be able to flatten you in the tilt yard when we were children, ’ he said.

‘He’s relying on that memory now,’ Adam agreed, ‘but I was only half-grown then, and he was almost at his full strength. We’re much of a height now. I know that he is broader, but if so, then I have the edge on speed.’ His smile was wry. ‘Still, it won’t do any harm to pray for me, and for Heulwen.’ He reached for his cup and took a quick swallow of the wine. It was Rhenish, the kind he had lived on for several months of purgatory at the German court, the kind with which he had almost killed himself on the day of Heulwen’s marriage to Ralf. ‘I’ve loved her for a long time,’ he said.

‘The way she used to look at Ralf ought to have melted that ingrate’s bones,’ John reflected, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably, ‘but he ran after other women instead.’

Adam put his drink down and tugged at a loose thread on the gold embroidery at his tunic cuff. ‘I think I would call him out too if he still lived,’ he muttered, and snapping off the thread, sprinkled it from his fingers where it drifted, flickering with light, into a candle flame and was consumed in a brief, bright flaring.

The morning of the trial dawned knife-cold with a slicing wind from the east. Frost gleamed like crumbled loaf sugar on every rooftop and pinnacle, frilled the edge of the Thames in crackling silver praline and dredged the beached boats like sugared marchpane confections. The air was grainy with minute frozen particles, sharp as crushed ice to breathe.

Adam rose as the first streaks of dawn sparkled on the thick swatches of frost layering the shutters, broke the panel of ice in the bowl set on the coffer, and having sluiced his face, went to first Mass, his heart as heavy as lead within him but his mind composed for the coming ordeal. He heard Mass, he made confession, was absolved, and sat down to break his fast with Sweyn. Austin served them hot wine, bread and cheese, his manner both restless and subdued.

Sweyn rubbed one huge, calloused palm over his beard, loudly vibrated his larynx, and spat into the rushes. ‘Watch his footwork,’ he growled. ‘It was always his weakest point. If you can fault him there, then you have a chance. Do not, whatever you do, lock horns with him bull to bull because he will kill you.’

‘I do have eyes in my head!’ Adam snapped. He broke a hunk of bread from the loaf, took a bite, and without tasting it, washed it well down with a gulp of the wine.

‘What about brains?’ Sweyn enquired, unimpressed. ‘If you’re not prepared to listen to some sound advice, then you’re a fool.’

Adam inhaled to retort, saw the fear lurking behind the drawn-down bushy brows and half-lowered lids, and was silenced. ‘I am listening,’ he said instead. ‘I just become edgy before a battle. You should know that by now.’

Sweyn’s expression softened for a moment. ‘Aye well,’ he muttered, ‘that’s as may be, but you’ll need to be on an even keel before you step into that arena.’

‘Have you ever known me not so when it has mattered?’

‘No, but it has never touched you so closely before.’ Sweyn braced his hands upon the board and shoved to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a workout to warm up when you’ve done eating — I’m going for a piss.’

Adam watched him to the door, then lowered his gaze to the bread between his hands. He did not really want it, but knew he had to eat something. It might be unwise to go into a fight with a loaded stomach, but if the ordeal were to last any length of time, then an unsustained sword arm was liable to fail. He forced another piece down, took a gulp of wine, and became aware of the intent scrutiny of his squire.

‘Austin, stop looking at me as though I were already corpsed in my coffin and go and fetch my sword,’ he snapped.

The youth rubbed his wrist across the dark down on his upper lip. ‘They are laying bets in the alehouse down the road that you won’t last more than ten minutes against Warrin de Mortimer,’ he said, his young voice torn between indignation and doubt.

‘Are they?’ Adam arched one eyebrow. ‘Because I am guilty of slander, or because my sword arm’s supposedly weaker than his?’

‘Both, my lord.’

Adam shoved the empty cup aside and swept his hand impatiently across the debris of bread on the trestle. ‘Did you make a wager?’

The squire reddened. ‘Yes, my lord. They all laughed at me, but they were willing to take my coin.’ His eyes brightened with contempt. ‘Their loss. They haven’t seen you fight.’

Adam snorted. ‘God knows what your father will think. He entrusted your training to me, and thus far I’ve set you a fine example, haven’t I? Drink, women and gambling.’

Austin’s blush receded. He gave Adam one of his incorrigible looks. ‘It was Papa who gave me the money for the bet and told me to put some on for him too while I was about it.’

‘That’s very encouraging,’ Adam said with a pained smile, adding, ‘Austin, I don’t want you standing round catching your death of cold while I do battle. God knows, one fatality is enough today. Get my sword, lad, then I want you to go to your father’s house and await my summons.’

Austin’s throat rippled. ‘My lord, I want to be there,’ he said resolutely. ‘It is my place as your squire.’

‘It won’t be pleasant, whatever the outcome,’ Adam warned, watching him with thoughtful eyes, assessing the youth’s degree of control and maturity. ‘If I am killed, I expect all members of my household to behave with dignity. If you think your grief or rage are going to goad you into some act of folly, then I cannot permit you to come.’

‘I promise to uphold your honour, my lord.’ Austin stood straight, tears glittering in his hazel-green eyes. ‘Please do not send me to my father.’

Adam gave him a curt nod. ‘So be it then.’ He left the trestle and went to pick up and buckle on his swordbelt, giving the youth time to compose himself. Austin wiped his face on his cuff, then went to lift the scabbard from its leaning place against the wall. The gilded leather sheath resting across one palm, the pommel across the other, he suddenly stiffened and stared at the woman standing in the doorway.

‘My lady,’ he muttered, his face burning scarlet.

Adam swung round, his own complexion as dusky as his squire’s before it slowly faded to match the hue of his bleached linen shirt. Without taking his eyes from Heulwen, he held out his hand for the sword and dismissed Austin with a brief gesture. The boy hesitated, then bowed, and with obvious reluctance left the room. Heulwen stood aside to let him pass, then closed the door and, putting down the hood of her cloak, advanced towards Adam. He noticed that the ornate brooch no longer adorned her cloak but had been replaced by the simple braided pin she had formerly worn.

‘You should not be here.’ His voice was level, betraying none of the conflicting emotions that the sight of her aroused in him.

‘I couldn’t skulk behind my father’s closed doors when I knew what you had to face today.’

‘It might have been easier for us both.’ He set his hand to the sword grip and gently eased the weapon from its sheath.

‘But not the best or truest path.’ She looked from his face to the gleaming steel and shuddered. ‘Adam, I have to be present at this trial by combat, for Ralf ’s sake. It is my duty as his widow to be there whatever happens.’

‘Heulwen, if I fail, it will go hard with you. You’ll be branded a whore in full public view.’

She shrugged and forced a smile. ‘I still have my father and Judith and family friends between me and such disaster. I am not afraid on my own count.’ And then her smile slipped to reveal the terror and tension beneath it. ‘Adam, in God’s name, put up that sword until you have need to draw it,’ she whispered.’

Carefully he resheathed the weapon and laid it down on the trestle, then crossed the three paces between them. One of her braids slipped and swung forward to brush against his hand. He touched it, using it as a rope for his fingers to climb until they reached her face. Tenderly he touched the purple and yellow swelling beneath her left eye.

‘Am I then a matter of duty too?’ he challenged softly.

‘Adam, that’s not fair!’

He stroked the other, unmarked side of her face. ‘Am I more to you than a stallion to a mare?’ he persisted.

‘You know you are!’ she said with furious reluctance.

‘Do I?’ Her anger sent a pang through him. He wondered how long it would take to break down the barriers she had built around herself during her marriage to Ralf.

She made an impatient sound, at whom he did not know, and raised her hand to take his away from her face. ‘When I saw you at Ravenstow in the autumn, I wanted you,’ she said, her voice low and intense. ‘Half my mind saw you as the boy I used to know, my foster brother. The other half saw the man you had become, and between the two I did not know which way to turn. I still don’t, and it’s too late for choices now anyway. I’m trapped.’ She turned his hand over so that it lay palm upwards in her own, the skin hard across the fleshy pads beneath each finger from the constant pressure of gripping a sword.

Ralf ’s hands had been fine-boned and swift in motion like the man. Adam’s were those of an artisan — strong and square with spatulate, capable fingers that would have looked utterly ridiculous decorated with rings. A jolt of terror shot through her at the thought of them gripping a sword in the arena. Her breath caught and her grip tightened.

‘I’ve been trapped all my life,’ he said, ‘and it’s not too late. After today, it is only the beginning.’ He turned his hand in hers, linking their fingers, and drew her against him. For an instant she resisted, and then he felt her body flow against his. He bent his mouth to hers, desire beginning to melt reason like a flame burning down the wick of a candle, stripping the wax.

In the doorway, Sweyn loudly cleared his throat. ‘My lord, I’ve fetched the whetstone for your blade and you have yet to warm up for the fight.’ He flicked a granite, impervious look at Heulwen and inclined his shaggy head. Adam sighed and fumbled for his grip on reality. The flame inside him steadied, receding to a glow, but his eyes were intent as they memorised her face upturned to his. And then he took a deep breath, controlling himself, and released her. ‘Pray for me,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘If all goes well, then we’ll rejoice together later. If not,’ he shrugged, ‘at least we have had this opportunity to say our farewells. I’m glad you came.’

Heulwen swallowed, unable to speak for the tears crowding her throat. It was almost like being widowed again; worse, in some ways. Ralf ’s death had struck her like a bolt of summer lightning. This time she had the long, slow roll of thunder to warn her beforehand. And if by God’s mercy Adam lived, then Warrin would die, and even if he was guilty, she could feel no satisfaction, only utter weariness.

‘God keep you safe,’ she managed to whisper at last, and drawing up the hood of her cloak, hurried from the room before she broke down before him.

Hugh de Mortimer watched his only son duck beneath the arena rope in the tower’s ward, and clenched his war-scarred knuckles into fists.

‘He is innocent,’ he said in a harsh, metallic voice.

Guyon stamped his feet to keep them warm and regarded the arena and the two young men now within it. Adam was moving restlessly, trying to keep his muscles from stiffening up in the cold. ‘I am afraid my foster son does not share your belief, and although it pains me to say so, Hugh, neither do I.’ He looked along his shoulder at the older man standing beside him on the raised platform.

‘You would take the word of a Welsh barbarian and a traitor’s hell-begotten spawn above that of my own son?’

Guyon’s jaw tightened. An acerbic retort burned on his tongue but he said nothing. What was the point in blistering an open wound? ‘I don’t wish to quarrel with you, Hugh,’ he said evenly. ‘This goes hard with us both.’

‘If wishes were horses then beggars would ride and whores be restored their virginity!’ his companion grated. ‘Do you know how much store Warrin set by your wanton daughter?’

‘I know how much store he set by his own vanity,’ Guyon was driven to retort in Heulwen’s defence. ‘My daughter is not a wanton. Choose very carefully what you say to me.’

‘Choose carefully? Blood of Christ, when I think what. ’

‘Peace, my lords,’ said the King, stepping smoothly between them. ‘It is grievous enough that these young men should be fighting at all, without the unseemliness of two of my senior barons turning the occasion into an open brawl.’

Guyon swallowed his anger and bowed to Henry. ‘It was not my desire to cause insult or unseemliness,’ he said, and held out his open palm to Hugh de Mortimer. The latter ignored it, but inclined himself stiffly to the King.

‘A pity that you did not pursue such sentiments in the ordering of your own household, my lord,’ said the cool silken voice of the Empress Matilda who was now standing beside her father. She was wearing a woollen gown the precise colour of fresh blood, topped by a sable-lined cloak.

Guyon regarded his wife’s half-sister with a blank expression and disfavour that did not show on his face. ‘I hazard we all have skeletons rattling to escape from the places where we have walled them up,’ he said, his eyes seeking among the gathered nobility and resting for a pointed, benevolent moment upon Alain Fergant’s bastard son Brien.

The Empress’s face did not betray by so much as a flicker that she had understood what he meant, but he saw the twitch of her fingers within the fashionably long sleeves of her gown, and knew without any satisfaction that his barb had hit the mark. Brien FitzCount was a handsome and intelligent young man with a forceful personality and all the finer attributes of a courtier married to the pragmatic approach of a common soldier. He was also the illegitimate son of a popular but only moderately important Breton count, and as such stood not a chance in the darkest pit of hell of becoming Matilda’s approved consort. What went on behind locked doors and closed shutters was another matter, of course. Thou shalt not be caught was the eleventh commandment of the court, and Matilda had been fortunate enough not to violate it…yet.

There was a brief flurry in the crowd that had gathered to witness the fight, followed by a burst of excitement. In the arena, the opponents turned their heads from their hostile regard of each other and watched a group of men-at-arms approach the dais, escorting at their centre Judith of Ravenstow and her by now infamous stepdaughter. The common folk craned to take a better look, murmuring to each other, quoting the various superstitions connected with red-haired women and speculatively admiring the picture she made as she walked the path cleared for her by the Ravenstow serjeants. Her eyes were modestly downcast and her skin so pale that it might have been moulded from ice, her pallor emphasised by her sombre garb, unadorned except for the flash of agate prayer beads glimpsed briefly through the opening of her cloak as she walked.

From somewhere in the crowd the jeer of whore went up, but it was only echoed sporadically, for she did not look like a whore, and among the common people at least, there was sympathy for a pair of lovers. Counter-cries went out, good-humoured, egging Adam on, cheering Heulwen.

‘It’s a circus!’ Hugh de Mortimer ground out. ‘Can you hear them? Thank Christ I didn’t bring my little Elene to Windsor.’

‘Why else do you think they are here?’ Guyon said, a hint of disgust in his own voice. ‘They want to be entertained.’ He shouldered across the dais to his wife and daughter and helped them up the steps.

Hugh de Mortimer, who had smiled upon Heulwen and embraced her as his daughter on the last occasion they had met, now stared at her with loathing, the word harlot in his eyes if not on his tongue.

Feeling as if she had been spat upon, Heulwen curtsied first to Henry and then the Empress. The latter gestured her to rise, subjected her to a thoughtful, thorough scrutiny, then bestowed on her the kiss of peace. ‘Come, Lady Heulwen, sit by me if you will and warm yourself at the brazier. Wine?’ She beckoned to a servant. The gesture was both diplomatic and kind, but the keen glitter of Matilda’s eyes first on Hugh, and then Warrin de Mortimer, dispelled any illusion Heulwen had that the Empress was being pleasant. Matilda was a cat patting a captive mouse between her paws.

Heulwen let herself be guided and sat down beside the Empress, feeling like a player in some monstrous show. She looked down at her bleached knuckles while the charges and counter-charges were read out and refuted, then raised her head to risk a glance at Adam as he made his denial and accusation. He was bareheaded, his hair curling and dark with hoar droplets, and like Warrin he wore no mail, only a padded tunic that ended wide-sleeved below the elbows and beneath it his ordinary robe. He had a shield, his sword and his skill, and Warrin possessed the same. Two living men had entered that arena; only one would emerge.

Adam glanced once and briefly at her, and half raised his sword in salute; the edge shivered with blue light that cut her to the heart. Behind her, her father set his hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. ‘Courage fy merch fach,’ he murmured in Welsh, the language of her birth and first few years. She swallowed and put her own hand up to grasp his, as Henry nodded at the steward beside him, and the man inflated his lungs.

‘Au nom de Dieu et le Roi, fait votre bataille. Laisser-aller! ’

Adam crouched behind the shield and felt the ground delicately. Each blade of grass was a knobbled white spear, slippery with potential death. Warrin sidled, sword and shield extended like pincers. On his cheek, the scabbed-over deep scratch was a remnant and reminder of the brawl in the bedchamber.

He attacked. Adam parried the blow with a swift, economical move and twisted out of range. Someone jeered, but he was oblivious, his whole being taken up in the concentration of battle. This was no tilt yard session where their tutor would separate them before damage was done, no courtesy match where the victor would accept the yielding of the vanquished with good humour. This was kill or be killed, simple and conclusive.

Warrin had a negligible advantage of height, although Adam had the leg length whereas Warrin’s was in the body. Warrin was more powerfully developed, but not quite so fast, and both men were skilled fighters.

Warrin came on again and Adam parried. The blade bit his shield and rebounded with a dull, metallic thud. Adam struck his first blow and Warrin’s shield was immediately there to catch it. The shock rippled along Adam’s arm, jarring it to the shoulder socket. Warrin pushed and Adam leaped backwards, half turned and, shield presented, swiped backhanded and low at Warrin’s unguarded right knee. Warrin jumped and skidded on the frozen grass. The crowd roared and surged and were forced back by the Marshal’s men. Adam followed through, but Warrin took the blow on his shield and behind its protection regained his balance and attacked, driving Adam back towards the stakes in a savage flurry of hacking blows.

The men fought each other forwards and back across the arena. Their swords crashed and thudded on the shields, biting gouges in the wood. Occasionally the grating sound of steel upon steel rang out as they parried blade to blade. They began to breathe harshly and hard. First blood went to Warrin, and second too, both of them minor cuts but signs that Adam was losing the edge of his speed.

Heulwen half turned her head, her soul shrinking, her body constrained to remain and witness. Beside her, Matilda was tense, her blue eyes gleaming. She resembled some ancient goddess presiding over a rite of sacrifice and appeared to be enjoying every moment.

‘Ah,’ she breathed softly and leaned forward a little. ‘He has him now, I think.’

Heulwen swallowed and willed herself to look at what her incautious tongue and body had wrought. There was another wound bloodying Adam’s gambeson, more serious she judged from the way he was holding himself, scarcely managing to parry the blows raining down on him, and the more enfeebled his defence, the more vigorous and confident grew Warrin’s attack. His left arm dropped another degree, and without awareness, Heulwen cried out.

‘God’s death Adam, be careful,’ Guyon muttered, his hand tightening on Heulwen’s shoulder.

Warrin’s sword flashed and bit down again. Adam gave ground, staggered, and slipped to one knee, his shield splaying wide in an invitation that the other man could not resist. The crowd roared.

Guyon’s grip became a vice on his daughter’s shoulder as she made to jerk to her feet. ‘Be still,’ he commanded against her ear, ‘can’t you see he did that apurpose?’

Warrin drew back his arm for the death blow, and in that split second Adam launched himself in a move so fast that Warrin had not time to recover and guard. His surprised grunt became a shriek of agony as Adam’s sword took him across the ribs and abdomen and brought him down.

Gasping, bleeding, his stance as unsteady as his swirling vision, Adam laid the point of his blade at Warrin’s throat, knowing that all he had to do was lean on it to cleanse away in blood the years of abuse he had suffered as a squire, the resentment, the insult to Heulwen. For Ralf ’s murder, or for himself? He squinted at the dais and through a blur saw Hugh de Mortimer gesticulating in agitation at the battleground and speaking rapidly to Henry. The King was listening, his expression impassive.

Adam forced himself beyond fatigue and pain to think with the speed of necessity. He had Warrin de Mortimer at his mercy, a single, short sword-thrust from death. Already his case was proven. To kill Warrin as he deserved was to gratify himself and end one small feud at the expense of beginning a far greater one that Heulwen’s father could not afford.

Henry’s eyes were inscrutable as slate while Hugh de Mortimer pleaded for his son’s life, but his right hand started to move as if to make a command. Adam did not wait, for whatever it was would have to be obeyed. He stepped quickly away from his fallen opponent and moved unsteadily to the stand.

‘My claim is proven,’ he panted. ‘Let him live with his dishonour.’ He sheathed his sword.

Henry gave Adam a calculating look before dipping his head the briefest fraction and turning to the man beside him. ‘My lord, your son has seven days’ grace to quit my lands. After that his life is forfeit.’ He looked at Adam again and said in a tone as frosty as the weather, ‘Adam de Lacey, your cause is upheld; God has found in your favour. You have leave to depart and seek attention for your wounds.’

Adam opened his mouth to give the formal, customary reply, but his tongue refused to serve him as his vision darkened, and his last awareness was of Heulwen’s cry of consternation, and the ground rushing up to strike him.