The Running Vixen

Chapter 19

Anjou, Spring 1127

The cockerel was a jewelled image cast in living bronze, and looked as though he had just stepped down from a weather vane to strut in the dust. Alert topaz eyes swivelled to study his surroundings. His coral comb and wattles jiggled proudly on head and throat as he paraded the circle, his tail a light-catching cascade of green-tipped gold, legs cobbled in bronze and armed with deadly spurs. Here in the city of Angers he was without rival, for all his rivals were dead.

He stretched his throat, raising a ruff of bright feathers, and crowed. Bets were laid. His owner rose from a lithe crouch, and with his hands on his exquisite gilded belt, he looked round impatiently.

‘He’s late,’ grumbled Geoffrey Plantagenet, heir to the Duchy of Anjou. He was almost as fine to look upon as his fighting cock, being tall with ruddy golden curls and brilliant frost-grey eyes. Thread-of-gold crusted the throat and cuffs of his tunic, and the dagger at his narrow hips blazed with gems; like his bird’s spurs it was honed to a wicked edge.

‘Have you ever known William le Clito not to be late?’ snorted Robert de Blou, watching the bird which had originally been his gift to the youth at his side. ‘He’d miss his own funeral, that one.’

Geoffrey flashed a white grin, but his fingers tapped irritably against his belt. ‘He will need to shape better than this if he wants my father’s continued support against the English King.’

‘My lord, he’s here now!’ cried another baron, pointing towards the river. Geoffrey turned his head and with a cool gaze watched the approach of William le Clito and his small entourage of mongrels — Norman malcontents, Flemings and Frenchmen, and the tall yellow-haired English knight who had been banished from his own country for the murder of a fellow baron.

‘You are late,’ he addressed the would-be Duke of Normandy who had recently married the French king’s sister. Geoffrey passed an indifferent look over the women they had brought with them. Not obviously strumpets by their appearance, but strumpets nevertheless. Le Clito might be a new husband but it was no reason for continence when a diplomatic visit to Anjou offered the chance of easy sin.

Le Clito gave Geoffrey a smile of blinding charm which, because he used it so often, had lost most of its impact. ‘My apologies. Our barge was held up. I’m not that late, am I?’ He touched the younger man’s shoulder with familiarity. Geoffrey stepped aside, nostrils flaring with controlled choler and regarded the bird that Warrin de Mortimer was holding under his arm — a handsome black, the feathers emerald-shot in the spring sunlight.

‘You wager that sorry object can beat my Topaze?’ he scoffed.

‘Name your price and we shall soon see,’ le Clito answered jauntily. ‘Warrin, put him down.’

Someone scooped up Geoffrey’s bird so that men could look at the form and condition of the black and make their wagers. The cockerel shook its ruffled feathers and preened, and stretched on elegant tiptoe to crow defiance.

Warrin de Mortimer leaned against the wall and rubbed his side where the thick, pink ridge of scar tissue was irritating him. He looked at the black and knew full well that Geoffrey’s bird would win because Geoffrey of Anjou always won. He had never had to beg at other men’s tables for his meat. His fingers paused directly over the scar: his own fault. He had underestimated de Lacey’s speed, forgotten to allow for the years of experience that followed squirehood. For that particular error of judgement he was now an outcast in the land where he had been his father’s heir, reduced to the status of plain household knight in the pay of a man whose own luck was about as reliable as a whore’s promise.

‘Are you not wagering, chéri?’ A woman linked her arm through his and admired him with melting brown eyes. ‘I say Lord William’s bird will win — he’s bigger.’

Which showed how much Héloïse knew about cock-fighting, or indeed about anything. All her brains were between her legs — which had not seemed such a bad thing last night. A pity she had to open her mouth as well as her thighs.

‘No,’ he said with a sullen half-shrug. ‘I’m not wagering.’ These days money was too important to fritter away on the fickle prowess of a fighting cock. His father haphazardly sent him funds and assurances that he would have him pardoned and reinstated in England by the time of the next Christmas feast, but neither money nor promises were reliable.

The girl pouted and turned away. He wondered if she was worth it and decided she wasn’t — no woman was — and it was at that point that he looked up and across the thoroughfare spotted Heulwen.

The cocks struck together in a rattling flurry of bronze and black feathers. Beaks stabbed, spurs flashed. They danced breast to breast in midair and the men danced too, yelling, exhorting; and over their heads, ignoring their noise, ignoring the birds, Warrin de Mortimer stared and stared, not believing his eyes, not wanting to believe his eyes. His heart began to pound. His breath grew shaky and the hot scar pulsed against his ribs.

The birds parted, beaks agape, wings adrift in the dust, circling each other and clashing together again. Dark blood dripped into the ground. Warrin left his leman, and ignoring her querulous enquiry skirted the circle of raucous, intent spectators to step out into the open street.

Adam glanced across briefly to the cockfight, drawn by the bellows of the crowd rather than by any real interest in the sport. Nobility, he realised, for the sun flashed off jewelled tunics, belts and weapon hilts.

‘Miles — my brother I mean, not Grandpa, used to own a fighting cock,’ Heulwen reminisced. ‘Mama never liked the sport. She used to scold him deaf the times he was home, but all the young men at court had them and he did not want to be any different.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘Poor Chanticleer. He didn’t even come to a glorious end. Run over by a wain in the ward while chasing one of his wives, and his corpse consigned to the pot.’

Adam chuckled and hastily drew rein to allow a cart to lumber past. It was laden with barrels of wine, the oxen drawing it sleek and well muscled. Dust rose and puffed beneath their shod cloven hooves, and Heulwen covered her face with her veil and coughed.

Southampton, Caen, Falaise, Mortain, Roche au Moins. Most of the time she had enjoyed the different scenery and customs. The land through which they had passed was gentle and pastoral, much flatter than her own Welsh hills, and dominated by its rivers, the Mayenne, the Maine, the green Indre and the majestic Loire itself. There were vineyards in abundance and great swathes of yellow broom, providing shelter for small game. There were fig trees, prickly sweet-chestnuts and elegant cedars silhouetted against a washed-blue sky, and the people spoke a purer, stronger French than the kind spoken in her native marches. Now, at the end of their journey, she was sweat-stained, gritty and so saddle sore that once down from her mare she thought she would never want to ride again.

‘Not far now,’ Adam said, as if reading her mind. ‘Just over the bridge, isn’t it, Thierry?’ They had sent half their escort on ahead to purchase and prepare them lodgings, and Thierry, one of the advance party, had been waiting for them this morning at the city gates to show them the way.

‘Yes, my lord.’

Heulwen looked at the bustling wood and stone structure spanning the Maine. Beyond it and above, Count Fulke’s keep thrust at the sky, banners fluttering on the battlements. ‘I hope Austin has been busy,’ she said, the thought of a feather mattress devoid of vermin pushing all other lesser considerations to one side.

Adam tilted her a smile. ‘I will say this for you,’ he teased ‘you’re a better travelling companion than the last woman I had the misfortune to escort any distance.’

‘I’ll warrant she was not so sympathetic to your needs,’ she said and saucily poked her tongue between her teeth.

His look narrowed and smouldered. ‘Not by half,’ he said softly.

With heightened colour, she laughed at him, and heeled Gemini forward.

The lodging Thierry had rented belonged to a merchant absent on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and although small — Adam nearly brained himself on the door lintel when first entering — there was adequate stabling for the horses and a well-tended orchard garden going down to the river’s edge, where it ended in a private wharf complete with rowing boat. The house had the added benefit of being close to the castle.

Indeed, later, looking out of the unshuttered upstairs window into the street below as she combed the tangles from her damp hair, Heulwen saw a party of horsemen returning along their thoroughfare to the keep. Laughing young men with a few older nobles sprinkled among them, a seasoning of armed guards sweltering in quilted gambesons and half-hauberks, one of them clutching a tattered but victorious bronze cockerel. For added spice there were gaily clad women of the highest rank of the oldest profession.

‘Adam, come here,’ she called.

‘What is it?’ Minus his tunic, shirt laces dangling loose, Adam braced his arm on the window frame and leaned behind her. Suddenly his tension was as palpable as the spring sunshine pouring in on them. ‘William le Clito,’ he muttered, his surprise tinged with more than a hint of displeasure.

‘Who, the one with the red-gold hair?’

‘No, he’s far too young. The dark one on the roan. I’ll hazard just by looking at his clothes that the other one is Geoffrey of Anjou himself.’

Heulwen craned forward.

‘What’s William le Clito doing in Angers?’ Adam said with a frown. His question was purely rhetorical and the answer already known: he must be seeking Count Fulke’s support so that he could stir up unrest in Normandy. A pity for him that Adam came not seeking, but offering a prize beyond refusal. He touched Heulwen’s shoulder. ‘Come away from the shutters, love,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll have their eyes popping out and rolling until they reach the river…and besides, I don’t want half the court boasting to have seen the wife of King Henry’s messenger in her undergarments.’

‘Too late for that,’ she laughed, although she was aware of the warning beneath his light remark and withdrew from the window, latching the shutters. It was one thing to behave as she pleased at home, quite another when she and Adam were out to make a good impression upon the Count of Anjou.

The last man in the cavalcade rode past. Attached to his cantle by a leading rein was a fine, riderless pied stallion. In the shadow of a doorway across the street, Warrin de Mortimer stood and stared at the dwelling opposite and marked it with burning eyes.

Fulke, the son of Fulke le Rechin, Count of Anjou, was a man of middle height, middle build, and middle years. He was robust and florid with hair that would once have rivalled Heulwen’s for colour, but had faded with the years to a softer, ginger hue, thinning at the crown. Set above a bulbous wide-pored nose, his eyes were a bright steel-silver and they missed nothing.

Adam kept his responses modest as he presented Fulke with Henry’s gifts of an English embroidery and a goblet set with sapphires and crystals. For Geoffrey there was a copy of Bede with illustrations in gold leaf and a cover of ivory panels. The young man accepted it graciously and smiled, but not as broadly as Fulke, and his own eyes, bright mirrors of his father’s, were not only vigilant but cold.

Both father and son took an interest in Heulwen and Fulke insisted she join them at the dais table. ‘It is not often that we are graced by company so fair,’ Fulke said.

William le Clito was a guest at the table too, making his apologies as he arrived late, and hastily taking his place near the Count and his son.

‘Heulwen. ’ he said when introduced. ‘What does it mean?’

She gave him a quick smile. ‘It is Welsh for sunshine, my lord. I take it from my great-grandmother Heulwen uerch Owain. She was a princess of her people.’

‘I see you have pride,’ said le Clito, a bitter twist to his mouth, ‘I can understand that.’ The twist became malicious. ‘It is an unusual name; surely you must be the same Heulwen to whom one of my knights, Warrin de Mortimer, was betrothed?’

Heulwen felt heat seeping into her cheeks. ‘No, sire.’ She pitched her voice low for control. ‘I was never betrothed to him. He was accused of conspiracy and murder and found guilty…as surely you must know.’

‘Warrin de Mortimer?’ Fulke of Anjou frowned in question.

‘You know,’ Geoffrey said. ‘The big yellow-haired one who wears more rings than he has fingers. Down there look, on your right, just sitting down.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Fulke stroked his beard.

Heulwen’s heart began to pound. Her vision blurred, but not enough to blot out the sight of the man taking his place at one of the lower trestles where le Clito’s men were settling to eat, nor the fact that he was watching her with steady, hostile eyes. Blue was not a hot colour, but his gaze was scorching a hole right through to her spine. Warrin here in Angers. Please God no, it could not be true!

William le Clito said, ‘I took him in when he was banished from my uncle’s domains. I understand, my lady, that Warrin and your husband fought a trial by combat last Christmas feast over a somewhat cloudy issue?’ He gave her a mocking look. ‘I do not suppose the more lurid details carry any tinge of truth?’

‘It would be ill-bred of me to respond, my lord,’ she replied stiffly.

‘I like a woman with spirit,’ Geoffrey said with appreciation.

She wondered if he would be so amused once he was married to the Empress. Ignoring him and le Clito, she looked beseechingly at the Count. ‘Sire, I would rather not speak of this matter.’ She did not need to feign the catch in her voice, but she dropped her head and dabbed at her eyes with the trailing sleeve of her gown.

‘Come now, my lady, do not distress yourself.’ Awkwardly Fulke patted her hand and gave le Clito a warning look. ‘Lord William meant no harm; he did but tease you a little too far. He will apologise if he has offended.’

William le Clito did so, his words about as sincere as a holy relic bought at a fair, and Heulwen accepted it with comparable sincerity and forced herself to eat a morsel of the delicious herb-roasted venison. It was almost impossible to swallow, knowing that Warrin was watching her.

She looked along the board at Adam. He was eating as if there were nothing wrong, but she noticed that he had recourse several times to his cup to wash his own food down. His attention was no longer on the priest, but centred on Warrin and the brooding, thoughtful expression on his face was one that Heulwen had begun to know very well. Becoming aware of her scrutiny Adam turned, his eyes meeting hers, and his look changed, becoming a wry grimace accompanied by an infinitesimal shake of his head. Heulwen bit her lip. Fulke touched her arm and spoke to her, and she had to turn away to listen to him. It took all her fortitude and skill to smile and respond as if nothing was the matter.

The meal progressed through several courses and entertainments. Tumblers tumbled; a lute-player sang two heroic lays and then one of the love songs composed by Duke William of Aquitaine, its contents blazingly explicit.

Finger bowls were brought round again, the water infused with herbs, and fruit and nuts were served with a sweet wine. Fulke retired from the table and summoned a page to light him to his private apartments, commanding Geoffrey and Adam to attend him. He thanked Heulwen for the pleasure of her company and gave her the kiss of peace in dismissal. Women, like the entertainment, were excellent side-trappings with which to gild a feast. They beguiled away idle time, but that was as far as it went. A messenger’s wife did not share the messenger’s function.

‘I will be all right,’ she said, as Adam took her arm, one eye on the waiting page, the other on le Clito, who had joined a dice game near the hearth. As Fulke’s guests he and his men were sleeping within the castle itself.

‘Are you sure? Christ, I could well do without this particular twist of fate.’ Scowling, Adam sought Warrin de Mortimer and saw him still sitting at the trestle, wine cup beside him, a red puddle slopped around the base, and upon his knee a black-haired woman with sultry eyes. Her arms were around his neck, her fingers in his hair. His hand was on her thigh. She was whispering in his ear, but he was only half listening, all his attention focused on Adam and Heulwen.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Heulwen suppressed a shudder and kissed her husband, shutting out the sight of Warrin’s accusing stare against Adam’s cheek, drawing reassurance from his familiar individual scent.

Adam squeezed her waist and took her across the hall to give her into the care of his bodyguard, saw her on her way, then returned to his duty. Warrin de Mortimer he pointedly ignored, but he was still aware of him in the periphery of his vision, unpinning the neck of the woman’s gown.

The squire poured wine, left the flagon and a plate of small marchpane confections to hand, and bowed out of the room. One of Fulke’s dogs circled several times, then flopped down before the hearth.

Adam gave Fulke the sealed parchment that had been his responsibility for the past several weeks and sat down at the Count’s gesture on a chair that had been made comfortable with cushions.

Fulke broke the seal, opened out the parchment in his stubby hands and started to read. Geoffrey picked up a marchpane comfit and decisively bit it in half. ‘Interesting?’ he asked as he chewed.

Frowning, Fulke shook his head, took the document nearer to the candle and started to read it again. Geoffrey raised one eyebrow, but after a calculating glance ignored his father. He picked up another piece of marchpane and tossed it to the dog. It leaped and snapped and licked its jaws. ‘Do you joust, my lord?’ he asked Adam.

Adam blinked at him, taken by surprise. ‘Occasionally, sire,’ he said cautiously.

‘More than occasionally, I think,’ Geoffrey contradicted. ‘I saw your stallion in the stables earlier, and when I spoke to your squire about him he said you could hit a quintain shield dead centre ten times out of ten.’

Adam looked across at the Count whose lips were moving silently as he read. ‘Austin tends to exaggerate, my lord.’

‘There’s a mêlée organised for tomorrow, le Clito’s party against mine. I’d be honoured if you’d take part…on my side of course.’

It was tantamount to an order, no matter the manner of its phrasing. Behind a neutral mask, Adam considered the young man who was obviously accustomed to having his own way and probably dangerous if he didn’t get it. ‘Sire, the honour is mine,’ he responded gracefully. The English barons were going to love Geoffrey of Anjou, he thought wryly.

Geoffrey smiled. ‘Weapons à plaisance, my lord. No sharpened edges, whatever personal grudges you might harbour.’

Adam inclined his head and took a drink of his wine. ‘No sharpened edges,’ he repeated after a moment when he was sure of his control.

Fulke looked at Adam with cold, shrewd eyes. ‘Do you know what is written here?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘What is it?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘A bribe from King Henry to stop us getting too friendly with his favourite nephew?’

Fulke snorted. ‘You might say that.’ He handed the parchment across, and put both palms up to cover his mouth while he watched his son read.

‘God’s death!’ Geoffrey choked as he reached the relevant part of the document. ‘She’s old enough to be my grandam!’

‘She is also the Dowager Empress of Germany and King Henry’s designated heir,’ Fulke’s voice was sharp with warning, ‘and she is but five-and-twenty.’

Geoffrey’s first high flush of colour had receded to a dirty white. He swallowed and reread the parchment as if willing the words to change before his eyes.

‘A crown and a duchy,’ Fulke said, watching him intently.

Adam quietly drank his wine, observing them from beneath downcast lids. They were like two stags, one in its prime, at the peak of its powers and recognising that the only way was down, and the other young, unsure, but gaining rapidly in strength and experience with the occupied peak as its goal.

‘I don’t want it.’ Geoffrey tossed the parchment down. His throat worked.

‘Think with your head, boy, not your heart. We’ll not better an offer like this, not in a hundred years. Think of the power! The woman’s only a means to an end. God’s blood, once you’ve planted a seed in her belly, you can sport wherever the fancy takes you. Surely a few nights in Matilda’s bed is a cheap enough price to pay!’

Turning away, Geoffrey paced heavily to the narrow window slit and leaned his head against the wall. The dog left the hearth and padded across to nuzzle its moist nose against his thigh. After a short silence the youth rubbed his face and drew a shuddering breath. His back still turned, he said, ‘You told me, Father, that Henry of England was like a spider weaving a web to entrap all men. Why should we be lured into its strands?’

‘Is the answer not obvious?’ Fulke said impatiently. ‘We too are spiders.’ Fulke crossed the room to reach up and squeeze his tall son’s shoulder with a firm, paternal hand. ‘And these matters are better discussed in private.’

Adam drained his cup and stood up, neither slow nor loath to take Fulke’s warning to the boy as reason to depart. ‘With your permission, my lords,’ he said.

Fulke looked round and nodded. ‘Yes, leave us.’

‘Sire.’ Adam picked up the parchment from the rushes, put it carefully back down on the trestle and made a courtly obeisance as he departed.

Jerold and the men of his escort, other than those who had seen Heulwen home, were waiting at the stables for him. A convivial game of dice was in progress and a flask of wine and a giggling kitchen girl were being passed from hand to hand.

Adam secured his cloak and strode across the ward. ‘When you’ve finished, gentlemen,’ he said, his sarcastic tone redeemed by the merest glint of humour.

Thierry’s teeth flashed. He pocketed the dice. ‘I was losing anyway,’ he said disrespectfully and stood up. Wiry and light, he was at least two handspans smaller than his lord. He caught the girl by the arm, murmured something in her ear and slapped her buttocks to send her on her way.

Adam narrowed his eyes at the Angevin and paused, his hands on Vaillantif’s neck, one foot in the stirrup. ‘You’ll lose a week’s pay on top of it if you don’t look sharp,’ he warned.

Thierry tilted his head, unsure whether to take the words as threat or jest, and opted for caution to the extent that he knew it. Saluting smartly he took a running jump at his bay and vaulted effortlessly into the saddle. ‘Ready, my lord,’ he announced, cocky as a sparrow.

Adam’s mouth twitched. ‘Spare such tricks for tomorrow. Young Geoffrey’s got a mêlée organised, and we’re fighting on the Angevin side.’

The news was greeted by cheers all round, for when not actually involved in a war, Adam’s men enjoyed nothing better than practising for it. The mêlée was a dangerous game, sometimes crossing the narrow line between war and mock-war, but the hurly-burly was fun and offered the chance to gain rich prizes, for a man defeated had by the rules to yield the victor his horse, hauberk and weapons, or their value in coin.

Adam listened to their eager banter and felt the excitement stir his own blood. It was his sport: he excelled at it, and the prospect of decent competition was exhilarating, or would have been had not the presence of Warrin de Mortimer buzzed like a huge black fly in the ointment.

Thierry was watching him with a tense, speculative gaze. Adam returned the look sharply and the mercenary quickly wheeled his horse into line and made himself busy with a loose piece of harness.

‘A mêlée!’ Heulwen exclaimed, throwing down her comb on the bed and whirling round to face him, her hair a flaming swirl around her shoulders and waist. ‘Have you run utterly mad?’

Adam spread his hands palms upwards. ‘Warrin is no match for me on horseback,’ he said defensively. ‘On foot at Christmastide it was a little too close for comfort, I admit, but not astride.’

Heulwen laughed in his face. ‘You do not seriously believe that Warrin will play by the rules?’

He sat on the bed and looked at her. ‘Heulwen, understand this, I want to fight in this mêlée.’ He hesitated, searching for words that were difficult to find because it was a feeling that came from the gut, not the mind. ‘It is…oh, I don’t know, bred into me, blood and bone. A sword is still a sword no matter how much you cover it in gilt.’ His palms opened wider as he spoke, displaying to her the calluses of his trade and the thick white scar of an old battle wound bisecting his life line. ‘Even if I didn’t want to take part, it is expected of me. Henry’s honour as much as mine is at stake.’

‘Honour!’ Heulwen choked on the word, fortunately too overwhelmed by fear and rage to say more.

Adam’s eyes narrowed and the light shivered on his tunic as he took a swift breath. ‘Yes, honour,’ he said and lowered his hand to pick up the comb she had thrown down.

‘Warrin doesn’t know the meaning of the word!’

He ran his thumb along the ivory teeth. ‘No. He just digresses from it when it’s a choice between his honour and something he wants. Then he conveniently forgets he ever lapsed.’

She exhaled hard, not in the least mollified. ‘Is that supposed to be reassurance?’

Adam sighed. ‘It was supposed to tell you I’m not entirely naïve.’ He pulled her down on to the bed beside him and gently began to draw the comb through her hair. ‘Would declining to take part guarantee my life? I think not. A swift thrust from a dagger in the crowd could as easily be the manner of dispatch. In a mêlée I will have Sweyn to my left, Jerold to my right, and Thierry and Alun thereabouts; and if it has worked before a dozen times in battle, there is no reason to think it will not work on a tourney field.’

She felt his palm following the course of the comb down her hair, smoothing, coaxing. Men, she thought with contempt. Willing to die for the art of showing off their prowess in the killing arts and calling it honour; fighting cocks strutting in their fine feathers. She could still see the eager gleam in Adam’s eyes when he had first come to her, could hear the laughter of his men.

Adam set his palm to her jaw and turned her face to him. She looked down but he exerted pressure so that she had to meet his gaze. ‘Look, sweetheart, I will avoid him if I can, that much I swear to you. Not because I don’t want to separate his head from his neck, there’s nothing I’d like more, but I cannot allow personal enmity to stand between myself and what I am here to do for Henry.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘It will be all right, I promise you.’

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. ‘You stubborn, pig-headed. ’

‘Tail-chaser?’ he suggested with a raised brow, and bent his mouth to hers.

‘In God’s name Adam, do not chase it too far!’ she whispered against his mouth. ‘I will die if I lose you.’