The Running Vixen

Chapter 5

France, Late Autumn 1126

William le Clito, claimant to the Duchy of Normandy and the English crown, both currently held most firmly by his uncle Henry, shoved the girl impatiently off his lap and scowled across the room at the immaculately dressed man sitting on the hearth bench drinking wine. ‘You said it would be simple,’ he complained, and pitched his voice in singsong mimicry, ‘An arrow from the rocks above, or a sudden ambush in the forest, or even a second White Ship — but there she is, safe at her father’s court in London without so much as a scratch to show for your efforts, and all the barons and bishops preparing to do her homage!’

Warrin de Mortimer stroked his close-cropped beard and regarded the petulant man opposite with an irritation that did not show on his heavy, handsome features. Le Clito — the Prince. Prince of nothing. King Henry had robbed le Clito’s father of England, Normandy and his freedom in that order; but stung by conscience and the protests of his nobility, had left his son at liberty. The boy, now grown to manhood, had a genuine claim to the English crown. His father was the King’s older brother and William the Conqueror’s eldest son. King Henry was the youngest son of the Conqueror, and the Empress Matilda his only surviving legitimate child. ‘Yes,’ he said to the glowering young would-be king. ‘And it would have been simple if she hadn’t had so vigilant an escort and you had provided me with more than fools. We made several attempts, but de Lacey was ready for each one.’

‘He knew?’

Warrin gave an irritable shrug. ‘For the most part I would say he was too experienced in that sort of warfare to be caught out. You don’t grow up with men like Miles le Gallois and Guyon of Ravenstow for tutors and emerge a simpleton in the art of skirmish. The Empress’s escort did take wounds, but none of them fatal.’

The girl sat down on a rug before the hearth and, piqued at being ignored, hitched one side of her gown up her leg. Unfastening a garter, she began to roll down one of her hose — slowly and provocatively. Le Clito’s focus faltered and swivelled to his mistress. She curved a triumphant smile at de Mortimer.

‘So much for all the silver paid out to get the information, ’ le Clito said angrily. ‘We might as well have saved ourselves the time and expense.’

King Louis’s time and expense, Warrin thought cynically. William le Clito had no serious funds of his own, but relied on Henry’s enemies to provide them for him so that he could continue to be a thorn in his uncle’s side.

‘I intend recouping some of it before next Candlemas,’ Warrin said with a smile, as he contemplated le Clito’s mistress. Her hair was as brown and glossy as a palfrey’s hide, her face dainty, with clear grey eyes. A tasty morsel, but not the remotest challenge to the feast awaiting him at home.

Le Clito raised his brows. ‘How?’

‘I’m taking the next galley to England and once there, I’m marrying our informant’s widow.’

Le Clito started to laugh, realised that his companion was not jesting, and leaned forward, his mouth hanging open. ‘You’re what?’ The girl extended her toes and wiggled them at the fire.

‘That way I can legally lay my hands on the silver and whatever else is bestowed in his strongboxes. I’ll get a castle, three manors and a blood bond with Guyon of Ravenstow whose daughter the widow happens to be — and a very fetching widow at that.’

Le Clito stared at him. ‘You sly bastard!’ he chuckled.

‘God helps those who help themselves, sire.’

‘And is the lady in question agreeable?’ Le Clito picked up his wine and grinned at him over the rim of the goblet, beckoning the girl from her sulky pose on the rug.

‘I don’t foresee any difficulties.’ Warrin rose, extending his tall, powerful frame in a luxurious stretch. ‘I’ve trodden very softly around her these last few months and spoken her father fair. My own father’s a personal friend of his and anxious for the match, so there’s been some persuasion from that side too. All there is left to do is obtain your uncle Henry’s permission, as le Chevalier’s lands are in his gift. I have no reason to think he will refuse me.’

The girl snuggled herself down beside le Clito and rubbed her hand over the V-shape of dark chest hair exposed by his loosened shirt laces. ‘All well and good for you,’ le Clito grumbled. ‘A fat purse and a warm bed, but what of the future? I’m the heir in direct male tail to my grandsire the Conqueror, the eldest son of the eldest son. Are you going to abandon me and bow to my uncle’s will? Are you going to accept that high-handed bitch to rule you — and whatever cur he drags from the gutter to be her husband?’

Warrin grimaced. ‘My father will give his fealty for our lands, not I. You know I’d rather sit in the stink of air from the devil’s fart than put my hands between hers in homage. I’ll be at Windsor for the swearing because I’ve got to be. I’ll let you know what happens and find out who we can depend upon to renege at the first opportunity. I had to get rid of le Chevalier, he was playing both sides of the coin, but I’ve still got some contacts at court.’

The girl’s expert hand wandered lower and le Clito shifted on the settle to accommodate her ministrations.

‘You ought to get married again,’ Warrin advised as he lifted the curtain to leave. ‘No good begetting bastards. Ask your uncle. He’s got twenty-two of them, and not one of them can inherit his crown.’