The Leopard Unleashed tor-3

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  ‘Nell, give me the knife,’ he said softly, and held out a cautious hand as if to a wild animal.

  She blinked at the sound of his voice and looked at the marks of his sword grip still imprinted upon his palm and fingers that by their tapering length should have belonged to a minstrel not a warrior, but she was learning to live with inconstancy. His hand touched her icy one with the contact of blood heat. Carefully he sought for the dagger hilt and removed it from her unresisting grasp. ‘It’s over now,’ he said and drew her against him.

  She was trembling so violently that he thought her bones would tear through her flesh. ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘Hush, it’s all right.’ As he reassured her, he glanced at William, who was directing their rapid preparations to leave. They had time, but none to delay.

  Hamo was hauled on to a packhorse. A groan jerked from him as his breechless buttocks struck a horsehair saddlecloth. Elene gasped and turned her eyes from the sight of his nakedness. ‘He was going to rape me and then claim me as a marriage prize from Earl Ranulf.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I thought … I thought that it was really going to happen!’ Her grip tightened

  ‘You’re safe,’ he said. ‘No one will hurt you.’ He held and soothed her for as long as he dared, and when he could wait no longer, cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look at him. ‘Nell, we have to leave. We’re in Earl Ranulf ’s territory and if we meet another of his patrols it will be the end of us; we haven’t enough men. Come, ride pillion with me … Yes? Good girl.’ He gave her a quick hug of encouragement and kissed her clammy forehead.

  ‘Don’t leave me again!’ she cried, and clutched his arm as he turned away.

  ‘Gorvenal’s tethered across the clearing. I’m only going to fetch him.’

  ‘Please, please …’ She was beyond coherence, only knew he was walking away. Renard swung her up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way to his stallion. She wrapped her arms around his neck and half throttled him. He had to prise her off before he could mount up and when he lifted her into the saddle, she locked herself to him again as if he were the only rock amidst miles of quicksand. Renard wondered bleakly if she knew that the rock was made of quicksand too.

  Chapter 11

  Elene fed a strand of wool from her distaff to her spindle, twirled and let it drop, and repeated the move with an expert sleight of hand that required very little mental concentration. The motion, however, was familiar and soothing, occupying her hands and anchoring her to stability while she sat her turn of vigil at Henry’s bedside. He slept uneasily, dosed with willow bark and poppy syrup. His wound was packed with clean linen bandages smeared with honey to try and prevent the gash from festering. Judith said that it had been very difficult to dig the arrow head free. ‘Like butchering an ox in the kitchens,’ she had said in her usual forthright way, and then burst into tears. ‘I hate this time of year.’

  It had seemed a strange non sequitur, until Elene remembered that Judith had lost her first son Miles in November when the White Ship went down. King Henry had died in that month too and the door had blown open to wolves such as Ranulf de Gernons.

  It was too soon to know if Henry would live or die, and, if the former, how much use he would have of his right arm. Not a great deal, she suspected, by the look of the terrible wound she had helped to dress yesterday. Everything was too badly lacerated. Everything …

  She continued to feed wool from the distaff to the spindle. The first night and day of her arrival at Ravenstow were a merciful blur, and the events leading up to that arrival little more than shadowy images in her mind. The nightmare figures smirched with blood, the sound of her own weeping; Renard’s arms in comfort around her and the look in his eyes.

  A hot bathtub, salve for her bruises and one of Judith’s sleeping draughts had dealt with the physical trauma of her ordeal, and despite her earlier hysterics, Elene’s nature was resilient. There were others in far worse case, she told herself, and the ending could have been so different. If Renard and William had not been so swift and decisive in their pursuit, she might be lying in a marriage bed of an entirely different making than the one to be hers in two days’ time.

  As it was, those of Hamo’s men who had survived the initial fight had been hanged on the town gibbet. All of Ravenstow had turned out to witness the event. Guyon had arranged it for market day so that as many people as possible could witness and cheer. Hamo had not been among the half-dozen men entertaining the crowd with their death throes. While being granted a brief spell of daylight in the ward, he had escaped while his guard was distracted by the sight of a woman washing her legs in a trough. Having seized a horse tethered in the yard, he had ridden hell for leather out of the gates. By the time pursuit was organised, it had been too late. Hamo had escaped both net and noose.

  In disgust, Renard had ridden up to Caermoel to survey the keep with an eye to strengthening it against Chester’s greedy eye. That had been four days ago and there had been no messenger as yet. The wedding guests had begun to arrive and there were only two days left.

  The curtain parted and a face peered though. Somehow she managed a smile for John, Renard’s older brother and a priest in the Earl of Leicester’s household and now home at Ravenstow to officiate at their wedding. Leicester was here too, bearing blandishments and good wishes from the King to his somewhat reluctant vassals at Ravenstow and inviting them to court for the Christmas gathering of the faithful.

  ‘How is he?’ John approached the bed.

  ‘Sleeping.’ Elene stated the obvious because there was not a great deal else to say. ‘At least the wound fever hasn’t set in, but it’s still very early.’

  ‘It’s a pity he wasn’t born with my eyes,’ John murmured in a subdued tone.

  Elene looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’ John’s eyes were his most arresting feature — a melting, deep brown, set beneath black, strongly marked brows. They were also so myopic that he was liable not to see objects in his way until it was too late to avoid them. It was a family joke that John had more scars on his shins and ankles from tripping over things than the rest of them had from all their battles put together.

  ‘He’d have been the priest then. You don’t go to war if you can’t see. Henry would have made a good priest too, he’s so good-natured and innocent — more innocent than I’ll ever be.’

  ‘He may yet take his vows,’ she said grimly and rose to stand beside him. ‘I doubt he’ll have much use in that right shoulder even if he does make a good recovery otherwise.’ Leaning, she smoothed the coverlet with an almost maternal hand. ‘Did you come here to see Henry, or was it me you wanted?’

  ‘A little of both, really. I wanted to make sure you are familiar with all parts of the wedding ceremony. It’s all been rather rushed, and now this.’ He gestured at Henry. ‘If there’s anything that worries you, you only have to speak.’

  He was looking at her with compassion. She raised her chin and returned his gaze with steadiness. ‘I know my part,’ she said stoutly. ‘All you need do is pull the strings and I’ll sit, kneel, stand, say what has to be said and do what has to be done.’

  He looked troubled. ‘Listen Nell …

  ’ ‘Why don’t you go and talk to Renard when he returns from his latest jaunt?’ she said tersely. ‘I’m sure he’s in more need of advice about the ceremony than I am.’

  John grimaced. ‘It would be more than my life is worth. From what I hear, Renard’s about as amiable just now as a barrel of hot pitch. I thought I might get more sense out of you, and you are the one who will be in the best pos — ition to keep him from exploding all over the rest of us.’

  Elene stared at him in astonishment. ‘Me? He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even want to know me! He thinks I’m witless, a clinging, drizzling ninny.’

  ‘Oh Nell, that’s foolish talk!’ John laughed.

  ‘It’s not,’ she said grimly. ‘I behaved like one. Renard was very patient with me, but I knew what he was thinking.’

  ‘Then t
hat augurs well, because none of us ever do.’

  ‘None of us ever do what?’ Renard asked, walking through the archway into the room and dumping his helm and gauntlets on the coffer. His eyes were alight, dangerous glints of quartz in their darkness.

  ‘Ever know what you are thinking,’ John answered amiably and gave Elene a reassuring smile. ‘And by the way you’re scowling at a priest, a virgin and a sick man, I don’t believe I really want to. Is it confessable?’

  Renard glared at him, but then, amid a three days’ dark stubble of beard, his lips started to curve. ‘Oh, it’s confes — sable all right,’ he said, ‘but not in the present company. How’s Henry?’

  Elene spread her hands. ‘No better, no worse, my lord.’

  ‘No wound fever then?’ He stooped over the sickbed. ‘He’s hot.’

  ‘A little, but nothing serious. I’ll have a tub prepared for you.’

  He looked round at her and stood up. ‘Do I smell that bad?’

  She blushed. ‘No, my lord. I only thought that with the Earl of Leicester present and the other wedding guests …’ Her voice trailed off beneath his stare.

  ‘Of course, you’re right,’ he said with a curled lip. ‘A bridegroom should not come reeking to the feast. By all means prepare a tub. Scent it with bay and spikenard and whatever other concoctions you can find in the coffer. We don’t want to offend the Earl of Leicester’s nose, do we?’

  ‘Renard!’ John said sharply.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me then, I’ll go and see to it.’ Lowering her gaze, lips compressed together, Elene almost ran from the room.

  ‘There was no need for that.’ John glowered at Renard. ‘She’s only concerned for your welfare.’

  Renard thrust his right hand into his hair, grabbed a handful, and released it. ‘I know, I know,’ he puffed out in exasperation. ‘But the moment I walk in she starts twittering about bathtubs!’ He gave a caustic laugh. ‘Christ, the future of our lands is in jeopardy and all I get is, “do you want to bathe?”’

  ‘It was the offer of comfort and you’d do well to accept it. Half a candle notch with your eyes shut in a hot tub would do wonders for your temper. You haven’t even greeted me properly yet, and after a gap of four years!’

  Renard had the grace to look ashamed, and embraced John. ‘Take no notice. I’m glad to see you, but I’m not so sure about Robert of Leicester. Did you have to bring him?’

  John shrugged. ‘I asked him for leave to officiate at your wedding and he decided to invite himself too. More in the cause of diplomatic persuasion, I think, and he cannot abide Ranulf de Gernons. You want to think about that.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find the time.’ Renard looked again at Henry. ‘I don’t think Leicester’s revulsion can ever reach the depths of mine.’

  A maidservant entered the room and curtseyed to the men. ‘Mistress Elene has sent me to keep vigil over Lord Henry.’

  John gestured to the bed, giving her full leave.

  ‘Where’s Mama?’ asked Renard.

  ‘Resting. She took the night watch with Henry, and Papa insisted that she went to bed until vespers at least. Papa’s in the solar with Lord Leicester and Adam. His cough seems better than it was. Having you home has made all the difference.’

  Renard looked down and beat dust from his travel-grimed clothing. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he grunted. ‘I’m the one running my arse into the ground now.’

  The words were spoken in a brittle tone, but without malice, and John did not take him up on them but said instead, ‘I hear you’ve got some solace at Hawkfield, an Outremer dancing girl, no less?’

  ‘God’s death!’ Renard hissed with irritation. ‘That news has travelled faster than a dose of corn cockles through the bowels. Does Elene know?’

  ‘Not as yet, at least I don’t think so, but you’ll have to tell her soon.’

  ‘I know.’ He tried to close the subject by walking towards the curtain, unhitching his swordbelt as he strode.

  ‘Let her down lightly,’ John pleaded. ‘I know you have a lot on your mind, but for other reasons so has she.’

  Renard sighed. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘if only to stop you from preaching me a sermon.’

  Renard stepped into the bath water, noting that it was neither scented, herb-scattered, or anything else. It was, however, very hot and made him gasp and clutch at the sides of the tub.

  ‘Are you trying to boil me!’ he demanded.

  ‘It will soon cool, my lord. You undressed more quickly than I expected,’ Elene said. ‘Shall I put in some more cold?’

  ‘No, leave it now.’ Gingerly he relaxed and looked at her. She was like a young deer poised for flight — a tall, slim girl with enormous, haunted eyes. Her lips were full and looked as though they would be quite kissable when set in a different expression. ‘You were not so formal four years ago,’ he said. ‘Or have you forgotten my name?’

  She blushed and shook her head and looked at her toes.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ he mused. ‘I used to slap your rump and ruffle your hair, but we’ve each gone beyond that kind of familiarity now, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes my lo— Renard,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s the soap?’

  She brought it to him and he saw that her hands were shaking, and her chin dimpling with the effort of holding on to her composure. Guilty irritation washed over him, and then a wave of compassion. He sighed. ‘I’m sorry if I was bad-tempered, Nell.’ My mind was dealing with more difficult matters. You were right about the bath.’

  She turned away to fiddle with the towels that were laid out. ‘My thoughts were only for your comfort.’ It was the customary duty of the wives and daughters of a great household to see to the well-being of all new arrivals to the keep, be they visitors, friends or family. The offer of a bathtub and comfortable clothing was always the first hospitality. Elene had performed the function of hostess so many times now that this particular occasion should have come as second nature. The fact that it hadn’t and that she was intensely aware of him, naked and in a volatile mood, was unsettling.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He began to wash. There was an awkward silence. More out of desperation to break it than anything else, he asked her how the flocks up at Woolcot were faring.

  Her reply commenced in a quavery voice. He did not look at her as he washed, but occasionally intercepted with a question. Gradually her tone brightened with a spark of confidence. He discovered that the discussion, far from boring him, was a diversion from mental worries of vassals and supplies, stratagems and defences, sickness and death.

  ‘I have ideas for the wool clip too,’ she said, as he stepped from the tub and she handed him towels holding them out at arm’s length.

  ‘Oh yes?’ he said drily, but Elene, not looking at his face, heard only the sarcasm without reading the humour.

  ‘I … I know they will be yours to deal with as you see fit after our wedding. I wasn’t presuming. I …’

  Renard ceased drying himself, tucked the towel around his waist, and took hold of her shoulders. ‘Stop making excuses and apologies, Nell, and we’ll get along much better.’

  ‘I thought that you were annoyed.’ He was so close that she could not think properly. There was a queasy knot where her stomach should have been, part fear, part something else. She wanted to touch his skin, run her hands up his forearms over the smooth muscles until she linked her fingers around his neck. Of course, innocent girls did not do such things uninvited, but when they had lived under Lady Judith’s tuition, they knew about them all the same, even if not in graphic detail.

  ‘I was teasing.’ He tipped up her chin. ‘Next time, just answer me back. I promise not to beat you.’

  Blushing furiously, she broke away from his light grip.

  Renard frowned at her obvious discomfort and picked up his braies. ‘So then, what are you going to do with the wool clip if not sell it to the Flemish?’

  ‘Oh, some of it will still go to Flanders, we
need that security.’ She started to breathe more easily now that there was space between them.

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘I thought of weaving and dyeing it at Woolcot to sell in Ravenstow and Shrewsbury and the other towns.’ After handing him chausses and leg bindings, she fetched a shirt and tunic from a pole near the brazier where they had been airing.

  ‘That’s already being done elsewhere,’ he pointed out, ‘although it would probably bring in some profit.’

  ‘I don’t mean homespuns, I mean high-quality fine cloths for those who usually buy from Flemish looms, but of course mine will cost that much less without all the transport tariffs.’

  It was an audacious idea and not one, on the face of it, he would have expected to come from Elene. ‘Where are you going to find the skills?’ he tested her as he wound the leggings round his calves and secured them. ‘Do we have them locally?’

  ‘We do now.’

  He looked up as she came over to him. She was confident again, a gleam brightening in her hazel-green eyes as she expounded her plan, her face a warm, rosy pink. ‘Who possesses the skills that our weavers and dyers lack?’

  ‘The Flemings,’ Renard said.

  She nodded. ‘And what kind of mercenary does King Stephen employ in high numbers?’

  ‘Incompetent ones?’ he could not help commenting with a grin, but then he sobered. ‘Flemings. I see what you mean.’

  ‘Some want to retire from service, others are injured out of it. Many have families whom they want to see settled while they are at war and there are bound to be a good many with the skills I seek. I’ve found one experienced weaver and a dyer already and settled them on land in the village.’

  Renard grasped the shirt she handed him and after a moment remembered to put it on.

  She looked at him anxiously. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think …?’ He laughed and dug his fingers through his hair. ‘Elene, I think I’ve been looking at a fish out of water suddenly gliding into a lake.’