The Leopard Unleashed tor-3

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  ‘Send him to Hawkfield in your stead!’ slurred de Lorys at the top of his voice. Adam dragged him out of the throng and elbowed him again, this time in the diaphragm.

  John thrust his way to the forefront, complete with silver vessel of holy water and a sprinkler. Although not drunk, he was very merry and his brown eyes were aglow with mischief.

  ‘What’s the remedy, Father, if Renard should find himself turning to stone?’ asked Leicester, nudging his chaplain.

  John rubbed his jaw and pretended to consider. ‘Well now,’ he deliberated. ‘A dipper of cold well water blessed by a priest and poured over the offending member works wonders, but the best remedy by far is to put it in a warm, dark place and leave it there all night … if you know where to find one.’

  De Lorys was too busy being sick in the antechamber to mention Hawkfield a third time. Leicester screwed up his face as if pondering the problem, then looked at Elene in mock, exaggerated understanding, his act greeted by loud guffaws. Elene blushed a fiery red and refused to raise her lids beyond the hands that tightly gripped the coverlet.

  Judith caught Renard’s eye and made a small gesture at the doorway. He saw that she was desperately hoping he was not as wine-flown as the rest of the men. Merry he certainly was, but nowhere near intoxication, and his mother’s concern and Elene’s strained expression recalled him to responsibility. The trick was to know how far to go without stepping off the edge, although sometimes other people pushed you over it. He thought of the bite mark on his thigh, Olwen’s deliberate branding. The wavering candlelight concealed the worst of it, thank Christ, but he would have bruising for days to come, and not just of the flesh. Olwen knew how to set her claws into a man’s soul and tear it to shreds. He shut her from his mind and abruptly stepped forward, hands held palm outwards to the chuckling crowd. ‘Enough!’ he cried. ‘I have to leave it in all night so the good father says and it’s halfway to cockcrow already.’

  There was more laughter at the innuendo placed on the word ‘cockcrow’ and jests about rising at dawn, and then rowdy cheers and barracking advice as Renard climbed into bed beside his flustered new wife and John solemnly blessed and thoroughly sprinkle-soaked them with holy water.

  Guyon’s voice was hoarse tonight, and he was unable to raise it and clear from the room the reluctant revellers who wanted to squeeze the last drop of enjoyment from the situation. William’s light baritone was useless and John had developed a severe attack of hiccups. Robert of Leicester, however, had a bellow on him like a rutting stag and muscle-thickened arms that gathered up, swiped into line, and ushered most effectively.

  ‘I trust you’ll remember this favour,’ he twinkled ambiguously at Renard as he stood on the threshold.

  ‘I’ll ask you to stand godfather to any child that comes of this night,’ Renard said drily.

  Leicester chuckled. ‘I’ll hold you to that, with all these ladies here as witnesses.’

  ‘Was that wise?’ Judith murmured as the women kissed Elene and filed out.

  Renard jerked his shoulders. ‘He’s Chester’s counter — balance, equally powerful. If I don’t cultivate him then I’ve got to cultivate the other. Besides, I like him.’

  ‘But he is firmly committed as Stephen’s man.’

  He looked at her keenly then veiled his eyes. ‘Yes, Mama, I know.’

  ‘But …’ Her lips tightened.

  ‘It is my wedding night,’ he reminded her.

  Judith looked away. Renard had taken his father’s black leopard as a blazon for his own shield, but adapted it from the couchant to the snarling rampant. If she had ever had her hand on its leash, the beast had long since torn free and now confronted her, narrow-eyed and dangerous. ‘Yes, so it is,’ she agreed softly and leaned to embrace Elene and then more tentatively her son. She wished them well, and left, her step slightly unsteady, although Elene could not remember having seen her drink more than two cups of wine all night.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked Renard as the curtain dropped behind Judith, and they were suddenly and silently alone.

  ‘Oh nothing.’ He eased the pillow against his spine. ‘She doesn’t like to see my hand hovering over a chessboard knowing that she cannot influence my next move. We’ve always argued. She can’t wrap me around her little finger the way she can my father and it worries her.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Still, it’s thicker than water. If we fight, it’s not through hatred, rather the opposite.’

  The silence settled, as heavy as the curtain and the door that separated them from the rest of the keep. Renard picked up the cup of spiced hippocras and grimaced. ‘Do you want some?’

  She took it from him. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Loathe it,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know how my father can drink the stuff.’

  ‘It’s supposed to warm your blood.’ She took a quick sip. It was sweet, spicy with cinnamon and nutmeg and not unpleasant to her own palate. She took another swallow and stopped. My lips will taste of it, she thought, and he said he loathes it.

  ‘My blood doesn’t need warming,’ Renard said softly, watching the candlelight play over her skin and smiling at the way she kept the bedclothes modestly tucked around her breasts. She was shivering and as he touched her arm and took the cup from her, he felt the slightly rough texture of gooseflesh along her arm. ‘But yours does.’ Setting the cup down on the coffer, he turned and gently pressed her down on the mattress.

  ‘Oh,’ said Elene, wide-eyed, and swallowed.

  He drew the coverings over and around them, swathing them in linen and thick, stitched-together furs, and putting his arm across her cold body, drew her close to share his warmth.

  She made another small sound as she felt his heat, and then a movement between their bodies, a sleepy stirring against her abdomen and thighs. She tensed, trying to flinch away from its growing hot intrusion but constrained to stay where she was by the weight of Renard’s forearm on her hip bone.

  ‘Lie still, Nell,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘I know … It’s just that …’

  ‘Hush.’ He kissed her gently and stroked the sensitive valley of her spine and the curve of her buttocks. ‘There is no cause for haste. You have to learn to walk before you can run.’

  The coldness started to melt from her limbs. Renard’s hands and voice were soothing. She relaxed against him, and then a little more as she realised she was not about to be pounced upon and devoured. The wine swam in her blood and drowsiness began to steal upon her as he stroked her spine. She closed her eyes and her breathing slowed and deepened as she lazed in the pleasure of his fingertips.

  Renard brushed his lips over her throat and the silky curve of her shoulder. He encountered a thick strand of her herb-scented hair, and raising his head to look into her face saw that he had soothed her too far. She was hovering on the verge of sleep if not already over its first threshold. He imagined the response of the wedding guests could they but witness this scene and laughed to himself at the irony. All the jesting, the knowing looks. No hope of a warm, dark place now. His mother would be pleased. No child for Robert of Leicester.

  ‘Oh Elene,’ he said helplessly to her unconscious form, and, shaking with silent laughter, put his head down beside her, his arm still across her body. His half-curious erection subsided. He was not in any need; Olwen had seen to that. At the time he had thought it was better so. In hindsight, perhaps not. Too late. He closed his eyes and matched the rhythm of his breathing to Elene’s, and within five minutes was himself asleep.

  Pain woke Elene with a jolt, and when she tried to escape from it, it only hurt the more. The night candle was still burning on its pricket and the fire in the hearth was a dull red glow through grey logs of ash. Unable to get up, and still more than half asleep, she started to struggle and cry out.

  Alarmed, Renard shot up, thus removing his weight from her spread hair and the cause of her pain. ‘What is it?’ he stared round blearily.

  Elene gaspe
d with relief. ‘I couldn’t move. You were lying on my hair and I dreamed that I was trapped.’

  Renard grunted and lay back down to recover his senses. He glanced at the night candle. It had burned well down on its pricket but not far enough for dawn. ‘Is there any wine?’ he asked. ‘Not the hippocras, something honest and ordinary.’

  ‘I’ll see.’ Shrugging into her bedrobe, she padded over to the table that stood near the narrow window slit. He watched the heavy swing of her blue-black hair and yawned.

  ‘It’s watered,’ she said as she poured from flagon to cup and tasted it on her way back to him.

  ‘No matter.’ Sitting up, he took it from her.

  Elene gave him a look from the corner of her eye before stooping to brush the scratchy fragments of dried herbs from her portion of the bed with the flat of her palm until the sheet was smooth and white — an ordinary sheet, its very blankness significant. By now it should have been stained with the proof of her virginity.

  ‘I can say with complete truth that this is the first time a woman has ever gone to sleep on my attentions,’ Renard said lightly, trying to dispel the strain he could sense in her.

  She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t realise how tired I was. I did not mean to.’

  Renard swirled the wine reflectively in his cup. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I suppose I could have been more persuasive, but I didn’t want to frighten you, and besides, I was tired myself.’

  Her gaze fell on the telltale bruise marring his thigh and she found herself unable to look away. The remarks de Lorys had made about a bitch biting him fell into place with what Judith had said earlier when they were dressing for the wedding.

  Made uncomfortable by the quality of her stare and feeling the sting of guilt, Renard shifted and drew up the covers. ‘Get back into bed, Nell, it’s cold,’ he said.

  She cast him a bright, almost challenging look. ‘It was after the hunt, wasn’t it?’ Her voice was raw with pain. ‘You were late returning and I could smell attar of roses on you.’

  Renard bit the inside of his mouth, aware that there was no point in denying the accusation. ‘I needed the release,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to be rough with you tonight.’

  ‘I see,’ she said in a choked, defensive voice. ‘You were only thinking of my welfare. You are very kind.’

  ‘Oh, in the name of Christ!’ he muttered as she started to cry. ‘Elene, don’t.’ He turned her face so that he could brush away her tears on his thumb. ‘I admit it was stupid of me, but at the time I thought it was right.’ Slipping his hand beneath her thick sweep of hair, he stroked her neck, drew her against him, and kissed her gently. Her lips parted, responding even while she wept and her hands came up to clutch at him, fingernails scoring his shoulders. The pressure of the kiss increased at her insistence and when he made to pull away, her hold tightened.

  ‘Now,’ she whispered against his lips. ‘For the sake of my pride, now, before there is nothing left.’

  Renard felt her trembling against him, the rapid shaking of her breath and heartbeat, the coldness of her skin as she shrugged out of the bedrobe. His body responded to the frantic demand of hers, and putting his hand on her breast, he covered her with his warmth.

  Elene’s eyes had been squeezed shut against the pain. It had eased a little now, but it still hurt. Releasing her breath, she tried to relax her tense body. She was aware of Renard’s similar tension beside her. He swore, but whether at himself or her she could not be sure.

  ‘It isn’t always like that,’ he said after a moment, his voice sounding weary. ‘I thought you were ready.’

  Elene shivered. The weak pleasure that had coursed through her limbs two days ago had been entirely missing. She had felt nothing at his touch, only a desperate need born of insecurity to unite their bodies, one within the other — and it had been a disaster. She had tried not to cry out as he entered her, but a whimper had caught in her throat and she had tensed at the pain.

  At least it had not been prolonged. About the same time, she estimated, that it took a ram to mount and fertilise a ewe. Elene wondered if she had conceived and hoped so. After this he would not want to bed with her again, nor did she relish the thought herself. She raised the covers to see if the sheet was stained with sufficient proof of her virginity, and discovered the linen damp beneath her.

  ‘If there’s no blood, I’ll go surety for your innocence,’ Renard said wryly. His foreplay had been met with wild impatience, almost desperation, and she had writhed beneath him, not just inviting, but demanding. It was then that he had discovered she was far from ready; so tight and dry that penetration had been excruciationg for her, painful for him, and after the first few thrusts, he had seen no sense in continuing the torture and had withdrawn, the act incomplete. Elene was too inexperienced to know the difference and he was not about to maim either of them with a demonstration.

  Elene grimaced at the red smears on the inside of her thighs, the blotched sheet, and let the covers fall. ‘I suppose I am not a patch on her,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘What?’ He looked at her blankly.

  ‘The other woman; the one at Hawkfield who bit you.’

  Renard’s eyes were gritty with fatigue. All he wanted to do was turn over, go back to sleep and pretend that tonight had never happened. It had and he couldn’t. His conscience would not let him. Sitting up, he groaned. ‘I was going to tell you about her before, but I didn’t want to spoil the wedding for you. Skeletons have a way of leaping out of cupboards at the most inappropriate moments, don’t they?’

  Elene felt trembly and cold. ‘What is she to you?’ she asked.

  Renard grimaced. ‘A thorn in my side.’ He took his half-finished wine from the coffer. ‘If she hadn’t been with child, I’d never have brought her from Antioch in the first place.’

  Nausea added itself to Elene’s other discomforts. ‘She’s with child?’ she repeated numbly.

  ‘Not now. She miscarried on the road from Brindisi, but I couldn’t abandon her in the middle of nowhere, given the state she was in, and she was still determined to travel to England.’ Briefly he told her about himself and Olwen, paring the narrative down to the sparsest details.

  ‘So you brought her back to England and installed her at Hawkfield,’ Elene said in a dull voice.

  ‘Would you rather I kept her at Ravenstow?’ His gaze flashed.

  ‘I would rather neither.’ She busied herself with finding and donning her crumpled bedrobe. That was bloodstained too, she noticed with distaste, and wondered why she was fighting. Leaving the bed she went to sit before the hearth, her back to him, and rubbed her cold shoulders with equally cold hands. Marriages were made for convenience, she knew that. She and Renard were joined for the sake of their lands, and if begetting an heir to those lands was even half as painful as tonight’s experience, then this Syrian gutter-slut was welcome to all his attentions.

  ‘It can’t be neither,’ he said. She tensed, hearing him leave the bed. ‘It has gone too far for that, Nell. Just don’t read too many portents into it. You are my wife.’

  ‘Hah!’ she spat bitterly. ‘Bought and sold for a meaning — less vow and a parcel of land!’ She clenched her jaw as his hand came lightly down on her shoulder.

  ‘I don’t blame you for being angry, but it’s late, and we are both tired. Can we not start afresh in the morning?’

  He was used to cozening women, she thought, stiffening herself against the light touch of his hand and the tone of his voice. Staring into the fire, she watched it fall into ashes. ‘As you wish,’ she replied in a blank, dutiful voice ‘… my lord.’

  Chapter 13

  Salisbury, Christmas 1139

  The horses thundered past the onlookers, hooves tearing clods from the moist December grass. Breath smoking from wide-flared nostrils and muscles flowing like fire, they devoured the length of the racecourse crudely marked out on the tourney field. A bright chestnut boasted a half-length lead over a powerfu
l ash-grey with black points. At the grey’s hindquarters a bay strove to gain ground, and a length behind, an ugly brown was fighting to maintain contact.

  The fair bearded man in a cloak trimmed with ermine clenched his fists against the fur and muttered anxiously beneath his breath as the chestnut eased further in front. ‘Too soon, he has taken him too soon.’

  Beside his king, Ranulf de Gernons twisted the tail of one long black moustache around his forefinger and smiled within himself. It had been a simple enough matter to bribe the boy astride the royal courser to waste him on the first stage of the race. The grey would probably have won anyway, but since several bags of silver were riding on the outcome, Ranulf had preferred to make sure. It was money that Stephen could afford to lose. The Bishop of Salisbury’s demise less than a month ago had left the King in possession of everything that was in the old weasel’s strongboxes. It was the reason the court was spending Christmas in Salisbury instead of gathering at Windsor. Stephen wanted to take account of and secure the Bishop’s massive wealth for himself.

  Robert of Leicester hunched his shoulders against the gnawing wind and watched the coursers swirl around the post at the far end of the designated sprint. Like horse, like owner, he thought. Stephen’s chestnut had the swiftest turn of foot but only in a very limited burst; de Gernons’s grey was powerful, showy and unpredictable. His own bay, an honest worker, had no exceptional talent, and the brown would still be running one-paced long after all the others had dropped.

  He glanced across the field at a young nobleman who was holding the bridle of an elegant black stallion and talking earnestly to one of the King’s Flemings. Renard FitzGuyon of Ravenstow. A pity he had not been here earlier when the race was organised. Neither chestnut nor grey would have stood a chance against the black’s pace as demonstrated over Ravenstow’s hunting grounds during the two days of celebrations following the wedding feast.

  The thunder of hooves swelled in a crescendo towards the waiting men. Stephen’s horse was sweat-darkened and visibly labouring. The grey pushed its nose in front. Stephen’s disappointed groan was audible. Ranulf de Gernons continued to finger his moustache and say nothing, but his eyes glittered. The horses tore past their owners in a wind of ragged manes, tails and tearing breath, the earth shaken by the force of their speed.