The Leopard Unleashed tor-3

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  She confirmed her selection of the brooch to the maid, and signalled her to remove the casket.

  ‘Very well,’ said William de Roumare to his half-brother and with one eye to the edge of the curtain that was blowing in a draught, lowered his voice. ‘We’ll deal with Henry of Huntingdon as you suggest and use him as a lever to wrest Carlisle from his father.’

  Ranulf nodded and rolled the goblet between his palms. ‘We can arrange the details tomorrow. I know several useful men who love money as much as they hate the Scots.’

  Roumare grunted and leaned back in the chair. It creaked against his solid weight. ‘Carlisle,’ he said, caressing the word.

  Ranulf smiled. ‘Then Lincoln and Ravenstow,’ he added, as if listing the delicacies of an anticipated feast.

  Olwen sat near the open shutters, listening to the night sounds of the Southwark streets. Behind the houses the afterlight was a luminous teal-green pinpricked by the first stars. She could smell the closeness of the river and the vinegary odour of cheap ale and wine from the bathhouse next door. Laughter emanated too, loud and high-pitched. The Southwark stews. The other side of the river where men kept their mistresses and appointments with the seamier side of life. Not hidden, but separate, and the chasm was far deeper than that carved by the muscular grey river flowing between the two.

  She pressed her hand to the slight mound of her belly where the baby was kicking vigorously — far too vigorously for a child begotten at Christmastide. The superb tone of her dancer’s muscles made her look less pregnant than she actually was — four months instead of the six she knew to be fact.

  Sometimes the potions and the preventatives did not work. That last time in November with Renard they hadn’t and by the time she had realised her dilemma it had been too late, she was already established in Ranulf of Chester’s bed. Now she had to pray the child would come late and that Ranulf could be led to believe that it was his. The small size of her abdomen thus far and the fact that she was still being sick had worked in her favour. The detail that she had announced her pregnancy within weeks of the Christmas feast had not.

  She had thought about returning to Renard but could not bear the thought of mouldering in that draughty little manor house, knowing that not five miles away at Ravenstow he was there and that he would fight his will to exhaustion rather than visit her. He had said at the outset that it would destroy one of them and now she understood what he meant. At the Christmas court she had wanted him to fight for her, take a knife to any man who dared to lay hands on her, and had almost had her wish fulfilled. But his wife had stepped in his way and Olwen had realised the way of it. Renard’s wife was slender and black-haired with the eyes of a forest nymph and a sweet face. Wholesome as new bread.

  She rose abruptly from her seat and turned to pace the room like a caged animal. It was a well-appointed cage with hangings on the walls and a clothing pole and laver. There were thick, scented rushes on the floor and animal pelts either side of the bed. She flounced down again on the latter and in self-mockery adopted a sultry pose. Picking up an exquisite silver-backed small mirror, she regarded herself, decked out as Ranulf preferred in her dancing clothes, her face painted. She knew all about his preferences now. For all his power he was subject to his lust, and her own power lay in her ability to both feed and satisfy it.

  Amid the sound of sporadic, loud laughter from the bathhouse, other approaching voices intruded upon her consciousness. Ranulf ’s wine-thickened growl and his brother’s slurred reply. Ranulf and Roumare liked to share. Suddenly Olwen could not bear to look at her face any more. She put the mirror face down on the coffer, locking herself within it, and it was the reflection that went with a smile on its face, brittle as glass, to open the door.

  Chapter 20

  Renard stood in the tilt yard at Caermoel, squinting against the bright June sunshine and watching his two squires sparring with sword and shield. Owain was as nimble as a flea but guarded so wide that all his speed was channelled into extrication, not attack. Guy d’Alberin was much slower, but he learned the lessons surprisingly well. Literally battered into his body, the knowledge was becoming ingrained for life. He would never carry off prizes in a tourney, but he would be solidly capable of holding his own. He and Owain were easier with each other now, bonded by a mutual dislike of Ancelin who worked them so hard that they had no time to quarrel except like this in a tilt yard, spare time being reserved for precious sleep.

  Turning his attention away from the boys, Renard stared at his youngest brother who had just announced that Ranulf of Chester and William de Roumare had tried to force Stephen’s hand in the matter of Carlisle by attempting the kidnap of Henry of Huntingdon on his journey home from Westminster to his father’s court in Scotland.

  ‘You’re jesting!’

  ‘I wish I was.’ William let a groom take his sweating horse to the trough where a handful of Milnham men were already clustered with their mounts. Distantly from the area where the new well was being dug, came the clink of hammer on stone.

  ‘De Gernons must either be mad or very sure of himself to try a trick like that!’

  Renard signalled Ancelin to continue instructing the boys and set off through the inner bailey to the hall.

  ‘ He’s not the one who’s mad, it’s Stephen!’ William helped himself to a cup of cider from a jug on the table where the steward and a scribe were working at a pile of tally sticks. He hitched himself up on to the board. ‘I’m renouncing fealty to Stephen and heading for Bristol to do homage to Matilda,’ he announced with a hint of uneasy defiance.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Renard arched one eyebrow. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘What, that Stephen’s mad, or that I’m going to give my oath to Matilda instead?’

  ‘Both.’

  William banged his cup down on the trestle. ‘Stephen’s mad because when his spies told him about the plot against Huntingdon and sent him warning, he turned on de Gernons and Roumare, reddened their ears with a load of moralising claptrap, and rewarded them! God’s death, Renard, rewarded them! “Sorry, you can’t have Carlisle, but here’s Cambridge instead and a few other honours to pad it out!”’ William’s eyes were brilliant with anger. ‘That man couldn’t organise a drinking session in an alehouse, let alone rule a kingdom!’

  ‘What makes you think Matilda’s any better?’

  ‘Well she certainly cannot be any worse!’

  Renard rested one elbow on his folded arm and pinched his upper lip. ‘I’ll agree to differ with you on that count, but give my regards and regrets to Uncle Robert when you see him.’ Uncle Robert was their mother’s half-brother, the Earl of Gloucester, and commander-in-chief of the Empress’s army.

  ‘You’re not going to try and argue me out of it then?’ William asked suspiciously.

  Renard shot him a look filled with bleak humour. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  William glowered at him for a moment before relaxing into a smile. ‘No, my mind’s made up this time. You can’t keep me in tail clouts for ever. I came to tell you about de Gernons, since one of the men responsible for foiling the plot is a friend of mine. I suppose I want to justify myself too. ‘I know you think I’ve some scapegrace ways about me, but I have thought long and hard about this, not least about the possibility of facing you across a battlefield.’

  Renard made a gesture of dismissal at the steward and scribe. ‘That would be a pity wouldn’t it?’ he said as the two men gathered together their bits and pieces and adjourned elsewhere.

  ‘I would not fight you.’ William grimaced. You’re bigger and far more experienced. I’m going to offer my services to the Empress as a scout and forager with the proviso that she does not ask me to do any of that scouting and foraging on your lands.’

  ‘Hah, very noble!’ Renard snorted, and poured himself a cup of cider. He raised the drink, then, seeing William’s expression, lowered it again. ‘Well what do you want me to do? Pat you on the head and send you off with my blessing? Christ
, William, grow up! Matilda’s not like Stephen. You go to her and she’ll toss you on the altar of her ambition and cut out your heart! You won’t be able to pick and choose when and where you scout like some finicky old nun demanding a boneless portion of fish!’

  A dusky flush rose in William’s cheeks. ‘I have the skills to make myself invaluable enough to be worth such a concession,’ he said stiffly.

  Renard said nothing, but his gaze was more eloquent than words.

  ‘Look, I’m much closer to the rebels than you are. I’ve got Miles of Hereford breathing down my neck and my lands are just the right size to make inviting fodder for a quick raid. It’s not safe to support Stephen any more!’ William thrust out his lower lip. ‘Besides, our oath was to Matilda originally.’

  ‘Papa’s oath, not mine,’ Renard reminded Him. ‘And sworn under duress. Mine was given freely to Stephen at Christmas.’ And then on an exasperated, slightly weary note, ‘You can stop puffing up like a frog. If your heart is set on it, then go to the Empress, just don’t expect my approval. I presume you intend staying the night here at least?’

  William let out the swift breath he had drawn. ‘Aren’t you afraid that I might take note of all these new defences you’re adding and relay them all to Aunt Matilda?’

  Renard’s eyes darkened, but he suppressed the urge to grab William by coif and surcoat and hurl him into the rushes. Show restraint now and it would be easier later when one or the other of them was forced to back down. ‘Are you insulting yourself or me?’ he asked, and succeeded in keeping his voice on the level.

  William chewed his lip. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it. I told Adam I was going over to the Empress too. He said I was a fool and he wished he was coming with me.’

  Renard snorted. ‘That sounds like Adam.’

  ‘There was some more news about Chester too — gossip, nothing serious.’ William leaned forward to remove his spurs. ‘His mistress is with child.’

  ‘Oh?’ Renard made his tone indifferent, although he felt his gut tighten and turn. He could go for weeks without thinking of Olwen, but now and again, unbidden, she would haunt his memory or his dreams with a knife and tear open the healing wounds.

  ‘Conceived in the winter,’ William added, pressing his thumb down on the tip of the spur. ‘From what I heard, she’s carrying it to full term this time.’

  ‘I suppose Ranulf ’s bragging to all who will listen.’

  ‘Not really. He doesn’t trust her.’

  Renard laughed sourly. ‘Then he and I have found common ground at last.’ A noise behind him made him turn round to find Elene standing there. She had been resting, and her face, framed by her loose black hair, was still rosily flushed, her eyes a sleepy, luminous green-gold. Something stirred within him, as painful as thoughts of Olwen, akin to physical desire but possessing increased texture and depth.

  ‘William!’ Elene hugged her brother-in-law delightedly and kissed him.

  Returning the embrace he stepped back to look her up and down. ‘You’re blossoming like an orchard, Nell!’

  ‘Why thank you!’ Laughing she laid her hand lightly on her stomach where for two weeks now she had been feeling the baby’s fluttering movements. ‘But fruiting is the more appropriate word I think!’

  William grinned. ‘Still planning a huge brood? I remember you used to have some impressive ambitions of motherhood when we were little.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ She blushed at Renard.

  He smiled in a preoccupied way and squeezed her thickened waistline, his mind obviously far distant from the light banter of the moment.

  Elene turned to William. ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘Just overnight.’

  She sensed the constraint between the brothers. ‘Is there any special reason for your visit?’

  ‘Folly of the most serious order,’ Renard answered before William could speak.

  The latter hooked his thumbs in his belt. ‘Stephen’s folly, not mine,’ he retorted. ‘You’ll discover it soon enough.’

  The summer progressed in hot somnolence. A peace treaty between the opposing forces was mooted, discussed, and abandoned. War drifted across the land like August thunder, sometimes passing over, sometimes deluging an area in brief destruction and misery. Crops burned. People and livestock roasted. Storm-coloured smoke mingled with storm-coloured sky.

  William went foraging and raiding with the Empress’s troops. By turns he found himself exhilarated by the joy of his abilities and the tensile strength of his young body, and sickened by the strewn aftermath of a raid and what some of his companions considered sport. He learned, he matured, and stubborn determination did the rest.

  In early September Olwen was brought to bed of a son at Chester.

  ‘A fine boy, my lord,’ said the nurse, plucking the bawling infant from his cradle and presenting him to the Earl. ‘Born yesterday dawn.’

  Ranulf declined to hold the baby, and pushing down his coif stared suspiciously at the red, unprepossessing features. There was nothing to commend or recognise, but then at one day old both his daughters had looked remarkably like wizened turnips too.

  ‘We did not think he would live at first, he nearly drowned in the birthing fluid. Father Barnard christened him Jordan because he had a vial of holy water from the river.’

  Jordan FitzRanulf. It had a reasonable ring to it, but how did he know that FitzRanulf was the correct appellation?

  ‘He’s big and strong,’ added the nurse with a sly look at Ranulf. Men liked to hear things like that about their sons, and sometimes paid silver for the compliments.

  Ranulf grunted at the woman and turned round to the bed. Too big and strong for a child delivered almost a month early? Olwen’s eyes were closed. Heavy smudges purpled the delicate skin beneath them. Otherwise she was waxen, her lips shockingly pale because he was so accustomed to seeing them painted scarlet. A difficult birth so the midwife had said, but she could have been lying in hopes of a higher payment.

  ‘Is he mine?’ he said to her.

  Olwen’s eyes remained closed, but he saw the infinite — simal flutter of her lashes. Putting one knee on the bed, he braced his arms either side of her.

  ‘Damn you, answer me!’

  The heavy lids half opened, revealing a glimpse of hazed dark blue iris. ‘Yours?’ The faintest of smiles played around the word she formed. ‘Yes, he’s yours.’

  ‘Hah!’ Abruptly he jerked away from the bed to look ferociously at the infant who had now settled hungrily at the wet-nurse’s ample breast.

  ‘Bought, but not begotten,’ she whispered, assailed by a terrible, seeping weariness. She had never dreamed in her life that such pain existed, that it could surge so relentlessly and for so long and culminate in a pushing, splitting agony beyond all her control.

  Ranulf did not hear her thread-thin whisper. He was too occupied in watching the child, his expression a mingling of longing and doubt.

  Olwen turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes again, but it did not stop the tears leaking from beneath her lids.

  The Michaelmas fair at Ledworth went unaffected by the strife elsewhere and made an excellent profit for Renard from the tolls he was entitled to levy on all the booths and all the transport in and out of the town. Some of the proceeds he donated to the widening of the road approaching the town from Shrewsbury and also to a hostel for those seeking a night’s lodging. Laughing, he returned Elene the halfpenny fee that her own carrier had paid to bring the bales of Woolcot cloth into the fair. Woolcot and all it produced belonged to Renard, secured by the act of marriage, but he had gifted the herds and all profit from them back to Elene in the form of a ‘morgengab’ or ‘morning gift’, the ancient custom of presenting a bride with a gift should her husband be satisfied with his wedding night.

  The product of Elene’s morning gift, the finely woven, soft and gorgeously dyed woollen cloths, had been sold right down to the last ell on the last bolt, for it was of comparable qual
ity to Flanders cloth and cost much less. Elene decided to reserve at least two-thirds of her clip from the following year and begin building up the flocks at Ravenstow, Ledworth and Caermoel.

  A little before the commencement of the Martinmas slaughter, Elene was delivered of her own son. Her waters broke as the bell was summoning the pious to morning mass. Shortly after prime, she pushed the baby smoothly into the world — ‘With no more effort than using the garderobe,’ Alys said later, when asked.

  Hugh, named for his maternal grandfather, was a large-boned, well-developed baby and amazed everyone by how little trouble his birth had caused his smug, smiling mother. By the time of his christening feast and Elene’s churching ceremony on Twelfth Night, he possessed a respectable amount of sandy-blond hair and from between lashes that were almost white regarded the world with vivid, light blue eyes.

  ‘Hugh suits him,’ Judith said to Elene. ‘He resembles your family.’

  Elene smiled and agreed. She knew that Judith had been somewhat hurt at first that she and Renard had decided upon Hugh, not Guyon for their firstborn son, but as the baby’s colouring and features had developed over the ensuing weeks, Judith’s attitude had altered. ‘He looks like my brother Warrin,’ Elene added. ‘Particularly around the eyes, don’t you think?’

  The fine lines at the corners of Judith’s mouth deepened. Elene’s brother had died in a street brawl in the city of Angers over twelve years ago. The circumstances had been decidedly murky and Adam and Heulwen somewhere involved. No one had ever prodded a spoon too deeply into that particular bowl of stew for fear of discovering putrid bones. ‘Renard seems to beget the red hair,’ she remarked instead of agreeing. ‘The falconer’s daughter’s babe was copper, and there’s more than a hint in Hugh’s. It only ever showed up among Guyon’s in Heulwen. I’m glad you asked her and Adam to be godparents as well as Lord Leicester.’