The Leopard Unleashed tor-3

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  ‘One for policy, one from the heart,’ Renard said, edging his way between his wife and his mother.

  Judith scowled at him. ‘I wish you wouldn’t creep up on people like that.’

  ‘You’re going deaf,’ he retorted disrespectfully, and lightly kissed her cheek before turning to Elene. ‘Are you coming to dance with me, Nell, or now that you’re a staid matron is it forbidden to show me a quick glimpse of ankle?’ He held out his hand, inviting.

  ‘If I show you my ankle, you’ll want to see other things too!’ she laughed at him.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted cheerfully.

  She let him whirl her among the laughing, swirling dancers, was passed from hand to hand, swung round, lifted, turned. Her milk-tender breasts started to feel sore. Ancelin slobbered a kiss on her cheek and trampled on her toes, his eyes as glazed as misted glass. From the corner of her eye she saw Judith unobtrusively retiring as the roistering reached a new pitch.

  She was spun back into Renard’s embrace. He had seen the longing direction of her gaze, and squeezing her waist, stooped to murmur against her ear, ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  Elene felt her face grow warm and her loins weaken. She would never accustom herself to just walking out of a room full of people to lie with him, aware that everyone was looking — making assessments, even wagers on how long it would take them.

  ‘There’s Hugh,’ she prevaricated. ‘He needs feeding.’

  ‘Go and fetch him from Alys then and bring him up,’ he said practically, and then as she looked at him, ‘Oh in the name of Christ, Nell, I’m not about to pounce on you and ravish you! I just thought that you looked in need of respite from this wild horde.’ He gestured around and grimaced. ‘I know I am.’

  She remembered the times when his laughter, the lightness of his remarks had been a cover for much deeper thoughts and emotions. She remembered the checked wildness in his eyes and body and him saying ‘What I need to ease the pressure is …’ And was suddenly contrite. ‘I’ll fetch Hugh,’ she said, and turned to weave her way through the gathering.

  It was strangely quiet and calm upstairs in the main bedchamber, no sound, no hint of the revelry below, just the sputtering crackle of the alder logs in the hearth and the wind whining against the shuttered window slit. Hugh, as usual, guzzled with the speed of a sailor hitting the first alehouse after three dry months at sea, and choked in his frantic haste.

  Renard sat down on the coffer, legs outstretched, spine propped against the wall, and watched Elene and the baby. Only a few candles were burning on the small pricket, their glimmer diffusing into a dull, grainy gold. Elene’s exposed skin gleamed softly. The baby’s hair had the sheen of pale, pure gold against Elene’s jet black, of which a strand was clutched tightly in Hugh’s small fingers.

  Renard swallowed. It was a sight to gladden the eye, but somehow it brought a lump to his throat, and not all of it was paternal tenderness. ‘I thought Henry would have come,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘The weather has been clear, and I expressly invited him.’

  Elene glanced from her absorption with the baby. ‘Perhaps the wound is still too deep and new,’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps to see me with a child …’ She left the sentence hanging in midair.

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe so. I thought that by now he would have come around. William’s in the enemy camp but he still managed to send good wishes and a christening gift through a Welsh carrier.’

  ‘Distance and differences of opinion do not separate the similarities between you and William,’ she said shrewdly. ‘You and Henry, even when you were smiling at each other never really scratched beneath the surface.’

  Renard snorted and looked away, but was well aware that she spoke the truth. ‘Even so,’ he reiterated heavily, ‘I thought that he would come.’

  She watched him sit down before the hearth in the chair that had been his father’s. His face was expressionless, but there were fine lines bracketing his mouth-corners where he had been smiling without being in the least amused. She could sense the tension in him, straining on a tight leash.

  ‘It’s too quiet, Nell,’ he said, eyes on the flames.

  ‘But you just said below—’

  ‘No, not up here. I’m talking about the war. Stephen, Mathilda and Ranulf de Gernons. No matter what Chester is given, he still wants more, and when one side has nothing else to give, he’ll turn to the other.’

  Hugh had fallen asleep at her breast. Carefully she lifted him away and went to put him down in his cradle, then turned again to Renard. She had not bothered to hook up her bodice and she saw him eyeing her cleavage. ‘You think he will really leave Stephen?’ she asked, not because at that moment she really cared, but because she felt too awkward to just boldly walk up to him and sit down on his knee. Absence of such contact had increased the shyness as well as the longing. It was not a familiar action any more.

  ‘Undoubtedly. He has no reason to stay, has he? Hands smacked off Carlisle again, and Lincoln denied too, not to mention Caermoel.’ His laugh was brittle.

  ‘Do you wish you’d stayed in Antioch?’ She was closer to him now. Tentatively she laid her hand on his shoulder. The side of her hand grazed his throat and she felt the sudden leap of his pulse.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he sighed. ‘But there it is an even more fractured mosaic of power-hungry warlords. I suppose I was always too low in the hierarchy to be much affected.’ Slanting one arm around her waist and hip he did what she had hoped he would do and pulled her down into his lap. Then he kissed her and all conversation stopped.

  They had reached the bed and a state of breathless, urgent half-undress when Owain cleared his throat raucously on the other side of the curtain and announced that Lord Henry had arrived and that he wanted an immedi ate word with Renard.

  Renard closed his eyes and pressed his lips into the silky hollow of Elene’s shoulder. ‘Judgement on me,’ he groaned, levering himself up. ‘All right, Owain, tell him to come up.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Renard sat up on the edge of the bed and fumbled his tunic back on with unsteady hands. He looked round at Elene, at the rapid rise and fall of her dark-tipped breasts and the loose hair spread abroad. ‘Wishes have a fickle habit of exploding in your face, even while they’re being granted,’ he said wryly. ‘Best cover yourself, love, unless you want to start a fight.’

  Still dazed by the passion of a moment since, Elene was acutely aware of the soft furs against her shoulder blades, of the heaviness of her loins, of Renard’s eyes and the mingling of staunched need, exasperation and reluctant humour in his expression. Breathing out hard, he left the temptation of the bed and walking to the window slit stood in the draught from an ill-fitting shutter.

  Elene dragged her skirts decently down, shrugged her gown back on to her shoulders, and with fumbling hands, fastened the neck of her gown and hooked up the bodice. Her hair she could do nothing about except grab a comb, tidy it quickly and place a circlet on top to hold it away from her face.

  Owain drew the curtain aside and Henry strode into the room. Rain sparkled on his cloak. Eyebrows and moustache were frosted with it and his eyes were the colour of a rainswept riverbank. He had regained some of the flesh he had lost during his convalescence, but his bones were harder now, stripped of malleable youth.

  ‘I thought you had decided not to come,’ Renard said.

  Henry went to the hearth and threw off his cloak, revealing a padded tunic of the kind worn under a hauberk. He flexed his good shoulder. ‘I would have been here sooner, but I had business with an armourer in Shrewsbury and while there I heard some disturbing news … Elene.’ He spoke her name in a stiff greeting, averting his eyes, and advanced on the cradle to regard his new nephew. ‘I’ve brought him a christening gift. Over there by the wall in the oiled cloth.’ Stooping over the baby, he made the usual adult gesture of putting his finger in the baby’s fist. Even in sleep the fingers curled and gripped. Henry’s expression became less tense and he managed a smile.
r />   ‘Strong,’ he said, which was also an inevitable part of dutiful adult admiration.

  Renard drew aside the covering from Henry’s christening gift and looked at the shield leaning there. A black leopard rampaged across a golden background in direct imitation of Renard’s own shield, but it was only half the size, suited to a child who one day, far too soon for his mother, would leave the safety of maternal skirts to learn the warfare skills, his life depending on how well he learned and how well he was taught.

  Elene could see that Renard was both surprised and touched by the gift and the thought behind it. Men watched their sons’ development with more pride than fear. Indeed, it was the custom in every warrior household that a child’s first solid food should be taken from the tip of his father’s sword so that he developed a taste for the steel. She managed to smile, however, and thanked Henry warmly.

  Henry’s mouth twisted. ‘My nieces and nephews are the nearest I’ll ever come to children of my own. I …’ He swallowed and looked very quickly at her and away again. ‘I have no wish to marry and I’m no great catch except to fat merchants’ daughters who are hoping to add a title to their wealth. No, one day this little fellow will inherit Oxley, or I hope he will.’ He cleared his throat.

  Renard glanced up from admiring the craftmanship of the small shield. ‘You mentioned news from Shrewsbury?’ he said.

  ‘The sheriff ’s mustering a force. Ranulf de Gernons has finally turned rebel and seized Lincoln castle from the King’s custody.’

  ‘What?’ Renard’s gaze sharpened. ‘When?’

  ‘First day of the Christmas feast. Ranulf and Roumare sent their wives into Lincoln castle to talk with the constable’s lady and to pass the time of day and courtesies. When the time drew nigh for the women to leave, Chester and his brother wandered into the keep with a small escort as if to fetch them away, but rounded on the garrison instead and held the castle until their reinforcements hastened from their hiding places. The whole of Lincoln’s in an uproar. The citizens have sent to the King for help, and the call to arms has gone out. Likely you’ll have it by official messenger very soon.’ There was a certain satisfaction in Henry’s tone because for once he had the advantage over his brother.

  Renard gave Elene an eloquent look. ‘I said it was too peaceful, didn’t I?’

  Elene nodded woodenly. Her throat was too tight to speak. Renard was going to war again. It had not been peaceful at all, just the calm before the violence of a storm.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Renard with a sigh, ‘that I’ve had a year’s grace for Caermoel. If it doesn’t withstand war now then I might as well break my sword over my knee.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bringer of bad tidings.’ Henry looked between his brother and Elene.

  ‘No.’ Renard moved to clasp him on his good shoulder. ‘I’m glad to see you, truly glad. How’s the arm?’

  Henry raised the limb and flexed his fingers. The movement was sluggish because he was still cold and numb from his ride, but at least he had feeling and a reasonable degree of control. ‘I manage,’ he said with a bleak smile. ‘As ever, not well, but I manage.’

  Chapter 21

  Lincoln, February 1141

  Renard Fitzguyon to his dearest wife Elene, greetings.

  Does it ever do anything but rain on this side of the country? I think not. My hauberk should be fashioned of fish scales not iron rivets. Owain and Guy have worn their fingernails to the quick keeping it clean of rust.

  Our quarry is absent, chasing support in the south and has left his wife to defend Lincoln castle against us. It is not as foolish as it sounds. As you know, Matille is Gloucester’s daughter and he’s a fonder father than Ranulf is a husband. Whether it will force him through this sleet and wind to her aid I do not know, but she is conducting a spirited defence as if she well expects to be succoured.

  The King is using the cathedral as a base from which to conduct the siege and we are encamped between it and the castle, well above river level, thank Christ. In several places it has burst its banks and flooded folk out of their homes.

  I do not know how much longer we will be constrained to remain here in Lincoln. Two more weeks at the very least I suspect, by which time I will need more silver to pay the men. Send me two barrels from the strongbox at Ravenstow. I need not tell you to ensure that it is well escorted. Include too, if you will, a hogshead of Anjou. The stuff here tastes like river water and even getting too drunk to care about our current discomfort is an unwholesome task. Henry manages it very well, through recent long practice I suspect.

  I spoke to Adam yesterday. He is reluctant to be here, but resigned. Although his sympathies lie with the Empress, they most certainly do not lie with Ranulf of Chester. He gives you his greeting and asks that you ride over to Thornford and show Heulwen and the children this letter — you know the difficulty he has in setting quill to parchment.

  I pray that this siege is finished soon, for if it is not, I swear I shall go mad with naught to do but crouch in a draughty tent, watching everything grow mould or becoming rusty while I huddle in my cloak and try to keep warm. Well I remember other ways of keeping warm with you and I cannot say whether the remembrance is a pleasure or a pain.

  Written at Lincoln the first day of February,

  Renard finished writing, discarded the quill which had started to split, and sent Owain from his task of oiling a spear tip, out into the sleet to find a messenger. Across the tent, as he sanded the parchment and set about melting wax to seal it, Henry clinked pitcher to cup again and focused on him with the owlish scrutiny of the well drunk.

  ‘Did you ask Elene for more wine?’ he said.

  Renard shot his brother a frosty look. ‘Yes.’

  Henry took several loud gulps. ‘Good.’

  Renard added pointedly, ‘Whether I actually get to drink any myself is another matter.’

  The smell of hot wax mingled with the other musty, pungent odours of the tent. Henry wiped his gambeson sleeve across his mouth. ‘You don’t begrudge me an odd measure, do you?’

  ‘The odd measure, not at all,’ Renard said in the same, cutting tone. Of late Henry had been resorting to entire flagons.

  ‘’S all right then,’ Henry said. ‘Wine numbs the pain from my wounds … all of them.’ He pointed at the letter. ‘Have you told her everything?’

  Renard wrapped the letter in a square of waxed cloth and tied it up deftly, cutting the string with his dagger. ‘Such as?’ he said as he concentrated on the task in hand.

  ‘Such as that yellow-haired wench who came scratching round the tent last night?’

  Renard looked surprised. ‘Why should I tell her about that? She knows full well that whores abound in an army’s tail and that they proposition every man in sight. If I made mention, she would think me guilty.’

  ‘And aren’t you? I saw what she was doing.’

  Renard rested his palms on the table. ‘If you hadn’t fallen down drunk, you’d have seen me push her away. I wasn’t that desperate.’

  Henry sneered. ‘You must think I’m an idiot!’

  ‘Jesu, Henry, just get out,’ Renard said wearily as if to a truculent child. ‘Take the flagon if you want. I doubt there’s more than dregs left in it anyway the way you’ve been swilling it down your throat!’

  Henry lurched to his feet. Unbalanced by drink and his damaged right side, he almost fell, clutched at the table for support and knocked the pitcher sideways. Renard was right. Little more than dregs did remain to trickle away into the floor. ‘Perhaps I am an idiot!’ he snarled as he regained his feet. ‘But I do not need to be made to feel like one!’

  The tent was very quiet after he had gone. Renard swore and stared unseeingly at a clump of black mould sporing there. It was not about a yellow-haired whore at all. It was about everything that he possessed and Henry did not.

  He swore again, and the messenger just entering the tent in Owain’s wake baulked, stared for an instant and quickly dropped his gaze to the
sheepskin hat in his hand.

  Renard pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It wasn’t personally intended,’ he said and picked up the neatly sealed package. ‘I want you to take this to my lady wife, wherever she may be. Try Ledworth first.’

  The man took the letter, and bowed from the tent. Owain came forward and unobtrusively began to clear the shards of broken jug from the tent floor. ‘Shall I bring you a fresh jug, my lord?’

  Renard shook his head and drew another sheet of parchment towards him, indicating that he wanted to be left alone. The parchment was beaded with wine, the colour of rain-diluted blood. He shovelled his thoughts impatiently to one side like an overworked groom attacking a pile of soiled straw, and with brisk decision trimmed another quill.

  Moments later Owain burst back into the tent, Guy d’Alberin hot on his heels and both boys quivering and wide-eyed as a pair of young deer. ‘Sire, come quickly! The scouts have sighted the rebel army drawing nigh the river!’ cried Owain. ‘Thousands of them!’ A rapid swallow garbled the last word.

  Renard dropped the quill, left his stool and the doubtful warmth of the brazier, and went outside. Cold needles of sleet stung his face and the ground underfoot was as treacherous as a butcher’s shambles. Men were leaving tents and watchfires to view the approaching army, their faces a mingling of expressions ranging from bored ‘seen it all before’ cynicism, through frank, fairground curiosity, to excitement and gut-wrenching dread.

  Owain’s ‘thousands’ proved to be a vanguard of less than thirty mounted knights with perhaps twice that number of footsoldiers, and all of them spreading out along the far bank of the swollen Witham, searching for a suitable fording point. Renard narrowed his lids the better to see the shapes busying themselves below, industrious as aphids colonising an orchard leaf. Tents were being pitched and more men were riding to join them through the gathering afternoon murk.