‘Where’s the next crossing point?’ Renard demanded, lowering his bow. The stave was printed and smeared with blood from his torn fingernails.
‘Newark, I think. Lord William knows.’
‘Yes, Newark,’ William groaned, sitting up. ‘Too far for them to catch up, and we can leave a couple of the lads here with their bows to dissuade them from trying this way again … God’s teeth, I feel as if I’ve been through the paddles of Elene’s fulling mill! Is the horse all right?’
‘Bruised and grazed, but still rideable.’ Renard crouched beside his brother. ‘Obviously the news of my escape is well abroad.’
‘Bound to be.’ William’s teeth chattered together. ‘There’s a new Augustinian priory at Thurgarton, no more than two hours’ ride. We can dry out and fortify ourselves for the rest of the journey … Your hands are bleeding.’
‘Have you ever tried dragging a hauberk-clad body out of a river?’ Renard said ruefully. His limbs were starting to tremble in the aftermath of effort and he forced himself to stand up before it became too easy to stay down. Holding out his hand, he pulled William to his feet too, then fetched the bay and went to Henry’s blanket. Sodden with water, William squelched over to collect his own mount from the soldier holding it.
Renard stared down at Henry, then suddenly he stooped and laid his bloodied fingers against his brother’s throat. The skin was clammy and still warm, but there was no life beat, and his face was as grey as the sky, his eyes half open and fixed on eternity.
‘Christ’s mercy, no,’ Renard said softly.
William looked round from inspecting his mount’s grazed legs. ‘What is it?’
‘It doesn’t matter the pace we set now.’ Gently Renard closed Henry’s lids and covered his face. It was not the River Trent they had crossed, but the Styx, gateway to the underworld.
William stared. His throat worked and he shook his head. To live with the imminence of death was still not to be prepared at the moment of knowledge. ‘We can put him over one of the spare horses.’ His voice was a croaked whisper.
‘Yes.’ Renard’s expression was blank as he stood up again. ‘Like a sack of grain or a dead roebuck. I suppose Henry would see no wrong in it.’ His voice cracked. ‘He’s been used to making do all his life.’ He took the bay’s bridle, but instead of mounting, he bunched his fist and crashed it into the trunk of the nearest tree in a futile protest against a futile waste.
Chapter 25
The Welsh Marches
The clink of metal on stone in rhythm with the heartbeat of some mason invaded Elene’s consciousness and brought her from a restless, dream-haunted sleep into the awareness of a bleak winter dawn. Shivering, she sat up, called out to her maids and taking her bedrobe from the foot of the bed, put it on over her shift.
In the cradle beside her, Hugh was still asleep, although soon he would be awake and greedily demanding like the ravening Vikings to whom, in a far distant past, he owed his bright Norse colouring. Her breasts were hard and pleasantly sore with milk. The constable’s wife had suggested that she obtain a wet-nurse, but Elene guarded jealously the privilege of feeding her son. His infant years were all that she would have of him. The moment he could sit his own horse and point a toy lance at a quintain, he would enter a man’s arena and break the thread that attached him to the distaff.
Her glance went to the coffer and the parchment lying there — Renard’s last letter from Lincoln, written two days before the battle. She knew it by heart and had no need to read the words because they were indelibly printed on her mind, as was the news of the disaster that had overtaken King Stephen’s forces.
The letter had been followed a week later by Adam’s appearance at Ravenstow along with Renard’s two frightened squires and evil tidings. Having been forced to flee before it was too late, Adam had known nothing of what had transpired after the battle, apart from the fact that Lincoln had been sacked. The smoke had cast a pall over the city, visible for miles around. As he told her and Judith in the courtyard, they had seen Gorvenal being led away by a groom. The stallion had been blanketed, without rider or decorated high saddle. Seeing him thus had brought Adam’s news home to roost with all the impact that his words had been unable to convey. Not just the battle lost, but perhaps the rest of their lives.
Judith had drifted away to the plesaunce in a daze and remained there until nightfall, sitting upon the turf seat and talking to herself. Both Renard and Henry were missing on the losing side of a battle. Her other son, scapegrace and half-wild, was somewhere among the victors, unless he too had been lost in the fighting. It was too much to bear, and she told Guyon so over and over again.
Adam had stayed awhile, but had had to leave to attend to his own lands. Then he was bound for Gloucester, to do homage to the Empress and intercede on Elene’s behalf for Ravenstow. From what Renard had told her of the Empress, Elene doubted that she would be persuaded to show clemency. Left in sole command of the keep because of Judith’s withdrawal, Elene had mastered her grief and panic in an outward display of calm that was reassuring to everyone but herself.
Two days after Adam’s visit, Sir Thomas d’Alberin arrived with a straggle of Ravenstow men, having made their way from the disaster at Lincoln by hazardous by ways. Sir Thomas was a shadow of his former bulk, and were it not for the haggard story written on his face, would have looked twice as healthy as when he set out. Elene and Judith had learned that the King had been taken prisoner, the victim of a minor head wound, and probably Renard with him, although Sir Thomas could not be quite sure. As to Henry, he was probably dead, but there was no final certainty.
Elene shivered and hugged her arms as her maids came from the antechamber in response to her summons. Renard might or might not be dead. He might or might not be a prisoner. The not knowing was destroying her. Leaving Judith at Ravenstow, she had come up the march to Caermoel to warn the garrison of possible attack by the Earl of Chester or his Welsh levies, and to hearten the men by her presence. Five days she had been here now. Five solitary, frightened days that were filled with the banging of masons’ hammers, the sawing of the carpenters, the slap of trowel upon mortar, and the rumbling of wain wheels as they delivered the supplies vital to a keep that might soon be under siege. ‘Madam?’ said the maid.
Elene folded her shaking hands in the sleeves of her bedrobe. ‘The blue gown,’ she said, making an effort. ‘Have some hot honey and wine ready for after mass.’
‘Yes, madam.’ The maid went to Elene’s clothing pole to find the requested gown. Another maid, yawning behind her hand, fed charcoal on to the brazier. Hugh woke up and began making his usual loud demands for sustenance.
Elene took her son and put him to her breast. She watched him as he suckled, his tiny fingers kneading her flesh and his jaws working steadily. Elene was overwhelmed by pangs of love and terror so fierce when she thought what might become of him that she began to weep softly. This impeded her flow of milk and Hugh sucked furiously for a moment, then released her nipple and howled his indignation to the world, which only made Elene cry harder.
In the end she had to give him to one of the maids who had her own baby and a surplus of milk in her breasts. The storm of tears left her exhausted and gave her a throbbing headache. Feeling ill with strain, she went to mass, lit candles and prayed for deliverance. The floor was cold and her mind remained a remote observer of all her actions, as though she moved in a dream.
On emerging from the chapel into the bailey, she was greeted by small, wind-floated feathers of snow. One of the guards on the wall walk, his voice full of excited alarm, cried out a warning of approaching troops.
Paralysed with terror Elene stood and stared up at the great, grey walls. Suddenly they seemed no protection at all. If she could have moved, she would have covered her ears with her hands and run to hide in the smallest, darkest recess that she could find.
William de Lorys, Renard’s companion in Antioch and now the constable of Caermoel, responsible for its defence
, followed Elene from the chapel in time to hear the cry from the walls. ‘It’s too soon to be de Gernons,’ he re — assured her. ‘The whoreson will still be down in Gloucester persuading the Empress of his sincerity in the hope of being given Carlisle.’
Mind and body jolted back into awareness. ‘But she won’t give it to him,’ Elene said stiffly. ‘She’ll give him Caermoel instead.’
‘My lady, your cloak.’ Alys set Elene’s wool and marten mantle around her shoulders as de Lorys left them in order to mount the battlements and discover more.
Elene stroked the sleek fur trimming of the cloak and thought that something always had to die in order to gratify others. Alys was trying to usher her inside to warmth, muttering about the cold and the growing yellowish heavi — ness of the snow clouds.
‘Let me be,’ Elene snapped in a voice that would have better belonged to Judith, or even the termagant Empress herself. Shaking herself free of her maid’s solicitous arm, she followed de Lorys up to the battlements.
The wind snatched at her veil, whipped strands of hair free of her braids and stung her eyes as she tried to focus on the advancing troops below. Miniature men on mini — ature horses with pack ponies in tow. They did not hesitate at the ford, but splashed straight through it, heading for the steep pathway that wound its way around Caermoel crag and up to the twin baileys and keep that crowned its summit.
‘Not sufficient numbers for the enemy.’ De Lorys pursed his lips. ‘Looks like they’re coming straight up; seeking hospitality I would guess, or else they’re some of our own from Ravenstow or Ledworth. Pox take it, I can’t make out their shields.’ He scowled at the falling snow that was now obliterating their vision.
For a moment Elene slumped against the merlon, weak with relief. A shout drifted on the wind and guards in the outer ward suddenly began pulling back the heavy draw-bar that secured the gatehouse door. Elene turned and, standing on tiptoe, strained her eyes. Through a whirl of banking, shifting white, she saw that the leading horse was a black with white hind stockings. Its rider’s shield, momentarily glimpsed, was blazoned with a rampant black leopard upon a flame-coloured background.
‘It’s Renard!’ she shrieked. ‘God be praised, it’s Renard, he’s alive!’ Whirling round to de Lorys, her eyes feverishly ablaze, she kissed him hard on the cheek. He staggered, and then grinned his own delight and relief. Without waiting for him, Elene ran pell-mell down to the bailey, shouting at a loitering maid to run to the kitchens and warn the cook of extra mouths to feed. Another was ordered to see to the arranging of a bathtub in the bedchamber. The grooms and other servants were alerted.
Tense excitement shivered the air as the first horses trotted through the open gateway and emerged from the guarded passage into the ward. Elene watched Renard dismount. His cloak was scaled with snow, turning haddock-silver at the edges as it melted. It was agony crossing the bailey to him. She knew that she must not run among the destriers in case one kicked out, but all she wanted to do was fling herself upon him — hold and taste and know that he was solid and real, not some figment of her yearning imagination.
Renard spoke to one of his companions, then to the groom with an instruction about the horse, and thus did not turn until Elene had almost reached him. She stopped in her tracks as though hit by a crossbow quarrel, and gasped. The words of welcome stuck in her throat, for the picture she had carried in her mind’s eye for the past two months bore no resemblance to the man confronting her now. Renard’s face was gaunt, pared to the bone, and along one of those bones was a livid, half-healed scar. His mouth was a hard, narrow line, slightly down-turned, but he succeeded in giving her a bitter smile.
‘Commendable,’ he said. ‘My mother fainted.’
Elene swallowed, the words of welcome stuck in her throat. She was never good at dealing with him when he was like this. The more he hid behind defensive sarcasm, the more she floundered. ‘What happened?’
‘My barber’s careless,’ he snapped as he removed his helm and stuffed his gauntlets inside.
‘We thought … We did not know if you were …’ Elene stopped, unnerved by his blank grey stare. ‘Do you want to bathe?’
‘Do I what?’
Elene bit her lip, and instead of casting herself into his arms as she had first intended, she gathered her skirts and fled.
Renard stared after her and swore. He knew it was not fair to vent his temper on her just because she still looked all eager innocence when he had been through the pit of hell. ‘Welcome, my lord,’ said de Lorys with a touch of irony.
Renard responded by thrusting his helm into the knight’s hands. ‘Hold this,’ he said, and hastened in pursuit of his wife.
He caught up with her just beyond the gateway to the inner bailey, grasped her arm, turned her round and kissed her, hard.
‘Christ!’ he muttered, surfacing briefly. ‘Do I want to bathe indeed? I can think of better ways of drowning.’ He kissed her again.
The snow fell in a thick, white curtain. Elene clung to him, her fingers in his hair, her lips parted and starving. Despite the cold, her body felt as warm and pliant as sunlit willow. His embrace softened, but the core of urgency remained.
‘Let’s go within,’ he muttered against her ear, and then with an effort stood back and touched her cheek. ‘Nell,’ he said softly. ‘Jesu God … you don’t know …’ He broke off, his throat working. Taking her hand, he led her to the hall and through it to the adjoining bedchamber.
A steaming tub stood in the centre of the room. Renard eyed it speculatively.
‘Shall I get rid of it?’ Elene blushed, wishing she had never given orders for it to be prepared in the first place.
‘No, just the maids.’ He jerked his head.
Elene nodded at Alys and the other two women. They curtseyed and left, taking Hugh with them. Renard’s eyes dwelt briefly on the child, but for the moment, all his interest was centred on Elene and his need. He could not, did not want to think — desired only oblivion and a release from thinking.
From the direction of the hall, Elene heard a man’s voice raised in laughter and realised it was the first merriment she had heard since Renard went to Lincoln. He sent a look towards it and she thought that he grimaced, but then his eyes returned to her and devoured. Closing on her, he pulled off her chaplet and her veil, then unfastened the brooch at her neckline with predatory fingers. Elene swayed towards him and retorted by reaching to the buckle of his swordbelt. The thickness of the leather and stiff latch frustrated her, and Renard had to stop undressing her to do it himself. Removing his surcoat and, with an effort, his encumbering hauberk, he dropped them on the rushes, then kissing her, pulled her to the bed, uncaring of control, driven by white-hot need.
Elene gasped and subdued a cry as he entered her, but the initial pain swiftly subsided. She shifted beneath him, arching her hips to meet the downward thrust of his, her breathing rapid and erratic. She remembered a frosty night at Salisbury and her wistful longing for Renard to want her as badly as this, without time for dalliance or finesse and she clutched him, triumph sweeping through her.
With a muffled groan he buried his face against her throat, and she felt his fingers grip with the pleasure-pain of his release. She was swept on to the crest of it herself, and clung tightly to him as the intensity of climax rippled through her body.
As his breathing eased, he nibbled the lobe of her ear and the corner of her jaw. She turned her head to return the compliment. Her fingers moving in a caress touched his face, and then the healing wound on his cheekbone. He jerked and winced.
‘I’m sorry, I forgot!’
‘So did I for a moment.’ Renard raised himself up. She wriggled, reluctant to end their union but made uncomfortable by the rucked skirts bunched under her hips. She made a slight murmur of protest as he withdrew, but quickly realised that it was only so that he could continue removing their garments at a more leisurely pace. She sat up as he dictated and let him take her shift.
‘You do
n’t want to get it wet,’ he said, a sudden glint in his eyes.
‘Wet?’ Elene looked at him blankly, then her stare went to the tub and widened. The first heat of passion had been vented in mere moments and the tub still steamed. It was of the upright cask variety. Room for two perhaps, but a very close fit — very close indeed.
The glint spread from his eyes to become a mischievous smile. His gaze dropped to her full, brown-tipped breasts, then lower still. ‘No sense of adventure?’ he teased, and tilting her chin on his forefinger, kissed her. ‘Pleasure me,’ he said softly. ‘God knows, if I could have had control of my dreams these past few weeks, they would have been of this.’
His expression became bleak, almost desolate. All doubts and hesitations left Elene. Willingly she went with him to the tub.
Pulling her ivory comb down through the wet tangles of her hair, Elene listened in appalled silence to Renard’s brief summary of the Lincoln campaign and its disastrous results, of the price paid so far and the price yet to be exacted.
‘Mama says that she is going to endow a convent at Ravenstow on that piece of meadow just outside the town,’ Renard said in that same, careful voice he had used throughout the narrative. ‘She wants to dedicate it to my father, and Henry, and Miles. You never knew my oldest brother, did you? He drowned on the White Ship. Stone, Mama says, will be there long after she’s gone … long after we’ve all gone.’
Elene put the comb down on her coffer. ‘Poor Henry.’ Her voice wobbled and her eyes filled with tears.
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