The Leopard Unleashed (26 page)

‘Henry, stop it!’ Elene quivered. She could not go to him and comfort him; neither could she pick up the shears and drive him from the room. ‘I told you, you have said enough!’

‘No, as usual, I have said too much.’ His throat worked. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff but controlled. ‘Apart from apologising, I also came to tell you that I’m going home to Oxley tomorrow. I’m mended enough for that now, and it would be too difficult if I stayed.’

Elene bit her lip and nodded. She pretended to busy herself with the length of cloth on the sewing trestle.

Henry remained in the doorway staring at her the way a hungry but well-trained dog might stare at a meal it was not permitted to have. ‘I want to part as friends,’ he pleaded softly. ‘Will you forgive me?’

A small, darker coloured blot began to spread on the pale green linen beneath Elene’s fingers, then another one. ‘I forgive you,’ she said, her throat constricted as she tried to speak and breathe without giving herself away. She dared not lift her gaze from the trestle, not for a long time, and when she finally did, Henry was gone and the first hint of dusk was beginning to deepen the shadows in the room. Free to cry, she found that she was no longer able.

On the day of Renard’s return to Ravenstow, Elene had spent a long afternoon in the town, buying at the market and talking to the merchants – the cloth sellers in particular – and to an ambitious young packman who had recently become a carrier and wanted to expand his business yet again. She offered him a contract transporting cloth between Woolcot and the main villages beholden to Ravenstow. He leaped at the proposal, but proved himself shrewd by haggling the terms a little more towards his advantage without losing Elene’s goodwill.

Satisfied with her own end of the bargain, a little amused at the young man’s sharp wit, Elene let Owain help her into the saddle, and turned Bramble for home. Sir Thomas d’Alberin, leader of her escort for the forty days of his feudal service, watched her with long-suffering eyes. It was raining, his gouty foot was throbbing against his stirrup iron and he had heartburn from eating too many spiced shrimp pasties at the pie seller’s booth while he waited for Elene to complete her business with the cocky young upstart
who called himself a carrier on the strength of the two moth-eaten ponies he had purchased to replace his haversack.

Sir Thomas had considered Elene a sweet little thing when he encountered her at her wedding in November, but as with all the Ravenstow women, that first impression had been a sugar coating, disguising a concoction that he was only too pleased belonged in Lord Renard’s cup and not his own.

He glanced at her as she drew the hood of her cloak over her veil and cast a hazel grimace at the gathering rain clouds. Unlike Lady Judith, she did not snap or turn sarcastic when angered. Her tone remained level and calm, but her full mouth would tighten around the words and her eyes would narrow, as they were narrowing now, in response to the rain, leaving him in no doubt as to her displeasure.

Sir Thomas signalled the escort to increase the pace and thought with new longing of his own plain, plump wife. Guard duty at Ravenstow was always an adventure into a different, brighter world, but after a time the colours jarred his eyes and the struggle to meet expectations frazzled him. The situation this year was exacerbated by the fact of a new lord, his absence at war, and this dangerous quarrel with Ranulf of Chester. Not only that, but the son Thomas had brought with him, hoping that the lad would make a good impression, had done nothing but behave badly, particularly towards the new squire.

By the time they arrived at the castle, the rain was tipping out of the leaden clouds like water from a leaky bucket. The thick new coat of limewash applied to Ravenstow’s walls during the past few weeks was sluicing in white runnels into the tussocky rocks upon which the keep was built.
Mingled with the thud of the rain, Elene heard the rush of the river, still high with the spring spate. Bramble’s hooves squelched on mud and thudded on the planks of the drawbridge. The mare pricked her ears at the familiar smell of home and, unbidden, increased her pace to a trot, nudging the wet, sleek rump of the horse in front.

The bailey was already busy, every available groom and lackey attending to destriers, palfreys, rounceys and baggage nags. Two supply wains were leaning against a wall and other servants were toing and froing between them, the armoury and the hall as they unloaded the contents. Eadric, the head groom, who was leading a black stallion with familiar star and long white hind stockings towards a clean stall, paused and touched his forehead to Elene. ‘We weren’t expecting ’em, my lady,’ he said, excusing himself for neglecting Bramble. ‘I’ll only be a moment with this ’un.’

Puffing, Sir Thomas helped her down from the mare. Rain dripped from the nasal of his helmet into the groove of his upper lip. He blew upwards, spraying droplets. ‘Lord Renard’s home,’ he announced unnecessarily, sounding relieved. Elene picked up her skirts and ran.

The great hall was crowded with armed men and stank of unwashed bodies and wet wool steaming rankly in the smoky fug. Firelight flashed off rust-speckled hauberks and sword hilts. Servants were busy with jugs of cider and baskets of bread.

Elene tapped a huge, broad-shouldered knight on the back. ‘Ancelin, where’s Renard?’

He swung round. His blond hair was greasy from crown to cheek hollow and the ends hung in wet strings upon his coif. There were tired pouches under his eyes but his smile was as broad and genuine as ever as he looked down on
her from an advantage of a full twelve inches. ‘In the solar, my lady.’ He pointed with his cup, then, with a sudden bellow of joy, rose on tiptoe and extended one brawny arm, affording her a whiff of rank armpit as he snatched a chicken leg off a loaded tray a maid was trying to carry to a trestle.

‘Is he all right?’ Elene felt a pang of fear for she knew that Renard was not a lord to hold aloof from his men without good reason.

‘More or less,’ Ancelin said indistinctly through a massive mouthful of meat. ‘A trifle bad-tempered with the pain, but if you can bear with him, you’ll not find him too sorely wounded to greet you fittingly.’

‘Wounded!’

Ancelin chuckled and wiped his lips on the freckled back of his hand. ‘And not even in the thick of battle … excuse me.’ He broke away from her to dive after a wide wicker basket of hot bread.

Elene gathered her damp skirts and ran, inasmuch as that was possible, down the hall to the solar. She knew that Ancelin would not be guzzling with such joyous abandon if Renard was seriously hurt, but nevertheless it was with a heart full of apprehension that she drew aside the hanging across the solar archway and stepped inside the room.

Renard was sitting in a high-backed chair, one leg propped on a footstool, and Judith was bent over, carefully examining his exposed foot. ‘They’re not broken,’ she said doubtfully, as if not quite sure, and turned round as his gaze flickered to the curtain where Elene stood as white as a ghost.

‘It’s all right, he isn’t going to be crippled for life, just a few weeks,’ Judith said by way of reassurance. Leaving him, she went out, touching Elene lightly on the shoulder.

Renard raised the small cup of usquebaugh near his elbow and drained it in one fast gulp.

Elene advanced on him. Like Ancelin’s, his hair was long and unkempt, and through a grizzle of beard his face was harsh with pain and fatigue. She looked at his foot. The skin was broken here and there and across his toes the swelling was a magnificent conglomeration of shades of purple and blue. ‘What happened?’

He made an impatient sound. ‘A baggage wain stuck in the mud at a ford this morning. I dismounted to help push it free, and the carter’s accursed nag took fright at a pheasant flushed from cover by one of the dogs and shied sideways on to my foot!’

Elene bit her lip. It did no good. She covered her mouth with her hand. He glared at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘It looks as though it hurts dreadfully.’

‘It does,’ he growled.

Contrite, she stooped over to kiss him. He relaxed slightly and curved his arms around her waist. The damp end of her braid tickled the back of his hand. He became aware that she was only a little less wet than he was himself. Her lips were cold and tasted of rain, but then everything did – rain or river or stagnant weed. Sighing, he released her.

‘Did Bishop Nigel get his comeuppance then?’ she asked.

He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. ‘After a fashion, I suppose. We built a bridge of boats and hurdles to cross to Ely where he was holed up at Aldreth. A local monk with a grudge against him guided us through the marshes. We took the good Bishop Nigel by surprise from behind his back.’ He lifted one hauberk-clad shoulder. ‘Unfortunately he escaped – to Bristol we think, but we captured some of his knights and most of his treasure.
There’s a necklace in my baggage – that’s a personal present from the King to you. Apparently you made a good impression on the Queen at Christmas.’

‘Did I?’

‘She likes strong-minded women who rule their men,’ he said drily and raised his lids to flash her a look full of brooding amusement. ‘I was not altogether flattered, although I suppose it might be true. You’re just not as obvious as Mama, are you?’

Elene was slightly taken aback. It had never occurred to her that she might be able to rule Renard, or that the Queen might think her capable. ‘She had the advantage of your father’s devotion,’ she said, and began to pluck at the sodden leather laces of his coif.

‘Ah now, that is fishing with either a very subtle or a very foolish bait, Nell,’ he smiled, and wrapped his fingers around one of her braids to draw her down to him again, adding just before he kissed her, ‘I’ve missed you.’

Her palm was against his throat and she felt his pulse surge rapidly. He slipped his hand beneath her cloak to stroke her body, revelling in a luxury that had been six weeks absent from his life. The camp whores had proved no trial to celibacy. Most of them stank worse than the surrounding fetid marshes and he was still smarting too much from the wounds Olwen had inflicted on his pride to seek a whore for the mere easing of boredom.

He closed his eyes again, savouring. Elene’s lips were as soft and cool as damp silk. Her fingertips traced a delicate, fiery pattern over his throat and her body, pressing upon his, made him groan. ‘Oh Jesu, yes, I’ve missed you.’

Elene caught her breath. From the way he had taken fire at such preliminary stimulus, she surmised that he had
not been with other women whilet on campaign, and that acted as a spur to her desire. ‘Me?’ she asked. ‘Or this?’ And boldly sought beneath his hauberk and gambeson. At which embarrassing juncture Judith returned. Elene snatched her hand away, her face poppy-scarlet.

Renard was sufficiently graceless to guffaw for all that he tried to stifle it behind his hand.

‘You will do that on the other side of your face!’ his mother warned. ‘I’ve had Elflin prepare you a tub in your chamber and to get there you’ll have to walk on that foot – unless of course you intend hopping across the hall like a mad heron.’ Ignoring his scowl, she turned to Elene. ‘Child, his father and I were often interrupted on occasions far more intimate than this one. If my mind had not been so full of housing and feeding that untimely rabble out there, I’d have given you due warning.’

Her words had been meant to comfort, but made Elene realise that in her haste to reassure herself of Renard’s safety, she had been remiss in her duties as chatelaine. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left it all to you. I’ll …’ She started towards the doorway.

‘Don’t apologise.’ Judith waved her hand. ‘Your place is with your husband, undeserving wretch though he be, and it keeps me busy.’

‘Rabble?’ Renard protested as he levered himself carefully to his feet, assisted by the two women. He had seen Elene’s hesitation and the pain underlying his mother’s response, and knew when to steer the conversation into less turbulent channels. ‘They’ve been working their backsides off for the last six weeks and in conditions only a frog would enjoy. Don’t salt your tongue too liberally while you see to them, Mama.’

Judith’s lips twitched. ‘As if I would!’ she said.

By the time Renard sank into the steaming tub that had been prepared for him, he was grey with pain, all thoughts of chaffing anyone erased from his mind by the pain from his foot, muffled curses the limit of his ability. Through a throbbing haze he was aware of Elene and his mother consulting low-voiced about the best method of bandaging his damaged toes.

Judith departed. Silence fell, punctuated by the small sounds of Elene returning to his coffer the few items of clothing in his baggage that did not require laundering or discarding.

The pain eased and his knotted muscles relaxed in the hot, herb-infused water. Elene came to the tub and examined him with a critical eye but could see no other signs of injury on his body. There was a shallow scratch on his face between eye socket and beard, but it looked like a scrape from a tree branch that would heal quickly of its own accord. Unstoppering the jar of stavesacre lotion she was holding, she knelt beside the tub and handed him a cloth. ‘Cover your eyes.’

The smell of the lotion was pungent and familiar. He did as she bid and said in a muffled voice, ‘I hope you have plenty. We’re all alive with lice.’

‘Heulwen had a surplus. She sent some over last month knowing how likely that would be.’ She worked the lotion into his hair and left it while she barbered off his beard and its occupants.