Renard looked down and beat dust from his travel-grimed clothing. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he grunted. ‘I’m the one running my arse into the ground now.’

The words were spoken in a brittle tone, but without malice, and John did not take him up on them but said instead, ‘I hear you’ve got some solace at Hawkfield, an Outremer dancing girl, no less?’

‘God’s death!’ Renard hissed with irritation. ‘That news has travelled faster than a dose of corn cockles through the bowels. Does Elene know?’

‘Not as yet, at least I don’t think so, but you’ll have to tell her soon.’

‘I know.’ He tried to close the subject by walking towards the curtain, unhitching his swordbelt as he strode.

‘Let her down lightly,’ John pleaded. ‘I know you have a lot on your mind, but for other reasons so has she.’

Renard sighed. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘if only to stop you from preaching me a sermon.’

Renard stepped into the bath water, noting that it was neither scented, herb-scattered, or anything else. It was, however, very hot and made him gasp and clutch at the sides of the tub.

‘Are you trying to boil me!’ he demanded.

‘It will soon cool, my lord. You undressed more quickly than I expected,’ Elene said. ‘Shall I put in some more cold?’

‘No, leave it now.’ Gingerly he relaxed and looked at her. She was like a young deer poised for flight — a tall, slim girl with enormous, haunted eyes. Her lips were full and looked as though they would be quite kissable when set in a different expression. ‘You were not so formal four years ago,’ he said. ‘Or have you forgotten my name?’

She blushed and shook her head and looked at her toes.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he mused. ‘I used to slap your rump and ruffle your hair, but we’ve each gone beyond that kind of familiarity now, haven’t we?’

‘Yes my lo— Renard,’ she said.

‘Where’s the soap?’

She brought it to him and he saw that her hands were shaking, and her chin dimpling with the effort of holding on to her composure. Guilty irritation washed over him, and then a wave of compassion. He sighed. ‘I’m sorry if I was bad-tempered, Nell.’ My mind was dealing with more difficult matters. You were right about the bath.’

She turned away to fiddle with the towels that were laid out. ‘My thoughts were only for your comfort.’ It was the customary duty of the wives and daughters of a great household to see to the well-being of all new arrivals to the keep, be they visitors, friends or family. The offer of a bathtub and comfortable clothing was always the first hospitality. Elene had performed the function of hostess so many times now that this particular occasion should have come as second nature. The fact that it hadn’t and that she was intensely aware of him, naked and in a volatile mood, was unsettling.

‘Yes, I know.’ He began to wash. There was an awkward silence. More out of desperation to break it than anything else, he asked her how the flocks up at Woolcot were faring.

Her reply commenced in a quavery voice. He did not look at her as he washed, but occasionally intercepted with a question. Gradually her tone brightened with a spark of confidence. He discovered that the discussion, far from boring him, was a diversion from mental worries of vassals and supplies, stratagems and defences, sickness and death.

‘I have ideas for the wool clip too,’ she said, as he stepped from the tub and she handed him towels holding them out at arm’s length.

‘Oh yes?’ he said drily, but Elene, not looking at his face, heard only the sarcasm without reading the humour.

‘I … I know they will be yours to deal with as you see fit after our wedding. I wasn’t presuming. I …’

Renard ceased drying himself, tucked the towel around his waist, and took hold of her shoulders. ‘Stop making excuses and apologies, Nell, and we’ll get along much better.’

‘I thought that you were annoyed.’ He was so close that she could not think properly. There was a queasy knot where her stomach should have been, part fear, part something else. She wanted to touch his skin, run her hands up his forearms over the smooth muscles until she linked her fingers around his neck. Of course, innocent girls did not do such things uninvited, but when they had lived under Lady Judith’s tuition, they knew about them all the same, even if not in graphic detail.

‘I was teasing.’ He tipped up her chin. ‘Next time, just answer me back. I promise not to beat you.’

Blushing furiously, she broke away from his light grip.

Renard frowned at her obvious discomfort and picked up his braies. ‘So then, what are you going to do with the wool clip if not sell it to the Flemish?’

‘Oh, some of it will still go to Flanders, we need that security.’ She started to breathe more easily now that there was space between them.

‘And the rest?’

‘I thought of weaving and dyeing it at Woolcot to sell in Ravenstow and Shrewsbury and the other towns.’ After handing him chausses and leg bindings, she fetched a shirt and tunic from a pole near the brazier where they had been airing.

‘That’s already being done elsewhere,’ he pointed out, ‘although it would probably bring in some profit.’

‘I don’t mean homespuns, I mean high-quality fine cloths for those who usually buy from Flemish looms, but of course mine will cost that much less without all the transport tariffs.’

It was an audacious idea and not one, on the face of it, he would have expected to come from Elene. ‘Where are you going to find the skills?’ he tested her as he wound the leggings round his calves and secured them. ‘Do we have them locally?’

‘We do now.’

He looked up as she came over to him. She was confident again, a gleam brightening in her hazel-green eyes as she expounded her plan, her face a warm, rosy pink. ‘Who possesses the skills that our weavers and dyers lack?’

‘The Flemings,’ Renard said.

She nodded. ‘And what kind of mercenary does King Stephen employ in high numbers?’

‘Incompetent ones?’ he could not help commenting with a grin, but then he sobered. ‘Flemings. I see what you mean.’

‘Some want to retire from service, others are injured out of it. Many have families whom they want to see settled while they are at war and there are bound to be a good many with the skills I seek. I’ve found one experienced weaver and a dyer already and settled them on land in the village.’

Renard grasped the shirt she handed him and after a moment remembered to put it on.

She looked at him anxiously. ‘What do you think?’

‘What do I think …?’ He laughed and dug his fingers through his hair. ‘Elene, I think I’ve been looking at a fish out of water suddenly gliding into a lake.’

‘But …’

‘Yes, it’s an excellent idea!’

She gave him a radiant stare, compounded of the puppy-like adoration he remembered and something more elusive. ‘Your tunic is a sample of the kind of cloth I’m hoping to produce,’ she offered shyly.

Renard took the second garment from her hands. The fabric was smooth and soft and of a rich, dark blue, embroidered in the same colour of thread to give it an understated but undeniably rich appearance.

‘It’s from this year’s clip,’ she said. ‘I used woad for the dye and a Flemish loom to weave the piece. I hope it fits you because I had to go by the measurements taken four years ago, although I did add some extra width to the shoulders.’

Thoughtfully he looked at the shirt he was already wearing. ‘You made this too?’

Her small gesture was defensive. ‘I become bored without a use for my hands, and I enjoy needlecraft.’

Rapidly reassessing his first impression of her, he put the tunic on. The fit was excellent and he saw that the embroidery consisted of tiny sheep and coils of grass and even a shepherd and a dog. ‘You took no small time over this,’ he said softly, a hint of awe in his voice.

‘It is my wedding gift to you.’ She blushed again. ‘I know you must have serviceable tunics aplenty and Outremer silks, but you will need some warm court garments too. Besides, I wanted to see how the cloth would look as a finished garment. There’s another tunic too, but you’re not allowed to see that yet.’

Her expression became enchantingly shy, almost mischiev — ous. She darted him an upward look through her lashes in totally innocent provocation. His breath caught. Before he could rationalise the move, he had slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her against him, and bent his mouth to hers.

Elene had been kissed by men before — her father, her vassals, Earl Guyon, Renard’s brothers in rumbustious play at the Christmas feast, by Renard himself in a playful mood, but this sensual, deliberate intimacy was different. She had imagined it often enough, but the reality was out of her control and all in Renard’s, the pressure of his lips delightful and frightening.

Sensing her uncertainty, he started to withdraw. Elene did what she had wanted to do earlier and ran her palms up his sleeves, across his shoulders, and laced her fingers in his hair. Their lips remained joined, hers parting as she pressed forward against him and heard the catch in his throat, the change in his breathing. His hands tightened on her waist. The kiss broke on a mutual gasp. Elene shuddered and buried her face in his neck. Renard held her and closed his eyes. The pressure of Elene’s body, the slight movements she was making filled him with raw desire. Putting his hands up, he removed hers from around his neck, and still holding them, took a step back and a deep breath.

Elene went as red as fire and bit her lip in confusion. She had liked the feel of his arms around her and the touch of his lips, but the inevitable power channelling through their bodies had been a shock, the difference between observing a river in full spate and being tossed into it.