Releasing her, he turned away and began to buckle on his belt. ‘It was only meant to be a kiss,’ he said with a wry shrug. ‘But sometimes one thing leads too quickly to another. I’m living on a knife edge just now and what I need to ease the tension is …’

She stared at him with round eyes, half knowing what he meant and half curious.

‘What I need, I can’t have. Hell’s death!’ he growled, thoroughly discomfited. ‘How did we ever get on to this from wool production! I’d better go, the Earl of Leicester will be waiting.’

Biting her lip, she watched him leave. One of the maids giggled behind her hand that it was going to be a fine wedding but nothing compared to the wedding night.

Elene snapped at the girl to hold her tongue and, for something to do, picked up Renard’s discarded clothing to send down to the laundry. His shirt smelt of stale sweat and something far less identifiable and far more un settlingly pleasant. Her body quivered with the memory of that kiss, the feel of his hands on her. Her loins felt heavy and dull with pressure. Hastily she bundled the soiled garments into the arms of a waiting maid and sought a task with less evocative associations.

Robert, Earl of Leicester was thirty-five years old, a handsome man with heavy-lidded grey eyes that missed very little despite their sleepy appearance. Renard greeted him with a smile that did not conceal any of his wariness and sat down on a vacant stool near the brazier.

‘I don’t blame you,’ Leicester said, amiably cynical. ‘If I were you, I’d be looking at me that way too.’

Renard laughed and relaxed. ‘Everyone’s hunting everyone else. You spend so much time looking over your shoulder that finally you disappear up your own backside.’

‘The Earl has invited us to guest with Stephen at the Christmas court,’ Guyon said huskily and cleared his throat. ‘But I think he can appreciate that in the present circumstances it is impossible.’

‘The King was hoping particularly to greet you,’ Leicester said smoothly to Renard. ‘And your new wife. Has she ever been to the Christmas court? It may be her only opportun — ity before she is burdened with little ones.’

Renard gave the Earl a speculative glance. ‘Will Ranulf de Gernons and William de Roumare be there?’

‘Probably, although with them, nothing is ever certain.’

Renard rose from the stool and paced the room. A woman’s distaff lay on top of a pile of prepared wool in a wide willow basket. He thought of Elene and felt a renewed flash of warmth. He swung round. ‘Then I’ll come.’

‘Renard—’ Guyon began, and broke off, coughing. Adam moved from his seat in the candle shadows and quickly poured him some wine.

Renard turned to his father. ‘Sire, if you had been that keen to see Matilda wear a crown you’d have done more by now than just sit on the fence. You were persuaded to swear for her twelve years ago by Robert of Gloucester, but it was always a forced oath.’

‘Matilda has a son,’ Adam pointed out, his voice calm but with an edge to it like the bite of good steel.

‘Who could either save or sink us depending on how he matures, and don’t say he cannot be any worse than what we have because it wouldn’t be true.’

‘I was not going to moot anything of the sort,’ Adam said. ‘I was just going to remind you that the oath was not to Matilda alone, but to the heirs of her body.’

Leicester scowled at Adam. ‘Perhaps you ought to be with the rest of the rebels in Bristol,’ he suggested.

Adam spread his hands. ‘I make no bones as to where my sympathies dwell, but my family’s interests and my lands come first. If Shrewsbury was to be regained by the Empress, it might be a different matter. For the moment, I am content to fence-sit and see what else Miles of Gloucester can accomplish apart from tucking Worcester, Hereford and Winchcomb beneath his belt. He’s quite a thorn in Stephen’s side, isn’t he?’

Leicester glared at Adam, who glared implacably back.

Guyon, struggling for breath tonight, gathered himself to intercept before the atmosphere became too volatile for it to end in anything less than a quarrel, but Renard preempted him.

‘It’s me you want, isn’t it?’ he said to Leicester. ‘I have said I will come to court and bring Elene with me, and as you know I am not constrained by oaths to anyone. For the rest, an agreement to differ might be best. My mother’s very proud of that screen. It’s Lebanese cedarwood you know, straight from the Song of Solomon, and if it gets damaged while you’re each trying to persuade the other, you’ll have a war of an entirely different kind on your hands, one you’d lose.’

Robert of Leicester subsided with a reluctant chuckle and held out a broad, fleshy palm to Adam who sheepishly smiled and took it. Renard exchanged eloquent looks of relief with his father.

‘Don’t make me laugh!’ Guyon wheezed and took a sip of wine. ‘Did you look in on Henry?’

‘He was asleep.’ Renard’s mouth levelled and tightened. ‘I’ll be seeking reparations at court.’

‘You won’t get them,’ said Leicester. ‘Leave well alone. Only an idiot kicks a wasp’s nest when he’s been stung.’

Renard said nothing, but his expression was closed.

‘Did you raid while you were up at Caermoel?’ Adam asked.

‘I thought about it, but there wasn’t enough time. I was too busy at the keep itself to hare about the country with a burning torch in my hand.’ He looked at Leicester, poured himself some wine and made himself busy with it.

‘And you’re not going to talk about what you were doing in front of me?’ said the Earl with a good-natured smile.

‘No.’ Renard did not smile in reply. ‘You saw the bodies on the gibbet as you rode in? Beautiful adornments for a wedding feast. I only wish that Ranulf of Chester was dangling among them.’

That evening, as Ravenstow settled down to sleep, Renard showed his father a parchment upon which were rough sketches of suggested alterations to the castle at Caermoel. ‘Not the keep as such, let that stay,’ Renard said, finger advancing across the sheet, ‘but extend the curtain wall across this part and build towers here and here to guard the approach, and also put some at intervals along the wall. And I have added plans for two more well shafts to be dug in these areas.’

Guyon stared at the plans in amazement. ‘Are these your own ideas?’

‘Borrowed and improvised from places I saw in Outremer. Sayhun and Kaukab al-Hawa. They’re better than anything we’ve got.’

Judith looked over their shoulders. ‘Expensive?’ she queried.

‘Depends what you set against it,’ Renard shrugged. ‘Not really. I can probably raise a relief from the vassals — with Papa’s permission,’ he added quickly. The physical responsibility for the lands might now lie with him, but the verbal control was still his father’s.

‘I remember when the walls first went up,’ Judith said mistily. ‘It was in the early years of our marriage. You were conceived and born there.’

‘And you don’t want to see it all change?’ He looked round at her.

‘It was a long time ago,’ she said with a briskness that covered emotion. ‘Too long.’

‘The changes are all to the good,’ Guyon said. ‘Providing you can do it without beggaring us.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘I remember those times too!’ His tone was both rueful and poignant. ‘Half a mind to the passion and the other half worrying about what to do if the Welsh made a full-scale assault. It’s too strong for the Welsh now, but Ranulf de Gernons could probably take it if he made a determined effort.’

Renard tapped the parchment. ‘Not when these have been implemented. I’ll engage engineers and stone workers and start the work immediately.’

‘Before you go to court?’

‘As soon as all this nuptial frivolity is over. I’ll leave this with you.’ He headed towards the door of his parents’ bedchamber.

‘Nuptial frivolity?’ Guyon repeated as his son reached the curtain. ‘Renard, go gently with the girl. It might not be to your taste, but do not spoil it for her.’

Renard’s shoulders stiffened and his hands clenched at his sides.

‘It is my prerogative to deal you crusty advice,’ Guyon added with a mixture of humour and warning.

‘And mine to do as I see fit,’ Renard replied, but relaxed his stance. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be as meek as a unicorn in a virgin’s lap.’

‘You don’t expect me to believe that!’

Judith fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘Did you visit Hawkfield on your way home?’

‘No I didn’t.’ He fingered the heavy crimson wool of the curtain. There was hunting on the morrow for fresh meat and he intended returning by way of Olwen, but he was not about to make such an admission to his mother, who would not see his need in the same light as he did. She was still looking at him suspiciously. He could feel her eyes boring into his spine. Without turning round he bid her and his father good-night and quickly made his escape.

‘I knew you would come,’ Olwen said. She stood in the doorway and watched Renard dismount in the gathering dusk. His courser hung its head and rested on one hip. Salty sweat caked its shoulders and flanks and there was a bloody score across its chest where a branch had whipped it during the chase. Renard was in a similar state to his mount, burrs and snags in his cloak and a dried cut on the hand that delivered the reins to a groom.

‘Water him, but not too much, and wipe him down but don’t unsaddle him,’ he instructed the man. ‘I’m not staying long.’

‘How long is not long?’ Olwen asked, leaning against the door jamb and folding her arms.

A bitter autumn wind rustled dead leaves across the courtyard. The coming night smelt cold. The warmth behind Olwen beckoned Renard and the faint, spicy aroma of food he had not tasted since leaving Antioch. A smile twisted his lips. In Outremer he had longed for salt beef and rye bread. Now it was the smell of lamb pilaff that was enticing him. ‘As long as it takes,’ he said, drawing her into his arms.