Elizabeth Chadwick - The Leopard Unleashed

Her loose hair felt like silk, her mouth was warm and experienced like her body and he could have taken her there and then on the threshold.

‘Not long then,’ she said against his lips, and slipped her hands down his body. ‘My, my, you are eager aren’t you?’ She drew away from him and went into the hall, looking over her shoulder at him in a provocative manner.

Renard scraped his fingers through his hair and wondered why he was not riding homewards with the rest of the hunting party with the kills from an excellent if rough day’s sport. He looked towards the door, half meaning to stride back out and catch up with them. Then he looked at Olwen and knew that the other half was the stronger and the reason he was here in the first place.

They sat down to a shared bowl of lamb pilaff, flat-bread, and the potent, cloudy local cider. She made no more attempts to bait him and her tongue when she answered his questions while they ate was civil, if stilted.

He noticed that the servants trod warily around her and the atmosphere made him uncomfortable, as if a nocked bow was aimed at the space between his shoulder blades. One of the younger girls accidentally splashed cider on to Olwen’s gown and received a stinging slap out of all proportion to the offence.

The girl retreated, trembling. Renard said nothing, just looked at Olwen, and beneath his stare, she coloured and dropped her lids. He found himself thinking that whatever the crime, Elene would never have struck a servant like that. He pushed his bowl away and drained his cup.

‘You haven’t finished your food.

’ ‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ he retorted and stood up.

A frisson of fear tingled down Olwen’s spine. She had thought she would be content with everything she had gained, but instead found herself dissatisfied, wanting more, and her growing frustration was taken out on the servants and on Renard now that he was here. Supposing he did not come again? Supposing he left her here to rot? She had seen it in his eyes. They had so little in common apart from the bed. Gesturing to another maid to remove the remains of the meal she decided that it was time to invoke that common ground before it was too late.

‘Do you not still hunger?’ she asked, eyeing him from between half-closed lids as she slowly unhooked the neck opening of her gown. Her actions were slow and deliber — ate. ‘I thought this was what you came for.’ She tossed her hair, sending a blond ripple down her spine. Turning round, she undulated slowly towards the bedchamber. On the threshold, she turned towards him and parted her lips.

Renard had intended to walk out, but instead, caught like a fish on a hook, he went to Olwen and allowed her to reel him in.

Propping herself up on one elbow, Olwen watched the candlelight play over Renard’s back as he set about finding his clothes. He twitched when she put a languid hand on his skin. She had revelled in the effect she had on him, had enjoyed toying with him until he was on the verge of madness, but tonight, for her, release had been elusive, hovering just out of reach.

‘When will you ride this way again?’ she asked.

Renard moved his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. After the wedding I’ve to return to Caermoel, and from there to the Christmas court.’

Olwen dropped her gaze. ‘Will the Earl of Chester be at court?’ She made her voice neutral, as if she was indulging in conversation for the sake of it while he dressed, but her heart was thumping in great, heavy strokes.

‘All the tenants-in-chief will be there, except the rebels of course. They’ll be in Bristol.’

She rose to her knees, put her arms around his neck and snuggled her cheek against his. ‘Take me with you?’

‘I can’t. It’s official and Elene will be with me to be presented to the King and Queen.’

Olwen pouted. ‘Am I supposed to stay in this poky, back-of-beyond byre for the rest of my life?’ she demanded.

‘You could have remained in Antioch to dance for your living,’ he reminded her as he donned his braies and chausses.

She lowered her arms and rolled over away from him. Tears of frustration and rage prickled behind her lids. ‘At least I would not be dying of boredom!’

He shot her a look full of impatience. ‘This land is yours. Far from being a “poky, back-of-beyond byre”, it’s prosperous and productive, one of the best beholden to Ravenstow, and if you had wit or wisdom about you, you’d nurture it, not mock and sneer. I need not have given you anything at all.’

‘Oh, generous indeed!’ she scoffed. ‘Put a hoe in my hand and expect me to be overcome with gratitude!’

In a move that was whiplash swift he grabbed her, pushing her down. For a moment it hung in the balance. He had never in his life struck a woman before, because a man who beat a woman was no man at all. He struggled, his whole body trembling as she goaded him towards the edge of a different kind of passion. She curved her thigh along the length of his and he saw the bloom of naked hunger in her eyes. His body answered hers, but this time he denied the temptation, and breathing hard, almost sobbing, thrust himself away from her. Without stopping to put on his remaining garments, he gathered them up in his arms, and stormed out.

Panting, her body strung as taut as a resonating harp, Olwen stared after him. She heard the shouts of the grooms and the neigh of a horse, the drumming of hooves and then silence. The heat of lust and temper cooled from her skin, leaving her cold, as if she had been sitting too long at a hearth where the fire had gone out.

Elene smiled proudly at the gasps of awe, envy and delight as her wedding garments were laid across the bed. The undertunic with its tight-fitting sleeves was of a soft, wine-coloured wool, exquisitely stitched but unembellished, a plain foil for the overgown of moss-green silk. The hem, throat and hanging sleeves of the gown were trimmed with bands of the red and both were oversewn with thread-of-gold in a tapestry of intricate detail. Foxes, leopards, sheep and horses curved around trees that stood against keeps, stylised to represent Ravenstow and Woolcot. In a garden stood a man and woman, hands clasped together, the man’s tunic embroidered with tiny foxes, the woman’s with grazing sheep.

The women wedding guests stroked, examined and exclaimed over Elene’s skills and a warm glow lit within her at their praise. A laughing remark was made about the couple in the garden. Elene blushed, unsure now that she wanted that particular part of the garment on public display and knowing that it was too late to unpick the stitches.

Despite the braziers and the fire in the hearth, the room was still cold. The heat imbued to Elene’s skin by the bath water was fading, and, clothed as she was in nothing but her short shift, she started to shiver. Judith, her eyes dark-shadowed by permanent worry and lack of sleep, was preocccupied, but Heulwen noticed Elene’s chattering teeth and with a concerned exclamation picked the undertunic from the bed and helped her to don it, followed by the gorgeous wedding gown.

‘If Adam and I ever find anyone rash enough to take on our hoydens, I hope we can call on you to sew their gowns too,’ she said as she fastened the lacings.

‘Of course.’ Elene smiled at the two girls, both in their best dresses, who were watching her, eyes round and awestruck as a veil of gold tissue was arranged over her hip-length cloud of black hair.

‘You look like a princess!’ Juditta breathed.

‘Will Uncle Renard look like a prince?’ Rhosyn enquired, and wriggled away from Dame Adela who was trying to tweak her chaplet straight.

Heulwen laughed. ‘You know he will. He’d look like one if he were clothed in rags; he has that way about him. But then he’s the grandson of a king, and nephew of an empress.’

‘Henry is the one who most resembles his grandfather,’ Judith said neutrally.

‘Physically yes, but not in terms of presence,’ Heulwen argued, then bit her tongue and lowered her eyes. ‘I am sorry, Mama. It’s not fair to keep holding up Henry and Renard for comparison. They’re so unalike.’

Judith sighed and set another pin into Elene’s veil. ‘I suppose it isn’t, but I know what you mean. Henry’s nature is far too simple to have come from that side of his breeding. Your father says that he’s like his Great-uncle Gerard, without the brains.’ Her voice shook slightly.

Elene touched her gently. ‘At least he hasn’t taken the wound fever or stiffening sickness,’ she tried to comfort her. ‘I know he has been hot, but nothing that willow bark and feverfew cannot contain. And if his nature is simple, it’s also cheerful. He will make a good recovery, I know he will.’

Judith’s preoccupied expression sharpened into focus on Elene, but she found no platitude. The girl believed what she was saying. ‘I’m sure you are right,’ Judith said in a softer voice and tenderly embraced her, wondering at the same time if Renard, less familiar with Elene, would see the pride and stubbornness of spirit, or just the surface docility. After Olwen, Elene could either be as uninterest — ing as plain bread at a feast, or a welcome relief from a highly spiced diet.

Thomas d’Alberin’s plump wife simpered and giggled like a silly girl as she helped one of the other women scatter herbs over the bottom sheet of the bed, the sheet that tomorrow would be blotched with the scarlet proof of Elene’s virginity. She paused, her hand full of dried forget-me-nots, and called cheerfully to the bride, ‘Which side will you be sleeping tonight? Nay, but I don’t suppose you’ll actually do much sleeping. When Thomas and I were wed, I couldn’t sit comfortable for a week afterwards!’ She winked and scattered the forget-me-nots. ‘You be sure to lie just here if you want to bear your lord a fine son before next Michaelmas.’