Henry declined to be carried upstairs by some well-meaning but drink-fuddled guests to witness the ceremony. He said that he was tired. He said that he did not want to be jostled about. He said that he would rather wait downstairs in the company of a flagon.

Elene shivered as the women stood her on a sheepskin rug near the hearth of the main bedchamber and began disrobing her. First the tunic, then the undergown, followed by soft shoes of gilded leather and the fine woollen hose and garters, and finally her chemise so that she stood naked, bathed in the fireglow, her hair crackling around her hips.

Some of the women were eyeing her dubiously and discussing whether or not her hips were wide enough for successful childbearing, their voices over-loud with the wine they had drunk. Heulwen silenced them crossly while Judith draped a bedrobe around Elene’s goose-fleshed shoulders and drew her to the bed.

Memories of her own wedding night crowded Judith’s mind. She had been a couple of years younger than Elene and terrified of the coming ordeal, never having known anything but abuse from men. It had been this very chamber and a night like tonight with snow threatening in the wind and the women around her offering advice that was meant to be practical and kind but that had only increased her dread. One of them had given her a pot of dead-nettle salve, telling her that it would soothe her abused female passage. Another had told her not to worry; the bigger the man and the more it hurt, the more likely she was to conceive a boy. By the time the men had come into the room, Guyon naked among them, she had been almost insensible with terror.

Elene’s situation was different. The girl had known since childhood that she would marry Renard. Her father had been strict with her but not brutal, and when he died she had grown to maturity among her future family at Ravenstow. The fear was bound to be less, but even so, Judith knew that at this precise point in the proceedings, it was all too easy to become overwhelmed.

Elene grimaced and wriggled on the strewn, dried flowers. The scent of lavender rose from the bolster and pillows and there was a strong herbal smell from the crushed plants beneath her. She looked at Judith and smiled ruefully but said nothing. Her throat was too tight and she felt a little sick.

‘It will be all right, I promise you,’ Judith said as she prepared the traditional cup of spiced hippocras — another aid to potency and fertility. She shook her head at the loudest of the other women. ‘Take no notice of them unless it’s to feel sorry. They’d take your place if they could.’

‘I’m not worried,’ Elene croaked. ‘I only wish that …’ She stopped speaking and clutched at the coverlet as noise sounded in the antechamber, approached the inner room, until suddenly a cluster of less than sober men, burst upon the women Renard jostled among them.

Robert of Leicester was laughing so hard that he could scarcely finish the joke he was in the midst of telling. ‘… And the squire says to the whore, “The priest told me that if I ever sinned with a woman I’d be turned to stone, and look, it’s started happening!”’

Loud guffaws and drunken bonhomie. Someone slapped Renard so hard between the shoulder blades that he winced and staggered.

‘Steady on!’ cried another man. ‘It’ll be your blood that flows, not the bride’s if you render him incapable!’

More laughter. ‘It’s a blessing that bitch yesterday didn’t bite him any higher up!’ chortled de Lorys, and then howled as Adam dug an elbow viciously into his ribs to silence him.

Naked among the throng, Renard shrugged himself free of their grasping hands. ‘The only blessing I want now,’ he said, ‘is that of a priest on this bed. Where’s John?’

‘Eager to get to business, are we?’ grinned Ancelin.

Renard looked round, both amused and irritated. ‘Not “we”, Ancelin … At least I don’t understand from the vows I took that you’re to be involved in this.’

The remark was greeted with ribald shouts of laughter and Ancelin became the recipient of the shoulder slaps.

‘Send him to Hawkfield in your stead!’ slurred de Lorys at the top of his voice. Adam dragged him out of the throng and elbowed him again, this time in the diaphragm.

John thrust his way to the forefront, complete with silver vessel of holy water and a sprinkler. Although not drunk, he was very merry and his brown eyes were aglow with mischief.

‘What’s the remedy, Father, if Renard should find himself turning to stone?’ asked Leicester, nudging his chaplain.

John rubbed his jaw and pretended to consider. ‘Well now,’ he deliberated. ‘A dipper of cold well water blessed by a priest and poured over the offending member works wonders, but the best remedy by far is to put it in a warm, dark place and leave it there all night … if you know where to find one.’

De Lorys was too busy being sick in the antechamber to mention Hawkfield a third time. Leicester screwed up his face as if pondering the problem, then looked at Elene in mock, exaggerated understanding, his act greeted by loud guffaws. Elene blushed a fiery red and refused to raise her lids beyond the hands that tightly gripped the coverlet.

Judith caught Renard’s eye and made a small gesture at the doorway. He saw that she was desperately hoping he was not as wine-flown as the rest of the men. Merry he certainly was, but nowhere near intoxication, and his mother’s concern and Elene’s strained expression recalled him to responsibility. The trick was to know how far to go without stepping off the edge, although sometimes other people pushed you over it. He thought of the bite mark on his thigh, Olwen’s deliberate branding. The wavering candlelight concealed the worst of it, thank Christ, but he would have bruising for days to come, and not just of the flesh. Olwen knew how to set her claws into a man’s soul and tear it to shreds. He shut her from his mind and abruptly stepped forward, hands held palm outwards to the chuckling crowd. ‘Enough!’ he cried. ‘I have to leave it in all night so the good father says and it’s halfway to cockcrow already.’

There was more laughter at the innuendo placed on the word ‘cockcrow’ and jests about rising at dawn, and then rowdy cheers and barracking advice as Renard climbed into bed beside his flustered new wife and John solemnly blessed and thoroughly sprinkle-soaked them with holy water.

Guyon’s voice was hoarse tonight, and he was unable to raise it and clear from the room the reluctant revellers who wanted to squeeze the last drop of enjoyment from the situation. William’s light baritone was useless and John had developed a severe attack of hiccups. Robert of Leicester, however, had a bellow on him like a rutting stag and muscle-thickened arms that gathered up, swiped into line, and ushered most effectively.

‘I trust you’ll remember this favour,’ he twinkled ambiguously at Renard as he stood on the threshold.

‘I’ll ask you to stand godfather to any child that comes of this night,’ Renard said drily.

Leicester chuckled. ‘I’ll hold you to that, with all these ladies here as witnesses.’

‘Was that wise?’ Judith murmured as the women kissed Elene and filed out.

Renard jerked his shoulders. ‘He’s Chester’s counter — balance, equally powerful. If I don’t cultivate him then I’ve got to cultivate the other. Besides, I like him.’

‘But he is firmly committed as Stephen’s man.’

He looked at her keenly then veiled his eyes. ‘Yes, Mama, I know.’

‘But …’ Her lips tightened.

‘It is my wedding night,’ he reminded her.

Judith looked away. Renard had taken his father’s black leopard as a blazon for his own shield, but adapted it from the couchant to the snarling rampant. If she had ever had her hand on its leash, the beast had long since torn free and now confronted her, narrow-eyed and dangerous. ‘Yes, so it is,’ she agreed softly and leaned to embrace Elene and then more tentatively her son. She wished them well, and left, her step slightly unsteady, although Elene could not remember having seen her drink more than two cups of wine all night.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked Renard as the curtain dropped behind Judith, and they were suddenly and silently alone.

‘Oh nothing.’ He eased the pillow against his spine. ‘She doesn’t like to see my hand hovering over a chessboard knowing that she cannot influence my next move. We’ve always argued. She can’t wrap me around her little finger the way she can my father and it worries her.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Still, it’s thicker than water. If we fight, it’s not through hatred, rather the opposite.’

The silence settled, as heavy as the curtain and the door that separated them from the rest of the keep. Renard picked up the cup of spiced hippocras and grimaced. ‘Do you want some?’

She took it from him. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Loathe it,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know how my father can drink the stuff.’

‘It’s supposed to warm your blood.’ She took a quick sip. It was sweet, spicy with cinnamon and nutmeg and not unpleasant to her own palate. She took another swallow and stopped. My lips will taste of it, she thought, and he said he loathes it.

‘My blood doesn’t need warming,’ Renard said softly, watching the candlelight play over her skin and smiling at the way she kept the bedclothes modestly tucked around her breasts. She was shivering and as he touched her arm and took the cup from her, he felt the slightly rough texture of gooseflesh along her arm. ‘But yours does.’ Setting the cup down on the coffer, he turned and gently pressed her down on the mattress.

‘Oh,’ said Elene, wide-eyed, and swallowed.

He drew the coverings over and around them, swathing them in linen and thick, stitched-together furs, and putting his arm across her cold body, drew her close to share his warmth.