Elizabeth Chadwick - The Leopard Unleashed

There was more to be learned. She knew that she was innocent, but she was shrewd enough to realise that her very innocence was sufficient to hold Renard for now, but what of the future? How did she compete with a tavern dancer whose livelihood was pleasing men? Remembering the expertise of his foreplay, she wondered what would happen if she touched him instead. Her eyes roved over his body. She knew what she wanted to do but was afraid of his re action to such boldness.

Watching her expression, a mingling of tension and sensuality, Renard was stirred to new arousal. ‘We don’t have to go to court,’ he said, brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder. ‘Ranulf de Gernons will be there, and we’ll only quarrel again or worse. I danced attendance on Stephen all morning and you suffered interrogation by the Queen. I think we are entitled to a little time to ourselves.’

‘To do what?’ Elene widened her eyes as he took her eager, hesitant hand and put it where she had not quite dared.

‘Anything you want,’ he said.

‘Pottage?’ Renard looked from the bowl in front of him to Alys.

‘Saer did not think that you and my lady would be eating in the hall tonight,’ Alys excused, bobbing a curtsey.

‘Tell him it’s all right,’ Elene reassured the maid. ‘I know how much he takes matters to heart.’

‘He says that pottage is fit only for servants,’ Alys volunteered, ‘that he is ashamed to be serving it to you.’

‘And am I not a servant of the King?’ Renard asked wryly. ‘Besides, my great-grandfather was the bastard of a common tanner’s daughter. Peasantry’s in my blood. Tell Saer I’d rather eat pottage than court fare any day. He should serve it more often.’ Picking up the polished horn spoon, he dipped it into the barley-thickened mixture.

Elene glanced at him sidelong as Alys left them. ‘You were telling her the truth, weren’t you?’ she discovered. ‘You really do prefer pottage.’

He reached for the dish of crumbly salt between their two places. ‘I suppose if I was forced to live on it day in, day out I might weary, but it makes a change to all those spicy sauces and meats so stuffed and smothered that you can’t even begin to guess which animal they came from!’

Elene busied herself with her own food, her expression thoughtful. If Renard preferred to eat simple food and wear understated garments, might that not apply to other aspects of his life too? The restless side of his nature sought variety, she was aware of that, but the force of that restlessness varied like a tide and was probably linked to the twin founts of boredom and stress.

Elene thought back over the years she had spent in Lady Judith’s care and recalled the various little ruses enacted to keep Lord Guyon dancing on a string. They would not necessarily work on Renard who did not dote on her the way his father had doted on his mother, but there might be some way of adapting them to her own situation.

‘What are you thinking?’ Renard asked curiously.

Elene jumped. Betraying colour flowed into her face. Unlike Lady Judith, she did not have the ability to bend the truth to her own advantage. Raising her chin she said, ‘I’m not going to tell you, it was private.’

Renard cocked an eyebrow. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.’As long as you’re not plotting my death, I don’t mind.’

‘I would have to be mad to cut off my nose to spite my face.’

Accustomed to the temperament of his mother and sister, he thought at first that she was teasing him and laughed. When she gave him a startled look, he realised his mistake and also the fact that she had spoken the truth. If he died untimely she would be a rich and vulnerable widow. Suddenly it hit him as never before that the responsibility for the family lands was his; there was no one else. Henry was willing but not up to the task, and William was far too mercurial to settle to the yoke. ‘Yes, you probably would,’ he said, all amusement flown, and in the ensuing silence attended rather grimly to his meal.

‘What’s wrong, what have I said?’

‘Nothing. You jolted me into realising that I must make provision for you in the event of my death. A word with John won’t go amiss. The support of the church will be essential.’

‘If I am forced into another marriage, you mean.’ She met him look for look, not fearlessly, but with a steady understanding.

‘You have seen how it is at court. A fair-weather wind that will blow cold the moment you look away.’

Elene’s jaw tightened. ‘No one is going to take Woolcot away from me.’

‘You may not have a choice.’

‘Oh, not at first.’ She tossed her head. ‘But I know how to build and I know how to wreck. I’d rather destroy the Woolcot herds than see them fall into a raptor’s hands.’

Renard gaped at her, spoon suspended in midair while he tried to reconcile his view of her as soft-natured and gentle with this determined creature thrusting her chin at him. It was not all vain talk either, he realised. ‘You really would founder the herds rather than give them up, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

He continued to stare.

‘Of course,’ she added, ‘that would be by way of revenge. If a new husband was prepared to live and let live, then I would make him a proper and dutiful wife.’

A memory echoed in Renard’s mind — his own voice full of grave amusement as he saluted Madam FitzUrse at the Scimitar with the toast ‘Business is business’. ‘Good Christ,’ he said wryly. ‘I used to think you were as soft as unsqueezed butter, but really you’re as hard as stone.’

Elene broke a piece off the loaf in front of them. ‘I’m neither,’ she said, ‘I just don’t know how to lie.’

Renard saw that her fingers were trembling. Studying her, he was aware of the contrasts of softness and determination in both face and character, the innocence and the clear, hot flame of a passion that had outmatched his. ‘Sometimes it is easier to lie than tell the truth,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Especially to yourself.’

The water dripped from the ladle over the hot stones. Steam hissed and surged around the seated, towel-draped men who were laughing at one of Robert of Leicester’s seemingly endless supply of bawdy jokes.

‘I don’t believe that position’s possible!’ guffawed Waleran of Meulan, Leicester’s twin brother, and returned to his bench, ladle in hand. ‘What do you say, Renard?’

Renard grinned and spread his hands. ‘Don’t look at me, I’m innocent.’

‘After four years in Outremer? You’re a bigger liar than he is!’ Waleran sat down heavily. He was beginning to run to fat and the hot, moist atmosphere was making him uncomfortable. Not that he would have admitted it for the world. This steam bath built by the disgraced and recently deceased Bishop of Salisbury was the height of luxury. A plunge in a quiet river pool or a quick dunk in the castle tub were the usual and infrequent ways that Waleran chose to clean himself. A steam bathhouse like this hinted strongly at indulgence, especially when a flagon of the best wine was being passed from hand to hand.

Renard was accustomed to this particular form of bathing. Antioch possessed several such institutions. They were places to gossip and relax at ease with your peers — places to plot and arrange as Stephen was plotting and arranging now.

Leaning against the wall, lids half closed, he watched the King take a swallow from the flagon and pass it in turn to Leicester. No cups, Renard thought. A subtle move, enhancing the camaraderie that had been nurtured during a fast-paced day’s hunting. Other barons had been with them too, but some had chosen to patronise one of the conventional bathhouses in the town where women were to hand. Others had preferred not to bathe at all, following the creed that sweat was best left to cool on the body, its smell worn as a badge of hard toil. Ranulf de Gernons had been one of the latter.

Stephen nudged Renard. ‘I had a look at your charter.’

The flagon came round to Renard. He drank, making more show than actual swallowing and studied Stephen’s pink, earnest face. ‘It’s valid. Your grandfather’s seal is upon it and that of the second King William,’ he said evenly as he passed the wine on to Leicester.

‘Oh yes, it’s valid,’ Stephen replied. ‘Malde and I had a long discussion about it.’

And Malde’s opinion would be the deciding factor, Renard thought.

‘She did wonder if Ranulf had rights in Caermoel because the castle was originally built by your father and Hugh d’Avranches as a joint venture.’

Hugh d’Avranches, Ranulf ’s great-uncle, had been the Earl of Chester forty years ago when the keep at Caermoel had first been built. He and Guyon had not only been allies, but also good friends.

‘My father borrowed silver from Earl Hugh, but repaid him in full not long after the Battle of Tinchebrai. Caermoel has been wholly ours since the year of my birth.’ Leaving the bench, he took his turn to drip water on the stones. The steam hissed up creating a grey veil between himself and Stephen. ‘If Ranulf claims otherwise then he’s lying.’

Stephen fiddled with the frayed end of his towel and looked perplexed. ‘You must understand the difficulty of my position. Ranulf ’s loyalty is so precarious that I cannot afford to tip the scales too far. I don’t want him or that brother of his galloping down to Bristol to offer their support to the Empress.’

‘On the other hand,’ Leicester rubbed his thumb beneath his nose, ‘neither can you afford to let Renard take his own grievances to Bristol. Besides, you don’t really want to see a change of garrison at Caermoel, do you?’

‘Neither of those,’ Stephen looked genuinely shocked. ‘Of course not! The charter is valid and must stand.’ Through the clearing steam he looked at Renard. ‘I am asking you to respect the reasons for not making a public announcement of your right to the land. You have witnesses here in Beaumont and Meulan, let that be enough.’