Securing the final pin, Elene looked round at her husband. ‘How did you know?’

He smiled sourly. ‘Matille’s pleasant enough, but she’s too wrapped up in her own life to enquire about the lives of others unless it suits her purpose.’

‘I think she was trying to make excuses for Chester’s behaviour and to warn you against baiting him. She said this dispute between you was not all his fault.’

Renard snorted and threw down the gauntlet. ‘Oh no,’ he scoffed. ‘It is like the tale of the bear-ward who said when his bear was accused of biting a child that the child should not have put its arm in the beast’s mouth!’

Elene advanced to the bed to pick up her fur-lined cloak. ‘I am only repeating what she said. She wanted me to persuade you to be more conciliatory towards Chester. As you say, she is probably wrapped up in her own life, but at the moment, from what I gathered, her husband’s temper is making it very difficult.’

Renard took up his own cloak and secured the pin. ‘Conciliatory?’ He gave a taut smile. ‘Yes, I think that for tonight at least I can be pleasant to Ranulf.’ Drawing her against him, he kissed her mouth and then her throat. ‘Stephen has confirmed the Caermoel charter. Ranulf can go whistle for it all he likes.’ His arms tightened as he hugged her.

Elene returned his embrace, but amid the delight there was also fear. ‘Does Ranulf know?’

‘Not yet.’ Releasing her, he led her to the door. ‘And by the time he does, that keep will be so strong that if he tries to bite, he will only break his teeth.’

The Christmas feast was well into its latter stages. The boar’s head had been served, as had the stuffed and reassembled swans and peacocks and a whole porpoise swimming on an enormous platter of glistening raw fish roe garnished with oysters.

Now people were desultorily picking at the sweetmeats — fruit and nuts, small tarts, honey cakes and comfits. Servants and squires moved unobtrusively around the throng, clearing away used trenchers and dirty platters, refilling cups, and bringing round finger bowls and towels.

During the business of serious eating, the entertainment had mostly been of the musical variety — instrumentals of harp, crwth and bagpipes. A mother and daughter had sung some pretty, twee French love songs. The man with the bagpipes had performed a couple of table-thumping soldier’s ballads and a much-appreciated bawdy epic from the Scots borders.

Elene had watched the tumblers, jugglers and acrobats while Renard immersed himself in a discussion with Robert of Leicester and his brother, Waleran of Meulan. Leicester’s wife, Amicia, had engaged her in fitful conversation. She was plump and lazy, even the effort of speech seeming to weary her, but her eyes, behind drooping lids, were shockingly alert. Several times Elene caught Matille of Leicester looking at her with a conspiratorial smile on her face which she rather tepidly returned, and the Queen’s gaze was hawk-sharp on everyone, seeking out any nuances of false behaviour that might speak of impending treason. Elene stoutly concentrated on the entertainment.

The acrobats were both clever and amusing with a delightful little black and white dog dressed up to look like a court fool, and she was sorry when they finally made their exit, the dog frantically wagging his stumpy tail and yapping excitedly. Two different members of the troop took their place and bowed before the royal table to the King and Queen. One was a young, slender man with a drum hung around his neck. The other, a woman, wore a full, black robe that looked as if it might have been misappropriated from a Benedictine monk. She had loose, corn-blond hair kinked from tight plaiting and bound back from her brow by a headdress of gold coins. Her sultry mouth was painted a rich, blood red.

‘An eastern dancer,’ confided Amicia of Leicester in Elene’s ear. ‘From the court of Prince Raymond in Antioch, although if you believe that, you’ll believe anything. She’s probably never been further than the Billingsgate fish wharf in her entire life.’ She yawned with cynical boredom.

Elene felt as if she had swallowed a lump of cold stone. An eastern dancing girl, one from Antioch was already for her the source of too much pain. She flashed a look at Renard but he was deep in conversation with his fellow earls, slender fingers weaving as he emphasised a point. She tried to catch his eye, seeking reassurance, but Leicester leaned forward to interrupt him and his great solid back blocked any hope of eye contact. Before the dais, the dancer had cast off the black robe and revealed a costume of a full-skirted gown and an an embroidered tightly fitted top with a low neckline. Around her hips was tied a scarf that sparkled with metallic threads. Fixing some small silver cymbals to her fingers, she waited for the youth with the drum to seat himself cross-legged on the floor to one side of the dais.

Attention started to wander from sweetmeats and conversation. Men gaped at the costume and the loose golden hair, unable to believe their eyes or their good fortune. Women stared too in censorious amazement. The girl smiled scornfully at all and sundry, with the exception of Ranulf of Chester whom she favoured with a look he could not mistake. Then she whirled in a circle, twirling the skirts up and around her long, graceful legs, and began to perform.

Biting down on her lower lip, Elene watched the girl move and realised that the words ‘eastern dancer’ were a totally inadequate way of describing her art — the hip-rolling mimicry of copulation with its overtones of promise and undertones of contemptuous denial. The sensuous undulation. And yet there was grace and beauty in the performance too; in the way the fabric of her skirts lilted and flowed with her movements, in the artistic description of her arms and the precise positioning of her feet.

‘… And anyway,’ Leicester said to Renard. ‘When you think about it in those terms it’s obvious that … Good God!’ His mouth dropped open in perfect imitation of the earlier-served porpoise.

Renard had already seen, raising his head and losing all thread of the conversation as the first, familiar pat-pat of a tabor resonated around the trestles. In utter disbelief he watched Olwen strike lightly from one hip to the other, and rotate her way slowly in his direction.

‘Hell’s gates, but I wouldn’t mind futtering that!’ said Meulan, his voice thick with lust.

‘You and every man present, eh Renard?’ Leicester laughed and elbowed his ashen companion in the ribs. ‘Mind you, I forgot. You’re used to that kind of thing, aren’t you?’

If his life had depended on it, Renard could not have answered. His gorge rose as she continued to advance on him. Never before in his life had he felt so furious or so humiliated. He grasped his eating knife and thought about killing her.

She paused before the three of them, circling her hips, taunting. Her eyes mocked Renard, as she silently reminded him of Antioch. Her hands moved slowly down over her body, paused, teased, moved away. Leicester choked. Laughing, she danced her way along in front of the tables until she came to the place where Ranulf of Chester was sitting, his eyes out on stalks. She did not taunt him. She blatantly invited.

Renard jerked to his feet, aware of nothing but his rage. His goblet crashed over and he upset a dish of pears in mead. Sticky, pale gold fruit glistened on the board. The thick syrup dripped into the rushes. He set one hand on the table and vaulted across, dagger brandished.

Elene blocked his way. Her face was chalk white and she was shaking with fury of her own. ‘In God’s name, if you are going to make me a widow, let it not be here and over a whore!’ she hissed, and put her hand upon his taut wrist.

He raised that wrist to swipe her aside, caught sight of the dagger he was brandishing and the world suddenly came back into focus. His breath shuddered out and with it went the blind rage. He sheathed the knife. Elene’s knees buckled with relief and she swayed, forcing him to grab hold of her and brace her up.

Behind him the drums reached crescendo and the shouts of encouragement were the ripples preceding climax. He did not look round, but all the same he was horribly aware. Elene had steadied, but she was still pale and shivering. For both their sakes, he took her outside into the courtyard.

Frost bejewelled the walls, sparkling like powdered amber and topaz in the smoky light from the torches, and the air cut like jagged crystal as it was inhaled. The sound of laughter drifted like vapour and a couple of squires hurried past on an errand. Renard looked down at his hands. His right palm was still imprinted with the grip of the dagger.

‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ Elene croaked. ‘There cannot be two such.’

There was a bitter taste in Renard’s mouth. He turned aside and spat, ‘Oh yes.’ In the aftermath of white-hot rage he felt drained and weary. ‘It was Olwen. We quarrelled before the wedding. I thought she was baiting me into a temper for her amusement, to heat her blood. I never thought for one minute that she would … Christ’s wounds!’ He broke off and struck the wall with a renewed surge of emotion, not so much anger now as shock and humiliation; the knowledge that every move of hers had been calculated since that first night in Antioch.

Elene’s teeth were chattering with cold and reaction, and her eyes were glassy with tears. ‘I want to go back to the house,’ she said, her voice quavering.

The laughter grew louder, intruding on them. One laugh detached itself from the background, rich and triumphant in response to a suggestive remark made in a throaty, feminine voice.

Ranulf of Chester emerged from the hall, his cloak across his shoulders and shielding the blond-haired woman clinging to his side. They disappeared in the direction of the stables, and obviously were not going riding unless it was of the beast with two backs.