‘De Gernons must either be mad or very sure of himself to try a trick like that!’

Renard signalled Ancelin to continue instructing the boys and set off through the inner bailey to the hall.

‘ He’s not the one who’s mad, it’s Stephen!’ William helped himself to a cup of cider from a jug on the table where the steward and a scribe were working at a pile of tally sticks. He hitched himself up on to the board. ‘I’m renouncing fealty to Stephen and heading for Bristol to do homage to Matilda,’ he announced with a hint of uneasy defiance.

‘Oh yes?’ Renard arched one eyebrow. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘What, that Stephen’s mad, or that I’m going to give my oath to Matilda instead?’

‘Both.’

William banged his cup down on the trestle. ‘Stephen’s mad because when his spies told him about the plot against Huntingdon and sent him warning, he turned on de Gernons and Roumare, reddened their ears with a load of moralising claptrap, and rewarded them! God’s death, Renard, rewarded them! “Sorry, you can’t have Carlisle, but here’s Cambridge instead and a few other honours to pad it out!”’ William’s eyes were brilliant with anger. ‘That man couldn’t organise a drinking session in an alehouse, let alone rule a kingdom!’

‘What makes you think Matilda’s any better?’

‘Well she certainly cannot be any worse!’

Renard rested one elbow on his folded arm and pinched his upper lip. ‘I’ll agree to differ with you on that count, but give my regards and regrets to Uncle Robert when you see him.’ Uncle Robert was their mother’s half-brother, the Earl of Gloucester, and commander-in-chief of the Empress’s army.

‘You’re not going to try and argue me out of it then?’ William asked suspiciously.

Renard shot him a look filled with bleak humour. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

William glowered at him for a moment before relaxing into a smile. ‘No, my mind’s made up this time. You can’t keep me in tail clouts for ever. I came to tell you about de Gernons, since one of the men responsible for foiling the plot is a friend of mine. I suppose I want to justify myself too. ‘I know you think I’ve some scapegrace ways about me, but I have thought long and hard about this, not least about the possibility of facing you across a battlefield.’

Renard made a gesture of dismissal at the steward and scribe. ‘That would be a pity wouldn’t it?’ he said as the two men gathered together their bits and pieces and adjourned elsewhere.

‘I would not fight you.’ William grimaced. You’re bigger and far more experienced. I’m going to offer my services to the Empress as a scout and forager with the proviso that she does not ask me to do any of that scouting and foraging on your lands.’

‘Hah, very noble!’ Renard snorted, and poured himself a cup of cider. He raised the drink, then, seeing William’s expression, lowered it again. ‘Well what do you want me to do? Pat you on the head and send you off with my blessing? Christ, William, grow up! Matilda’s not like Stephen. You go to her and she’ll toss you on the altar of her ambition and cut out your heart! You won’t be able to pick and choose when and where you scout like some finicky old nun demanding a boneless portion of fish!’

A dusky flush rose in William’s cheeks. ‘I have the skills to make myself invaluable enough to be worth such a concession,’ he said stiffly.

Renard said nothing, but his gaze was more eloquent than words.

‘Look, I’m much closer to the rebels than you are. I’ve got Miles of Hereford breathing down my neck and my lands are just the right size to make inviting fodder for a quick raid. It’s not safe to support Stephen any more!’ William thrust out his lower lip. ‘Besides, our oath was to Matilda originally.’

‘Papa’s oath, not mine,’ Renard reminded Him. ‘And sworn under duress. Mine was given freely to Stephen at Christmas.’ And then on an exasperated, slightly weary note, ‘You can stop puffing up like a frog. If your heart is set on it, then go to the Empress, just don’t expect my approval. I presume you intend staying the night here at least?’

William let out the swift breath he had drawn. ‘Aren’t you afraid that I might take note of all these new defences you’re adding and relay them all to Aunt Matilda?’

Renard’s eyes darkened, but he suppressed the urge to grab William by coif and surcoat and hurl him into the rushes. Show restraint now and it would be easier later when one or the other of them was forced to back down. ‘Are you insulting yourself or me?’ he asked, and succeeded in keeping his voice on the level.

William chewed his lip. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it. I told Adam I was going over to the Empress too. He said I was a fool and he wished he was coming with me.’

Renard snorted. ‘That sounds like Adam.’

‘There was some more news about Chester too — gossip, nothing serious.’ William leaned forward to remove his spurs. ‘His mistress is with child.’

‘Oh?’ Renard made his tone indifferent, although he felt his gut tighten and turn. He could go for weeks without thinking of Olwen, but now and again, unbidden, she would haunt his memory or his dreams with a knife and tear open the healing wounds.

‘Conceived in the winter,’ William added, pressing his thumb down on the tip of the spur. ‘From what I heard, she’s carrying it to full term this time.’

‘I suppose Ranulf ’s bragging to all who will listen.’

‘Not really. He doesn’t trust her.’

Renard laughed sourly. ‘Then he and I have found common ground at last.’ A noise behind him made him turn round to find Elene standing there. She had been resting, and her face, framed by her loose black hair, was still rosily flushed, her eyes a sleepy, luminous green-gold. Something stirred within him, as painful as thoughts of Olwen, akin to physical desire but possessing increased texture and depth.

‘William!’ Elene hugged her brother-in-law delightedly and kissed him.

Returning the embrace he stepped back to look her up and down. ‘You’re blossoming like an orchard, Nell!’

‘Why thank you!’ Laughing she laid her hand lightly on her stomach where for two weeks now she had been feeling the baby’s fluttering movements. ‘But fruiting is the more appropriate word I think!’

William grinned. ‘Still planning a huge brood? I remember you used to have some impressive ambitions of motherhood when we were little.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ She blushed at Renard.

He smiled in a preoccupied way and squeezed her thickened waistline, his mind obviously far distant from the light banter of the moment.

Elene turned to William. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘Just overnight.’

She sensed the constraint between the brothers. ‘Is there any special reason for your visit?’

‘Folly of the most serious order,’ Renard answered before William could speak.

The latter hooked his thumbs in his belt. ‘Stephen’s folly, not mine,’ he retorted. ‘You’ll discover it soon enough.’

The summer progressed in hot somnolence. A peace treaty between the opposing forces was mooted, discussed, and abandoned. War drifted across the land like August thunder, sometimes passing over, sometimes deluging an area in brief destruction and misery. Crops burned. People and livestock roasted. Storm-coloured smoke mingled with storm-coloured sky.

William went foraging and raiding with the Empress’s troops. By turns he found himself exhilarated by the joy of his abilities and the tensile strength of his young body, and sickened by the strewn aftermath of a raid and what some of his companions considered sport. He learned, he matured, and stubborn determination did the rest.

In early September Olwen was brought to bed of a son at Chester.

‘A fine boy, my lord,’ said the nurse, plucking the bawling infant from his cradle and presenting him to the Earl. ‘Born yesterday dawn.’

Ranulf declined to hold the baby, and pushing down his coif stared suspiciously at the red, unprepossessing features. There was nothing to commend or recognise, but then at one day old both his daughters had looked remarkably like wizened turnips too.

‘We did not think he would live at first, he nearly drowned in the birthing fluid. Father Barnard christened him Jordan because he had a vial of holy water from the river.’

Jordan FitzRanulf. It had a reasonable ring to it, but how did he know that FitzRanulf was the correct appellation?

‘He’s big and strong,’ added the nurse with a sly look at Ranulf. Men liked to hear things like that about their sons, and sometimes paid silver for the compliments.

Ranulf grunted at the woman and turned round to the bed. Too big and strong for a child delivered almost a month early? Olwen’s eyes were closed. Heavy smudges purpled the delicate skin beneath them. Otherwise she was waxen, her lips shockingly pale because he was so accustomed to seeing them painted scarlet. A difficult birth so the midwife had said, but she could have been lying in hopes of a higher payment.

‘Is he mine?’ he said to her.

Olwen’s eyes remained closed, but he saw the infinite — simal flutter of her lashes. Putting one knee on the bed, he braced his arms either side of her.

‘Damn you, answer me!’

The heavy lids half opened, revealing a glimpse of hazed dark blue iris. ‘Yours?’ The faintest of smiles played around the word she formed. ‘Yes, he’s yours.’

‘Hah!’ Abruptly he jerked away from the bed to look ferociously at the infant who had now settled hungrily at the wet-nurse’s ample breast.

‘Bought, but not begotten,’ she whispered, assailed by a terrible, seeping weariness. She had never dreamed in her life that such pain existed, that it could surge so relentlessly and for so long and culminate in a pushing, splitting agony beyond all her control.