Elizabeth Chadwick - The Leopard Unleashed

Grinning William told him.

The forest was a pale green froth of tender new leaves spotted and rayed with sunlight. It was late April and hot enough to be a full month later. Ranulf of Chester was cooking inside his armour. His destrier’s hide was patched with sweat and plodding along with its head carried low. The jingle of harness was loud, the atmosphere somnolent, almost oppressive, as if a thunderstorm was about to break.

Ranulf ’s shoulder blades itched, and not just because of the sweat trickling between them. He knew that the Welsh were in the vicinity and it made him uneasy. Even the most civilised of them were as unpredictable as the boar and wolves with which they shared the forest.

Colour flickered between and behind the trunks. Ranulf set his hand on his sword hilt. Welsh soldiers were riding parallel with him and his men. They made no move to approach, but nevertheless ensured that they were seen. Ranulf clenched his teeth and swallowed the urge to bellow at them to come out and fight, aware that they would only laugh and he was tired of being laughed at.

It had begun on the day he arrived at Caermoel when he first inspected the new stone defences. His spies had informed him that Renard was building the site up, but he had not expected to see so much and so professionally accomplished. It was a nasty shock. Renard had always been a wild one at old King Henry’s court, unable to settle at anything for long.

Revising the time it would take to capture Caermoel and the coin he would have to spend, Ranulf had begun his preparations. Trees had been cut and siege machines fashioned — night sorties by the garrison had twice razed these to the ground and wrought havoc among Ranulf ’s camped troops. When he finally did manage to get the rams and ballistas constructed and brought up to the walls, they had been destroyed by Greek fire, along with the soldiers manning them. Ranulf had started to realise, with extreme annoyance, that without heavy expenditure in terms of silver, men and time, he was not going to take Caermoel.

Leaving Hamo le Grande seeking the source of the keep’s water with a view to poisoning it, and soaking the latest battering ram and pick in vinegar in the hopes of proofing them against the dreaded Greek fire, he had come to this meeting with Owain Gwynedd. After that, he was bound for the Empress’s court in Gloucester. Stupid, sullen bitch. He almost thought he preferred Stephen, whom at least he could run rings around while fleecing him of lands and titles.

An increasing number of Welsh flanked him and his men as the trees began to thin out. The sense of oppression eased, although not the tickling sensation between his shoulder blades or the feeling of anticipation.

Beyond the forest stretched a broad, green meadow, usually sheep-grazed to judge by the closeness of the grass and the crumbly evidence of old droppings. Waiting for him in the middle of the meadow, seated upon a carved stool that was set upon a sheepskin rug, was a wiry young man. He was brown-haired and brown-eyed and robed in rich garments, dyed a deep madder-red and embroidered with silver thread.

Rising unhurriedly, he advanced to greet Ranulf as he dismounted. Ranulf returned the greeting warily. The lack of height and the boyish good looks were traps. There were lines of experience around his eyes and the full, brown moustache was lightly scattered with grey. Compared to Owain Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, Matilda and Stephen were political innocents.

They talked and ate sweet young mutton and white bread washed down by mead and accompanied by the gentle, unobtrusive music of a Welsh harp. The flies were a nuisance and the sun was hot, but Prince Owain was better at pretending not to notice such things and thus gained an immediate advantage.

Towards the end of the meal, Ranulf raised the subject of Caermoel and enquired whether Prince Owain would be interested in helping him take it.

The Welshman widened his eyes. ‘You mean you are unable to do so by yourself?’

Ranulf cleared his throat and scowled. ‘It is taking too long, that is all. Your aid would bring it to a swifter conclusion.’

‘I see.’ Owain stroked his moustache and pretended to think. ‘And if I gave it, what then?’

‘We could share the spoils and you would be free to raid down into the Ravenstow lands.’

Owain was unimpressed. ‘Until you re-garrisoned,’ he pointed out. ‘It would suit me better if Caermoel were torn down, stone by stone.’

‘You talk of the impossible. Its position is too strategic — ally valuable.’

‘Then you have my answer, my lord.’ The Prince spread his hands and stood up, indicating that as far as he was concerned, the meeting was at an end.

‘Ravenstow is rich in herds and flocks,’ Ranulf said persuasively. ‘The finest destrier stud in England, and sheep by the thousand. Think of the wealth grazed on lands that were once Welsh.’

Owain raised a cynical eyebrow. Most of Chester’s earldom had once been Welsh land too. ‘If your troops garrison Caermoel, we’ll never get past it except as corpses to behold such bounty. It is not in your interests to let us raid the best from estates you are hoping to claim.’

‘It is in my interests while their revenue is of benefit to FitzGuyon. Once the earldom is mine, we would have to negotiate, of course.’

‘Oh, of course,’ said Owain and snapped his fingers at the young groom holding his horse. ‘I will have to think on it. I’m not prepared to commit myself here and now.’

Ranulf glanced towards the youth, drawn by something familiar about the tilt of the head and the straight-backed stance. The lad was slender and wore a cap set at a jaunty angle. Handing the reins to the Prince, he lifted his head and bestowed a freezing glance upon Ranulf. His eyes were as dark blue as the sea in shadow.

Ranulf choked.

Prince Owain smiled benevolently at his guest’s mottled complexion and swung the horse around. ‘Whatever your Normans take, it always returns to Welsh hands,’ he said.

The youth mounted his own cream mare, deliberately revealing a lithe expanse of leg.

‘You treacherous bitch!’ Ranulf snarled.

‘Like will know like,’ she answered with contempt and started turning her own mount in pursuit of Owain’s.

Ranulf leaped at her bridle. A Welsh spear barred his way and suddenly the situation was ugly as his own soldiers reached to their hilts.

‘Ease back,’ Owain commanded his men, and swung his horse alongside Olwen’s. Spears rattled and hesitantly retreated.

Ranulf subsided, breathing hard. He glared at Olwen. ‘Where’s my son?’ he demanded.

She gave him a small, cool smile. ‘Your son?’ she laughed. ‘What makes you think he’s yours? I’d have swallowed black-spurred rye before I’d have given life to a child of your siring.’

‘Olwen, enough!’ Owain commanded as Ranulf ’s colour faded and he began to shake as though he had an ague. The grinding of his teeth was audible.

‘He owes it to me,’ she replied. ‘And he always did want to know. Well, now he does.’ Her hand twitched. Responding, the cream mare broke into an ambling trot.

Ranulf coughed and spat. ‘Whose?’ he croaked as if he was being strangled. ‘Tell me, you conniving whore!’

She kept on riding, did not answer.

‘Mine now,’ said Owain as he followed her. ‘By right of conquest. You Normans understand all about that, don’t you?’

Olwen lay across Owain’s chest and played an idle game with the wiry mat of curls beneath her fingers. The glade where they dallied was sun-dappled, warm as a caress, and silent except for the sound of their horses cropping the grass.

‘Woman, you’re dangerous!’ he chuckled ruefully.

Olwen tasted the salt in the hollow of his throat with a pointed tongue. ‘Why is it that men always accuse or blame the woman for their own weaknesses?’ she demanded.

‘We’re hardly going to accuse or blame ourselves, are we!’ he retorted, the laughter deepening. He wound a silken coil of her hair around fore and middle fingers and held it up to watch it sparkle in the sunlight. ‘I suppose that we should be on our way,’ he added, but made no effort to move.

‘Will you do as Ranulf de Gernons asks?’ She lowered her eyes to her gently playing hand and watched the rise and fall of his chest. Neither breathing nor heartbeat changed, but she was aware of the intensity of his gaze. When she flashed a glance at him, he was admiring the lock of hair between his fingers.

‘Was your passion just now by way of bribery?’ he enquired of the tress. ‘If so, you are wasting your time.’

It was Olwen’s breathing that changed, and hearing it, he said, ‘I do not respond to that kind of bargaining, cariad. Learn it now, learn it fast and well, or seek another man’s hearth.’

Olwen bit her lip. ‘It wasn’t bribery.’

‘Not entirely,’ he allowed, ‘but you are like a falcon, my Olwen. You only come to my fist because I feed you. It is not unconditional. You want me to refuse the Earl of Chester, don’t you?’

‘It matters not to me, my lord,’ she shrugged indifferently.

Owain saw through it immediately and laughed at her. ‘Oh, I think it matters very much indeed,’ he contradicted and half sat up, bracing his weight on his elbows. ‘What he proposes is an excellent idea in principle,’ he said, ‘but Ranulf de Gernons is about as genuine as a piece of the True Cross bought from a huckster at Ravenstow Fair. If I helped him to take that keep, he’d have it re-garrisoned faster than I could say the paternoster, and he would use it to raid into my territory. FitzGuyon’s use of it so far has been defensive. I leave him alone, he leaves me alone, and at least his blood is part Welsh.’ He slanted a thoughtful glance at Olwen. ‘Perhaps you still hold him in some degree of affection, fy curyll fach?’