Elizabeth Chadwick - The Running Vixen

‘There’s nothing new in that, as I recall from your childhood,’ Miles said wryly.

William danced up to them. Heulwen opened her mouth, but said nothing. Panting, the child paused to regain his breath, and bestowed upon her a dazzling, impish smile. The youngest of her father’s sons, he had a profusion of bouncy black curls, green-blue eyes like her own and their grandfather’s and a way with him that could charm the birds from the trees.

‘Heulwen, can I go and see Gwen’s pups? Papa’s gone into the town to talk to the merchants and Mama’s busy in the dairy. Eadric said I had to ask you.’ He put on his pleading face, managing to look almost as soulful as Gwen herself, so that Heulwen was forced to laugh.

She tousled his hair. ‘Go on then but be careful, and don’t get too close. She’s still very protective.’

‘I won’t, I promise. Mama says I can have one for my very own when they’re old enough to leave Gwen. I’ve seen the one I want — the black dog with the white paws. I’m going to call him Brith.’

Heulwen felt a pang for childhood’s earnest enthusiasms, the passionate joy in small things, the blissful ignorance of wider concerns, and the tragedies forgotten in the time as it took to wipe away the tears. William gave her a brief, tight hug and, sword still in hand, ran off down the hall.

‘And Judith worries about Renard and women!’ Miles chuckled. ‘William is going to outstrip him a hundredfold when the time comes. I can only be glad that I won’t be here to wince as the sparks fly!’

‘Don’t say that!’ Her tone was sharp.

‘It’s the truth, girl, and we both know it. I’m borrowing time hand over fist these days, and when I do go, I dare say I’ll be glad.’ He leaned back against the carved oak chair and steepled his fingers against his lips. His eyes were still keen, his voice steady without the quaver that so often affected the elderly, and his face betrayed to Heulwen none of the fatigue that was inwardly sapping him. He could not however sustain bursts of energy for long periods these days, and had to husband his strength like a housewife coddling a contrary tallow flame. He was more than four score, an age seldom attained and, slowly but inexorably, his body was failing his will.

‘Now then,’ he said comfortably, ‘what about this quarrel of yours. Can it not be mended?’

Hesitantly at first, but gaining impetus, Heulwen told him the tale, omitting the details about the suspect silver in Ralf ’s strongbox. ‘I know I should have been more tactful, Grandpa, but I was frightened. One moment he was comforting my grief, the next he was kissing me. ’

Miles closed his eyes and conjured up the image of Adam de Lacey. A quiet young man of serious countenance and direct gaze. A superlative horseman, good with a sword, even better with a lance, and not given to the kinds of folly just described to him. He looked thoughtfully at his granddaughter, well aware that she had not told him the whole tale, and she knew he knew, because she had lowered her eyes and her cheeks had turned pink.

‘Foolish,’ he snorted, ‘but not to be wondered at. In part you brought it on yourself. You do not need a gazing glass to know you are attractive to men. Their eyes have always told you.’

‘I didn’t bring that on myself!’ she objected.

‘You interrupted me,’ Miles said with a shake of his head. ‘I was going to say that any young man who found himself alone with you, at your invitation, in the darkest hours of the night might well be pushed over a brink he didn’t even know was there. His first intention probably was to offer comfort. As far as I know, Adam de Lacey is no womaniser. Your father never had trouble with him the way he did with young Miles and his lechery.’

‘Do you think I owe him an apology?’ she asked with a sinking heart.

‘Not necessarily, but I think you were a little harsh with him. You have created a mountain out of a molehill.’

Heulwen looked down and fiddled with the raised embroidery on the belt at her waist. Her grandfather’s great age had in no way incapacitated his wits, and his shrewd scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. She said quickly, ‘Grandpa, I think you’re right. I’ll make amends as best I can.’

The light caught the silver tips of stubble on his throat as he swallowed. ‘You could do worse than consider Adam de Lacey for a husband. Obviously he is attracted to you, and he’s well thought of by men who recognise honour in other men.’

She dropped to kneel beside him, her knees weakening at the very suggestion. Her mind scurried, necessity making it nimble, finding an excuse out of what had once been the truth but was now the truth no longer. ‘Grandpa, I couldn’t, it would be like marrying one of my own brothers. Anyway, I’m as good as spoken for already.’

‘I see,’ he nodded wisely. ‘So you are still set on accepting de Mortimer’s offer?’

‘Yes, Grandpa. After Ralf, I’ll be grateful for a man whose absences are not going to send me into a jealous frenzy.’

She had known passion, he thought, and been burned by its heat, but there had been no healing balm of love to temper its destructive force, only lies, deceit and self-delusion, and she had been too young to understand. A marriage that was purely a business arrangement would suit her very well for the present, but what of the future? Her braids were the colour of liquid fire and they reflected her spirit. No good would come of trying to squash herself into a niche for which she was not made — but how to explain it to her when for the nonce she could not see the wood of the future for the trees of the past. ‘Heulwen. ’ he began and then subsided as a seeping weariness overcame him. He felt as if all the marrow was trickling from his bones and soaking away.

‘Grandpa, are you all right?’ She leaped to her feet in fear. ‘Here, drink some more wine.’

Miles watched her fumble for the flagon and then closed his eyes. When she pressed the cup back into his hands, he forced his lids open again, feeling as though the death pennies were already weighing them down.

Her voice trembled. ‘Grandpa, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.’

He put out his free hand and lightly touched her face as she bent over him. ‘Nay, love, don’t fret,’ he said with a forced smile. ‘I’m all right, just very tired. We’ll talk again when I’ve had a chance to rest.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Grandpa. I’ll make my peace with Adam, and as soon as Warrin returns from Normandy I’ll accept his offer, and that’s the end of it. I’ll go and get Mama.’

‘Child, never mind the end, what about the beginning? ’ he whispered, but to thin air, for she had gathered her skirts and was running down the hall.

Sweating, Adam closed his eyes against the glare of the sun and gulped wine straight from the costrel. Opposing him, Jerold FitzNigel rested his swordpoint in the dust and wiped his forehead upon the back of his hand.

Red juice trickled down Adam’s chin. Finished, he handed the costrel back to the knight, wiped his mouth, then, bending over, hands on knees, blew out hard through puffed cheeks.

‘You’re out of practice,’ grinned FitzNigel, who drank heartily, then, gasping with satisfaction added, ‘I’d have killed you then if we’d been using sharpened blades instead of these whalebone pretences.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Adam retorted with the surety of self-knowledge. Practice was practice, a repetition of various moves in a shifting dance of aggression and avoidance until perfection was accomplished — necessary, but devoid of the deadliness that gave true battle its edge. There was devastating exhilaration in pitting your skill against another man and knowing that the stake was either your life or his. But as he had no intention of murdering his marshal, Adam’s edge was as dull as the rebated sword he was using.

Jerold finished drinking, stoppered the costrel and tossed it over to Austin, for whose edification this bout was partly taking place. ‘Care to wager?’ he challenged Adam and, spitting on his palms, raised his shield and dropped behind it to a battle crouch.

Adam wiped his right hand down his hose and applied it once more to his sword-grip. ‘I’d not part you from your hard-earned coin,’ he retorted, shifting his stance on Thornford’s gritty practice-yard floor. As Jerold attacked, he leaped over the low swing of the blade and beneath the knight’s guard, feinting at the shield and sweeping under it. Jerold sprang backwards like a startled hare and a breath came hard between his teeth. Laughing, Adam pressed his attack.

Horses clattered through the main gateway and into the bailey. Grooms went out and a servant came running in and spoke to the squire.

‘Lord Adam,’ Austin called, ‘Miles le Gallois is here. He’s brought you some horses and craves a moment of your time.’

Adam misjudged his stroke, lost his balance, and found himself once more looking down the fuller of Jerold’s sword and into the knight’s laughing eyes. He pushed the blade aside in disgust.

‘Sorry, lord,’ said Austin, biting his lip.

‘My own fault, lad, I’m not concentrating.’ Adam thrust the blunted sword at the boy. ‘Here, take my place and see if you can improve on my performance.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Jerold mocked.

Adam made an eloquent English gesture, dropped his shield and wandered into the main bailey.

An elderly man was dismounting with care from Ralf ’s bay destrier. Behind him, an expression of wistful pleasure on his face, Renard was loosening the sorrel stallion’s girth, while beyond on a leading rein, the piebald sidled friskily.

‘Lord Miles!’ Adam strode forward with genuine pleasure and held out a calloused palm. ‘This is indeed a surprise!’