The Leopard Unleashed (16 page)

Olwen pouted. ‘Am I supposed to stay in this poky, back-of-beyond byre for the rest of my life?’ she demanded.

‘You could have remained in Antioch to dance for your living,’ he reminded her as he donned his braies and chausses.

She lowered her arms and rolled over away from him. Tears of frustration and rage prickled behind her lids. ‘At least I would not be dying of boredom!’

He shot her a look full of impatience. ‘This land is yours. Far from being a “poky, back-of-beyond byre”, it’s prosperous and productive, one of the best beholden to Ravenstow, and if you had wit or wisdom about you, you’d nurture it, not mock and sneer. I need not have given you anything at all.’

‘Oh, generous indeed!’ she scoffed. ‘Put a hoe in my hand and expect me to be overcome with gratitude!’

In a move that was whiplash swift he grabbed her, pushing her down. For a moment it hung in the balance. He had never in his life struck a woman before, because a man who beat a woman was no man at all. He struggled, his whole body trembling as she goaded him towards the edge of a different kind of passion. She curved her thigh along the length of his and he saw the bloom of naked hunger in her eyes. His body answered hers, but this time he denied the temptation, and breathing hard, almost sobbing, thrust himself away from her. Without stopping to put on his remaining garments, he gathered them up in his arms, and stormed out.

Panting, her body strung as taut as a resonating harp, Olwen stared after him. She heard the shouts of the grooms and the neigh of a horse, the drumming of hooves and then silence. The heat of lust and temper cooled from her skin, leaving her cold, as if she had been sitting too long at a hearth where the fire had gone out.

Elene smiled proudly at the gasps of awe, envy and delight as her wedding garments were laid across the bed. The undertunic with its tight-fitting sleeves was of a soft, wine-coloured wool, exquisitely stitched but unembellished, a plain foil for the overgown of moss-green silk. The hem, throat and hanging sleeves of the gown were trimmed with bands of the red and both were oversewn with thread-of-gold in a tapestry of intricate detail. Foxes, leopards, sheep and horses curved around trees that stood against keeps, stylised to represent Ravenstow and Woolcot. In a garden stood a man and woman, hands clasped together, the man’s tunic embroidered with tiny foxes, the woman’s with grazing sheep.

The women wedding guests stroked, examined and exclaimed over Elene’s skills and a warm glow lit within her at their praise. A laughing remark was made about the couple in the garden. Elene blushed, unsure now that she wanted that particular part of the garment on public display and knowing that it was too late to unpick the stitches.

Despite the braziers and the fire in the hearth, the room was still cold. The heat imbued to Elene’s skin by the bath water was fading, and, clothed as she was in nothing but her short shift, she started to shiver. Judith, her eyes dark-shadowed by permanent worry and lack of sleep, was preocccupied, but Heulwen noticed Elene’s chattering teeth and with a concerned exclamation picked the undertunic from the bed and helped her to don it, followed by the gorgeous wedding gown.

‘If Adam and I ever find anyone rash enough to take on our hoydens, I hope we can call on you to sew their gowns too,’ she said as she fastened the lacings.

‘Of course.’ Elene smiled at the two girls, both in their best dresses, who were watching her, eyes round and awestruck as a veil of gold tissue was arranged over her hip-length cloud of black hair.

‘You look like a princess!’ Juditta breathed.

‘Will Uncle Renard look like a prince?’ Rhosyn enquired, and wriggled away from Dame Adela who was trying to tweak her chaplet straight.

Heulwen laughed. ‘You know he will. He’d look like one if he were clothed in rags; he has that way about him. But then he’s the grandson of a king, and nephew of an empress.’

‘Henry is the one who most resembles his grandfather,’ Judith said neutrally.

‘Physically yes, but not in terms of presence,’ Heulwen argued, then bit her tongue and lowered her eyes. ‘I am sorry, Mama. It’s not fair to keep holding up Henry and Renard for comparison. They’re so unalike.’

Judith sighed and set another pin into Elene’s veil. ‘I suppose it isn’t, but I know what you mean. Henry’s nature
is far too simple to have come from that side of his breeding. Your father says that he’s like his Great-uncle Gerard, without the brains.’ Her voice shook slightly.

Elene touched her gently. ‘At least he hasn’t taken the wound fever or stiffening sickness,’ she tried to comfort her. ‘I know he has been hot, but nothing that willow bark and feverfew cannot contain. And if his nature is simple, it’s also cheerful. He will make a good recovery, I know he will.’

Judith’s preoccupied expression sharpened into focus on Elene, but she found no platitude. The girl believed what she was saying. ‘I’m sure you are right,’ Judith said in a softer voice and tenderly embraced her, wondering at the same time if Renard, less familiar with Elene, would see the pride and stubbornness of spirit, or just the surface docility. After Olwen, Elene could either be as uninterest -ing as plain bread at a feast, or a welcome relief from a highly spiced diet.

Thomas d’Alberin’s plump wife simpered and giggled like a silly girl as she helped one of the other women scatter herbs over the bottom sheet of the bed, the sheet that tomorrow would be blotched with the scarlet proof of Elene’s virginity. She paused, her hand full of dried forget-me-nots, and called cheerfully to the bride, ‘Which side will you be sleeping tonight? Nay, but I don’t suppose you’ll actually do much sleeping. When Thomas and I were wed, I couldn’t sit comfortable for a week afterwards!’ She winked and scattered the forget-me-nots. ‘You be sure to lie just here if you want to bear your lord a fine son before next Michaelmas.’

Elene gave her a fixed smile.

‘Pay no heed,’ whispered Heulwen. ‘It’s all in jest. Just answer back and stick out your tongue.’

‘That’s as difficult for me to do as sewing is for you,’ Elene said ruefully.

Heulwen considered her with a frown. ‘You’re not scared about tonight, are you? I mean after what happened?’

For a moment Elene thought that Heulwen was talking about the embrace in the wall chamber two days since and belatedly realised that she was in fact referring to the attempted rape.

‘What? Oh no … well, only a little. More butterflies than terror.’ She gave a small shrug. ‘Renard’s skilled at dalliance, isn’t he? There’ll only be one fumbling innocent in that bed tonight – me.’

Heulwen exchanged a glance, surreptitious as she thought, with her stepmother, but Elene was quick and caught it. ‘I may be innocent,’ she said with dignity, ‘but I’m not ignorant. I know there were women at court and at home before he left for Antioch, and I do not for one moment believe he was celibate while he was out there … What is it? What have I said?’

Heulwen avoided Elene’s bright hazel stare.

‘Child,’ Judith murmured. ‘If you know my son’s nature then you will be prepared for whatever the future may throw at you … and strong enough to weather it, I pray.’

It was a strange thing to say and Elene felt a tingle of alarm run down her spine, but had no time to examine or probe further because a squire came enquiring if the bridal party was ready for church and there was a sudden flurry of giggles and last-minute adjustments and the sweeping on of thick, furred cloaks. The thought was pushed from her mind, but hovered to one side of it with
the indignation of an unwelcome wedding guest left standing in the cold.

In response to Henry’s croaked command, Renard turned in a slow circle. ‘What do you think?’ he grinned. ‘Awe-inspiring, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t mock,’ Henry said weakly and then pointed to his pillows. ‘Prop me up, will you?’

Renard obliged. As he moved, he heard a seam in his wedding tunic give a slight crack and was almost relieved to know that it was not perfect.

The main colour was a deep red wool with cuff and hem trimmings of green and the whole of it decorated with a twining forest of thread-of-gold among which foxes ran, sat, played and fought. Elene’s skills as an embroideress were without question. It would make a superb court robe, but Renard was not entirely comfortable with such ostentation no matter the amount of thought and care that had gone into its creation.

‘I wasn’t mocking,’ he said as he sat down on the stool at the head of the bed. ‘It is awe-inspiring. If King Stephen sees me in this, he’ll think I’m using the claim of my grandfather’s blood to set myself up as another contender for his crown – and that I’m a popinjay into the bargain.’

Despite himself Henry chuckled, then caught his breath as the movement in his chest and shoulders sent pain coursing through his wound. ‘You don’t wear rings or perfume your hair like the Bishop of Winchester, and you don’t stuff the toes of your shoes with horsehair and decor -ate them with bells,’ he said.

‘Ah, but these are early days yet,’ Renard grinned, and then sobered to study his brother. ‘At least, even if you’re
not well enough to be stretchered to church to witness the wedding, you’re on the mend. No wound fever, so the women say. How do the arm and shoulder feel?’

‘I’ve got some movement there, but it’s weak and it hurts like all the devils in hell to move it. I’ll have to toast you with my left hand.’

‘At least you’ll be at the feast. Last week we did not know if it would be held to mark your funeral instead of my marriage.’ Renard rose to leave.

‘Renard …’ Henry’s voice was husky. He did not yet have the strength to raise it. ‘You’re a lucky bastard. Don’t abuse it.’

Even enfeebled and distorted by physical pain, the emotion in Henry’s voice came through, and Renard stared at him in dawning astonishment.

‘Go away.’ Henry closed his eyes.

For a moment Renard remained where he was, just staring. He supposed that it was not so unlikely. Henry’s was the kind of nature to thrive on Elene’s gentle domesticity. All too easy for brotherly affection to deepen into something more dangerous.

‘Does Elene know?’

‘I’m not that stupid. Besides, it is you she has always loved.’ His eyelids tightened. ‘If I wasn’t so sick I wouldn’t be telling you this. Private … none of your concern. But if you forsake her for that dancing girl you brought home with you, I’ll kill you myself !’

‘How did you know about …’

‘I’ve got ears to hear. People talk over my head and think because I’m ill that I’m unaware … You didn’t come back last night until well after compline, did you?’

Renard was by now heartily fed up with people telling
him to be kind to Elene. He could not, however, in the present circumstances, vent his irritation in a bad-tempered outburst on Henry. Composing himself he said, ‘I’ll do my best by Elene but I’m not going to give you reassurances about my “dancing girl” because I’d probably not honour them. I’ll explain later when you’re in a better condition.’ He looked round as Adam came into the room holding out a cloak.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

Renard nodded and swinging the garment around his shoulders stabbed in the round Welsh pin.

Adam looked from one to the other, sensing the tension. A frown was scoring two deep lines between Renard’s brows and Henry’s skin was beaded with feverish sweat. A maid came from the corner of the room with a bowl of lavender water and began gently to wipe him down.

‘What’s wrong?’ Adam demanded.

‘Nothing,’ Renard said lightly. ‘What could be wrong on a day of joy such as this?’ His brow cleared and he smiled, but his expression was as cosmetic as the fine wedding garments masking his hard, warrior’s body.

‘Wassail!’ The traditional cry echoed round the hall in the English tongue.

‘Drink, hail!’ came the response, and cups and goblets were raised and drained and not for the first time or the last.

Elene stared round Ravenstow’s great hall at the progression of her wedding feast. Flown with wine, Rhodri ap Tewdr, Welsh prince, wedding guest and family friend, was subjecting them all to an impromptu rendition of
Dingodad’s Speckled Petticoat
, much to Juditta’s and Rhosyn’s delight.
It was at least a child’s song and a deal less explicit than some of the others that had been requested of the professional minstrels in the gallery.

Renard grimaced as the notes quavered towards the beams. ‘If I were a maid and he serenaded me thus, I’d run for my sanity,’ he leaned over to murmur in her ear.

‘It certainly doesn’t seem to have done him any harm by his wife,’ Elene contradicted. ‘How many children do they have now? Ten in as many years?’

‘It’s probably the only way she can get him to shut up,’ Renard said, then muttered an oath under his breath and started to get up as fighting broke out between one of Rhodri’s Welsh and a knight of Leicester’s household.

Rhodri was too far in his cups to do anything except stare reproachfully at the commotion interrupting his song. William plunged into the midst of the melee to separate the combatants before fists could become armed with knives and a full-scale war developed, and hauled the Welshman away by the scruff of his leather jerkin.

John quickly set about calming the knight to a muttering simmer. Renard subsided on to his chair. Brawls were a not uncommon hazard of wedding feasts when the wine was plentiful and people were brought together who would not always choose to be in each other’s company. Stephen’s Christmas court would likely be beset by similar or worse problems.