The Leopard Unleashed (33 page)

‘Henry, for God’s love, can you hear me?’

Henry groaned, and his fingers tightened upon the straw beneath them. ‘Renard?’ he mumbled thickly. ‘Why is it so dark? Are we at Ravenstow?’

‘We’re prisoners in Lincoln. Stephen lost the battle.’

‘Lincoln? Oh yes. Is it still snowing?’ Henry finally managed to lift his lids. His eyes wandered around the cell’s dank darkness before alighting on Renard.

‘I do not know. Who did this to you?’

‘Earl Ranulf lost his patience and his temper when I could not answer his questions. Your whore it was who saved me from being beaten to death.’

‘Olwen?’

‘I never knew her name, only that she deserted you for him. She has a son now. Red hair …’ Henry’s voice trailed off. He closed his eyes again, his face pale and sweatbeaded.

FitzUrse retrieved the cup that Renard had dropped and splashed it a third full of ale. Then he knelt at Henry’s other side. Between them, he and Renard managed to raise Henry’s head and tip some of the liquid down his throat. It was difficult because he was lying on his stomach and they dared not turn him over because of the wounds from the lash. Henry gulped convulsively, choking and spluttering, but at least some of the ale went down. He opened his eyes again. ‘Uncle Robert was passing,’ he said huskily to Renard. ‘The woman hailed him – not for my sake, I was of no more significance to her than an ill-treated dog, but she was riled at Earl Ranulf for threatening her.’

That rang true of Olwen. Many times over the last year Renard’s thoughts had returned to her like the tongue to an abscessed tooth. This time the pain was diminished, replaced by wry admiration. ‘But if Robert of Gloucester rescued you from de Gernons’s clutches, why have you been thrown in here?’

‘Uncle Robert’s got too much on his trencher just now to remember me unless pushed directly under his nose.’ Henry’s voice was weak as the fever sapped his strength. ‘When they moved his things from tent to castle, his chaplain “tidied” me away in the hopes I’d be forgotten … die somewhere else than at his lordship’s feet.’

‘Save your strength Henry, don’t talk.’ Renard laid a calming hand on his brother’s racing pulse.

‘What for, so that I can be taken out and whipped again? What will happen to us all if we live beyond the moment?’

‘We’re to be taken to Gloucester,’ said FitzUrse. ‘To await the Empress’s pleasure.’

‘Which means we’ll be killed, disinherited or banished and our families and lands sold to the highest bidder. I’d rather die now.’

‘Stop it!’ Renard snapped. ‘You’re wounded, that’s all, and not even as badly as last time!’

Henry grimaced. ‘Thought I was the one full of delusions,’ he muttered. His lids dropped and he turned his head away.

Renard stared at Henry’s matted sandy hair in frustration, knowing that he could not reach his brother, that there was nothing he could do for him. Until recently, Renard had never had occasion to feel helpless or inadequate, and this, for him, was the most difficult tempering of all. Kneeling in the straw of Lincoln’s castle dungeon beside his dying brother, Renard felt the molten hammer-beat of despair.

Adjusting his braies and straightening his tunic, Ranulf looked with deep satisfaction at the woman on his bed. Her pale hair was tangled over her breasts and shoulders. Upon the smooth, honey skin, new bruises bloomed like dark flowers. Hatred and defiance glowed in her eyes. Even now she would not acknowledge him her master. In a way it quite amused him, as when one of the hound pups bared its milk teeth at him.

‘Get out.’ His manner was brusquely indifferent now that his lust was spent. ‘I’m expecting company.’

Olwen rolled on to her stomach, turning her face from his while she controlled her expression. What she most wanted to do was take her knife and cut off not only his long, braided moustaches, but that other thing dangling between his legs.

She pulled on her shift. The linen dragged over her bruises. She might be the mistress of one of the most powerful men in England, but just now she felt like a used trencher after a meal. For an instant her resentment flared
so strongly that she almost set on him with her teeth and nails. The knowledge that he was as strong as a bull and would relish the opportunity to bruise her more held her back.

‘Am I not to be paid?’ she asked instead, in a low, honeyed voice. ‘I need linen to replace the shift you tore in your haste.’

‘You presume.’ There was a cold gleam in his eyes, but he slipped a silver bracelet from his arm and tossed it on the bed. ‘Here, buy yourself a dozen shifts.’

Olwen picked up the incised silver band and quickly put it on before she gave in to the temptation to throw it back in his face. Full lips pursed, she tugged on her overgown. Outside the room she heard the sound of laughter and bright Welsh voices.

‘Hurry up!’ Ranulf snapped. ‘I’ve some more Welsh whores to pay for their favours yet.’

By which he was referring to his own Welsh levies, she knew. She had seen their leader once from a distance. Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd, younger brother of Prince Owain Fawr of North Wales. ‘I doubt that anyone ever performs you a service for free,’ she retorted. He lunged at her, but she was prepared, and in one smooth dancer’s motion rolled off the bed, leaving him clawing at thin air. Not waiting to see him recover, she shot through the curtain on to the stairway and collided with Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd.

He caught her arm as she slipped. She cried out in pain as his fingers gripped on one of the bruises Ranulf had inflicted. She felt the wiry strength of him and saw the admiration flicker in his eyes, followed by the scorn.

‘Fleeing the devil?’ he asked in heavily accented French. She tossed her head and looked him in the eyes, a feat not
difficult because she was tall for a woman and he a little less than average for a man.

‘The devil’s attention would be more welcome!’ she spat with a look over her shoulder, then let herself yield a little in his grip. She dropped her gaze and made her expression a demure contrast to the state of her garments and the manner of her exit. Virgin and whore embodied in one woman. The paradox never failed to excite. She could feel the heat of his gaze, and judging the moment precisely, broke from him.

‘Lord Ranulf is waiting for you,’ she said. ‘At least I presume it is you. He said that I was not the only Welsh whore he had to pay tonight for services rendered.
Nos da fy arglwydd
.’ And left him staring after her, not knowing whether to believe or ignore her.

As she emerged into the bailey and blinked into the sleety wind, a young man wearing the inconspicuous garb of a Welsh scout rose from his crouch beside a semi-sheltered fire and advanced on her with sauntering, but definite purpose. It was only after he had circled behind her and to one side like a dog herding a sheep, and taken hold of her arm, that she recognised Renard’s youngest brother from the time she had seen him at Hawkfield. She had thought him handsome even then, much more so than Renard. Another year of maturity had carved character upon the fine symmetry of his bones.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he said abruptly and drew her away into a store-shed that was being used as extra stabling for the overflow of the army’s horses, his own spotted stallion among them.

‘Why?’ she mocked. ‘Are you lonely?’

‘Not that lonely!’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘I want you to help Renard before it is too late – before we begin moving out for Gloucester.’

She stared at him incredulously. ‘And how, pray, should I do that?’ she demanded. ‘Beg Earl Ranulf on my knees so that my tears melt his iron heart with pity? Bed the guards into exhaustion and steal the prison keys? I fear you have been listening to a surfeit of minstrels’ tales! No, let go of me or I’ll scream Ranulf ’s guards down on us!’ She prepared to kick him.

William sucked a breath through his teeth and released her, although he still blocked her way. ‘You have access to his bedchamber,’ he said.

‘Oh, I see. I murder him in his sleep and Renard dis -appears in the confusion?’

He ignored her sarcasm, his cause too urgent for a bout of repartee. ‘You take his seal, the one which gives authority to his documents, and you bring it to me. I will have ready a parchment authorising Renard’s release. The seal will give it credence and I’ll have him out of that hell-hole and on the Fosse Road faster than Earl Ranulf can braid his moustaches!’

Olwen’s gaze remained hostile. ‘Why should I?’ she asked coldly. ‘What gain is there to me in such risk?’

William ran his hand lightly down her arm. She winced and stiffened. ‘More gain than remaining as his mistress.’ He touched the broad, silver bracelet. ‘How many bruises did you trade for this?’

Olwen snatched her hand away, but withdrew no further. Her underlip caught in her teeth, she thought about making Ranulf look an utter fool and doing him out of the joy of having Renard an impotent prisoner. Not only that, but
she would be putting Renard forever in her debt. Like a cat that has just groomed its ruffled fur into sleek order, Olwen recovered her aplomb. ‘So,’ she said in a smoky voice, ‘I do it for a passion gone cold and to avenge my bruises on Earl Ranulf?’

‘I don’t give a damn why you do it, only that you do.’ William snapped. Behind him, Smotyn pawed the straw and nickered to him, demanding a titbit. Rummaging in the pocket of his sheepskin jerkin, he brought out a heel of bread saved from the breaking of fast and offered it to the horse on the palm of his hand. It gave him a focus other than the woman, and at least Smotyn was predictable.

‘You could occupy your brother’s place as lord of Ravenstow,’ she answered in a provocative voice that her former lover would have recognised all too well. ‘It is yours for the taking.’

William’s strained control broke in an explosive oath. ‘Christ forbid!’ he cried. ‘I would rather be a landless beggar than yoke myself to that particular plough! Renard’s welcome to it!’

Olwen arched her brow at his horror. A man who spoke of power with contempt. A chill ran down her spine. She wondered briefly how it would be to lie with him, and quickly dropped the thought as if it were a scalding ingot. Far too seductive and dangerous. Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd was a much safer prospect and liable to lead her to an introduction to his kinsman, Owain Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales.

‘Supposing I take this tale to Earl Ranulf?’ she asked. ‘What might it be worth to him? I know that his hatred is not just centred on Renard. He would hang you from the nearest tree if he found out.’

William shrugged. ‘I’m a scout and tracker. I could go to ground faster than a deer in the morning and not be seen again this side of the Welsh border. How else would I get Renard beyond the hue and cry?’ Returning her look with one of his own, he slapped Smotyn’s neck. ‘And you would never feel safe again.’ He rested his other hand lightly on his dagger hilt for emphasis.

Warned, but uncowed, Olwen considered him steadily before turning to stroke the horse. A spark kindled within her and a feeling akin to that which she felt when dancing for men, the awareness of the power she had over them, as she had the power now.

‘You do not need to threaten me,’ she said softly to William. ‘For a passion not as dead as I would wish it to be, and to avenge my hurts on Lord Ranulf, I will do as you ask.’

Renard measured the span of time by the changing colour of the spear of sky trapped in the narrow window high above his head. Some of that span he fitfully slept, but most of it was spent in a relentless awareness of cold, pain and impotence, the latter the most intense of the three. Watching a man die was never pleasant. Watching your own brother when there were added currents of guilt, pity and a sense of failure, was sheer hell.

The dull grey of morning had dimmed beyond an early dusk into the pitch darkness of night. The wind whined through the unshuttered slit of light, bringing with it the tantalising discomfort of the smell of rain and raw cold without. The guards had come to empty the bucket and bring the by now familiar bread and ale. This time too, as a grudging afterthought, some dirty horse blankets had been tossed in upon them.

Henry alternately burned and shivered beneath Renard’s blanket and his own. The lash stripes smothering his back had been bathed in ale for want of anything better, but it had been of no use. His wounds had suppurated beyond all healing and the fever had continued to mount relentlessly. Another knight had already died of the wound fever. His body, along with that of the dead squire, had been dragged out that evening.

‘Gloucester tomorrow,’ said Ingelram, whose leg wound, despite all the odds, was not festering. He would carry a limp to his grave, but, precluding execution, he was not yet worm fodder. ‘He won’t survive the journey, Renard. Looking at him, I doubt he’ll last the night.’

Renard swallowed. ‘He’s had the wound fever severely in the past and survived.’

‘With this kind of nursing?’ Ingelram said disparagingly. ‘The signs are on him. He hasn’t pissed since well before noon and I can feel the heat of him from here.’

Renard gave him a furious glare.

‘It’s the truth,’ Ingelram said stubbornly, ‘even if you don’t want to see it.’

At which juncture Richard FitzUrse, out of pity, pulled his insensitive companion away.

It was still dark, the blackest part of the night immediately before dawn and Henry still clinging by the fingertips to life when the draw-bar was shot back and a voice, impatient, autocratic and very angry, snapped at the guards.