head, which, if this letter were any indication, appeared to be stuffed with feathers.
His youngest brother, William, had acquired a new horse, white with black spots like a currant pudding, speaking of which, Elene had discovered a wonderful recipe for preserving fruits. Renard flipped the parchment over and stared in growing dismay at the efficient flow of trivia. Groaning softly, he cast his eyes rapidly over it, then stopped at the last third of the page. There was a description of a social event she had attended and a list of the lords who had been present.
Renard lifted his head and sighing, pinched the bridge of his nose. Ranulf de Gernons, Earl of Chester and lord of the world, given half a chance. Elene’s lands lay on his borders as did the northernmost of his father’s keeps, Caermoel.
Renard spread his hand, brought it down over his face, and looked at the view stretching away before him without really seeing it. If de Gernons took Caermoel, he would easily swallow Henry’s small keep at Oxley, and advance on Woolcot, then Ravenstow, the caput of his father’s lands.
‘No,’ Renard said softly, his eyes narrowing. He abandoned Elene’s letter, apart from noting that she had signed herself in loving obedience his wife, and lay back on the slope, head pillowed on his clasped hands to think — and fell asleep.
A group of pilgrims toiling up to the grotto woke him some hours later; that and Gorvenal snorting gustily into his face. The sunlight was more diffuse now, turning the Orontes into a river of molten gold. His face was tight, a little sore from having lain so long exposed. It was a newcomer’s trick, inexcusable for one so long accustomed to the terrific heat of northern Syria.
He caught Gorvenal’s bridle and rode back down into the city, returning to his villa by way of the high-walled garden entrance. The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the citrus trees and the first stirrings of an evening breeze rustled the cypresses and drifted the scent of lavender from the plants growing along the top of the wall.
Gorvenal went immediately to the stone fountain, dipped his muzzle and drank. Renard dismounted and did likewise, splashing the water in relief over his hot face. The horse pricked his ears and turned. His face water- sluiced and blinded, Renard was unaware of the danger until he felt the blade against his ribs. Body and breath both froze. Murder by stealth was a common way to die out here in Outremer.
The tip indented his skin but did not puncture it. He breathed out again and slowly lowered his hands.
‘Fortunate for you that I am not one of the hashishin,’ Olwen said scornfully as she lowered the weapon. ‘You should guard yourself better. Here, this is yours.’
Renard took his dagger from her in silence.
Her lip curled. ‘You have been lying out in the sun too.’
‘I fell asleep.’ He fumbled at his sheath for the Turkish blade currently occupying it.
Olwen sat down on the edge of the fountain, trailed one hand in the water, and with the other accepted back her own knife, her eyes on him.
Recovering from the shock, he stared back at her and said coolly, ‘That is the excuse dealt with. Are you going to tell me why else you are here?’
‘Why do you think?’
He rested his hands on his belt. ‘Because a quarter of a mark is an irresistible sum? Because there is something you want of me?’
Olwen smiled and began slowly unhooking the neck fastening of her gown. ‘Or that you want of me, my lord?’
Renard opened his mouth to say that the thought had not occurred to him, that she was mistaken if she believed she could manipulate him, but the words went unspoken and his eyes drifted to the throat of her gown and travelled down the shadowed declivity between her breasts. She rose and came to him, twining her arms around his neck and half nipping, half kissing his jaw and throat, seeking his lips, her body rubbing.
Renard ceased thinking at all.
It was release and oblivion, an indulgence of the senses that temporarily obliterated the mind, and he did not realise how much he had needed it until he surfaced from the exquisite sensations to become aware of the breeze playing over his sweat-coated muscles.
He propped himself up. ‘How did you know before I knew myself?’
Olwen tilted him a smile. ‘It is my profession to know, and I learn very quickly.’
Renard rolled over and sat up, frowning. ‘A profession demands payment. What is your price this time?’
‘It wasn’t just for gain.’
Gorvenal lipped experimentally at a clump of rosemary and shook his mane irritably at the flies. Renard touched her face. ‘I know it wasn’t,’ he said sombrely. ‘But I am not sure that it is something to be continued. It is too hot, too wild to be safe, and it will break one of us, I am certain of it.’
‘But you are leaving soon, are you not?’ She sat up beside him and placed her lips against his throat. ‘Where is the harm in a few weeks? You do not have to pay me. I need somewhere to sleep.’
‘Surely you have money enough for a roof over your head.’ He gave her a disbelieving look.
Olwen made a face. ‘Until today, I lived with my sister and my uncle — that drunk who accosted me in the courtyard of the Scimitar. I’ve quarrelled badly with both of them and I’m not going back. Yes, I could afford to rent a room, but I would rather stay with you.’ Her lips travelled persuasively over his skin.
Renard moved away from her, and scraping his hands through his hair, tried to assemble his scattered wits. In little more than a month he would be on board a pilgrim ship bound for Brindisi. Surely there was no harm in playing with fire for so short a time. It would suit them both well.
Standing up, he extended his hand to her. ‘You can stay for tonight,’ he temporised. ‘After that, well, we’ll see.’ And knew that he was deceiving himself as Olwen gave him a melting smile.
Chapter 4
The fields of the demesne were like an expanse of green-coloured sky clumped with creamy bleating clouds — the sheep that were, as the name of the village suggested, Woolcot’s main source of wealth. Gold upon the cloven hoof.
On top of the knoll, Elene drew rein and gazed out over both land and flocks with a proprietorial eye. ‘It will be a good clip this year,’ she informed her female riding companion. ‘There were a lot of twin lambs born too. I’m glad I bought that new ram.’
‘You know almost as much as your bailiffs and shepherds, don’t you?’ laughed Heulwen de Lacey, her future sister-in-law.
Elene returned the laughter. ‘I suppose I do. Papa was always telling me how much the sheep were worth and now he’s gone it’s a sacred trust, an honour to his memory.’ The curve of her lips became wry. ‘Besides, they are the better part of my dowry, the main reason the arrangement was made. A castle to defend the land between Ravenstow and Caermoel, and the sheep to pay for its upkeep.’ She plucked at a burr in Bramble’s mane. ‘I sometimes have the ridiculous daydream that Renard will want me for myself. Stupid, isn’t it?’
Heulwen considered Elene’s fine, almost sharp features. Beneath silky black brows, her eyes were the
