shrugged, ‘at least we have had this opportunity to say our farewells. I’m glad you came.’
Heulwen swallowed, unable to speak for the tears crowding her throat. It was almost like being widowed again; worse, in some ways. Ralf ’s death had struck her like a bolt of summer lightning. This time she had the long, slow roll of thunder to warn her beforehand. And if by God’s mercy Adam lived, then Warrin would die, and even if he was guilty, she could feel no satisfaction, only utter weariness.
‘God keep you safe,’ she managed to whisper at last, and drawing up the hood of her cloak, hurried from the room before she broke down before him.
Hugh de Mortimer watched his only son duck beneath the arena rope in the tower’s ward, and clenched his war-scarred knuckles into fists.
‘He is innocent,’ he said in a harsh, metallic voice.
Guyon stamped his feet to keep them warm and regarded the arena and the two young men now within it. Adam was moving restlessly, trying to keep his muscles from stiffening up in the cold. ‘I am afraid my foster son does not share your belief, and although it pains me to say so, Hugh, neither do I.’ He looked along his shoulder at the older man standing beside him on the raised platform.
‘You would take the word of a Welsh barbarian and a traitor’s hell-begotten spawn above that of my own son?’
Guyon’s jaw tightened. An acerbic retort burned on his tongue but he said nothing. What was the point in blistering an open wound? ‘I don’t wish to quarrel with you, Hugh,’ he said evenly. ‘This goes hard with us both.’
‘If wishes were horses then beggars would ride and whores be restored their virginity!’ his companion grated. ‘Do you know how much store Warrin set by your wanton daughter?’
‘I know how much store he set by his own vanity,’ Guyon was driven to retort in Heulwen’s defence. ‘My daughter is not a wanton. Choose very carefully what you say to me.’
‘Choose carefully? Blood of Christ, when I think what. ’
‘Peace, my lords,’ said the King, stepping smoothly between them. ‘It is grievous enough that these young men should be fighting at all, without the unseemliness of two of my senior barons turning the occasion into an open brawl.’
Guyon swallowed his anger and bowed to Henry. ‘It was not my desire to cause insult or unseemliness,’ he said, and held out his open palm to Hugh de Mortimer. The latter ignored it, but inclined himself stiffly to the King.
‘A pity that you did not pursue such sentiments in the ordering of your own household, my lord,’ said the cool silken voice of the Empress Matilda who was now standing beside her father. She was wearing a woollen gown the precise colour of fresh blood, topped by a sable-lined cloak.
Guyon regarded his wife’s half-sister with a blank expression and disfavour that did not show on his face. ‘I hazard we all have skeletons rattling to escape from the places where we have walled them up,’ he said, his eyes seeking among the gathered nobility and resting for a pointed, benevolent moment upon Alain Fergant’s bastard son Brien.
The Empress’s face did not betray by so much as a flicker that she had understood what he meant, but he saw the twitch of her fingers within the fashionably long sleeves of her gown, and knew without any satisfaction that his barb had hit the mark. Brien FitzCount was a handsome and intelligent young man with a forceful personality and all the finer attributes of a courtier married to the pragmatic approach of a common soldier. He was also the illegitimate son of a popular but only moderately important Breton count, and as such stood not a chance in the darkest pit of hell of becoming Matilda’s approved consort. What went on behind locked doors and closed shutters was another matter, of course. Thou shalt not be caught was the eleventh commandment of the court, and Matilda had been fortunate enough not to violate it…yet.
There was a brief flurry in the crowd that had gathered to witness the fight, followed by a burst of excitement. In the arena, the opponents turned their heads from their hostile regard of each other and watched a group of men-at-arms approach the dais, escorting at their centre Judith of Ravenstow and her by now infamous stepdaughter. The common folk craned to take a better look, murmuring to each other, quoting the various superstitions connected with red-haired women and speculatively admiring the picture she made as she walked the path cleared for her by the Ravenstow serjeants. Her eyes were modestly downcast and her skin so pale that it might have been moulded from ice, her pallor emphasised by her sombre garb, unadorned except for the flash of agate prayer beads glimpsed briefly through the opening of her cloak as she walked.
From somewhere in the crowd the jeer of whore went up, but it was only echoed sporadically, for she did not look like a whore, and among the common people at least, there was sympathy for a pair of lovers. Counter- cries went out, good-humoured, egging Adam on, cheering Heulwen.
‘It’s a circus!’ Hugh de Mortimer ground out. ‘Can you hear them? Thank Christ I didn’t bring my little Elene to Windsor.’
‘Why else do you think they are here?’ Guyon said, a hint of disgust in his own voice. ‘They want to be entertained.’ He shouldered across the dais to his wife and daughter and helped them up the steps.
Hugh de Mortimer, who had smiled upon Heulwen and embraced her as his daughter on the last occasion they had met, now stared at her with loathing, the word harlot in his eyes if not on his tongue.
Feeling as if she had been spat upon, Heulwen curtsied first to Henry and then the Empress. The latter gestured her to rise, subjected her to a thoughtful, thorough scrutiny, then bestowed on her the kiss of peace. ‘Come, Lady Heulwen, sit by me if you will and warm yourself at the brazier. Wine?’ She beckoned to a servant. The gesture was both diplomatic and kind, but the keen glitter of Matilda’s eyes first on Hugh, and then Warrin de Mortimer, dispelled any illusion Heulwen had that the Empress was being pleasant. Matilda was a cat patting a captive mouse between her paws.
Heulwen let herself be guided and sat down beside the Empress, feeling like a player in some monstrous show. She looked down at her bleached knuckles while the charges and counter-charges were read out and refuted, then raised her head to risk a glance at Adam as he made his denial and accusation. He was bareheaded, his hair curling and dark with hoar droplets, and like Warrin he wore no mail, only a padded tunic that ended wide-sleeved below the elbows and beneath it his ordinary robe. He had a shield, his sword and his skill, and Warrin possessed the same. Two living men had entered that arena; only one would emerge.
Adam glanced once and briefly at her, and half raised his sword in salute; the edge shivered with blue light that cut her to the heart. Behind her, her father set his hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. ‘Courage
‘
Adam crouched behind the shield and felt the ground delicately. Each blade of grass was a knobbled white spear, slippery with potential death. Warrin sidled, sword and shield extended like pincers. On his cheek, the scabbed-over deep scratch was a remnant and reminder of the brawl in the bedchamber.
He attacked. Adam parried the blow with a swift, economical move and twisted out of range. Someone jeered, but he was oblivious, his whole being taken up in the concentration of battle. This was no tilt yard session where their tutor would separate them before damage was done, no courtesy match where the victor would accept the yielding of the vanquished with good humour. This was kill or be killed, simple and conclusive.
Warrin had a negligible advantage of height, although Adam had the leg length whereas Warrin’s was in the body. Warrin was more powerfully developed, but not quite so fast, and both men were skilled fighters.
Warrin came on again and Adam parried. The blade bit his shield and rebounded with a dull, metallic thud. Adam struck his first blow and Warrin’s shield was immediately there to catch it. The shock rippled along Adam’s arm, jarring it to the shoulder socket. Warrin pushed and Adam leaped backwards, half turned and, shield presented, swiped backhanded and low at Warrin’s unguarded right knee. Warrin jumped and skidded on the frozen grass. The crowd roared and surged and were forced back by the Marshal’s men. Adam followed through, but Warrin took the blow on his shield and behind its protection regained his balance and attacked, driving Adam back towards the stakes in a savage flurry of hacking blows.
The men fought each other forwards and back across the arena. Their swords crashed and thudded on the shields, biting gouges in the wood. Occasionally the grating sound of steel upon steel rang out as they parried
