liked the sport. She used to scold him deaf the times he was home, but all the young men at court had them and he did not want to be any different.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘Poor Chanticleer. He didn’t even come to a glorious end. Run over by a wain in the ward while chasing one of his wives, and his corpse consigned to the pot.’
Adam chuckled and hastily drew rein to allow a cart to lumber past. It was laden with barrels of wine, the oxen drawing it sleek and well muscled. Dust rose and puffed beneath their shod cloven hooves, and Heulwen covered her face with her veil and coughed.
Southampton, Caen, Falaise, Mortain, Roche au Moins. Most of the time she had enjoyed the different scenery and customs. The land through which they had passed was gentle and pastoral, much flatter than her own Welsh hills, and dominated by its rivers, the Mayenne, the Maine, the green Indre and the majestic Loire itself. There were vineyards in abundance and great swathes of yellow broom, providing shelter for small game. There were fig trees, prickly sweet-chestnuts and elegant cedars silhouetted against a washed-blue sky, and the people spoke a purer, stronger French than the kind spoken in her native marches. Now, at the end of their journey, she was sweat-stained, gritty and so saddle sore that once down from her mare she thought she would never want to ride again.
‘Not far now,’ Adam said, as if reading her mind. ‘Just over the bridge, isn’t it, Thierry?’ They had sent half their escort on ahead to purchase and prepare them lodgings, and Thierry, one of the advance party, had been waiting for them this morning at the city gates to show them the way.
‘Yes, my lord.’
Heulwen looked at the bustling wood and stone structure spanning the Maine. Beyond it and above, Count Fulke’s keep thrust at the sky, banners fluttering on the battlements. ‘I hope Austin has been busy,’ she said, the thought of a feather mattress devoid of vermin pushing all other lesser considerations to one side.
Adam tilted her a smile. ‘I will say this for you,’ he teased ‘you’re a better travelling companion than the last woman I had the misfortune to escort any distance.’
‘I’ll warrant she was not so sympathetic to your needs,’ she said and saucily poked her tongue between her teeth.
His look narrowed and smouldered. ‘Not by half,’ he said softly.
With heightened colour, she laughed at him, and heeled Gemini forward.
The lodging Thierry had rented belonged to a merchant absent on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and although small — Adam nearly brained himself on the door lintel when first entering — there was adequate stabling for the horses and a well-tended orchard garden going down to the river’s edge, where it ended in a private wharf complete with rowing boat. The house had the added benefit of being close to the castle.
Indeed, later, looking out of the unshuttered upstairs window into the street below as she combed the tangles from her damp hair, Heulwen saw a party of horsemen returning along their thoroughfare to the keep. Laughing young men with a few older nobles sprinkled among them, a seasoning of armed guards sweltering in quilted gambesons and half-hauberks, one of them clutching a tattered but victorious bronze cockerel. For added spice there were gaily clad women of the highest rank of the oldest profession.
‘Adam, come here,’ she called.
‘What is it?’ Minus his tunic, shirt laces dangling loose, Adam braced his arm on the window frame and leaned behind her. Suddenly his tension was as palpable as the spring sunshine pouring in on them. ‘William le Clito,’ he muttered, his surprise tinged with more than a hint of displeasure.
‘Who, the one with the red-gold hair?’
‘No, he’s far too young. The dark one on the roan. I’ll hazard just by looking at his clothes that the other one is Geoffrey of Anjou himself.’
Heulwen craned forward.
‘What’s William le Clito doing in Angers?’ Adam said with a frown. His question was purely rhetorical and the answer already known: he must be seeking Count Fulke’s support so that he could stir up unrest in Normandy. A pity for him that Adam came not seeking, but offering a prize beyond refusal. He touched Heulwen’s shoulder. ‘Come away from the shutters, love,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll have their eyes popping out and rolling until they reach the river…and besides, I don’t want half the court boasting to have seen the wife of King Henry’s messenger in her undergarments.’
‘Too late for that,’ she laughed, although she was aware of the warning beneath his light remark and withdrew from the window, latching the shutters. It was one thing to behave as she pleased at home, quite another when she and Adam were out to make a good impression upon the Count of Anjou.
The last man in the cavalcade rode past. Attached to his cantle by a leading rein was a fine, riderless pied stallion. In the shadow of a doorway across the street, Warrin de Mortimer stood and stared at the dwelling opposite and marked it with burning eyes.
Fulke, the son of Fulke le Rechin, Count of Anjou, was a man of middle height, middle build, and middle years. He was robust and florid with hair that would once have rivalled Heulwen’s for colour, but had faded with the years to a softer, ginger hue, thinning at the crown. Set above a bulbous wide-pored nose, his eyes were a bright steel-silver and they missed nothing.
Adam kept his responses modest as he presented Fulke with Henry’s gifts of an English embroidery and a goblet set with sapphires and crystals. For Geoffrey there was a copy of Bede with illustrations in gold leaf and a cover of ivory panels. The young man accepted it graciously and smiled, but not as broadly as Fulke, and his own eyes, bright mirrors of his father’s, were not only vigilant but cold.
Both father and son took an interest in Heulwen and Fulke insisted she join them at the dais table. ‘It is not often that we are graced by company so fair,’ Fulke said.
William le Clito was a guest at the table too, making his apologies as he arrived late, and hastily taking his place near the Count and his son.
‘Heulwen. ’ he said when introduced. ‘What does it mean?’
She gave him a quick smile. ‘It is Welsh for sunshine, my lord. I take it from my great-grandmother Heulwen uerch Owain. She was a princess of her people.’
‘I see you have pride,’ said le Clito, a bitter twist to his mouth, ‘I can understand that.’ The twist became malicious. ‘It is an unusual name; surely you must be the same Heulwen to whom one of my knights, Warrin de Mortimer, was betrothed?’
Heulwen felt heat seeping into her cheeks. ‘No, sire.’ She pitched her voice low for control. ‘I was never betrothed to him. He was accused of conspiracy and murder and found guilty…as surely you must know.’
‘Warrin de Mortimer?’ Fulke of Anjou frowned in question.
‘You know,’ Geoffrey said. ‘The big yellow-haired one who wears more rings than he has fingers. Down there look, on your right, just sitting down.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Fulke stroked his beard.
Heulwen’s heart began to pound. Her vision blurred, but not enough to blot out the sight of the man taking his place at one of the lower trestles where le Clito’s men were settling to eat, nor the fact that he was watching her with steady, hostile eyes. Blue was not a hot colour, but his gaze was scorching a hole right through to her spine. Warrin here in Angers. Please God no, it could not be true!
William le Clito said, ‘I took him in when he was banished from my uncle’s domains. I understand, my lady, that Warrin and your husband fought a trial by combat last Christmas feast over a somewhat cloudy issue?’ He gave her a mocking look. ‘I do not suppose the more lurid details carry any tinge of truth?’
‘It would be ill-bred of me to respond, my lord,’ she replied stiffly.
‘I like a woman with spirit,’ Geoffrey said with appreciation.
She wondered if he would be so amused once he was married to the Empress. Ignoring him and le Clito, she looked beseechingly at the Count. ‘Sire, I would rather not speak of this matter.’ She did not need to feign the catch in her voice, but she dropped her head and dabbed at her eyes with the trailing sleeve of her gown.
‘Come now, my lady, do not distress yourself.’ Awkwardly Fulke patted her hand and gave le Clito a warning look. ‘Lord William meant no harm; he did but tease you a little too far. He will apologise if he has offended.’
William le Clito did so, his words about as sincere as a holy relic bought at a fair, and Heulwen accepted it with comparable sincerity and forced herself to eat a morsel of the delicious herb-roasted venison. It was almost impossible to swallow, knowing that Warrin was watching her.
