What followed was unpleasant and painful, but not beyond the limit of her endurance. She understood a part of what drove him and was therefore prepared to permit him his petty victory. Without love or even a seasoning of lust, the act was meaningless. She closed her eyes and ignored the exultant sound he made as he thrust into her — a dunghill cock treading a rival’s hen to mark his ownership.
She wondered if it would have been like this had she married him. Probably. Instead she had married Adam. The thought of her husband darted across her mind like a flare of lightning and made her gasp aloud in anguish. Warrin, conceited, took an entirely different meaning from the sound. He panted something obscene in her ear, his hips grinding powerfully back and forth. Heulwen bit her lip and stifled a cry behind her tongue. It could not last for ever, she told herself, not at this level of fury.
His mouth crushed down on hers, his fingers twisting in her damp hair, gripping convulsively as his whole body stiffened and shuddered in the throes of climax. She stared over his shoulder at the brazier’s glow, the heat blurring her eyes as he collapsed on top of her.
After a while, when his breathing had eased, he withdrew from her and lay down at her side, drawing the fur-lined cloak up and around them both. One hand reached out to fondle her breast. Heulwen folded her lips in and pressed them together, clutching at the dry straw lining the floor so that she would not strike him away.
‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this,’ he said lazily, and with obvious self-satisfaction. ‘Don’t tell me it wasn’t good for you too.’
‘Where would be the point?’ Heulwen said in a tired voice. ‘I doubt you’d listen.’
‘And still she bares her teeth,’ he smiled, his fingers still caressing. ‘Tell me then, vixen, how much do you hate me?’
She drew a sharp breath to spit at him that words could not describe the depth of her revulsion, but looking into his face she caught the fleeting glimpse of another expression behind the mockery — a child peeping out from behind a wall to survey the ruins of a prank that had gone monstrously wrong.
‘I don’t hate you, Warrin,’ she said instead, wearily. ‘God help us both, I pity you.’
The fleeting glimpse vanished, obliterated as he hit her open-handed across the face — not enough to really hurt, but sufficient to give due warning of what was to come if she dared too far. ‘Careful,’ he said gently. ‘De Lacey might be soft enough to let you insult him, but don’t expect it of me.’
Heulwen met his gaze then quickly looked away before he should see her loathing. Warrin smiled and stretched with languorous satisfaction. ‘Do you want a drink?’
She tossed her head and willed herself to smile. ‘Why not?’
He sauntered over to the flagon and splashed wine into the cup. ‘There’s only one,’ he said, raising it to her. ‘Never mind, we can share it like a pair of lovers.’
She sat up, the cloak tucked around her breasts, and reached out sideways for Warrin’s discarded shirt and tunic.
He looked at her sharply. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m cold,’ she protested, ‘and these are warm and dry.’ She flashed him a look full of wide innocence. ‘Surely you don’t believe I’d be so foolish as to try and run?’
He grunted. ‘I don’t know. That Welsh blood of yours is too fickle to be trusted.’ He took a gulp of the wine and returned, but despite his words he did not prevent her from pulling on the garments, amused by the novelty. When she reached for his chausses, however, he rubbed his index finger gently along her naked inner thigh. ‘What are you doing here in Angers?’ he asked softly.
Thierry took a cheek-bulging mouthful of wine, swilled it round his mouth, swallowed and sighed with enjoyment. Then he picked up the waiting dice, blew on them and threw. They landed in his favour. Grinning from ear to ear, he scooped up his winnings amid the groans of his fellow gamblers.
He had been here longer than he should, he knew that, but outside it was still pouring down, and he was winning hand over fist. He promised himself that as soon as he started to lose he would leave. A girl who was filling up jugs of wine kept smiling at him. She had sparkling eyes and dimples. He winked at her and wondered if he could spend the rest of the night comfortably bedded down in the hay store with her breasts for a pillow. Just as he was about to call her over and explore the possibility, his cousin strode into the room wearing an expression as black as the weather.
‘Alun!’ Thierry strove to his feet, staggered, and planted his legs wide apart to hold his balance. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘A murrain on the devil!’ Alun spat, grabbing a handful of his cousin’s tunic and dragging him face to face. ‘What kind of stew have you been stirring your fingers in? Where’s Lady Heulwen?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Thierry tried to push him off, but without success. ‘Let go of me. You’re mad!’
‘Mad, am I? What’s this then?’ Alun had felt the bulge beneath Thierry’s tunic and snatched out the bag of silver from its nestling place against Thierry’s breast. ‘Winnings from dice?’ He flung the silver down on the table. Men turned and looked. ‘Christ Jesu, you’re in dead trouble, and you’ll soon be just dead…Come on!’ He dragged at his cousin’s arm.
Thierry belched. ‘Stop panicking,’ he said, belligerent with drink. ‘I was as cosy as a clam in a shell here until you came bursting in.’
‘Idiot, if you don’t—’ Alun stopped. ‘Christ’s balls,’ he muttered under his breath, and stared at Jerold who was blocking the doorway.
‘You tripe-witted dolt, you’ve led them straight to me, haven’t you!’ Thierry spat, and drew his sword.
Jerold moved equally fast, but was tripped by Alun.
‘Run, Thierry!’ Alun bellowed.
Jerold scrambled to his feet. ‘Keep out of this!’ he growled at Alun, and plunged out of the drinking den in pursuit of his quarry.
Water spurted from beneath Jerold’s boots as he ran. He tripped over a startled cat and almost fell again. The cat yowled. He cursed, narrowing his eyes, and licked water from his scrubby moustache. After a pause to listen, he hurried down the narrow black throat of an alleyway running parallel to the waterfront. Before him, faintly, he could hear lurching, staggering footsteps. Thierry’s, he hoped, and his stomach knotted at the thought that he might only be pursuing a worthless drunk.
The footsteps ceased. Jerold stopped, his heart threatening to burst as he drew his breath shallowly, the better not to be heard. Further up the alley a shutter was flung open and someone peered out amidst a dim splash of candlelight. He saw a rope of dark hair hanging down.
‘Who’s there?’
Silence. Jerold flattened himself against the wall and side-stepped softly along it, gently drawing his dagger.
‘Come away,’ commanded a querulous, sleepy voice from the depths of the room, ‘it’s only cats.’
The shutter slammed. Jerold shot out of the shadows, grabbed the man hiding half slumped in the darkness of the recessed doorway, and laid the blade at his throat. ‘Where is Lady Heulwen?’ he hissed.
Thierry’s larynx moved convulsively against the knife. A shudder ran through his body and his weight started to sag against Jerold. ‘The
‘Louder, whoreson, I can’t hear you.’
Thierry responded with a bubbling choke and Jerold realised that it was not rain on his hands but the heat of blood, and that the man he held was badly, if not mortally wounded.
‘Waiting for me outside,’ Thierry gargled, ‘tried to run…Too much drink. Can’t always throw to win…She’s on the
‘Listen, you poxy Angev—’ Thierry’s head lolled, and Jerold found that he was holding a literal dead weight. A soft oath issued from his lips. He was in a pitch-dark alleyway with a freshly stabbed man and, most probably, his murderer. He backed up against the door, every sense straining. There was silence, but that did not mean it was safe.
His alertness gave him a split second’s warning; enough time to sense the direction of attack and to thrust Thierry’s body towards the dark shape that came at him. He heard a grunt of surprise, saw the faint gleam of light along the edge of a knife, and ran sideways out of the doorway which was protecting his back but giving him no
