Elene’s jaw tightened. ‘No one is going to take Woolcot away from me.’
‘You may not have a choice.’
‘Oh, not at first.’ She tossed her head. ‘But I know how to build and I know how to wreck. I’d rather destroy the Woolcot herds than see them fall into a raptor’s hands.’
Renard gaped at her, spoon suspended in midair while he tried to reconcile his view of her as soft-natured and gentle with this determined creature thrusting her chin at him. It was not all vain talk either, he realised. ‘You really would founder the herds rather than give them up, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He continued to stare.
‘Of course,’ she added, ‘that would be by way of revenge. If a new husband was prepared to live and let live, then I would make him a proper and dutiful wife.’
A memory echoed in Renard’s mind — his own voice full of grave amusement as he saluted Madam FitzUrse at the Scimitar with the toast ‘Business is business’. ‘Good Christ,’ he said wryly. ‘I used to think you were as soft as unsqueezed butter, but really you’re as hard as stone.’
Elene broke a piece off the loaf in front of them. ‘I’m neither,’ she said, ‘I just don’t know how to lie.’
Renard saw that her fingers were trembling. Studying her, he was aware of the contrasts of softness and determination in both face and character, the innocence and the clear, hot flame of a passion that had outmatched his. ‘Sometimes it is easier to lie than tell the truth,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Especially to yourself.’
Chapter 15
The water dripped from the ladle over the hot stones. Steam hissed and surged around the seated, towel- draped men who were laughing at one of Robert of Leicester’s seemingly endless supply of bawdy jokes.
‘I don’t believe that position’s possible!’ guffawed Waleran of Meulan, Leicester’s twin brother, and returned to his bench, ladle in hand. ‘What do you say, Renard?’
Renard grinned and spread his hands. ‘Don’t look at me, I’m innocent.’
‘After four years in Outremer? You’re a bigger liar than he is!’ Waleran sat down heavily. He was beginning to run to fat and the hot, moist atmosphere was making him uncomfortable. Not that he would have admitted it for the world. This steam bath built by the disgraced and recently deceased Bishop of Salisbury was the height of luxury. A plunge in a quiet river pool or a quick dunk in the castle tub were the usual and infrequent ways that Waleran chose to clean himself. A steam bathhouse like this hinted strongly at indulgence, especially when a flagon of the best wine was being passed from hand to hand.
Renard was accustomed to this particular form of bathing. Antioch possessed several such institutions. They were places to gossip and relax at ease with your peers — places to plot and arrange as Stephen was plotting and arranging now.
Leaning against the wall, lids half closed, he watched the King take a swallow from the flagon and pass it in turn to Leicester. No cups, Renard thought. A subtle move, enhancing the camaraderie that had been nurtured during a fast-paced day’s hunting. Other barons had been with them too, but some had chosen to patronise one of the conventional bathhouses in the town where women were to hand. Others had preferred not to bathe at all, following the creed that sweat was best left to cool on the body, its smell worn as a badge of hard toil. Ranulf de Gernons had been one of the latter.
Stephen nudged Renard. ‘I had a look at your charter.’
The flagon came round to Renard. He drank, making more show than actual swallowing and studied Stephen’s pink, earnest face. ‘It’s valid. Your grandfather’s seal is upon it and that of the second King William,’ he said evenly as he passed the wine on to Leicester.
‘Oh yes, it’s valid,’ Stephen replied. ‘Malde and I had a long discussion about it.’
And Malde’s opinion would be the deciding factor, Renard thought.
‘She did wonder if Ranulf had rights in Caermoel because the castle was originally built by your father and Hugh d’Avranches as a joint venture.’
Hugh d’Avranches, Ranulf ’s great-uncle, had been the Earl of Chester forty years ago when the keep at Caermoel had first been built. He and Guyon had not only been allies, but also good friends.
‘My father borrowed silver from Earl Hugh, but repaid him in full not long after the Battle of Tinchebrai. Caermoel has been wholly ours since the year of my birth.’ Leaving the bench, he took his turn to drip water on the stones. The steam hissed up creating a grey veil between himself and Stephen. ‘If Ranulf claims otherwise then he’s lying.’
Stephen fiddled with the frayed end of his towel and looked perplexed. ‘You must understand the difficulty of my position. Ranulf ’s loyalty is so precarious that I cannot afford to tip the scales too far. I don’t want him or that brother of his galloping down to Bristol to offer their support to the Empress.’
‘On the other hand,’ Leicester rubbed his thumb beneath his nose, ‘neither can you afford to let Renard take his own grievances to Bristol. Besides, you don’t really want to see a change of garrison at Caermoel, do you?’
‘Neither of those,’ Stephen looked genuinely shocked. ‘Of course not! The charter is valid and must stand.’ Through the clearing steam he looked at Renard. ‘I am asking you to respect the reasons for not making a public announcement of your right to the land. You have witnesses here in Beaumont and Meulan, let that be enough.’
Renard considered, then nodded stiffly. ‘But if Ranulf of Chester comes anywhere near Caermoel, I will set the marches alight to stop him.’
‘I would expect that. All I am asking is that you do not provoke him.’
Renard snorted. ‘I provoke him just by breathing.’
‘Don’t breathe then,’ Meulan suggested.
Renard grimaced and threw a towel at him.
‘Or breathe when he’s not looking.’ Leicester’s gaze met Renard’s in frank understanding.
Welcoming her unexpected guest in from the cold, Elene tried her best not to look surprised or suspicious as she ushered Matille, Countess of Chester, towards the warmth of the hearth. Alys was sent scurrying to fetch hot spiced wine and Elene whisked her sewing basket and some mending from the chair beside her own and bade the Countess sit down.
Matille thanked her and did so, but declined to remove her cloak. ‘It is so cold. I think that soon we shall have some snow.’ Her gaze roved around the compact but pleasant room. ‘I suppose your new husband has gone hunting with the others?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Matille was Renard’s cousin, the old King being her grandfather too. Her hair was an attractive beech-leaf red and her eyes were stormy grey like Renard’s. The set of her mouth and jaw also attested to their common heritage. ‘Did you want to see him?’ A silly question, Elene thought even as she asked it. If Matille had wanted to see Renard, she would have come at a different time.
‘Only to congratulate him on his wedding and tease him a little.’ The Countess smiled. ‘And I can probably escape from Ranulf long enough at court this evening to do that. At least I can congratulate you now.’ Half-rising, she leaned across and kissed Elene’s cheek.
Elene wondered if she knew that because of Earl Ranulf the marriage almost hadn’t taken place and Henry had been severely wounded. Chester might not have told her, but women had a network of other ways of collecting news. It was, however, a subject too delicate to broach on the strength of one meeting.
Alys returned with the hot wine as the Countess settled back in her chair and spread her skirts to the fire’s warmth.
‘It is probably all for the best that they’ve gone hunting,’ Matille added. ‘They can ride off some of the energy they’d otherwise spend in arguing and I certainly don’t want to be closeted with Ranulf all day. He behaves like a loose bull in a marketplace.’ She looked keenly at Elene. ‘Renard’s no better. He can be a devil incarnate when he’s bored. We used to play together as children and if he had no task to steady him he’d run wild until Judith despaired. Small wonder that he and Ranulf quarrel so much.’ She took a sip of the wine and made an appreciative sound.
