and the King’s set to deal with him.’
‘Can’t my lord Renard get himself excused? He’s got enough to deal with here.’ The youth gave another of the brown, sticky lumps to the horse.
‘Best to show willing in the early days.’ The farrier straightened up to pick another fistful of nails from his bench. ‘What’re you giving him there?’
The youth grinned. ‘Dried dates. My Lord filched them from the locked cupboard in the kitchens last night especially for this. He said it would sweeten him if he started acting up.’ He groped in his scrip and tossed one over.
The farrier examined it dubiously. ‘Looks like a piece of sheep-shit,’ he pronounced, but put it in his mouth anyway, before resuming his task.
‘Tastes all right though.’ The boy bit the date in two and offered half to the horse.
‘Anything would taste all right to a glutton like you,’ the farrier growled. ‘Here, make yourself useful and throw me that rasp.’
Cup of wine in one hand, platter of bread and cheese in the other, Elene looked down at her sleeping husband and wondered if she should wake him. It was long past dawn, but he had not ridden in from Caermoel until well after compline, and had not stopped to rest until he literally fell into bed somewhere around midnight.
She tiptoed round to the coffer and carefully put down cup and platter. The soft clunk of wood on wood caused him to stir and turn over. His hair needed cutting and he was bearded again, the growth a rich, beech-red that gave a markedly strange aspect to his appearance. He more resembled one of her shepherds than a marcher lord, but then, she thought, glancing ruefully down at her own homespuns, she looked nothing like a great lady, nor at this moment did she particularly want to be one. The last two months had been the most difficult of her life and there was every indication that the rest of the year was set to continue in the same vein.
January had been spent of a necessity at Ravenstow. With so many people sick and the trauma of the Earl’s death, it had resembled not so much a home as a staging post on the road to hell. Judith contracted the coughing fever and became seriously ill, her reserves sapped and her will to live a precarious spindle of flame that was kept alight only by the knowledge of duty. On her worst day, the one after Guyon’s funeral, she had become delirious with fever and Elene had fetched John and pushed him urgently into his mother’s chamber — not because he was a priest, but because he was the one who most physically resembled his father. Judith had recovered, but was a grey husk of her former self.
Renard had contracted the coughing sickness but thrown it off within a week, as had William. Henry was still barking like a seal when she left for Woolcot to supervise the lambing but was otherwise making a good recovery. The wound in his shoulder was much better too, although he still wore that arm strapped in a sling and would never have much use in it again.
Elene herself had not been struck by the contagion, which was fortunate since with Judith so ill the responsibility for the domestic side of running the keep had devolved upon her shoulders. Heulwen had helped, of course, but the main burden had been hers.
Stephen had sent a message of condolence and half a dozen mares for Gorvenal. Ranulf of Chester had sent mercenaries to raid the Ravenstow lands, but Renard and William had tracked them down and destroyed them. It was a bitter but welcome outlet for grief.
Sighing softly, she put her palm on his exposed shoulder and leaned over him to kiss his throat below the prickly forest of beard. He raised his lids, looked sleepily bewildered for a moment, then focused and cupped her face to touch his lips to hers.
Elene wriggled away. ‘It’s like being kissed through a thicket!’ she complained. ‘And besides, it tickles.’
Grinning, he pulled her down on top of him. ‘Does this tickle too?’ he murmured after a moment.
She ran her palms over his naked chest and around the back of his neck, locking her fingers in his hair. Desire flickered through her, but more playful than urgent. It was high morning and the day was wasting. He stroked the small of her back, moved his hands to cup her buttocks, and pressed down.
She nipped his earlobe. ‘The farrier says he’s finished shoeing Gorvenal. I’ve had the grooms saddle him up, and Bramble.’
Renard groaned softly. ‘You’re a hard task-mistress,’ he complained. ‘Aren’t I entitled to any leisure?’
‘Why, yes.’ Elene struggled out of his arms. ‘We’ll escape from the keep and have the whole afternoon to ourselves. I want to show you the site for the new fulling mill and we can look at the herds. There’s a sheltered place I know where we can stop to eat and …’ She let the remainder tail off suggestively.
Renard arched one brow. ‘The promise of a sugared comfit to keep me in line?’ he said, mouth tilting. ‘What happens if I’d rather claim it now?’
‘You’ll have to catch me first!’ she retorted, and before he could lunge at such provocation, she had whisked from the room and sent in the barber to detain him. Renard narrowed his eyes at the curtain, then with a snort of laughter and a shake of his head picked up the wine and bread she had left for him.
The intended site for the fulling mill was close to the village, at its eastern end. The water to power it came from a broad stream that further down flowed into the River Alyn. The foundations for the mill were already being dug, and Renard dismounted to speak to the workforce.
Elene listened to him talking to the foreman in fluent, if accented English, watched him frown as he struggled to grasp a point of construction, then nod in understanding, his smile flashing brief and white. Her heart and loins contracted and she lowered her lids lest he see her thoughts for she knew that they made him feel awkward.
From the mill they rode to inspect the flocks, heavily populated by proud mothers and their frisky offspring. A shepherd obligingly captured one of the new rams in part responsible for the wealth of lambs, and Elene set about explaining to Renard the kind of fleece she was hoping to produce in the years to come.
Gravely examining top and undercoat and the general condition of the beast, Renard agreed with everything she said. She saw his eyes begin to wander, a slightly glazed expression in them. He stifled a yawn. Elene thanked the shepherd and turned to her mount.
‘I’m boring you.’
Renard boosted her into the saddle. His eye-corners crinkled. ‘I would rather eat and wear sheep than look at them,’ he admitted as he remounted. ‘And I have a deal else on my mind. My sugared comfit, for one.’ His mouth smiled, matching his eyes, but it was a superficial amusement. Touching his heels to Gorvenal’s flanks, he rode on towards a low slope half a mile away that was crowned by a coppice of hazel and hornbeam. Elene caught up her bridle and followed him.
‘Have you ever been to the fenlands before?’ Elene sat up in the tree-sheltered grassy hollow and started to fuss the knots out of her hair with her fingers.
Renard pillowed his head on his bent arms and watched her through half-closed lids. ‘Once,’ he said. ‘With the court, before I was twenty. Nigel of Ely was one of us and he had a proud stomach even in those days. All this trouble now is because he was caught in rebellion last year with the other members of his delightful family and sent away with a flea in his ear.’ He snorted. ‘He’s a greedy, vindic — tive bastard and it will serve him right if Stephen sits hard on him, bishop though he be.’
Elene digested this in silence while she finished with her hair. She disliked the thought of him being so far away from her in dangerous, marshy terrain, but had more knowledge of him now than to cling and ask anxious questions.
She started to fasten up her disarrayed tunic. The seams were tight beneath her arms and when she closed the hooks and eyes, her breasts swelled together, her cleavage full. Gnawing her lip, she glanced at Renard, lying relaxed and contented in the aftermath of their love-making. No, she thought, she could not address him with that either. It was too early yet to be fully certain; too soon to burden him more, and she had a secret fear that once she did announce her pregnancy to him, he would cease to be as eager to lie with her.
The ghost of Olwen still haunted them both. Renard’s pride, her sense of security. At the Christmas court it had been a minor scandal that blazed as hot and bright as a dry grass fire before burning itself out — Ranulf of Chester dragging off a dancing girl in the middle of a royal feast and throwing her on her back in the nearest stable. He had emerged from the encounter scratched, bitten and bloodily triumphant to confront the outrage with a boyish grin and a shrug that evoked tolerant grins and shrugs in return. No one blamed him, indeed there was much envy. He had placated his wife with a new necklace and the promise of a Flemish tapestry to hang on the
