Henry remained in the doorway staring at her the way a hungry but well-trained dog might stare at a meal it was not permitted to have. ‘I want to part as friends,’ he pleaded softly. ‘Will you forgive me?’
A small, darker coloured blot began to spread on the pale green linen beneath Elene’s fingers, then another one. ‘I forgive you,’ she said, her throat constricted as she tried to speak and breathe without giving herself away. She dared not lift her gaze from the trestle, not for a long time, and when she finally did, Henry was gone and the first hint of dusk was beginning to deepen the shadows in the room. Free to cry, she found that she was no longer able.
Chapter 18
On the day of Renard’s return to Ravenstow, Elene had spent a long afternoon in the town, buying at the market and talking to the merchants — the cloth sellers in particular — and to an ambitious young packman who had recently become a carrier and wanted to expand his business yet again. She offered him a contract transporting cloth between Woolcot and the main villages beholden to Ravenstow. He leaped at the proposal, but proved himself shrewd by haggling the terms a little more towards his advantage without losing Elene’s goodwill.
Satisfied with her own end of the bargain, a little amused at the young man’s sharp wit, Elene let Owain help her into the saddle, and turned Bramble for home. Sir Thomas d’Alberin, leader of her escort for the forty days of his feudal service, watched her with long-suffering eyes. It was raining, his gouty foot was throbbing against his stirrup iron and he had heartburn from eating too many spiced shrimp pasties at the pie seller’s booth while he waited for Elene to complete her business with the cocky young upstart who called himself a carrier on the strength of the two moth-eaten ponies he had purchased to replace his haversack.
Sir Thomas had considered Elene a sweet little thing when he encountered her at her wedding in November, but as with all the Ravenstow women, that first impression had been a sugar coating, disguising a concoction that he was only too pleased belonged in Lord Renard’s cup and not his own.
He glanced at her as she drew the hood of her cloak over her veil and cast a hazel grimace at the gathering rain clouds. Unlike Lady Judith, she did not snap or turn sarcastic when angered. Her tone remained level and calm, but her full mouth would tighten around the words and her eyes would narrow, as they were narrowing now, in response to the rain, leaving him in no doubt as to her displeasure.
Sir Thomas signalled the escort to increase the pace and thought with new longing of his own plain, plump wife. Guard duty at Ravenstow was always an adventure into a different, brighter world, but after a time the colours jarred his eyes and the struggle to meet expectations frazzled him. The situation this year was exacerbated by the fact of a new lord, his absence at war, and this dangerous quarrel with Ranulf of Chester. Not only that, but the son Thomas had brought with him, hoping that the lad would make a good impression, had done nothing but behave badly, particularly towards the new squire.
By the time they arrived at the castle, the rain was tipping out of the leaden clouds like water from a leaky bucket. The thick new coat of limewash applied to Ravenstow’s walls during the past few weeks was sluicing in white runnels into the tussocky rocks upon which the keep was built. Mingled with the thud of the rain, Elene heard the rush of the river, still high with the spring spate. Bramble’s hooves squelched on mud and thudded on the planks of the drawbridge. The mare pricked her ears at the familiar smell of home and, unbidden, increased her pace to a trot, nudging the wet, sleek rump of the horse in front.
The bailey was already busy, every available groom and lackey attending to destriers, palfreys, rounceys and baggage nags. Two supply wains were leaning against a wall and other servants were toing and froing between them, the armoury and the hall as they unloaded the contents. Eadric, the head groom, who was leading a black stallion with familiar star and long white hind stockings towards a clean stall, paused and touched his forehead to Elene. ‘We weren’t expecting ’em, my lady,’ he said, excusing himself for neglecting Bramble. ‘I’ll only be a moment with this ’un.’
Puffing, Sir Thomas helped her down from the mare. Rain dripped from the nasal of his helmet into the groove of his upper lip. He blew upwards, spraying droplets. ‘Lord Renard’s home,’ he announced unnecessarily, sounding relieved. Elene picked up her skirts and ran.
The great hall was crowded with armed men and stank of unwashed bodies and wet wool steaming rankly in the smoky fug. Firelight flashed off rust-speckled hauberks and sword hilts. Servants were busy with jugs of cider and baskets of bread.
Elene tapped a huge, broad-shouldered knight on the back. ‘Ancelin, where’s Renard?’
He swung round. His blond hair was greasy from crown to cheek hollow and the ends hung in wet strings upon his coif. There were tired pouches under his eyes but his smile was as broad and genuine as ever as he looked down on her from an advantage of a full twelve inches. ‘In the solar, my lady.’ He pointed with his cup, then, with a sudden bellow of joy, rose on tiptoe and extended one brawny arm, affording her a whiff of rank armpit as he snatched a chicken leg off a loaded tray a maid was trying to carry to a trestle.
‘Is he all right?’ Elene felt a pang of fear for she knew that Renard was not a lord to hold aloof from his men without good reason.
‘More or less,’ Ancelin said indistinctly through a massive mouthful of meat. ‘A trifle bad-tempered with the pain, but if you can bear with him, you’ll not find him too sorely wounded to greet you fittingly.’
‘Wounded!’
Ancelin chuckled and wiped his lips on the freckled back of his hand. ‘And not even in the thick of battle … excuse me.’ He broke away from her to dive after a wide wicker basket of hot bread.
Elene gathered her damp skirts and ran, inasmuch as that was possible, down the hall to the solar. She knew that Ancelin would not be guzzling with such joyous abandon if Renard was seriously hurt, but nevertheless it was with a heart full of apprehension that she drew aside the hanging across the solar archway and stepped inside the room.
Renard was sitting in a high-backed chair, one leg propped on a footstool, and Judith was bent over, carefully examining his exposed foot. ‘They’re not broken,’ she said doubtfully, as if not quite sure, and turned round as his gaze flickered to the curtain where Elene stood as white as a ghost.
‘It’s all right, he isn’t going to be crippled for life, just a few weeks,’ Judith said by way of reassurance. Leaving him, she went out, touching Elene lightly on the shoulder.
Renard raised the small cup of usquebaugh near his elbow and drained it in one fast gulp.
Elene advanced on him. Like Ancelin’s, his hair was long and unkempt, and through a grizzle of beard his face was harsh with pain and fatigue. She looked at his foot. The skin was broken here and there and across his toes the swelling was a magnificent conglomeration of shades of purple and blue. ‘What happened?’
He made an impatient sound. ‘A baggage wain stuck in the mud at a ford this morning. I dismounted to help push it free, and the carter’s accursed nag took fright at a pheasant flushed from cover by one of the dogs and shied sideways on to my foot!’
Elene bit her lip. It did no good. She covered her mouth with her hand. He glared at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘It looks as though it hurts dreadfully.’
‘It does,’ he growled.
Contrite, she stooped over to kiss him. He relaxed slightly and curved his arms around her waist. The damp end of her braid tickled the back of his hand. He became aware that she was only a little less wet than he was himself. Her lips were cold and tasted of rain, but then everything did — rain or river or stagnant weed. Sighing, he released her.
‘Did Bishop Nigel get his comeuppance then?’ she asked.
He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. ‘After a fashion, I suppose. We built a bridge of boats and hurdles to cross to Ely where he was holed up at Aldreth. A local monk with a grudge against him guided us through the marshes. We took the good Bishop Nigel by surprise from behind his back.’ He lifted one hauberk-clad shoulder. ‘Unfortunately he escaped — to Bristol we think, but we captured some of his knights and most of his treasure. There’s a necklace in my baggage — that’s a personal present from the King to you. Apparently you made a good impression on the Queen at Christmas.’
‘Did I?’
