was protected by a helmet hammered from a single piece of iron, and his boots as he trod the soiled straw were gilded up the sides with figures of bowmen and deer, and adorned with bright prick spurs.
‘Where is he?’ he demanded, his gaze roving the cell, one hand resting on his polished sword hilt, the other on his exquisite belt.
The guard nervously indicated Renard. ‘They say he fought like a leopard on the battlefield, my lord, but he’s too sorely wounded and fretting over t’other one to have given us any trouble.’
Renard turned to face the light and the moment was suddenly fraught with more than just danger as from the boots upwards he traced a path to the knight’s face, and recognised William. The Norman war gear sat on his brother most gracefully, considering he so seldom donned it. All kinds of thoughts flashed through Renard’s mind and were gone without cohesion. ‘William?’ The utterance was more breath than sound.
‘Holy Christ!’ William muttered. He had expected to find Renard battered about and bruised — a man seldom came unscathed from the heart of a battle — but he had not been prepared to see his brother still blood-caked and mired, bones gaunt beneath the swollen flesh of injury, and haunted eyes dull with exhaustion. Added to the nausea of excitement, William now felt the nausea of horror.
The senior guard at his shoulder hovered, looking between the two of them, and William emerged rapidly from his shock to realise that Renard had spoken his name and that if he were not to end up in this cell beside him or kicking on the gallows, he had to carry through a convincing pretence.
‘When last we met I warned you what would happen if you stayed with Stephen!’ he said harshly for the guard’s benefit, spat in the straw to clear the fluid from his mouth, the gesture looking contemptuous, and then nodded brusquely to the two serjeants standing in the doorway. They marched into the cell and hauled Renard to his feet. He staggered and then locked his knees, bracing himself against their rough grip.
‘I’ll not leave without Henry.’ He looked William in the eye and then deliberately away to the blanketed mound near his feet.
‘You have no choice!’ growled the senior guard. ‘This parchment is for you alone.’
William stared in dawning, appalled comprehension at the sick man in the straw. Crouching, he set one hand on the huddled shoulder and peered round into Henry’s face. Not just sick but dying. He had seen the wound fever often enough to realise that Henry was over the edge. ‘Mary, Mother of God,’ he muttered under his breath, and waited until he had control of his expression before he stood up and faced the guards.
‘This man needs a priest, not a cell,’ he said roughly.
‘There is one to attend the prisoners, my lord—’ began the senior serjeant, and was laughed down bitterly by Ingelram of Say.
‘Oh yes!’ he spat. ‘One exists no doubt, but if so, he’s not seen fit to soil his sandals on our souls for shriving or anything else. Two have died already without comfort of the church. He’s probably abed with his whore and a flagon of Anjou’s best!’
A guard moved to club him silent, but William stopped him with a sharp command. ‘If this is true, it is damning upon your own soul that you have not vouchsafed a priest for these men.’
‘Oh, it’s all true,’ Renard said hoarsely with a glare at the senior serjeant. ‘But then corpses have no need of adornment, do they? Stephen’s squire, for example. A pity to bury such a fine gilded belt with a corpse. What will you do with my brother’s ring? Cut it off him before he’s cold? Do I disappoint you because I’m bound out of here?’
‘It’s a lie!’ The serjeant thrust out his jaw. ‘I never took the belt and it ain’t my fault if the priest don’t come when he’s summoned.’
William realised that Renard, by accusing the serjeant of stealing from the dead, had thrown him an excellent reason to have Henry out of here too, orders from above or not.
‘Time is wasting!’ he snapped. ‘Time I don’t have. Since you cannot vouchsafe a priest for this man, and since he is Robert of Gloucester’s own nephew, I’m removing him from your custody. If you have any complaint, you can take it to the Earl of Chester come full light.’ And then to the two gawping soldiers, ‘See to it.’
‘My lord, I’m not sure that …’ The serjeant started to protest.
‘See to it!’ William interrupted, his gaze incandescent. ‘And while you’re about it, I’ll advise you that there’s no ransom for crows’ meat. This place stinks. Get it cleaned up and see that these men are treated decently. God’s teeth, why must it always be me who is sent to deal with the idiots!’ He glanced heavenwards, more than half of his expression relief at the serjeant’s capitulation.
Renard did not speak as he was led from the cell into the stark air of Lincoln castle’s bailey. The wind had changed direction and the moon its phase, bringing with it clearer, colder weather. Frost crackled around the edges of the bailey puddles and the air was almost painful to breathe and bore upon it the acrid smell of burned dwellings. The wind cut through Renard’s flimsy garments and probed the wound on his cheekbone. Dangling between the guards, Henry moaned and shuddered as he was drag-carried to the waiting wain and lifted into it. Then it was Renard’s turn. He was escorted by two of William’s soldiers — Ashdyke men whom he well recognised.
William mounted his horse, not Smotyn, for his colouring was too easily remembered, too conspicuous, and he had traded him with one of Cadwaladr’s men for a sturdy brown hack. For Renard, he had obtained a plain bay gelding which awaited the right moment among the remounts.
The whip cracked over the backs of the two horses drawing the wain, and after a brief hesitation, while they took the strain, the wheels started to rumble and turn. The torchlight transformed all breath to red vapour and reflected tints of fire upon horseflesh and mail. Dawn barely a glimmer in the eye of night, William led his precious load out of the castle and wound his way down through the devastated town to the ford. The Earl of Chester’s seal and the knowledge that the prisoners were due to be moved that day granted him an easy passage, if ripe with more casual curiosity than he would have liked. It was not the deepest of his worries. Turning in the saddle as they passed the churned mud of the recent battleground, he bid one of his men go aside and fetch a priest.
Ranulf of Chester slept late, the result of too much wine and an exhausting night of bed-sport. He had intended to pass the night with his wife, but his mistress had had other ideas and they had been so novel and exciting that he had succumbed, and succumbed again, and finally been defeated by the wine and the masculine limitations of his own body.
He awoke to find one of his squires bending anxiously over him, hand cupped around a candle to prevent it either from going out or dripping hot wax all over the disarrayed sheets. Of Olwen there was no sign, only the distinctive smell of her perfume. Ranulf rolled over and groaned into the pillow, his head feeling as though a warhorse had kicked him in the temples.
‘Piss off,’ he muttered through his teeth.
‘My lord, Earl Robert has already started moving the prisoners out of the city and wants your opinion on some matters.’ The youth did not add any of the pointed remarks made by the Earl of Gloucester concerning the disgusting morals and behaviour of his son-in-law.
Ranulf half turned to cock a bleary red eye. ‘What hour is it?’
‘Nigh to prime, my lord.’
‘Impossible!’ With as much alacrity as his thundering headache permitted, he sat up and stared around the room. The shutters were closed to keep out the weather and the time of day could not be judged by the state of any natural light.
‘I am sorry, my lord, but it is. I saved you some bread from the breaking of fast … and a jug of wine too if you want it.’
Ranulf compressed his lips at the thought of food. ‘Clothes,’ he said, and held out his hand.
His squire carefully put the candle down and gathered up from the floor various garments, including a woman’s red silk hose garter. Ranulf snatched his crumpled shirt from the youth and dragged it on. His head became tangled in the laces and he half strangled himself before he managed to right matters. ‘The prisoners?’ he queried. ‘Does that include the King?’
‘I think Earl Robert was waiting for you, my lord, before he consigned him to the road. Renard FitzGuyon went early, before the dawn as you commanded.’ The squire briskly dusted off his master’s fur-trimmed tunic as he spoke.
The silence from the bed was palpable.
‘My lord?’
‘I gave no such command,’ Ranulf said huskily.
