William lowered the flask and darted him a bright blue glance. ‘I wrote it myself.’
‘But the seal, how did you come by that?’
William reached inside his tunic, rummaged, and brought out a metal disc a little smaller than the palm of his hand. ‘This, you mean?’ He handed it to Renard. ‘I found the glimmer of gold within your dancing girl’s heart of stone.’
Renard gaped at him in astonishment. ‘Olwen got it for you?’
‘More to please herself than any favour for me. Jesu, Renard, she’s feral. I thought she was going to eat me alive!’
Renard lowered his eyes and examined the silver disc and the mounted knight, sword raised, incised upon it. ‘He will kill her if he discovers what she has done.’
‘He will have to catch her first.’ Admiration glinted in William’s voice. ‘She took to the road with Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd even as we did, although you didn’t see her, being enclosed in the wain. In the disguise of a Welsh youth, she was. Best bare legs I’ve ever seen on a boy. Cadwaladr seemed to think so too by the direction of his eyes! Mind you, she’s only playing with him. My guess is that she’ll try to hook her claws into Prince Owain himself.’
‘Did she take her child too?’
‘Yes, slung in her cloak.’
‘Then Ranulf will stop at nothing.’
William shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Apparently Matille has worked diligently to sow doubts in his mind. He’s not entirely sure the child is his.’ He took the seal back from Renard, and his eyes sparked with an irrepressible gleam. ‘Think of the havoc we can wreak with this before he’s able to put a stop to it.’
From somewhere, Renard actually found the semblance of a smile. ‘You know that you have risked your own future with that little geegaw.’ He nodded at the seal.
‘It was too high a price to have held back.’ William’s brightness faded. ‘You were fortunate in one way that you were thrown into prison. You didn’t see what Chester’s men did to the people of Lincoln for their resistance.’ He made a swift gesture as Renard tried to speak. ‘No, I’m not that green about such matters. A little plundering goes not amiss — it’s necessary if you want to keep and control your men, but to let them run wild shows no control at all. They end up believing they can do as they please.’ He took another drink from the usquebaugh flask. ‘Did you know that Robert of Leicester’s gone over to the Empress? He’s in Gloucester already, making private arrangements of his own.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’ Renard was surprised, and a little dismayed, but not outright horrified by such news. ‘Leicester might have gone courting, but I cannot believe that he intends going further than flirtation. He’s one of Stephen’s closest friends and advisers.’
‘But fonder of his own skin. There is a hair-thin line between holding firm for the sake of honour and sheer pig-headed folly.’
‘Is that an indictment?’
‘Perhaps.’
The usquebaugh was starting to burn through Renard’s veins, making him feel light-headed. ‘If Stephen’s commanders had shown more determination to “hold firm”, then the battle for Lincoln would never have gone the way that it did!’ he growled.
‘A hair-thin line,’ William repeated.
‘Thick as the goddamned River Witham!’
They glared at each other, although William’s anger was the less intense, laced as it was with relief that Renard still had enough fight left in him to argue.
The wain jolted to an abrupt halt at the approach to the ford and the small cluster of daub and wattle huts lining its banks. William broke the deadlock by leaving the wain and gazing with hands on hips at the fast-flowing murky water. A rope had been stretched across the river, secured by stout poles on either side, affording a hand grip to those either courageous or mad enough to want to cross on foot. Probably it was easy in high summer, but now, after a season of heavy rainfall, the water churned to the limit of both banks.
Inside the wain, Renard finished the usquebaugh. Henry breathed with stertorous effort, the noise all- pervading, drowning out every other sound, including the rushing of the river. Unable to bear it any longer, Renard lifted the canvas flap and followed William outside. For a moment as he stepped from platform to ground, he was so dizzy that he had to clutch the side of the wain and grip until the wood scored his hand.
Two dogs appeared from among the cluster of dwellings, and barked a loud warning at the strangers. They were followed more sedately by an old man leaning on a hickory stick and wearing a cloak made of moth-eaten sheepskins and homespun. Calling the animals to heel, he regarded the small entourage curiously.
‘You’ll not get that thing across yon water,’ he observed, fondling the dogs with the hand that was not holding the stick. ‘Deep as the height of a man in the middle, it is.’
‘We’re not taking the wain over,’ William replied and looked round at Renard who was shivering against its canvas side. ‘You can have it if you want in exchange for some hot food while we load the packhorses.’
The man sucked his motley collection of teeth and considered the group. Usually armed Normans took the direct route through Newark. Abandoning a stout wain like this rather than head for the town spoke of great haste and the need for stealth. The man propped shivering against the cart had a new wound on one cheekbone and looked exhausted.
‘Not stolen, is it?’ he asked as William gestured to his men and they started to unhitch the horses from the wain.
‘No.’ William checked the cinch on his mount’s girth. ‘It was paid for by the Earl of Chester himself — his own seal on the transaction.’
Renard was taken with a sudden fit of coughing.
‘See what I can do.’ Whistling to his dogs, the old man stamped back towards the houses.
In a short while, two women emerged from one of the dwellings to serve the men with watery soup that resembled the river in both colour and texture, and fresh but gritty maslin bread. Renard sipped dubiously, and dis — covered that the soup tasted much better than it looked, hinting of leeks and mushrooms, but then after the deprivations of Lincoln anything short of midden sweepings would have tasted like manna. He dipped the bread into it to soften it and managed tolerably well to eat it.
‘Rumour says that there has been a big battle in yonder town and the King taken prisoner,’ the peasant man remarked as Renard drank the broth.
‘Rumour speaks true.’ He was aware of the man’s shrewd stare lingering on the bruised, clotted mess of his cheekbone.
‘Fought in it, did you?’
Renard gave him a hard look, warning him off. ‘Yes,’ he said stiffly. ‘I fought in it.’ And returning the bowl, he went to untether the bay from the rear of the wain.
The peasant watched as an injured man was gently brought out of the wain and craned for a better view. There was not really a great deal to see, only that his face was waxen with approaching death, and that he was too young to be meeting it. He crossed himself as the youngster was lifted from his bed of latticed hides and straw.
‘Give him to me,’ Renard said, from his pillion position on the saddle.
‘Are you strong enough?’ William demanded.
‘For this, yes,’ Renard replied with grim determination, as Henry was manoeuvred carefully into the empty saddle where he slumped, held in place by the man seated behind.
‘Hah!’ cried Renard to the horse and kicked its flanks. Stolidly, it obeyed his command, and plunged into the rapid water. Spray surged over shoulders, belly and haunches, soaking Renard’s and Henry’s legs. The horse fought forwards against the kick of the current, muscles bunching into hillocks and ravines. Behind, Renard heard the splash of other horses entering the water. Suddenly a woman screamed. Renard turned in the saddle.
William, last to cross, was in midstream, and behind him, coming up fast, was a group of riders in pursuit, weapons drawn.
‘Help me,’ Renard snapped to the soldier at his side, and together they managed to lower Henry from the saddle to the ground. It was wet, cold and muddy, but there was no help for it. ‘Now, train that bow of yours on the ford. Don’t aim for the riders. Arrows will only bounce off helms and shields. Bring down their destriers. Is that
