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Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
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abundance!’
‘The gift matches the need,’ she retorted. ‘Are those the Welsh hills over there?’
He narrowed his eyes against the sun. ‘Yes. That line of trees marks the border dyke. Where was your father from?’
‘Near Ruthin.’
‘That’s north of here. Closer to Caermoel than Ledworth and Ravenstow.’
They rode on in silence. Olwen gnawed her lip andlooked at her lover’s broad, hauberk-clad shoulders. Their relationship was as volatile as a barrel of hot pitch and occasionally she had the disquieting feeling that the passions invoked were beyond all control. Had they all been on Renard’s part, it would not have mattered; it was her own responses that troubled her.
On the road from Brindisi when her flux had come at the appointed moment, she had feigned a miscarriage. As it happened, she had indeed been mildly ill at the time with a stomach upset from eating tainted meat. The results had been convincing, particularly as she had been overtaken by a storm of grief, as if the child had been real and not a figment of her imagination. Certainly Renard had believed her dramatics, had been so gentle and tender with her that she had wanted to lash out at him from the depth of her guilt. That release had not been feasible. She wanted to keep him, not drive him away. Her anger had turned inwards against herself, but every now and then some of it would surface and she would be unable to keep from baiting him.
When they reached the keep defences, the people were out in force to greet them. Serving maids, scullions, soldiers, hound-keepers, the blacksmith and his apprentice, the falconer, knights, squires and serjeants, all pressed forwards, cheering. There was a lanky boy who strongly resembled Adam de Lacey. There was also a young woman with fat, honey-coloured braids, a toddler balanced on one hip, another child ballooning beneath her skirts. Renard leaned over the saddle to speak to her and she blushed.
As it came to her turn to pass the young mother, Olwen changed her grip on the reins, jibbing her mount sideways, forcing the girl to dart back out of the way. As the youngwoman met Olwen’s eyes her pretty colour faded. A former mistress, Olwen surmised, and busy in his absence if the child and advanced pregnancy were any indication.
The bailey was thick with people jostling and clamouring, cries of delight and welcome on their lips. Renard felt the euphoria sing through his blood. His eyes filled and he had to blink as he slid from Gorvenal’s back.
‘Jesu!’ his mother said, ‘Adam has brought me home a Saracen!’
He turned swiftly to face his mother’s scrutiny. ‘It’s a good disguise, isn’t it?’ His light tone contradicted the expression on his face. ‘Sometimes I even forget that there’s a man living behind the mask.’
And then they were in each other’s arms, hugging hard, kissing and weeping.
Judith, practical as ever, sniffed, and wiping her eyes stepped back to study the whole of his long, lean form. ‘Is a beard part of the mask too?’
Renard fingered the luxuriant growth on his jaw. ‘It was more convenient to let it grow while we were on the road. If you promise not to cut my throat, I’ll let you barber it off.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Her laugh was shaky. ‘But my eyesight is not as good as it was!’
‘Rubbish!’ said Guyon from behind her. ‘It’s still sharp enough to pluck a needle from a haystack!’
Renard had expected to set his eyes upon a walking skeleton or an old man, hunched and incapacitated. His father was neither. Thinner, yes. There were marked hollows under his cheekbones and his eyes were set further back in their sockets and pouched with wrinkles, but they still glowed with vitality, and there was not a great deal more grey in his hair for the sake of four years.
Renard wondered briefly if Adam had been wrong and merely panicking, but as he embraced his father, Renard felt the roughness of the older man’s breathing against his
‘The gift matches the need,’ she retorted. ‘Are those the Welsh hills over there?’
He narrowed his eyes against the sun. ‘Yes. That line of trees marks the border dyke. Where was your father from?’
‘Near Ruthin.’
‘That’s north of here. Closer to Caermoel than Ledworth and Ravenstow.’
They rode on in silence. Olwen gnawed her lip andlooked at her lover’s broad, hauberk-clad shoulders. Their relationship was as volatile as a barrel of hot pitch and occasionally she had the disquieting feeling that the passions invoked were beyond all control. Had they all been on Renard’s part, it would not have mattered; it was her own responses that troubled her.
On the road from Brindisi when her flux had come at the appointed moment, she had feigned a miscarriage. As it happened, she had indeed been mildly ill at the time with a stomach upset from eating tainted meat. The results had been convincing, particularly as she had been overtaken by a storm of grief, as if the child had been real and not a figment of her imagination. Certainly Renard had believed her dramatics, had been so gentle and tender with her that she had wanted to lash out at him from the depth of her guilt. That release had not been feasible. She wanted to keep him, not drive him away. Her anger had turned inwards against herself, but every now and then some of it would surface and she would be unable to keep from baiting him.
When they reached the keep defences, the people were out in force to greet them. Serving maids, scullions, soldiers, hound-keepers, the blacksmith and his apprentice, the falconer, knights, squires and serjeants, all pressed forwards, cheering. There was a lanky boy who strongly resembled Adam de Lacey. There was also a young woman with fat, honey-coloured braids, a toddler balanced on one hip, another child ballooning beneath her skirts. Renard leaned over the saddle to speak to her and she blushed.
As it came to her turn to pass the young mother, Olwen changed her grip on the reins, jibbing her mount sideways, forcing the girl to dart back out of the way. As the youngwoman met Olwen’s eyes her pretty colour faded. A former mistress, Olwen surmised, and busy in his absence if the child and advanced pregnancy were any indication.
The bailey was thick with people jostling and clamouring, cries of delight and welcome on their lips. Renard felt the euphoria sing through his blood. His eyes filled and he had to blink as he slid from Gorvenal’s back.
‘Jesu!’ his mother said, ‘Adam has brought me home a Saracen!’
He turned swiftly to face his mother’s scrutiny. ‘It’s a good disguise, isn’t it?’ His light tone contradicted the expression on his face. ‘Sometimes I even forget that there’s a man living behind the mask.’
And then they were in each other’s arms, hugging hard, kissing and weeping.
Judith, practical as ever, sniffed, and wiping her eyes stepped back to study the whole of his long, lean form. ‘Is a beard part of the mask too?’
Renard fingered the luxuriant growth on his jaw. ‘It was more convenient to let it grow while we were on the road. If you promise not to cut my throat, I’ll let you barber it off.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Her laugh was shaky. ‘But my eyesight is not as good as it was!’
‘Rubbish!’ said Guyon from behind her. ‘It’s still sharp enough to pluck a needle from a haystack!’
Renard had expected to set his eyes upon a walking skeleton or an old man, hunched and incapacitated. His father was neither. Thinner, yes. There were marked hollows under his cheekbones and his eyes were set further back in their sockets and pouched with wrinkles, but they still glowed with vitality, and there was not a great deal more grey in his hair for the sake of four years.
Renard wondered briefly if Adam had been wrong and merely panicking, but as he embraced his father, Renard felt the roughness of the older man’s breathing against his
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