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Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
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wont to snap, or say something tart, and Heulwen would bristle and retort in kind. It was hardly surprising that there should be friction, Judith thought. Heulwen had married Ralf at fifteen, and had been a chatelaine in her own right for more than ten years. Adjusting to the codes of her former life for no matter how temporary a time must be difficult, especially when faced with an older woman who smiled, but resented the intrusion. ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘For me too. I will relish the peace and quiet!’ And then she sobered. ‘But daughter, you must be certain this match with Warrin is what you truly want for yourself. You know your father and I would never push you against your wishes.’
Heulwen drew breath to say that yes, it was what she truly wanted; her mind was made up, but what emerged from her mouth was different. ‘Mama, do you think Warrin is a suitable match?’
Judith pondered the matter while she set half a dozen more pins into the fabric. ‘Suitable, yes,’ she said at length. ‘But whether he is the right choice, only time will tell. You have known him since childhood. He’s ambitious, self-opinionated, and about as sensitive as a wall. He’ll expect you to decorate his bed and board as befits a man of his standing.’ She straightened up and glanced at Heulwen’s anxious face, seeking something to say that would even the balance. ‘You certainly won’t lack for anything. Warrin’s always been generous. I dare say you’ll even have maids enough to do all your sewing.’ She smiled briefly, then grew serious as she added, ‘But if you have a need to go beyond the gilded trappings, then I advise you to think again. To Warrin de Mortimer you will be a trophy, cherished for how highly others will envy him, rather than cherished for your own sake.’
‘I realise that, Mama, and it does not bother me,’ Heulwen said determinedly, ‘In fact I—’
‘Heulwen, you’ve got a visitor,’ Renard announced as he sauntered into the bower. He was eating a cinnamon and apple pasty filched from beneath the cook’s nose, and his narrow grey eyes were alight with mischief.
‘Warrin?’ She abandoned the pincushion and raised her hands to check the set of her veil and the tidiness of her braids.
‘Wrong,’ he said cheerfully, coming further into the room. Having crammed the rest of the pasty into his mouth, he stooped at the hearth to pick up one of the hound pups. It wriggled and sought to lick him with an ecstatic pink tongue. ‘Adam de Lacey.’
Her hands fell from her braids. ‘Adam?’ she repeated weakly. ‘Why does he want to see me?’
Renard gave her a mocking grin, head flung back to avoid the strivings of the pup. ‘Perhaps he wants to arrange another midnight tryst in the solar,’ he suggested.
‘Renard!’ snapped his mother, glaring at him with disfavour. ‘If you spent as much time exercising your brain as you did your tongue, you would have a wit to be feared indeed!’
‘Sorry,’ he said with the graceless joy of one who is not sorry in the least. ‘He’s brought you your horses. You did say you were going to sell them in Windsor, didn’t you? And you’ll have to face him sooner or later.’ He held the pup in the crook of his arm like a baby and wandered over to the sewing trestle to look with idle interest upon his mother’s endeavours.
Judith frowned at him, although she was secretly proud. His height dwarfed hers, although childhood was still stamped on the features of the emerging man. There were crumbs on his upper lip amidst the dark smudge of a soft moustache line. The crimson wool would suit him very well. He was tall like Guyon and dark-haired, but his eyes were the grey impenetrable ones of his grandfather the King. He also possessed his grandfather’s sleight of tongue, married to a lethal adolescent lack of tact. The future lord of Ravenstow and the responsibility, God help her, lay at her feet.
Renard kissed his mother’s cheek and looked
Heulwen drew breath to say that yes, it was what she truly wanted; her mind was made up, but what emerged from her mouth was different. ‘Mama, do you think Warrin is a suitable match?’
Judith pondered the matter while she set half a dozen more pins into the fabric. ‘Suitable, yes,’ she said at length. ‘But whether he is the right choice, only time will tell. You have known him since childhood. He’s ambitious, self-opinionated, and about as sensitive as a wall. He’ll expect you to decorate his bed and board as befits a man of his standing.’ She straightened up and glanced at Heulwen’s anxious face, seeking something to say that would even the balance. ‘You certainly won’t lack for anything. Warrin’s always been generous. I dare say you’ll even have maids enough to do all your sewing.’ She smiled briefly, then grew serious as she added, ‘But if you have a need to go beyond the gilded trappings, then I advise you to think again. To Warrin de Mortimer you will be a trophy, cherished for how highly others will envy him, rather than cherished for your own sake.’
‘I realise that, Mama, and it does not bother me,’ Heulwen said determinedly, ‘In fact I—’
‘Heulwen, you’ve got a visitor,’ Renard announced as he sauntered into the bower. He was eating a cinnamon and apple pasty filched from beneath the cook’s nose, and his narrow grey eyes were alight with mischief.
‘Warrin?’ She abandoned the pincushion and raised her hands to check the set of her veil and the tidiness of her braids.
‘Wrong,’ he said cheerfully, coming further into the room. Having crammed the rest of the pasty into his mouth, he stooped at the hearth to pick up one of the hound pups. It wriggled and sought to lick him with an ecstatic pink tongue. ‘Adam de Lacey.’
Her hands fell from her braids. ‘Adam?’ she repeated weakly. ‘Why does he want to see me?’
Renard gave her a mocking grin, head flung back to avoid the strivings of the pup. ‘Perhaps he wants to arrange another midnight tryst in the solar,’ he suggested.
‘Renard!’ snapped his mother, glaring at him with disfavour. ‘If you spent as much time exercising your brain as you did your tongue, you would have a wit to be feared indeed!’
‘Sorry,’ he said with the graceless joy of one who is not sorry in the least. ‘He’s brought you your horses. You did say you were going to sell them in Windsor, didn’t you? And you’ll have to face him sooner or later.’ He held the pup in the crook of his arm like a baby and wandered over to the sewing trestle to look with idle interest upon his mother’s endeavours.
Judith frowned at him, although she was secretly proud. His height dwarfed hers, although childhood was still stamped on the features of the emerging man. There were crumbs on his upper lip amidst the dark smudge of a soft moustache line. The crimson wool would suit him very well. He was tall like Guyon and dark-haired, but his eyes were the grey impenetrable ones of his grandfather the King. He also possessed his grandfather’s sleight of tongue, married to a lethal adolescent lack of tact. The future lord of Ravenstow and the responsibility, God help her, lay at her feet.
Renard kissed his mother’s cheek and looked
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