Elf forced back her tears. She would not behave like a silly fool. Ranulf was not going to war, just to Normandy. "I will pray you have a safe journey, my lord," she told him quietly. "I will pray you are successful, and return home safely to us as quickly as possible."

"The hour of my departure but means I am closer to returning home to you, petite," he told her. Then his arms enfolded her, and he kissed her with tender passion. "Keep Simon and Ashlin safe for me, Eleanore," he said, releasing her from his embrace.

"I will, Ranulf," she promised him. Was there something different in his look than had been there before? She had begun to sense of late that perhaps love was not an emotion foreign to him. If only she could tell him what was in her own heart! She watched him as he mounted his great warhorse. He reached down and lifted her up for a final kiss.

Their eyes met, and for a moment Elf thought she was floating. "Farewell, petite," he said setting her back upon her feet. By the rood, her look had been more than just responsive! Was it possible she might harbor warmhearted feelings for him? Did he dare to hope? He sighed as he kicked his mount into a walk. It would simply have to wait until he returned. Besides, he wanted to be absolutely certain of his position in her life. If she loved him, he wanted to hear it from her lips. He needed to know for sure else he make a fool of himself. He wanted her love, not her pity.

Elf watched until her husband and his squire were no more than a speck upon the road. Then, with a shake of her head, she returned through the gates of Ashlin to her daily round of duties. She had to speak with Fulk, John, and Cedric this morning. There would be crops to harvest in the coming month, and the fields to be tilled and planted with the winter crops. The sheep needed to be shorn if they were to have new coats for the winter and Ashlin have wool to sell at the Lammas Fair. There was so much to do.


***

On the edge of a wood bordering Ashlin, Merin ap Owen lurked. He did not trust any of his men to scout a possible target for him. This was something he always did himself. It was the secret of his success as a raider. He looked up the hill and saw Ashlin’s walls. They were far higher than Isleen had told him. Had she lied? Was she stupid-or had the walls been rebuilt? He opted for the latter explanation, for Isleen was many things, but she was not stupid. He needed to get closer. Isleen had said there was a shallow moat, but if the walls had been elevated, then surely the moat had been deepened.

He moved from the wood onto the narrow path leading up to the walled enclosure. He was dressed simply in greens and browns, the better to blend in with his surroundings. On his back he carried a knife-sharpener’s wheel. It was a disguise he used often. There were always knives to be sharpened on any estate, although one such as this one probably had its own wheel. Still, Merin ap Owen did not appear to be a suspicious character and would be granted a night’s lodging if he asked, which he would. It was the best way to gain the lay of the land. Servants gossiped, and a woman servant well pleasured talked the most of all. He smiled wolfishly, his step firm.

He was, as he had expected, welcomed to Ashlin. His sharp eye determined that the moat was indeed deeper. Not only that but the earthen bridge across it had been dug away to be replaced by a thick oak drawbridge. There was a platform around the inner walls where the men-at-arms stood on watch, and there were certainly more armed men than he had anticipated. Further, they seemed well trained. Ashlin would be a far greater challenge than he had thought. It would take careful planning to gain hostile entry here. Was it worth it, he wondered?

As he sat in the hall that evening looking about him, he thoughtfully considered the risks, weighing them against the profits of such a venture. The sheep and the cattle were pastured outside the walls. They would appear to be Ashlin’s greatest assets, and they could easily be stolen with probably no loss of life. While the hall was comfortable, there was no silver plate displayed, or anything else of great enough value to warrant taking. Isleen’s passion for vengeance was what drove her, but his whore did not ever overrule his common sense.

The lady of the manor had married a good man. He divined that by the well-trained men-at-arms and the additional precautions that had been taken to evade raiders such as himself. He smiled. They were the exact foresights he would have taken under such circumstances. The lord, however, was away, he learned from the chatter about him. It would appear to be as good a time as any to raid Ashlin’s livestock.

His eye went to the lady of the manor. The little nun, as Isleen called her, was probably one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her pale red-gold hair was neatly braided, and contained beneath a modest veil. There was a serenity about her that he had never known to encompass a woman. His eyes narrowed. He could see her servants both loved and respected her by the way in which they served her. He realized he was, for the first time in his life, in the presence of a good woman. He had not thought such a creature existed. It gave rise to another question. What was a good woman like in bed? Did that cool elegance extend to her lord’s bed, or was she both passionate and hot in her husband’s arms? He was not likely to know, he considered wryly.

Merin ap Owen was given a sleeping place by the fire, and some bread and cheese when the morning came. As they did not need a knife sharpener’s service, he took his leave of Ashlin, making his way for the next few days over the hills back into Wales and to Gwynfr. Arriving at his small castle, he went to Isleen’s chambers and sent for her to come to him immediately.

"So, you are back, my lord," she said, entering her private apartment. She was garbed in a blue silk gown that favored her eyes, and her golden hair was loose.

"Get on your back, and raise your skirts," he commanded her. "I have missed your hot and eager sheath, Isleen. When you have pleasured me we will talk, my pretty bitch." He fell upon her immediately and used her lustily. She was not as eager as he, although she pretended to be. He knew then she had been betraying him with one or more of his men. He said nothing. Let her believe she could hoodwink him. While he enjoyed her wantonness, he knew that one day he would send her back to Clud, for he could not allow her to make a fool of him, lest his men believe him weak. Finished with her, he arose and straightened out his clothing. "Get up," he told her. "Now we will talk."

"You will attack Ashlin?" she asked avidly.

"Much has changed since you held sway there as Richard de Montfort’s wife, Isleen." He went on to explain to her, then said, "The sheep and the cattle we will steal, but there is nothing in the hall worth risking the lives of my men."

"What?" she shrieked angrily. "Did I not make it clear to you before you went on your ridiculous scouting mission that I wanted Eleanore de Montfort dead? I will settle for no less than her life, as she has wronged me! And I want the little nun to suffer as I have suffered. I want her used by each man in your garrison before you kill her for me. If you love me, you will do it."

Merin ap Owen laughed. "But I don't love you, Isleen," he said. "What ever made you think I did? Because I took you for my whore? You are as dangerous as a rabid cat, my pretty bitch. I re-connoiter my target personally because only I can be the judge of its worth. Cattle and sheep are all Ashlin possesses that interest me. There is no value in anything else there. The lady Eleanore’s lord is away right now, and so the time is most auspicious to raid their livestock."

"You fool!" she screamed, and began to pound upon his broad chest. "You thickheaded Welsh fool! Of course there is more to Ashlin than just cattle and sheep. Can you not see it?"

He caught her wrists in a cruel grasp. "What?" he demanded of her, and then he cuffed her. "What do I not see at Ashlin that has value, Isleen? What do I overlook?" He gave her a shake.

"Eleanore de Montfort!" Isleen cried. "Let me go, you brute! You are bruising me badly." She rubbed the wrists he released. "Is not the lady worth a ransom, Merin ap Owen? Cattle and sheep that are stolen rarely earn their value when sold, and everyone knows the livestock you take for sale are stolen. Leave Ashlin’s beasts in their meadows, and take the lady of the manor instead. Her husband must sell them all if he is to pay the ransom you will ask. You will gain double what you would have if you stole the creatures yourself. Is that not a better plan than yours, Merin ap Owen?"

"Aye, it is," he agreed thoughtfully, "but do not think I don't understand your motives, Isleen. You wish to gain custody of Ashlin’s mistress so you may wreak your vengeance upon her while she is in my parole. I will not allow you to do it, Isleen. I want the full measure of gold that Ashlin’s lord will bring me in exchange for his wife’s safety. If the lady Eleanore is harmed in any way, my pretty bitch, not only will I lose a golden ransom, I could quite easily lose my life when her angry husband slays me. You wouldn't want that, Isleen, would you?" He grinned down into her face. "You do want me to love you, don't you? I do not know, but if your facile little mind continues to aid me so well, I might learn to love you one day." He pulled her into his embrace, and kissed her hard.

Isleen reached down as she returned his kiss, and fondled his manhood until it was stiff again. Then she pulled him to the bed and, shedding her gown, cupped her big breasts in her hands to tease him. He lifted her up onto the bed, and, standing above him, she spread her legs so that he could scent her musk. Bending down, she rubbed her nipples across his lips. He licked eagerly at them, and she backed away.

"Bitch!" he growled, reaching out and yanking her by the ankles onto her back. Fumbling with his garments, he loosed his lance and couched it securely within her sheath. "Bitch!" he repeated as she attempted to dislodge him.

Isleen pulled him down into an embrace and sunk her teeth into his shoulder, biting until she tasted blood. "Now I have infected you with my rabidity." She laughed.

He slapped her several times, but the blows were not hard, merely a warning. "You are clever," he told her, "but not indispensable, my pretty bitch. I may have to kill you one day."

"Perhaps," Isleen told him, "I will kill you first," and she laughed at the surprised look on his face.

He thrust into her again, using her cruelly, forcing her near the peak, holding her back again and again until she began to scream vile curses at him, and he at last gave her her release, mocking her as he did. "You are only a woman, Isleen, and a weak woman at that." Then he laughed, and withdrew from her. "Remember that, my pretty bitch. I must think on what you have suggested." He pulled his clothes back into order and walked out of her room even as she cursed him again.

Isleen, he considered as he entered his own private apartment, was becoming a very annoying encumbrance. Still, she had the same ferocious appetites that he himself possessed. He had to admit to himself that he gained more satisfaction from her than any other woman he had ever known. Still, she was not to be trusted, he reminded himself. She wanted to be rich, and she wanted to be independent. Perhaps he would help her to attain those goals, provided she behaved herself. She would certainly make a better ally than enemy.

Her proposal to kidnap the lady Eleanore was clever. Isleen was right when she said he could gain double in ransom than he would simply by stealing and selling Ashlin’s livestock. But if he was able to get custody of the lady and bring her to Gwynfr Castle, could he keep her safe from his wild whore? A dead or injured mistress of Ashlin would gain him nothing. Isleen’s grievance with Eleanore de Montfort was not justified. Isleen herself had told him how she had managed to get Eleanore as a young child banished to the convent before she married Richard, and how she had seen her but once before her dying husband sent for his sister nine years later.

Isleen’s partner in crime, her cousin, had obviously been a stupid man. He had chosen both the wrong time, and certainly the wrong place, to attempt his debauchment of the lady Eleanore. He would have been wiser to come in the night with the aid of Isleen and take the girl where her servants could not have heard her cries. It was his fault that Isleen’s plan had failed. Eleanore de Montfort could scarcely be blamed for defending herself from the unwanted advances of Saer de Bude, nor could her serf be faulted for protecting his mistress.