Elizabeth Chadwick - The Running Vixen

‘Fair enough.’

‘It’s not that. ’

Guyon shook his head. ‘If you cannot speak, then so be it. Doubtless I’ll learn soon enough. Suffice to see that you are keeping your fighting men. I know what to expect.’

‘I’m not keeping them so much for that purpose as for the Welsh.’ Adam uttered the half-truth, half-lie with what he hoped was plausible sincerity. After all, it was only what he had inadvertently overheard between the King and the Bishop of Salisbury, whose tentative discussion had been more an examination of possibilities than anything solid. ‘Heulwen said that there is a new lord across the dyke causing trouble?’

‘Davydd ap Tewdr,’ Guyon said with a grimace. ‘And trouble is not the word. Either that or I’m slowing down. He’s been running rings around me and the patrols. He claims that my tenants and Ralf ’s have encroached beyond his boundaries. Well, you can’t stop the farmers grazing their beasts where they see good pasture, and the animals can’t tell the difference between Welsh grass and English grass — it all tastes the same. There’s bound to be some encroachment, and I’d be a naïve fool if I believed it was all one-sided. I suppose I should take my troop across the border and hunt him down, but he’s skilled in woodcraft, and I’d not be assured of the victory. I’ve even toyed with the thought of offering him a marriage alliance now that Heulwen’s a widow. She’s Welsh on her mother’s side and part of mine through her namesake my grandmother, but I’ve as good as committed myself to de Mortimer’s offer when it is made official.’

Adam was horrified. ‘Jesu — you surely don’t mean to accept!’

Guyon shrugged. ‘Warrin’s father is a personal friend. He mooted the idea of a match between them more than ten years ago, but Heulwen had already drawn her bow at Ralf and I turned the offer down. Since then, Hugh’s been trying to pair off his infant daughter with Renard, but I have no intention of accepting. This will ease the pressure on me. Besides, with the Welsh being so troublesome, we need authority like Warrin’s along the border. Widows don’t stay widows long in the marches. It is too dangerous, and Heulwen accepts the fact of an early remarriage.’

‘You are willing to sacrifice her in the name of policy?’

Guyon looked irritated. ‘Grow up, Adam. How often are matches made without a practical reason behind them? It’s hardly a sacrifice. She likes him well enough, and Warrin’s matured since those early days. Still likes his own way and has the will to get it, but that happens to be an advantage when it comes to dealing with my daughter. She’d walk all over a man of less character. You know what she’s like.’

‘Not the kind to live in amity with a man of de Mortimer’s ilk for long,’ Adam said thickly. ‘What will you do if he thrashes her? As I remember, it was his every remedy for those who baulked his will or answered him back.’

‘I told you, he’s learned control since then. People change as they mature. She is my only daughter, and precious for the memory of her mother as well as for herself. I would never put her in a situation where I thought she would be unhappy.’

Adam said nothing, but his lips thinned.

‘I realise that you and Warrin hate the sight of each other, that it goes gut-deep, and I know you are tired from your journey, so I make allowances. Suffice to say the final choice is my daughter’s. I won’t constrain her to anything she does not desire of her own free will, and she knows it.’

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. Gut-deep, so Guyon said. Yes, it affected him thus: a quivering tension in the belly, but it also ran bone-deep and soul-deep, and was not something he would ever be able to discuss with detachment. Better to change the subject before there was a rift.

‘How fares Lord Miles? Is he still well?’

‘Fit as a flea considering his years!’ Guyon laughed with relief in his voice, equally anxious not to quarrel. ‘The damp plagues his bones and he tires more quickly than he used to, particularly since Alicia’s death. She was a full ten years younger than he was and he always thought he would go first. He’s taken William into the hills for a few days. The boy wants to learn to track like a Welshman, and my father’s obliging, although I don’t believe the lad’s capable of keeping still for longer than the time it takes to blink. They’re due home tomorrow or the next day.’

Adam said ruefully, ‘I keep thinking of William as a babe in arms, it hardly seems a day since his baptism.’

‘Three months after the White Ship went down and our future security with it.’ Guyon’s expression was suddenly harsh. ‘God grant the lad a warrior’s arm and a lawyer’s cunning when he comes to manhood. He’s going to need both.’

Adam snapped open his eyes and listened to the darkness with pounding heart and straining ears. The air in the small wall chamber was as thick as black wool and as difficult to breathe. Sweat crawled over his body like an army of spiders. Uttering a groan, he bent his forearm across his eyes.

At the foot of his pallet the straw rustled. ‘Sire?’ his squire said anxiously and Adam heard the youth fumbling about for tinder and flint, then striking a spark on some shavings and lighting the candle. Jagged shadows flickered on the walls and made him think of the descriptions of hell that zealous priests sometimes fed their congregations.

‘Sire?’ the squire said again.

Adam lowered his arm and saw the frightened glitter in the youth’s eyes. ‘I’m all right, Austin, nothing but a bad dream.’ Sitting up, he motioned to the wine jug.

The youth splashed a half-measure into the cup beside it and anxiously handed it across. Adam drank thirstily, then looked over the rim at the youth. ‘Oh in God’s name, stop staring at me like that, I’m all right. With the sort of life we’ve led recently, the wonder would be if I did not ride the nightmares!’

Austin chewed his lip. ‘Sorry, sir. It is just that you seemed troubled earlier before we retired.’

Troubled was not the word. Adam shook his head mutely at the youth and thought of Heulwen in her tawny gown, the curves of her figure outlined by the tight lacing from armpit to waist, and the belt of pearls and gold thread encircling her hips. He had been hard pressed to keep his eyes on his meal and his thoughts upon what people were saying to him.

He lay down again, hands clasped behind his head and, closing his eyes, saw her belt once more in his mind’s eye. It had been Ralf ’s bride-gift. Ralf, whose taste in trinkets, horses and women had never been less than impeccable.

Sleep had flown. His mind blew hither and yon like a bird on a storm wind. The stiff linen sheet scratched his skin. The boy’s anxiety was tangible and stifling, and he began to wish he had made him sleep below with the other men of the escort. He was well aware of the heroic qualities with which the lad had imbued him as his saviour from the cloister, and was both amused and irritated. He was only human, and the sooner Austin grew out of treating him like a god and grew up, the more comfortable they both would be.

Adam sat up again, reaching for his clothes. ‘Go back to sleep, lad,’ he said, and began to dress with swift economy of movement. ‘It’s still the dead of night. I’m going up on the wall walk for a breath of clean air.’

Lying on his pallet, Austin watched his lord fasten his cloak and slip quietly from the room. Austin knew something was badly wrong and that it had a connection to the handsome flame-haired widow who called Lord Adam ‘brother’. He was sure his lord had groaned her outlandish name as he threshed about in his dream. It was not something he could ask about, nor did he have the scope to understand, for as yet, women were no more to him than a passing carnal interest. Puzzling and worried, he lay back down and shut his eyes, but it was a long time before he slept, and still his lord had not returned.

The night was clear and cold, more than a hint of autumn on the breeze blowing from the River Dee. Adam paced the wall walk and inhaled the scents of starlight and water. In the stables a horse neighed and the sound carried up to him, as did the laughter of the men on watch as they warmed their hands at a fire in an open part of the bailey.

Adam remembered the numerous nights he had spent as a squire, taking his turn on watch, eyes skinned upon empty moonlight. Henry’s reign had been mostly peaceful and Ravenstow was impregnable to Welsh assault, but guard duty was still taken seriously. It was a practice for the warfare which might be visited upon them if the King’s robust health failed, or if strife arose from this swearing of allegiance to his daughter, Matilda.

He thought about his own lands. His father’s possessions had been confiscated by the crown during the rebellion of 1102, but Thornford and its dependent manors were his, and there was another manor near Shrewsbury. He was by rank of land a small fish in a wide ocean, but his connections nonetheless made him an important one. He was the lord of Ravenstow’s foster-son, had spent his late adolescence as a squire in the royal household, and had made influential friends and contacts while attending there. Henry trusted him — as far as Henry trusted anyone — and had promised him reward for his loyalty and service. Adam was wise enough not to anticipate the event too eagerly: promises were one matter, their fulfilling, where the King was concerned, another.

A guard ascended the wall walk, a huge fawn mastiff padding beside him on a leash. He saluted Adam, who acknowledged him, admiring the dog’s armoury of teeth from a wary distance before turning to pace the battlements. Another guard in a cowled cloak was leaning against one of the merlons, his face in shadow. When he failed to salute, Adam paused in surprise and stepped back. Ravenstow’s constable took the keep’s discipline seriously and would lean hard on a man neglecting his duty.

‘Look sharp, soldier!’ he snapped, realising too late as the figure turned with a startled gasp, that it was not a guard at all. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, almost angry that even up here on the wall walk in the dead of night there was no escape.

Heulwen stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. He could see the starlit gleam of their whites. ‘I came here to think,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘It’s open here; your thoughts are not squashed by walls.’ She considered him, her head cocked on one side. ‘And you?’

‘I came for solitude,’ he said harshly, then swore beneath his breath. ‘I’m being a churl again, aren’t I?’

He sensed the deepening of her smile. ‘Yes, you are.’

‘I–I had a nightmare, and my squire was making a fuss.’ He looked down. ‘I don’t remember what happened, and I don’t believe I want to.’ He shivered, the hairs on his forearms standing straight up.

‘At least yours was only a dream.’ She turned, putting down the hood of her cloak so that her face emerged, framed in the silvery nocturnal light.

Adam swallowed. Her hair was exposed, braided in a thick plait ready for bed, its glorious colour cooled and muted by the starlight. His mind and body blended into one dull ache. ‘I know you grieve deeply for Ralf,’ he said unsteadily.

One side of her mouth turned up. ‘Ralf!’ she exhaled mockingly. ‘Jesu God, I’ve been grieving for years, but not for him.’ She glanced at him quickly. ‘I had to have him, Adam, whatever the cost. Do you know what it is to burn? I don’t suppose you do. Well, I burned until everything turned to ashes, and if I have taken it badly, it is because that is all I have left.’ She rubbed her arms within her miniver-lined mantle.

Adam, who knew precisely what it was to burn, could only stare at her, burning still, barred from touching. ‘Heulwen, I. ’

‘No, don’t commiserate.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I don’t think I could bear it, and besides, it doesn’t suit you.’ She laid an impulsive hand on his sleeve. ‘Look Adam, I know it’s late, and I know you came here for solitude, but there is a matter sorely troubling me, and I need to talk to someone.’

He gnawed his lip, desiring to deny her and bolt for the safety of the restless bed from which he had so recently absconded, but he was powerless to refuse the pleading note in her voice He looked down at her hand gripping his. It was slender and long-fingered, the feminine image of her father’s and adorned on the wedding finger by a ring of braided gold.

‘How could I refuse?’ he asked with a grim smile, and wished he knew the answer.

The wine made a musical sound as she poured it into two goblets of trellised glass. The candles were reflected in the bronze flagon, which had a handle shaped like a dragon’s head, the eyes inlaid with garnets and the tongue curling between sharply incised fangs. An embroidery frame stood near the brazier and he went to peruse the boldly worked pattern. It was the hem of a man’s tunic, sewn with couchant leopards in thread of gold on a dark woollen background. Lady Judith’s work, he thought, recognising the style. Heulwen had never owned the patience for more than the most rudimentary needlecraft.