Elizabeth Chadwick - The Running Vixen

Vaillantif galloped on to the end of the tilt. Adam sat up and reined him round, set heels to his flanks again and repeated the manoeuvre, swirled in the dust, and charged back down the tilt. The lance cracked the shield and the sandbag hurtled round. Adam ducked, drew on the bridle, and hurled the lance point-down into the dust. There was no sense in foundering a good horse just to take the edge off his frustration. No sense in anything. He looked at the quivering ashwood shaft, wrenched the tip free of the ground and walked Vaillantif over to his audience.

‘Christ!’ declared Renard, eyes round with admiration. ‘I’d hate to face you across a battleground!’

Jerold FitzNigel was watching his lord with a peculiar look in his pale eyes. He knew Adam playing and Adam for real, and just now they had been permitted a rare, deadly glimpse of the latter.

Miles kept his own eyes lowered and his thoughts to himself, but when Renard began to demand enthusiastically to be shown how it was done, he cut him short with an elder’s brusque prerogative.

‘It’s all right.’ Adam managed a smile as he slid down from Vaillantif ’s back. ‘We all have to learn some time — don’t we?’

France, Late Autumn 1126

William le Clito, claimant to the Duchy of Normandy and the English crown, both currently held most firmly by his uncle Henry, shoved the girl impatiently off his lap and scowled across the room at the immaculately dressed man sitting on the hearth bench drinking wine. ‘You said it would be simple,’ he complained, and pitched his voice in singsong mimicry, ‘An arrow from the rocks above, or a sudden ambush in the forest, or even a second White Ship — but there she is, safe at her father’s court in London without so much as a scratch to show for your efforts, and all the barons and bishops preparing to do her homage!’

Warrin de Mortimer stroked his close-cropped beard and regarded the petulant man opposite with an irritation that did not show on his heavy, handsome features. Le Clito — the Prince. Prince of nothing. King Henry had robbed le Clito’s father of England, Normandy and his freedom in that order; but stung by conscience and the protests of his nobility, had left his son at liberty. The boy, now grown to manhood, had a genuine claim to the English crown. His father was the King’s older brother and William the Conqueror’s eldest son. King Henry was the youngest son of the Conqueror, and the Empress Matilda his only surviving legitimate child. ‘Yes,’ he said to the glowering young would-be king. ‘And it would have been simple if she hadn’t had so vigilant an escort and you had provided me with more than fools. We made several attempts, but de Lacey was ready for each one.’

‘He knew?’

Warrin gave an irritable shrug. ‘For the most part I would say he was too experienced in that sort of warfare to be caught out. You don’t grow up with men like Miles le Gallois and Guyon of Ravenstow for tutors and emerge a simpleton in the art of skirmish. The Empress’s escort did take wounds, but none of them fatal.’

The girl sat down on a rug before the hearth and, piqued at being ignored, hitched one side of her gown up her leg. Unfastening a garter, she began to roll down one of her hose — slowly and provocatively. Le Clito’s focus faltered and swivelled to his mistress. She curved a triumphant smile at de Mortimer.

‘So much for all the silver paid out to get the information, ’ le Clito said angrily. ‘We might as well have saved ourselves the time and expense.’

King Louis’s time and expense, Warrin thought cynically. William le Clito had no serious funds of his own, but relied on Henry’s enemies to provide them for him so that he could continue to be a thorn in his uncle’s side.

‘I intend recouping some of it before next Candlemas,’ Warrin said with a smile, as he contemplated le Clito’s mistress. Her hair was as brown and glossy as a palfrey’s hide, her face dainty, with clear grey eyes. A tasty morsel, but not the remotest challenge to the feast awaiting him at home.

Le Clito raised his brows. ‘How?’

‘I’m taking the next galley to England and once there, I’m marrying our informant’s widow.’

Le Clito started to laugh, realised that his companion was not jesting, and leaned forward, his mouth hanging open. ‘You’re what?’ The girl extended her toes and wiggled them at the fire.

‘That way I can legally lay my hands on the silver and whatever else is bestowed in his strongboxes. I’ll get a castle, three manors and a blood bond with Guyon of Ravenstow whose daughter the widow happens to be — and a very fetching widow at that.’

Le Clito stared at him. ‘You sly bastard!’ he chuckled.

‘God helps those who help themselves, sire.’

‘And is the lady in question agreeable?’ Le Clito picked up his wine and grinned at him over the rim of the goblet, beckoning the girl from her sulky pose on the rug.

‘I don’t foresee any difficulties.’ Warrin rose, extending his tall, powerful frame in a luxurious stretch. ‘I’ve trodden very softly around her these last few months and spoken her father fair. My own father’s a personal friend of his and anxious for the match, so there’s been some persuasion from that side too. All there is left to do is obtain your uncle Henry’s permission, as le Chevalier’s lands are in his gift. I have no reason to think he will refuse me.’

The girl snuggled herself down beside le Clito and rubbed her hand over the V-shape of dark chest hair exposed by his loosened shirt laces. ‘All well and good for you,’ le Clito grumbled. ‘A fat purse and a warm bed, but what of the future? I’m the heir in direct male tail to my grandsire the Conqueror, the eldest son of the eldest son. Are you going to abandon me and bow to my uncle’s will? Are you going to accept that high-handed bitch to rule you — and whatever cur he drags from the gutter to be her husband?’

Warrin grimaced. ‘My father will give his fealty for our lands, not I. You know I’d rather sit in the stink of air from the devil’s fart than put my hands between hers in homage. I’ll be at Windsor for the swearing because I’ve got to be. I’ll let you know what happens and find out who we can depend upon to renege at the first opportunity. I had to get rid of le Chevalier, he was playing both sides of the coin, but I’ve still got some contacts at court.’

The girl’s expert hand wandered lower and le Clito shifted on the settle to accommodate her ministrations.

‘You ought to get married again,’ Warrin advised as he lifted the curtain to leave. ‘No good begetting bastards. Ask your uncle. He’s got twenty-two of them, and not one of them can inherit his crown.’

The pied bitch yawned and scratched vigorously at a tender spot behind her ear. Four pups, bright-eyed, fat-bellied and inquisitive, tumbled and played beside her. Sunlight shafted down from an unshuttered window and bathed their fuzzy infant fur. Judith pushed the shears through the crimson wool marked out on her sewing trestle, the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips as she concentrated. It was to be a court robe for Renard and there was precious little time left to sew it, for they were well into November now, the slaughter month. The boy kept on growing; his best tunic, stitched only this midsummer, now revealed his wristbones and barely touched his knees, when it had been made to hang below them. Flanders cloth it had been, of an expensive, bright deep blue, lavishly embroidered with scarlet silk thread. It would do for Henry later on, so all was not lost, but the new garment had still to be stitched, and prayers said with the sewing that Renard would not grow again for a while at least.

The curtain clacked on its rings. Heulwen exclaimed as she tripped over a curious pup, then swore as it dug its sharp little milk teeth into the hem of her gown, intent on a growling tug-of-war. With some difficulty, she persuaded it to let go, and toed it gently sideways towards its dozing dam.

‘Have you finished?’ Judith deftly turned a corner. Crunch, crunch went the shears. She looked a brief enquiry across the richly coloured cloth.

‘For the moment.’ Heulwen picked up a small pot of scented goose-grease salve from the coffer, took a dollop and began to work it into her dry, cold-reddened hands. Several pigs had been slaughtered for salting, and the supervising had involved a certain degree of demonstration. Washing excrement from pigs’ intestines, scraping them and then packing them down in dry salt for later use as sausage skins was a form of purgatory, but then so was needlecraft and, on balance, Heulwen thought that she would rather wash sausage skins.

‘I’ve left Mary filling the bladders with lard and Gytha and Edith making a brine solution. I’ll go down and check it in a while, but they’ve done it a hundred times before and should be all right. Thomas is dealing with the hams. We’ll need more salt before Christmas.’

‘I know.’ Judith worked her way to the end and laid down the shears. ‘You can help me pin this now you’re here.’

Heulwen screwed up her face. Judith began to smile. ‘You need the practice,’ she teased gently. ‘Soon you will have a man of your own to sew for again.’

Heulwen felt heat warm her cheeks and brow. She picked up a pincushion. ‘Nothing is settled yet,’ she muttered defensively. ‘I know Papa’s had Warrin’s letter formally asking for me, but the King has yet to approve — and for that matter, so have I. Besides, Warrin’s still in Normandy.’

‘But due home any day now?’ Judith started to pin the cut edges together, working nimbly. Then she paused and looked thoughtfully at her stepdaughter. ‘In some ways the sooner the better for you, I think.’

‘And you too, Mama.’

Judith’s scrutiny sharpened, but she took no offence. Several weeks of each other’s company had begun to rub the amity a little threadbare. Much as Judith was fond of her stepdaughter, she did not possess the calm, maternal patience that would have served in her best interests. Instead she was 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?’