‘Yes, madam, woven from our own Woolcot fleeces.’ Elene watched the Queen’s hands smooth the cloth appreciatively. Elene had woven in a border of darker green, cross-banded with thread-of-gold. With the Christmas court in mind, she had set the project in motion the moment she had returned to Woolcot from her marriage feast, and immersed herself in it thoroughly. While she was busy at the dye vats and the loom she did not have the time or inclination to brood upon life’s disappointments.
‘There is enough for two gowns, madam,’ she added, as the Queen gestured and the material was spread out to its full size. ‘Or perhaps tunics for your husband and sons.’
The Queen glanced fondly at a boy who was playing with a bratch hound, tossing a leather ball for it to catch in its mouth. Prince Eustace had his father’s wiry hair and her blue eyes. Prince William, only just two years old, had thrown a tantrum and been removed by his nurse and put in his crib to sleep. ‘Tunics, I think,’ she said. ‘It is thoughtful of you, Lady Elene.’
Elene murmured a disclaimer. It was more than thoughtful, it was calculated. If people knew that King Stephen himself wore cloth of the Woolcot weave they would be more inclined to buy. It was also a personal gift and therefore likely to please the Queen.
Malde gestured to her maids to refold the cloth and cast a sidelong look at Elene. ‘I was sorry to hear of your father-in-law’s continued ill health,’ she said. ‘The King has always regarded him with respect.’
Elene kept her eyes upon her clasped hands while she tried to translate the Queen’s meaning. Whatever Stephen said could be taken at face value. His wife, however, was woven from different fabric entirely. She was Stephen’s backbone, the manipulating force behind his crown. Elene decided that since she was a new bride, wide-eyed and wondering at the complexity of court life and temporarily deserted by her husband, Malde would most likely offer a sympathetic ear and expect confidences in return.
‘It is indeed a great pity, madam’ she agreed sweetly, ‘although he has been a little improved since my husband’s return from Antioch.’
‘I am pleased to hear it, but it is still disappointing that he cannot be here himself and his lady with him.’ She patted Elene’s hand in a maternal gesture that was genuinely meant even if other motives lurked in the background. ‘Nevertheless we are very glad to welcome his heir and new bride.’ Very glad indeed. There had been the distinct possibility that Renard FitzGuyon would spend Christmas at Bristol instead, cementing ties with his uncle, Robert of Gloucester. ‘Your lord has been very busy, we hear, since his return from crusade?’ she added.
Elene sighed. ‘Yes, indeed, madam. He has scarcely stopped to breathe, let alone eat and sleep since he came home.’ But what he had been doing was Renard’s own business and Elene was not about to be any more specific.
‘Poor child,’ Mathilda said. ‘Has he been neglecting you?’
Elene clenched her fingers in her gown. She felt herself blushing and swallowed. Not if her life depended on it could she have replied to that one. Not neglecting. Avoiding. After the debacle of their wedding night, he had returned to Caermoel to supervise the start of the new fortifications, escorting her as far as Woolcot. They had spoken little for there had been little to say … or perhaps too much.
‘All men neglect their wives. In their absence we have to make lives of our own,’ Malde said gently.
‘I am not complaining, madam,’ Elene replied in a careful voice.
‘No, I can see that Renard should be proud of your duty,’ Malde looked wryly amused.
The leather ball, slimy with the hound’s saliva, smacked the floor near the women. The dog bounded past, swerved and spun and caught it up in its slavering jaws. Elene recoiled. Ever since seeing an alaunt run biting mad in her childhood she had nursed an aversion to large dogs no matter how friendly.
Prince Eustace ran up and caught the hound by the collar, prised the ball from its jaws, and threw it with malicious aim at the two musicians playing in the background. He shot his mother a sly glance to see if she would reprimand him.
She made a token gesture, shaking her head with a frowning smile. ‘Wait until you have sons,’ she said to Elene. ‘Naught but boisterous trouble, I warn you now!’ Her eyes were full of pride.
Elene smiled wanly. It would not be before next winter if she did. That first disastrous coupling had not resulted in any seed taking root. At Woolcot, ten days after their marriage, she had begun her flux at the allotted time and had been more than a little dismayed. When she thought about it logically, she knew that children were seldom begotten on the strength of one isolated mating.
‘If you did have a babe,’ Malde pursued, ‘whom would you choose for godparents? It is such a great responsibility.’
‘Oh, Renard has already asked Lord Leicester in antici — pation,’ Elene said with a bright smile. It was something to which she could admit without worrying that she was doing her husband a disservice, for Robert of Leicester was in high favour with the King and Queen. She knew that Malde was probing to try to discover the true direction of Renard’s sympathies, but Elene did not believe he had anything to conceal. He was essentially too busy strengthening their lands against attack to think about fomenting rebellion.
‘Ah.’ The Queen’s attention was suddenly diverted from Elene. ‘Here come the men from their sport.’ Her eyes lit on her husband and her breathing quickened. So did Elene’s as she looked at Renard, although her emotions were more ambivalent.
He was wearing the blue tunic she had made for him, already a firm favourite of his and worn frequently in marked preference to the wedding tunic. She had taken note, and a new robe begun for him in charcoal-grey wool was trimmed with thread-of-silver in sparse circumspection.
One of the Queen’s ladies, a vivacious russet-haired beauty who had been standing near the door, stepped across Renard’s path, and with a sly look over her shoulder at Elene, held a mistletoe kissing bunch over his head. Not being aware of her until the last moment, Renard stopped so abruptly and so close that he almost knocked her over. Elene saw a look of irritation flicker on his face before the courtier’s smile concealed it. Setting one arm around the girl’s waist, he drew her to him for an obligatory but perfunctory kiss. She said something to him. He arched his brow and murmured a curt reply that sent her flouncing away.
‘Heloise can never resist other women’s husbands,’ one of Malde’s older ladies whispered wryly to Elene. ‘Particularly when they are as dangerously charming as yours.’
Elene blinked. Dangerously charming? Was that how other women saw Renard? She had never really examined the thought herself. In childhood she had looked up to him with adoring awe, the ten years between them a vast gulf of expectation and experience, their daily exchanges those between adult and child. As her body matured she had dreamed unsettling dreams that left her hot and restless, seeking she knew not what. At one and the same time Renard had become more accessible and more distant, and her marriage had only consolidated the contrasts.
She looked at him as he approached. His strong bones, thick, black hair, his eyes the colour of a winter sea. His smile. Was that what the woman had meant by dangerous charm? He had stopped smiling now and she could tell from his bearing that he had recently been very angry.
His greeting to the Queen was civil enough but he made it obvious that he had no intention of dancing attendance on her and her women for longer than was strictly necessary. Even so, the tale of the horse race and all its accompanying drama had been related and embroidered upon at least twice by other barons before he finally succeeded in making his escape.