As once before in Antioch, Olwen applied the kohl to her eyes and the carmine to her lips with only the aid of a polished knife blade for a mirror. Aaliz and Jehanne, Alfred’s wife and daughter, were tuning up the harp and the crwth it was their particular skill to play and Jehanne hummed to herself, perfecting the notes of the song she was intending to sing. Outside Alfred and his two sons were limbering up with a series of jumps and tumbles, a small dog in pied jester’s costume leaping exuberantly with them.
‘What will you do after tonight?’ Aaliz asked Olwen curiously. Setting her harp aside, she began combing her glossy black hair. ‘Will you stay with us?’
‘That depends.’ Olwen’s reply was distorted by the motion of her lips as she carefully painted them. ‘I’m hoping to find myself a patron tonight.’
‘Oh yes?’ Aaliz laughed shortly. ‘Piece of advice for you. King Stephen loves his Queen and she for certain won’t brook a dancing girl making a play for her crown.’
‘I know,’ Olwen said in a cool, offhand voice. ‘It was not the King I had in mind.’
‘Who, then?’
Olwen gave her a ‘none of your business’ shrug and continued with her toilet.
Aaliz tightened her lips and turned away. A strange one and no mistake, she thought. Friendly overtures were either ignored or rebuffed. Occasionally Olwen would deign to be gracious, but only at her whim. Aaliz knew that, despite all the extra coin the troop had earned since the girl had joined them, she for one would not be sorry to see her leave.
Olwen flicked at her lashes with a small, black-laden brush. A queasy feeling not unrelated to triumph lurched in her stomach when she thought of dancing before the King and all his senior barons tonight; of having them at her mercy to pick and choose as the fancy took her. She doubted that even the most likely candidates — the Earls of Chester, Huntingdon and Leicester — would be better lovers than Renard, but the power they wielded would be aphrodisiac enough to compensate.
Sometimes in an unguarded moment she would think of him and feel her throat tighten, but if she wept it was only as others would weep at the passions of a minstrel’s tale, and then awake to face reality. He would be there tonight, unaware that she was not still at Hawkfield. Beneath the triumph, adding to the excitement, an edge of fear shivered deliciously down her spine at the thought of how he would react.
Raising her arms, Elene set the gold pins in her gossamer veil, to secure it in place on the silk under-cap. Behind her Renard was stretched at ease on the bed. He was already dressed for the court in the embroidered fox tunic and was absently examining a new hawking gauntlet he had bought. ‘Cousin Matille,’ he mused, responding to her mention of the visit. ‘People used to mistake us for brother and sister when we were children. I don’t think I’ve seen her since Herleve’s christening, and that was before I went to Antioch.’
‘She’s got another child now, Lucy, after Ranulf ’s mother.’
He twisted the glove this way and that. ‘Was it purely a social visit, or did she have other pots to simmer?’
Securing the final pin, Elene looked round at her husband. ‘How did you know?’
He smiled sourly. ‘Matille’s pleasant enough, but she’s too wrapped up in her own life to enquire about the lives of others unless it suits her purpose.’
‘I think she was trying to make excuses for Chester’s behaviour and to warn you against baiting him. She said this dispute between you was not all his fault.’
Renard snorted and threw down the gauntlet. ‘Oh no,’ he scoffed. ‘It is like the tale of the bear-ward who said when his bear was accused of biting a child that the child should not have put its arm in the beast’s mouth!’
Elene advanced to the bed to pick up her fur-lined cloak. ‘I am only repeating what she said. She wanted me to persuade you to be more conciliatory towards Chester. As you say, she is probably wrapped up in her own life, but at the moment, from what I gathered, her husband’s temper is making it very difficult.’
Renard took up his own cloak and secured the pin. ‘Conciliatory?’ He gave a taut smile. ‘Yes, I think that for tonight at least I can be pleasant to Ranulf.’ Drawing her against him, he kissed her mouth and then her throat. ‘Stephen has confirmed the Caermoel charter. Ranulf can go whistle for it all he likes.’ His arms tightened as he hugged her.
Elene returned his embrace, but amid the delight there was also fear. ‘Does Ranulf know?’
‘Not yet.’ Releasing her, he led her to the door. ‘And by the time he does, that keep will be so strong that if he tries to bite, he will only break his teeth.’
The Christmas feast was well into its latter stages. The boar’s head had been served, as had the stuffed and reassembled swans and peacocks and a whole porpoise swimming on an enormous platter of glistening raw fish roe garnished with oysters.
Now people were desultorily picking at the sweetmeats — fruit and nuts, small tarts, honey cakes and comfits. Servants and squires moved unobtrusively around the throng, clearing away used trenchers and dirty platters, refilling cups, and bringing round finger bowls and towels.
During the business of serious eating, the entertainment had mostly been of the musical variety — instrumentals of harp, crwth and bagpipes. A mother and daughter had sung some pretty, twee French love songs. The man with the bagpipes had performed a couple of table-thumping soldier’s ballads and a much-appreciated bawdy epic from the Scots borders.
Elene had watched the tumblers, jugglers and acrobats while Renard immersed himself in a discussion with Robert of Leicester and his brother, Waleran of Meulan. Leicester’s wife, Amicia, had engaged her in fitful conversation. She was plump and lazy, even the effort of speech seeming to weary her, but her eyes, behind drooping lids, were shockingly alert. Several times Elene caught Matille of Leicester looking at her with a conspiratorial smile on her face which she rather tepidly returned, and the Queen’s gaze was hawk-sharp on everyone, seeking out any nuances of false behaviour that might speak of impending treason. Elene stoutly concentrated on the entertainment.
The acrobats were both clever and amusing with a delightful little black and white dog dressed up to look like a court fool, and she was sorry when they finally made their exit, the dog frantically wagging his stumpy tail and yapping excitedly. Two different members of the troop took their place and bowed before the royal table to the King and Queen. One was a young, slender man with a drum hung around his neck. The other, a woman, wore a full, black robe that looked as if it might have been misappropriated from a Benedictine monk. She had loose, corn-blond hair kinked from tight plaiting and bound back from her brow by a headdress of gold coins. Her sultry mouth was painted a rich, blood red.
‘An eastern dancer,’ confided Amicia of Leicester in Elene’s ear. ‘From the court of Prince Raymond in Antioch, although if you believe that, you’ll believe anything. She’s probably never been further than the Billingsgate fish wharf in her entire life.’ She yawned with cynical boredom.
Elene felt as if she had swallowed a lump of cold stone. An eastern dancing girl, one from Antioch was already for her the source of too much pain. She flashed a look at Renard but he was deep in conversation with his fellow earls, slender fingers weaving as he emphasised a point. She tried to catch his eye, seeking reassurance, but Leicester leaned forward to interrupt him and his great solid back blocked any hope of eye contact. Before the dais, the dancer had cast off the black robe and revealed a costume of a full-skirted gown and an an embroidered tightly fitted top with a low neckline. Around her hips was tied a scarf that sparkled with metallic threads. Fixing some small silver cymbals to her fingers, she waited for the youth with the drum to seat himself cross-legged on the floor to one side of the dais.