Sometimes the potions and the preventatives did not work. That last time in November with Renard they hadn’t and by the time she had realised her dilemma it had been too late, she was already established in Ranulf of Chester’s bed. Now she had to pray the child would come late and that Ranulf could be led to believe that it was his. The small size of her abdomen thus far and the fact that she was still being sick had worked in her favour. The detail that she had announced her pregnancy within weeks of the Christmas feast had not.
She had thought about returning to Renard but could not bear the thought of mouldering in that draughty little manor house, knowing that not five miles away at Ravenstow he was there and that he would fight his will to exhaustion rather than visit her. He had said at the outset that it would destroy one of them and now she understood what he meant. At the Christmas court she had wanted him to fight for her, take a knife to any man who dared to lay hands on her, and had almost had her wish fulfilled. But his wife had stepped in his way and Olwen had realised the way of it. Renard’s wife was slender and black-haired with the eyes of a forest nymph and a sweet face. Wholesome as new bread.
She rose abruptly from her seat and turned to pace the room like a caged animal. It was a well-appointed cage with hangings on the walls and a clothing pole and laver. There were thick, scented rushes on the floor and animal pelts either side of the bed. She flounced down again on the latter and in self-mockery adopted a sultry pose. Picking up an exquisite silver-backed small mirror, she regarded herself, decked out as Ranulf preferred in her dancing clothes, her face painted. She knew all about his preferences now. For all his power he was subject to his lust, and her own power lay in her ability to both feed and satisfy it.
Amid the sound of sporadic, loud laughter from the bathhouse, other approaching voices intruded upon her consciousness. Ranulf ’s wine-thickened growl and his brother’s slurred reply. Ranulf and Roumare liked to share. Suddenly Olwen could not bear to look at her face any more. She put the mirror face down on the coffer, locking herself within it, and it was the reflection that went with a smile on its face, brittle as glass, to open the door.
Chapter 20
Renard stood in the tilt yard at Caermoel, squinting against the bright June sunshine and watching his two squires sparring with sword and shield. Owain was as nimble as a flea but guarded so wide that all his speed was channelled into extrication, not attack. Guy d’Alberin was much slower, but he learned the lessons surprisingly well. Literally battered into his body, the knowledge was becoming ingrained for life. He would never carry off prizes in a tourney, but he would be solidly capable of holding his own. He and Owain were easier with each other now, bonded by a mutual dislike of Ancelin who worked them so hard that they had no time to quarrel except like this in a tilt yard, spare time being reserved for precious sleep.
Turning his attention away from the boys, Renard stared at his youngest brother who had just announced that Ranulf of Chester and William de Roumare had tried to force Stephen’s hand in the matter of Carlisle by attempting the kidnap of Henry of Huntingdon on his journey home from Westminster to his father’s court in Scotland.
‘You’re jesting!’
‘I wish I was.’ William let a groom take his sweating horse to the trough where a handful of Milnham men were already clustered with their mounts. Distantly from the area where the new well was being dug, came the clink of hammer on stone.
‘De Gernons must either be mad or very sure of himself to try a trick like that!’
Renard signalled Ancelin to continue instructing the boys and set off through the inner bailey to the hall.
‘ He’s not the one who’s mad, it’s Stephen!’ William helped himself to a cup of cider from a jug on the table where the steward and a scribe were working at a pile of tally sticks. He hitched himself up on to the board. ‘I’m renouncing fealty to Stephen and heading for Bristol to do homage to Matilda,’ he announced with a hint of uneasy defiance.
‘Oh yes?’ Renard arched one eyebrow. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘What, that Stephen’s mad, or that I’m going to give my oath to Matilda instead?’
‘Both.’
William banged his cup down on the trestle. ‘Stephen’s mad because when his spies told him about the plot against Huntingdon and sent him warning, he turned on de Gernons and Roumare, reddened their ears with a load of moralising claptrap, and rewarded them! God’s death, Renard, rewarded them! “Sorry, you can’t have Carlisle, but here’s Cambridge instead and a few other honours to pad it out!”’ William’s eyes were brilliant with anger. ‘That man couldn’t organise a drinking session in an alehouse, let alone rule a kingdom!’
‘What makes you think Matilda’s any better?’
‘Well she certainly cannot be any worse!’
Renard rested one elbow on his folded arm and pinched his upper lip. ‘I’ll agree to differ with you on that count, but give my regards and regrets to Uncle Robert when you see him.’ Uncle Robert was their mother’s half-brother, the Earl of Gloucester, and commander-in-chief of the Empress’s army.
‘You’re not going to try and argue me out of it then?’ William asked suspiciously.
Renard shot him a look filled with bleak humour. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
William glowered at him for a moment before relaxing into a smile. ‘No, my mind’s made up this time. You can’t keep me in tail clouts for ever. I came to tell you about de Gernons, since one of the men responsible for foiling the plot is a friend of mine. I suppose I want to justify myself too. ‘I know you think I’ve some scapegrace ways about me, but I have thought long and hard about this, not least about the possibility of facing you across a battlefield.’
Renard made a gesture of dismissal at the steward and scribe. ‘That would be a pity wouldn’t it?’ he said as the two men gathered together their bits and pieces and adjourned elsewhere.
‘I would not fight you.’ William grimaced. You’re bigger and far more experienced. I’m going to offer my services to the Empress as a scout and forager with the proviso that she does not ask me to do any of that scouting and foraging on your lands.’
‘Hah, very noble!’ Renard snorted, and poured himself a cup of cider. He raised the drink, then, seeing William’s expression, lowered it again. ‘Well what do you want me to do? Pat you on the head and send you off with my blessing? Christ, William, grow up! Matilda’s not like Stephen. You go to her and she’ll toss you on the altar of her ambition and cut out your heart! You won’t be able to pick and choose when and where you scout like some finicky old nun demanding a boneless portion of fish!’
A dusky flush rose in William’s cheeks. ‘I have the skills to make myself invaluable enough to be worth such a concession,’ he said stiffly.
Renard said nothing, but his gaze was more eloquent than words.
‘Look, I’m much closer to the rebels than you are. I’ve got Miles of Hereford breathing down my neck and my lands are just the right size to make inviting fodder for a quick raid. It’s not safe to support Stephen any more!’ William thrust out his lower lip. ‘Besides, our oath was to Matilda originally.’
‘Papa’s oath, not mine,’ Renard reminded Him. ‘And sworn under duress. Mine was given freely to Stephen at Christmas.’ And then on an exasperated, slightly weary note, ‘You can stop puffing up like a frog. If your heart is set on it, then go to the Empress, just don’t expect my approval. I presume you intend staying the night here at least?’