Before there is no time for weddings or celebrations … The knowledge hung between them like a heavy black cloak.
‘Yes I know. Don’t worry. I won’t bring Olwen to my wedding.’
‘But neither will you put her aside?’
Renard contemplated his cup, picked it up and drained the milk. Then he looked at his mother. ‘I think not,’ he said with finality. ‘If you had seen Elene’s last letter to me you would understand why. I dare say she will make a superb chatelaine and mother, everything that I know Olwen will not, but I doubt she will ever be capable of firing my blood to scalding point, and sometimes I need that kind of release.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’d better arm up if I’m taking out the patrol.’
Judith stared up at him: young and lithe, in the half light, the beard shaved off, he suddenly looked so much like Guyon as she had first known him that it almost broke her heart. ‘Renard, have a care.’
‘On the patrol, or in my dealings with women?’ he asked lightly, but she could sense the checked irritation.
‘Both,’ she rallied on a snap. ‘And you can count me among the women.’
The light in the west brightened to a rosy gold as Renard took the household knights and serjeants out of the keep and on a wide-sweeping patrol of the demesne. The breeze was cold, but not unpleasant, and cleared the last vestiges of sleep from his brain. He began to enjoy the feel of the powerful horse beneath him, the slide of leather through his fingers, the musical sounds of armour and harness, and the rough jesting of the men in the early air.
He moved up the border to visit two fortified manors, beholden to Ravenstow. Thomas d’Alberin at Farnden complained that the Welsh had been raiding.
‘No, not Rhodri ap Tewdr,’ he responded to Renard’s sharp query. ‘We haven’t had any trouble that way for ten years now.’ He folded his hands upon his belt-supported paunch.
‘Welsh levies from further north then?’ Renard finished the wine he had been served by d’Alberin’s wife, and having returned the cup to her with a preoccupied smile, he gathered up the reins. Their son, christened Guyon in honour of their overlord, was a doughy boy of nine or ten who did no justice to his namesake as he leaned against a wain in the yard, his mouth full of honey tart.
Renard considered Sir Thomas. ‘When do your forty days’ service fall due? Remind me.’
‘Between Candlemas and Easter, my lord. I usually do garrison duty at Ravenstow.’
Renard eyed the man’s paunch. ‘If the Welsh are slipping through you had better tighten your vigilance. My own patrols will visit regularly.’
Sir Thomas was not unaware of the pointed quality of Renard’s stare and drew himself up, inhaling to tighten his stomach.
‘Send to Ravenstow immediately at the first sign of trouble.’ Renard shook the reins.
‘It is a pleasure to have you home, my lord!’ The words ended in a gasp as d’Alberin was forced to breathe out and let his spare flesh wobble on to his belt again.
Renard glanced sharply, but the man’s face, apart from being slightly pink with effort, was as plain and honest as pottage. Probably the soft fool meant it, and Renard did not know whether to thank him or laugh and disillusion him. In the end he did neither, just nodded briskly and clicked Gorvenal to a trot.
Renard spent the rest of the morning garnering information about the extent of the Welsh raiding, inspected a couple of barns that had been plundered and set on fire, and rode thoughtfully up the border to eat and rest the horses for an hour at Adam’s main holding of Thornford before returning through the safer heart of the earldom to Ravenstow.
The sun in the mid-afternoon was hot and perspiration began to trickle delicately down Renard’s spine. It was a different kind of heat to Antioch, he thought. Out there the sun parched a man to the consistency of boiled leather. Here it melted him in a puddle of his own sweat.
In the fields gleaners were out among the stubble as they picked their way across the barbered golden strips. Beyond the fields the land rose slightly and ran into a small belt of oak and beech forest that was gradually being eaten inwards by assarts as the population of Hawkfield expanded. A new area of ploughland was being cleared even as Renard and the men rode into the trees, a young peasant swinging his axe at one of the sturdy trunks. Seeing the horsemen, he paused to watch them approach and pushed the hair off his soaked brow. An older man, working beside him, groaned and pressed his hands into the aching small of his back before tugging his forelock to the soldiers.
Renard dismounted to talk. The knights gave each other long-suffering looks, and fidgeted, gently stewing in their armour.
The younger man tentatively offered Renard a stone cider jug and a grubby hunk of maslin loaf. Renard declined the latter, but drank thirstily from the jug. The cider was coarse, almost as rough on the throat as usquebaugh. Coughing, he passed a remark in English that caused the two peasants to grin broadly.
He enquired about the assart. His English was accented, a little rusty from four years at the back of his mind, but he spoke it well enough to be understood and in turn to understand what the two men replied. One particular remark made by the older man caused Renard to lift his brows and stare thoughtfully into the autumn forest beyond, a half-smile on his lips.
‘My lord, is it wise to rub shoulders with the serfs?’ asked one of the men when once more they were riding through the trees. ‘Will they not get ideas above their position?’
Renard shifted his shield as its pressure began to chafe a sore spot between his shoulder blades. ‘I know what I’m about. You cannot buy loyalty either with coin or with fear. It is like mastering a horse,’ he grinned, ‘or a woman — gentle but firm, and applying the pressure in the right place at the right time.’
The knight laughed and shook his head.
‘Lord Renard!’ Ancelin’s voice was terse with sudden warning.
It was not just his shield-bearer’s tone that caused the hairs to prickle erect on Renard’s spine. He shifted his shield again, rapidly bringing it down on to his left forearm, and started to draw his sword. Then he stopped with the weapon half out of its sheath. His mind flew while his body grew roots. He could feel the tension in his men, was aware of someone behind him, swallowing loudly. Amid the tumbling, turning leaves the light angled off arrow and spear tips half concealed by foliage.
Renard’s breathing, which had been as light and shallow as an untimely grave, deepened. His chest expanded. He slammed the sword back into its sheath, and setting his hands to his helm, struggled to pull it off.
‘William!’ he roared. ‘Come out now, or I swear to God I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your miserable life!’
There was a long pause. A horse shook its head and harness jingled. From behind the cover of a smooth-trunked silver birch, a young man stepped out. He was a little above average height and as rangy as a cat. His clothes were coloured the buffs and golds of the autumn woods, and an elm bow dangled from his fingers.
‘Croeso,’ he said on a flourish and a bow. When he stood erect again his blue-green eyes were bright with laughter. ‘You rode straight into our trap.’
Four other grinning young men emerged from the trees and lounged, their bodies brimming with arrogance, but their expressions uncertain as they glanced between their leader and Renard.
Renard’s mouth tightened, but his irritation was mostly self-directed. Leaping down from Gorvenal, he closed the ten strides between himself and his youngest brother and embraced him heartily.
‘Scare me like that again and I’ll break that bow of yours over my knee and collar you with it!’ he promised, shaking the youth.