Following the line of the high city wall, Renard rode past St George’s Gate and the Tower of the Two Sisters until he reached the lower slopes of Mount Silipus, its summit crowned by Antioch’s vast citadel. His destination was the grotto of St Peter, a cave shrine frequented by pilgrims in droves, but quiet now and cool in the scorching midday heat. The priests there knew him and did not intrude as he dismounted, flipped a coin to one of the regular horse boys, and entered the dim, candlelit cave.
Genuflecting, Renard knelt to pray. He had come to worship in this tiny chapel on the evening of his first arrival in Antioch, the stars like spangled embroidery on a royal gown, the citadel a crown thrusting to meet them. The grotto had been silent then too, steeped in ancient tranquillity and aglow with the pinprick candles of a thousand hopes and prayers. He often came here in the quiet times, drawing on that tranquillity as if it was cold water from a well in the desert.
Renard was not of a particularly pious nature but he had always found himself genuinely moved by this little mountainside chapel where St Peter and his disciples had met and prayed in persecuted secret and where the word ‘Christian’ had been coined. It gave him a sense of continuity, breathed life into the dry words of sermons that usually sent him to sleep and brought him much closer to God than he was ever aware of feeling on other, more grandiose occasions.
He emerged from the grotto refreshed and filled with a sense of well-being and peace. The sun made him blink, but it was not as fierce as before and the light had mellowed from white to pale gold. He walked down the slope to where Gorvenal was tethered in the shade, spoke briefly to the lad and, without mounting, led the stallion by a goat track further up the mountainside.
Wild thyme, crushed by his boots, scented the air. A goatherd passed him, urging his small flock downwards, and their pungent ammoniac aroma added evocatively to the smell of the herb.
Renard found a small, rock-shaded overhang. A lizard darted away into a crevice as he released the bridle to let Gorvenal crop the scrubby grass. He unslung his water-skin from the saddle, took half a sun-warmed loaf and some grapes from his saddlebag, and sat down to eat, drink and contemplate the vast city spread out before him.
A warm wind gusted into his face, forcing him to half close his eyes. Behind him Gorvenal champed and snorted. Renard looked at the document he had pulled from his saddlebag along with the food. After a moment’s hesitation, he wiped his hands on his robe and reached for his knife to slit the seal. A curved Saracen dagger came to his grip instead. He swore on a smile. His body tingled, responding like an adolescent’s to the mere stimulus of thought. Olwen, as golden as a lioness, Olwen tumbling beneath him or riding triumphantly aloft. The biting, scratching, melting pleasure. Grinning, he shook his head, took several swallows from the waterskin, and cut open the package containing Elene’s letter.
Her handwriting was clear and precise and had developed a firm character of its own since the first childishly executed smudged offerings had arrived haphazardly to discomfort him during their four years apart. The content, however, was much the same. The usual domestic chatter. A travelling huckster had got one of the maids with child. One of the serfs had murdered his mother-in-law. The steward’s wife at Ravenstow had produced twins — a rambling description of the infants. Renard skimmed over that part impatiently and spat a grape pip into the dust.
There were regrets and a genuine concern for his father’s ill health. Elene, as he recalled, had a heart as soft as warm butter. He doubted from what he knew of her that a single calculating thought had ever entered her head, which, if this letter were any indication, appeared to be stuffed with feathers.
His youngest brother, William, had acquired a new horse, white with black spots like a currant pudding, speaking of which, Elene had discovered a wonderful recipe for preserving fruits. Renard flipped the parchment over and stared in growing dismay at the efficient flow of trivia. Groaning softly, he cast his eyes rapidly over it, then stopped at the last third of the page. There was a description of a social event she had attended and a list of the lords who had been present.
‘Ranulf de Gernons was there. I do not like him. He looks at me the way a wolf might look at a sheep it wants to devour. He spent much time with his brother William de Roumare. I do not care for him either. Rumour has it that they want to unite their lands in one line from east to west. Your father says it is probably true and that it bodes ill for Caermoel, Woolcot and Ravenstow, because they lie in the path of their ambition.
‘The wool clip was excellent this year. I have bought two new rams for the Woolcot herds …’
Renard lifted his head and sighing, pinched the bridge of his nose. Ranulf de Gernons, Earl of Chester and lord of the world, given half a chance. Elene’s lands lay on his borders as did the northernmost of his father’s keeps, Caermoel.
Renard spread his hand, brought it down over his face, and looked at the view stretching away before him without really seeing it. If de Gernons took Caermoel, he would easily swallow Henry’s small keep at Oxley, and advance on Woolcot, then Ravenstow, the caput of his father’s lands.
‘No,’ Renard said softly, his eyes narrowing. He abandoned Elene’s letter, apart from noting that she had signed herself in loving obedience his wife, and lay back on the slope, head pillowed on his clasped hands to think — and fell asleep.
A group of pilgrims toiling up to the grotto woke him some hours later; that and Gorvenal snorting gustily into his face. The sunlight was more diffuse now, turning the Orontes into a river of molten gold. His face was tight, a little sore from having lain so long exposed. It was a newcomer’s trick, inexcusable for one so long accustomed to the terrific heat of northern Syria.
He caught Gorvenal’s bridle and rode back down into the city, returning to his villa by way of the high-walled garden entrance. The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the citrus trees and the first stirrings of an evening breeze rustled the cypresses and drifted the scent of lavender from the plants growing along the top of the wall.
Gorvenal went immediately to the stone fountain, dipped his muzzle and drank. Renard dismounted and did likewise, splashing the water in relief over his hot face. The horse pricked his ears and turned. His face water-sluiced and blinded, Renard was unaware of the danger until he felt the blade against his ribs. Body and breath both froze. Murder by stealth was a common way to die out here in Outremer.
The tip indented his skin but did not puncture it. He breathed out again and slowly lowered his hands.
‘Fortunate for you that I am not one of the hashishin,’ Olwen said scornfully as she lowered the weapon. ‘You should guard yourself better. Here, this is yours.’
Renard took his dagger from her in silence.
Her lip curled. ‘You have been lying out in the sun too.’
‘I fell asleep.’ He fumbled at his sheath for the Turkish blade currently occupying it.
Olwen sat down on the edge of the fountain, trailed one hand in the water, and with the other accepted back her own knife, her eyes on him.
Recovering from the shock, he stared back at her and said coolly, ‘That is the excuse dealt with. Are you going to tell me why else you are here?’
‘Why do you think?’
He rested his hands on his belt. ‘Because a quarter of a mark is an irresistible sum? Because there is something you want of me?’
Olwen smiled and began slowly unhooking the neck fastening of her gown. ‘Or that you want of me, my lord?’