The Running Vixen (4 page)

The two new men were a pair of Angevin mercenary cousins with dark eyes and swift, sharp smiles. Guyon would not have trusted either one further than he could throw a spear. Ferrers’s lad was a compact, sturdy youth with intelligent hazel eyes, a tumble of wood-shaving curls, and a snub nose that made him look younger than his seventeen years and a good deal more innocent than his history.

The group also numbered a dozen hard-bitten men-at-arms, survivors of numerous skirmishes across the patchwork of duchies and principalities lying between England and the German empire. A motley collection, but all wearing the assurance of honed fighters.

‘They’re good men to have at your back in a tight corner,’ Adam said, as they left the soldiers to arrange their belongings out of the way of the trestles that were being set out ready for the evening meal.

‘Were my doubts so plain?’ Guyon looked rueful. ‘I must be getting old.’ He glanced sideways at Adam. ‘Will they not grow restless without battle?’

‘Probably, but I don’t foresee a problem. I’m not expecting there to be much peace.’

The glance hardened. ‘In that case, you had better let me see that letter now,’ he muttered.

Adam shrugged. ‘I can tell you and spare my squire’s feet. I know what’s in it because I was there when Henry dictated it to his scribe. You are summoned to attend the Christmas feast at Windsor, and your family with you.’

Guyon relaxed, and with a grunt led Adam to the small solar at the far end of the hall, which was screened from the main room by a fine, carved wooden partition and a curtained archway. ‘Not just for the joy of seeing his grandsons, I’ll warrant,’ he said cynically as he sat down on a pelt-covered stool. ‘Since the death of his heir, Henry’s been so eaten up with envy of my own brood that it hasn’t been safe to make mention of them, let alone set them beneath his nose, William in particular.’

Hardly surprising, thought Adam. King Henry had fathered over a score of bastards, Lady Judith among them, but his only legitimate son had drowned and his new young wife showed no signs of quickening. The
White Ship
had been a magnificent vessel, new and sleek when she was boarded in Barfleur on a cold November evening by the younger element of the court, intent on catching up with the other ships that had left for England earlier in the afternoon. The passengers were well into their cups, the crew also, and the ship had foundered on a rock before she even cleared the harbour, with the loss of almost everyone on board. Guyon’s firstborn son and heir had also been a victim of the
White Ship
disaster, but there were four other boys to follow, the last one born only a month after the sinking. ‘He’s inviting everyone else too, for the purpose of binding their allegiance to Matilda as his successor.’

Guyon rubbed at a bark stain on his chausses. ‘Bound to come I suppose,’ he sighed. ‘She is, after all, his only direct heir, but it won’t be a popular move. Is he expecting a rebellion?’

‘Reluctance, yes. Rebellion no.’

The lines at the corners of Guyon’s mouth deepened. ‘Some will come very near to it,’ he said, frowning. ‘It’s going to stick in the craw to have to render homage to a woman - a foreign woman at that - and from what I hear of her, Matilda won’t offer them a sweetener to help them swallow their bleeding pride. She’d rather see them choke on it.’ He cast Adam a speculative look. ‘What about William le Clito? He’s the King’s nephew by his older brother, and certainly has prior right to Normandy, if not to the throne.’

‘Are you one of le Clito’s supporters?’

‘God’s balls, no!’ Guyon gave a short bark of laughter. ‘What do you take me for? The lad’s no more set up to rule than a blind hawk’s capable of bringing down prey! He’s done nothing all his life but dance to the French King’s schemes! If I favoured anyone, it would be one of Henry’s other nephews, Stephen of Blois, and even then I’m not so sure. He’s too good-natured and not enough iron in his soul to be strong like Henry.’

Adam nudged a sprig of dried lavender among the rushes with the tip of his boot. ‘What about Robert of Gloucester? He’s Henry’s son, and he’s got the stamina that Stephen lacks.’

Guyon dismissed Adam’s candidate with a wave of his hand. ‘If we allowed ourselves to think of him as our future king, we’d have to consider all the other royal by-blows, and they number as many as the years Henry’s been on the throne, and include my own wife. Besides, Gloucester’s not like that, and I know him well enough to trust one of my sons in squirehood to him. He’s not the kind to desire the weight of a crown on his head, and he used to worship the ground Matilda trod on when they were small children.’

Adam dipped his head. ‘Point taken.’

Guyon looked shrewdly at Adam. ‘But, if we swear for Matilda, then we also swear for her future husband, whoever he might be - or do we have a say in that? Knowing Henry for the slippery creature he is, I think not.’

Adam took a mental back-step, realising from whom Renard had inherited his sudden thrusts of perception.

‘Do you know who he might be?’ Guyon pursued. ‘No clues on your long tramp from Germany?’

Adam felt his ears burning. ‘No, sir.’ He watched his toe crush the strand of lavender and all the little dried balls fall off into the rushes. A pungent, herbal smell drifted past his nostrils.

‘Fair enough.’

‘It’s not that . . .’

Guyon shook his head. ‘If you cannot speak, then so be it. Doubtless I’ll learn soon enough. Suffice to see that you are keeping your fighting men. I know what to expect.’

‘I’m not keeping them so much for that purpose as for the Welsh.’ Adam uttered the half-truth, half-lie with what he hoped was plausible sincerity. After all, it was only what he had inadvertently overheard between the King and the Bishop of Salisbury, whose tentative discussion had been more an examination of possibilities than anything solid. ‘Heulwen said that there is a new lord across the dyke causing trouble?’

‘Davydd ap Tewdr,’ Guyon said with a grimace. ‘And trouble is not the word. Either that or I’m slowing down. He’s been running rings around me and the patrols. He claims that my tenants and Ralf ’s have encroached beyond his boundaries. Well, you can’t stop the farmers grazing their beasts where they see good pasture, and the animals can’t tell the difference between Welsh grass and English grass - it all tastes the same. There’s bound to be some encroachment, and I’d be a naïve fool if I believed it was all one-sided. I suppose I should take my troop across the border and hunt him down, but he’s skilled in woodcraft, and I’d not be assured of the victory. I’ve even toyed with the thought of offering him a marriage alliance now that Heulwen’s a widow. She’s Welsh on her mother’s side and part of mine through her namesake my grandmother, but I’ve as good as committed myself to de Mortimer’s offer when it is made official.’

Adam was horrified. ‘Jesu - you surely don’t mean to accept!’

Guyon shrugged. ‘Warrin’s father is a personal friend. He mooted the idea of a match between them more than ten years ago, but Heulwen had already drawn her bow at Ralf and I turned the offer down. Since then, Hugh’s been trying to pair off his infant daughter with Renard, but I have no intention of accepting. This will ease the pressure on me. Besides, with the Welsh being so troublesome, we need authority like Warrin’s along the border. Widows don’t stay widows long in the marches. It is too dangerous, and Heulwen accepts the fact of an early remarriage.’

‘You are willing to sacrifice her in the name of policy?’

Guyon looked irritated. ‘Grow up, Adam. How often are matches made without a practical reason behind them? It’s hardly a sacrifice. She likes him well enough, and Warrin’s matured since those early days. Still likes his own way and has the will to get it, but that happens to be an advantage when it comes to dealing with my daughter. She’d walk all over a man of less character. You know what she’s like.’

‘Not the kind to live in amity with a man of de Mortimer’s ilk for long,’ Adam said thickly. ‘What will you do if he thrashes her? As I remember, it was his every remedy for those who baulked his will or answered him back.’

‘I told you, he’s learned control since then. People change as they mature. She is my only daughter, and precious for the memory of her mother as well as for herself. I would never put her in a situation where I thought she would be unhappy.’

Adam said nothing, but his lips thinned.

‘I realise that you and Warrin hate the sight of each other, that it goes gut-deep, and I know you are tired from your journey, so I make allowances. Suffice to say the final choice is my daughter’s. I won’t constrain her to anything she does not desire of her own free will, and she knows it.’

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. Gut-deep, so Guyon said. Yes, it affected him thus: a quivering tension in the belly, but it also ran bone-deep and soul-deep, and was not something he would ever be able to discuss with detachment. Better to change the subject before there was a rift.

‘How fares Lord Miles? Is he still well?’

‘Fit as a flea considering his years!’ Guyon laughed with relief in his voice, equally anxious not to quarrel. ‘The damp plagues his bones and he tires more quickly than he used to, particularly since Alicia’s death. She was a full ten years younger than he was and he always thought he would go first. He’s taken William into the hills for a few days. The boy wants to learn to track like a Welshman, and my father’s obliging, although I don’t believe the lad’s capable of keeping still for longer than the time it takes to blink. They’re due home tomorrow or the next day.’

Adam said ruefully, ‘I keep thinking of William as a babe in arms, it hardly seems a day since his baptism.’

‘Three months after the
White Ship
went down and our future security with it.’ Guyon’s expression was suddenly harsh. ‘God grant the lad a warrior’s arm and a lawyer’s cunning when he comes to manhood. He’s going to need both.’

2

Adam snapped open his eyes and listened to the darkness with pounding heart and straining ears. The air in the small wall chamber was as thick as black wool and as difficult to breathe. Sweat crawled over his body like an army of spiders. Uttering a groan, he bent his forearm across his eyes.

At the foot of his pallet the straw rustled. ‘Sire?’ his squire said anxiously and Adam heard the youth fumbling about for tinder and flint, then striking a spark on some shavings and lighting the candle. Jagged shadows flickered on the walls and made him think of the descriptions of hell that zealous priests sometimes fed their congregations.

‘Sire?’ the squire said again.

Adam lowered his arm and saw the frightened glitter in the youth’s eyes. ‘I’m all right, Austin, nothing but a bad dream.’ Sitting up, he motioned to the wine jug.

The youth splashed a half-measure into the cup beside it and anxiously handed it across. Adam drank thirstily, then looked over the rim at the youth. ‘Oh in God’s name, stop staring at me like that, I’m all right. With the sort of life we’ve led recently, the wonder would be if I did not ride the nightmares!’

Austin chewed his lip. ‘Sorry, sir. It is just that you seemed troubled earlier before we retired.’

Troubled was not the word. Adam shook his head mutely at the youth and thought of Heulwen in her tawny gown, the curves of her figure outlined by the tight lacing from armpit to waist, and the belt of pearls and gold thread encircling her hips. He had been hard pressed to keep his eyes on his meal and his thoughts upon what people were saying to him.

He lay down again, hands clasped behind his head and, closing his eyes, saw her belt once more in his mind’s eye. It had been Ralf ’s bride-gift. Ralf, whose taste in trinkets, horses and women had never been less than impeccable.

Sleep had flown. His mind blew hither and yon like a bird on a storm wind. The stiff linen sheet scratched his skin. The boy’s anxiety was tangible and stifling, and he began to wish he had made him sleep below with the other men of the escort. He was well aware of the heroic qualities with which the lad had imbued him as his saviour from the cloister, and was both amused and irritated. He was only human, and the sooner Austin grew out of treating him like a god and grew up, the more comfortable they both would be.

Adam sat up again, reaching for his clothes. ‘Go back to sleep, lad,’ he said, and began to dress with swift economy of movement. ‘It’s still the dead of night. I’m going up on the wall walk for a breath of clean air.’

Lying on his pallet, Austin watched his lord fasten his cloak and slip quietly from the room. Austin knew something was badly wrong and that it had a connection to the handsome flame-haired widow who called Lord Adam ‘brother’. He was sure his lord had groaned her outlandish name as he threshed about in his dream. It was not something he could ask about, nor did he have the scope to understand, for as yet, women were no more to him than a passing carnal interest. Puzzling and worried, he lay back down and shut his eyes, but it was a long time before he slept, and still his lord had not returned.

The night was clear and cold, more than a hint of autumn on the breeze blowing from the River Dee. Adam paced the wall walk and inhaled the scents of starlight and water. In the stables a horse neighed and the sound carried up to him, as did the laughter of the men on watch as they warmed their hands at a fire in an open part of the bailey.

Adam remembered the numerous nights he had spent as a squire, taking his turn on watch, eyes skinned upon empty moonlight. Henry’s reign had been mostly peaceful and Ravenstow was impregnable to Welsh assault, but guard duty was still taken seriously. It was a practice for the warfare which might be visited upon them if the King’s robust health failed, or if strife arose from this swearing of allegiance to his daughter, Matilda.

He thought about his own lands. His father’s possessions had been confiscated by the crown during the rebellion of 1102, but Thornford and its dependent manors were his, and there was another manor near Shrewsbury. He was by rank of land a small fish in a wide ocean, but his connections nonetheless made him an important one. He was the lord of Ravenstow’s foster-son, had spent his late adolescence as a squire in the royal household, and had made influential friends and contacts while attending there. Henry trusted him - as far as Henry trusted anyone - and had promised him reward for his loyalty and service. Adam was wise enough not to anticipate the event too eagerly: promises were one matter, their fulfilling, where the King was concerned, another.