Elizabeth Chadwick - The Running Vixen

‘Do you think I owe him an apology?’ she asked with a sinking heart.

‘Not necessarily, but I think you were a little harsh with him. You have created a mountain out of a molehill.’

Heulwen looked down and fiddled with the raised embroidery on the belt at her waist. Her grandfather’s great age had in no way incapacitated his wits, and his shrewd scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. She said quickly, ‘Grandpa, I think you’re right. I’ll make amends as best I can.’

The light caught the silver tips of stubble on his throat as he swallowed. ‘You could do worse than consider Adam de Lacey for a husband. Obviously he is attracted to you, and he’s well thought of by men who recognise honour in other men.’

She dropped to kneel beside him, her knees weakening at the very suggestion. Her mind scurried, necessity making it nimble, finding an excuse out of what had once been the truth but was now the truth no longer. ‘Grandpa, I couldn’t, it would be like marrying one of my own brothers. Anyway, I’m as good as spoken for already.’

‘I see,’ he nodded wisely. ‘So you are still set on accepting de Mortimer’s offer?’

‘Yes, Grandpa. After Ralf, I’ll be grateful for a man whose absences are not going to send me into a jealous frenzy.’

She had known passion, he thought, and been burned by its heat, but there had been no healing balm of love to temper its destructive force, only lies, deceit and self-delusion, and she had been too young to understand. A marriage that was purely a business arrangement would suit her very well for the present, but what of the future? Her braids were the colour of liquid fire and they reflected her spirit. No good would come of trying to squash herself into a niche for which she was not made — but how to explain it to her when for the nonce she could not see the wood of the future for the trees of the past. ‘Heulwen. ’ he began and then subsided as a seeping weariness overcame him. He felt as if all the marrow was trickling from his bones and soaking away.

‘Grandpa, are you all right?’ She leaped to her feet in fear. ‘Here, drink some more wine.’

Miles watched her fumble for the flagon and then closed his eyes. When she pressed the cup back into his hands, he forced his lids open again, feeling as though the death pennies were already weighing them down.

Her voice trembled. ‘Grandpa, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.’

He put out his free hand and lightly touched her face as she bent over him. ‘Nay, love, don’t fret,’ he said with a forced smile. ‘I’m all right, just very tired. We’ll talk again when I’ve had a chance to rest.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Grandpa. I’ll make my peace with Adam, and as soon as Warrin returns from Normandy I’ll accept his offer, and that’s the end of it. I’ll go and get Mama.’

‘Child, never mind the end, what about the beginning? ’ he whispered, but to thin air, for she had gathered her skirts and was running down the hall.

Sweating, Adam closed his eyes against the glare of the sun and gulped wine straight from the costrel. Opposing him, Jerold FitzNigel rested his swordpoint in the dust and wiped his forehead upon the back of his hand.

Red juice trickled down Adam’s chin. Finished, he handed the costrel back to the knight, wiped his mouth, then, bending over, hands on knees, blew out hard through puffed cheeks.

‘You’re out of practice,’ grinned FitzNigel, who drank heartily, then, gasping with satisfaction added, ‘I’d have killed you then if we’d been using sharpened blades instead of these whalebone pretences.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Adam retorted with the surety of self-knowledge. Practice was practice, a repetition of various moves in a shifting dance of aggression and avoidance until perfection was accomplished — necessary, but devoid of the deadliness that gave true battle its edge. There was devastating exhilaration in pitting your skill against another man and knowing that the stake was either your life or his. But as he had no intention of murdering his marshal, Adam’s edge was as dull as the rebated sword he was using.

Jerold finished drinking, stoppered the costrel and tossed it over to Austin, for whose edification this bout was partly taking place. ‘Care to wager?’ he challenged Adam and, spitting on his palms, raised his shield and dropped behind it to a battle crouch.

Adam wiped his right hand down his hose and applied it once more to his sword-grip. ‘I’d not part you from your hard-earned coin,’ he retorted, shifting his stance on Thornford’s gritty practice-yard floor. As Jerold attacked, he leaped over the low swing of the blade and beneath the knight’s guard, feinting at the shield and sweeping under it. Jerold sprang backwards like a startled hare and a breath came hard between his teeth. Laughing, Adam pressed his attack.

Horses clattered through the main gateway and into the bailey. Grooms went out and a servant came running in and spoke to the squire.

‘Lord Adam,’ Austin called, ‘Miles le Gallois is here. He’s brought you some horses and craves a moment of your time.’

Adam misjudged his stroke, lost his balance, and found himself once more looking down the fuller of Jerold’s sword and into the knight’s laughing eyes. He pushed the blade aside in disgust.

‘Sorry, lord,’ said Austin, biting his lip.

‘My own fault, lad, I’m not concentrating.’ Adam thrust the blunted sword at the boy. ‘Here, take my place and see if you can improve on my performance.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Jerold mocked.

Adam made an eloquent English gesture, dropped his shield and wandered into the main bailey.

An elderly man was dismounting with care from Ralf ’s bay destrier. Behind him, an expression of wistful pleasure on his face, Renard was loosening the sorrel stallion’s girth, while beyond on a leading rein, the piebald sidled friskily.

‘Lord Miles!’ Adam strode forward with genuine pleasure and held out a calloused palm. ‘This is indeed a surprise!’

Miles clasped the proffered hand. ‘Indeed it is,’ he answered, smiling as he gazed upon Adam’s state of sweaty déshabillé.

‘I’ve been practising my swordplay in the tilt yard — not with any great success. It’s a relief to leave it.’ Adam pushed his wet hair off his forehead.

‘Grandpa has brought you these on his way home, since you forgot them in your haste to leave us.’ Renard gestured towards the horses, his mouth curving with mischief. ‘My sister doesn’t usually have that effect on men, rather the opposite.’

Adam gave Renard a sour look. ‘Perhaps I know her too well,’ he retorted.

The youth shrugged. ‘Or not well enough.’ He fondled Vaillantif ’s whiskery muzzle and glanced at his own grey crossbreed. ‘It’s like riding silk. Old Starlight’s going to seem as rough as sackcloth by comparison.’

Miles smiled at his grandson. ‘You’re developing expensive tastes, boy.’

‘Why not — I’m the heir, aren’t I?’ Renard’s spoke flippantly, but there was an almost bitter expression in his eyes. The sound of weapon play drifted across from the direction of the tilt yard. Leaving the horses, Renard sauntered towards it.

‘Too sharp for his own good sometimes, that one,’ Miles said, as the grooms set about unsaddling the destriers and leading them and the remounts to the water trough. It had once been a coffin, so the priest said, undoubtedly Roman, for there was a vague weather-beaten inscription in Latin just visible on its side. ‘With a tongue like that in his head, he’s got to learn when to keep it sheathed.’

‘Most lads of that age are indiscreet to some degree,’ Adam said, thinking of his own squire’s recent misdemeanours.