The Running Vixen by Elizabeth Chadwick

Thornford.’
    Warrin gave her a sharp glance, a hint of irritation in his ice-blue eyes, then dropped his gaze and took a gulp of cider to wash down his bread, hoping that the Welsh had done to Adam what they had done to Ralf. It would stop Heulwen agitating over the witless sod, and he would be able to comfort her as only a husband could.
    ‘And Renard went with him,’ Judith said, one hand at her throat, the other gripping the trestle.
    ‘He was riding a dun; I saw him leave,’ said William. He had been sitting quietly at the end of the dais, a wooden soldier in one hand and a heel of bread in the other, only half understanding what was being said, but alerted enough by the fear in the adult voices to be frightened himself. ‘It was Sir Adam’s remount. He had a black mane and tail and a blaze.’
    The serjeant swallowed and nodded. ‘Yes, that’s the one.’
    ‘Holy Christ . . .’ Judith closed her eyes.
    ‘Mama, Renard’s all right, isn’t he?’
    Judith turned a blind, terrified gaze on her youngest son, changing it swiftly, but not swiftly enough, and gave him a meaningless smile. ‘Yes, of course he is, sweetheart . . .’ After all, there were no corpses saving that of a slaughtered horse. William came to her and she drew him close, holding on to his small, warm body.
    ‘Eric, get the men saddled up,’ Guyon snapped at his grizzled constable. ‘I want to see this for myself. We’ll ride on to Thornford along the drovers’ road.’
    ‘I’ll come with you,’ offered Warrin, gulping down the last of his cider and standing up. ‘You can use my men to swell the ranks of your own. Safety in numbers, I think.’
    Guyon nodded brusquely and left the trestle to go and arm, beckoning the serjeant to come with him so that he could be further questioned as to what he had seen.
    Judith bent over her youngest son, reassuring him, her heart clogged by dread. The November sacrifice, she thought: two sons paid, three still to lose. She shuddered.
    ‘Take care,’ Heulwen said to Warrin, grasping his sleeve.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he answered with a tight smile and bright eyes. ‘I’m not going to be cheated out of what is rightfully mine.’
    She frowned.
    ‘Look,’ he said with heavy patience, ‘Adam de Lacey is too experienced a fighter to fall prey to a piddling band of Welsh - more’s the pity - and if Renard’s with him, then Renard will be all right. Trust me, sweeting.’ He silenced her intention to speak with a hard kiss that took away her breath, released her, and went after Guyon, pausing only to squeeze Judith’s shoulder reassuringly as he passed.
    Heulwen watched him stride across the hall and from her sight, his pace assured and arrogant. A shard of ice lodged in her heart. She remembered a soft summer day and the dismayed cries of the servants as Warrin rode into her bailey, Ralf ’s blood-soaked body draped like a dead deer across Vaillantif ’s back. She remembered the dull, sightless eyes, the wounds that had bled him white, and the void expression death had set on his face. Warrin telling her then not to worry; telling her again now, like a foretaste of doom. With a small cry she gathered her skirts and fled the hall for the sanctuary of the chapel and cast herself down on her knees before the altar, and there entreated God to keep Renard and Adam safe, and to forgive her sins.
     
    Adam paused, hands on hips, breath steaming into the clear, frosty air, and watched the men from Ravenstow ride into his bailey. A snort rippled from him when he saw Warrin de Mortimer astride the piebald stallion. ‘That’s two marks you owe me,’ he said to Jerold.
    The knight squinted against the cold glare of the sun. ‘That’s two marks more than he’s paid out over that horse,’ he said acidly. ‘But then what need when it’s part of his future bride’s dowry and you are fool enough to have trained him for love, not money?’
    Adam gave Jerold a hard stare, but the knight was not for