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    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 ofthought. 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
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    ‘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