The Running Vixen Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    A guard ascended the wall walk, a huge fawn mastiff padding beside him on a leash. He saluted Adam, who acknowledged him, admiring the dog’s armoury of teeth from a wary distance before turning to pace the battlements. Another guard in a cowled cloak was leaning against one of the merlons, his face in shadow. When he failed to salute, Adam paused in surprise and stepped back. Ravenstow’s constable took the keep’s discipline seriously and would lean hard on a man neglecting his duty.
    ‘Look sharp, soldier!’ he snapped, realising too late as the figure turned