The Leopard Unleashed Read Free Page A

wiped them on his tunic and, turning abruptly away, forced a path through the avid crowd of men. Madam FitzUrse gave him a knowing smile and tipped wine from the pitcher she was holding until his cup brimmed.
    ‘Well, what do you think of her, my lord?’
    Renard took three long swallows to prevent the drink from spilling. ‘She’s a good dancer,’ he said diffidently.
    Amused, she mopped a puddle of wine from the trestle. ‘Aye, she’s that, and more if you’ve a mind.’
    ‘Half a mark.’ He cocked her a bright look. ‘Why so expensive?’
    ‘Why don’t you ask her to show you?’
    ‘And risk being stabbed in my dignity?’ he snorted. ‘I think not.’
    She pursed her lips and then shrugged. ‘Ah well, if you’re not in the mood, I’m not the one to force you.’ Turning at a shout from her husband, she gestured that she was coming, and patted Renard’s shoulder. ‘Her name’s Olwen. If you change your mind, the payment is half to her and half to me.’
    Renard sat down at the trestle to drink. Another girl was dancing now, slender and dark as a dockside cat. His view was more than half blocked but he had no realinclination. Olwen. A Welsh name for a Scandinavian-fair girl who handled a dagger like a man and danced like a sinning angel in a brothel and drinking house frequented by the knights and soldiers of Prince Raymond’s guard. An enigma to be treated with the utmost wariness, if not abstained from completely.
    He finished his drink and made to leave, but his cup was pushed back at him and refilled with rich ksara wine. Surprised he stared beyond the lip of the pitcher and a gold-bangled wrist into the dark sapphire eyes of the dancing girl. Their colour was emphasised by the gown she had changed into – damask silk cut in the Frankish style and as deep as midnight.
    ‘Stay,’ she commanded, giving him the predatory look of a cat at a mousehole.
    Renard’s skin prickled. ‘Is this free, or do I have to pay half a mark?’ he challenged, but did as she said.
    Her gown rustled, releasing the waft of an exotic, spicy perfume as she sat down next to him. ‘Half a mark? Is that what she told you?’ She jerked her chin at Madam FitzUrse who was watching them with a smug smile.
    ‘I said I was not interested.’
    ‘You lied.’ Her voice was a compound of smoke and cream, and held more than a hint of scornful amusement. She extended a taloned forefinger and drew her nail gently over the back of his hand. ‘Men always lie.’ She gave him a slow, wild smile.
    Her shoulder rested against his. The neck of her gown was decorously fastened but accentuated rather than concealed her figure. The warmth of her perfume rose from between her breasts. Renard realised that his body, independent of his mind, was gradually being wound uptaut like the rope on a mangonel. He could feel the long pressure of her thigh against his and her forefinger in gentle dalliance on his wrist. He shifted away from her. ‘Where did you learn to fight with a knife?’ he asked abruptly.
    She picked up his cup and took a long, slow swallow of the wine. ‘I was born with one in my hand.’
    ‘And your name is Olwen?’
    ‘Sometimes.’ Lowering the cup, she looked at him. ‘And yours?’
    He stretched his legs beneath the bench. ‘That depends on the woman,’ he said with a smile. It was like a sword fight, he thought; each of them trying to strike beneath the other’s guard. ‘Cullwch perhaps?’
    A pink tint stained her face. ‘You know the tales?’
    ‘My grandfather used to recite them to me. He was part Welsh, and I grew up on the Welsh borders surrounded by bards and storytellers. Cullwch and Olwen was a frequent one.’
    She pushed the drink back into his possession. Her colour remained high. ‘My father was a Welshman,’ she said in a gentler tone than she had used thus far. ‘He came over with Duke Robert, took up with my mother after the siege of Antioch, and stayed. He died when I was eleven.’ Abruptly