The Wild Hunt

CHAPTER 18

On the crest of the hill , Guyon reined his courser to a halt and shielded his eyes to watch the goshawk assault the air on dark, swift pinions, gaining height against the hot blue sky before stooping like a wind-ruffled stone upon the desperate flight of a round-bodied partridge.

Prince Henry, triumphant owner, fisted the morning air as the partridge tumbled over in a puff of feathers and was borne to earth beneath the goshawk's talons. The falconer and a huntsman ran towards the two birds, one to be retrieved in proud prowess to Henry's wrist, the other to be added to the mound of soft bodies already culled that morning. The King's Norway hawk was a skilled killer too.

Henry stroked the breast of his own bird where she perched, dark wings folded, and deftly replaced the leather hood over the fierce golden eyes. Then he looked at Guyon.

'I hear your wife made quite an impression last night,' he remarked with a laconic grin.

'She is not accustomed to quite so much wine, my lord,' Guyon excused and eased himself in the saddle. He had backache as a result of sleeping on a lumpy, makeshift pall et within range of a sly draught.

Henry's grin deepened. 'I didn't mean that business with Alais, although I wish I had been there. I meant her resemblance to my grandmother, Arlette. Old Hubert couldn't believe his eyes, thought he'd seen a ghost and Rufus remarked on it this morning at mass ... and he told me an appalling joke.'

Guyon lifted his stiff shoulders. 'As far as I know, the only blood she shares with your family is that of her maternal grandsire, and, even then, the Countess of Conteville is not of that line.'

'Maurice FitzRoger's girl, isn't she?' Henry looked thoughtful. 'How old is she now, Guy?'

'She was born in the November of 'eighty-three, my lord.' Guyon squinted against the sun at the Prince whose look had suddenly grown secretive, the way it sometimes did after he had been closeted with Gilbert and Roger de Clare. Still waters ran deeper than anyone could fathom.

'Any girl of seventeen who looks like my grandmother deserves closer examination,' Henry said, still stroking his hawk, his gaze intent upon the action of his fingers.

'Angling for an invitation sire?' Guyon jested with the familiarity of long acquaintance and the occasional deeper friendship.

'How did you guess? Anyway, I used to rent the house. You cannot refuse. Is tonight all right? After the hunt?'

Guyon's gaze flickered and sharpened, for Henry's interest was perhaps a little too keen for comfort.

'I did wonder,' Henry said softly to the bird, 'but she never sent word. Perhaps it was just as well .'

'Sire?'

Guyon's tone must have given him away, for Henry uttered a forced laugh. 'God's blood, Guy, stop thinking wild thoughts! With a face like yours, is it likely that I'd be able to seduce your wife before your eyes, or even behind your back! I want to meet her, no more than that. Look, Rufus has started a hare!' He turned to the falconer, gave him care of the goshawk and clapped spurs to his courser's sides.

Guyon followed more slowly, aware of a niggling doubt at the back of his mind. Henry could lie the hindleg off an ass if expediency demanded. Guyon did not believe that he was lying now, but he was sure the Prince was concealing something. The problem with such a devious man was knowing what.

Judith would need to know that they had guests.

He had looked in on her this dawn before departing to hunt and found her huddled beneath the pelts in a heavy sleep. He knew the symptoms and how dreadful she would feel on awakening.

Renewed nausea, a tight, swollen drum where her head should be and a raging thirst. Hardly the best equipment with which to organise food and entertainment for a prince of the realm who was coming to visit her because she resembled his grandmother. In her present state Judith would doubtless give a commendable imitation of the said lady risen untimely from her crypt.

He muttered an oath beneath his breath, bent a scowl upon Henry's fast-disappearing back and, calling Eric to him, sent him off with a message.

Judith woke late in the morning with all the vile after-effects Guyon had predicted and more besides. Half an hour voiding in the latrine made her swear a miserable oath that she would never again drink the seemingly innocuous wines of Anjou, whose potency was so wickedly concealed. She had meant to drink enough to dull the edge of her fear and instead she had swallowed her way into hell . Of the night before she remembered little except being ill .

Green-faced, she directed Helgund to mix a valerian posset to ease her rolling gut and skull . It tasted disgusting and, fighting the urge to retch because by now her stomach was so sore, she retired again to bed to let the herb do its work.

She had been there perhaps an hour when Eric rode in with his message, half a dozen limp partridges over his saddlebow.

Panic ensued. Judith, her headacheaggravated to a megrim of titanic proportions, presided over a household that resembled a disorganised corner of hell . However, gradually, he r tenacious common sense reasserted itself.

This had once been Prince Henry's house. Well and good, let the Prince's machinery do what had to be done. Mustering her wits and drinking another cup of the valerian brew, she tidied her hair, put on a clean overgown and went below to visit Sir Walter and explain her predicament.

By noontide, the kitchen shed was bustling, the cook in receipt of the recipes for Henry's favourite dishes and two servants sent off to the markets to fetch whatever was not available on the premises.

A minstrel had been engaged, Helgund and Elflin were busy with brooms and beeswax polish and Judith had retired to the sinful luxury of a hot bathtub, the water scented with attar of roses, in order to compose herself for the coming ordeal.

Her gaze on the bed as she soaked, ignoring Helgund's dire warning that all the goodness would come out of her body, she wondered how she had been brought home last night and where Guyon had elected to sleep, for there had been no imprint in the bed beside her. Probably below with Sir Walter. A memory came to her, hazy and thick as wine dregs. Alais de Clare had been whispering in Guyon's ear and pressing herself against him. Perhaps he had shared a feather mattress last night, and not for the purposes of sleep.

Alais de Clare would give Guyon what he wanted without baulking or complaint, as would many other of the women who frequented the court. She had seen the way they looked at him ...

and at her, the amused patronising hostility, their thoughts naked in their eyes as they wondered how long she would hold him faithful.

She looked down at her body and then at the sinewy freckled forearm and wrist resting on the edge of the tub. She did not have Alais's natural advantages of a lovely face and ripe, lascivious curves, nor her amoral aptitude for coupling, but she probably had at least as much imagination if shown the right direction and she had always been quick to learn. The only problem was overcoming the fear of pain and subjugation, of being held down and used as no more than an object on which to breed sons. She knew Guyon would not treat her thus, but knowing did not prevent the thought from occurring. It was no light thing to step off the edge of a precipice with only a tenuous, recent trust for support.

Her mind plodded a fruitless circle. She cursed with soft vehemence and called for Helgund to bring her a towel.

Henry sniffed appreciatively as they passed the bakehouse door. Rich, savoury scents wafted to his nostrils. The sound of the cook paddling the spit boy's behind for failing to turn the spit at the crucial moment made him smile.

Simon's grandfather hobbled out to greet the hunting party, wrinkled face bright with pleasure.

Henry stopped to speak with him. Guyon cast a suspicious look over his shoulder at the industry within the bakehouse, then back at Sir Walter, who winked at him.

'Resourceful lass you've got there,' he chuckled as Guyon followed Henry up the stairs.

Helgund and Elflin stood to one side, their working gowns covered by fresh, snowy aprons, their hair tidied beneath pristine wimples. Henry turned from their anxious obeisance before their bobbing up and down made him seasick and was welcomed within by Judith.

She was very slender; he could have spanned her waist with his mount's noseband. Her breasts were high and small , her flanks long and lithe and her voice clear and low. The years fell away and for a moment it was a different woman who welcomed him into a different room, a woman with raven-black braids and twilight-coloured eyes. Judith of Ravenstow had the same eye shape, but more variety of hues, and her hair was a warm sandy-bronze, bordering on red.

'I hope I have not put you to any trouble, Lady Judith,' he said with a smile as he raised her to her feet. It was a meaningless civility. Henry had long ceased to care about putting people out in order to have his own way.

Judith made a sincere-sounding disclaimer and, taking his cloak, gave it to Helgund. Guyon handed his own directly to the maid while looking his wife up and down. 'I'm glad to see you are better,' he said. She was wearing a plain cream undertunic and a long-sleeved gown of copper-coloured silk. A girdle of gold links and shaved, amber oblongs hugged her waist. Her expression was calm, bearing no trace of the previous evening's excesses.

'Patched up and surviving on valerian.' She sent him a rueful smile. 'I've still got a raging headache for my sins, but thank you for the warning. At least I have had the time to prepare.'

'More than time,' he murmured, tugging one of her braids and glancing round at the white linen cloth upon the trestle, the fine cups and flagon, the wax candles surrounded by fresh flowers and greenery.

Judith gave him a secretive smile and Guyon's fingers left her braid as though one of her gold fillets had scorched him. His gaze flickered between herself and Henry.

'Dear God,' he said softly.

'What's the matter?'

Guyon shook his head and mutely went past her into the room. Henry paid Judith a compliment concerning her domestic abilities. Guyon snapped his fingers at one of Sir Walter's servants, drafted in for the evening. The man hastened to pour wine. Guyon watched him without noticing his actions, absorbing the shock of what he had just seen and deciding that it was patently impossible. Henry was only thirty-two now.

He thought of himself at fourteen. Sexual congress had been an undiscovered mystery then. Fumblings in dark corners, snatched kisses and giggles, pleading persuasion, his mother's sharp eye upon the younger maids. The dry throat, the anticipation, the blinding flash finished too quickly to be savoured until familiarity lent refinement and control. And Henry at fourteen?

Henry at fourteen had already possessed the assurance and technique that came of long acquaintance with the act.

'Penny for your thoughts, Guy?' Hugh of Chester nudged him.

'You'd need more than that,' he said with smile that was not a smile and, taking his wine, went to join Henry.

Hugh d'Avrenches frowned, but after a moment shrugged and followed him.

The evening progressed and so did Guyon's doubts. The similarities were infinitesimal, mainly in the smile and the tilt of the head, and fleetingly seen, but the Prince's attitude gave them credence. He was acting on two levels.

Superficially, he was the charming, genial guest, fluent of phrase and gesture; underneath, though, he was studying Judith, drawing her out, examining her piece by little piece, using both his eyes and his expert sleight of mouth. Warmed by his subtle attention, Judith responded as all women responded to Henry, opening like a rose to the warmth of the sun.

Towards the end of the evening when the men were relaxed with food and wine, the conversation was pleasantly upon the merits of Irish hounds for coursing deer and the minstrel was softly plucking out the notes of Stella Maris on his harp, one of Henry's messengers arrived and was shown upstairs.

Henry, drawn from indolent comfort, listened to the kneeling man, his features impassive, but the wine in his hand rippled and a flush darkened the stubble edging his jaw.

His older brother Robert, sauntering glory-clad home from his crusade, had paused in Sicily to take to his bosom a wealthy young bride, one Sybill of Conversano, daughter of an Apulian count with strong Norman ties. The name did not really matter, nor the rank, but the girl's considerable wealth would enable him to buy back his pawned duchy from Rufus and the marriage itself made the prospect of Robert's heir an imminent possibility. Henry's proximity to the crown was suddenly seen distantly across a smoky hall instead of glittering above his cupped hands.

Silence descended in the wake of the messenger's news. No one looked at anyone else. And then Gilbert de Clare muttered something at his boots and Henry flicked him a sharp glance and warningly shook his head. 'A toast,' he said in a brittle voice and raised his cup. 'To my brother and his bride, may they find safe harbour.'

Cups clinked. The toast was mumblingly repeated.

'What will you do now?' Earl Hugh folded his hands comfortably over his paunch, body slack, eyes as sharp as shards of blue glass.

Henry pursed his lips. A look flashed between himself and Gilbert de Clare. 'Rufus won't make me his heir,' he said softly, 'and Robert's got the anvils and hammers to beget his own brood now.

I suppose I needs must follow the example of my father.'

Chester waved a gnat away from his face. 'If it's civil war you're suggesting, count me out,' he said, tone still comfortable. 'Got enough problems with the Welsh warring over who inherits what without looking down this end for trouble.'

'Civil war?' Henry's eyes widened innocently.

'No, who would back me?'

'You have friends, sire,' said Roger de Clare, voice low but full of fierce meaning.

'It's not friends I need, but opportunity and the right kind of backing ... Would you give it to me, Guy?' There was bitter mischief in his eyes.

'A feudal oath is sacred unto death, my lord,' Guyon said quietly after a moment. 'It might cause me pain, but I'd shut my keeps to you.'

'Precisely.' Henry twisted a smile. 'Excellent building material were it but mine. Can I offer you no inducements?'

Their eyes met and held. 'Not even if you were related, my lord,' Guyon said deliberately.

Henry stretched like a cat and his smile deepened. 'I thought not. But supposing it came to a choice between myself and Robert? What then?'

'Then I hope I would make the right choice,' Guyon said, refusing to be drawn.

'Where does your father fit into all this?' enquired Earl Hugh politely.

'No one handed him his meat on a platter, so he went out and shot his own deer.'

Judith decided that this conversation had sailed quite far enough into murky waters and deliberately let her cup slip from her fingers.

Exclaiming in distress, she set about collecting the fragments and accidentally caught the fingerbowl with the trailing end of her sleeve, tipping it into Henry's lap.

The Prince dragged a shocked breath over his larynx. Earl Hugh gave a great bellow of laughter, slapped his hand down on the table and drove a dagger of glass straight into his palm. Blood spurted. The bellow became a howl of pain.

Judith grabbed a napkin from the table and sought to staunch the wound but, in her flustered haste, knocked over a candlestick and set fire to Gilbert de Clare's sleeve.

Guyon, his eyes filled with hilarity, snatched the flagon and doused their guest with a great deal of enthusiasm and a very poor aim for a man who was so skilled a warrior. Gilbert's hound snarled and tried to bite Guyon's ankle and was kicked across the room to fetch up yelping against the wall . Pandemonium reigned. Stella Maris faltered, twanged and stopped. The minstrel sidled out of the room, de Clare's abused dog snarling at his heels. Judith flapped around like a headless chicken, creating more chaos than she was clearing up, but at last, Chester's wound was thoroughly, if clumsily, staunched with the napkin, she looked around at the wreckage with brimming eyes, then covered her face with her hands, muffling little sounds into them, her shoulders shaking.

Guyon flicked a look at his wife, spluttered and quickly bent to retrieve a dish from the floor while he mustered his control. 'I suggest, madam, that you go and find some fresh garments for my lord Prince,' he said in a choked voice.

Judith squeaked and fled. Gilbert de Clare saw an embarrassed husband struggling manfully to control his rage at the shortcomings of his foolish wife. Hugh of Chester in contrast saw a man striving to contain his mirth and banishing its giggling catalyst from his presence until he should be capable of controlling himself. He also saw why it had been done and, looking down at the wad of embroidered linen screwed ineptly round his cut and, knowing how her competent medical skill had saved Guyon's life, concluded that Judith of Ravenstow would take some holding if she ever decided to take the bit between her teeth.

Judith re-emerged, biting her lower lip, her shoulders still displaying a disturbing tendency to tremble as she handed Henry tunic and chausses. Henry quirked his brows, not quite as befooled as his bland expression suggested.

'Do not fret yourself, Lady Judith,' he said magnanimously. 'Accidents will happen.'

Gilbert de Clare coughed and, after a quick glance at Henry, pretended great interest in the rushes strewing the floor. Henry ignored him and changed into the garments. He and Guyon were of a similar breadth, but whereas Guyon measured around two yards in height, Henry fell a full six inches short of that mark and the chausses had to be extensively bound with cross-garters to take up the surplus material. Consequently, the evening ended in laughter and a deal of good-humoured jesting.

Henry swung to horse in the torchlit courtyard, his face open and smiling, black hair tumbling in an unruly shock over his broad forehead, grey eyes shining with the remnants of a good joke.

'You are most fortunate in your wife, Guy.' He glanced over his shoulder to where she stood outlined in the doorway. His tunic reached almost to his fingertips in the new style of the court women and the chausses, even with the bindings, were appallingly wrinkled.

'I know, my lord,' Guyon answered, smiling.

'Although, as you have seen, most of her ploys have a sting in their tail.'

Henry chuckled. 'To be expected when she is under the sign of the scorpion,' he said.

Guyon looked up sharply.

Henry leaned down over his saddlebow and said impishly, 'Remember me to Alicia when you next see her. Tell her I approve.'

The horse lunged forward. Guyon stepped back and watched the glossy bay stall ion trot out of the yard. Gilbert de Clare followed on his patchy, raw-boned roan, his brother in tow, and then came Earl Hugh and the bodyguard.

'What was all that double talk about being related?' the Earl asked.

'Nothing,' said Guyon, uncomfortably aware that Hugh d'Avrenches missed precious little. 'A private joke. I am not sure that I understand it myself. What's more to the point, my lord, is Henry's closeness to the de Clares. There was a deal of double talk there, too.'

'Keep your nose out, Guy. Judith was right to drop that cup when she did. What the eye does not see and the ear does not hear cannot be a source of grief in time to come.'

'Oh yes,' Guyon said a trifle bitterly. 'I am an expert in the art of diplomacy.'

'Well then, don't fall foul of the de Clares. They bid fair to be as powerful as the Montgomery line one day, and one day soon at that. Hunting tomorrow? I'll see you there.'

Guyon watched him leave, then, frowning, went to the stables to check his courser which had a suffered a leg sprain during the day's hunt.

Upstairs, Helgund bustled around the bedchamber, lighting the night candle, folding and tidying, setting matters to rights. Judith slowly removed the gold fillets that clasped the ends of her braids and unwound her hair. Helgund helped her unlace the tight-fitting overgown and, after Judith had drawn it off, hung it tidily on the clothing pole and fetched her mistress an ivory comb.

Judith was thoughtful. The evening had not passed without incident, but at least a potential disaster had been avoided. A pity that the Prince possessed a sharper vision than Gilbert and Roger de Clare, who both obviously saw her as a muddle-headed juvenile. She had the impression that Henry had been amused because he was already several steps ahead of her and could afford to laugh. It was not a comfortable thought, but then neither were the other ones that jostled for space and recognition.

Slowly she combed the kinks from her hair until it hung in a glowing, fiery fan to her thighs and tried to coax her tense muscles to relax. In a quiet voice she thanked Helgund and bade her go to bed. The maid curtsied and left. A soft silence descended and was infiltrated by the sounds of the spring night. Judith sat in the stillness and fiddled with the drawstring of her shift.

When Guyon finally came up to the room, he found Judith sitting on the bed buffing her nails, the candlelight making a golden halo behind her head. She looked up and gave him a strained smile and, rising, padded barefoot across the room to pour him wine.

He took it from her, his expression blankly preoccupied, drank, looked at the delicate glass and seemed to come to his senses, for suddenly his eyes refocused and he concentrated upon her face.

'What's the matter?' she asked. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'

It was there. You could see it when you knew.

The expressions, the occasional mannerisms, the way her hair sprang from her brow. 'Nothing,' he said, wondering if his father knew. Perhaps. If it became common scandal the results would be disastrous. She was not Maurice of Ravenstow's daughter, therefore the barony was not hers by right of birth but belonged instead to her Montgomery uncles - Robert de Belleme, Arnulf and Roger. He suddenly felt very cold.

'Guy?' Feeling frightened, Judith touched his arm and, when he did not move, his brow also.

He started at her touch and looked at her, but as if she was a complete stranger he had never seen before.

'What's wrong? Has Prince Henry taken offence at me? Did he realise that I ... ?'

'Prince Henry?' He gave a humourless laugh.

'Prince Henry will take no offence. How could he?'

Oh no, it was very much to his advantage. The halter, yoke and hobble of blood. He stared at the cup in his hand, set it down and paced over to the shutters. The catch was loose and he pushed them open. The scent of hawthorn was thick and sweet. He could see the blossom gleaming softly white in the garth. A breeze ruffled his hair and eddied one of the wall hangings.

'Is it something so terrible that you cannot tell me?' Judith asked at his elbow. 'Do we face ruin?'

Guyon gathered his reeling wits and turned to face her. 'I cannot tell you, love. Call it a political secret if you will , or just plain discretion. It is a confidence I think I would rather die than break.'

He kissed her freckled forehead and tugged a burnished strand of her hair.

Judith frowned. Henry had told him something in the courtyard, of that she was sure, and she could only hope it was not along the lines that she had earlier curtailed by her deliberate clumsiness. 'It is not a wise hold to have over a man of power,' she said doubtfully.

He stepped away from her proximity where the scent of the hawthorn had been replaced by the more dangerous beguilement of gilly and roses.

'Henry intended me to know. He deliberately turned a vague suspicion into a certainty.'

'Is it very important that you say nothing to anyone, even to me?'

He picked up his wine, drank it and glanced over the cup's rim to where she stood, her breasts outlined by the yellow gilding of the night candle. 'Especially not to you, Cath fach.' Putting down the goblet, he moved towards the curtain.

'Where are you going?'

'Below to Walter. There's a pall et made up in an alcove for me and it's getting late.' He picked up his cloak.

'But the bed ...' She gestured around, her heart thumping. 'It's big enough.'

'Not for us both,' he said with certainty.

'Yes it is ...' She drew a deep breath, her eyes enormous.

Guyon looked at her frightened bravery and his heart turned over. 'When I made contract, my love, I did not want you. Now I do. If it were lust, it would not matter, I'd either slake it elsewhere, or take you without thought. Being as it isn't, I'll sleep downstairs.'

Judith swallowed, but the lump in her throat did not go away.

'Good-night, my love,' he said to her with a tight smile and, cloak over his shoulder, snapped his fingers at Cadi.

She waited until he had almost reached the curtain, struggling and struggling until at last she forced her voice beyond the choking lump of fear.

'Guy!' she croaked, holding out her hand. He turned. She cleared her throat. 'Before you go, can you do this for me? I've dismissed Helgund and it seems a shame to waken her for a mere knotted lace.'

Guyon hesitated for a moment, then put the cloak down. She padded over to him and showed him the tangled draw-string on her shift.

'I'm not a lady's maid,' he growled, stooping over the knot. 'Perhaps you should rouse Helgund, or just sleep in it.'

'I would be too hot and I have run poor Helgund off her feet all day. Let her sleep.'

He turned her to the light the better to see what he was doing and began to realise that the task was impossible.

Even the maid's skill would have been unable to undo the knot, so tightly was it pulled. The fact that his fingers, usually so clever and deft, were serving him with as much dexterity as a platter of sausages, did not help matters either, nor the fact that the scent of gilly was drowning him in its spicy waves as it rose from the warmth between her breasts. Her hair kept tangling with his efforts.

Impatiently he reached to the sheath at his hip and drew his knife. 'I'll have to cut it. How in hell 's name did you snarl it up like this, Judith?'

The blade tugged against the material, jerking her against him. She did not resist the pull , but flowed towards him. The newly oiled and sharpened blade sliced cleanly through the knot and the shift dropped to cling precariously to her shoulder edges, held up by the merest whim of fate.

Guyon's throat was dry. He was aware that if he did not pick up his cloak and leave, he was going to do something very stupid. 'In God's name, Judith,' he said hoarsely, 'do you think I am made of stone?'

She raised her eyes to his. They were wide and afraid and full of stout determination. 'Show me.'

She set her arms around his neck, craning on tiptoe. 'I want to know.'

The chemise fell from her body, leaving her slender and naked, pressed against him. Guyon closed his eyes, fighting the urge to throw her down flat beneath him and take her there and then. That was lust as he had said, not love.

Besides, if the best wine was served, you drank it slowly, savouring it on the palate, not swilling it down your gull et in one fast gulp. Very difficult when you were dying of thirst.

'Hadn't you better sheathe that blade?' she said against his jaw.

The wheel had come full circle. He remembered Rhosyn saying that to him, twined in his arms, only her voice had been ripe with amused experience and Judith's was innocent, devoid of innuendo. The message, however, was the same.

He put up the knife. She buried her face in his neck. Gently he held her away so that he could look at her.

'Well, Cath fach, ' he said quietly. 'I am not sure that this is the right moment, coming to it so intent of purpose.'

'Guyon I ...'

He put his finger to her lips, took her icy hand in his and led her to the bed. He sat her down upon it, then he sought around the room, found her bedrobe and gave it to her. 'Put it on,' he said gently. 'You're too much of a temptation without it.'

Tears filled Judith's eyes, but she did as he bid in order to bring some control to her limbs. 'You say you are not sure,' she sniffed. 'But I am. I've had time enough to think and if I have any more, I will go mad, I swear I will . I feel like an ox on a treadmill and there's only one way to end it!'

Guyon shook his head, torn by doubt and desire, by reluctance and need. 'I do not even know if I can show you,' he said. 'I do not know the limit of my control.

Judith blushed and smoothed a crease in the coverlet. 'We have all night,' she offered timidly.

He laughed and looked away. 'You have a blind faith in me, do you not?'

'What else is there?'

Folding his arms, he sat down on the bed and considered her.

Judith cast round for something to say that would sway the balance or lighten the difficult weight of his stare. The silk coverlet was cool to her touch and as red as blood. She remembered that it had belonged to a bishop. 'You haven't said grace yet,' she reminded him, forcing her mouth to smile.

Guyon let out his breath on a heavy sigh. 'I haven't said any Hail Marys either,' he replied, but after a moment's hesitation unfolded his arms to curve one around her shoulders and draw her within the dim red shadows of the hangings.

At first, stricken by the enormity of what she had done, Judith did not respond except to shiver against him, her breathing swift and shallow with fear. He held her, stroked her gently as he might have stroked Melyn or Cadi, spoke to her of trivia, whatever came into his mind, making of his words a soothing flow.

Gradually, Judith calmed and started to relax, all owing languorous pleasure to filter through her.

The rigidity left her body, and she stopped shivering. She snuggled against him while he brushed his lips over her temple and cheek and the corner of her mouth, twisting his head slightly to trail small kisses along her jaw until he reached her earlobe. He paused there to play and then sucked the small , tender hollow behind it.

Judith gasped and pressed closer. Her loins felt as if they were dissolving. Hesitantly she nuzzled his throat where the tunic parted and moved her arm a little further so that her hand touched not cloth, but the hair at his nape. His hand stopped at her waist and tightened and the molten feelings tingled through her pelvis. She tasted his skin.

When he slipped his hand inside her bedrobe she stiffened, more with surprise than fear, but Guyon stopped immediately and made as if to withdraw. She dug her fingers fiercely into his nape, drawing him down, and lifted her face.

'Show me,' she said again, eyes bright with concentration.

He studied her doubtfully and she returned him a look that was at one and the same time wanton and innocent and full of a strange, wild tension, and then she broke the gaze and leaned into his body. Her lips touched the hollow behind his collarbone and her tongue flickered out. Guyon drew a sharp breath and pulled her close, seeking her mouth with his own. Hesitant at first, Judith quickly mastered the skill and pushed herself forward with a soft, impatient sound, lips clinging and yielding sweetly.

He ran his hand up her side, lightly brushed the small curve of her breast, sought inwards with his thumb and feathered it over her areola and nipple. Judith broke the kiss to cry out at the intensity of the sensation and surged against him, craving, but as yet ignorant of precisely what.

Applying gentle pressure to her waist with his free hand, he drew her down and over until she was lying on top of him. 'You have the advantage, Cath fach,' he said softly. 'Do with me what you will .'

Judith considered him, her swift breathing no longer a mark of panic, but of increasing arousal.

She gave a mischievous smile. 'Do you mean that?' Sitting up she reached to his belt buckle.

'Within reason,' he qualified dubiously as she began slowly unlatching it, her eyes never leaving his face.

He arched so that she could slide the belt from beneath him and drop it with a slithering clink on to the floor. Hearing his breath catch in his throat, watching the expression of pleasure-pain cross his face as she rubbed herself against him, her own sensations were heightened by the knowledge of her effect on him.

He drew her back down, lips replacing his fingers. Judith cried out at the sharper intensity of feeling and wriggled upon him, seeking to ease the core of sensitive pressure between her thighs.

'Wait,' Guyon said breathlessly and shifted her so that he could sit up and pull his tunic over his head and then his shirt. Judith flickered appreciative eyes over his chest and shoulders admiring the lean, toned musculature. They were face to face. Guyon circled her waist and drew her against him, fingers lacing her hair and running over her skin. He kissed her throat, the white valley between her breasts, found the cord of her bedrobe and gently tugged it undone, pulled her down upon him again, his hands cupping her neat, round buttocks, squeezing her against him.

Judith purred and rubbed herself upon him like a cat. She kissed his throat and chest, twisted her head to follow the line of hair that ran from the centre of his breastbone and over the ridges of his flat belly, her breasts lightly grazing his flesh.

He groaned softly and tightened his hold on her and Judith felt her excitement growing as the knowledge of power triumphantly redoubled. She sought the drawstring of his chausses, continuing to nibble the line of hair as it descended.

Suddenly he gasped, banded his arms around her and rolled her hard beneath him. 'Jesu!' he exclaimed hoarsely against her mouth. 'What need have I to show you anything?'

Judith had cried out at his lightning pounce.

Now she shuddered beneath him. The rippling twinges of desire radiating from her loins faltered, for there was the hint of savagery and lust in his voice, the threat of what he might do, and she did not know how to deal with it. 'You're hurting me!' she cried, going rigid in his arms.

Guyon stopped and braced his weight on his elbows to look down at her. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, then let it out again slowly while he mastered himself. 'Judith, I'm sorry,' he muttered, brushing a wisp of hair from her face. 'It is only that I did not expect you to learn quite so quickly. You outpaced me.'

She sniffed and swallowed, rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and looked at him warily.

'I wouldn't hurt you for the world, you know that.'

He bent his head to kiss her eyelids and then tenderly her mouth, playing with her, stroking and nuzzling until her tension subsided and her body once more began to undulate against his own.

'Trust me,' he murmured, pressing small kisses over her throat, then delicately brushing lower, deliberately tickling. 'Trust me, Judith?' Laughter edged his muffled voice.

'No!' she cried, wriggling. 'Stop it, Guy ... don't.'

Laughing herself, she struck out at him. He trapped her fingers, kissed them one by one until they unclenched, then turned them over, tongued her palm and nibbled his way up her arm, along her shoulder to her throat and back to reclaim her mouth. Slowly, lightly as a drifting feather, his fingertips trailed over her pubic hair.

'Trust me?' he repeated against her lips.

'Yes,' Judith whispered, twining her arms around his neck and arching her hips.

Guyon fondled her gently now, stroking her body, the sensitive zones in particular; the tips of her breasts, her inner thighs, then higher still .

Judith writhed and cried out, striving towards his teasing, knowledgeable fingers. She pushed against his hand and arched.

With firm purpose and great care, Guyon entered her, and held her there, his hips pressed down flat, unmoving while her parted flesh settled around him. 'Judith, look at me.'

She opened her eyes which had been squeezed closed against the moment. The feeling of him fully within her was strange. The dreaded intrusion was accomplished and, although not stricken, she was disturbed and uncomfortable.

'Have I changed?'

She searched his face. His eyes were open and shining in the dim candle glow, his expression tender. She could see the gleam and trickle of sweat on his chest and feel the trembling of hard-held restraint.

'No, my lord,' she said. Smiling, she touched his face and shifted her hips to ease the pressure.

The movement pressed him deeper within and involuntarily her muscles tightened around him. A keener sensation arced across her loins and was gone. Seeking its source, she pushed against him in a movement older than time. Guyon's head went back, his eyes closed and his breath emerged in a drawn-out groan. She moved again, her own pleasure sharpened by the knowledge of his and, conceding her the battle, he started to thrust in slow counterpoint.

It was like the first time she had galloped Euraidd - wild and exhilarating and a terrifying, delightful risk. The pace increased by steady degrees and so did the imperative needs of her body. She gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders, sought his mouth, demanding with her own, clung to him dizzied, her only thought to hold on to something solid as the world began to tremble and dissolve. And then she did not think at all . She cried his name, unaware that she did so, as her body totally submerged her mind, shattering the barriers to storm-tossed flotsam.

Guyon seized her hips and held her still , panting at her to stop, his forehead pressed into the curve of her neck, but Judith did not heed him and struggled against the restraint, desperate to regain the friction where she needed it.

'Judith, I cannot ...'

Her nails clawed him with sudden urgency and she arched her spine and thrust down hard on him. He felt the small convulsions ripple through her, and, with a gasp of relief, surrendered his own control to the exquisite pulses of climax.

Slowly Judith became aware of his weight on her, no longer taken on his elbows, of his harsh breathing and of his body pressed hard against and within her own. The pleasure still flickered in dying twinges, promising renewal. She slid her hands over the sweat-damp ridges of his ribcage and moved a little beneath him, made uncomfortable by his weight.

Guyon sighed and rubbed his lips over her throat. Then he raised his head and looked her in the eyes.

'You are squashing me,' she complained breathlessly and stifled the urge to giggle as his face fell .

'Did I hurt you? I thought ...' He narrowed his eyes, considering her. The clawing of her nails could be misconstrued, perhaps even the muffled cries, but not the tremors of her inner flesh.

'Wanton!' he pronounced, rolling over and drawing her with him. 'I shall not call you Cathfach again. Cath wyllt, perhaps!'

Judith moved sinuously upon him. 'It is better than getting drunk,' she admitted, giggling openly now. 'Just.'

'Remind me to ask you in the middle next time, not afterwards.'

'Next time! You mean we have to do all this again?' She widened her eyes in mock horror. 'Where's the nettle salve?'

'For my back you mean? You must have clawed it to shreds!'

'You should not be so clumsy,' she retorted swiftly, poking out her tongue and then using its tip to flick over his throat, her hips surging playfully.

Guyon laughed. 'Then I needs must practise,' he said and caught her down to him.

Judith awoke to the noise of a flock of sheep being driven down the road on their way into the city and the sharp whistle of the shepherd commanding his dogs. They were sounds with which she had grown up and it brought to her now the image of the marches greening lushly into summer and filled her with longing to be out of the city and home.

There was a warm weight across her body — Guyon's arm, the fingers in relaxed possession of the curve of her breast. He was still sleeping deeply, sprawled upon his stomach, and had not moved since their last pre-dawn bout of love-making. Her mouth twitched. It was her fault, she knew. She had told him that it was better than getting drunk. Well , indeed it was but, just like wine, it could become addictive.

So great had been her fear of the sexual act as a result of witnessing her mother's degradation at the hands of her violent, contemptuous father, that her own survival of the deed, indeed her enjoyment and satisfaction, had led her to prove to herself several times that it was no illusion. It was not. The last time, Guyon had asked her, groaning, if she was trying to kill him. Her gaze flickered over his lean, sleep-relaxed body.

Coaxed and cajoled, he had become aroused, but it had taken him a long, long time and it had been wonderful. There was a low, dull ache in the small of her back and her body was languorous with content. It was certainly a better aftermath than a drink megrim.

She heard Sir Walter speak to the shepherd and make a fuss of one of the dogs. Secure, and reluctant to break her mood of drowsy contentment, she snuggled back down into Guyon's embrace and closed her eyes.

When Guyon finally roused sufficiently to lift his lids, the morning was high and hot, first mass a memory and the hunters long gone on their quest.

Sunlight slanted dustily through a warped gap in the shutters and shot the red silk bed hangings to the colour of flame. The night candle was burned to a puddle of congealed wax. He empathised.

He flicked a wary glance at the sleeping innocence beside him ... Innocence! Good Christ, Rhosyn and even the inimitable Alais de Clare were mere novices compared to the supple, oblivious girl in his bed. Rape. She had feared rape. He stifled a chuckle at the irony.

Gently he touched a tendril of her hair and looked at her curled form, remembering when she had cowered from him, a half-grown starveling with terror-filled eyes. They had come a long way since then, not always along the same road, but converging here at a new crossroads. The Conqueror's granddaughter with the Viking blood of Duke Roll o and the common tanners of Falaise mingling in her veins.

In the light of what he had realised last night, he pondered her immediate parentage, wondering what had driven Alicia to mate with a boy of half her age and twice her experience. Probably he would never know and there were good reasons for keeping such knowledge private, not least the needs of this vulnerable wanton at his side.

As if aware of his musing regard, Judith stretched and opened her eyes, and yawned at him.

'Good morning, my wild cat,' he greeted her with a kiss.

'You missed the hunt,' she said with a sleepy smile.

'No I didn't,' he contradicted with a grin. 'I just had no inkling that I was the quarry.' Judith blushed. 'No matter, I can think of better ways to spend the day than aiming a bow at a driven deer or whatever. Besides, I'd rather not straddle a horse today.'

Her blush deepened and extended to include her throat and shoulders. 'Are you angry with me about last night, Guy?'

'Which part?' he teased. 'Where you froze Henry's manhood in the fingerbowl, or when you drained mine to a husk?'

Judith bit her lip. Against her scarlet chagrin, her eyes were brilliant, almost topaz. 'It was like drinking that yellow wine, I did not want to stop,' she excused herself, hanging her head.

'Drunk two nights in a row!' he chaffed her.

'What am I to do with you? No, don't tell me, I haven't the strength. Just don't ask me to show you anything ever again, even if you are desperate to know! God's life, it nearly killed me!'

Judith fisted him in the ribs and he yelped. 'But if you were content, it was worth it.' He sobered, looking at her rosy, flustered face. 'I have no objection to dying like that, unless it be four times a night!'

She slanted a quick glance through her lashes.

'At least there will be naught left of you for Alais de Clare,' she said with a return of her accustomed tartness and, sitting up, shook back her hair. The sunlight lit her eyes with sparkling glints of mica.

'I don't want Alais de Clare,' Guyon answered, stretching. 'Why settle for dross when you can have gold?'

Judith looked at him. 'I am dreaming,' she said pensively. 'One day I am going to wake up alone and cold and realise I have been the dupe of illusion.'

'What has happened to last night's blind faith?'

He tugged a strand of her hair. 'Isn't it enough now?'

'It's not that, Guy,' she answered, frowning. 'It is the opposite. I have too much. It isn't true.'

'Never satisfied, are you?' He put his arm around her. 'What do you want me to do? Cut my other wrist for you as well and swear an undying oath?'

Judith shook her head, refusing to be cozened.

'It is I who have bled this time,' she said softly, turning back the covers to look down on the dried blood smearing the insides of her thighs and the sheet.

'Trust me?' He kissed her shoulder. 'Trust me, Judith?'

She could feel his lips smiling there in remembrance. 'Did Rhosyn trust you?'

He had not been expecting it. She felt his lips pause and then leave her skin. He sat up and pushed his hands through his hair and muttered beneath his breath. 'You know where to kick, don't you?'

Judith pleated the coverlet beneath her fingers.

Guyon linked his hands around his upraised knees and studied her. 'Rhosyn was not prepared to trust me,' he said after a moment. 'We were never committed in that kind of way. It would have been too dangerous and she saw it, even if I did not.'

Judith regarded him sombrely. 'Guyon, I cannot give you my soul.'

'Nor would I want it,' he said. 'It is too private a thing to give into another's possession. Keep it whole, Cath fach. I understand more than you think.'

Judith impatiently scrubbed her forearm across her eyes. Outside she heard Elflin speak to Helgund and the sound of milk being poured into a container. By the door Cadi whined. Judith put her arms around Guyon and kissed him as if the kiss itself was a talisman. 'I do believe that you could wheedle your way through a thorn thicket,' she sniffed.

He returned the embrace and then drew away to search for some garments in the scattered creased heaps on the floor. 'What do you think I'm doing now?' he said with a wry smile. 'You are the thorniest thicket I've ever encountered.' He paused in his dressing to lean over the bed and kiss her warmly on her lips. 'And the sweetest rose.'

'And you cannot grasp one without risking the other,' she agreed gravely, trying to put all dark qualms behind her while her own words rang like a prophecy in her head.

Guyon stood up, finished buckling his belt and headed towards the door. 'I'll send in Helgund,' he said and paused in fondling Cadi's thrusting head to stoop and pick up her discarded shift with its knife-slashed lacing. 'You did this apurpose, didn't you?' He tossed the garment on to the bed.

Judith leaned back against the bolster and smiled exactly like her father.