The Wild Hunt

CHAPTER 19

AUGUST 1100

Thunder rumbled in the distance where the sky hung in purple billows like mulched grapes. On the wall walk, Judith squinted into the distance.

Lightning zigzagged. The trees were brilliantly green and the stone of the merlon against which she leaned was a rich, warm gold. Most of Caermoel's defences were still timber, but the keep wall was almost completed, as was the gatehouse containing the portcullis and winding gear.

The messenger had ridden in an hour ago while the sun still shone, bearing the news that Guyon would be here before nightfall and she had set herself to make all ready in the way of food, warmth and comfort and had then hastened up here to look out for his return.

It had been five days since the young men in their hot blood had ventured across the border to steal cattle and corn from the English side. Five days since the alarm had been raised, and Guyon had gathered his immediate troops and ridden out in pursuit of a fine dairy herd, three Flemish mares with foals at foot belonging to him and the contents of one of Earl Hugh's grain barns.

She looked down as Melyn twined an erect tail around her skirts and mewed plaintively before clawing her way aloft on to her shoulder to settle there, oblivious to the storm that was blowing in from the south. A cry from the far side of the wall walk caused Judith to strain her eyes in that direction and then to smile and hasten towards the bailey steps.

The edge of the storm hit as the men dismounted. Lightning snarled across the sky.

Several cows bellowed and baulked as they were penned in a corner of the ward. A groom was taking custody of the three mares and their foals and a belligerent Welsh pony stall ion that was lashing out indiscriminately.

Guyon turned from speaking to his groom and saw Judith running towards him, her face alight with welcome. She moved unaffectedly, like a man, but her gown moulded itself to her slender curves, marking her all woman. The time-wrought changes of her mind and body never ceased to amaze him. A year ago she would have greeted him gravely and stood just out of his reach as if anticipating a blow. Six months ago they would have avoided each other with eyes downcast to conceal hunger and tense fear. Now, laughing, she flung herself into his arms and drew his head down and kissed him. Melyn, jolted from her perch, gave a feline growl of displeasure, leaped vertically from Judith's back and stalked off in the direction of the living quarters.

'It is only five days!' Guyon chuckled, delighted at the warmth of the greeting. 'What will you do when it has to be forty?'

Judith relinquished her grip and blushed, aware of the amused glances of his men. 'I shall take a lover,' she riposted smartly. 'There's a tub prepared and food at the ready. How did you fare?'

Guyon followed her, ducking his head and increasing his pace as the rain began to cut down. 'We took back what was ours and also a little of what was theirs. You know the rules of border warfare. They won't come raiding again ... not for a while at least.'

'Unless they come en masse,' Judith pointed out as they entered the wooden building in the bailey that was their private living quarters whilst the castle was being built.

'Could we withstand a full Welsh assault, not just the prickings of their hot-blooded young men?'

'Probably, but it's not a notion I want to test just yet. Has all been quiet here?'

'Mostly. Madoc came two days ago with Rhys and a distant relative from Bristol who's helping him with the business. They brought that new ram you asked Madoc to get. He says that Heulwen's walking now and chattering like a magpie, and that she's already strewing the road with broken hearts. I think he wanted to remind you of the bond.'

'I hardly need reminding of that,' he said, half under his breath. 'Did he mention Rhosyn?'

'Only that she was well and sent you her duty. If there was more, he probably thought it unwise to confide it to me.'

'How could there be more?' Guyon teased, squeezing her waist. 'You leave me neither the energy nor the inclination to play games with other women. What's this?' He moved the polished agate weight and picked up the letter from the trestle.

'From my mother,' Judith said, going to pour hot wine. 'She asks when we are going to leave our eyrie and make her a visit.'

Guyon took the wine and kissed her hand. 'Somewhere between Michaelmas and Martinmas,' he replied, expression thoughtful as he drank. 'I want a word with her anyway.'

'What about, Guy?'

He tossed the parchment down and finished the wine. 'Nothing. A minor detail concerned with your inheritance.'

Judith's lips tightened in response to his casual tone and the blank innocence of his eyes. The reality was upon her, warm and secure as a duck down mantle, but now and again she pondered the difference between belief and blindfold.

Guyon was dissembling. She knew that look by now and also the method. A smattering of sugared truth and eyes warmly guileless to conceal what he wished to conceal.

Dutifully she unbuckled his swordbelt but her hands were jerky. Guyon looked at her mulishly set lips. His own mouth curved and then straightened. It was not really funny, for he had no defence save to tell her the truth and the shock of that would probably do far greater harm than the withholding. If he had not been so road- and battle-weary, he would never have permitted his tongue the mistake of speaking an absent thought aloud.

'What kind of minor detail?' Judith challenged, stepping away from him, the belt in her hands, sword and dagger still attached.

Guyon busied himself removing his garments.

He was not wearing the customary Norman war gear of mail hauberk and gambeson, but hunting clothes topped by a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin.

When in Wales it was wisest to do as the Welsh did. It was impossible to cross a swiftly flowing torrent and pursue winding, scant paths if weighed down by armour and slowed by supply trains which were vulnerable to attack.

'The kind that is your mother's private business.

If she wants to tell you, then well and good,' he answered more evenly than he felt, wondering how to extricate himself before the thing got out of hand.

'I am surprised that your brain does not burst with all the little matters you cannot confide to me for fear of breaking your oath!' she snapped.

'So am I.' Guyon gave her a wry look. 'Judith, I don't want to quarrel.'

'That is up to you.' She tossed her head and turned from him to lay his swordbelt aside. When she turned round again, she gasped aloud at sight of the clotted red diagonal line across his chest. 'Holy Mother!' she cried and ran to get her basket of medicines.

Guyon drew breath to say that it was only a scratch and the Welshman who had given it to him was in much worse case, but quickly thought the better of it. Closing his mouth, he contrived to look as wan and limp as rude health and a summer tan would permit. Unresisting, he let her lead him to the bed and push him down.

'How did you get this?'

He looked at her through his lashes and saw the terror in her eyes and felt a flicker of guilt for his deceit. Last time he had come to her wounded he had almost died and the memory had obviously left its taint of fear. 'The raid leader didn't want to relinquish his gains and he was faster than I thought. He's gone to Chester as a hostage - if he does not die of his own wounds on the way.'

'Why not bring him here?'

'I don't want to encourage Welsh hordes to come visiting, not even to parley, until the defences have grown a little, and I haven't the time to - ouch!'

'Lie still then. You are lucky it is so shallow. Some comfrey and marigold salve should suffice. Are you hurt anywhere else?'

'Yes.' He closed his eyes as though faint.

'Where?' Anxiously she leaned over him.

Fast as a closing trap, his hands circled her waist and pulled her down on top of him. 'Where only you can ease me,' he murmured, subduing her retort with his lips.

Judith struggled briefly in order to satisfy her conscience, but with no real enthusiasm; in a moment, with a soft sound of capitulation, she yielded herself up to the pleasure. Three months of intensive, inventive tuition had taught her the refinements of this new and delightful skill and how to use it to its best purpose. How to provoke and tease and taunt him to the brink and then hold him there suffering, until she herself could bear it no longer and took them both over the edge.

Of course, she reminded herself hazily, it was a double-edged weapon and Guyon was an adept, as demonstrated by the dextrous manner in which he had just divested her of clothing. Frequently he gave her the control, knowing that it heightened her pleasure, but if he chose to take the initiative, as now, he was quite capable of submerging her in a welter of pure, fierce sensation that made everything else insignificant until well after the event. The acrid smell of horse and sweat sharpened her hunger, as did the nibbling play of his stubble-surrounded mouth on hers and the feel of his hands seeking down over her belly.

Lightning zigzagged and dazzled and the rain beat down, thudding the ground like the footsteps of an army running. In the bailey, Simon de Vere swung from the saddle of his trembling, near-spent horse. He had been in the saddle for such a long time that his legs at first refused to support him and the groom had to help him up from the mud as he fell .

'Lord Guyon is, er ... busy,' said de Bec to the young man as he was helped, limping, into the hall . 'Best sit down and recover yourself awhile first. We've not long ridden in ourselves.'

'He won't be too busy to hear these tidings,' Simon said, pushing his fingers through his rain-sleek hair and wiping a drip from the end of his nose. 'The King is dead, slain in the New Forest and Prince Henry's claimed the crown. I've half killed my horse getting here.'

De Bec's bushy brows shot into his silver fringe.

'God have mercy,' he said, crossing himself.

'Here, sit down by the fire. You, wench, bring food and drink for Sir Simon and tell mistress Helgund to fetch my lord and lady.'

Judith looked at her husband as the sweat dried on their bodies and their breathing slowed.

Outside the thunder rumbled and the lightning blinked against a gap in the shutters. For a time she had felt as if she was riding in the midst of the storm and she could still feel small flickers on the periphery. 'When Madoc came, he told me something else too,' she said after a moment.

'Apparently, Mabell de Serigny is with child.'

Guyon had been sleepily nuzzling her shoulder, but now he lifted his head and gazed at her with widening eyes. 'Impossible! She's ninety if she's a day, Judith!'

She laughed at the incredulity on his face. 'Not quite. She's only a few years older than Mama.

Eight and forty or some such. Oh, I know it's old to catch for a babe, but not impossible.'

'And I thought Walter de Lacey was a coward,' Guyon said facetiously, but a frown forked his brow. He wondered what would happen if the same God's grace was granted to Alicia. Even if she and his father did obtain a dispensation to marry, it would be the devil's own work to sort out the resulting blood ties.

'I suppose it is all in his favour,' Judith added, stretching sinuously, and rolled on to her stomach.

'If she carries the babe successfully then he gets an heir out of her; if she dies, then he's free to look elsewhere and because he is rich, he will be able to pick and choose. He cannot lose.'

There was a soft knock on the door and Helgund's voice came impassively from without.

'My lord, my lady, you are sought in the hall . There is important news from Winchester.'

Guyon groaned. Judith scrambled from the bed and hastily donned her bedrobe. 'Can't it wait? she snapped, feeling like a serving wench caught coupling in the straw.

'It is Simon de Vere, my lady. He says that the King is dead.'

'What?' Judith stared over her shoulder at Guyon. He swore and reached for his discarded clothes.

'Messire de Bec sent me to fetch you both, my lady. I do not know any more.'

'All right, Helgund. Thank you.'

Judith abandoned both bath and bedrobe to find her shift. 'If Rufus is dead, who is King in his place?'

'Who do you think?' Guyon snapped because it was such an obvious question. 'I'd better have one of the lads scour my hauberk because I'm going to need it.' He stood still long enough for her to smear his wound with salve, then dragged on his shirt and tunic, tugged one of her combs through his hair and strode muttering from the room. Judith glared after him, then subdued her anger. She knew he had been tired when he rode in, and wounded, and the energy expended just now between the sheets would further have drained his resources. Small wonder if his mood was sour when instead of sleep and recuperation, he received a summons of this ilk. Heaving a sigh, she called for Helgund to help her dress.

'An accident,' said Simon, whom Richard had sent from Winchester on the morning of the funeral. 'A hunting accident last Thursday evening.

Walter Tirell shot at a deer and missed and hit the King in the chest. He died instantly. Prince Henry was with the hunting party, but not near the scene of the death. He rode straight to Winchester and secured the treasury. He claims the right of being born the son of a king over his brother.' Simon knuckled his bloodshot eyes. 'He expects your feudal oath as soon as you may.'

Guyon pressed his own eyes with the heels of his hands. It was too late to set out tonight, but arrangements would have to be made for the following dawn and riders sent on ahead to organise their nightly stops. From here to London was a good six to seven days' ride; more if the weather continued dire.

'Myself and Richard must have been the last to see him alive, except for the hunting party,' Simon added into the silence, compelled to speak by renewed ripples of shock. 'I still cannot believe it.

If only he had stayed abed and not taken up de Clare's suggestion to hunt, he might yet be alive.'

'Gilbert of Tunbridge?' asked Judith.

'Yes, and his brother too. The King had been plagued by a queasy gut, the reason he didn't want to hunt in the morning, but he was fully recovered by noon. After the dinner hour, de Clare said he would not mind clearing his head by riding out to see what he could bring down and it seems to me that he was not talking of deer and that his head had never been clearer in his life.'

Simon attacked his trencher. Rufus had had his failings, but he had never found him a hard taskmaster and Richard had been moved openly to tears at the news of his untimely death.

'Are you saying he was murdered?' de Bec demanded.

'I'm not saying anything.' Simon avoided looking at his companions. 'Tirell has fled the country squawking his innocence like a dust trail. He says he was nowhere near the King, that it was not his arrow.'

'And the de Clares are his brothers-by-marriage.' Judith's voice was as colourless as her face.

'I suppose the inquest will decide the truth of the matter,' de Bec said, stretching out his legs until his heels pressed Cadi's white rump.

'What inquest?' Simon demanded sourly. 'Henry's not holding one.'

Guyon paused eating to stare at Simon, then continued to chew, but slowly, as if ruminating. 'Who else went out to hunt, Si?'

'Rannulf des Aix en Louvent, your lady's uncle William Breteuil, Gilbert de Laigle and William de Monfichet.' Simon shook his head. 'Rufus must have been mad. He might as well have ridden out with a pack of wolves. They didn't even stop to bring his body back to the lodge in decency, but rode straight for the treasury at Winchester. It was left to me and Richard to take charge of the body from the back of a charcoal burner's cart and compose it decently for the return to Winchester.

It's wrong, I ...' He swallowed convulsively and clenched his fist on the trestle. 'Anyway, Henry's claimed the crown and you'd best be quick about swearing your allegiance. He hasn't stopped since the arrow was loosed.'

Judith rose from the board, her eyes blank and, without excuse or explanation, drifted away from the men like a sleepwalker. No one took much notice. Guyon cast her a sidelong glance of surprise, but his mind was occupied with Simon's budget of news and its implications and what now had to be done. The Welsh situation was stable for the nonce and could be left to cook awhile unattended and Henry, whatever the blots on his soul, had the makings of a strong monarch.

Besides, with the private connections of bloodline, Guyon knew that providing he did nothing wildly asinine or treacherous, he was guaranteed the royal favour ... for as long as Henry remained King.

'There'll be a flaming barrel of pitch when Robert Curthose gets to hear of this,' he said and rubbed his hands slowly together, feeling the call uses on his palms where he had recently grasped sword and shield.

'And de Belleme will be delighted to light torches from it,' said de Bec.

'Oh yes. We will need to work very hard indeed to make sure Henry keeps his crown, no matter the manner of his obtaining it. Curthose has about as much control over Robert de Belleme as a wrung chicken has control of its limbs. You've seen what he's done in Normandy. God forbid he should get to wreak his worst on our lands too.'

'Want me to increase the patrol on our boundary with Thornford? It's been very quiet there of late.'

'It won't harm, but don't stretch the patrols too thinly elsewhere to compensate.' Guyon shoved his trencher aside and called for a scribe to be brought so that he could inform his vassals of the news.

Judith picked up Guyon's swordbelt and examined the strip of buckskin without really seeing its embossed golden leopards or the elaborate twists of gold wire decorating the buckle, or indeed the article itself. The sword lay sheathed on the bed. She had had one of the boys clean and oil it, for it had seen recent hard use against the Welsh. The sharpening of the two edges she left to Guyon. She could have done it herself, she was perfectly capable, but the feel of it in her hands would have frightened her with suggestions of what she should do with it.

Sitting down on the bed she stared at the rumpled sheets, remembering a warm spring night and the laughter of high-born men carousing in a candlelit room, drinking out of green glass cups; feasting with murder on their minds. The Prince and the de Clare brothers had all been members of the fatal hunting party and Walter Tirell was married to Gilbert and Roger's sister.

Malwood, the royal hunting lodge, was only sixteen miles from Winchester, the seat of the treasury. Tirell had fled with all eyes on him, when folk should have been looking at those men left behind. And Guyon knew, and had known since that May evening. She remembered him coming to her in the bedchamber when their guests had gone, his expression preoccupied, and when she had questioned him, he had avoided the answer.

What had he said? A confidence he would rather die than break, especially to her. And if he knew, then he was implicated. He had long been a companion of Henry's and his apathy towards Rufus was no secret.

Judith frowned. The disarrayed sheets reminded her all too clearly of that first night, only now the memory was not tender, but obscene. He had come from plotting a man's death and lain with her. It was a violation. She felt sick and wished suddenly that the bathtub was still in the room so that she could scrub herself free of his touch, the very thought of his touch. His seed was deep within her body. She put her hand to her mouth, striving not to retch.

Guyon entered the room, stretching and yawning. 'I could sleep for a week,' he complained as he dropped the curtain, 'but I suppose a few hours will have to suffice. I never realised Richard was so fond of Rufus. Then again, it's probably his position at court he fears to lose.' He picked up the scabbard, examined it absently and held out his hand for the swordbelt.

She dropped it on the bed and, rubbing her arms as if frozen to the bone, turned her back on him.

Guyon eyed her from beneath his brows and busied himself with fastening the thongs. 'We're stopping at Ravenstow tomorrow noon. It's safer if we escort you there on our way south. I do not think the Welsh will attack Caermoel, but you never know how this news will affect them. I've already spoken to Elflin and Helgund about the packing.'

Judith did not speak because she could not trust herself to do so. Guyon put down the belt, his scrutiny sharpening, for neither of his remarks had been granted a reply and he had not seen her stand like that, clutching herself protectively, since the early days of their marriage.

'Judith?'

The night candle flung lumbering shadows at the wall s. Melyn leaped at a moth, caught it deftly in a flashing paw and bore it triumphantly away to a corner to devour.

'It can't be helped. I'll come home as soon as I can,' he added and then, aware that without saying anything she had put him on the guilty defensive, he tightened his mouth and began to remove his garments.

'Don't flatter yourself!' she snarled. 'Stay as long as you choose!'

Guyon pulled off his shirt, swearing as the linen caught the rough line of the dagger scratch on his chest. He wondered briefly if it was near her time of the month again. Her tongue was apt to be sharper then and her moods liable to swing without warning. After a moment when she remained aloof and contained, he relented and tried again, coming up behind her and setting his hand on her shoulder. 'Judith, love, what's wrong?

Tell me.'

She shrugged away from him, fighting nausea, and flung round to face him. 'Rufus was murdered, wasn't he?' she challenged.

Guyon shrugged, feeling puzzled. 'Probably.'

'Do not play the innocent with me, my lord. You knew what was going to happen!'

'That's preposterous!' He reached for her. She avoided him. 'I haven't been near the King or the court for a full three months and Henry knows that whatever the de Clares would do for him, I certainly would not!'

'No? You had reason to dislike Rufus and you have long associations with Henry.'

'Christ, girl, what do you take me for? I might not have liked Rufus or wanted to be a party to his private habits, but that is hardly a reason to plot his death or barter my honour.'

'Then tell me what Prince Henry told you when he dined with us at Whitsuntide,' she challenged.

She saw it: the flicker of his lids, the bunching of muscle in his jaw before his face went blank. 'He told me nothing,' he said tonelessly.

'Liar!' she flung at him. 'It was less than three months ago. Do you think I am so besotted by your charm that I cannot remember? You said there was something you could not tell me, a political secret, a confidence you would rather die than break, and you were shaken by it. There was cold sweat on your brow.'

'That was nothing to do with Rufus's death.'

'What was it then?' Her mouth twisted. 'After all , nothing can be much more damning than plotting a king's death.'

His face remained expressionless. 'I will not tell you, Judith. It is not my place and perhaps it would do more damage than it would resolve.'

She gave him a look compounded of triumph and defeat. 'I thought you would have an answer,' she said with contempt.

He gripped her arms. 'Judith, I swear to you on my soul... on my mother's soul, that whatever was plotted against Rufus, I had no part in it. I have no defence except my word. The words that would absolve me, I will not speak. It would only shift burdens and guilts to shoulders less able to bear them.'

'You're hurting me,' she said dully.

He swore and relaxed his grip, but only to soften it to an embrace and pull her against him.

'Judith, what do I do if you won't trust me?'

She stood quivering within his arms, torn between doubt and doubt. Shield or blindfold, she dreaded to make the decision. He was adept with words, fashioning them to his needs, could convince her black was white if only given the opportunity. 'What do I do if you betray that trust?' she responded and slid her hand over the fine black hairs of his braced forearm, denuded by the ridge of scar tissue where the boar had tushed him, and on up to the smooth curve of his bicep.

'Prove me wrong.'

'How?' he asked bleakly. 'If I fulfil your trust I break another.'

She refused to relent. 'And which is more important?'

Leaving her, he sat down on the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. 'I don't know.

Neither. The edge is so finely balanced I dare not tip the scale. All I can swear to you again is that I was not involved in any plot to murder Rufus.' He looked across at her where she stood braced as if waiting to receive a blow and let out his breath on a heavy sigh. 'It's late. Are you going to come to bed or stand there glaring at me all night?' He held out his hand.

She looked at his outstretched graceful fingers, knew how they would feel gliding over her body, trailing fever in their wake, knew how they looked holding reins or a sword, knew their tensile strength and of what they were capable.

'Neither,' she said, and walked out of the room.