The Wild Hunt

CHAPTER 22

AUGUST 1101

At his father's keep at Ashdyke, Guyon leaned his head against the cushioned high back of the chair, closed his eyes and within moments was asleep. It was an ability he had cultivated of a necessity since Whitsuntide. He could even doze in the saddle, although that was less than safe.

Bred to ride from birth, he would not have fall en off, but there was always the danger of a Welsh attack or a surprise assault from one of de Belleme's vassals.

He was sorely beset. Henry was demanding men, money and supplies that Guyon was hard pressed to find or persuade out of others; Curthose was threatening across the Channel, perhaps even at sea by now; de Belleme and his wolfpack were poised to strike the moment it was politic and, to twist the coil, Earl Hugh of Chester had suffered a seizure and was lying paralysed and close to death in a Norman monastery. His heir was a child and the Welsh were understandably gleeful.

Already a fewexperimental raids had tested the earldom's somewhat fluid boundaries. The garrison at Caermoel had been involved in skirmishes twice that week.

Guyon was doing his best, but was fearful that it was not enough. Last night he had dreamed that he was tied hand and foot and drowning in a sticky lake of blood and had woken drenched, gasping and terrified to discover Cadi lying on his chest, licking his face, demanding to be let out of the room.

It had been a grim year thus far and very little light to hold at bay the yawning cavern of de Belleme's ambition. In January, Mabell de Lacey, former wife of Ralph de Serigny had given birth to a healthy son and, against all odds, mother and child had survived the ordeal. De Lacey had used the excuse of his son's christening to host a council of war, chaired by the Earl of Shrewsbury who was openly plotting treason. Henry, without the support of more than half his barons, was for the moment constrained to swallow it.

In February, Rannulf Flambard had escaped from confinement in the Tower of London and had hastened to Normandy as fast as his sandals could carry him in order to promote the cause of Robert Curthose. Flambard was an able, persuasive prelate, capable of squeezing blood out of a stone and an excellent manager of that blood once squeezed. If Henry had been the kind of man to panic, he would have done so. As it was, he continued calmly to muster the resources and supporters he possessed into an efficient fighting unit, although Guyon had his doubts about how efficient some of them actually were. The fyrd was the backbone of Henry's army and it was composed of ordinary villagers and worthies who hadn't a hope in hell against the men who would come at them, men who made war their profession - the mercenaries of Normandy and Flanders, paid to rake the heat from hell and scatter it abroad.

He thought back to one hot midsummer afternoon when King Henry had been personally overseeing the training of his peasant-bred troops. Guyon had suggested that he would do better to instruct them in the use of the quarterstaff and spear rather than seek to imbue them with the warrior skill s that were attained only by instruction from birth.

Henry, his forelock wet, dark patches on his inner thighs where he had sweated against his saddle, had looked at Guyon and given that familiar, enigmatic smile. 'Robert's amenable to reason,' he said. 'He doesn't really want to spill my blood and he's usually swayed by whoever has the most persuasive tongue at the time... particularly when they are in possession of a large, efficient army. Mutton dressed as wolf, you might say.' And he had laughed softly.

'You mean I'm sweating my guts out for a mummers' show?'

'I certainly hope so, Guy, although it is hard to tell how deeply the rot has set in.'

How deep, how far? And all they had was Henry's guile and a terrible gamble on Curthose's nature.

The sound of wine splashing from flagon to goblet and the weight of Cadi's rump as she settled inconveniently across his toes, jolted his lids open.

'Go to bed,' his father advised, pouring a second cup and handing it to him. 'Alicia remarked to me how tired you look. I know she's apt to fuss, but this time I would say she is right.'

Guyon shook his head. 'I can't. I only stopped here because it was convenient to water the horses and eat a meal without being stabbed in the back. I've got to be in Stafford by tomorrow night.'

'You will burn yourself out,' Miles warned.

Guyon arched his free hand over his eyes. 'Do you think I do not know that?'

'At least roll yourself in your cloak for an hour.'

Guyon took his hand away and smiled at his father. 'Now who is fussing? I was going to do that without your urging, providing of course that I can trust you to wake me up. I've to skirt Quatford and Shrewsbury. I'd rather not saddle-sleep in such inhospitable territory.'

Miles sat down in the chair opposite. 'Is there any more news from the south?'

Guyon shook his head and dragged his feet out from beneath Cadi's weight. 'Not news, only commands.'

'Surely there are more resources than yours to draw upon?'

'Yes, but not in the marches. De Belleme is for Curthose; Mortimer sits on the fence and smiles; Earl Hugh is dead, or as good as, and Arnulf of Pembroke is a Montgomery. FitzHamon, Warwick and Bigod are bearing the brunt of the work elsewhere. Who else is there except me?'

He made an eloquent face. 'It cannot go on for much longer. Did you notice the direction of the wind from the battlements? It's been blowing to our disadvantage for the past three days. If Curthose does not come now, he never will .'

'The Queen is due to be brought to bed any day now, isn't she?' Miles said.

'Next month. She's confined at Winchester with the treasury.' Guyon's words were bereft of inflection. 'His wife, his heir and his money. I know what I would do if I were Curthose.' He finished the wine and put the cup down. 'Henry expects him to land near Hastings. It is both expedient and symbolic.'

Miles grunted. 'Do you think they will really fight? I was always under the impression that Curthose treated Henry as his wayward baby brother - deserving of the occasional sharp slap, but never a complete crushing.'

Guyon shrugged. 'If Flambard and de Belleme have anything to do with it, then yes, they will fight, but as you say, they are up against Robert's nature. He has always nurtured a soft spot for Henry and he's so determined to be a perfect knight that they'll have an almighty struggle persuading him to act otherwise. But then they can be very persuasive men ...'

'Yes,' Miles said, his expression revealing what the word did not. He grimaced. He was prepared for war because, living on the Welsh border, one was never not prepared for it, but sparring with the Welsh was not the same as resisting men such as Walter de Lacey and Roger Mortimer.

'Judith is coping?'

Guyon's mouth softened. 'Better than I,' he said with grim humour. 'She's a superb quartermaster and deputy. Every time I put an obstacle in her path, she floats effortlessly over it. Jesu, sometimes I am hard pressed to stay with her, s he learns so quickly. When I think of her two years ago on the day of our marriage, a gawky, frightened waif and then I look at her now, holding the reins of our estates in her hands, not just holding but controlling, I sometimes wonder if I am dreaming. And then she looks at me and smiles and I know I am not.'

'Blood will out,' Miles said with a faint smile.

Guyon chuckled sourly. 'Oh yes, blood will out,' he agreed and, leaning back his head, closed his eyes.

'She shows no sign of breeding yet?' Miles asked hesitantly. 'Alicia worries ...'

Guyon's eyes remained closed. 'Judith's reasons can hardly be hers, can they? After all , I've already proved my worth at stud, even if the outcome has been a daughter.'

'That's not what I meant,' Miles reproved. 'But your lands and titles are far greater than mine and Judith has royal blood in her veins.'

'And it would be a pity if no crop was sown from it to benefit,' Guyon said expressionlessly.

'Well it would,' Miles defended and rubbed the back of his neck. 'It would please Alicia greatly to be blessed with grandchildren. She is afraid that the payment for her sins will be Judith's inability to conceive.'

'Then tell her I shall apply myself with diligence - chance permitting. I can count on the fingers of one hand the occasions we have shared a bed since Easter and most of those I was unconscious the moment my head hit the bolster.

Besides, these are not safe times to bring a child into the world. I'd not damn an offspring of mine to death in Shrewsbury's dungeon. God knows, I worry enough about Rhosyn and Heulwen.'

'I saw Madoc last week,' Miles said, memory jolted by Guyon's mention of his former lover and their child.

'Did you?' Guyon's words emerged as a sleepy mumble.

'Hurrying too much as usual and full of bluster, you know Madoc. I swear his lips were as blue as blackberry juice, the fool. He had a young man with him - distant kin from Bristol - Prys ap Adda.'

'Mmmm?'

Miles eyed his son thoughtfully. The name obviously meant nothing to him. 'A young man who talked a great deal about Rhosyn and her children. I got the impression that he'd like to be closer to Madoc than a mere distant relative ... son-in-law, for example.'

Guyon's eyes opened. He turned his head.

'Madoc's amenable,' Miles said, exploring Guyon's slightly startled expression for hints of any deeper emotion. 'He knows his body is failing him and soon he won't be able to travel any more.

Rhys is not old enough yet to take on the graver responsibilities, so it behoves him to find a willing, energetic younger man and bind him to the family.'

'Madoc always did have a need for ropes and grapnels,' Guyon said humorously, but then his smile slipped. 'Rhosyn has never seen herself as a rope.'

'Madoc thinks she will consent ... providing of course that Prys is not a complete idiot in the way he sets about convincing her. He did not seem an idiot to me.'

Guyon thought of Rhosyn and their warm, stolen moments together - the brevity of those encounters, an hour here, a half-day there, scattered in disjointed fragments like pieces of a stained-glass window, shattered and strewn down a path four years long. Beautiful, jewel colours that even now, when he had Judith, possessed edges sharp enough to pierce the heart. 'He won't be if she accepts him,' he said quietly, 'if the children accept him.'

'Your Heulwen included?'

Guyon's lower lids tensed. He drew a deep, steadying breath and controlled himself before he spoke. 'She is still a babe in arms. Belike she will cleave to him and the better so.' He manoeuvred his shoulders until he was comfortable and shut his eyes again. 'Forgive me. I'm very tired.'

Miles said nothing, because there was nothing more to be said that would ease or comfort the situation. His footsteps soft, he walked away and left Guyon to sleep.

Guyon roused with a start to the feel of someone violently shaking his shoulder. He was so stiff that for a moment he could not move and, when he did, it was to discover that his feet were completely numb where the dog's weight had pressed all feeling from them.

'What's the matter?' he demanded groggily. 'Is it time to go?' And then his gaze focused on his father. 'Why are you wearing your mail?'

'Henry's messenger has just ridden in on a half-dead horse. Curthose has landed, and not at Pevensey as we all expected.'

'What? Where then?' Guyon shoved Cadi off his feet, pushed himself out of the chair and began automatically to don the hauberk that Eric was holding out to him.

'Portsmouth,' Miles said grimly. 'Some English sailors were persuaded to pilot Curthose and his ships into the harbour.'

'Then the road to Winchester is open?'

'Yes.'

Guyon cursed as he picked up his swordbelt and fumbled to attach the scabbard to its thongs.

The Queen, the heir, the treasury.

Alicia hovered in the background, looking as if she might burst into tears. Guyon glanced round the room for his spurs and lifted them off the coffer. 'Look after Cadi for me,' he said to her, 'I cannot take her with me.'

Alicia nodded distantly, but her eyes were all for Miles, devouring him. Guyon flicked a look from one to the other. 'I'll meet you below,' he murmured to his father, kissed Alicia on the cheek, thought briefly of Judith and left the room, Eric stamping in his wake.

Alicia gave a small , despairing sob and cast herself into Miles's mail-clad arms. He smoothed her glossy black braids and buried his face in the pulse beating in her white neck. The sword pommel intruded between them, butting up beneath her ribs. It might as well have been through her heart, blade end on.