The Wild Hunt

CHAPTER 7

The sky was the colour of a wild harebell , its expanse interrupted by small flocks of cloud herded west into Wales by a scudding wind.

Judith clicked her tongue to the sedate brown gelding she was riding, and somewhat reluctantly he increased his pace. The wind gusted at their backs, flapping her cloak, threatening to snatch off her veil. She released the reins to feel for the pins holding it in place and secured them anew. It was a mark of her confidence astride a horse and her swift ability to learn new skill s that she felt sufficiently safe to trust to balance while she performed her toilet.

Before her as they crossed the heathland between Guyon's manor of Oxley and his keep at Ledworth, rode his shield-bearer, Eric Godricson and six serjeants, with a like number behind. An attack by the Welsh or other hostile factions was unlikely but it was still better to be safe than sorry, particularly with Guyon absent raising revenues among his other manors.

Judith stared at the dark trees beyond the heathland without really seeing them as she evaluated the three months that had passed since her precipitous marriage.

The oaths of fealty sworn two days after the boar hunt had mostly been sincere, with the occasional protest at the steepness of the marriage relief. Guyon had dealt smoothly with complaint. He had the silver tongue of a courtier and a merchant's shrewd acumen - men smiled and agreed with him, then scratched their heads and wondered how they had been manoeuvred into parting with their coin when they had intended fiercely to resist.

The incident with de Lacey and Arnulf de Montgomery had sunk out of sight like a rotten log into a quagmire. Guyon's arm had healed cleanly to leave a thin, pink scar. He seldom spoke of the boar hunt although occasionally, in repose, his expression gave her cause to wonder at his thoughts.

Arnulf de Montgomery was busy in south Wales.

De Lacey was sitting on his lands like a disgruntled rook on a nest - God alone knew what he was hatching. Ralph de Serigny was ailing with pains in the chest, brought on by a severe winter cold from which he had not properly recovered. The harsh weather of January and February had also prevented Robert de Belleme from travelling further up the march than the seat of his new earldom, where an array of defences was being constructed beneath his critical architect's eye ... And defences cost money.

Judith was aware of Guyon's concern because he was as tense and alert as a hunting cat. For the most part, he kept his worries to himself, although occasionally he would snap. The first time she had recoiled, awaiting the blow that was certain to follow, but he had lowered his gaze to the tallies over which he was poring, set a pile to one side and continued to work. After a while, when her frightened silence had registered, he had raised his head, apologised briefly and told her to leave him alone. Since then, she had learned to recognise the warning signs and would keep well away, attending to duties elsewhere.

A month ago, when the weather had eased enough to make travelling possible, they had moved down the march to Guyon's main holding of Ledworth, recently inherited from his uncle who had died in battle during the ill -fated summer campaign in north Wales.

The stone and timber castle was imposing, built upon a high crag to dominate the growing town below and the drovers' roads leading from these middle borders into the heart of Wales. It was also, despite its recent construction, musty and uncomfortable. The former lord had neglected the domestic side of keep matters when his wife had died. The seneschal's wife was crippled by stiff hips and the maids had taken advantage of her infirmity to do much as they pleased, which was very little.

Three weeks of purgative chaos had ensued as Alicia and Judith set the worst of the rot to rights so that at least the place was habitable. Alicia in particular had thrown herself into the exercise, chivvying the maids remorselessly, addressing them all as sluts and hussies, her tongue as abrasive as the brushes and lye with which she made them scour the dairy floor and slabs.

Judith was concerned, for the shrewish woman with whom she shared the bower was not her gentle mother. The bouts of feverish activity spoke of panic and a deeply troubled spirit. Once she had come across Alicia choking back tears in Ledworth's private chapel and begging whispered forgiveness. Forgiveness for what?

Her mother was more sinned against than sinning, her confessions to the priest usually of oversights and peccadilloes, nothing that would stain the soul with such guilt.

Judith guided her mount with her knees and frowned, trying to remember when she had first noticed the change in her mother's manner. A couple of days after the wedding, it would have been. Alicia had retired to her chamber with a vicious headache and stayed there for two days, refusing all ministrations save those of Agnes.

She had emerged on the third day a full hour too late to wish Guyon's father God-speed on his road home. Miles, as she recalled, had been perturbed at her absence and by Agnes's firm declaration that her mistress was still asleep and had left instructions not to be woken.

'Riders to the rear!' cried one of Judith's escort, interrupting her thoughts.

'My lord is expected soon,' Eric said with a frown, 'but it is not the direction from which I would expect him to come.' He rubbed the side of his nose, considering. 'Best play safe,' he decided. 'If it is my lord, he'll take no offence at our caution. If it's another, we owe them no excuses. Are you able to gall op, my lady?'

Judith's heart began to thump but she gave a nonchalant shrug. 'If this nag is, then yes,' she responded and gathered the reins.

The serjeant who had first cried the warning circled away behind them to discover the identity of their pursuers. They quickened their pace. A distance of about nine furlongs separated them from the safety of the keep, but much of that route was uphill .

Judith's gelding started to flag. She dug her heels into his sides and heard him wheeze.

'It's Robert de Belleme and Walter de Lacey!' yelled the serjeant, his voice indistinct but explicit with panic.

'Blood of Christ!' Eric spurred his horse afresh and laid his whip across the rump of Judith's gelding.

The drawbridge was down over the ditch. The wet winter and spring had raised the level of the water table and instead of the noisome sludge that usually offended the nose, there was a glistening moat of sky-blue water. The hooves drummed on the planks. Judith glimpsed the glittering ruffles. She flung a look over her shoulder but the wind whipped her braids across her face and all she could see between the tawny strands were the heaving horses behind her and the solid mailed protection of her escort.

Her mount stumbled as they rode beneath the portcullis and into the ward. She pulled him up, his ribs heaving like bellows, his legs trembling, spent. Without waiting for aid to dismount, she kicked her feet from the stirrups and slipped over his side to the ground.

The last man pounded across the bridge at a hard gall op. The guards on duty began winching the bridge the moment he clattered on to it. The black fangs of the portcullis came down and Ledworth snarled defiance at one of the most powerful men in England and Normandy.

Eric spat and crossed himself as they heard the drawbridge thud flush with the outer wall . 'It is called burning your bridges,' he said grimly. 'Do you go inside, my lady, and join your mother.'

Judith frowned and laid her arm upon Eric's mail-clad sleeve. 'Wait,' she said. 'If we deny him entry we offer him unpardonable insult and he never allows a slight to remain swallowed for long.'

'But mistress--'

'I was prey to be snatched when I was outside the keep, but within he must preserve the civilities. I know why he is here. My lord husband has been expecting him all winter.'

Eric looked unhappily at the chequerboard spars of the portcullis and the security of the solid oak planks beyond. Faintly from without there came a hail. 'My lady, I am reluctant to admit him.

Lord Guyon would string me from the highest tree on the demesne if ill should come of this.'

'Let me worry about Lord Guyon,' she replied with more than a spark of bravado. 'How many men does my uncle have with him ... Thierry?'

The young serjeant cleared his throat. 'About thirty at a rough guess, my lady,' he replied and fiddled with the hilt of his sword, eyes shifting from her to the closed drawbridge.

'Then admit my uncle and his five most senior companions,' she said. 'Eric, take custody of their weapons and put the guards on alert. Have a messenger ride out and find my husband - one of his Welshmen, by preference; they have the stealth to go unseen.'

Eric spread his hands. 'What if the seigneur de Belleme refuses to disgorge his weapons and abandon his men outside?'

'He won't refuse,' she said. 'Delay them awhile until I am fittingly dressed to receive them.'

'But my lady ...'

She was gone, skirts gathered to reveal her ankles as she ran, her plaits dishevelled and snaking to the movement of her spine. Eric swallowed, muttered a prayer, and set about giving commands, although he was not at all sure he should be obeying Judith.

Alicia gaped in disbelief as her daughter seized a comb and began to mend her hair. She had discarded her riding dress in favour of a tunic of dark gold wool lavishly banded with embroidery in two shades of green.

'You have done what?' Alicia gasped. 'Are you mad? You might as well open the chicken run and let the fox run amok inside!'

'Mama, I am not mad. I would as lief not grant him entry, but on this occasion, at least, he means us no harm.'

'It is not experience of years that has gained you such foresight!' her mother said acidly.

'I thought he and my father were fond kin and allies,' Judith answered in a preoccupied manner, fingers working with nimble haste.

Alicia sighed and looked at Judith with a mingling of sacrifice and exasperation. 'I suppose I will have to go down and face him now that you've been foolish enough to grant him entry.'

A spark of resentment flared in Judith's breast.

'It is my responsibility, Mama,' she said. 'Besides, he does not know me, and it will be easier than you greeting him with hatred when I can plead the ignorance of youth.' She returned to her toilet, clipping the ends of her braids with bronze fillets and smoothing her fresh gown.

Alicia stared at her daughter. The change from child to woman had accelerated rapidly since her marriage to Guyon. There was command in her voice and the same authority that made men perform her father's bidding, or else back off with frightened eyes. She had his way of looking, too.

An open, fearless stare, locking will with will .

'Be careful, daughter,' she warned. 'Snakes bite slyly.'

'And cats have claws,' Judith retorted tossing her head, then belied her self-assurance by turning to her mother and hugging her fiercely.

Alicia returned the embrace full measure and prayed that they would emerge unscathed from what was to come.

Robert de Belleme, Earl of Shrewsbury, ranged his gaze over the construction of Ledworth's great hall and considered how to go about the matter of besieging the keep. Not that it was anything personal - yet - merely a constructive and pleasant pastime while he awaited his hostess.

One never knew when such ruminations might be called upon to bear fruit.

His eyes were without expression and almost without colour. A beautiful light glass-grey set beneath straight-slashed black brows. He was thirty-eight years old yet looked little more than twenty-five. Some men in their ignorance said he had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the earthly trinkets of youth and power. Others, more knowledgeable, said that he had no soul. Robert de Belleme cared not what anyone thought, contemptuous to the core of all his fellow men.

He tapped his whip against his leg and eyed with amusement the scuttling avoidance of the servants, their sidelong stares, and their limbs poised to leap if he should uncoil to strike. It was sweet to see their terror which was, of course, totally justified.

A girl crossed the length of the hall and came towards the fire where he and his companions stood warming themselves. Her pace was confident, her head carried high, her eyes making direct contact with his. It was such a contrast to the twittering fear he so usually encountered that his interest sharpened and he narrowed his eyes to appraise her.

'I am sorry we kept you waiting, my lord, but the times cause us to err on the side of caution,'

Judith said in a low, sweet voice as she curtsied.

He looked down on her bent head, and the long, fine-boned hands clutching the folds of her gown.

'Indeed, it is difficult to judge enemy from friend,'

he concurred and cupped her chin to raise her face to his scrutiny.

There was naught of his half-brother to be seen.

Her brow, cheekbones and softly curved lips belonged to Alicia, but the narrow nose, cleft chin and strange, grey-agate eyes were completely individual.

'It was a pity your marriage took place while I was occupied elsewhere. I would have liked to attend.' He raised her to her feet. She was as slender as a willow stripling, thin almost, with scarcely a figure to mention. If FitzMiles had got a child on her, it did not yet show. Probably as poor a breeder as her dam, which was a pity. If the lord of Ravenstow were suddenly to die, the widow's lands would revert to the crown. Not that he foresaw any particular problem in wheedling them out of Rufus's pocket and into his own, but should FitzMiles die with a babe in the cradle, the estates of both parents would devolve upon that child's head and the wardship of such wealth would be power indeed to whoever owned it. Still , there were more ways than one to milk a cow.

He circled Judith's wrist in a grip of steel. 'Your husband should be here to take care of a prize so valuable,' he remarked. 'Is he always so careless?'

Behind him, Walter de Lacey sniggered. Judith was reminded of her mother's panic-stricken remark about the fox in the chicken run. Her mouth was dry, but she permitted no fear to show on her face and retained a facade of blank innocence. 'He had business elsewhere, my lord.

I would not presume to question him ... Do you care to wait?' She signalled to a servant who crept forward with a flagon and cups.

Robert de Belleme released her wrist and lounged against a low table. 'Playing at chatelaine,' he mocked as she waved the terrified creature away and served him and his men herself. 'How old are you, my dear?'

'Sixteen, my lord.'

'And sweet as a ripe apple on the tree.' He rotated the cup in his fingers to examine the interlaced English design. 'Tell me, Judith, does your lord hope for an heir before the anniversary of your marriage?'

Heat scorched her face and throat. 'If God will s it, my lord,' she managed, feeling as though the pale eyes had stripped her down to the truth.

'And if your husband can restrain himself from the company of his Welsh paramour and other whores and sluts,' de Lacey sneered.

Judith set the flagon carefully down. Anjou wine was too expensive to be flung, she reminded herself, and it was her best flagon. 'I do not interfere in my lord's private business,' she said stonily. Her look flashed over de Lacey and quickly down before her revulsion betrayed her.

'He treats me well , and I thank God for it.'

De Belleme smiled. 'I have yet to meet a woman who is not taken in by Guyon's charm.'

'Or a man for that matter!' guffawed de Lacey. 'It is not every bride can count the King as her rival for her husband's body!'

'Shall I instruct the cooks to make a feast, or is this just a passing visit to express your joy upon my marriage?' Judith demanded in a choked voice.

De Belleme shrugged. 'I have to be in Shrewsbury tonight. I have a matter of business to discuss with your husband, but it can wait and in the meantime I have brought you a belated wedding gift.' He stood straight and half turned to pat the stitched bundle lying on the table behind him. De Lacey, a sudden sly grin on his face, presented his overlord with a sharp dagger to slit the threads.

Shaking inside like a custard, outwardly composed, Judith watched him apply the blade.

The strands parted in staccato hard bursts of sound and the skins spilled out on to the table, glossy, supple, jet black against the coarse woven linen of their coverings.

'Norwegian sables to grace your gowns ... or your bed,' de Belleme said with an expansive sweep of his hand and presented her with one of the glowing furs.

The sable still possessed its face and feet.

Judith swallowed her aversion - the thing looked as though it had been squashed in a siege - and thanked him. It was a costly gift, fit to grace the robes of a queen.

Her uncle dismissed her gratitude. 'It is nothing,'

he said, and meant it. In the fullness of time he expected them to return to his keeping and all they had cost him was a little joyful exertion of his sword arm. 'Is your lady mother here with you?'

'Yes, my lord. She pleads your indulgence. She has a megrim.'

'I have that effect on her.' Smiling, he toyed with the blade of the knife still in his hand.

Judith shivered, suddenly thankful that the majority of her uncle's men were outside the keep.

'Are you afraid of me, Judith?' He admired his reflection in the mirror-bright steel.

'Has she cause to be?' Guyon's voice was as soft as his entrance had been.

De Belleme spun round, his expression momentarily one of shocked surprise before he schooled it to neutrality. For all his height and breadth, Guyon FitzMiles moved like a wraith. It was a trait that irritated the Earl, for God alone knew what the man was capable of overhearing in his stealth.

'Christ's blood, no!' He tossed the dagger back to de Lacey. 'But you know how reputations travel.'

Guyon's eyes fell to the sables puddling the board. His nostrils flared and his luminous gaze struck de Belleme's. 'I know the very roads,' he answered and unpinned his cloak. 'I have granted your men a corner of the bailey. They may have their weapons when they leave.'

'Your hospitality dazzles me, nephew,' said de Belleme drily.

Guyon tossed his cloak on to the table and rested one haunch on the wood. 'Yours would blind. I wonder what you would have done had you caught up with my wife before the drawbridge?'

'Nothing improper, I assure you.'

'By whose code?'

'My uncle has brought us a wedding gift of these fine sables,' Judith said quickly. She could feel Guyon's hostility and knew they could not afford a rift with the Earl of Shrewsbury. There was a moment's silence. The balance teetered. Judith held her husband's gaze and silently pleaded.

Joining him, she grasped his right arm possessively as a bride might do, but actually to prevent him drawing his sword. His muscles were like iron and rigid with the effort of control, and his eyes were ablaze. Frantically she stood on tiptoe to kiss his tight lips, trying to break the terrible concentration.

Through a fog of rage Guyon became aware of her desperation and the spark of sanity that had prevented him from leaping at de Belleme's throat kindled to a steadier flame. He dropped his focus to her upturned face and filled his vision with her shining honesty instead of the contemptuous challenge of his uncle-by-marriage.

'I would set your worth even higher than sables, Cath fach,' he said with a strained smile as he slipped his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek, knowing that she had drawn him away from the edge of a very dangerous precipice.

'As it happens,' said de Belleme pleasantly, 'I do have other fish to fry, nothing too important.

Indeed I am embarrassed to make mention of it.'

Guyon doubted the lord of Shrewsbury had ever been embarrassed in his life. He lifted a brow and looked enquiringly blank, pretending not to see de Lacey's lounging smirk. Beside him Judith had clenched her jaw and he knew that she realised what was coming next.

' Cariad, go and bestow your wedding gift safely and organise some fitting repast for our guests,' he said.

Judith gave him a keen look. He extricated himself from her grip and ran one finger lightly down her freckled nose. 'If you please.' It was a charming, light dismissal, but a dismissal nevertheless. His gaze flickered to the sables and then quickly away.

Judith curtsied - she could do little else - and excused herself.

'You were saying?' Guyon folded his arms.

'It is a small matter of silver owed to me by my late brother Maurice for the building of Ravenstow...' said the Earl of Shrewsbury with a smile Judith smoothed one of the sables beneath her palm, staring down at the glowing fur without really seeing her action or feeling the luxury beneath her caress.

The midday meal had been more elaborate than their customary bread, cheese and watered wine, the flustered cook having organised additions of roasted pigeons, mutton in pastry coffins, herrings seethed in milk and sprinkled with almonds and small honey cakes, crusty with chopped nuts and dried fruit.

Judith did not know if it was fare fit for an earl, but it was the best she could provide at such short notice. Certainly her uncle had not complained.

Indeed, he had settled to the meal with a hearty appetite which was more than could be said for her husband, who had attacked the wine as voraciously as others attacked the food, seeming set to drink himself beneath the table in as short a time as possible. Barely a morsel of food had passed his lips and every time his cup neared the dregs he would signal the lad serving to replenish it to the brim. He had begun to slur his words and his voice had grown over-loud.

Robert de Belleme had watched Guyon's disintegration with a contemptuous eye and a scornful smile. No more than a cupful of wine had flowed over his own tongue, which remained mellifluous and precise.

Judith's tentative plea to her husband had met with a snarl to mind her distaff, and a half-raised fist. At this juncture she had begged leave to retire, having no desire to bear the humiliation of a public beating. She could remember only too well how it had gone with her father in the past.

He would drink. Someone would make a remark that he misliked and the blows would fall , cutting if he happened to be wearing rings.

Steeped in misery, she sat waiting now for she knew not what and wondered what had happened to drive Guyon over the brink like this. Her uncle was owed a large sum of money. Guyon had been thoughtful about that for some time, deeply thoughtful and busy, but certainly not depressed.

She knew he enjoyed the taste of good wine, but in three months of marriage she had yet to see him merry, let alone drunk. It was beyond her to fathom the reason for such deviation and her fear was all the more potent for her lack of understanding.

There was a sound outside the door. Melyn, coiled in a warm ball upon the bed, popped her head erect and uttered a soft greeting miaow.

Judith dropped the sables and hastened to the door, unbarring it to admit Eric and one of the serjeants bearing Guyon's upright weight between them. Stinking of hippocras, he swayed on the threshold.

'Traitors!' he bellowed for all and sundry to hear, taking a wild swipe at Eric and almost overbalancing as he staggered into the room. 'I'm sober 'nough to see my guests on the road ...

Lemme go!'

He continued to utter loud protests as they manhandled him to the bed. Judith watched him, her fingers at her throat, her whole body tensed to avoid him if need be.

Eric glanced at her and gave her of all things a wink and a smile. 'Don't you worry, mistress, he'll sober up quicker than you think,' he said comfortingly and, his grinning companion in tow, left her alone with her dread.

Melyn leaped on to Guyon's wine-drenched chest and kneaded the spoiled cloth with splayed claws. Guyon scooped her up and, depositing her on the coverlet, sat up.

'God help me,' he grimaced, pulling the garment over his head. 'I stink like the morning after in a Rouen brothel!' He slung the richly embroidered wool across the room and followed it with his shirt.

Still standing near the door, Judith's eyes were round with astonishment. 'You're not drunk!' she said.

'Sober as a stone, Cath fach.' Going purposefully to his clothing chest he rummaged among the contents. Sunlight rayed obliquely through the shutters and gilded his skin. It picked out the scar from the boar hunt on his arm and the marks of stitches neatly made.

'But why?' she enquired in bewilderment. 'Why did you want us all to believe that you were sodden drunk?'

'You did not have to pretend your responses and they were more convincing than you could have feigned. Your uncle as well as most of the keep thinks that I have drowned in hippocras my despair at losing so much silver into his wanton care.'

'But I saw how much you swallowed. Your back teeth must be awash!'

Guyon flashed her a grin. 'A gut full of red-dyed water, and just enough hippocras to reek my clothes and skin. It was Eric's lad serving at table, did you notice?' He took a shirt and an overtunic of coarse, patchily dyed linen, devoid of embellishment, and threw them on the bed.

'But in God's name why? Why would you want my uncle to believe that you are a swiller?' Judith moved away from the door and picked up the wine-soaked tunic and shirt to put them on the chest beside the sables.

He glanced at her from beneath his brows. 'He has my silver. I am a distraught weak reed and, as far as anyone knows, saving a precious few, I shall wallow abed in a drunken stupor for the next full day at least.'

'What are you planning?' Judith began to feel frightened again. 'And why are you dressing yourself in those disgusting rags?'

'An exercise in stealth, Cath fach. The less you know, the better.'

Her eyes flashed. 'I am not stupid!'

'No,' he agreed. 'You are too clever by half. And do not scowl at me like that. I mean it as a compliment. It is very hard to deceive you on any matter for long.'

'Such as your Welsh paramour and other sluts and whores!' she snapped and then pressed her hands to her mouth, wondering in shock what on earth had made her quote de Lacey at him like an accusation.

His gaze held hers steadily. 'If I have been over the border of late, it is for reasons other than the pursuit of pleasure.'

Judith dropped her lids and felt heat scorch her face. She would not apologise. She picked up one of the sables to rub the cool pelt against her hot cheek. 'Why were you so angry when you first arrived?' she asked after a moment, as association brought sudden remembrance.

Guyon latched the buckle of his belt and for a moment frowned as though he was not going to answer. But then he shrugged and spoke. 'I passed a pack train two days ago, heading for Shrewsbury. The merchant, Huw ap Sior, was a likeable man. I've traded with him before now, my father too. If he had a fault, it was that he could talk the hind leg off a donkey and he was heedless of danger where he thought there might be gain ... They found his body in a ditch this morning, choked by the binding of his own chausses and his limbs carved off, and of course not a sign of his goods. I believe the sheriff is blaming Huw's servant for the deed because the lad has vanished into thin air and, being in de Belleme's pay, he's not going to look further than the easiest scapegoat.' He drew a hard breath to steady his rising revulsion and anger.

'Huw knew that there were men of high import in Shrewsbury at the moment. He was taking his pack of silks and Norwegian sables there to sell

... only the poor idiot never arrived ... Look at the canvas in which your bride-gift is wrapped. Do you think those brown stains are merely blotches of mud from the road?'

Judith swallowed and flicked her gaze to the pack and its tell -tale pied markings, 'No,' she whispered hoarsely. 'It is not true.'

He turned from her to pull on a rough sheepskin jerkin and brown wool en hood. 'Then look the other way,' he said. 'Tell yourself that your husband has an over-active imagination.'

Shuddering, Judith dropped the sable back among its companions and pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth, feeling sick. Tight-lipped, Guyon continued to make his preparations. After a moment, he straightened, alerted by a faint sound from behind. Her breath was shaking from her throat in small , effortful gasps as she fought to stifle her sobs. It was on his lips to snarl at her that grief came cheaply, but he remembered in time, reminded by her white, pinched face, that for all her cleverness she was still a child.

He swore beneath his breath and went to take her in his arms. She gripped his jerkin, struggling for control. 'My mother was right,' she gulped with loathing. 'Snakes do bite slyly.'

'Unless you pin them behind the neck and draw their fangs.'

Her head jerked up and she looked at him through her wet lashes. 'My lord, I do not know what is in your mind save that it be more than dangerous. In God's name, have a care to yourself!'

'You worry too much.' He kissed her cheek. She moved her head. For an instant their lips met, hers soft and unpractised; his gentle without possession or demand, and he was the first to disengage from the embrace. 'As far as everyone else in this keep is concerned, I am confined here in a drunken stupor. I trust you to keep up the pretence for a day at least.'

'When will you be back, my lord?'

'By moonlight I hope.' He drew up his hood. His face disappeared into brown shadow. 'God be with you, Cath fach.' He tugged her braid and slipped silently from the room. She stared at the door he had just closed, then went to drop the bar. Sitting down beside the bundle of sables, she set her mind upon what to do with this gift culled from murder.

To keep the sables was impossible. She could scarcely bear to look at them. The sight of the bloodstains upon the bindings curdled her stomach. Burn them? That was waste upon waste. Throw them back in her uncle's face? No.

Guyon would have done that had it been feasible.

Give them away? She steepled her fingers under her chin, deep in thought.