The Wild Hunt (26 page)

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.