The Wild Hunt tor-1 Read online

  'No, nothing.' He set a reassuring hand on her arm. 'Just filial interest. 'What he needs is another wife ... or a mistress.'

  Emma scowled at him. 'You don't seriously mean that, Guy.'

  'Why not?'

  'Would you welcome another woman in Mama's place - a stepmother?'

  'You are deluding yourself if you think he has lived like a monk since her death.'

  'I know he has taken casual women for comfort and pleasure,' Emma said with asperity. 'But they were in no wise partners for life.'

  'That's what I mean. He needs something more.

  Our mother was his anchor and he is in danger of going adrift without one.' Having gained the information he sought, he went to play knucklebones with his wife and nieces.

  'Rannulf Flambard has officially been granted the bishopric of Durham as payment for his tireless endeavours,' said Miles, his face studiously blank.

  The lantern swung gently on its hook and shadows lumbered upon the stable wall s. Guyon looked up from the delectable golden mare he had been examining. The horse was a gift for Judith, the furtiveness of this night visit to the stable because she was to be a surprise. He stared at his father with bright interest. 'God preserve the devil when he gets to hell .' His mouth twitched. 'What's he going to do, strip the church from within and give it all to Rufus?'

  'Of a certainty, weasling little runt.'

  The mare lipped Guyon's tunic. He scratched her beneath the chin. 'But shrewd and clever with it. At least if he's snatching food from the mouths of monks, he's not snatching it from us.'

  Rannulf Flambard, a common cleric, had risen by his own diligent efforts from obscurity to the ranks of the most powerful men in the land. He had become indispensable to Rufus and a menace to every member of the barony; a tax collector with a Herculean grip on men's financial affairs and the ability to tighten that grip and squeeze his victims dry.

  Guyon thoroughly disliked the man, for his attitude rather than from any squeamishness concerning his lowly birth or his task of crown revenue raiser. Indeed, with a numerical talent of his own, he had the good sense to respect Flambard's extraordinary skill s and step warily around them.

  'Of course,' Miles added sarcastically, 'Flambard is not the only hazard to our coffers. The Welsh take their tithe of silver too.'

  Guyon eyed his father nonchalantly across the mare's satin withers. 'I thought you might have heard about de Belleme's misfortune,' he said with a hint of regret in his voice.

  'And yours too?'

  Guyon said nothing. He could not dissemble with his sire who knew him too well and saw too clearly. Silence was by far the better line of defence.

  'Have a care, son. Step very softly around the Earl of Shrewsbury. His rages are all the more deadly for being silent and the remains of his victims are not a pretty sight. He is stronger than ever now. Did you know that he has paid Rufus another relief to take Roger de Bully's lands?'

  The flippancy vanished, replaced by startled attention. 'No, I didn't.'

  'Blythe and Tickhill straight down the devil's throat. He's likely to be short of coin and temper.

  Don't try any more clever tricks like that last one ...

  You know what I mean.'

  'So if he wants to eat the world, I just stand aside and let him?'

  'You don't fling your gage in his teeth!'

  'I haven't. A trip rope across his path perhaps, in revenge for a parcel of bloody sables.'

  Miles scraped his fingers through his hair and reminded himself that Guyon was almost thirty years old and the mould was too firmly set to be broken or altered by an exasperated lecture.

  'Just be careful, that's all .'

  'Meek as a virgin,' Guyon answered lightly.

  'Just don't get deflowered,' Miles said curtly. 'I'm going to bed.'

  The lightness left Guyon's face. 'Chance would be a fine thing,' he said to the horse and followed his father.

  CHAPTER 11

  Judith gasped and wriggled around in the bed, squinting through her lids as the brightness of daylight flooded the room.

  Guyon wrenched the covers aside. 'On your feet, you lazy baggage, or are you going to sleep until noon?'

  She sat up, glowering.

  Guyon laughed. 'You'll miss a surprise if you do.'

  Judith rubbed her eyes and regarded him blearily. He was wearing his hunting tunic of green plaid and leather hose. She had not heard him wake and dress, but then he could be as soft-footed as Melyn when he chose.

  'What kind of surprise?'

  'The kind that will not wait forever.' He hooked his thumbs in his belt and studied her. Her hair spilled down. A freckled white shoulder gleamed through the untidy tresses and a small , apple-sized breast. Flank and leg were lithe and long.

  Flustered, she lowered her eyes, a pink flush staining her throat and face. Abruptly he turned away to her clothing pole and, selecting garments, tossed them on the bed.

  'I'll send in your maid. Don't be too long, Cathfach.'

  His tone was light and his face wore its customary good humour so that her momentary qualm dissolved into an impudent grimace as he reached the door.

  Most of the household was still asleep and, as Judith indignantly discovered on entering the hall , it was not long after dawn. A yawning boy was arranging the side trestles for the serving of bread and curd cheese. Guyon was leaning on the edge of the dais, deep in conversation with the steward and the reeve, Cadi as usual glued to his side.

  The two standing men bowed. Judith smiled a greeting to the steward. To the reeve she spoke.

  He had not long been appointed to the position — a young man with small children, well able to cope with the task of mediating between the lord and his tenants, but still finding his feet.

  Guyon listened to her enquiries after the health of the man's family with whose every name and circumstance she was familiar and was once more amazed at her scope.

  'I didn't know his aunt Winifred suffered from gout,' he chuckled as he led her out of the forebuilding and into the early morning bustle of the bailey.

  'She doesn't.' Judith regarded him with grave clarity. 'She just likes their attention. There's nothing wrong with the cantankerous hag. I could think of several effective if drastic remedies to cure her condition. Cutting out her tongue, for one.'

  'Judith!' he spluttered.

  'It is the truth and only you to hear it. Why should I lie?'

  Guyon shook his head, unable to think of a response or reprimand because in essence she was right.

  A lanky youth of about Judith's own age was forking soiled straw into the yard. Hens pecked and scratched near his feet. Ball s of yellow fluff twinkled hither and yon, imitating in miniature the actions of their parents, miraculously avoiding the lad's stout boots and the sweeps of the fork.

  'Good morning, Hob,' Judith greeted him. He turned a dusky campion-pink and mumbled into his chest.

  'What's the surprise, Guy?' She smiled up at him as she had smiled at Hob.

  'You are, constantly,' he replied, then said in English to the boy, 'Where's your father?'

  'Just coming, sire. He's walking her round to stop her getting cold.'

  'Who?' asked Judith.

  Guyon took her arm and turned to face his head groom who appeared around the edge of the building with a harnessed mare following behind in a well -mannered fashion.

  'Guyon?' Judith twisted to look up at him and then back at the delicately stepping palfrey.

  'I thought it was time you had a more mettlesome mount than that old bay nag you've adopted. Her name's Euraidd. She's five years old and from the stud herd down at Ashdyke.'

  Judith stared at the vision filling her eyes and it swung its head to return the compliment with limpid black eyes. Euraidd - golden. A mare the colour of the sun. Darker dappled rings like gold coins shimmered on the silken haunches and contour of shoulder and belly. Her mane and tail were a flossy blonde, the former braided with tassels of scarlet silk. The harness, like the
horse, was expensive.

  'She's beautiful!' Judith gasped, more than a little awestruck. 'Are you sure you want me to have her?'

  'How else do you expect to keep up with me when we go riding?' Guyon grinned. 'That bay bag of bones might as well have been standing still the other day.'

  'He ran his heart out for me when we were fleeing Earl Robert,' she said, and stepped forward to stroke the soft tawny nose. The mare had a white star between her eyes and two small trails of stardust dribbled beneath. She lipped Judith's fingers, seeking a titbit, and the groom obligingly produced a wrinkled apple.

  The under-groom emerged from the stables with Guyon's grey saddled up and ready.

  'Care to try her paces?' Guyon cupped his hands.

  'You should not make such an open display of your wealth,' she reproved, faintly troubled even in the midst of her joy.

  'My father has one of the best stud herds in the land. Even impoverished as I am, I still have access to good horseflesh. Besides, you should know not to look a gift horse in the mouth.'

  Judith made an agonised face at the literal pun and set her foot into the bowl of his linked fingers.

  They rode far and wide over Ravenstow's demesne. The mare's gait was like silk, her muscles flowing like water beneath a cloth of golden satin. Her mouth was sensitive to Judith's slightest touch on the reins. She moved effortlessly from walk to pacing trot, to canter and back to a walk and Judith felt not so much as a jolt as she changed step.

  Guyon considered Judith's seat in the saddle with a critical eye and discovered that, as with all skill s, she had mastered this one in a very short time.

  'My mother used to hate riding horseback,' he said finally as they rode side by side for home.

  'For my father's sake she bore it, but it was a sacrilegious waste of good horseflesh. The best in England and she appreciated it not one whit.'

  Judith looked down at the mare. There was exhilaration in riding such smooth power, a tingling of triumph in the knowledge of mastery.

  'He misses her, doesn't he?' she said thoughtfully.

  'My mother was the light of his life,' Guyon said, his eyelids tightening with pain. 'They fought on occasion fit to bring down the keep around our ears, but I remember the love. She would have given him her lifeblood to drink if he had asked, and vice versa.'

  Judith gnawed her lip, unable to contemplate such a depth of feeling and trust. Her own parents had spent their time damning each other's souls into the pit of hell . Slaps, blows, ill -treatment, degradation, cruelty. She knew only too well the nature of marriage ... or thought she knew. She looked through her lashes at her husband's arrogant features and tried to imagine cutting her own veins at his command. No, she thought. I would take up a knife and defend myself to the last bitter drop of blood.

  Hard on that thought followed a wave of guilt.

  He had been so good to her, tolerating her whims, handling her with patience and consideration, gifting her richly, not least with this beautiful horse. She liked him well enough, knew that she had been more fortunate than her mother as a heifer in the ring, but it was too great a trust to give her soul into another's squandering.

  'You are quiet, Cath fach, ' he said.

  Judith smiled and tossed her head. 'Foolish thoughts,' she laughed, her mouth twisting. 'Not worth a penny for their time. Does she gall op, is it safe to give her free rein?' Without waiting for his reply she used her hands and heels to command the mare into a sudden spectacular burst of speed. Guyon muttered a startled oath beneath his breath and spurred the grey in pursuit across the meadow.

  Geese scattered honking from beneath the flying hooves. The swineherd, out with the keep's pigs, shaded his eyes against the slant of the sun and watched the horses hurtle past. Ground-nesting plovers broke cover and took hasty wing.

  A blackbird chipped at them from a stump.

  The golden mare flew lightly over the ground like a faery beast, her tail rippling like combed flax.

  Inch by inch the grey gained on her, his stride that slight bit longer, but it was a slow process.

  The weight he carried was greater and the mare was determined to keep her head in front. He reached her shoulders, his neck outstretched, his shoulders and hindquarters working like pistons and slowly his nose began to draw level with hers.

  Judith glanced round, her braids whipping her face, her eyes blazing with exhilaration and met Guyon's laughter, white-edged with triumph.

  'Oh no!' she cried, laughing back at him. 'Not this time, my lord!' And as they pounded on towards the edge of the meadow, she leaned as far forward as the saddle would permit, gripping like a monkey, the reins clutched hard on Euraidd's neck. From somewhere the mare found an extra thrust of speed and, aided by Judith's forward weight, once more pulled ahead of the stall ion to reach the marshy end of the meadow a length ahead.

  Mud splattered up around the mare's forelegs and dappled her glowing coat with brown splotches and freckles as Judith breathlessly wound her down to a halt and hung over her braided mane, laughing with delight.

  Guyon reined round beside her, drawing the stall ion's head hard into the wide grey chest.

  'That was wonderful!' Judith gasped, her eyes shining like two coins, her face flushed and vibrant.

  'And you are a madwoman!' he answered, half angry, half amused. 'What if you had fall en off?'

  'I would have broken my neck, but I didn't and it was wonderful. And if you are going to scowl at me like that, I'd rather ride on my own anyway!'

  'Minx,' he chuckled despite himself.

  'Fusspot,' she retorted, poking out her tongue.

  Guyon's eyebrows shot up. It was the first time anyone had called him that! Before he could think of a suitable retort, Judith clicked her tongue to the mare and shook the reins, urging her across the stream and towards home. At a safe distance, she looked over her shoulder to where he sat staring after her and grinned impishly.

  Guyon steadied his grip on the reins. He was painfully tumescent and very tempted to ride after her and soothe the irritation where it would do him the most good ... and her the least. She is a child, he reiterated to himself. It had been too long an abstinence, that was all . After a moment, the impulse and its source subsided. He walked the stall ion meekly in her wake while he consolidated his hold on things rational.

  At the keep they had visitors. Tethered in the bailey were a dozen sturdy pack ponies tended by an equally sturdy black-haired youth. He was loosening the pack of the foremost pony and speaking to a frowning, middle-aged man who was unloading what looked like bales of cloth.

  The youth lifted his gaze and met Guyon's as the latter dismounted. Unlatching the last buckle, he spoke a quick word to the servant, and came across the ward to greet them. Judith looked curiously at the lad as he arrived and stood smiling before them. He was as solid and stocky as a young oak tree and darkly Welsh, his eyes onyx black and extravagantly fringed. His wide-planted stance exuded the confidence of a man, the flush in his cheeks the uncertainty of boyhood.

  'I'm here with my grandfather,' he said in rapid Welsh. 'We've brought cloth to trade and we need new ponies, and grandfather has other business besides.'

  The grooms took the two mud-smirched horses.

  'How fares your mother?'

  'She had a baby girl two days since,' Rhys said, gaze darting to Judith, obviously wondering how much Welsh she understood. 'She is well and so is the baby ... Eluned is jealous.'

  Before Guyon could compose himself to reply, Madoc ap Rhys himself strode out of the forebuilding and clapped a brown, knotty hand on Rhys's shoulder.

  'I thought you'd have finished unloading by now!' he declared, but his hazel eyes were laughing and his tone was indulgent. 'God's greeting, my lord. I see that you've had the good tidings. A fine, healthy babe and blessed with your grandsire's red hair and, to judge from the sound of her lungs, his temper too!' His manner was affable.

  Rhosyn's liaison with Guyon FitzMiles and the resulting child were useful b
onds to future profit as far as he was concerned.

  Judith opened her mouth to speak, but changed her mind and compressed her lips instead, not trusting herself.

  Guyon invited the merchant into the hall to drink to the infant's health and discuss the business he had brought with him upon the back of a dozen ponies. Belatedly, he remembered to introduce Madoc and Rhys to his wife.

  Master Madoc made the proper responses in impeccable Norman French and concealed his curiosity and surprise behind deep-set lowered lids. The girl who tepidly smiled her duty was not the fey, frightened thing that Rhosyn had led him to expect. Her agate-coloured eyes were cool, her voice clear and firm. Slender, yes, with barely a curve to her name, but possessed of a certain gauche grace and also a certain coldness of manner and, from the quick look she had tossed at Guyon as they entered the forebuilding, it did not take much of his merchant's shrewdness to guess the cause.

  At first he and Guyon discussed the merits of the new downland rams that had been introduced to Guyon's herds and the effect they would have on the quality of future wool clips.

  'It will make your fleeces whiter and increase the length of the staple. The Flanders looms are crying out for good-quality wool. If God grants me my health, I should be crossing the sea after harvest to see for myself.'

  'Rhosyn said you had been unwell .'

  Madoc gave a dismissive shrug. 'I lack breath occasionally and my chest gripes, but the bouts are usually when I've done more than I should, or the weather grows too cold. A few more years and Rhys will be old enough to shoulder much of the burden.' He smiled at his grandson, who smiled in return as he plied his meat with a fine, ivory-hilted knife.

  Madoc applied himself to his own meal for a while, then turned his shrewd gaze upon Guyon's young wife who had been silent throughout the previous conversation. 'My lady, if you permit, there is a matter I would like to discuss with you.'

  Judith inclined her head. 'Master Madoc?'