The Wild Hunt tor-1 Read online

  Eric swung round, right hand going to his hilt.

  Hand on the bridle, Guyon stiffened. Hooves thudded on the dirt road and harnesses jingled. A man swore bawdily in Flemish and a woman cried out. Guyon spoke quickly to the farrier and, taking the reins, led Arian out of the enclosure and into the village street. At the crossroads twenty yards away a group of mounted, mailed Flemings had surrounded the young couple from the alehouse and were refusing to let them pass.

  'I'm a free man,' Guyon heard the young huntsman say hotly in accented French. 'You've no right to bar my path.'

  'Go on then, you're free!' laughed one of the men, teeth flashing. 'We've no quarrel with you that your little wife won't be able to mend. Lord Walter wants her back.'

  'On her back!' corrected someone with a snigger.

  'He has no right,' the young man replied, guarding his wife with his body. 'We are free to leave as we choose.'

  'You're free to die,' replied the spokesman.

  Suddenly a blade sparkled. The girl screamed as a Fleming groped for her bridle. Her husband felt for the dagger at his belt, but subsided in mid-motion to duck beneath the murderous sweep of the drawn sword.

  'Let them pass,' commanded Guyon, his own sword free and confidently held, his knees commanding Arian to thrust forward between the couple and their tormentors.

  The Fleming measured Guyon and the older man behind. Two of them to their nine and only the foremost mounted, but the grey was solidly boned, the man astride exuded the confidence of ability and they were probably not alone. 'Don't meddle in what's not your business,' he growled.

  'Sound advice,' Guyon retorted. 'Apply it to yourselves and let them pass.' A swift glance revealed that the mercenaries were spreading out to encircle himself and Eric. Strained ears caught the sound of a shout from the alehouse end of the street.

  The Fleming wasted no more time on words, but lunged at Guyon, whose arm was jarred to the shoulder as he warded the vicious blow, not with the safety of his shield but the blade of his own sword. Bluish-white the sparks glanced off, and he realised grimly that his assailant was left-handed. A man was taught from the cradle to crouch behind the shield worn on his left arm, to let it take the blows and to counter-strike with his sword in his right. Sword to sword was a nightmare. You parried and risked snapping the blade, or you missed the parry and you died.

  Behind him, Eric gasped as a blow caught him beneath his guard, splitting his mail but not cutting through the thick quilting of his gambeson. The girl was crying. Someone snatched the dagger from her husband's hand and pinioned his struggling arms like a coney prepared for the table.

  Guyon thrust his shield against a sword blow on his left and felt the blade score and slide off the toughened lime-wood. With his knees he commanded the stall ion to pivot and lunge against the mount of the left-handed Fleming, their leader, and brought his sword across, unexpectedly hard and low. It almost worked, but the mercenary was too experienced and at the last moment intercepted the move with a slicing sidelong slash. Guyon twisted and parried. Pain seared his thigh as the Fleming's blade bit flesh.

  He locked his wrist against the pommel, sweeping the other sword sideways, changed his grip, and slashed. The Fleming grunted, lost his grip on the reins, and hunched over his saddle.

  Guyon swung Arian. The end of a flail grazed his hair. He slammed his shield into the backswing, kneed Arian forward, and was rewarded by the shriek of someone unexpectedly unhorsed.

  ' Ledworth!'

  Guyon heard with relief the rallying cry of his own men.

  ' A moi! ' he bellowed, hacking about him. Arian lashed out, and another horse neighed high and shrill with pain. The leader of the Flemings toppled from his saddle, hit the churned mud, shuddered and was still . His second in command looked around, saw that they were now outnumbered and, with panic in his voice, yelled the order to retreat.

  A rearguard attempt to bring the huntsman and his wife away with them was aborted as Guyon spurred Arian between their horse and that of the Fleming tugging on its bridle. The sword chopped downwards, cleaving leather, flesh and bone. The mercenary shrieked as he was parted from three of his fingers. Guyon grasped the gelding's broken reins and pulled the horse hard about.

  One of his men took the bridle from him and passed the couple through to safety.

  Guyon turned Arian around. The horse was bleeding freely from several slashes on his neck and forequarters and was jittery, still spoiling for battle, so that Guyon was forced to stay in the saddle. There was blood running down his leg. It would have to wait. Undoubtedly reinforcements would be summoned from Thornford and set on their trail.

  The young huntsman had taken control of their mount and was busily knotting the reins to make them whole again. 'There is no way we can thank you enough, my lord,' he said to Guyon. 'We owe you our lives.'

  Guyon smiled bleakly. 'Walter de Lacey is no friend of mine. You owe me nothing. It was a pleasure. I'd advise you to be on your way as soon as you can, though. He tends to nurture grudges.'

  'You do not need to tell me that, sire!' the young man snorted. 'I'm a free man and I'll not work for the likes of him. Lord Ralph was mean and sour, but he'd not lay about him with a whip for the pure pleasure of it, nor take a girl to his bed if she were not willing!'

  Guyon shifted his gaze to the delicate blonde young woman watching them anxiously. Probably she was about Judith's age but she looked no more than twelve, just the kind that de Lacey enjoyed. 'Where are you and your wife bound?'

  'I have relatives in Chester, my lord. They will take us in while I find work. I thought I would seek employment with Earl Hugh.'

  'There is work nearer to hand at Ravenstow if you desire it. I've been a huntsman short since last winter. Make up your mind as we ride,' Guyon offered. 'Ravenstow is on your road anyway and you would do well to take advantage of an armed escort off Serigny lands. If you decide against staying, I'll recommend you to Earl Hugh. He's a personal friend.'

  The young man considered him from beneath a tumble of wet brown curls. Guyon FitzMiles was a huntsman short because Sir Walter had almost beheaded the man in a fit of fury during a hunt to honour the marriage of Ravenstow's heiress, or so the rumour went. Something about the theft of a horse and a broken boar spear. 'Thank you, my lord,' he replied, turning to his horse. 'We are grateful.'

  CHAPTER 14

  Judith ceased combing her hair and regarded her mother across the space that separated them. 'I thought you might,' she said without surprise.

  It was not quite the response Alicia had expected to her announcement that she was going to her dower lands as soon as Guyon's father returned from his business with Hugh of Chester to escort her there. She had come to her daughter's room prepared for tears and pleading and was completely thrown by Judith's aplomb.

  'I do not want you to think that I am discontented here with you and Guyon, but you have your own life to live ... and I have mine.' She wondered if she should test that aplomb by telling her daughter what else she intended besides.

  Judith put down the comb, went to her mother and wordlessly hugged her. They were much of a height now, almost eye to eye, for Judith had grown since the early spring and had put flesh on her bones.

  Alicia returned the embrace. 'Of course, I will visit you often and you will know where to find me should the need arise,' she said, feeling guilty, but then guilt was nothing new and was about to be consolidated.

  'You will always be welcome, you know that!'

  Judith answered, kissing her. 'But why do you speak as if you intend your stay to be permanent?'

  'Because I do.'

  Judith lifted her head from Alicia's shoulder, her eyes filled with shock and anxiety. 'Is there something wrong? Something that I or Guyon can do?'

  Alicia stroked Judith's shining tawny hair.

  'Understand when the time comes,' she said pensively, 'and do not judge me too harshly.'

  'Mama?' Judith looked up at her, beginning to feel worried. Her mot
her would not meet her gaze and her lids were red-rimmed as they so often were these days.

  Beside the fire, Melyn gave a leisurely stretch, then stalked past the two women to the door.

  Alicia sniffed and gained control of her precarious emotions. Mother and child. She could sense the reversal.

  Judith was staring at the cat and the entrance, her tension palpable.

  'What's the matter?' Alicia said.

  The curtain parted and Guyon entered the room.

  'Mother of God!' exclaimed Alicia because water was dripping from every portion of him and puddling in the rushes. Leaving her daughter to deal with him, she hastened from the room to see that the fire was built up in the hall and dry blankets provided for the men.

  Guyon squelched to the fire. His gait was far from its customary lithe prowl, Judith noticed. Indeed, he was limping badly.

  'What's wrong with your leg?' Judith hurried to his side.

  He unfastened his sodden cloak and handed it to her. 'A sword arm that was too slow,' he answered wearily.

  'You were attacked?' she said, her eyes flicking over his soaked chausses and the rain-washed streaks of blood channelling down them.

  'Clever girl.' His tone was sarcastic. 'Have you any wine?'

  Judith fetched the flagon, a small vial of aqua vitae and two cups. 'Do you want a bath?' she asked cautiously.

  'Does it look like it? God's death, we nearly drowned at Elmford. Our mounts were in the river belly-deep and the current was like a wild horse.'

  He took the wine from her and swallowed it down, coughing a little at the strength of the aqua vitae.

  His face was grey.

  She put her own cup down, fetched a linen towel and knelt to unbuckle his swordbelt. 'What happened?'

  The weight of the belt slid from his hips into her hands and he sighed with relief. Flatly he told her of their encounter with the Flemings, its reasons and its likely consequences.

  'It is true then. I thought it was just rumour that de Lacey was going to marry Mabel.' Judith disposed of the belt and returned to help him off with the hauberk. 'Mama says that she's not really mad. Her mouth's deformed and what she says comes out as gibberish unless you know her well .'

  'I doubt it will trouble her new husband for long.'

  Guyon put down his cup so that she could draw the hauberk over his head.

  Judith frowned, for he was shivering violently.

  Her knuckles touched his throat as she drew the garment over his head. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch. 'I'd better look at your leg,' she said and began to unlace his gambeson.

  'One of the men bound it for me,' he said with a shrug. 'Let be, Judith. I'm so tired I could fall asleep on my feet. The last thing I need is you poking at me with your tortures and nostrums.'

  'Nevertheless you will drink what I give you.' She threw him a stern look from beneath her brows.

  The faintest twist of humour curled his mouth.

  'Oh God,' he said. 'What have I ever done to deserve this?'

  'You married me,' she retorted, her own lips curving for an instant from their severity before she took the wet gambeson from him and the clinging damp linen shirt he wore beneath it.

  Guyon eyed Judith, his vision throbbing to the lead weight pressing down on top of his head, sensing a change in her but unable to fathom what or where. She returned with a sheepskin bed covering and flung it around his shoulders then turned away to mix a brew composed of poppy and feverfew in wine.

  'So I did,' he said softly and bent to remove his boots. The room swam before his eyes. He reached to brace himself against the clothing chest and missed.

  Judith spun round and, with a cry of consternation, ran to him. She saw a brighter red stain spreading on his chausses and his breath was coming in harsh, effortful gasps. He was on his knees. She knelt down and unlaced his chausses.

  'Lie down,' she commanded.

  'I don't--'

  'Lie down!' she snarled and pushed him. Guyon subsided as though she had struck him with a mace and not the flat of her hand.

  Efficiently she stripped him, her lips tightening at sight of the ineptly bound linen strip, newly wet and red. 'How long have you been riding with this?'

  'Five ... six hours,' he muttered from between clenched teeth.

  'You fool!' She left him to fetch a wad of clean linen which she folded into a pad and pressed hard to the leaking edges of the wound.

  'No choice, not with Walter de Lacey and his cohorts howling for my blood.'

  'It looks as if they got it!' she snapped, 'and perhaps your life with it.'

  'I've taken worse.' He tried to smile and failed.

  'I doubt it.' She leaned on the pad. 'You've lost more blood than a stuck pig, to look at you.'

  'I knew it would come back to boars in the end,' he said and lapsed into semi-consciousness.

  Judith was almost panicked into running for her mother.

  Almost, but not quite. There was nothing Alicia could do that she could not and he was her charge. 'So much for subtlety,' she said shakily, looking down at her wet, bloodied bedrobe and smeared hands. Seeing that the bleeding had eased she left him in order to fetch the powdered comfrey root and fresh bandages, and sent her maid Helgund for a bowl of mouldy bread.

  Returning to him, she shook the comfrey root into the wound, wondering with grim laughter how the fair Alais de Clare would have coped with such a situation. And the humour died as she wondered what Rhosyn ferch Madoc, mother of his child, would have done.

  The maid returned with the bread and was told to fetch sheets and blankets. Judith braided her hair, pinned it out of the way and set to work with needle and thread. The Fleming's sword had caught Guyon's inner thigh where the hauberk was slit to allow for riding and there was no mail to protect his flesh. It was not a long wound, but it had pierced deep and, had it been two inches higher, she would not have needed to worry about the matter of subtlety, and neither would he.

  Indeed, as she worked, the hysterical urge to giggle almost overcame her again, for kneeling between his legs she had a very intimate eyeful of what had previously so terrified her. Not so daunting now for the simple reason that she had control. If she wanted, she could leave him to bleed to death. It was a sobering thought. She swallowed her sense of the ridiculous and attended single-mindedly to her purpose.

  Having dressed the main wound as best she could, for it was in a difficult position to bind properly, she examined him for signs of other injury.

  Surprisingly, for a man so dark, Guyon was not hirsute; there was just a ridge of hair running from the centre of his breastbone down into the thick bush at his groin and she was able to scrutinise his flesh closely. It was something she had never done before, preferring to dwell in deliberate ignorance and he, sensing her fear and awkwardness, had seldom stripped naked in front of her.

  It had never occurred to her to think of a man's body being attractive. A source of pain and brutalisation, so her previous experience said.

  Now, almost in wonder, she traced with light fingers a thin white line scoring one muscular pectoral and one higher up, just grazing his jawbone.

  Guyon groaned and opened his eyes. Judith sucked a sharp breath between her teeth and quickly withdrew her hand.

  ' Cath fach, ' he said weakly and found a smile from somewhere; this time his tone was not patronising. 'How bad is it?'

  She could see his pulse racing in his throat and the sweat sheening its hollow. 'Bad enough.

  You've lost so much blood that there's scarcely a drop left in your body and you're quite likely to develop wound fever. There were flakes of rust in the cut. I've packed it with mouldy bread, but it's hard to bind. I can't move you for fear that you'll open it again. You are going to be uncomfortable for no small time ... if you live ... and no, I am not japing with you. You had best prepare your soul.'

  'What kind of comfort is that?' he said, tried to laugh and desisted, eyes squeezing closed.

  Judith used the mo
ment to scrub her face with her sleeve, refusing to be seen in tears. 'The only kind you'll get from me!' she snapped. 'And don't go to sleep. You've to drink this first.'

  He lifted his lids, then with an effort widened them at the sight of the stone pitcher full to the brim and the cup she was filling from its bounty.

  'All of it,' she said with a certain satisfaction.

  'God's death, you evil wench. Robert de Belleme does not have sole monopoly on torture after all . What is it?'

  'Boiled water, a sprinkling of salt and three spoonfuls of honey. It is to make up for the blood you've lost.'

  'I'll be sick,' he said faintly.

  Judith propped him up on the bolster and pillows fetched by the maid and rammed the cup under his nose. 'Drink it!' she commanded in a voice of steel that gave no indication that her knees had turned to jelly.

  Something like surprise flickered across his pall or as he looked at her. 'I'm not worth it, Cathfach,' he said huskily.

  'You are when I think of the alternative,' she answered, and lowered her lids over betraying tears.

  As Judith had predicted, the wound fever struck and sent Guyon's temperature soaring out of bounds and with it his grip on reality. Steadfastly she did what she could to bring the fever down, Alicia giving her aid and relief between times.

  During one of his lucid periods they moved him to the bed and Judith forced him to drink ox-blood broth in an effort to give his body the strength to fight back. He was promptly sick and she went away and wept in a corner, then returned and gave him more of the salt and honey water.

  Once, his eyes glittering like black glass, he looked through her and spoke in Welsh as if holding a conversation. 'It would still be rape. Not that much of a woman.' And another time, 'She's developing a sense of possession and it's becoming uncomfortable.'

  Bouts of raving showed her facets of his life that he had previously hidden from her. His relationship with Rhosyn, twisting like the current of the Wye, bitter-sweet as gall and honey. Once he laughed and called her Alais and made a suggestion that both flustered her and filled her with curiosity. She had not known that such a position was possible. During an occasional lucid spell , he would recognise her for her own self.