The Wild Hunt tor-1 Read online

Colour flooded his sister's face. Her husband, as a minor chamberlain, knew most of what transpired in the immediate circle surrounding the King: the scandals, the petty power struggles, the prevalent vices, and Guyon, with his striking looks, disregard for propriety and hint of Welsh barbarity was a magnet to which all three were drawn whether he wished it or no. 'I expect you and Prince Henry keep tallies to compare your ruttings,' she snapped.

  'Indeed we do,' Guyon said with a sarcastic flourish. 'How did you guess?'

  Miles eased tactfully to his feet and stretched like a cat uncoiling. 'Time enough for discussion tomorrow,' he said. 'I'm for my bed and I'm sure Guyon is too.' He gave his daughter an eloquent stare. Guyon had his trencher piled high enough already without her heavy-handed seasoning of moral chastisement and righteous advice.

  'A conspiracy of men,' Emma declared with a sniff, and then gave a tight smile. 'I know when I am beaten.' Going to her brother, she stooped and kissed his stubble-blurred cheek.

  He tugged the copper-coloured braid peeping from beneath her veil. 'That does not mean you will give in!'

  'Does it not?' She arched her brow at him. 'Let me tell you, I will gladly relinquish the battle to your wife and hope she has better fortune in taming your ways!'

  'Know when you are beaten, do you?' he needled as she went towards the curtain. 'Is that why you always have to have the last word?'

  CHAPTER 2

  In the great hall , Rhosyn rolled over on her lumpy makeshift pallet and sat up, irritated to discover that yet again her bladder was full . Beside her, oblivious, her father snored. He was a prosperous wool merchant these days, with a paunch to prove it. Complacent. They had fared well since their business dealings with Miles le Gallois. There was much profit to be had in wool and the cloth woven from the fleeces. Lord Miles bred it raw on the hoof. Her father sold the clip in Flanders and speculated a little on the wider trade markets - spices and leather, silks and glass - and they prospered.

  Beside their grandfather, the children of her first, now widowed marriage slept in a puppy huddle. Rhys was ten, a sturdy, dark-eyed replica of his father. Eluned, seven, resembled herself — slender and fey with raven hair, autumnal eyes and a luminous complexion. This coming child, as yet scarcely realised; well , if a boy, she could only hope by God's charity that he inherited Guyon's beauty married to a less difficult nature.

  Stupid, she thought, irritated at herself as she quietly left her children and her father to seek out the garderobe. Stupid to have been so easily caught, she who knew all her herbs and simples, or thought she knew because they had always worked before. Too late now, too dangerous, and not the season for the plants that would have cured her condition.

  She had been in two minds whether to make this trip to Hereford with her father, but had reasoned that it would be her last opportunity before the weather grew too difficult for travel.

  She needed to purchase linen for swaddling bands that she could stitch during the dark, hall -bound months of winter; and winter's threat was already upon them. The knife-bitter wind and the scudding snow squall s had caused them to curtail their journey early in the day and seek shelter under Lord Miles's roof.

  Guyon's arrival at dusk had been a surprise, and she was not sure if it was a welcome one.

  The news of his impending marriage had caused her no grief. She had always known the day would come, indeed, had held herself a little aloof with that knowledge in mind. He had a duty to take a wife of his own status and beget heirs, a wife who would have more in common with him than she ever would.

  Rhosyn's practical nature told her there was no point in building upon their tenuous relationship.

  For all his fluency in the Welsh tongue and his ability to adapt to Welsh ways, he was only one quarter of the Cymru and he was raised to be a marcher lord who would ride into Wales on the back of a warhorse to ravage the land if his King so commanded. He regarded the towering Norman border keeps as home and refuge, not as grey, enclosing prisons that hemmed in the soul.

  The latrine was cold and stank of its main function, and she did not linger. Instead of returning to the hall , however, Rhosyn made her way to the small wall chamber where Guyon usually lodged when he stayed here. His gazehound, Cadi, lay outside the entrance, her nose tucked into her tail, but rose with a joyous whine of greeting. Rhosyn paused to stroke the dog and make a fuss of her, before lifting the heavy curtain.

  Guyon had been sound asleep, but came immediately to his senses at the first soft clink of the curtain rings and the muffled whine of the dog.

  This was the keep where he had been born and raised, his welcome here guaranteed, but these days he was so conditioned to react to danger, and complete security was so seldom his, that he was out of bed and across the room in the space of a heartbeat. He lunged at the figure outlined in the glow from the corridor flare. The crown of his captive's head butted his chin, jarring his teeth together. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. A supple body writhed against his and he felt the swell of a woman's breast beneath his fingers.

  'It's me, Rhosyn!' she gasped indignantly, her French bearing the lilting accent of Wales. 'Have you lost your wits?'

  'More likely you have lost yours!' he retorted, but with amusement now that he was fully awake and enjoying the feel of her body against his own. 'It is a foolish thing to creep up on a man in the middle of the night, cariad. Oft-times I sleep with a naked sword at my side. I might have cut off your head!'

  'I have seen your naked sword frequently enough for it not to concern me,' Rhosyn replied with spurious innocence and pressed against him in the darkness. She tangled her fingers in his hair and stood on tiptoe to bite his ear and then whisper into it: 'But perhaps it would be safer to sheathe it, my lord.'

  Guyon laughed huskily. 'That sounds like a fine idea,' he said, before closing her mouth with a kiss, his fingers busy with the lacings of her gown.

  'Do you happen to know of a fitting scabbard?'

  Rhosyn stretched languidly like a cat and then relaxed, a contented half-smile curving her lips. 'I had forgotten what a pleasure it was,' she purred, had forgotten what a pleasure it was,' she purred, eyeing Guyon sidelong across the tossed coverlet in the glow from a cresset lamp.

  'Your fault,' he remarked, but easily, without accusation. 'I wanted you to come with me.'

  'I would have stuck out like a sore thumb among those Norman women and been as miserable as sin.'

  'Sin is never miserable,' Guyon remarked, thereby earning himself a playful slap. He caught her wrist and pulled her across him and they tussled for a moment, before he let her go and she drew back to study him. With his dark hair and eyes, he could easily have passed for one of the Cymru, although his height and breadth spoke of his Anglo-Norman descent.

  'I hear that you are with child,' he said, giving her a serious look now.

  Her gaze grew wary. 'What of it?'

  'Were you going to tell me?'

  Rhosyn bit her lip. 'Probably.' She avoided his eyes. 'My father and yours do too much business together to keep such a matter secret and Rhys and Eluned both chatter like jack-daws. You would have discovered sooner or later.'

  Guyon felt a pang at her intimation that had she been able to keep it from him, she would have done so. 'My sister seems to think that you will invoke Welsh law on the child's behalf.'

  Rhosyn stared at him.

  'In Welsh law the son of the handmaiden is equal to the son begotten on a legal spouse,' he clarified.

  She shook her head. 'Your sister is wrong.

  What good would it do on this side of the border where Norman custom reigns? It would be a hobble of broken straw indeed and I am not sure I would want a child of mine to dwell among saesnegs in a great stone tomb like this.' Her eyes roved the comfort of the room with disparagement.

  Guyon almost retorted that he was not sure he wanted a child of his to grow up running barefoot over the Welsh hill s or huckstering in wool for a living, but he curbed the words, knowing from bitter experienc
e that they too were hobbles of broken straw.

  'Emma spoke from the viewpoint of a Norman lady,' he said instead. 'She imagines what she would do in your position, and that would be to fight tooth and nail to have that child accepted as my responsibility.' He reached to twine a tendril of her hair through his fingers. 'Also, I think she said it to put me in dread of ever doing the like again.

  She disapproves of what she sees as my casual fornications.'

  Rhosyn made a face, remembering Emma's frosty expression as her family arranged their pallets in the hall , and then her grimace became a smile as she imagined the lady Emma's response had she witnessed herself and Guyon a few moments ago.

  The lamp sputtered in its pool of fat and Guyon gently tugged the strand of hair. 'But our concern is not with Emma, but with you.' His gaze ranged over her body which was just beginning to show the changes of pregnancy.

  Rhosyn stared at the coverlet and chewed her lip. 'I try to learn by my mistakes,' he said gently. 'I will not try to hold you; nor, though it be my greatest desire, is it fitting that I should.'

  'Your bride, you mean?' she said without rancour.

  Guyon made a face. 'You know about that? Ach, how can you not when gossip travels so fast?

  Rhosyn cariad, you are well out of this coil. Take the road to Wales and in the name of God, do not look back.'

  'Guy?'

  He flashed her a grim look. 'Did you also hear that I am to wed into the house of Montgomery? It is by royal command and the girl's mother is an old family acquaintance. My refusal would put her in mortal danger from Robert de Belleme, the new Earl of Shrewsbury. If he can lock up his own wife in some dark oubliette and put out his own godson's eyes, what need to cavil at tossing his sister-in-law and niece over Ravenstow's battlements? It is about power, my love, and you are well out of it. When your father has finished his business in England, go home, keep to your own hearth and forget about venturing across the border unless you have a well -armed and determined escort. Robert de Belleme and his minions will turn the marches into hell for such men as your father.'

  Rhosyn shuddered, wanting to believe he was exaggerating, but denied that comfort.

  'I will speak with your father tomorrow before our roads part, make sure he knows not to take short cuts across Shrewsbury's domain.'

  'Is it really so dangerous?'

  'Yes.' His voice filled with emphasis. 'I mean what I say, Rhosyn. Either go into the heart of Wales and do not venture forth again, or stay here with me, under my protection. There can be no middle path.'

  She shook her head numbly and shivered. He drew her back down beside and against his body, pulling the coverlet around them. She pressed herself against him but continued to shiver. This was the end of it. She could no more live in one of these great, grim fortresses than a Norman lady could sit milking a ewe on the slopes of Yr Wyddfa. She needed her measure of freedom and, aside from that, Norman women had entirely different views upon the subject of mistresses and their offspring. She had no desire to feud over a lost cause with Guyon's new wife. If he wanted to see her and the child, then let him come to Wales.

  ' Ffarwell fy llewpart du,' she murmured against his throat, and kissed him first there in the brown hollow and then raised her head to find his lips. ' Rwy'n dy garu di.'

  Guyon's arms tightened around her. 'I love you too, cariad,' he muttered, and silently cursed the whole Montgomery clan into the deepest pit of hell .

  CHAPTER 3

  Judith hissed through her clenched teeth as Agnes, her mother's maid, discovered a hitherto overlooked snarl in the mass of tawny-bronze hair she was combing.

  'Stand still , sweeting and it won't hurt so much,' Agnes said, a hint of exasperation in her voice, perspiration streaking her double chin. 'It's nearly done now.'

  'I'm not a babe to be cozened!' snapped Judith, shifting from foot to foot.

  Agnes's mouth puckered to become another fold in her fleshy face and she turned away to pick up a rope of polished agate beads. Judith sniffed, set her jaw and refused to cry. Tears availed her nothing - a lesson hard-learned in early childhood.

  Her father had dismissed them as a silly female weakness. Her mother had wept too many herself in grief over lost causes to encourage her daughter in like indulgences.

  Judith looked down at her wedding garments. A pale green linen undergown, close-fitting to her slender, almost thin body was topped by a dress of dark green silk damask, gorgeously embroidered with thread of gold at throat and hem and trailing sleeve. Her narrow waist was accentuated by a girdle of jewel-embroidered braid. She felt like the centrepiece at a feast, dressed to be devoured.

  In a few hours she was to make her marriage vows in the castle chapel to a man she had never before set eyes upon.

  She was to leave her home, go with him, his property to deal with as he pleased; to be bedded by him tonight and perhaps bear his child nine months from now. She was a week short of her sixteenth birthday and terrified. She knew how much her mother had suffered at the hands of her father before his death in September. The growls, the curses, the frequent slaps, the drunken beatings, the disdain that tore at the foundations of confidence. Her mother had borne the brunt, shielded her daughter from the worst of it, but Judith had known, had observed the hell , and could not bear that it might be her own fate.

  'Hold still , my sweeting,' said Agnes. 'Let me pin these in your hair, there's a good girl.'

  The maid's fingers tweaked and tugged, trailing pain in their wake. Resentment flared in Judith's breast, not just at Agnes, but at everything. She uncoiled her clenched fists and slapped Agnes's hand aside. 'You should have been a butcher's wife, not a lady's maid!' she spat.

  Affronted, Agnes clucked like a hen.

  The curtain rings rattled, announcing the arrival of Alicia de Montgomery. Taking in the scene before her eyes and sensing the atmosphere, the faint vertical marks between her brows became more defined.

  'Thank you, Agnes, you have wrought wonders. Our cygnet is a swan. Willyou go and ask the chamberlain's lad to bring fresh candles ready for tonight?'

  Head carried high, the maid swept out.

  'Agnes is an old besom at times,' Alicia said when they were alone, 'but that is no excuse to strike out. Is it what I have taught you? You will become no better than your father.'

  Judith bit her lip and held her chin rigid to stop it from quivering. 'I am sorry, mama,' she said unsteadily, 'but she hurt me. I feel like a filly being groomed for a horse-coper's approval!'

  Alicia shook her head and, uttering a sigh, folded her daughter in a rose-scented embrace. 'I know you do not think it now, but you are most fortunate in this match.'

  Judith's response was a stifled sob and her hands gripped suddenly tight on her mother's sleeves.

  'Hush now, you'll undo all Agnes's good work.'

  Alicia stroked Judith's hair. 'This match was made for men's political purposes, but it is a blessing for you could you but understand it. The man whose son you will wed ... I was almost his bride myself. Would to God that I had been so fortunate.'

  Judith wiped her face on her sleeve and stared at her mother.

  'Your grandfather FitzOsbern offered me to him, but he chose to wed an English heiress instead because it better suited his plans and besides, he was smitten. Christen had been widowed on Hastings field and she was a grown woman. I was your age and unknowing of the world. Your grandfather was not displeased when the offer was rejected because in the meantime he had received an offer from Maurice de Montgomery.'

  Who had beaten her for the slightest transgression and behaved with all the finesse of a rutting boar. Occasional baronial gatherings had afforded her glimpses of Miles le Gallois as he grew into middle age. The cat-like grace of his twenties had set, becoming less supple and rangy, but in essence remaining. Maurice had grown ever more to resemble a boar as his waistline overspread the bounds of his belt.

  'I know very little of Guyon, but with Miles and Christen for examples I do believe
your marriage will be easier than mine.' Alicia gave a regretful shrug. 'If circumstances had been different, you would have had time to know each other before the wedding, but as it is I would rather you had a strong protector when your uncle Robert comes to claim his earldom. Already the vultures are gathering.'

  Judith eyed at her mother whose expression revealed nothing - too much of nothing. Judith well knew the rumours surrounding Robert de Belleme. The maids delighted in terrifying each other of a night with tales of his brutality and Judith understood more English and Welsh than was seemly for a girl of her station. They said that he tortured for sport and robbed and murdered without conscience. The more fanciful of them even said that he possessed a forked tail and cloven hooves, but Judith gave no credence to their imagination. What need when the truth was already so lurid?

  He had designed Ravenstow himself and loaned her father the money to build it. They were still in his debt to the tune of several hundred marks. She knew her mother was afraid he would come immediately to claim it, being himself in debt to the King. It was the reason that this marriage had been arranged so quickly - before he had a chance to reach out and seize and strangle.

  Judith shuddered. The wedding was supposed to be a quiet affair with a select number of guests and vassals - supposed to be, but de Belleme's brother Arnulf of Pembroke had ridden in yestereve and with him had been Walter de Lacey who was a powerful vassal of de Belleme's, a hunting crony of her father's and former suitor for her hand. Her mother had been hard put to find them either house-room or cordiality, for it was obvious they were not present for the sake of wishing joy on the marriage; however, such eminent men could not be turned away and thus guested in the hall with those of official invitation such as Hugh d'Avrenches, Earl of Chester and FitzHamon, Lord of Gloucester.

  The curtain swished and Agnes reappeared followed by a youth bearing a basket of fresh candles. 'They're sighted, my lady. Be here within the hour, so de Bec says,' Agnes announced.