The Wild Hunt tor-1 Page 7

  De Lacey's sword twitched level and the red edge glinted at Guyon, who reached to draw from his own scabbard. Hugh of Chester, moving swiftly for a man so bulky, placed himself between the men, his back to Guyon, his formidable blue glare for de Lacey. 'My lord, you forget yourself,' he said coldly.

  'I forget nothing!' de Lacey spat, but lowered his blade to wipe it on the corpse before ramming it back in his scabbard. He turned on his heel to examine the stolen horse, running his hands down its legs to check for signs of lameness.

  Guyon compressed his lips and struggled to contain his fury.

  De Lacey mounted the black, looped his other mount's reins at the cantle and after a contemptuous look at Guyon, rode over to where Montgomery waited.

  Guyon watched de Lacey with narrowed eyes and with conscious effort, slowly unclenched his fingers from the hilt of his sword.

  Chester bent down beside the dead man and picked up the bow. 'You were drawn here to be killed, you realise that, lad?'

  Guyon grimaced. 'I suspected it back at the keep and knew for certain the moment we caught up with them. A man so anxious to retrieve his horse would hardly lag to wait for us. Did you see the way he blocked my path to make me a sitting target for this poor greedy wretch?'

  'It was all arranged last night,' de Bec said, leading over Guyon's courser and Miles's grey.

  'I'm sure of it now. If you search his pouch, you'll probably find the cost of his betrayal.'

  Chester reached to the purse threaded upon the huntsman's belt, unlatched the buckle and delved. The small silver coins, minted with the head of the Conqueror, gleamed on his broad, fleshy palm in mute evidence of treachery. He trickled them from hand to hand, eyes following their flow and then looked up at Guyon. 'Will you take it further?'

  Guyon gingerly remounted. 'How can I? Oh, I know that's proof in your hands, but it's not damning. It could easily be claimed that Rannulf won it at dice. Besides, with this arm I'd be mad to risk challenging de Lacey or Montgomery to a trial by combat which would be the sure outcome of a public accusation. No, let it be. Each of us--'

  He broke off and looked around as his father, who had reached for his mount's bridle, uttered an involuntary hiss of pain. 'Sir?'

  Miles made a face. 'I think I must have a couple of cracked ribs - and my pride is sore wounded.

  In the old days I'd have taken Rannulf like a wraith from behind and him none the wiser until my dagger was at his throat. The flesh grows old and the mind forgets.' He shook his head regretfully.

  'De Lacey has come out of this coil with a halo of glory, hasn't he?'

  'Shining with corruption,' Guyon agreed. 'But at least I know where his intentions are nailed.'

  CHAPTER 6

  Alicia fetched the comfrey salve and a fresh dressing and went to Miles where he sat on the bed. He was stripped to the waist and she had just unbound the yards of swaddling bands from his injured ribs in order to treat again the nasty graze that swept over his left side, legacy of yesterday's scrimmage.

  'You and your son between you seem determined to exhaust our supplies,' she remarked to break the silence.

  'Entirely unintentional,' he said ruefully and stroked the head of the white bitch sitting at his knee. Now that their guests had departed - some of them in haste following the incidents of yesterday - Guyon and Judith were in a wall chamber examining the account roll s. Since Melyn was tucked around Judith's shoulders, Cadi had been banished.

  Alicia flicked him a swift glance. 'Hold this for me.'

  He took the ointment and sniffed its green herbal aroma. 'It's only a scrape and a couple of cracked ribs. You need not go to all this trouble.'

  'It could have been your life!' She dipped two fingers in the jar and began to smear the salve over his ribs. He tensed at the first, cold touch.

  Alicia murmured an apology, her colour heightening. He made a disclaimer and slowly relaxed. The light touch of her fingers was soothing. He fondled the dog's ears and gazed at a colourful hanging on the wall .

  'What happens now?'

  Miles shrugged. 'Nothing. We keep a close watch on all future moves of Walter de Lacey and our new Montgomery kin.'

  'You are not going to pursue the matter? Murder and twice attempted murder?'

  'And no proof. You cannot make a corpse speak. It is Guyon's word against de Lacey's with an equal number of witnesses to swear for either side.'

  'But ...'

  'I like it as little as you, but our hands are tied. If it went to justice, it would end in trial by combat.

  You've seen Guy's arm. Every marcher lord is bred from the cradle to fight. The odds are too close to load them in de Lacey's favour. Perhaps I'll just stick a knife in his ribs on a dark night. My Welsh blood permits me such lapses of honour.'

  'You'll do no such thing!' Alicia's eyes widened in fear as she wiped her fingers on the edge of one of the swaddling bands. 'He is Arnulf's friend and de Belleme's vassal. Robert would impale you on a stake at the Shrewsbury crossroads and leave you there until your flesh rotted off it!'

  He flashed her a brief, distorted smile. It was at moments like this that he realised the true depth of his loss. Christen had been one of four within the keep to succumb to the sweating sickness. It came, it claimed haphazardly and it moved on.

  Even now, two years later, the wounds were unhealed and inadvertently Alicia was laying them open again, reminding him of what he no longer had.

  He was drawn from his introspection by the awareness that she was trembling. 'What's the matter? I was jesting, I swear it.'

  'You would not jest if you had lived beneath Maurice's code of cruelty,' she said bitterly. 'You have not had to sit at meat with Robert de Belleme and Walter de Lacey when they have come red-handed from torturing some poor wretch out of his life and wonder if you or your daughter might be their next victim!' Abruptly she pressed the end of the swaddling band against his ribs. 'Hold this,' she commanded.

  'Alicia ...'

  She reached around him. He felt the warmth emanating from her body and smelled the drifting scent of attar of roses. He let go of the bandage, slipped his arm around her waist and kissed her.

  He felt her quiver. She hesitated as if on a brink, and then she made a soft sound in her throat. Her lips parted beneath his and her arms circled his neck, the bandage falling to the floor at their feet.

  As impulse gave way to a deeper need, Miles forgot that he had been going to give her detailed reassurances about himself, Guyon and Robert de Belleme, forgot everything but the quickening beat of his blood responding to the feel and taste of her - like fresh water after a long drought.

  Alicia gasped and pressed against him as he unwound her braids and threaded his fingers through the thick black twists of her hair. He took his time, kissing her face and nuzzling her throat before claiming her lips again. He ran one hand lightly up her ribcage, found the soft curve of her breast and lightly stroked.

  'Tell your maid to keep watch so we are not disturbed,' he muttered hoarsely against her temple.

  She heard his words through a haze of sensual delight, and it took a moment for them to reach her brain, but when they did the effect was as immediate as a deluge of frozen water. The thought of Agnes listening outside while she coupled with a man she barely knew, the notion of instructing the woman with her hair all unbound and her lips swollen by kisses, the memory of a time almost seventeen years ago when she had done just that ... The images coagulated and all the magic was lost. She removed her arms from around his neck, averted her mouth from his kiss and pushed him away.

  'I am not a whore,' she said flatly.

  'What?' He sought her blindly for a moment and then his eyes opened and slowly refocused.

  'Alicia ...'

  'If you want a woman to tumble, there are plenty of serving girls accustomed to Maurice's ways who would relieve your need.' Gathering her hair, she began clumsily to rebraid it.

  'I don't want another woman, I want you.' His hand extended in supplication
, he took a step towards her. Alicia backed away.

  'You would make a whore of me in my own household before my servants and vassals!'

  'Of course not! Why do you think I told you to speak to your maid?'

  'What would you have me say to her?'

  'Anything. That we wish to discuss a private matter concerned with the wedding or dowry.'

  'With my hair all unbound?'

  Miles turned away with an oath and scraped his fingers through his hair. 'You led me to believe you were willing ... more than willing.'

  Alicia worked frantically at her braids. There was no answer to that, for she had indeed been eager to couple with him until brought abruptly to common sense, and her body still tingled with thwarted desire. 'You took advantage!' she said accusingly, and suddenly her throat was tight and her chest heaving.

  'Yes,' he snapped. 'Blame me, because you dare not blame yourself!'

  Alicia began to cry, deep-rooted sobs that shook her body from head to toe.

  'God's sweet life, don't ...' Miles started towards her, then hesitated.

  Cadi whined and wagged her tail as Guyon swished through the curtain, a roll of parchment in his hand. His grim expression changed on the instant to comical, slack-jawed amazement. 'I'm sorry, I did not realise...'

  'There is nothing to realise!' Alicia responded through her tears and, gathering her skirts, pushed blindly past him and out of the room.

  Guyon stared at the curtain as it fell , then back at his sire.

  'Do not ask me,' Miles groaned, subsiding on to the bed and putting his head in his hands. 'I seem to be making mistakes hand over fist these days.

  Where's Judith?'

  'Ensuring the cooks know what they are about.'

  He eyed his father, wondering how to interpret what he had just seen. As Alicia had pushed past him he had not missed the detail that the front of her dress was smothered in green unguent.

  'Are you any good at binding cracked ribs?'

  Miles handed him the length of swaddling, his expression giving nothing away. Guyon took the linen from him and set about the task.

  'What's this?' Miles took the parchment and squinted at it.

  'The amount owed to Robert de Belleme for the stone and craftsmen to build this place.'

  'The what?'

  'According to that document, de Belleme lent Maurice five hundred marks to purchase men and materials. There are still three hundred owing and, knowing de Belleme, I doubt he will waive the sum as a wedding gift to his niece. In fact, it gives him the excuse he needs to claim Ravenstow if I cannot pay. With Maurice it did not matter - it was a convenient hold on his loyalty — but there is no profit to be had from me except in full payment, and he knows it.'

  'Can you raise the silver?'

  Guyon finished banding the linen around Miles's chest and secured it. 'Probably, but it will be no small inconvenience and will leave my new vassals considerably poorer than when they swore me homage.'

  'Providing of course that they are willing to pay in the first place.'

  Guyon smiled thinly. 'They are obliged by custom to render a relief on Judith's marriage and I will have that from them at the oath-taking tomorrow before they leave.'

  Miles glanced uneasily at Guyon. He did not doubt his son's ability to wring the relief from his vassals, nor his ability to hold them loyal to their oaths of fealty. What did disturb him was the glint of devilry lurking beneath the surface of Guyon's thoughtful expression. He had seen that look before, usually preceding some act of rash lunacy. 'What are you plotting?' he demanded.

  Guyon smiled. 'Naught, as yet. I'm a newly married man, or had you forgotten? Speaking of which, that's a very pretty lover's bruise on your throat.'

  Miles heard the warning behind the flippancy.

  He was being told to mind his own business and for a moment resentment flared. He fixed his son with a hard stare. Guyon's eyes returning the look were a melting luminous brown, edged with silky, thick lashes. They masked a will as flexible and strong as a willow wand. You might bend it, but the moment you let go it sprang back to its original way of growing, usually striking you into the bargain. It was useless to argue.

  Miles dropped his regard to the parchment and heaved a sigh. 'As I said, I seem to be making mistakes hand over fist.'

  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 hab
itable. 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 .