The Wild Hunt tor-1

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  She did not think she could have borne that. And, the remedy she knew lay in her own hands could she but bear to reach out and grasp it, thorns and all . He still called her Cath fach and pulled her braid, but he was more wary of touching her now.

  Fewer hugs and kisses. Sometimes he would look at her in a way that made her insides melt with fear and on those occasions his eyes were not on her face.

  He lingered more with his men. Some nights he did not come to bed at all . He spent much of his time away, some of it genuine, concerned with the new keep and maintenance of those he already held, some of it an excuse to avoid her.

  The easy camaraderie of the early days was gone. The thread that bound them was taut, vibrating with tension and stretching a little further each day. And if it snapped ...

  Stifled by her thoughts, Judith opened the casement and looked out. The apple blossom, prematurely detached by a frisky breeze, drifted in pink-tinted snow across her vision. The sound of laughter silvered her ears and she saw that a boat was being manoeuvred into the steps at the foot of the garden, a private riverboat with protective bright canopy and furs piled within against the nip of the spring breeze.

  The source of the laughter was an exceptionally pretty young woman wearing a cloak lined with vair. She sat on the nearside of the canopy and was leaning intimately into Guyon's shoulder. Her braids, exposed beneath her veil, were the colour of new butter against his dark cloak. He was laughing too and the woman leaned further to kiss him playfully on the lips as he rose to leave the boat. Richard, his brother-in-law, followed him, chuckling a remark and receiving a jesting slap from the woman in punishment. The last to leave was a slender young man who bent with polished courtesy to kiss the beringed white hand offered to him.

  'That's Prince Henry's private craft,' Christen said, nudging her way in to lean beside Judith and watch the boat steer out into the swift, grey current of the river. 'He still sees Alais on occasion.'

  'That is Alais de Clare?' Judith narrowed her eyes, but the blonde figure was too far away now to be freshly appraised.

  'There's no cause for concern,' Christen said blithely. 'She flirts from habit and Guy was never really that interested.'

  'I'm not concerned,' Judith said with far more nonchalance than she actually felt. 'Who else was there with Guyon and Richard?'

  Christen turned pink and smoothed her already immaculate gown. 'That was Simon de Vere, one of Papa's assistants. He's heir to an estate just outside the city, but Papa thinks he will rise to much higher things in the King's service.'

  So much higher that Richard was hoping for a match between Simon and his eldest daughter.

  Christen was amenable to the idea, for Simon was nineteen years old, likely to be rich and already an accomplished courtier.

  The women heard masculine voices raised in jovial conversation and Christen hastened to open the door, almost tripping over Cadi who was determined to be first.

  Richard strode into the room laughing and wiping his eyes at some joke and tossed his cloak casually on to a chest, Emma being absent among the stall s of Cheapside with her maid and not there to take him to task.

  The popinjay screeched at the men and bobbed on its perch. 'You ought to get one, Guy, they're good company when your wife's not around.' Richard grinned, as Guyon paused beside the perch to eye the bird dubiously. 'Mind you, so is Alais de Clare, eh?'

  'Not much to choose between the two,' Guyon answered neutrally as he walked around the bird.

  'But I rather fancy that Alais bears more resemblance to a coney than a popinjay.'

  Richard snorted and turned to take the wine that his daughter brought for him.

  Guyon looked round at Judith, who still stood at the open window, her expression censorious. 'Where's your cloak, Cath fach?'

  ' Cath fach?' Richard looked round, still laughing. Familiar with Latin, French and Flemish and even a smattering of English, he was totally nonplussed by the Welsh that his wife's marcher relatives used so freely.

  'Kitten,' Guyon translated in the same, neutral tone. 'She might look sweet, but don't try picking her up unless you want to be scratched.'

  'A coney, a popinjay or a kitten,' Richard mused. 'Which would you rather?'

  'A kitten any day,' Guyon smiled across at his wife. 'They know how to fend for themselves.'

  She looked at him and then away, crossly aware that she was blushing. 'Why do I need my cloak?'

  'Simon's grandfather has a house this end of the Holborn road and he's renting breathing space if we want it.'

  Judith glanced around the room. Christen and Simon had drawn aside and were talking in stilted formal fashion, painfully aware of Richard's approving but amused paternal scrutiny. Tonight there would be straw pallets laid out over every portion of floor space and not even the privacy to piss in the chamber-pot without alerting half the household to the event. Besides, the crowded proximity in which they were forced to dwell was straining the lukewarm tolerance between herself and Emma to the limit. She nodded to Guyon and went to pick up her cloak from the foot of the bed.

  'Get your cloak, Christen,' Guyon said across the room to his niece. 'You might as well come too. Simon's grandfather won't object. He enjoys company.'

  'He'd be delighted,' Simon confirmed, his face alight with that particular emotion before he turned a pensive look in Richard's direction. 'With your permission, sire?'

  'Dare I trust you for a chaperon, Guy?' Richard enquired, lifting a sardonic brow. 'Emma will have me chopped into gobbets and fed to that damned bird if anything untoward happens.'

  'Papa!' cried Christen indignantly, as if his concern had not, at one time, been warranted.

  'I will have every respect for Christen, sir,' said Simon with earnest, stilted courtesy.

  Guyon considered the bright ludicrous bird upon its perch. 'Does it eat meat, anyway?' he asked.

  Christen hit him.

  Simon's grandfather was a garrulous old man, in his seventieth year but still hale and hearty, delighted to greet company. He teased Simon unmercifully about Christen, pumped him and Guyon for court scandal, sucking his gums with relish over the juicier bits and making acid remarks about the brains and breeding of the people involved. He gave them wine and honey cakes. The tables board came out and a set of dice and counters. He invited Christen to play and swivelled a jaundiced eye towards Guyon.

  'I heard about you from the Prince last time he was here. "Never play tables with anyone from Flambard's household, or with Guyon FitzMiles," he said. "They'll strip you naked in less time than it took you to dress in the first place!"'

  'That's untrue!' Guyon protested, laughing. 'I'd leave you your braies for decency at least!'

  The old man dismissed him with a disgusted wave. 'Nay, but you're not as pretty to look at across a trestle as your niece here and I've a close interest in her, since she's likely to be future family. Take your wife above and show her the rooms awhile.'

  Simon, not about to miss the opportunity to study Christen's dainty profile, drew up a stool so that he could watch her as she played.

  Judith and Guyon went outside and climbed the wooden outer staircase to the rooms above.

  'What did he mean about the Prince?' Judith asked as Guyon opened the door and drew aside a heavy curtain.

  'Oh, Henry occasionally stays here, or he used to before the new palace was finished.

  Sometimes he games with old Walter to humour him.'

  Judith examined the room with renewed interest. The wall s were plastered and illuminated with seasonal scenes - hunting, ploughing, reaping, women dancing at a feast, a man catching fish. The colours were rich and vibrant.

  There was a brazier in the room and in a niche in the wall stood a small alabaster statue of the Virgin. There was a bench, an oak chest and a long trestle table.

  'He would hold meetings here sometimes,' Guyon said, glancing round at the familiar surroundings. 'That mark on the table is where he propped his feet with his spurs still on.'
/>   'Dicing, wenching and carousing?' she said archly.

  'Not often. There are places on the Southwark side for that kind of sin.' He followed her through the second curtain into the slightly smaller bedchamber, which was empty of its main item of furniture. 'I expect Henry's had the bed transferred to Westminster, but I dare say we can find one from somewhere.'

  'One?' Judith looked over her shoulder at him.

  'As the need arises,' he answered with a shrug, as if the matter was of no consequence.

  Judith examined the rest of the room. The windows, like Richard's, were glazed and the wall s as in the first room were plastered and illuminated. Rushes strewed the floor, scattered with lavender, and on a coffer was a folded blanket that was obviously a bed covering. She looked down at a second tableboard set upon a cloth-covered trestle and uneasily moved one of the polished jet counters.

  'We can remain with Richard and Emma if you'd prefer,' Guyon said, picking up one of the other counters, tossing it in the air and catching it on the back of his hand as if playing knucklebones.

  She shook her head, eyes stubbornly lowered, fingers toying desperately with the smooth, cold lump of jet whose twin was lodged in her stomach. 'You have seen how cramped we are.

  Emma will not thank us if we refuse and it would be a discourtesy to Simon and his grandfather.'

  Guyon studied her for a moment, then set his counter down and tilted her face on his fingertips.

  Judith raised her eyes, feeling hot and weak and frightened, and wished that they had stayed downstairs.

  'That is their preference, not yours,' he said gently.

  'It is mine too,' Judith stood her ground as he traced the line of her jaw until he reached her ear, skirted it and feathered his fingertip down her throat. Her scalp prickled.

  'There is nothing to fear,' he said softly. 'I won't hurt you. You know that, or you should by now.'

  A chill ran down her spine. The finger became a hand that slipped slowly down to her waist, curved there and drew her lightly against him. He brushed her temple with his lips, her cheekbone and jaw, slanting to seek her earlobe beneath her braid and nibble it gently. Judith gasped and arched at the sensation.

  He nuzzled the sensitive hollow behind her ear, kissed her throat, returned to her face, his lips light as a butterfly travelling the same path again to return to her earlobe. He held her loosely, not compelling her to the embrace, stroking her as he might stroke Cadi or Melyn, soothing her while enticing her to want more. At length, he moved his other hand from her back and slowly took it up the side of her ribcage to the small , neat outer swell of her breast. Softly he touched her lips with his own, applying no demand, then moved on, kissing her chin, trailing the tip of his tongue over her throat.

  Judith began to respond. One hand came up tentatively to rest on his belt, the other, palm flat, smoothed the dark wool tunic on his back. She moved closer. Guyon forced himself to a patience he was far from feeling. His body, responding to instinct and abstention, was eager for release. It had been a long time since Earl Hugh's hunting lodge, but Judith was so edgy and afraid that one step too soon or too clumsy and he would lose all the ground he had thus far gained. Besides, a hasty coupling on the floor with one ear cocked for a tread on the stairs was hardly the best method of initiating a frightened virgin and, while it might satisfy his current appetite, it would do nothing for his abiding need.

  Judith's lips parted beneath the gentle insistence of his own. She felt as if she was drowning beneath flowing warm waves of sensation. Her breasts tingled. Her loins were moist and aching, her whole body a boneless supple mass.

  Downstairs there was a shout of laughter from the old man and loud exclamations from his two young companions. The spell shattered. Judith leaped like a doe and Guyon's arms involuntarily tightened to hold her. Judith struggled and tore free, her eyes wide, a gasp catching in her throat.

  Guyon slowly let his hands fall to his sides. He was breathing hard, as if he had just run up a tower in full mail. 'You see what happens when you stir a banked fire,' he said ruefully. 'I've been wanting to do that for a long time.'

  Judith swallowed. He was melting her with that burning brown stare. Their relationship was paused on the brink of another plane and it terrified her. Snatching hot chestnuts from the fire indeed!

  Guyon paced to the window, braced his forearms on the thick wooden ledge and looked down at his hands gripping the dusty edge while his blood cooled. He had seen the fear in her eyes and did not know how to deal with it aside from schooling himself to further patience. There were remedies of course, none of them satisfactory. There was no pleasure in drinking water when it was wine you wanted.

  Judith hastily sleeved her eyes as Simon walked into the room, grinning broadly, a half-eaten apple in his hand. Christen had just defeated his grandfather in a move that was as much a surprise to herself as it had been to the old man. 'Is it all right?' he asked, nodding around the room and taking another bite of the fruit. 'Don't worry about the bed. Grandfather says he knows where he can get hold of one.'

  His back turned. Guyon muttered something at his spread hands and then laughed without humour.

  'It belongs to the Abbess of St Anne's,' Simon added, brow cocking curiously. 'It's got a feather mattress and silk hangings and everything else. It was part of her dowry, but the Bishop says she has to give it up ... What's wrong, Guy, have I said something funny?'

  'No,' Guyon said, turning round. 'It's not funny at all . Do I have to say grace before I get in?'

  'Depends on what you have in mind,' Simon said. 'For what we are about to receive and all that.' He smiled round at Judith. She turned pink and, choking an excuse, she gathered her skirts and hurried from the room.

  'I didn't think that she would take offence. I'm sorry,' Simon said, staring at the still moving curtain with a perplexed frown on his face.

  'How many Hail Marys does it take to work a miracle?' Guyon asked wearily.

  CHAPTER 17

  Judith lifted the goblet. It was made of the finest silver gilt delicately incised with a scroll work pattern of vine leaves. The wine within was sweet-sharp and cold from the well in which it had been chilled prior to being brought to table.

  The King's new hall of Westminster blazed with rich colour, the wall s painted in a bold, angular design that glowed red and blue, gold and shadowed matt black. Banners sparred the wall s in vivid primary colours. Candles flamed and dripped, cream and gold, reflecting the napery on the long trestles. The high barony of England glowed like a mobile, flowing tapestry.

  Judith sipped her wine and watched the weaving men and women - her uncle Arnulf de Montgomery, as objectionable as ever; her maternal uncle William Breteuill was with him and they were talking amiably enough, although the frequent flicker of their eyes betrayed their mistrust. Her most notorious relative, Robert de Belleme, was not here at this gathering, preferring to hold his own court in Arundell prior to taking ship for Normandy, but Arnulf, among others, was his informant as to the happenings at court during his absence.

  Further down the room Gilbert de Clare, lord of Tunbridge, was deep in conversation with his brother Roger and with Robert FitzHamon of Gloucester who had been at her wedding. Guyon himself stood on the edge of the group that included them, having just arrived from the direction of the latrine. He was resplendent in a gown of garnet-red wool embroidered with thread of gold. The tunic, unlike the ones worn at knee length for the rigours of everyday life in the marches, swept the tops of his ankles. He was a lord of some importance and at court, if nowhere else, had perforce to dress as one, even down to the heavy rings encumbering his fingers.

  A man on his way from the hall paused in the act of pinning his cloak to speak with the group of men. Prince Henry. She had seen him sitting on the high dais beside the King, his brother. He was of middling height and girth with a shock of soot-black hair and narrow features. Guyon replied to something the Prince said and Henry laughed aloud. The plain features lit up, became a
ttractively mischievous and he thumped Guyon's shoulder and walked on. Guyon bowed, then straightened to glance across at her. Caught in the act of her own scrutiny, Judith blushed and quickly attended to her wine. A youth refilled her cup to the brim and passed on down the board with the flagon.

  She drank in deep gulps until her panic had subsided. She could not forget the delightful, unsettling sensations aroused in her by the skilful play of his hands upon her. The body as a weapon. It was a two-edged sword and she had yet to learn how to handle it. What was it the Welsh said? Arfer yw mam pob meistrolaeth.

  Practice is the mother of mastery. Guyon had a vastly unfair advantage and he knew it. It was there in every look he had given her since that afternoon. He had not touched her again. He did not need to. The tension between them was a palpable entity crackling the air. The eye sufficed, speaking all that the tongue avoided and the body suppressed.

  Some tumblers leaped before the trestle, their costumes parti-coloured and sewn with bell s. One of them between gyrations juggled with six flashing knives, catching them expertly by the hilt.

  'Enjoying the experience?' Hugh of Chester said in her ear.

  Judith jumped and turned round. The Earl was opulent in blue silk, loose cut for comfort over his great belly. Roped gold winked across the width of his breast and there was a huge round Welsh brooch pinned to one shoulder.

  'I am glad to have come, my lord,' she said with a smile, 'but I think I prefer the clean air of the marches to that of the city.'

  An elderly man at the Earl's shoulder was staring at her with frank, almost startled curiosity.

  Chester introduced him as Sir Hubert de Caen, a veteran of Hastings and aide of the late King William. Judith smiled and responded politely.

  'Ravenstow's wife?' Sir Hubert murmured, taking Guyon's place at the trestle. 'Forgive me for asking, but surely you are related to the Conqueror?'

  'Well yes,' said Judith, looking doubtful, wondering at his intention. 'My grandfather and King William were cousins.'