The Wild Hunt tor-1

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  'Then the road to Winchester is open?'

  'Yes.'

  Guyon cursed as he picked up his swordbelt and fumbled to attach the scabbard to its thongs.

  The Queen, the heir, the treasury.

  Alicia hovered in the background, looking as if she might burst into tears. Guyon glanced round the room for his spurs and lifted them off the coffer. 'Look after Cadi for me,' he said to her, 'I cannot take her with me.'

  Alicia nodded distantly, but her eyes were all for Miles, devouring him. Guyon flicked a look from one to the other. 'I'll meet you below,' he murmured to his father, kissed Alicia on the cheek, thought briefly of Judith and left the room, Eric stamping in his wake.

  Alicia gave a small , despairing sob and cast herself into Miles's mail-clad arms. He smoothed her glossy black braids and buried his face in the pulse beating in her white neck. The sword pommel intruded between them, butting up beneath her ribs. It might as well have been through her heart, blade end on.

  CHAPTER 23

  If Robert de Belleme had been the kind of man to tear out his hair and swear and curse, he would have done so. Those who knew him well enough recognised the signs of agitation with sufficient clarity to take evasive action before it was too late. Those who did not, found they had a scorpion by the tail.

  As the troops made ready to disperse, he sat in his tent and stared blank-eyed at the rough canvas wall . A muscle ticked in his cheek. His fists tightened. After a moment he glanced down at the dirty yellow colour of his clenched knuckles, then gently flexed them, placing his hands palm-flat upon his thighs.

  He had picked his horse, he had nurtured it, fed it from his own hand, cajoled it, coaxed it sweetly down to the water trough. It had dipped its muzzle and at the last, impossible moment had refused to drink because the water was not as crystal clear as it had imagined. By rights he should have taken his sword and hewn the beast into gobbets there and then.

  Outside the tent, he heard Walter de Lacey and another of his vassals joking together, something about the young age of the whore currently appeasing de Lacey's lust. A red mist floated before de Belleme's eyes. They were laughing about a slut when months of careful planning and hard work were unravelling around them like a loom weaving backwards. But then what did he expect of fools? When he was sure of his temper, he rose and stalked purposefully out into the open.

  'Aren't those other tents down yet?' he snarled.

  'Nearly, m'lord,' a serjeant answered fearfully.

  He shoved him aside and snapped his fingers at the soldier who held his stall ion. De Lacey and the other man stopped laughing and exchanged wary glances. He did not even look at them, although they were part of his personal escort who were to ride with him to the signing of the peace treaty between the brothers. Peace treaty - hah! For what it was worth to Robert Curthose, he might as well use it to wipe his backside.

  De Belleme mounted his stall ion and drew in the reins, pulling the horse's mouth against its chest. 'When you are ready,' he said icily.

  De Lacey cleared his throat, muttered an apology and swung into his saddle.

  The King and his brother sat side by side at a long, linen-spread trestle. Guyon, seated further down the board, watched the banners flutter in the warm breeze. Behind and before, two armies were amassed, one of English shire levies, commanded by the barons who had remained loyal to Henry and one of Normans and Flemings, bulked out by the vassals and retainers of such men as Robert de Belleme, Arnulf of Pembroke and Ivo Grantmesnil.

  The smell of so many bodies was distinctly middenish, as was the language. The English were merely insulting the Normans because it was a traditional pastime. The Normans were swearing because their leader had decided to make peace with his brother when it was crass stupidity to do so. Better by far to fight.

  Guyon and Miles had reached Winchester with their troops close on dusk of the day following the messenger's arrival, had been momentarily mistaken for the enemy and almost set upon.

  Cursing, Guyon had roared his name at the men on the wall s, his shield flung up and furred with arrows and, after the captain of the guard had been sent for and emerged hitching his chausses and complaining that he could not even go for a piss in peace, they were admitted to spend the night there.

  Curthose's army had bypassed Winchester, so the captain had told them, his eyes cynical with disbelief. Guyon sent a glance along the board to the bearded, stocky form of Robert Curthose. The kind of man who forsook such a prize when it was his for the taking was the kind of fool who was unfit to govern.

  Curthose lived in a world of chivalric unreality, an illuminated page that had little to do with worldly practicalities. It was the reason he never had any money. He was constantly frittering it away in the interests of distributing largesse. His misplaced sense of knightly generosity had led him to declare he could not possibly be so much of a brute as to disturb the Queen when she was so near to her time.

  Robert de Belleme, who could indeed have been so brutish without a qualm, was left gnashing his teeth at Curthose's inability to maintain both his sense of purpose and the anger at Henry that might have kept his fervour burning.

  Those barons who had counted on being able to make Curthose fight for the English crown were now watching Henry, avoiding his eye if he watched them in return and anxiously counting the cost of misjudgement. Henry was not his easygoing brother to forgive and forget, unless it was politically expedient to do so.

  They were all gathered here now, enemy and ally, on the London road at Alton, so that Henry and Curthose could hammer out their differences and come to terms. De Belleme and Flambard and Grantmesnil had advised Curthose to fight.

  His position was good and would never be stronger. Henry had smiled into his brother's childishly innocent eyes and asked why resort to bloodshed when diplomacy was by far the better way?

  Curthose had been only too willing to listen to Henry's sweet-talk, which was, of course, Henry's deadliest weapon. Curthose's intention to war with Henry had considerably cooled since its first indignant eruption and, besides, he was now embarrassed for funds. All he wanted was some money to cover his expenses and to go back to Normandy and let the dust settle. Henry was most amenable. All that remained to be discussed was the sum Curthose would be paid annually in return for his acknowledgement of Henry's right to the crown.

  Guyon studied the assembly. Grantmesnil, de Belleme and Roger de Poitou had arrived looking like a trio of warlocks, their minions swarming behind. The lord of Shrewsbury was wearing a blood-red gown. His eyes were as pale as shards of glass and stabbed everyone they encountered.

  When the look slashed over Guyon, the latter answered it impassively. He shielded himself from the malevolence by recalling their last encounter and the gratifying sight of de Belleme and de Lacey parcelled up in the road among a herd of bleating, stinking sheep. His mouth twitched and he quickly lowered his eyes before he laughed. When he dared to look up again, the Earl's gaze was stalking FitzHamon with vicious intent and Walter de Lacey was watching him instead.

  Without qualm this time, Guyon smiled at him.

  De Lacey stiffened and his right hand twitched towards his sword; except of course that he wasn't wearing one. No man came armed to a parley. He transferred his fist to his empty belt and clamped it there instead.

  The annual sum to be forfeited by Henry was set at three thousand marks. Robert appeared delighted with the bargain. Henry's own smile was wry, but with a secretive under-current that Guyon well recognised. Judith looked like that when matters had not gone entirely her own way but she intended them to do so in the fullness of time.

  Curthose might get his payment this year and next, but as soon as Henry's hold on his kingdom was less precarious, he would set about seeking a way to extricate himself from the agreement.

  Twelve barons from each faction ratified the treaty with their seals. Henry and Robert clasped each other. Curthose's hug was ebullient and affectionate, Henry's a pale imitation. Affection in H
enry was reserved for those who did not threaten his crown and even that these days was sparingly given. He was in love with the task of ruling and it left precious little room for softer emotions.

  Guyon was in the act of accepting a cup of wine and a heel of bread from his father's captain while around him the men made shrift to load the packhorses, when Henry himself approached, picking his way carefully around the campfire and assorted heaps of baggage. FitzHamon was with him, the sun reflecting off his pink, freckled scalp.

  Guyon bowed, his mouth full of bread. Miles appeared from the tent, breath drawn to speak and, startled, made his own obeisance.

  Guyon swallowed hastily. 'Breakfast, sire?' he asked with a touch of humour. The bread was stale and the wine was warm and stuck to the palate. It was all they had left.

  Henry made a gesture of refusal and came straight to the point. 'I have to put a curb bit on de Belleme, his brothers and their allies,' he said, 'and I need your help, Guy, and yours too, Miles.'

  'If it be in my power, sire,' Miles answered gracefully, eyes full of suspicion.

  Guyon glanced at FitzHamon whose face was unhelpfully blank. His heart sank. All he wanted to do was go home, bury his head beneath a pillow for six months, sleep and rediscover the pleasure of a bathtub and Judith fragrantly soft in his arms.

  Judith, who was Henry's daughter. 'Sire?'

  'I've had the exchequer gathering evidence against Surrey and Grantmesnil since the late autumn, but I need more information on de Belleme and his brothers. There is much groundwork to be done in the marches and until I am ready to cast the noose, I do not want my prey to know how tight I intend to draw it.'

  'You want us to spy for you?' Miles demanded.

  Henry pinched the end of his blunt nose. Miles, half Welsh by birth, had been one of his father's most valued scouts, a master in the arts of reconnaissance and stealth, one of the props of the Norman army during the notorious northern campaign of 'sixty-nine. 'Not personally,' he said with a tepid smile. 'I'd not lose either of you to one of Shrewsbury's little pastimes, but you must have contacts from the old days, Miles, men you can trust.'

  'To have their entrails pierced in my stead?' Miles said with quiet contempt.

  'Don't be so awkward, Miles,' said FitzHamon. 'Someone has to recruit the men and collate the information gleaned. Would you rather have de Belleme ravening about the borders like a mad wolf for the next thirty years?'

  Miles snorted. 'A knife in the dark would work just as well ,' he said, 'and would probably be a lot simpler to accomplish.'

  Henry shook his head. 'I had thought of that, but it wouldn't really serve. If Robert de Belleme dies, then the lands go to his son, or to one of his brothers. If, on the other hand, he is stripped of his fiefs for flouting the law of the land beyond all redemption, then the estates and revenues come directly to the crown.'

  'But first he has to be found in official error of the law,' Guyon said, beginning to understand.

  His mouth twisted. 'And then it will come to war.'

  FitzHamon shrugged. 'You cannot make wine without treading grapes and one way or another it will still come to war in the end.'

  'Blood and wine, they're both red, aren't they?' Miles said, his expression blank.

  'I'm sure you would rather be a treader than a grape.' Henry said with a glimmer of amusement. 'Think about it. If you decide in favour, send to me, or get a message to Beaumais in Shrewsbury. You do know him, don't you?'

  'Beaumais? but he's ...' said Miles.

  Henry's smile was feline. 'Yes, he's a justiciar in de Belleme's household and he's been in my pay for the past year. You'll be working closely with him if you choose to take on this task.'

  Miles stared at Henry, the hairs prickling his scalp. Guyon, more accustomed to the devious workings of his sovereign's mind, quirked him a wry, 'should have known it' look. Henry conceded a genuine laugh and reached up to slap his shoulder. 'Think about it,' he repeated. 'I'll talk to you later.'

  'Will you do as he asks?' FitzHamon said as he made to follow Henry across the camp.

  'I do not think we have a choice,' Guyon replied. 'And there's no point in cutting off your nose to spite your face.'

  'That doesn't stop him from being as much a bastard as his father was,' Miles grunted with considerably less charity. 'Only William's was a matter of birth. His is a matter of nature.'

  'That's why he's King and Curthose isn't,' Guyon said.

  CHAPTER 24

  SUMMER 1102

  Rhosyn drew rein and let the leather hang slack in her capable fingers so that old Gwennoll could graze the dusty roadside grass. Beyond them, pocked and rutted, the road cut through fields and forest and past formidable fortresses - the marcher eyries of Robert de Belleme - until it reached Shrewsbury, crouched within the protection of the Severn bend. Behind her on the drovers' road lay Wales and safety, as far as anything could be termed safe these days. Guyon had been right, Robert de Belleme and his vassals had turned the marches into hell for men who had to travel them for a living. The war in the south where King Henry sought to bring his most voracious Earl to heel sent disturbing rumours scudding north. If Arundell fell to the royal forces, then the storm would burgeon here in the heart of de Belleme's honours and blight the land she rode.

  She considered now the left fork and felt a surge in her solar plexus. She always did when she thought of Guyon and not just because of what had been between them. He would be furious when he realised she had risked crossing the border with only a drover and his market-bound herd of sheep for protection.

  Her father had been in Flanders when his heart had finally failed his driving will and he had died in a hostel on the Bruges road. Prys had sailed from Bristol to fetch his body home for burial. They would mourn him, and then, because time did not stand still , they would marry. Rhosyn bit her lip, beginning to regret the impulse that had driven her from the hafod towards the market at Ravenstow. There were items she needed, she told herself, items for her wedding. The item she most wanted, she could not have. Better to settle for the same thing in a serviceable day-to-day mould without the gilding, but knowing what was better and sensible did not ease the pain.

  'Why have we stopped, Mam?'

  Rhosyn looked round at her daughter and the fine lines fanning from her eye corners deepened into a deprecatory smile. 'I am beginning to wonder if we should have come at all .'

  'Too late now,' declared Twm sourly, riding up from behind, the pack ponies jingling behind him.

  'Won't Guyon be pleased to see us then?' Eluned looked anxiously at her mother and then at Heulwen cradled sleeping in Twm's broad embrace.

  'Probably not,' Rhosyn admitted ruefully. 'He may not even be there, not with the war down in the south.'

  'What about his wife, will she?' asked Rhys, thinking of the young woman he had met on several occasions during trading visits with his grandfather. Despite himself he liked her.

  Beneath her wariness dwelt a sense of humour and a genuine interest in people whatever their station.

  'Perhaps.' Rhosyn's fingers twitched on the reins and Gwennoll raised her head and backed restively. Guyon's wife. How would she react to their presence at Ravenstow and what in God's name was she going to say to her if they met?

  Neither child nor virgin, Guyon had said, but as vulnerable as blown glass, and there had been an expression in his eyes that she had never seen before.

  'I don't want to meet her,' Eluned said with a mutinous pout. 'She's probably a haughty Norman bitch.'

  Rhosyn turned to her daughter. 'Whoever we meet and whatever happens, you will remember your manners and not disgrace my name or your grandfather's. Is that understood?'

  'Yes, Mam,' Eluned said with a scowl.

  The market at Ravenstow was in full cry, the booths hectic despite, or perhaps because of, the unrest and warfare swirling around the county.

  Men had to make a living and even with their lord absent at the siege of Arundel, the Ravenstow lands were still safer
than many.

  There were stall s of pies, breads and sweetmeats to tempt the hungry. Spice vendors cried their wares. One of the Ravenstow guards was having a tooth drawn, the efforts of the sweating chirurgeon observed with grisly relish by a critical crowd. A performing bear lumbered in pawing, shaggy circles to the music of an off-key set of bagpipes played by a man with a paunch that could have supported a cauldron.

  There was a cacophony of livestock. Women sat with baskets full of surplus home produce to barter or sell - cherries and root vegetables, butter and cheese. The potter was there with his green-glaze wares, as was the salt chandler, the shoe-smith, the basket-weaver, and the other tradesmen of the town.

  Judith did her duty by the senior merchants and towns-people, pausing to speak and smile and discuss, setting their fears at rest before making her purchases. At the bronze-smith's booth, she bought a new chappe for one of Guyon's belts and a collar for Cadi, the bitch having deposited the last one somewhere on a ten-mile stag hunt, and then she repaired to the haberdasher's stall to obtain needles and embroidery silks for the hanging she intended to warm the solar wall .

  Another woman was already there, intently scrutinising a length of ribbon. A small child clutched her skirts and peeped up at Judith from a pair of round, kingfisher-blue eyes. An older, black-haired girl at the woman's other side shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Behind Judith, de Bec muttered a startled, stifled oath.

  'What's wrong?' Judith asked, half turning. In that same moment, the boy Rhys stepped from the crowd and joined his mother and sisters at the stall . There was no mistaking the relationship.

  They all had variations of the same blunt nose and their hair grew to a similar pattern.

  ' Heulwen, dewch yno,' said the mother absently as her redhaired youngest one moved from the safety of her skirts towards Judith.

  Judith's stomach turned over as the child smiled at her. She put her hand to her mouth and bit on at her. She put her hand to her mouth and bit on the fleshy side of her palm. Guyon's mistress, Guyon's daughter, here in the heart of their lands.