Elizabeth Chadwick - The Wild Hunt

Guyon paused eating to stare at Simon, then continued to chew, but slowly, as if ruminating. 'Who else went out to hunt, Si?'

'Rannulf des Aix en Louvent, your lady's uncle William Breteuil, Gilbert de Laigle and William de Monfichet.' Simon shook his head. 'Rufus must have been mad. He might as well have ridden out with a pack of wolves. They didn't even stop to bring his body back to the lodge in decency, but rode straight for the treasury at Winchester. It was left to me and Richard to take charge of the body from the back of a charcoal burner's cart and compose it decently for the return to Winchester.

It's wrong, I ...' He swallowed convulsively and clenched his fist on the trestle. 'Anyway, Henry's claimed the crown and you'd best be quick about swearing your allegiance. He hasn't stopped since the arrow was loosed.'

Judith rose from the board, her eyes blank and, without excuse or explanation, drifted away from the men like a sleepwalker. No one took much notice. Guyon cast her a sidelong glance of surprise, but his mind was occupied with Simon's budget of news and its implications and what now had to be done. The Welsh situation was stable for the nonce and could be left to cook awhile unattended and Henry, whatever the blots on his soul, had the makings of a strong monarch.

Besides, with the private connections of bloodline, Guyon knew that providing he did nothing wildly asinine or treacherous, he was guaranteed the royal favour ... for as long as Henry remained King.

'There'll be a flaming barrel of pitch when Robert Curthose gets to hear of this,' he said and rubbed his hands slowly together, feeling the call uses on his palms where he had recently grasped sword and shield.

'And de Belleme will be delighted to light torches from it,' said de Bec.

'Oh yes. We will need to work very hard indeed to make sure Henry keeps his crown, no matter the manner of his obtaining it. Curthose has about as much control over Robert de Belleme as a wrung chicken has control of its limbs. You've seen what he's done in Normandy. God forbid he should get to wreak his worst on our lands too.'

'Want me to increase the patrol on our boundary with Thornford? It's been very quiet there of late.'

'It won't harm, but don't stretch the patrols too thinly elsewhere to compensate.' Guyon shoved his trencher aside and called for a scribe to be brought so that he could inform his vassals of the news.

Judith picked up Guyon's swordbelt and examined the strip of buckskin without really seeing its embossed golden leopards or the elaborate twists of gold wire decorating the buckle, or indeed the article itself. The sword lay sheathed on the bed. She had had one of the boys clean and oil it, for it had seen recent hard use against the Welsh. The sharpening of the two edges she left to Guyon. She could have done it herself, she was perfectly capable, but the feel of it in her hands would have frightened her with suggestions of what she should do with it.

Sitting down on the bed she stared at the rumpled sheets, remembering a warm spring night and the laughter of high-born men carousing in a candlelit room, drinking out of green glass cups; feasting with murder on their minds. The Prince and the de Clare brothers had all been members of the fatal hunting party and Walter Tirell was married to Gilbert and Roger's sister.

Malwood, the royal hunting lodge, was only sixteen miles from Winchester, the seat of the treasury. Tirell had fled with all eyes on him, when folk should have been looking at those men left behind. And Guyon knew, and had known since that May evening. She remembered him coming to her in the bedchamber when their guests had gone, his expression preoccupied, and when she had questioned him, he had avoided the answer.

What had he said? A confidence he would rather die than break, especially to her. And if he knew, then he was implicated. He had long been a companion of Henry's and his apathy towards Rufus was no secret.

Judith frowned. The disarrayed sheets reminded her all too clearly of that first night, only now the memory was not tender, but obscene. He had come from plotting a man's death and lain with her. It was a violation. She felt sick and wished suddenly that the bathtub was still in the room so that she could scrub herself free of his touch, the very thought of his touch. His seed was deep within her body. She put her hand to her mouth, striving not to retch.

Guyon entered the room, stretching and yawning. 'I could sleep for a week,' he complained as he dropped the curtain, 'but I suppose a few hours will have to suffice. I never realised Richard was so fond of Rufus. Then again, it's probably his position at court he fears to lose.' He picked up the scabbard, examined it absently and held out his hand for the swordbelt.

She dropped it on the bed and, rubbing her arms as if frozen to the bone, turned her back on him.

Guyon eyed her from beneath his brows and busied himself with fastening the thongs. 'We're stopping at Ravenstow tomorrow noon. It's safer if we escort you there on our way south. I do not think the Welsh will attack Caermoel, but you never know how this news will affect them. I've already spoken to Elflin and Helgund about the packing.'

Judith did not speak because she could not trust herself to do so. Guyon put down the belt, his scrutiny sharpening, for neither of his remarks had been granted a reply and he had not seen her stand like that, clutching herself protectively, since the early days of their marriage.

'Judith?'

The night candle flung lumbering shadows at the wall s. Melyn leaped at a moth, caught it deftly in a flashing paw and bore it triumphantly away to a corner to devour.

'It can't be helped. I'll come home as soon as I can,' he added and then, aware that without saying anything she had put him on the guilty defensive, he tightened his mouth and began to remove his garments.

'Don't flatter yourself!' she snarled. 'Stay as long as you choose!'

Guyon pulled off his shirt, swearing as the linen caught the rough line of the dagger scratch on his chest. He wondered briefly if it was near her time of the month again. Her tongue was apt to be sharper then and her moods liable to swing without warning. After a moment when she remained aloof and contained, he relented and tried again, coming up behind her and setting his hand on her shoulder. 'Judith, love, what's wrong?

Tell me.'

She shrugged away from him, fighting nausea, and flung round to face him. 'Rufus was murdered, wasn't he?' she challenged.

Guyon shrugged, feeling puzzled. 'Probably.'

'Do not play the innocent with me, my lord. You knew what was going to happen!'

'That's preposterous!' He reached for her. She avoided him. 'I haven't been near the King or the court for a full three months and Henry knows that whatever the de Clares would do for him, I certainly would not!'

'No? You had reason to dislike Rufus and you have long associations with Henry.'

'Christ, girl, what do you take me for? I might not have liked Rufus or wanted to be a party to his private habits, but that is hardly a reason to plot his death or barter my honour.'

'Then tell me what Prince Henry told you when he dined with us at Whitsuntide,' she challenged.

She saw it: the flicker of his lids, the bunching of muscle in his jaw before his face went blank. 'He told me nothing,' he said tonelessly.

'Liar!' she flung at him. 'It was less than three months ago. Do you think I am so besotted by your charm that I cannot remember? You said there was something you could not tell me, a political secret, a confidence you would rather die than break, and you were shaken by it. There was cold sweat on your brow.'

'That was nothing to do with Rufus's death.'

'What was it then?' Her mouth twisted. 'After all , nothing can be much more damning than plotting a king's death.'