‘And he has been her man ever since?’
‘Whenever it has been possible. If he had defied my father’s authority he would have been straight away dismissed and he is too old to travel the roads with his sword for hire.’ She gave him a concerned look. ‘You do not intend to turn him out, my lord? He is most loyal and he knows this keep better than any man alive … saving my uncle Robert of course.’
‘No, of course I do not intend turning him out – unless he proves unsatisfactory to my own assessment. Seventeen years of service are not dismissed lightly.’ He made a face. ‘I am not so sure about your constable however.’
Judith tossed her head. ‘FitzWarren’s all right. Dry as dust and too full of his own importance by half, but he’s loyal and very efficient. He can conjure a feast out of nothing – I’ve seen him do it, and his accounts are meticulous.’
‘I am sure they are. It just troubles me as to where he obtains the wealth to clothe himself in scarlet sarcenet.’
‘It was my father’s, new last Candlemas. He and FitzWarren were much of a height. Mama gave it to him after the funeral. You can see the account rolls on the morrow if you want … Oh, do you read and write?’
‘Both. Do you?’
‘A little, my lord.’ Actually, it was considerably more than a little, gleaned from the household scribe on cold winter days and polished in private moments to an astute skill, but most menpreferred their women to dwell in ignorance, or at least in more ignorance than themselves.
‘After the hunt tomorrow you can show me – I don’t want FitzWarren standing at my shoulder watching me even if he is honest.’ He glanced towards the shutters. ‘If there is a hunt, with all this snow blowing about.’
Judith stretched and yawned. The wine had made her eyes heavy and it was very late.
Guyon glanced at her. He was not averse to the prospect of sleep himself, for the day had been long and fraught and the morrow seemed set to continue the same. He leaned over and pinched out the night candle and in the darkness removed his cloak. Fabric slid silkily against skin as Judith shed her own garment and burrowed down beneath the covers.
‘Nos da, Cath fach,’ he said compassionately.
‘Nos da, fy gwr,’ she replied in passable Welsh.
Guyon mentally added the skill of language to her numerous talents and wondered how in God’s name an oaf like Maurice FitzRoger had managed to beget a child like this. His last thought before sleep claimed him, and not to be remembered in the morning, was that perhaps Maurice had not begotten her at all.
CHAPTER5
Judith blearily opened her eyes in response to the persistent thrust of a small, cold nose pressing against her cheek and a thunderous vibration in her ear. Melyn uttered a purr of greeting, striped orange tail waving jauntily. Judith groaned and buried her face in the pillow. There was an ache behind her eyes that spoke of an excess of wine and an insufficiency of sleep. The room was lit by weak grey light penetrating the membrane screen across the arrowslit. Given the time of year, it must be well beyond the hour of first mass which meant that there was no time left to turn over and go back to sleep.
Judith pushed Melyn aside, gathered her hair and sat up. The cat stalked across the pillow to the turned back of the other occupant, sniffed the rumpled black hair and patted a playful sheathed paw on the man’s face.
‘Rhosyn,’ Guyon murmured, opened his eyes and received a cold, wet kiss that dispelled all dreaming illusions. ‘God’s blood!’ He jerked upright, seeking his non-existent sword – a man did not come thus armed to his marriage bed. The cat, having achieved her purpose, leaped nimbly to the floor and commenced an inquisitive investigation of Guyon’s baggage. Glowering at Melyn’s graceful form, he dug his fingers throughhis hair. Judith decided he was suffering from her own malaise and best left in peace to gather his wits … except that this morning there was no time.
She sought her bedrobe and put it on. Guyon pressed his face into his hands. Tactfully, Judith left the bed, scooped up Melyn and went to the arrowslit. ‘It is not snowing now, my lord,’ she remarked. ‘And the clouds are high. The hunt can be held. It will provide fresh meat and it will prevent quarrels from developing. There was a terrible fight last Christmas when Mama’s niece got married. The groom’s cousin lost three fingers and an ear and the hall was completely wrecked.’
‘God forbid,’ he said.
‘You should watch Walter de Lacey today,’ she warned. ‘I suppose you know that he offered for me before Papa died and he is one of Uncle Robert’s friends.’
‘I did not think your uncle Robert had any friends.’
Glancing round, she saw that he had begun to assemble his clothing. His eyes, although bleary were fully open now.
‘Do not worry, I know well he is one of theCwmni Annwn.I will be on my guard.’
‘The what?’
‘Hounds of hell,’ he translated, tugging on his shirt. ‘The Wild Hunt. Damned souls who hunt in perpetuity and never come to rest. Appropriate, would you not say?’
His flippant tone was a barrier. His father would have recognised it immediately and cut straight beneath it. Judith stood blocked, unsure what to do. She watched him dress, setting aside his wedding finery for a warm, fur-trimmed tunic of green plaid wool, thick hose and tough, calf-hide boots.
Abandoning Judith, Melyn leaped on to the bed and began to wash. Judith’s eyes followed the cat and then settled on the linen undersheet. White as the snow that had fallen in the night. Pristine. Unstained. She gave a gasp of panic. Any moment nowthey were likely to be disturbed by their guests and the first task of the morning would be to display that sheet to all, stained with the sanguine proof of her virginity … or lack of it.
Startled, Guyon left off buckling his belt. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘The bed … the sheet. They will think that I am impure, or else that you were unable.’
