De Belleme spun round, his expression momentarily one of shocked surprise before he schooled it to neutrality. For all his height and breadth, Guyon FitzMiles moved like a wraith. It was a trait that irritated the Earl, for God alone knew what the man was capable of overhearing in his stealth.
‘Christ’s blood, no!’ He tossed the dagger back to de Lacey. ‘But you know how reputations travel.’
Guyon’s eyes fell to the sables puddling the board. His nostrils flared and his luminous gaze struck de Belleme’s. ‘I know the very roads,’ he answered and unpinned his cloak. ‘I have granted your men a corner of the bailey. They may have their weapons when they leave.’
‘Your hospitality dazzles me, nephew,’ said de Belleme drily.
Guyon tossed his cloak on to the table and rested one haunch on the wood. ‘Yours would blind. I wonder what you would have done had you caught up with my wife before the drawbridge?’
‘Nothing improper, I assure you.’
‘By whose code?’
‘My uncle has brought us a wedding gift of these fine sables,’ Judith said quickly. She could feel Guyon’s hostility and knew they could not afford a rift with the Earl of Shrewsbury. There was a moment’s silence. The balance teetered. Judith held her husband’s gaze and silently pleaded. Joining him, she grasped his right arm possessively as a bride might do, but actually to prevent him drawing his sword. His muscles were like iron and rigid with the effort of control, and his eyes were ablaze. Frantically she stood on tiptoe to kiss his tight lips, trying to break the terrible concentration.
Through a fog of rage Guyon became aware of her desperation and the spark of sanity that had prevented him from leaping at de Belleme’s throat kindled to a steadier flame. He dropped his focus to her upturned face and filled his vision with her shining honesty instead of the contemptuous challenge of his uncle-by-marriage. ‘I would set your worth even higher than sables,Cath fach,’ he said with a strained smile as he slipped his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek, knowing that she had drawn him away from the edge of a very dangerous precipice.
‘As it happens,’ said de Belleme pleasantly, ‘I do have other fish to fry, nothing too important. Indeed I am embarrassed to make mention of it.’
Guyon doubted the lord of Shrewsbury had ever been embarrassed in his life. He lifted a brow and looked enquiringly blank, pretending not to see de Lacey’s lounging smirk. Beside him Judith had clenched her jaw and he knew that she realised what was coming next.
‘Cariad, go and bestow your wedding gift safely and organise some fitting repast for our guests,’ he said.
Judith gave him a keen look. He extricated himself from her grip and ran one finger lightly down her freckled nose. ‘If you please.’ It was a charming, light dismissal, but a dismissal nevertheless. His gaze flickered to the sables and then quickly away.
Judith curtsied – she could do little else – and excused herself.
‘You were saying?’ Guyon folded his arms.
‘It is a small matter of silver owed to me by my late brother Maurice for the building of Ravenstow …’ said the Earl of Shrewsbury with a smile
Judith smoothed one of the sables beneath her palm, staring down at the glowing fur without really seeing her action or feeling the luxury beneath her caress.
The midday meal had been more elaborate than their customary bread, cheese and watered wine, the flustered cook having organised additions of roasted pigeons, mutton in pastry coffins, herrings seethed in milk and sprinkled with almonds and small honey cakes, crusty with chopped nuts and dried fruit.
Judith did not know if it was fare fit for an earl, but it was the best she could provide at such short notice. Certainly her uncle had not complained. Indeed, he had settled to the meal with a hearty appetite which was more than could be said for her husband, who had attacked the wine as voraciously as others attacked the food, seeming set to drink himself beneath the table in as short a time as possible. Barely a morsel of food had passed his lips and every time his cup neared the dregs he would signal the lad serving to replenish it to the brim. He had begun to slur his words and his voice had grown over-loud.
Robert de Belleme had watched Guyon’s disintegration with a contemptuous eye and a scornful smile. No more than a cupful of wine had flowed over his own tongue, which remained mellifluous and precise.
Judith’s tentative plea to her husband had met with a snarl to mind her distaff, and a half-raised fist. At this juncture she had begged leave to retire, having no desire to bear the humiliation of a public beating. She could remember only too well how it had gone with her father in the past. He would drink. Someone would make a remark that he misliked and the blows would fall, cutting if he happened to be wearing rings.
Steeped in misery, she sat waiting now for she knew not what and wondered what had happened to drive Guyon over the brink like this. Her uncle was owed a large sum of money. Guyon had been thoughtful about that for some time, deeply thoughtful and busy, but certainly not depressed. She knew he enjoyed the taste of good wine, but in three months of marriage she had yet to see him merry, let alone drunk. It was beyond her to fathom thereason for such deviation and her fear was all the more potent for her lack of understanding.
There was a sound outside the door. Melyn, coiled in a warm ball upon the bed, popped her head erect and uttered a soft greeting miaow. Judith dropped the sables and hastened to the door, unbarring it to admit Eric and one of the serjeants bearing Guyon’s upright weight between them. Stinking of hippocras, he swayed on the threshold.
‘Traitors!’ he bellowed for all and sundry to hear, taking a wild swipe at Eric and almost overbalancing as he staggered into the room. ‘I’m sober ’nough to see my guests on the road … Lemme go!’
He continued to utter loud protests as they manhandled him to the bed. Judith watched him, her fingers at her throat, her whole body tensed to avoid him if need be.
Eric glanced at her and gave her of all things a wink and a smile. ‘Don’t you worry, mistress, he’ll sober up quicker than you think,’ he said comfortingly and, his grinning companion in tow, left her alone with her dread.
Melyn leaped on to Guyon’s wine-drenched chest and kneaded the spoiled cloth with splayed claws. Guyon scooped her up and, depositing her on the coverlet, sat up.
‘God help me,’ he grimaced, pulling the garment over his head. ‘I stink like the morning after in a Rouen brothel!’ He slung the richly embroidered wool across the room and followed it with his shirt.
Still standing near the door, Judith’s eyes were round with astonishment. ‘You’re not drunk!’ she said.
‘Sober as a stone,Cath fach.’ Going purposefully to his clothing chest he rummaged among the contents. Sunlight rayed obliquely through the shutters and gilded his skin. It picked out the scar from the boar hunt on his arm and the marks of stitches neatly made.
