‘Have you noticed any difference in our father these last few weeks, Em?’ Guyon asked in a low voice.
She shook her head. ‘Not really. Perhaps a little quieter, but you know how he broods. Before we set out, he spent a long time kneeling at Mama’s tomb and then complained that his knees were stiff. Why do you ask?’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, nothing.’ He set a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Just filial interest. ‘What he needs is another wife … or a mistress.’
Emma scowled at him. ‘You don’t seriously mean that, Guy.’
‘Why not?’
‘Would you welcome another woman in Mama’s place – a stepmother?’
‘You are deluding yourself if you think he has lived like a monk since her death.’
‘I know he has taken casual women for comfort and pleasure,’ Emma said with asperity. ‘But they were in no wise partners for life.’
‘That’s what I mean. He needs something more. Our mother was his anchor and he is in danger of going adrift without one.’ Having gained the information he sought, he went to play knucklebones with his wife and nieces.
‘Rannulf Flambard has officially been granted the bishopric of Durham as payment for his tireless endeavours,’ said Miles, his face studiously blank.
The lantern swung gently on its hook and shadows lumbered upon the stable walls. Guyon looked up from the delectable golden mare he had been examining. The horse was a gift for Judith, the furtiveness of this night visit to the stable because she was to be a surprise. He stared at his father with bright interest. ‘God preserve the devil when he gets to hell.’ His mouth twitched. ‘What’s he going to do, strip the church from within and give it all to Rufus?’
‘Of a certainty, weasling little runt.’
The mare lipped Guyon’s tunic. He scratched her beneath the chin. ‘But shrewd and clever with it. At least if he’s snatching food from the mouths of monks, he’s not snatching it from us.’
Rannulf Flambard, a common cleric, had risen by his own diligent efforts from obscurity to the ranks of the most powerful men in the land. He had become indispensable to Rufus and a menace to every member of the barony; a tax collector with a Herculean grip on men’s financial affairs and the ability to tighten that grip and squeeze his victims dry.
Guyon thoroughly disliked the man, for his attitude rather than from any squeamishness concerning his lowly birth or his task of crown revenue raiser. Indeed, with a numerical talent of his own, he had the good sense to respect Flambard’s extraordinary skills and step warily around them.
‘Of course,’ Miles added sarcastically, ‘Flambard is not the only hazard to our coffers. The Welsh take their tithe of silver too.’
Guyon eyed his father nonchalantly across the mare’s satin withers. ‘I thought you might have heard about de Belleme’s misfortune,’ he said with a hint of regret in his voice.
‘And yours too?’
Guyon said nothing. He could not dissemble with his sire who knew him too well and saw too clearly. Silence was by far the better line of defence.
‘Have a care, son. Step very softly around the Earl of Shrewsbury. His rages are all the more deadly for being silent and the remains of his victims are not a pretty sight. He is stronger than ever now. Did you know that he has paid Rufus another relief to take Roger de Bully’s lands?’
The flippancy vanished, replaced by startled attention. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Blythe and Tickhill straight down the devil’s throat. He’s likely to be short of coin and temper. Don’t try any more clever tricks like that last one … You know what I mean.’
‘So if he wants to eat the world, I just stand aside and let him?’
‘You don’t fling your gage in his teeth!’
‘I haven’t. A trip rope across his path perhaps, in revenge for a parcel of bloody sables.’
Miles scraped his fingers through his hair and reminded himself that Guyon was almost thirty years old and the mould was too firmly set to be broken or altered by an exasperated lecture.
‘Just be careful, that’s all.’
‘Meek as a virgin,’ Guyon answered lightly.
‘Just don’t get deflowered,’ Miles said curtly. ‘I’m going to bed.’
The lightness left Guyon’s face. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said to the horse and followed his father.
