Helgund arranged the cover and looked around at him, her broad features creased with concern. ‘My lady has been very unsettled of late,’ she ventured.
‘I know, Helgund.’ The same could be said of himself, he thought and for parallel reasons. He looked thoughtfully at the maid. She owned a position of considerable trust and as a result knew most of what did, or rather did not, transpire between himself and Judith, and must also be aware of the undercurrents and tensions that existed as a result.
Helgund returned his scrutiny beneath the deference of half-lowered lids. ‘She is like a vixen confronting food in a trap, sire. She wants the meat, but dare not attempt to snatch it for fear of paying the price.’
His brows twitched together. ‘Am I the meat or the price?’ he enquired.
‘Both, sire. She fears lest she become reduced to the status of bitch or brood mare, or cast-off wife. It is rumoured at court that you prefer the chase to the kill.’
Guyon’s frown deepened. Helgund swallowed, but continued doggedly. ‘It is not her fault, sire. If you had seen what Lord Maurice did to her lady mother in front of us all, and mistress Judith no more than a mite of three years old. Said he would fill her belly with enough seed to plant a dozen children and dragged her to the bed there and then before us all and used her like a whore … Happened more than once too and sometimes he was in too much of a hurry to draw the hangings. We protected the child as best we could but …’ Helgund drew a shaken breath and fell silent beneath the onslaught of his stare.
‘Thank you, Helgund.’ His voice was frighteningly quiet, belying the anger she saw in his eyes. ‘Thank you for telling me. I can see the kind of obstacles across my path now. Before, I justkept treading on them. Go back to your bed now. I’ll seek mine in a moment.’
Relieved, Helgund curtsied and made herself absent.
Guyon drew a deep breath and controlled his ire. Maurice de Montgomery was already dead; the Welsh had got there first.
‘Well,Cath fach,’ he said softly, brushing a stray wisp of tawny hair away from her eyelids and the thick, downswept bronze lashes, ‘how do I avoid these obstacles of yours?’
He knew she was not indifferent and that the times when her guard was down, he would have sold his soul to keep her that way. The times when her guard was up, she was impossible to reach.
Never once of her own accord had she offered him a sign of affection or endearment. Jealousy, yes, but that was an emotion born of insecurity and mistrust. The moves were all his, and they were straining the bounds of her acceptance. Today he had stepped beyond the limit. Tonight she was blind drunk. So what else was left? He shied from the thought.
‘Nos da,Cath fach,’ he murmured softly, tugged her braid and quietly left the room.
CHAPTER18
On the crest of the hill, Guyon reined his courser to a halt and shielded his eyes to watch the goshawk assault the air on dark, swift pinions, gaining height against the hot blue sky before stooping like a wind-ruffled stone upon the desperate flight of a round-bodied partridge.
Prince Henry, triumphant owner, fisted the morning air as the partridge tumbled over in a puff of feathers and was borne to earth beneath the goshawk’s talons. The falconer and a huntsman ran towards the two birds, one to be retrieved in proud prowess to Henry’s wrist, the other to be added to the mound of soft bodies already culled that morning. The King’s Norway hawk was a skilled killer too.
Henry stroked the breast of his own bird where she perched, dark wings folded, and deftly replaced the leather hood over the fierce golden eyes. Then he looked at Guyon.
‘I hear your wife made quite an impression last night,’ he remarked with a laconic grin.
‘She is not accustomed to quite so much wine, my lord,’ Guyon excused and eased himself in the saddle. He had backache as a result of sleeping on a lumpy, makeshift pallet within range of a sly draught.
Henry’s grin deepened. ‘I didn’t mean that business with Alais, although I wish I had been there. I meant her resemblance to my grandmother, Arlette. Old Hubert couldn’t believe his eyes, thought he’d seen a ghost and Rufus remarked on it this morning at mass … and he told me an appalling joke.’
Guyon lifted his stiff shoulders. ‘As far as I know, the only blood she shares with your family is that of her maternal grandsire, and, even then, the Countess of Conteville is not of that line.’
‘Maurice FitzRoger’s girl, isn’t she?’ Henry looked thoughtful. ‘How old is she now, Guy?’
‘She was born in the November of ’eighty-three, my lord.’ Guyon squinted against the sun at the Prince whose look had suddenly grown secretive, the way it sometimes did after he had been closeted with Gilbert and Roger de Clare. Still waters ran deeper than anyone could fathom.
‘Any girl of seventeen who looks like my grandmother deserves closer examination,’ Henry said, still stroking his hawk, his gaze intent upon the action of his fingers.
‘Angling for an invitation sire?’ Guyon jested with the familiarity of long acquaintance and the occasional deeper friendship.
‘How did you guess? Anyway, I used to rent the house. You cannot refuse. Is tonight all right? After the hunt?’
Guyon’s gaze flickered and sharpened, for Henry’s interest was perhaps a little too keen for comfort.
‘I did wonder,’ Henry said softly to the bird, ‘but she never sent word. Perhaps it was just as well.’
‘Sire?’
Guyon’s tone must have given him away, for Henry uttered a forced laugh. ‘God’s blood, Guy, stop thinking wild thoughts! With a face like yours, is it likely that I’d be able to seduce your wife before your eyes, or even behind your back! I want to meether, no more than that. Look, Rufus has started a hare!’ He turned to the falconer, gave him care of the goshawk and clapped spurs to his courser’s sides.
