Alicia moistened her lips and groped towards what she wanted to say. ‘I would have told you, truly I would. I believed in my innocence that Henry would want to do the same. I never thought that … is he using it to leash Guyon to his cause?’
Judith looked over her shoulder at the curtain. ‘Guy is no tame dog to trot to heel, unless it be his wish.’ She smiled towards the sound of his voice, while a conflict of pride and anxiety churned within her.
Her mother’s voice was small and timid. ‘You do not hate me, then?’
‘Hate you?’ Judith was astonished. ‘Mama, of course not!’
Alicia’s mouth trembled. Judith leaned over and hugged her mother. Shakily Alicia returned the embrace and then, drained, fell back against the pillow, nauseous with pain but feeling as if agreat burden had been lifted from her soul. ‘I thought you might. Or else be disgusted. Jesu knows, I have felt those things for myself many times over.’
Judith squeezed Alicia’s hand. ‘Mama, let it rest. It has caused enough grief. You had your reasons. I think when I have had the time, I will understand them.’
‘Is all well between you and Guyon now?’ Anxiety flooded back into Alicia’s eyes.
The dim light masked Judith’s blush. ‘Yes, Mama,’ she said, voice choked with laughter. Her mother might have cuckolded her husband with a fourteen-year-old youth, but she would be horrified if she knew where her daughter had just been.
Alicia looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Very sure, Mama.’ Judith gave her mother a dazzling smile in which there remained a hint of secret laughter. ‘Miles has been twitching about outside like a cat with a severe dose of fleas. I’ll send him in.’ And without waiting for Alicia’s yea-say, she went to the curtain.
CHAPTER22
AUGUST1101
At his father’s keep at Ashdyke, Guyon leaned his head against the cushioned high back of the chair, closed his eyes and within moments was asleep. It was an ability he had cultivated of a necessity since Whitsuntide. He could even doze in the saddle, although that was less than safe. Bred to ride from birth, he would not have fallen off, but there was always the danger of a Welsh attack or a surprise assault from one of de Belleme’s vassals.
He was sorely beset. Henry was demanding men, money and supplies that Guyon was hard pressed to find or persuade out of others; Curthose was threatening across the Channel, perhaps even at sea by now; de Belleme and his wolfpack were poised to strike the moment it was politic and, to twist the coil, Earl Hugh of Chester had suffered a seizure and was lying paralysed and close to death in a Norman monastery. His heir was a child and the Welsh were understandably gleeful. Already a few experimental raids had tested the earldom’s somewhat fluid boundaries. The garrison at Caermoel had been involved in skirmishes twice that week.
Guyon was doing his best, but was fearful that it was not enough. Last night he had dreamed that he was tied hand and foot and drowning in a sticky lake of blood and had woken drenched, gasping and terrified to discover Cadi lying on his chest, licking his face, demanding to be let out of the room.
It had been a grim year thus far and very little light to hold at bay the yawning cavern of de Belleme’s ambition. In January, Mabel de Lacey, former wife of Ralph de Serigny had given birth to a healthy son and, against all odds, mother and child had survived the ordeal. De Lacey had used the excuse of his son’s christening to host a council of war, chaired by the Earl of Shrewsbury who was openly plotting treason. Henry, without the support of more than half his barons, was for the moment constrained to swallow it.
In February, Rannulf Flambard had escaped from confinement in the Tower of London and had hastened to Normandy as fast as his sandals could carry him in order to promote the cause of Robert Curthose. Flambard was an able, persuasive prelate, capable of squeezing blood out of a stone and an excellent manager of that blood once squeezed. If Henry had been the kind of man to panic, he would have done so. As it was, he continued calmly to muster the resources and supporters he possessed into an efficient fighting unit, although Guyon had his doubts about how efficient some of them actually were. The fyrd was the backbone of Henry’s army and it was composed of ordinary villagers and worthies who hadn’t a hope in hell against the men who would come at them, men who made war their profession – the mercenaries of Normandy and Flanders, paid to rake the heat from hell and scatter it abroad.
He thought back to one hot midsummer afternoon when King Henry had been personally overseeing the training of his peasant-bred troops. Guyon had suggested that he would do better to instruct them in the use of the quarterstaff and spearrather than seek to imbue them with the warrior skills that were attained only by instruction from birth.
Henry, his forelock wet, dark patches on his inner thighs where he had sweated against his saddle, had looked at Guyon and given that familiar, engimatic smile. ‘Robert’s amenable to reason,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t really want to spill my blood and he’s usually swayed by whoever has the most persuasive tongue at the time … particularly when they are in possession of a large, efficient army. Mutton dressed as wolf, you might say.’ And he had laughed softly.
‘You mean I’m sweating my guts out for a mummers’ show?’
‘I certainly hope so, Guy, although it is hard to tell how deeply the rot has set in.’
How deep, how far? And all they had was Henry’s guile and a terrible gamble on Curthose’s nature.
The sound of wine splashing from flagon to goblet and the weight of Cadi’s rump as she settled inconveniently across his toes, jolted his lids open.
‘Go to bed,’ his father advised, pouring a second cup and handing it to him. ‘Alicia remarked to me how tired you look. I know she’s apt to fuss, but this time I would say she is right.’
Guyon shook his head. ‘I can’t. I only stopped here because it was convenient to water the horses and eat a meal without being stabbed in the back. I’ve got to be in Stafford by tomorrow night.’
‘You will burn yourself out,’ Miles warned.
Guyon arched his free hand over his eyes. ‘Do you think I do not know that?’
‘At least roll yourself in your cloak for an hour.’
Guyon took his hand away and smiled at his father. ‘Now who is fussing? I was going to do that without your urging, providing of course that I can trust you to wake me up. I’ve to skirt Quatford and Shrewsbury. I’d rather not saddle-sleep in such inhospitable territory.’
Miles sat down in the chair opposite. ‘Is there any more news from the south?’
