'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 wall s. 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 skill s 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.
CHAPTER 11
Judith gasped and wriggled around in the bed, squinting through her lids as the brightness of daylight flooded the room.
Guyon wrenched the covers aside. 'On your feet, you lazy baggage, or are you going to sleep until noon?'
She sat up, glowering.
Guyon laughed. 'You'll miss a surprise if you do.'
Judith rubbed her eyes and regarded him blearily. He was wearing his hunting tunic of green plaid and leather hose. She had not heard him wake and dress, but then he could be as soft-footed as Melyn when he chose.
'What kind of surprise?'
'The kind that will not wait forever.' He hooked his thumbs in his belt and studied her. Her hair spilled down. A freckled white shoulder gleamed through the untidy tresses and a small , apple-sized breast. Flank and leg were lithe and long.
Flustered, she lowered her eyes, a pink flush staining her throat and face. Abruptly he turned away to her clothing pole and, selecting garments, tossed them on the bed.
'I'll send in your maid. Don't be too long,
His tone was light and his face wore its customary good humour so that her momentary qualm dissolved into an impudent grimace as he reached the door.
Most of the household was still asleep and, as Judith indignantly discovered on entering the hall , it was not long after dawn. A yawning boy was arranging the side trestles for the serving of bread and curd cheese. Guyon was leaning on the edge of the dais, deep in conversation with the steward and the reeve, Cadi as usual glued to his side.
The two standing men bowed. Judith smiled a greeting to the steward. To the reeve she spoke.
He had not long been appointed to the position — a young man with small children, well able to cope with the task of mediating between the lord and his tenants, but still finding his feet.
Guyon listened to her enquiries after the health of the man's family with whose every name and circumstance she was familiar and was once more amazed at her scope.
'I didn't know his aunt Winifred suffered from gout,' he chuckled as he led her out of the forebuilding and into the early morning bustle of the bailey.
'She doesn't.' Judith regarded him with grave clarity. 'She just likes their attention. There's nothing wrong with the cantankerous hag. I could think of several effective if drastic remedies to cure her condition. Cutting out her tongue, for one.'
'Judith!' he spluttered.
'It is the truth and only you to hear it. Why should I lie?'
Guyon shook his head, unable to think of a response or reprimand because in essence she was right.
A lanky youth of about Judith's own age was forking soiled straw into the yard. Hens pecked and scratched near his feet. Ball s of yellow fluff twinkled hither and yon, imitating in miniature the actions of their parents, miraculously avoiding the lad's stout boots and the sweeps of the fork.
'Good morning, Hob,' Judith greeted him. He turned a dusky campion-pink and mumbled into his chest.
'What's the surprise, Guy?' She smiled up at him as she had smiled at Hob.
'You are, constantly,' he replied, then said in English to the boy, 'Where's your father?'
'Just coming, sire. He's walking her round to stop her getting cold.'
'Who?' asked Judith.
Guyon took her arm and turned to face his head groom who appeared around the edge of the building with a harnessed mare following behind in a well -mannered fashion.
'Guyon?' Judith twisted to look up at him and then back at the delicately stepping palfrey.
