'My lord, you know you are not,' Eric said, not in the least mollified.
The stall ion's coat steamed gently as it dried in the heat from the forge, the dapple reddened to a flickering roan. Guyon put down the hoof and, with a nod to the farrier, paid him the halfpenny fee. In the act of putting the coin in his pouch, the man stopped, his gaze darting into the gathering twilight.
Eric swung round, right hand going to his hilt.
Hand on the bridle, Guyon stiffened. Hooves thudded on the dirt road and harnesses jingled. A man swore bawdily in Flemish and a woman cried out. Guyon spoke quickly to the farrier and, taking the reins, led Arian out of the enclosure and into the village street. At the crossroads twenty yards away a group of mounted, mailed Flemings had surrounded the young couple from the alehouse and were refusing to let them pass.
'I'm a free man,' Guyon heard the young huntsman say hotly in accented French. 'You've no right to bar my path.'
'Go on then, you're free!' laughed one of the men, teeth flashing. 'We've no quarrel with you that your little wife won't be able to mend. Lord Walter wants her back.'
'On her back!' corrected someone with a snigger.
'He has no right,' the young man replied, guarding his wife with his body. 'We are free to leave as we choose.'
'You're free to die,' replied the spokesman.
Suddenly a blade sparkled. The girl screamed as a Fleming groped for her bridle. Her husband felt for the dagger at his belt, but subsided in mid-motion to duck beneath the murderous sweep of the drawn sword.
'Let them pass,' commanded Guyon, his own sword free and confidently held, his knees commanding Arian to thrust forward between the couple and their tormentors.
The Fleming measured Guyon and the older man behind. Two of them to their nine and only the foremost mounted, but the grey was solidly boned, the man astride exuded the confidence of ability and they were probably not alone. 'Don't meddle in what's not your business,' he growled.
'Sound advice,' Guyon retorted. 'Apply it to yourselves and let them pass.' A swift glance revealed that the mercenaries were spreading out to encircle himself and Eric. Strained ears caught the sound of a shout from the alehouse end of the street.
The Fleming wasted no more time on words, but lunged at Guyon, whose arm was jarred to the shoulder as he warded the vicious blow, not with the safety of his shield but the blade of his own sword. Bluish-white the sparks glanced off, and he realised grimly that his assailant was left-handed. A man was taught from the cradle to crouch behind the shield worn on his left arm, to let it take the blows and to counter-strike with his sword in his right. Sword to sword was a nightmare. You parried and risked snapping the blade, or you missed the parry and you died.
Behind him, Eric gasped as a blow caught him beneath his guard, splitting his mail but not cutting through the thick quilting of his gambeson. The girl was crying. Someone snatched the dagger from her husband's hand and pinioned his struggling arms like a coney prepared for the table.
Guyon thrust his shield against a sword blow on his left and felt the blade score and slide off the toughened lime-wood. With his knees he commanded the stall ion to pivot and lunge against the mount of the left-handed Fleming, their leader, and brought his sword across, unexpectedly hard and low. It almost worked, but the mercenary was too experienced and at the last moment intercepted the move with a slicing sidelong slash. Guyon twisted and parried. Pain seared his thigh as the Fleming's blade bit flesh.
He locked his wrist against the pommel, sweeping the other sword sideways, changed his grip, and slashed. The Fleming grunted, lost his grip on the reins, and hunched over his saddle.
Guyon swung Arian. The end of a flail grazed his hair. He slammed his shield into the backswing, kneed Arian forward, and was rewarded by the shriek of someone unexpectedly unhorsed.
'
Guyon heard with relief the rallying cry of his own men.
'
A rearguard attempt to bring the huntsman and his wife away with them was aborted as Guyon spurred Arian between their horse and that of the Fleming tugging on its bridle. The sword chopped downwards, cleaving leather, flesh and bone. The mercenary shrieked as he was parted from three of his fingers. Guyon grasped the gelding's broken reins and pulled the horse hard about.
One of his men took the bridle from him and passed the couple through to safety.
Guyon turned Arian around. The horse was bleeding freely from several slashes on his neck and forequarters and was jittery, still spoiling for battle, so that Guyon was forced to stay in the saddle. There was blood running down his leg. It would have to wait. Undoubtedly reinforcements would be summoned from Thornford and set on their trail.
The young huntsman had taken control of their mount and was busily knotting the reins to make them whole again. 'There is no way we can thank you enough, my lord,' he said to Guyon. 'We owe you our lives.'
Guyon smiled bleakly. 'Walter de Lacey is no friend of mine. You owe me nothing. It was a pleasure. I'd advise you to be on your way as soon as you can, though. He tends to nurture grudges.'
'You do not need to tell me that, sire!' the young man snorted. 'I'm a free man and I'll not work for the likes of him. Lord Ralph was mean and sour, but he'd not lay about him with a whip for the pure pleasure of it, nor take a girl to his bed if she were not willing!'
Guyon shifted his gaze to the delicate blonde young woman watching them anxiously. Probably she was about Judith's age but she looked no more than twelve, just the kind that de Lacey enjoyed. 'Where are you and your wife bound?'
'I have relatives in Chester, my lord. They will take us in while I find work. I thought I would seek employment with Earl Hugh.'
'There is work nearer to hand at Ravenstow if you desire it. I've been a huntsman short since last winter. Make up your mind as we ride,' Guyon offered. 'Ravenstow is on your road anyway and you would do well to take advantage of an armed escort off Serigny lands. If you decide against staying, I'll recommend you to Earl Hugh. He's a personal friend.'
The young man considered him from beneath a tumble of wet brown curls. Guyon FitzMiles was a huntsman short because Sir Walter had almost beheaded the man in a fit of fury during a hunt to honour the marriage of Ravenstow's heiress, or so the rumour went. Something about the theft of a horse and a broken boar spear. 'Thank you, my lord,' he replied, turning to his horse. 'We are grateful.'
CHAPTER 14
Judith ceased combing her hair and regarded her mother across the space that separated them. 'I thought you might,' she said without surprise.
It was not quite the response Alicia had expected to her announcement that she was going to her dower lands as soon as Guyon's father returned from his business with Hugh of Chester to escort her there. She had come to her daughter's room prepared for tears and pleading and was completely thrown by Judith's aplomb.
'I do not want you to think that I am discontented here with you and Guyon, but you have your own life to live ... and I have mine.' She wondered if she should test that aplomb by telling her daughter what else she intended besides.
Judith put down the comb, went to her mother and wordlessly hugged her. They were much of a height now, almost eye to eye, for Judith had grown since the early spring and had put flesh on her bones.
Alicia returned the embrace. 'Of course, I will visit you often and you will know where to find me should the need arise,' she said, feeling guilty, but then guilt was nothing new and was about to be consolidated.
'You will always be welcome, you know that!'
Judith answered, kissing her. 'But why do you speak as if you intend your stay to be permanent?'
