covered trestle and uneasily moved one of the polished jet counters.
'We can remain with Richard and Emma if you'd prefer,' Guyon said, picking up one of the other counters, tossing it in the air and catching it on the back of his hand as if playing knucklebones.
She shook her head, eyes stubbornly lowered, fingers toying desperately with the smooth, cold lump of jet whose twin was lodged in her stomach. 'You have seen how cramped we are.
Emma will not thank us if we refuse and it would be a discourtesy to Simon and his grandfather.'
Guyon studied her for a moment, then set his counter down and tilted her face on his fingertips.
Judith raised her eyes, feeling hot and weak and frightened, and wished that they had stayed downstairs.
'That is their preference, not yours,' he said gently.
'It is mine too,' Judith stood her ground as he traced the line of her jaw until he reached her ear, skirted it and feathered his fingertip down her throat. Her scalp prickled.
'There is nothing to fear,' he said softly. 'I won't hurt you. You know that, or you should by now.'
A chill ran down her spine. The finger became a hand that slipped slowly down to her waist, curved there and drew her lightly against him. He brushed her temple with his lips, her cheekbone and jaw, slanting to seek her earlobe beneath her braid and nibble it gently. Judith gasped and arched at the sensation.
He nuzzled the sensitive hollow behind her ear, kissed her throat, returned to her face, his lips light as a butterfly travelling the same path again to return to her earlobe. He held her loosely, not compelling her to the embrace, stroking her as he might stroke Cadi or Melyn, soothing her while enticing her to want more. At length, he moved his other hand from her back and slowly took it up the side of her ribcage to the small , neat outer swell of her breast. Softly he touched her lips with his own, applying no demand, then moved on, kissing her chin, trailing the tip of his tongue over her throat.
Judith began to respond. One hand came up tentatively to rest on his belt, the other, palm flat, smoothed the dark wool tunic on his back. She moved closer. Guyon forced himself to a patience he was far from feeling. His body, responding to instinct and abstention, was eager for release. It had been a long time since Earl Hugh's hunting lodge, but Judith was so edgy and afraid that one step too soon or too clumsy and he would lose all the ground he had thus far gained. Besides, a hasty coupling on the floor with one ear cocked for a tread on the stairs was hardly the best method of initiating a frightened virgin and, while it might satisfy his current appetite, it would do nothing for his abiding need.
Judith's lips parted beneath the gentle insistence of his own. She felt as if she was drowning beneath flowing warm waves of sensation. Her breasts tingled. Her loins were moist and aching, her whole body a boneless supple mass.
Downstairs there was a shout of laughter from the old man and loud exclamations from his two young companions. The spell shattered. Judith leaped like a doe and Guyon's arms involuntarily tightened to hold her. Judith struggled and tore free, her eyes wide, a gasp catching in her throat.
Guyon slowly let his hands fall to his sides. He was breathing hard, as if he had just run up a tower in full mail. 'You see what happens when you stir a banked fire,' he said ruefully. 'I've been wanting to do that for a long time.'
Judith swallowed. He was melting her with that burning brown stare. Their relationship was paused on the brink of another plane and it terrified her. Snatching hot chestnuts from the fire indeed!
Guyon paced to the window, braced his forearms on the thick wooden ledge and looked down at his hands gripping the dusty edge while his blood cooled. He had seen the fear in her eyes and did not know how to deal with it aside from schooling himself to further patience. There were remedies of course, none of them satisfactory. There was no pleasure in drinking water when it was wine you wanted.
Judith hastily sleeved her eyes as Simon walked into the room, grinning broadly, a half-eaten apple in his hand. Christen had just defeated his grandfather in a move that was as much a surprise to herself as it had been to the old man. 'Is it all right?' he asked, nodding around the room and taking another bite of the fruit. 'Don't worry about the bed. Grandfather says he knows where he can get hold of one.'
His back turned. Guyon muttered something at his spread hands and then laughed without humour.
'It belongs to the Abbess of St Anne's,' Simon added, brow cocking curiously. 'It's got a feather mattress and silk hangings and everything else. It was part of her dowry, but the Bishop says she has to give it up ... What's wrong, Guy, have I said something funny?'
'No,' Guyon said, turning round. 'It's not funny at all . Do I have to say grace before I get in?'
'Depends on what you have in mind,' Simon said. 'For what we are about to receive and all that.' He smiled round at Judith. She turned pink and, choking an excuse, she gathered her skirts and hurried from the room.
'I didn't think that she would take offence. I'm sorry,' Simon said, staring at the still moving curtain with a perplexed frown on his face.
'How many Hail Marys does it take to work a miracle?' Guyon asked wearily.
CHAPTER 17
Judith lifted the goblet. It was made of the finest silver gilt delicately incised with a scroll work pattern of vine leaves. The wine within was sweet-sharp and cold from the well in which it had been chilled prior to being brought to table.
The King's new hall of Westminster blazed with rich colour, the wall s painted in a bold, angular design that glowed red and blue, gold and shadowed matt black. Banners sparred the wall s in vivid primary colours. Candles flamed and dripped, cream and gold, reflecting the napery on the long trestles. The high barony of England glowed like a mobile, flowing tapestry.
Judith sipped her wine and watched the weaving men and women - her uncle Arnulf de Montgomery, as objectionable as ever; her maternal uncle William Breteuill was with him and they were talking amiably enough, although the frequent flicker of their eyes betrayed their mistrust. Her most notorious relative, Robert de Belleme, was not here at this gathering, preferring to hold his own court in Arundell prior to taking ship for Normandy, but Arnulf, among others, was his informant as to the happenings at court during his absence.
Further down the room Gilbert de Clare, lord of Tunbridge, was deep in conversation with his brother Roger and with Robert FitzHamon of Gloucester who had been at her wedding. Guyon himself stood on the edge of the group that included them, having just arrived from the direction of the latrine. He was resplendent in a gown of garnet-red wool embroidered with thread of gold. The tunic, unlike the ones worn at knee length for the rigours of everyday life in the marches, swept the tops of his ankles. He was a lord of some importance and at court, if nowhere else, had perforce to dress as one, even down to the heavy rings encumbering his fingers.
A man on his way from the hall paused in the act of pinning his cloak to speak with the group of men. Prince Henry. She had seen him sitting on the high dais beside the King, his brother. He was of middling height and girth with a shock of soot-black hair and narrow features. Guyon replied to something the Prince said and Henry laughed aloud. The plain features lit up, became attractively mischievous and he thumped Guyon's shoulder and walked on. Guyon bowed, then straightened to glance across at her. Caught in the act of her own scrutiny, Judith blushed and quickly attended to her wine. A youth refilled her cup to the brim and passed on down the board with the flagon.
She drank in deep gulps until her panic had subsided. She could not forget the delightful, unsettling sensations aroused in her by the skilful play of his hands upon her. The body as a weapon. It was a two-edged sword and she had yet to learn how to handle it. What was it the Welsh said?
Practice is the mother of mastery. Guyon had a vastly unfair advantage and he knew it. It was there in every look he had given her since that afternoon. He had not touched her again. He did not need to. The tension between them was a palpable entity crackling the air. The eye sufficed, speaking all that the tongue avoided and the body suppressed.
Some tumblers leaped before the trestle, their costumes parti-coloured and sewn with bell s. One of them between gyrations juggled with six flashing knives, catching them expertly by the hilt.
'Enjoying the experience?' Hugh of Chester said in her ear.
