capable, but the feel of it in her hands would have frightened her with suggestions of what she should do with it.
Sitting down on the bed she stared at the rumpled sheets, remembering a warm spring night and the laughter of high-born men carousing in a candlelit room, drinking out of green glass cups; feasting with murder on their minds. The Prince and the de Clare brothers had all been members of the fatal hunting party and Walter Tirell was married to Gilbert and Roger's sister.
Malwood, the royal hunting lodge, was only sixteen miles from Winchester, the seat of the treasury. Tirell had fled with all eyes on him, when folk should have been looking at those men left behind. And Guyon knew, and had known since that May evening. She remembered him coming to her in the bedchamber when their guests had gone, his expression preoccupied, and when she had questioned him, he had avoided the answer.
What had he said? A confidence he would rather die than break, especially to her. And if he knew, then he was implicated. He had long been a companion of Henry's and his apathy towards Rufus was no secret.
Judith frowned. The disarrayed sheets reminded her all too clearly of that first night, only now the memory was not tender, but obscene. He had come from plotting a man's death and lain with her. It was a violation. She felt sick and wished suddenly that the bathtub was still in the room so that she could scrub herself free of his touch, the very thought of his touch. His seed was deep within her body. She put her hand to her mouth, striving not to retch.
Guyon entered the room, stretching and yawning. 'I could sleep for a week,' he complained as he dropped the curtain, 'but I suppose a few hours will have to suffice. I never realised Richard was so fond of Rufus. Then again, it's probably his position at court he fears to lose.' He picked up the scabbard, examined it absently and held out his hand for the swordbelt.
She dropped it on the bed and, rubbing her arms as if frozen to the bone, turned her back on him.
Guyon eyed her from beneath his brows and busied himself with fastening the thongs. 'We're stopping at Ravenstow tomorrow noon. It's safer if we escort you there on our way south. I do not think the Welsh will attack Caermoel, but you never know how this news will affect them. I've already spoken to Elflin and Helgund about the packing.'
Judith did not speak because she could not trust herself to do so. Guyon put down the belt, his scrutiny sharpening, for neither of his remarks had been granted a reply and he had not seen her stand like that, clutching herself protectively, since the early days of their marriage.
'Judith?'
The night candle flung lumbering shadows at the wall s. Melyn leaped at a moth, caught it deftly in a flashing paw and bore it triumphantly away to a corner to devour.
'It can't be helped. I'll come home as soon as I can,' he added and then, aware that without saying anything she had put him on the guilty defensive, he tightened his mouth and began to remove his garments.
'Don't flatter yourself!' she snarled. 'Stay as long as you choose!'
Guyon pulled off his shirt, swearing as the linen caught the rough line of the dagger scratch on his chest. He wondered briefly if it was near her time of the month again. Her tongue was apt to be sharper then and her moods liable to swing without warning. After a moment when she remained aloof and contained, he relented and tried again, coming up behind her and setting his hand on her shoulder. 'Judith, love, what's wrong?
Tell me.'
She shrugged away from him, fighting nausea, and flung round to face him. 'Rufus was murdered, wasn't he?' she challenged.
Guyon shrugged, feeling puzzled. 'Probably.'
'Do not play the innocent with me, my lord. You knew what was going to happen!'
'That's preposterous!' He reached for her. She avoided him. 'I haven't been near the King or the court for a full three months and Henry knows that whatever the de Clares would do for him, I certainly would not!'
'No? You had reason to dislike Rufus and you have long associations with Henry.'
'Christ, girl, what do you take me for? I might not have liked Rufus or wanted to be a party to his private habits, but that is hardly a reason to plot his death or barter my honour.'
'Then tell me what Prince Henry told you when he dined with us at Whitsuntide,' she challenged.
She saw it: the flicker of his lids, the bunching of muscle in his jaw before his face went blank. 'He told me nothing,' he said tonelessly.
'Liar!' she flung at him. 'It was less than three months ago. Do you think I am so besotted by your charm that I cannot remember? You said there was something you could not tell me, a political secret, a confidence you would rather die than break, and you were shaken by it. There was cold sweat on your brow.'
'That was nothing to do with Rufus's death.'
'What was it then?' Her mouth twisted. 'After all , nothing can be much more damning than plotting a king's death.'
His face remained expressionless. 'I will not tell you, Judith. It is not my place and perhaps it would do more damage than it would resolve.'
She gave him a look compounded of triumph and defeat. 'I thought you would have an answer,' she said with contempt.
He gripped her arms. 'Judith, I swear to you on my soul... on my mother's soul, that whatever was plotted against Rufus, I had no part in it. I have no defence except my word. The words that would absolve me, I will not speak. It would only shift burdens and guilts to shoulders less able to bear them.'
'You're hurting me,' she said dully.
He swore and relaxed his grip, but only to soften it to an embrace and pull her against him.
'Judith, what do I do if you won't trust me?'
She stood quivering within his arms, torn between doubt and doubt. Shield or blindfold, she dreaded to make the decision. He was adept with words, fashioning them to his needs, could convince her black was white if only given the opportunity. 'What do I do if you betray that trust?' she responded and slid her hand over the fine black hairs of his braced forearm, denuded by the ridge of scar tissue where the boar had tushed him, and on up to the smooth curve of his bicep.
'Prove me wrong.'
'How?' he asked bleakly. 'If I fulfil your trust I break another.'
She refused to relent. 'And which is more important?'
Leaving her, he sat down on the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. 'I don't know.
Neither. The edge is so finely balanced I dare not tip the scale. All I can swear to you again is that I was not involved in any plot to murder Rufus.' He looked across at her where she stood braced as if waiting to receive a blow and let out his breath on a heavy sigh. 'It's late. Are you going to come to bed or stand there glaring at me all night?' He held out his hand.
She looked at his outstretched graceful fingers, knew how they would feel gliding over her body, trailing fever in their wake, knew how they looked holding reins or a sword, knew their tensile strength and of what they were capable.
'Neither,' she said, and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER 20
Rhosyn looked at the crocks of brawn on the trestle, product of a long morning's work. She sealed the last one with a thick layer of melted lard.
'All done?' queried Heulwen, beaming up at her.
Rhosyn smiled and lifted her younger daughter to sit on the trestle. Heulwen was a chubby bundle of energy with a bright crop of red-gold curls and green-blue eyes, the legacy of her Norman great-grandfather, so Madoc, who had known him, had said. The legacy of her Norman father was her ability to cozen warm approval and adulation from smitten members of the opposite sex.
Rhosyn had not seen Guyon since immediately after Heulwen's birth. Messages passed with Madoc. The trading bond remained strong, but the gossamer ties that had bound herself and Guyon for four years had
