She stared at him, or rather at his back, for he had turned away to rummage in his own clothing chest for a decent tunic. 'Guy, where are we going?'
'Wait and see. I've told you before about looking gift horses in the mouth.' He swung around and pinning his own cloak, advanced upon her.
'Guy?'
'Trust me?' His expression was a mingling of laughter and tension. 'Trust me, Judith?' He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close, or as close as the bunched cloak trapped between them would allow, and kissed her in a fashion that sent Agnes bustling to a far corner of the room on the pretext of some overlooked task.
'I don't know if I should,' Judith said, tilting her head. 'What awaits me if I do?'
'A fate worse than death?' he suggested, draping the cloak around her shoulders and fastening the pin.
She felt a warm glow in the pit of her stomach.
Her lips curved and then parted in a full smile; her eyes danced. She would think about everything later. This moment belonged to her and Guyon.
'Show me,' she said, a catch in her voice. 'I want to know.'
Judith was sitting beside Alicia when she woke, her fingers nimbly weaving a needle in and out of a tunic she was stitching for Guyon, her manner one of demure domesticity. She had never been inside a Southwark bathhouse before, indeed had almost refused when she discovered their destination, but Guyon, grinning, had dragged her protesting through the doorway and the rest had been too interesting for her to want to leave.
Mention a Southwark bathhouse and most people would raise their eyebrows and utter knowing laughs, or purse their lips and shake their heads. Many of the stews warranted such censure, but Guyon's particular choice, which she suspected came of long acquaintance, appeared to cater for those with the wealth to buy privacy and discretion. She had seen several people she knew from the court, two of them alone, another in the company of a very pretty girl who was most certainly not his wife.
She and Guyon had soaked themselves clean and warm in a spacious tub and had drunk effervescent wine - not in any great quantity. They had played floating tables - and other less intellectual games, the kind associated with the Southwark stews and knowing laughs and pursed lips, and lent an added spice because of that.
She stifled a giggle and bit off the thread, and became aware that Alicia was watching her.
'Mama?' For an instant Judith was startled, but she recovered quickly and leaned forward. 'How are you feeling?'
'As if my brains have been squashed,' Alicia said faintly and put up her hand to touch her bandage-swathed head. 'What happened?'
'You fainted and cut your head on the brazier as you fell .'
From the other room, muffled by the heavy curtain, came the reassuring sound of male voices in conversation. Alicia strove to sit up, then desisted with a gasp of pain.
Judith pressed her gently back down. 'I had to stitch the wound and quickly,' she apologised. 'It is not my neatest piece of work.'
Frowning with pain and concentration, Alicia studied her daughter. Her rich gown had been replaced by a neat, serviceable homespun. The tawny hair was woven into a simple thick braid and looked almost as if it were damp.
'Judith, how long have I been asleep?'
She placed a cool hand upon her mother's forehead. 'Not long, do not fret yourself.'
'I seem to recall that I have cause to fret.'
Judith shook her head in wordless denial.
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 a great 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.
CHAPTER 22
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 fall en 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 fewexperimental 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, Mabell 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
