Guyon roused with a start to the feel of someone violently shaking his shoulder. He was so stiff that for a moment he could not move and, when he did, it was to discover that his feet were completely numb where the dog's weight had pressed all feeling from them.
'What's the matter?' he demanded groggily. 'Is it time to go?' And then his gaze focused on his father. 'Why are you wearing your mail?'
'Henry's messenger has just ridden in on a half-dead horse. Curthose has landed, and not at Pevensey as we all expected.'
'What? Where then?' Guyon shoved Cadi off his feet, pushed himself out of the chair and began automatically to don the hauberk that Eric was holding out to him.
'Portsmouth,' Miles said grimly. 'Some English sailors were persuaded to pilot Curthose and his ships into the harbour.'
'Then the road to Winchester is open?'
'Yes.'
Guyon cursed as he picked up his swordbelt and fumbled to attach the scabbard to its thongs.
The Queen, the heir, the treasury.
Alicia hovered in the background, looking as if she might burst into tears. Guyon glanced round the room for his spurs and lifted them off the coffer. 'Look after Cadi for me,' he said to her, 'I cannot take her with me.'
Alicia nodded distantly, but her eyes were all for Miles, devouring him. Guyon flicked a look from one to the other. 'I'll meet you below,' he murmured to his father, kissed Alicia on the cheek, thought briefly of Judith and left the room, Eric stamping in his wake.
Alicia gave a small , despairing sob and cast herself into Miles's mail-clad arms. He smoothed her glossy black braids and buried his face in the pulse beating in her white neck. The sword pommel intruded between them, butting up beneath her ribs. It might as well have been through her heart, blade end on.
CHAPTER 23
If Robert de Belleme had been the kind of man to tear out his hair and swear and curse, he would have done so. Those who knew him well enough recognised the signs of agitation with sufficient clarity to take evasive action before it was too late. Those who did not, found they had a scorpion by the tail.
As the troops made ready to disperse, he sat in his tent and stared blank-eyed at the rough canvas wall . A muscle ticked in his cheek. His fists tightened. After a moment he glanced down at the dirty yellow colour of his clenched knuckles, then gently flexed them, placing his hands palm-flat upon his thighs.
He had picked his horse, he had nurtured it, fed it from his own hand, cajoled it, coaxed it sweetly down to the water trough. It had dipped its muzzle and at the last, impossible moment had refused to drink because the water was not as crystal clear as it had imagined. By rights he should have taken his sword and hewn the beast into gobbets there and then.
Outside the tent, he heard Walter de Lacey and another of his vassals joking together, something about the young age of the whore currently appeasing de Lacey's lust. A red mist floated before de Belleme's eyes. They were laughing about a slut when months of careful planning and hard work were unravelling around them like a loom weaving backwards. But then what did he expect of fools? When he was sure of his temper, he rose and stalked purposefully out into the open.
'Aren't those other tents down yet?' he snarled.
'Nearly, m'lord,' a serjeant answered fearfully.
He shoved him aside and snapped his fingers at the soldier who held his stall ion. De Lacey and the other man stopped laughing and exchanged wary glances. He did not even look at them, although they were part of his personal escort who were to ride with him to the signing of the peace treaty between the brothers. Peace treaty - hah! For what it was worth to Robert Curthose, he might as well use it to wipe his backside.
De Belleme mounted his stall ion and drew in the reins, pulling the horse's mouth against its chest. 'When you are ready,' he said icily.
De Lacey cleared his throat, muttered an apology and swung into his saddle.
The King and his brother sat side by side at a long, linen-spread trestle. Guyon, seated further down the board, watched the banners flutter in the warm breeze. Behind and before, two armies were amassed, one of English shire levies, commanded by the barons who had remained loyal to Henry and one of Normans and Flemings, bulked out by the vassals and retainers of such men as Robert de Belleme, Arnulf of Pembroke and Ivo Grantmesnil.
The smell of so many bodies was distinctly middenish, as was the language. The English were merely insulting the Normans because it was a traditional pastime. The Normans were swearing because their leader had decided to make peace with his brother when it was crass stupidity to do so. Better by far to fight.
Guyon and Miles had reached Winchester with their troops close on dusk of the day following the messenger's arrival, had been momentarily mistaken for the enemy and almost set upon.
Cursing, Guyon had roared his name at the men on the wall s, his shield flung up and furred with arrows and, after the captain of the guard had been sent for and emerged hitching his chausses and complaining that he could not even go for a piss in peace, they were admitted to spend the night there.
Curthose's army had bypassed Winchester, so the captain had told them, his eyes cynical with disbelief. Guyon sent a glance along the board to the bearded, stocky form of Robert Curthose. The kind of man who forsook such a prize when it was his for the taking was the kind of fool who was unfit to govern.
Curthose lived in a world of chivalric unreality, an illuminated page that had little to do with worldly practicalities. It was the reason he never had any money. He was constantly frittering it away in the interests of distributing largesse. His misplaced sense of knightly generosity had led him to declare he could not possibly be so much of a brute as to disturb the Queen when she was so near to her time.
Robert de Belleme, who could indeed have been so brutish without a qualm, was left gnashing his teeth at Curthose's inability to maintain both his sense of purpose and the anger at Henry that might have kept his fervour burning.
Those barons who had counted on being able to make Curthose fight for the English crown were now watching Henry, avoiding his eye if he watched them in return and anxiously counting the cost of misjudgement. Henry was not his easygoing brother to forgive and forget, unless it was politically expedient to do so.
They were all gathered here now, enemy and ally, on the London road at Alton, so that Henry and Curthose could hammer out their differences and come to terms. De Belleme and Flambard and Grantmesnil had advised Curthose to fight.
His position was good and would never be stronger. Henry had smiled into his brother's childishly innocent eyes and asked why resort to bloodshed when diplomacy was by far the better way?
Curthose had been only too willing to listen to Henry's sweet-talk, which was, of course, Henry's deadliest weapon. Curthose's intention to war with Henry had considerably cooled since its first indignant eruption and, besides, he was now embarrassed for funds. All he wanted was some money to cover his expenses and to go back to Normandy and let the dust settle. Henry was most amenable. All that remained to be discussed was the sum Curthose would be paid annually in return for his acknowledgement of Henry's right to the crown.
Guyon studied the assembly. Grantmesnil, de Belleme and Roger de Poitou had arrived looking like a trio of warlocks, their minions swarming behind. The lord of Shrewsbury was wearing a blood-red gown. His eyes were as pale as shards of glass and stabbed everyone they encountered.
When the look slashed over Guyon, the latter answered it impassively. He shielded himself from the malevolence by recalling their last encounter and the gratifying sight of de Belleme and de Lacey parcelled up in the road among a herd of bleating, stinking sheep. His mouth twitched and he quickly lowered his eyes before he laughed. When he dared to look up again, the Earl's gaze was stalking FitzHamon with vicious intent and Walter de Lacey was watching him instead.
Without qualm this time, Guyon smiled at him.
De Lacey stiffened and his right hand twitched towards his sword; except of course that he wasn't wearing one. No man came armed to a parley. He transferred his fist to his empty belt and clamped it there instead.
