She had done all that was possible for her to do, short of joining the men on the battlements; indeed, she might have even dared that were she not so fettered by her responsibilities to the wounded and those within the core of the keep who looked to her for succour and guidance.
She knew their situation was desperate. The Welsh alone they could have fought off, but with Norman leaders the matter was not so sure.
Guyon had had to batter Thornford hard to take it and four days had not been long enough to shore it up to withstand the kind of punishment it was taking now. She could only thank Christ that she had left Heulwen at Ravenstow, for she had been in half a mind to bring her and only the doubt of what she might find here had made her leave the child behind ... perhaps to be raised an orphan.
Judith's belly heaved as she contemplated her future at the hands of Walter de Lacey should he prevail. She swallowed. What had Guyon said about panic? The room started to close in on her and the wounded man she was tending groaned and jerked. Chagrined, she apologised to him and finishing with the salve, reached for a roll of bandage. There was none and a swift investigation among the maids showed that there was very little left. She took a swaddling band from Helgund to bind the man and, relieved to have an excuse, left the hall to raid Lady Mabel's linen chest in the solar.
She was kneeling by the chest, cutting a tablecloth into strips with Guyon's knife, when she became aware of how much nearer the battle sounded to the keep. The shouting was no longer an amorphous muddle; she could distinguish actual words now and hear the blows and thuds of sword upon shield. From without there came a tremendous crash and then the screams of women and the grating screech of sword on sword. She ceased her task and rose to her feet, her breath catching in her throat. Weapons clashed together outside the curtain. She heard grunts of effort and a hissing curse, and tightened her fingers on the grip of her knife.
There was a solid thud, a grunt, and then a bubbling groan. The curtain clashed aside and she was confronted by Walter de Lacey, his mail shirt glistening like snakeskin as he breathed in heavy gasps. His sword was edged with blood and his eyes were aglow with triumph.
Her throat closed, but not before a whimper had escaped her lips. Rape and a living hell . She could see her future clearly imprinted in his voracious stare.
'You're not properly attired for a wedding, but you'll do,' he said with a smile.
'Keep away from me!' Judith snarled.
He shook his head at her. 'Is that any way for a wife to speak to her husband? It seems that I am going to have to lesson you into meeker ways.'
Sheathing his sword, he advanced.
Judith backed. Her thighs struck the chest and pressed there. She was cornered, no retreat, and he was going to do all the things to her that Maurice de Montgomery had once done to her mother. She thought of Rhosyn and Rhys and Eluned, of what had happened to them. She thought of Guyon sprawled sightless in the ward, for surely de Lacey would not be gloating here otherwise and, as he reached for her, her eyes flashed and her chin came up.
Guyon ran, not feeling the weight of his mail or weapons, only filled with a dreadful sense of foreboding. A Fleming, intent on pill age, barred his way and Guyon cut him down like swatting a fly. The maids were screaming and cowering. The wounded who had been unable to run away were all dead. A Welshman was swigging raw wine straight from the flagon. He was still clutching it to his chest when Guyon ran him through. Blood and wine soaked into the rushes. Guyon seized Helgund's arms. 'Where's your mistress?' he demanded.
'She went ... solar ... fetch more bandages!'
Helgund gulped through a mask of tears and terror as around her men skirmished, chasing each other over and around trestles, hacking and slashing, killing or being killed.
Guyon released her arm and ran the length of the hall . Prys was sprawled across the solar entrance. He stooped and turned him over, but the life had flown and Prys was as limp as a rag.
Guyon's blood froze. Standing straight, he parted the curtain and made himself enter the solar.
A shaft of sunlight slanted across the room to the wall above the prie-dieu and illuminated a splash of blood and a beadwork of sprayed drops above it. He followed the pattern up and then down to where it disappeared into the deep corner shadows beside the open linen chest, the napery it contained spilling untidily over the edge and embroidered erratically with great scarlet flowers of blood. Hesitantly he trod in the wake of his gaze until he was looking down on the body of Walter de Lacey and beneath it, the russet homespun of Judith's oldest working gown.
If his blood had run cold before, now he felt it congeal, and for a moment he was unable to move. A wet, cold nose nudged at his hand and Cadi whined. Her tail swished against his chausses and he broke eye contact with what he dreaded to face to look at the dog. She sniffed at de Lacey's hauberk and growled.
The power of movement returned to Guyon's limbs, although they seemed to belong to a total stranger. He stooped and, grasping de Lacey's shoulder, rolled him over and to one side. There was a jagged tear in his throat and his eyes were fixed in a baleful stare.
Judith was drenched in blood, but how much was her own he had no idea. Her face was unsmirched except for one small streak that only served to emphasise her pall or. Her eyes were closed and for a heart-stopping moment he did not know if she was dead or alive.
'Judith?' he said softly and, kneeling, lifted her and braced her weight against his shoulders.
'Judith?' He patted her face and she flopped against him like a child's cloth doll . Frightened, he hit her harder and then, by pure reflexive instinct, shot out his arm and grabbed her wrist before she could do to him with the knife what she had just done to Walter de Lacey.
'Guy?' Her eyes cleared. She looked at him and then at the knife and let it drop before turning into his arms with a shuddering sob.
'Judith, are you hurt, love? I cannot tell for all this blood.'
'Hurt? ... No ... It is all his. He did not know I had the knife until I struck - it was hidden under these bandages ... I thought when I saw him that you must be dead ...' Her breath caught in her throat and Guyon smoothed her hair and kissed her.
She kissed him fervently in return, then pushed him away to look at him. 'You talk of my hurt, as if your own were of no consequence!' she gasped, pointing to a bloody rent in his mail.
'It's nothing,' he answered, not entirely telling the truth. 'I've taken worse in practice. And it doesn't matter now. It is all over.'
His tone was so weary that she panicked. 'What do you mean? Surely with de Lacey dead, the Welsh will be willing to talk ransom?'
'That is what I am hoping, although at the best of times they can be contrary bastards and I'm in no state to negotiate myself.' His eyes flickered to the doorway.
Judith stared at Miles in open-mouthed astonishment as he stepped over the corpse on the threshold and entered the chamber. 'I thought you did not have the time to send for succour,' she said to Guyon in utter bewilderment.
'I didn't, love.' Guyon released her to wipe his sword on de Lacey's leggings, then wished he had not, for as he bent, his vision fluctuated and he felt as if he were on the deck of a ship in the midst of a storm. He straightened slowly and, with great care, sheathed the blade. 'It was sheer good fortune, or the will of God ...' He looked at his father. 'If you had not come when you did ...'
'The will of the King, you mean,' Miles said wryly as Guyon fumbled to remove his helm. 'And as it happens, this situation could not have profited him better.'
Guyon looked blankly at his father. 'Forgive me. I've fought my way to the gates of hell and back. I can't think.'
Miles went out into the hall , returning with a jug of wine that had miraculously survived the onslaught. 'Henry wants me to negotiate with the Welsh. Well , thanks to you and Walter de Lacey, I've a nice fat collection of caged birds to lure Cadwgan to the table ... including his own son.'
'Cadwgan's son?' Guyon gulped the wine straight from the flagon, spilling more down his mail than he actually got into his mouth. 'You mean that idiot with the jewelled sword and no notion of how to use it is Cadwgan's son?'
Miles grinned wolfishly. 'The very same. Do you think that his father values him above his loyalty to Robert de Belleme?'
