mark to a penny there’s another husband being chosen for her, strictly of her father’s choosing.’
She paused to draw breath, aware that her indignation on Matilda’s behalf had carried her too far. Her words, by association, might lead back to the niggling treadmill of the match between Heulwen and Warrin de Mortimer, the very thing she had sought to distract Guyon from in the first place.
‘Anyway,’ she said, adroitly changing the subject, ‘it will be a pleasure to see Henry and discover how he’s progressing in Robert of Gloucester’s charge, and it’s a long time since I’ve had a good gossip with Rob’s wife.’ Her tone warmed with anticipation. ‘That little booth’s always there at Christmas, you know, the one that sells attar of roses, and I need to buy some more thread-of-gold for that altar cloth in the chapel, and we’ve almost finished the saffron. ’
‘Enough!’ her husband groaned, laughing. ‘You will clean me out of silver!’
‘But in a good cause.’ She nibbled his ear. Her hand strayed downwards again, teasing, knowledgeable.
‘Wanton,’ he murmured, shifting to accommodate her further.
‘For a dead horse, you’re remarkably lively,’ she retorted.
‘…A dead horse,’ said the serjeant as Guyon gestured him to his feet. ‘A dun stallion with an arrow in his belly and his throat slit wide. Our patrol came across him in the middle of the drovers’ road; he was crusted in a night’s fall of snow.’
‘Any other signs of a skirmish?’ asked Warrin de Mortimer, speaking around a mouthful of bread and honey.
‘I couldn’t rightly tell, my lord. The snow had blown and drifted. At first we did not realise there was a horse there at all, until one of the dogs found him.’
‘A dun.’ Heulwen put her cup down, her colour fading. ‘Adam had a dun with him yesterday, and it was the road he would have taken to Thornford.’
Warrin gave her a sharp glance, a hint of irritation in his ice-blue eyes, then dropped his gaze and took a gulp of cider to wash down his bread, hoping that the Welsh had done to Adam what they had done to Ralf. It would stop Heulwen agitating over the witless sod, and he would be able to comfort her as only a husband could.
‘And Renard went with him,’ Judith said, one hand at her throat, the other gripping the trestle.
‘He was riding a dun; I saw him leave,’ said William. He had been sitting quietly at the end of the dais, a wooden soldier in one hand and a heel of bread in the other, only half understanding what was being said, but alerted enough by the fear in the adult voices to be frightened himself. ‘It was Sir Adam’s remount. He had a black mane and tail and a blaze.’
The serjeant swallowed and nodded. ‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘Holy Christ. ’ Judith closed her eyes.
‘Mama, Renard’s all right, isn’t he?’
Judith turned a blind, terrified gaze on her youngest son, changing it swiftly, but not swiftly enough, and gave him a meaningless smile. ‘Yes, of course he is, sweetheart. ’ After all, there were no corpses saving that of a slaughtered horse. William came to her and she drew him close, holding on to his small, warm body.
‘Eric, get the men saddled up,’ Guyon snapped at his grizzled constable. ‘I want to see this for myself. We’ll ride on to Thornford along the drovers’ road.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ offered Warrin, gulping down the last of his cider and standing up. ‘You can use my men to swell the ranks of your own. Safety in numbers, I think.’
Guyon nodded brusquely and left the trestle to go and arm, beckoning the serjeant to come with him so that he could be further questioned as to what he had seen.
Judith bent over her youngest son, reassuring him, her heart clogged by dread. The November sacrifice, she thought: two sons paid, three still to lose. She shuddered.
‘Take care,’ Heulwen said to Warrin, grasping his sleeve.
‘Don’t worry,’ he answered with a tight smile and bright eyes. ‘I’m not going to be cheated out of what is rightfully mine.’
She frowned.
‘Look,’ he said with heavy patience, ‘Adam de Lacey is too experienced a fighter to fall prey to a piddling band of Welsh —
Heulwen watched him stride across the hall and from her sight, his pace assured and arrogant. A shard of ice lodged in her heart. She remembered a soft summer day and the dismayed cries of the servants as Warrin rode into her bailey, Ralf ’s blood-soaked body draped like a dead deer across Vaillantif ’s back. She remembered the dull, sightless eyes, the wounds that had bled him white, and the void expression death had set on his face. Warrin telling her then not to worry; telling her again now, like a foretaste of doom. With a small cry she gathered her skirts and fled the hall for the sanctuary of the chapel and cast herself down on her knees before the altar, and there entreated God to keep Renard and Adam safe, and to forgive her sins.
Adam paused, hands on hips, breath steaming into the clear, frosty air, and watched the men from Ravenstow ride into his bailey. A snort rippled from him when he saw Warrin de Mortimer astride the piebald stallion. ‘That’s two marks you owe me,’ he said to Jerold.
The knight squinted against the cold glare of the sun. ‘That’s two marks more than he’s paid out over that horse,’ he said acidly. ‘But then what need when it’s part of his future bride’s dowry and you are fool enough to have trained him for love, not money?’
Adam gave Jerold a hard stare, but the knight was not for retreat and returned it full measure and Adam was the first to disengage. ‘What need indeed?’ he said, and turned to crunch across the snow and greet the horsemen.
‘Adam, thank Christ!’ Guyon said sharply as he dismounted. ‘What in hell’s name happened?’
Adam shrugged his shoulders. ‘What you would expect. The Welsh must have had their scouts out yesterday morning and seen me pass on the road to Ravenstow. We weren’t laden with travelling baggage, so it wouldn’t take a great intellect to deduce we’d probably be returning soon that same way.’ Gingerly he touched the clotted slash on his jaw. ‘They bit off more than they could chew, but we didn’t have it all our own way. I lost three good men and sixty marks’ worth of destrier, not to mention those wounded.’
‘Where’s Renard?’ Guyon stared anxiously round the bailey for his son. ‘Was he injured?’
‘No more than grazes,’ Adam reassured him as they turned towards the hall. ‘He danced too close for comfort with a Welsh spear, but Sweyn got to him in time. He’s still abed, but only because I sent him there last night with a flagon of the strongest cider we had, and a girl from the village. I don’t expect to see him this side of noon.’
‘You did what?’ De Mortimer looked at him in disgust.
‘Oh don’t go all pious on me, Warrin!’ Adam snapped. ‘The lad fought well — accounted for two of the bastards on his own and got himself clear of a gut-shot horse in the middle of a pitched battle — but it’s a violent baptism for a youngster raw from the tilt yard. He took sick afterwards. In the circumstances, I thought it best that he drown his dreams in drink and the comfort of a woman’s body, and Christ alone knows why I am justifying myself to you!’
‘Calm down, Adam.’ Guyon touched his rigid arm. ‘I’d probably have done the same with him. Just thank God you’re both safe. When I saw that horse in the road. ’
‘I was going to send to you this morning, but I’ve not long risen myself.’
‘Did you take to drink and dalliance too?’ de Mortimer needled him.
Adam’s jaw tightened, making his wound hurt. He thought of several sarcastic replies but decided that to utter them was to play into Mortimer’s hands. ‘We took a prisoner,’ he said to Guyon, half turning his shoulder on the other’s galling presence. ‘He’s got a nasty head wound and a slashed thigh, and he’s still out of his wits. The village herb-wife had a look at him and says he’ll mend, but doesn’t know how long it will be before he recovers his senses.’
‘You had reason to make of him a prisoner then?’ Guyon prowled forward to the hearth. The snow on his
