He grimaced and finished the wine. 'No, Cathfach, since you ask, I do not have a mistress. I did have but we parted last month. The borders are no longer safe for her to travel in her father's wool train and, being Welsh, she would not be constrained within one of my keeps.' He shrugged and looked down at his hands, remembering them lost in the black waterfall of Rhosyn's hair. 'A marcher lord and a girl from the Welsh hill s. Such matches are fleeting at the most.'

Judith swallowed, wishing that she had not asked the question.

'Even if Rhosyn had agreed to live a Norman life, there are still such things as courtesy and discretion,' he said after a moment. 'It is neither considerate nor far-sighted to have a mistress and a wife beneath the same roof. Grief is bound to come of it.'

Judith nodded sensibly. It never occurred to her that Guyon would be faithful. Her father had been lecherous and indiscriminate in his ruttings and the friends and vassals who dined at his board, the same. Discretion was not a word they knew.

Gratitude was an emotion Judith seldom felt.

'You are kind, my lord.'

He shrugged. 'Not necessarily, but I have had no choice but to learn the ways of women. My sister rules her roost and she has three daughters, all of them lively, and Rhosyn has a daughter too, Eluned. One learns to tread with care.'

He spoke with such obvious affection for his womenfolk that another shard of fear broke from the frozen lump at Judith's core and dissolved away. 'Will you tell me about your family, my lord?

The marriage was arranged so quickly that I know very little.'

Guyon obliged. It was safer ground than talk of mistresses, or so in his ignorance he thought.

Indeed, all went sweetly until he spoke of his half-sister Emma and her marriage to a royal official.

From there, the conversation drifted into the murkier waters surrounding life at court.

'De Bec says that the King is a ...' Judith caught herself just in time from committing another fauxpas. 'A mincing ferblet' was not a safe remark.

Guyon had not missed her sudden dismayed check. He could well guess the reason. Rufus's tendencies were common guardroom scandal and one did not learn how to sharpen a sword and fight with knife without ingesting gossip.

It was not really amusing, not when the King, who was short, portly and red complexioned, preferred his partners to be tall , honed and possessed of dark good looks. On several occasions the royal groin had stood in imminent danger of damage from Guyon's knee. That had been in the early days before he discovered the amicable company of the ambitious Prince Henry and that the occasional night spent carousing with him amid women of doubtful character, and wine of opposite excellence, was sufficient to dampen Rufus's ardour and send him in pursuit of more co-operative game.

'... De Bec says that the King spends more money on clothes in one week than mama would be all owed to spend in an entire year,' Judith amended, regarding him anxiously.

Guyon chuckled. 'Rufus likes to think that he spends more on his wardrobe than other men, but he is outwitted by his own vanity. Last time I was at court my brother-in-law, who was dressing him, fetched him a pair of gilded leather boots. Rufus asked how much they cost, so Richard told him.

Rufus was furious and demanded that he go away and find a pair that were worth a full mark of silver, claiming that those he had been offered were fit only for shovelling dung.' His laughter deepened. 'I do not tell a tale like Richard; he had the alehouse in uproar!'

'What happened?'

'Richard went away, found a hideous red pair with green fringing that cost less than the first pair and took them to Rufus, telling him they were the most expensive boots he could lay hands on.'

'And Rufus swallowed the bait?'

'Well , he paraded round all day in them, thinking himself a peacock and looking like a Southwark pimp and Richard pocketed the profit. God knows if the tale has got back to Rufus yet. I'd hate to be in Richard's boots when it does!'

Judith made a face at his weak pun and then laughed, the sound a delicious feminine tumble of notes, as surprising to Guyon as the fine strength of her hands.

'Tell me about de Bec,' he said when they had ceased laughing at the royal vanity. 'How long has he been here at Ravenstow?'

'He arrived soon after the main keep began to go up, the year before I was born, I think. My father was away fighting the Welsh and it was my mother who employed him.'

'And he has been her man ever since?'

'Whenever it has been possible. If he had defied my father's authority he would have been straight away dismissed and he is too old to travel the roads with his sword for hire.' She gave him a concerned look. 'You do not intend to turn him out, my lord? He is most loyal and he knows this keep better than any man alive ... saving my uncle Robert of course.'

'No, of course I do not intend turning him out — unless he proves unsatisfactory to my own assessment. Seventeen years of service are not dismissed lightly.' He made a face. 'I am not so sure about your constable however.'

Judith tossed her head. 'FitzWarren's all right.

Dry as dust and too full of his own importance by half, but he's loyal and very efficient. He can conjure a feast out of nothing - I've seen him do it, and his accounts are meticulous.'

'I am sure they are. It just troubles me as to where he obtains the wealth to clothe himself in scarlet sarcenet.'

'It was my father's, new last Candlemas. He and FitzWarren were much of a height. Mama gave it to him after the funeral. You can see the account roll s on the morrow if you want ... Oh, do you read and write?'

'Both. Do you?'

'A little, my lord.' Actually, it was considerably more than a little, gleaned from the household scribe on cold winter days and polished in private moments to an astute skill , but most men preferred their women to dwell in ignorance, or at least in more ignorance than themselves.

'After the hunt tomorrow you can show me - I don't want FitzWarren standing at my shoulder watching me even if he is honest.' He glanced towards the shutters. 'If there is a hunt, with all this snow blowing about.'

Judith stretched and yawned. The wine had made her eyes heavy and it was very late.

Guyon glanced at her. He was not averse to the prospect of sleep himself, for the day had been long and fraught and the morrow seemed set to continue the same. He leaned over and pinched out the night candle and in the darkness removed his cloak. Fabric slid silkily against skin as Judith shed her own garment and burrowed down beneath the covers.

' Nos da, Cath fach,' he said compassionately.

' Nos da, fy gwr,' she replied in passable Welsh.

Guyon mentally added the skill of language to her numerous talents and wondered how in God's name an oaf like Maurice FitzRoger had managed to beget a child like this. His last thought before sleep claimed him, and not to be remembered in the morning, was that perhaps Maurice had not begotten her at all .

CHAPTER 5

Judith blearily opened her eyes in response to the persistent thrust of a small , cold nose pressing against her cheek and a thunderous vibration in her ear. Melyn uttered a purr of greeting, striped orange tail waving jauntily. Judith groaned and buried her face in the pillow. There was an ache behind her eyes that spoke of an excess of wine and an insufficiency of sleep. The room was lit by weak grey light penetrating the membrane screen across the arrowslit. Given the time of year, it must be well beyond the hour of first mass which meant that there was no time left to turn over and go back to sleep.

Judith pushed Melyn aside, gathered her hair and sat up. The cat stalked across the pillow to the turned back of the other occupant, sniffed the rumpled black hair and patted a playful sheathed paw on the man's face.

'Rhosyn,' Guyon murmured, opened his eyes and received a cold, wet kiss that dispelled all dreaming illusions. 'God's blood!' He jerked upright, seeking his non-existent sword - a man did not come thus armed to his marriage bed.

The cat, having achieved her purpose, leaped nimbly to the floor and commenced an inquisitive investigation of Guyon's baggage. Glowering at Melyn's graceful form, he dug his fingers through his hair. Judith decided he was suffering from her own malaise and best left in peace to gather his wits ... except that this morning there was no time.

She sought her bedrobe and put it on. Guyon pressed his face into his hands. Tactfully, Judith left the bed, scooped up Melyn and went to the arrowslit. 'It is not snowing now, my lord,' she remarked. 'And the clouds are high. The hunt can be held. It will provide fresh meat and it will prevent quarrels from developing. There was a terrible fight last Christmas when Mama's niece got married. The groom's cousin lost three fingers and an ear and the hall was completely wrecked.'

'God forbid,' he said.

'You should watch Walter de Lacey today,' she warned. 'I suppose you know that he offered for me before Papa died and he is one of Uncle Robert's friends.'

'I did not think your uncle Robert had any friends.'

Glancing round, she saw that he had begun to assemble his clothing. His eyes, although bleary were fully open now.

'Do not worry, I know well he is one of the Cwmni Annwn. I will be on my guard.'

'The what?'

'Hounds of hell ,' he translated, tugging on his shirt. 'The Wild Hunt. Damned souls who hunt in perpetuity and never come to rest. Appropriate, would you not say?'

His flippant tone was a barrier. His father would have recognised it immediately and cut straight beneath it. Judith stood blocked, unsure what to do. She watched him dress, setting aside his wedding finery for a warm, fur-trimmed tunic of green plaid wool, thick hose and tough, calf-hide boots.

Abandoning Judith, Melyn leaped on to the bed and began to wash. Judith's eyes followed the cat and then settled on the linen undersheet. White as the snow that had fall en in the night. Pristine.

Unstained. She gave a gasp of panic. Any moment now they were likely to be disturbed by their guests and the first task of the morning would be to display that sheet to all , stained with the sanguine proof of her virginity ... or lack of it.

Startled, Guyon left off buckling his belt. 'What's the matter?'

'The bed ... the sheet. They will think that I am impure, or else that you were unable.'

He gaped at her.

'There is no blood!' she almost shrieked at him.

Enlightenment tardily dawned and with it a glint of amusement. 'Ah.' He rubbed the back of his neck. 'I don't make a habit of deflowering virgins.'

He shot her a sour grin. 'I wonder which choice they would settle upon.' Pushing Melyn gently to one side, he drew his short eating knife from the sheath at his belt and, forcing up his left sleeve, made a shallow cut upon the inside of his forearm. As the blood welled in a thin, bright line, he smeared it over the centre of the sheet.

'Self-inflicted,' he remarked with wry humour as he stanched the bleeding on his shirt sleeve. 'I beg a cup of valerian to mend my disordered wits, and a pot of honey to smear this slit in my hide.'

Judith handed him the jar of nettle salve. 'This will serve just as well for the nonce.'

His tone was self-mocking. 'And have all the women condemn me for a clumsy oaf and risk your mother's censure? I have a reputation to keep up, you know.'

Judith blushed, for she had not thought of how others would misconstrue the finger marks in the ointment.

'It's a scratch, don't concern yourself.' He rolled down his sleeve and grinned at her. 'I dare say it is not the last wound I'll take defending a lady's honour.'

Before Judith could decide how to reply, Cadi began to bark outside the entrance curtain and a woman cried out in anxiety. On the bed Melyn became a stiff horseshoe of growling orange fur.

Guyon tugged a strand of Judith's hair, gave her an encouraging wink and went to draw aside the curtain and wish good morning to his mother-by-marriage, the small entourage of female wedding guests in her wake and the plump maid bearing a ewer of warm, scented water and a towel.

Cadi greeted her master boisterously. He commanded her down, but although she obeyed him, her forepaws danced on the floor and her whole body quivered with precariously subdued enthusiasm. Alicia returned Guyon's courtesy with a tepid nod and entered the room. At her side an older woman, a second cousin or some such as he remembered, fastidiously brushed white dog hairs from her dark blue gown.