Lemme go!'

He continued to utter loud protests as they manhandled him to the bed. Judith watched him, her fingers at her throat, her whole body tensed to avoid him if need be.

Eric glanced at her and gave her of all things a wink and a smile. 'Don't you worry, mistress, he'll sober up quicker than you think,' he said comfortingly and, his grinning companion in tow, left her alone with her dread.

Melyn leaped on to Guyon's wine-drenched chest and kneaded the spoiled cloth with splayed claws. Guyon scooped her up and, depositing her on the coverlet, sat up.

'God help me,' he grimaced, pulling the garment over his head. 'I stink like the morning after in a Rouen brothel!' He slung the richly embroidered wool across the room and followed it with his shirt.

Still standing near the door, Judith's eyes were round with astonishment. 'You're not drunk!' she said.

'Sober as a stone, Cath fach.' Going purposefully to his clothing chest he rummaged among the contents. Sunlight rayed obliquely through the shutters and gilded his skin. It picked out the scar from the boar hunt on his arm and the marks of stitches neatly made.

'But why?' she enquired in bewilderment. 'Why did you want us all to believe that you were sodden drunk?'

'You did not have to pretend your responses and they were more convincing than you could have feigned. Your uncle as well as most of the keep thinks that I have drowned in hippocras my despair at losing so much silver into his wanton care.'

'But I saw how much you swallowed. Your back teeth must be awash!'

Guyon flashed her a grin. 'A gut full of red-dyed water, and just enough hippocras to reek my clothes and skin. It was Eric's lad serving at table, did you notice?' He took a shirt and an overtunic of coarse, patchily dyed linen, devoid of embellishment, and threw them on the bed.

'But in God's name why? Why would you want my uncle to believe that you are a swiller?' Judith moved away from the door and picked up the wine-soaked tunic and shirt to put them on the chest beside the sables.

He glanced at her from beneath his brows. 'He has my silver. I am a distraught weak reed and, as far as anyone knows, saving a precious few, I shall wallow abed in a drunken stupor for the next full day at least.'

'What are you planning?' Judith began to feel frightened again. 'And why are you dressing yourself in those disgusting rags?'

'An exercise in stealth, Cath fach. The less you know, the better.'

Her eyes flashed. 'I am not stupid!'

'No,' he agreed. 'You are too clever by half. And do not scowl at me like that. I mean it as a compliment. It is very hard to deceive you on any matter for long.'

'Such as your Welsh paramour and other sluts and whores!' she snapped and then pressed her hands to her mouth, wondering in shock what on earth had made her quote de Lacey at him like an accusation.

His gaze held hers steadily. 'If I have been over the border of late, it is for reasons other than the pursuit of pleasure.'

Judith dropped her lids and felt heat scorch her face. She would not apologise. She picked up one of the sables to rub the cool pelt against her hot cheek. 'Why were you so angry when you first arrived?' she asked after a moment, as association brought sudden remembrance.

Guyon latched the buckle of his belt and for a moment frowned as though he was not going to answer. But then he shrugged and spoke. 'I passed a pack train two days ago, heading for Shrewsbury. The merchant, Huw ap Sior, was a likeable man. I've traded with him before now, my father too. If he had a fault, it was that he could talk the hind leg off a donkey and he was heedless of danger where he thought there might be gain ... They found his body in a ditch this morning, choked by the binding of his own chausses and his limbs carved off, and of course not a sign of his goods. I believe the sheriff is blaming Huw's servant for the deed because the lad has vanished into thin air and, being in de Belleme's pay, he's not going to look further than the easiest scapegoat.' He drew a hard breath to steady his rising revulsion and anger.

'Huw knew that there were men of high import in Shrewsbury at the moment. He was taking his pack of silks and Norwegian sables there to sell

... only the poor idiot never arrived ... Look at the canvas in which your bride-gift is wrapped. Do you think those brown stains are merely blotches of mud from the road?'

Judith swallowed and flicked her gaze to the pack and its tell -tale pied markings, 'No,' she whispered hoarsely. 'It is not true.'

He turned from her to pull on a rough sheepskin jerkin and brown wool en hood. 'Then look the other way,' he said. 'Tell yourself that your husband has an over-active imagination.'

Shuddering, Judith dropped the sable back among its companions and pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth, feeling sick. Tight-lipped, Guyon continued to make his preparations. After a moment, he straightened, alerted by a faint sound from behind. Her breath was shaking from her throat in small , effortful gasps as she fought to stifle her sobs. It was on his lips to snarl at her that grief came cheaply, but he remembered in time, reminded by her white, pinched face, that for all her cleverness she was still a child.

He swore beneath his breath and went to take her in his arms. She gripped his jerkin, struggling for control. 'My mother was right,' she gulped with loathing. 'Snakes do bite slyly.'

'Unless you pin them behind the neck and draw their fangs.'

Her head jerked up and she looked at him through her wet lashes. 'My lord, I do not know what is in your mind save that it be more than dangerous. In God's name, have a care to yourself!'

'You worry too much.' He kissed her cheek. She moved her head. For an instant their lips met, hers soft and unpractised; his gentle without possession or demand, and he was the first to disengage from the embrace. 'As far as everyone else in this keep is concerned, I am confined here in a drunken stupor. I trust you to keep up the pretence for a day at least.'

'When will you be back, my lord?'

'By moonlight I hope.' He drew up his hood. His face disappeared into brown shadow. 'God be with you, Cath fach.' He tugged her braid and slipped silently from the room. She stared at the door he had just closed, then went to drop the bar. Sitting down beside the bundle of sables, she set her mind upon what to do with this gift culled from murder.

To keep the sables was impossible. She could scarcely bear to look at them. The sight of the bloodstains upon the bindings curdled her stomach. Burn them? That was waste upon waste. Throw them back in her uncle's face? No.

Guyon would have done that had it been feasible.

Give them away? She steepled her fingers under her chin, deep in thought.

CHAPTER 8

The Earl of Shrewsbury lounged in his saddle, his legs loosely straight, heels crowned by gilded prick spurs, supple boots reaching to mid-calf and laced by tasselled green thongs. His sword rode lightly in its scabbard, his left hand relaxed upon the curved pommel.

Behind him, sweet on the ear, the pony bell s jingled, the sturdy bays laden with the Earl's travelling accoutrements. Flanked by two guards, another pony bore a load of scarred brown leather sacks. Three hundred marks in sweet silver pennies. Guyon FitzMiles had been sufficiently wise to pay up. The only element that had surprised de Belleme was the bridegroom's ability to pay in full , although he suspected the effort had nigh on beggared the young man.

Magnanimous in victory, he had offered to take two hundred marks now and leave the balance until the Michaelmas rents had been paid, and for his pains had been told on a swallowed snarl where to put his largesse. A solicitous suggestion that FitzMiles could sell his mother-in-law to cut his losses had for a moment held them on the edge of an exciting precipice. He had felt his sword arm tingling with anticipation and de Lacey had begun to reach for his dagger, but FitzMiles, holding to the control he was later to lose in wine, had stalked from the room, crashing his fist into the door as he went.

De Belleme gave a superior smile, remembering the young man swilling his wine like a street drunkard, the loose-limbed grace growing clumsy, the cultured accent slurring, the eyes becoming slack-lidded and glazed. He had half expected it to happen. On more than one occasion at court, FitzMiles had roistered away the night with Prince Henry, drinking himself beneath the table, a woman on each arm. The lack of moral fibre was of no consequence to the Earl; it was the lack of self-discipline that gave him cause for scorn.

The bleating of sheep roused him from contemplation of a ripe future to the more immediate contemplation of the road before his eyes which was blocked by an enormous cloud of baaing, smelly sheep.

His horse lashed out as de Lacey's mount, brought up short, collided with its rump. De Lacey swore and wrenched on his bridle.

'God's eyes!' snarled de Belleme. 'Get these stinking, tick-ridden beasts out of my way!'

His words were smothered in a chorus of mournful bleating as the sheep advanced and closed around the troop. His destrier began to plunge in earnest. The pack ponies kicked.

Cursing, his men attempted to control them and their own mounts and draw their weapons at the same time.

Walter de Lacey swung his sword at a sheep, but stopped in mid-motion, his wrist arrested in response to the nocked arrow aimed at his breast. A range of ten yards made death a certainty.