Currently, Robert de Belleme was in Normandy conducting a private war against a neighbour who had offended him and was not expected back in England this side of spring. Walter de Lacey had been occupied in a localised but savage war against the Welsh, persuading them to stay on their own side of the border and leave his herds alone. The patrols went out from Ravenstow, but their own borders, due to the vigilance of Eric and de Bec, remained secure.

Outside, the wind was gusting a carnival of brown and yellow dead leaves against the keep wall s. Pigs rooted in the woods for acorns, or snuffled among the windfall apples in the garths and orchards attached to the cottages. In the fields, men ploughed over the stubble and prepared the land for its winter lying while women and children were out gathering the blown-down dead twigs and branches for kindling in the long dark months ahead.

In the main bedchamber, Guyon closed his eyes and buried his head on his forearms, lulled by the soothing motion of Judith's strong fingers on his back, massaging stiff muscles with aromatic oil of bay. It had been his first time on a horse since his illness. He had discovered that although his recently healed tissue protested, he was not overly uncomfortable and had thus spent longer in the saddle than he should. 'Learning to ride before you can walk,' Judith had said with exasperation.

Peevish with exhaustion, he had snapped at her that he knew his own limits.

'Then why overstep them?' she had smartly retorted with a toss of her head and left him to struggle upstairs on his own.

She had been right of course - as usual. He stirred beneath her touch as she found a strain and thought that he owed her his life. Without her knowledge of simples and her care in the early days, he would have died. In between, she had faced down and seen off Walter de Lacey and, with the aid of his father and the keep's official machinery, had run the demesne with commendable efficiency.

One of the maids murmured something and Judith replied softly. A slight shift of his head and a lazily lifted lid showed him the huntsman's wife Elflin for whose sake he had almost got himself killed. She was striking in a strange, ethereal way, her bones bearing the fragile delicacy of frost on glass. Brand, her husband, had been holding Guyon's courser's bridle this morning, a smile of welcome on his taciturn features. They had decided to remain awhile, he said. Judith had confirmed that Brand was indeed a skilled huntsman, quick, willing and conscientious. Judith had brought the girl upstairs to train. Kitchen work was too heavy for her and her beauty was the kind to cause trouble among the general melee of servants who visited the kitchens, or had recently been finding cause to do so. Here, within Judith's immediate governance, she was safe.

Guyon's thoughts drifted drowsily. Judith's hands worked lower over the small of his back.

She paused for a moment, and then there was the cold touch of the herbal oil and the slow, undulating motion of her fingers.

Long abstinence, the slow pressure of her hands above and the mattress below, made his reaction inevitable. Heat flooded his loins and burgeoned.

Judith felt the change in him. Quite suddenly, beneath her kneading palms, the fluid muscles were rigid with tension.

'Are you all right, my lord? Did I hurt you?'

Anxiously she leaned over him. The ends of her braids tickled his back. Her movement released a waft of gillyflower from her garments, spicy and warm.

'No,' Guyon muttered, voice choked. 'No, you did not hurt me, but I think it would be best if you made an end.'

'I was nearly finished anyway,' she said with a shrug, thinking that he wished to be left to sleep.

'Do you turn over and I will anoint your leg.'

There was a strained silence. Judith began to worry. 'Guy, what's wrong?'

He closed his eyes and willed the offending member to subside. It did nothing so charitable.

The feel of her breasts, warm and round against his back as she leaned over him, was only making matters worse.

After a moment, he raised his head from his buried arms and said with agonised amusement: 'What's wrong, Cath fach, is that the condition I'm in won't do either of us the least bit of good if I give it free rein now.'

'What condition?' She looked blank.

'Oh God, Judith, just give me the ointment and get out!'

'But your thigh, it needs ...' Her voice trailed off and her eyes grew as wide as goblet rims as belatedly she made the connection and with a gasp sprang away from him, her face flaming.

Picking up the jar of oil, she thrust it down beside him and fled the room in panic.

Guyon looked at the little pot by his head and, with a groan, buried his face again in his forearms.

It was impossible to run down the sharply twisting narrow stone steps when hampered by an undergown and thick wool en tunic. As Judith slowed her pace, the racing of her mind began to subside as well . Chagrin swept through her. She had been a fool to panic. More than ever now he would think of her as a child. Wherein lay the point of washing her hair in herb-scented water and perfuming the points of her body, tempting fate, only to flee in terror the moment that fate appeared briefly on the horizon?

And if I had stayed, she wondered and gave a small shudder, half fear, half something else. It was like snatching hot chestnuts from the fire and hoping not to get burned. Was the prize worth the pain? And if I go back ...

Poised at the foot of the stairs, her dilemma was resolved for her by FitzWarren stooping to inform her that the lord of Chester was here and asking hospitality overnight for himself and his retinue.

'I have found accommodation for most of his men, but the cook says we have not enough bread and no oven space to bake more with all the new preparations he will have to make.'

'There's an oven in the village, use that,' she said, her present problem abandoned for one of literally far greater dimensions. Where in the name of Holy Mary were they going to lodge Earl Hugh? The great bedchamber it would have to be, and Guyon could have his father's tiny wall chamber. She would make do with the maids in her mother's chamber on a straw pall et. Mentally clucking with irritation, she sent one of the girls scurrying aloft with the news and went forward wreathed in smiles to greet the lord of Chester.

He was even more huge and solid than she remembered and the kiss of peace he stooped to bestow on her cheek was as warm and gluey as melted pig's trotters. 'Well well !' he chuckled in his husky voice, looking her up and down and quite misconstruing the breathless pink flush on her cheeks for something less innocent, 'I see that marriage is suiting you!'

Judith's colour darkened and the Earl gave a phlegmy chuckle of delight, and then proceeded to view with approval the way she mastered her embarrassment and with commendable efficiency set about making him comfortable. 'I remember when you were a tiny maid at your mother's knee,' he grinned, as she drew him to the fire and bade a servant take his cloak. 'Mind you, it also reminds me that I was still slim enough then to chase women for the fun of it!' He patted his enormous paunch ruefully.

'Don't believe a word,' Guyon said behind her, setting his hand lightly on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. 'He's still frighteningly fast when he chooses.'

'Faster than you, so I hear,' said Earl Hugh, the blue eyes disconcertingly shrewd.

'I was rash and I paid for it.'

Chester grunted. 'Not for the first time. Watch him, wench. He'll run rings round you both and you'll end up tangled in knots.'

Judith's laugh was more than wry. 'Do you think I do not know it!'

Guyon tugged her braid. She risked a glance at him. His face was a little fine-drawn with tiredness, but his expression was light enough and there seemed no change in his usual manner. Involuntarily her eyes went lower and colour flamed her face anew.

His mouth twitched. 'Do not be too sure of the outcome, Hugh,' he grinned. 'She's an awesome gaoler.' He led the Earl towards the small solar behind the dais. Judith excused herself to consult with the cook and see if she could get the carpenter to strengthen the guest's chair so that it would not collapse beneath the strain of so great a weight, as it had almost done during his last visit at their wedding.

'You have been very busy making yourself enemies,' Chester remarked, hunching his powerful shoulders.

'Have I?' Guyon eased himself down on to a padded stool.

The Earl considered him. He had come to know Guyon well during last summer's difficult Welsh campaign: a competent leader of men and an excellent scout with an innate knowledge of the workings of the Welsh mind. If he had failings, they were composed of an unpredictable wild streak - probably due to the Welsh blood - that resulted in a disturbing inclination to go his own way if not minutely scrutinised and checked. 'You know damned well you have!' he growled. 'Hardly Robert de Belleme's favourite nephew, are you?

He has some very nasty suspicions concerning your involvement in a raid on the Shrewsbury road back in the spring.'

'Nothing he can prove.'

Earl Hugh lifted a flagon from the cupboard against which he leaned and examined the intricate Byzantine workmanship.

'When has lack of proof ever stopped Belleme from pursuing his intended victim?'

'I might as well be impaled for a sheep as a lamb,' Guyon said and smiled with private amusement remembering the incredulity on the Earl of Shrewsbury's handsome, narrow face.