De Bec leaned across to grasp the reins. 'Godric, Christ man, what's happened?' His voice was hoarse with shock.

The young man raised his eyes but remained hunched over. 'De Lacey,' he croaked. 'Hit us out of nowhere ... Too many of them. We never stood a chance ... I managed to save the little lass.' He swayed, his face grey. Against his body, tied within his cloak for security, Heulwen began to cry and push against her confines, her little face as flushed as her tangled fiery crown of curls.

A knight unfastened the child and lifted her out of Godric's cloak, then uttered an oath of consternation for she was smeared in blood from head to toe.

'Not hers, mine,' said Godric huskily and tumbled out of the saddle to sprawl unconscious at their feet. Judith dismounted in a flurry of skirts and bent down beside the young soldier to examine his injuries. He had taken a nasty slash to the midriff. Fortunately, as far as she could see, it had not pierced the gut, but it was still deep and it had bled a great deal. She unfastened one of his leg bindings to use as a temporary bandage until they could reach the safety of the keep and she could tend him properly. Two of her escort set about constructing a crude stretcher out of branches and horse blankets.

Heulwen sobbed and screamed for her mother in broken Welsh. Fortunately the serjeant who held her had five children of his own and was used to dealing with infant tantrums. A borderman, he also spoke fluent Welsh and soothed Heulwen in that language until she calmed into hiccupped sobs and then poked her thumb into her mouth.

Godric's eyelids fluttered. Judith put her hand on his brow. 'Rest easy now,' she soothed, 'help is here.'

'Mistress, we could do nothing,' he fretted. She held a wine costrell to his lips and he took a convulsive swallow. 'De Lacey outnumbered us at least four to one. The child was asleep beneath some skins. They missed her and they left me for dead ... Dancer bolted in the fray but he came back when I called him.' He clenched his teeth and groaned.

De Bec's eyebrows drew together in a worried scowl. 'How far back, son?'

'No more than a mile ... just off the road. We had stopped to eat and they came out of the trees at us.' He closed his eyes and swallowed. 'I lay for dead and they thought me so. I heard de Lacey say that there was less gain than he had hoped and they had best be on their way ... Thornford they were headed for ... Myself and the child are the only survivors ... The other little maid ... Oh Christ, they took her with them!' He gasped and strove not to retch. Judith fought her own gorge and set a steadying hand to his brow.

'Lie quiet, Godric,' she said gently and raised her head to meet de Bec's granite stare. There was no way their own troop could pursue, and the attack was more than three hours old. De Lacey would be safe within his keep by now.

'The bodies will need to be brought back to Ravenstow,' she said. The coldness of shock and fear, the knowledge of what had yet to be done, made her feel queasy and tearful, but she controlled herself. 'We had best bring them away with us now before the wolves and foxes have their chance at them.'

De Bec shook his head. 'My lady, it will not be a sight to be viewed save by necessity, and Godric and the child should be got to Ravenstow as soon as possible.'

Judith considered for a moment, then nodded curtly. There was nothing to be gained by going to the scene of the slaughter herself. De Bec could note the details for Guyon and the sheriff. There would be enough trauma in washing the corpses and laying them out decently ... and in sending this news to Guyon. What was she going to say?

How was she to face and tell him when he returned? It did not bear thinking about and yet, like the laying out, it had to be done and it was her responsibility.

The reality proved far worse than Judith had imagined. She stitched Godric's wound, poulticed it with mouldy bread, dosed him with poppy syrup and left him to sleep. Heulwen kept crying for her mother, but, apart from being fractious and bewildered, seemed none the worse for her ordeal.

Judith's own ordeal began when de Bec rode in, his face waxen and his expression so stiff that he might have been one of the ten corpses bundled in cloaks and roped like game across the backs of some pack ponies borrowed from Thomas of Farnden. The men who rode with de Bec all wore variations of that same look on their faces and, when the bodies were brought to the chapel, Judith understood why. The abomination beneath Rhosyn's cloak bore no resemblance to the woman she had encountered yesterday. The spirit had flown and the mortal body was so mutilated that it was difficult to know if it had once been human at all .

Her belly heaved. She clapped her hand to her mouth and staggered to the waste shaft where she was sick to the pit of her soul. It was not just murder, it was obscene desecration.

De Bec gently touched her elbow, handed her a small horn cup of aqua vitae and waited until, choking and spluttering on its unaccustomed strength, she had swallowed it.

Shaking, Judith leaned for a brief moment against his iron-clad solidity. 'He is not a man, he is a devil!' she said and shuddered.

De Bec folded a mail-clad arm around her quivering shoulders, feeling a wave of paternal protectiveness. 'Have you sent a messenger to Lord Guyon yet?' he rumbled. 'He needs to be here.'

Judith shook her head. 'I don't know what to write,' she gulped. 'And I don't know if he is still at Arundel.'

'Tell him naught, only that he is needed swiftly. A messenger will find him sooner or later. I'll get FitzWalter to do it for you.'

Judith stiffened her spine and pulled away from him. 'No,' she said firmly. 'I'll do it myself.' A wan smile strained her lips. 'You feel like a rock because you are one.'

De Bec's eyes began to sting and he had to blink. In all but name, he had regarded Judith as his daughter from the day of her birth and to see her struggle with her fears and doubts and force them down beneath her will filled him with a fierce burst of tenderness and pride. He could have crushed her between his two hands - it did not seem possible that she could house such strength.

He watched her return to the horror in the chapel and murmur to the priest, her face so pale that every freckle stood out as a deep, golden mottle, her manner composed, and knew that if he was a rock, then she was surely as resilient and strong as the best sword steel.

CHAPTER 26

Guyon shifted in the high saddle and loosened the reins to let Arian pick his way between the trees. The afternoon light was as golden-green as the best French wine. Coins of sunlight and leaf shadows scattered and sparkled among the troop of men who rode with steady haste towards Ravenstow and preparation for war in the marches.

Now that Arundell was theirs and de Belleme effectively cut off from his support abroad, the King intended to move upon de Belleme's chain of grim Shropshire strongholds with the purpose of clearing them out one by one and Guyon was returning to Ravenstow to support him in that endeavour.

As they emerged from the trees on to the waste land, all eyes were drawn to the gleaming limewashed wall s of the keep dominating Ravenstow crag. Guyon's gaze at this, the core of his honour, was both admiring and rueful. It was de Belleme's design and it followed that winkling the Earl of Shrewsbury out of the other strongholds he had also designed, but held in his own hand, was going to prove difficult. God knew, Arundell had been a tough enough nut to crack.

A cowherd touched his forehead to Guyon and tapped the cattle on their mottled backs with a hazel goad to keep them moving. His dog went wagging to investigate the horsemen and was whistled sharply back to place. At the mill , the mill er was transferring sacks of flour to an ox-drawn wain; he paused to wipe his brow and salute the passing soldiers, cuffing his brawny son into similar respect. His wife ceased beating a smock on a stone at the stream to curtsy, her expression apprehensive. She touched the prayer beads on the belt at her waist and raised them to her lips.

Guyon eyed the woman curiously and wondered anew at the speed with which news of impending war travelled. He did not believe de Belleme would attack Ravenstow - he was too busy strengthening his own fortifications - but the Welsh were always ready to harry, loot and burn and de Belleme had several Welsh vassals who would be only too pleased to stock their winter larders at Ravenstow's expense.

The drawbridge was down to admit them and the portcullis up. Guyon shook the reins, urging Arian to a trot and they emerged again into the late sunshine of the shed-crowded bailey. A woman was feeding twigs beneath a giant outdoor cauldron, the girl beside her plucking a wrung chicken to go into the pot. She looked up at the men, nudged her companion and made the sign of the cross upon her breast. The older woman straightened and crossed herself too, her eyes full of pity before she turned to stare at the forebuilding from which Judith was running.

Cadi barked and sprang joyously to greet her, tail swishing like a whip. Guyon dismounted and threw the reins to a groom. The young man said nothing but, with a look over his broad shoulder at Judith, dipped his head and led the grey away to his stall .

Guyon watched his wife hurry towards him and felt his spirit lighten. Her braids trapped the sunlight and glowed like molten bronze and her face was becomingly flushed from the effort of running down several flights of twisting stairs and across the ward.