side.
‘But we saw you across the bailey so we knew you must have finished,’ Rhosyn said triumphantly and smiled at her nurse before looking again at her grandmother. ‘Please may we go?’
Judith eyed the kitchen women with their baskets. ‘I suppose so,’ she said after deliberation. ‘But don’t wander away from the main party. Stay near Adela or Hilda and do not even think of going near the river!’ She wagged her index finger in warning.
‘Yes, Belmere!’ they chorused in unison and whirled.
‘Walk, don’t run!’ cried Judith, and bit her lip, torn between pain and laughter as she watched them cross the bailey to one of the towers, dragging their poor nurse along as though they were a couple of hound puppies on a leash.She could remember how it felt to be scolded for running when she should walk, could remember sneaking off to the stables or hiding in the guardroom where she had cozened de Bec, the constable, into teaching her how to use a dagger. So near and yet so far away. It was the same riverbed but different water. She was in her fifty-sixth year and Guyon would be sixty-nine in the spring. Only sometimes spring did not come.
The girls returned with Adela and, clad in their oldest gowns, joined the berry-pickers. Their laughter was as clear and careless as the light chime of bridle bells. Rhosyn waved to her as they walked towards the outer bailey. Judith smiled and waved in reply and followed them at a slower pace until she reached the castle garden.
Guyon was there, sitting on his favourite turf seat beside the rose hedge, playing a game of tables with the girls’ older brother, Miles. The boy heard her first with the quick ears of the young. He was almost eleven now, his voice starting to deepen, although it would be some time yet before it broke. He gave her Adam’s tilted smile and a look from beneath his brows.
Judith sat down next to her husband. ‘Who’s winning?’
‘Grandpa, he always does,’ Miles said without rancour.
A skein of geese arrowed the sky. Judith followed their flight until they were specks on the horizon, then looked at her husband, only to find that he was already watching her.
‘Bearing south.’ His voice was husky, a legacy of his near-drowning last year.
‘Your throw, Beausire,’ said Miles.
Judith looked away over the late summer bursts of colour lingering in the herb beds. Marigold, chamomile, yellow hawkweed and purple devil’s bit.
Guyon threw the dice, studied the board and made his move. Then he looked at his wife. ‘Stop fretting,’ he said. ‘Renard will come.’ He closed his hand over hers and squeezed.
She sighed ruefully. They knew each other too well to hide anything for long, or even to want to hide anything. ‘Yes, I know. It just seems an age since his last letter reached us from Brindisi, and it is such a long and dangerous road.’
‘No more dangerous than England.’
Judith watched his mouth tighten and set. He had put on flesh during the dry, hot summer, but she knew that as soon as the damp weather returned, the harsh, racking cough would burn it away within weeks, stripping him down to the bone. Every time he even cleared his throat she was afraid. She had brewed up horehound and feverfew syrup, had all the ingredients for hot poultices and plasters ready. Sometimes they eased the worst of the symptoms, but they did nothing to cure them.
‘I wish my father hadn’t had such a passion for lamprey stew!’ she declared with sudden vehemence.
Guyon looked at her and laughed, then coughed.
‘I hate lamprey stew!’ Miles pulled a disgusted face.
‘So do I,’ said Judith, thinking of the dish that had sent King Henry untimely to his grave, and would probably kill Guyon too. If only they had been given a few more years of his iron-handed rule while his young grandson and namesake grew to maturity, then there would have been none of this wrangling over a crown that neither Stephen nor Matilda were fit to wear, in her
‘But we saw you across the bailey so we knew you must have finished,’ Rhosyn said triumphantly and smiled at her nurse before looking again at her grandmother. ‘Please may we go?’
Judith eyed the kitchen women with their baskets. ‘I suppose so,’ she said after deliberation. ‘But don’t wander away from the main party. Stay near Adela or Hilda and do not even think of going near the river!’ She wagged her index finger in warning.
‘Yes, Belmere!’ they chorused in unison and whirled.
‘Walk, don’t run!’ cried Judith, and bit her lip, torn between pain and laughter as she watched them cross the bailey to one of the towers, dragging their poor nurse along as though they were a couple of hound puppies on a leash.She could remember how it felt to be scolded for running when she should walk, could remember sneaking off to the stables or hiding in the guardroom where she had cozened de Bec, the constable, into teaching her how to use a dagger. So near and yet so far away. It was the same riverbed but different water. She was in her fifty-sixth year and Guyon would be sixty-nine in the spring. Only sometimes spring did not come.
The girls returned with Adela and, clad in their oldest gowns, joined the berry-pickers. Their laughter was as clear and careless as the light chime of bridle bells. Rhosyn waved to her as they walked towards the outer bailey. Judith smiled and waved in reply and followed them at a slower pace until she reached the castle garden.
Guyon was there, sitting on his favourite turf seat beside the rose hedge, playing a game of tables with the girls’ older brother, Miles. The boy heard her first with the quick ears of the young. He was almost eleven now, his voice starting to deepen, although it would be some time yet before it broke. He gave her Adam’s tilted smile and a look from beneath his brows.
Judith sat down next to her husband. ‘Who’s winning?’
‘Grandpa, he always does,’ Miles said without rancour.
A skein of geese arrowed the sky. Judith followed their flight until they were specks on the horizon, then looked at her husband, only to find that he was already watching her.
‘Bearing south.’ His voice was husky, a legacy of his near-drowning last year.
‘Your throw, Beausire,’ said Miles.
Judith looked away over the late summer bursts of colour lingering in the herb beds. Marigold, chamomile, yellow hawkweed and purple devil’s bit.
Guyon threw the dice, studied the board and made his move. Then he looked at his wife. ‘Stop fretting,’ he said. ‘Renard will come.’ He closed his hand over hers and squeezed.
She sighed ruefully. They knew each other too well to hide anything for long, or even to want to hide anything. ‘Yes, I know. It just seems an age since his last letter reached us from Brindisi, and it is such a long and dangerous road.’
‘No more dangerous than England.’
Judith watched his mouth tighten and set. He had put on flesh during the dry, hot summer, but she knew that as soon as the damp weather returned, the harsh, racking cough would burn it away within weeks, stripping him down to the bone. Every time he even cleared his throat she was afraid. She had brewed up horehound and feverfew syrup, had all the ingredients for hot poultices and plasters ready. Sometimes they eased the worst of the symptoms, but they did nothing to cure them.
‘I wish my father hadn’t had such a passion for lamprey stew!’ she declared with sudden vehemence.
Guyon looked at her and laughed, then coughed.
‘I hate lamprey stew!’ Miles pulled a disgusted face.
‘So do I,’ said Judith, thinking of the dish that had sent King Henry untimely to his grave, and would probably kill Guyon too. If only they had been given a few more years of his iron-handed rule while his young grandson and namesake grew to maturity, then there would have been none of this wrangling over a crown that neither Stephen nor Matilda were fit to wear, in her
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