Shadows and Strongholds (13 page)

'You have left sufficient good men to guard the place,' Sybilla said, 'and I am no ninny. He will not have Ludlow from me.' Her voice, usually low-pitched and serene, now rang like a man's.

Pride surged amidst Joscelin's anxiety. He had been warned when he married her that she was a handful. She might not storm and stamp like the Empress Matilda, but her will was forged of the same indomitable iron. She just went about achieving her goals in a different way. Honey instead of gall. 'I know that, love, and I have every faith in you and my men. But that still does not prevent my imagination from conjuring troubles out of wisps of smoke.'

'Ludlow will be here when you return, every stick and stone. And so will your wife and daughters.' She leaned over to kiss him. 'I am counting on you to come home to me with your hide intact. You are not the only one to conjure troubles in the smoke.'

'I can look after myself,' he said and cupped his hand at the back of her neck to feel the warmth of her skin and the coolness of her hair.

'See that you do.' Her tone was husky, beguiling him into desire. As he moved with her and within her, Sybilla hid her face against his shoulder and tried unsuccessfully to forget that her first husband had told her not to worry as he made love to her on the eve before he rode away to be killed in a skirmish with the Welsh.

Brunin was astonished when he saw Prince Henry. He had expected someone tall, imposing and of regal bearing. The reality was a stocky youth, whose eyes were on a level with Lord Joscelin's chest. His hair was lighter than copper and redder than gold and looked as if it hadn't been combed in a week. He had the fair, freckled complexion that accompanied such colouring, sandy lashes, and a pale grey gaze that was as sharp as a new sword. Although his clothes were embroidered and of the finest weaves and richest dyes, he wore them carelessly as if unaware and uncaring of their cost.

The Prince paused in his energetic meeting and greeting of the supporters that were streaming steadily into Carlisle to drink a measure with Joscelin and FitzWarin. Brunin was given the task of pouring wine for their royal guest and Ins companion, a slender, serious-looking young man with fine mouse-brown hair and a sparse tawny beard. Serving from a flagon was a skill Brunin had been practising for seven months and, although he was under his father's scrutiny and in the presence of royalty, he accomplished the task without mishap.

'My eldest son, Fulke, though we know him as Brunin,' said FitzWarin, a gleam of pride in his voice as Henry took the proffered goblet and Brunin bowed deeply.

'It is good to see such youngsters in the ranks,' remarked the youth, who was barely sixteen himself. He gave Brunin a quick smile of acknowledgement and then brought the conversation into more serious fields. A squire was expected to stay in the background, pour wine, and keep his mouth shut.

The quieter young man at Henry's side proved to be Lord Joscelin's son-in-law, Roger, Earl of Hereford, who was wed to Sybilla's eldest daughter from her first marriage, Cecily. Accepting his cup of wine from Brunin, he went to stand by the brazier that was warming Joscelin's camp tent.

'… go to Lancaster and then advance on York,' Brunin heard Henry say.

'Ambitious, sire,' Joscelin replied, his tone mild, his fingers clenching around his cup.

Henry lifted his shoulders. 'I must use whatever opportunities are given to me. You have not attended my knighting purely because you like to feast and make merry.'

'No, sire. I came to offer you my sword and my fealty,' Joscelin said.

'You doubt the wisdom of advancing on York?'

'No, sire…'

'But… ?' Henry's brows lifted.

'York is loyal to Stephen and has no love for the Scots you bring in your train. It will not be an easy nut to crack.'

'Then you do doubt the wisdom.'

'No, sire, but every man will have to play his part to the hilt and we will have to move swiftly'

Henry drank down the wine and handed the cup back to Brunin. 'I think you will be surprised at how swiftly I can move… and so will Stephen.' He flashed a perfunctory but confident smile and strode from the tent to continue with his visiting. Roger of Hereford remained a while to talk, although he added nothing to what Henry had already said about the immediate plans.

'How is Cecily?' Joscelin asked. 'Enjoying the Norman court?' His tone was carefully neutral.

The young man's complexion flushed. 'Yes, my lord. She bids me greet you and her mother, and I have letters and gifts in my baggage. The Prince's mother is very taken with her.'

Joscelin grunted. 'That is good to hear. Naturally her own mother worries about her and misses her.'

Roger left shortly after that and Joscelin gave a hard sigh and pushed his hands through his hair.

FitzWarin handed his cup to Brunin for a refill. 'You're not easy with him,' he said gruffly. 'Even a blind man like me can see it.'

Joscelin rubbed the back of his neck. 'He's not the same as his father. I could say anything to Miles. We drank and fought and hunted together—wenched as well. You know the way of it.'

FitzWarin made a wry gesture of acknowledgement. 'All I remember are the skull-crushing headaches afterwards.'

Joscelin grinned briefly, but was not sidetracked. 'Miles was my friend,' he said. 'Roger's my ally, my stepdaughter's husband and Prince Henry's confidant, but I do not think we will ever be bosom companions.' He rubbed harder at his neck until the skin reddened. 'For Sybilla's sake I wish we were closer. Cecily may have flown the nest, but her mother is still concerned about her and anything that worries my wife worries me. It's like having a sore in the middle of your back that you can't reach to anoint.'

FitzWarin gave him a chiding look. 'You are too tenderhearted for your own good.'

Joscelin smiled. 'Is that why you gave me your son?'

FitzWarin shook his head, but his own lips curved. 'You have me there, and I have to admit that you are doing a fine job with the lad… but when it comes to women, believe me, you give them too much leeway'

'It pleases me to please them, and I may be tenderhearted, but I am not a fool. My household is comfortable and so am I. Love's rule is as strong as the rod… stronger perhaps,' he added with a glance towards Brunin.

Prince Henry was knighted on Whitsunday and a great feast held to mark the occasion. King David and Earl Ranulf of Chester formalised their truce and put behind them the quarrel over land that had long made them enemies. Now Henry had an army and he prepared to turn it on York.

As one of the youngest members of the assemblage, Brunin rode not with Joscelin and his troop, but stayed back with the pack ponies and wains of the army's baggage train. Ranulf of Chester had gone to Lancaster to bring more troops, but still Brunin had never seen so many men gathered in one place at one time. Although not a large army, it seemed so to him, for he had never ridden in a company greater than the personal troop belonging to his father or Lord Joscelin.

There were the Angevins and Normans of Henry's bodyguard, gleaming in mail from head to foot, their accents at subtle variance with the Normans who had laid down roots in England. Mercenaries from Flanders and the Low Countries bolstered the ranks, and also men from Brittany where Lord Joscelin's family had originated. For the first time, Brunin heard Joscelin speaking in rapid, fluent Breton, a language somewhat akin to Welsh, and it made him realise that there were facets of his lord that he did not even know existed, and that the genial, easy manner was but the surface polish.

Brunin was also fascinated by King David's Scottish troops. The wealthier ones were mail-clad and French-speaking, with little to distinguish them from their Norman counterparts. The middle ranks and footsoldiers went barelegged and carried either small round shields not much bigger than trenchers, or ones as huge as cartwheels—of the kind that Lord Joscelin said had been popular with the Saxons at the great Battle of Hastings. For the most part they spoke English, but in a guttural manner that Brunin could not begin to understand. Their staple fare was oatcakes and heather ale, occasionally enlivened by some sort of boiled meat pudding or salted herrings. While their leaders rode warhorses as fine as any in the army, the lesser troops made do with scrawny ponies. The little beasts looked as if they were on their last legs, but their stamina could outdo the fittest oat-fed destrier.

Brunin alternated between riding Morel and resting him by tying the pony to the back of a baggage cart while he rode on top of the sacks of fodder and oat flour. When they stopped in the evening, he had to help Adam and Hugh to pitch Lord Joscelin's tent. There was a cooking fire to set up, pallets and blankets to sort out, horses to be rubbed down, fed and watered, harness and armour to be checked over and cleaned. Brunin was so weary that he collapsed on his pallet each evening like a poled ox and slept without dreaming until kicked awake at the first paling of the sky. There would be water to fetch and horses to prepare for the day's march. Breakfast consisted of flat bread or oatcakes cooked in the ashes of last night's fire and served with fatty slices of grey ham.

'Christ, now I remember why I hate going to war,' Joscelin groaned as he took the cup of wine that Brunin handed him. Outside a watery dawn was rising out of last night's rain. Drizzle, tine as cobwebs, hung in the air. He pressed the heel of his hand into his lower spine. 'I feel as if I've been trodden on by a giant.'

Brunin wasn't sure how he felt, other than exhausted. The rain had woken him in the night because there was a spark hole in the top of the tent through which water had dripped on his face, but by the time he had struggled through the swaddling layers of sleep, the water had seeped down his neck and soaked into his tunic, making him feel as clammy as a frog.

Joscelin took a mouthful of the wine and sprayed it back out. 'God's bones, boy, what's this, cat piss? Fetch me something I can at least drink!' He sloshed the cup back into Brunin's hand.

Brunin beat a hasty retreat and found Adam saddling the horses. It had started to rain harder and the drops could be heard hitting the ground. Smack, smack, smack.

'He says I'm to find him some decent wine.'

Adam peered at him round the hood of his cloak. 'Then you'll have to go searching in York. There's naught but Scottish ale and that vinegar in your hand.' Adam turned back to the horse and gave it a shove. 'Stand still, you brute.'

Brunin swallowed. Lord Joscelin was always so even-tempered that to see him in a foul mood and directing his anger outwards was as much a shock as hearing him hold forth in rapid Breton. Summoning his courage, he sidled back into the tent.

'Please, my lord, this is all we have… unless you want ale,' he said, holding his voice steady, but feeling the familiar tightening in his gut. He braced himself to be shouted at again… perhaps even struck.

Joscelin straightened up from donning his quilted tunic. His grey eyes were as lowering as the sky. Brunin met them and quickly looked down.

'Oh, give it here.' Joscelin snatched the cup, drank down the contents with a shudder, and tipped the sludgy lees on the tent floor. 'I should know what to expect.'

Brunin felt as if his stomach were touching his spine. He clenched his jaw. Joscelin turned, saw his lace and made an exasperated sound.

'Christ, boy, I wasn't referring to you. I meant I should know what to expect on campaign. You'll grow a thicker skin before this is out, I promise you.' He tousled Brunin's hair roughly. 'I suppose the morning's bread is about as appetising as a dried cowpat too.'

Brunin dared to look at Joscelin. Behind the impatience, behind the irritation, a glint of the customary sangfroid still shone. 'Yes, my lord. Do you want me to bring you some?'

Joscelin never replied, for FitzWarin billowed aside the tent flap. He was clad in his mail, his helm tucked under one arm and his sword girded at his hip. The look in his eyes sent Joscelin reaching for his own swordbelt.

'Get the tents down and saddle up fast,' he said. 'The scouts have just reported that Stephen's here and ready to do battle.'

'What?' Joscelin's expression said that he had heard perfectly well but didn't want to believe it. 'That's impossible!'

'No, it's not. He's here with more mercenaries at his back than the crowd on the first day of St Peter's Fair.' FitzWarin made a throwing motion with his clenched fist. 'And there's no sign of Ranulf of Chester with his troops from Lancaster. We're caught with our braies around our ankles.'

Joscelin swore. 'Does Henry know?'

'Yes. He's already given the order to break camp. There's not a hope on God's earth that we can take on Stephen and win—not without Earl Ranulf's contingent. King David's turning back to Carlisle. The Prince says that he's heading to Bristol… and that means we ride with him, at least as far as the Marches. I have to go.' FitzWarin turned to Brunin. 'Do as Lord Joscelin tells you.' He curled his hand over the boy's narrow shoulder and gave it a firm shake. 'God keep you; I'll talk to you tonight.' He nodded stiffly and ducked out of the tent.

Joscelin stood for a moment as if turned to stone, then shook himself and began issuing rapid orders, all thoughts of breakfast, palatable or otherwise, forgotten.

Brunin's experience of an army on the move now became one of an army on the run. Without the presence of the Scots, the baggage train was considerably smaller. Carts were abandoned in favour of the swifter-moving pack ponies. Joscelin's master-at-arms purchased two sturdy
Scots hobbies to add to their string and lighten the load. They hastened south, using every hour of daylight and the grey times of dawn and dusk. Stephen remained in Yorkshire to consolidate his hold on the north, but he sent soldiers in pursuit of Prince Henry: fast troops with a brief to waylay and put an end to the Angevin threat before it could take deep root. But Henry's scouts were good, discovered the ploy, and the Prince changed direction, taking his army along pack routes and rough byways where they would be least expected to go.

It was a deadly game of hide and seek. Stephen wanted Henry at all costs; and, at all costs, Henry could not afford to be caught. Men ate and drank in the saddle and slept in their armour. Brunin would remember the nightmare journey for the rest of his days. The constant tension that made men act as if a layer had been peeled from their skins; the stumbling exhaustion of horses and soldiers pushed beyond their limit but forced to go on. Through it all Prince Henry proved that he had stamina akin to one of the Scots ponies. He was the first up in the morning, the last to his bed at night, his energy and determination as fiery as his hair—and, even though he was on the run, the notion of losing was not one that he was prepared to entertain.