Shadows and Strongholds (26 page)

Hawise listened in fascination. Her father, although not joining in, was chuckling. With narrowed eyes her mother declared that it was time for the women to withdraw from the hall and duly saw to the evacuation.

'Are you angry?' Hawise asked her.

Her mother shrugged and sighed. 'No,' she said. 'God knows, when you have fighting men gathered together in one place and you let the wine run freely, you do not expect them to behave like monks… and they need the release' She gave an exasperated smile. 'The trick is to know when to yield and when to hold your ground.' She looked at Hawise, whose lips were moving silently. And you can forget the words to that song!'

Marion said thoughtfully, A hundred and eighty-eight is a lot.' She gave Sibbi a speculative, slightly pitying look.

'A hundred and eighty-eight is an exaggeration by a hundred and eighty-seven, I can assure you from experience,' Sybilla said severely. And that is enough on the subject.'

Brunin placed the fingerbowl in front of his grandmother. Neither the surface of the water nor the muscles of his face moved beyond a glimmer. She gave him one of her looks and he felt it jab straight to his vitals, but he maintained his composure, pretending that she was nothing to him but another wedding guest.

Sibbi's marriage had drawn a mass of friends and allies from all parts of the Welsh Marches and beyond. Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of Hereford, had performed the blessing and officiated at the mass. Roger, Earl of Hereford, and Sibbi's half-sister Cecily had come to the wedding, Roger from Henry's side, Cecily, slender and resplendent in a gown of blue samite, fresh from her attendance on Duchess Eleanor. The light from sconces and candelabra shimmered on silks and wool brocades and the glossiness of exotic furs: arctic bear, miniver, beaver, marten. Brunin was wearing a new tunic of blood-red wool that enhanced his dark hair and eyes. A round brooch of gold and garnets closed the deep neck opening.

He took the towel and fingerbowl and, having bowed to her, moved along the trestle. He could feel her stare boring into his spine and separating the vertebrae. When he paused before his mother she smiled at him.

'Life in Lord Joscelin's household suits you,' Eve said. 'I am glad your father sent you here.'

'I am glad too,' Brunin replied with a veiled glance at his grandmother. She was no longer looking at him, but talking to another woman guest.

His mother said softly, 'Pay no heed.'

'I don't,' he lied, managing to sound indifferent. A lord further down the board was beckoning and Brunin went to serve him.

The dancing had begun in the centre of the hall and those guests who had not eaten to bursting point were linking hands and turning circles, men in one direction, women in the other. The strident sound of a bagpipe replaced the harp music that had played throughout the various courses of the wedding feast. Sibbi and her sisters led the women, Hugh and the young males of his family the men. It was more than just the pleasure of the wedding that made the steps exuberant; it was the hope for the future. A peace treaty was soon to be signed; the affairs of the kingdom settled, and men could think about raising their families in the knowledge that they might live to see their sons inherit and their daughters marry.

Leaving the dais to fetch a fresh fingerbowl and clean napkin, Brunin encountered his father returning from the garderobe. FitzWarin clapped him on the shoulder with a moist and heavy hand. 'If you see one you like, lad, let me know,' he said, nodding at the turning circle of girls and women. 'It's time we began considering your betrothal. I've already had two fathers approach me and ask if I have plans for you.' FitzWarin's breath was wine-laced and his complexion ruddy, but he was not yet in his cups… just loose of tongue.

Brunin was taken aback. He looked towards the dancing women as they wove through and under the arms of the men so that the outer circle became the inner one. 'Who?' he asked.

'William Pantulf was wondering if you'd suit one of his .girls, and I've had an enquiry on behalf of the Dover Peverels.' He gripped Brunin's shoulder in a man-to-man squeeze. 'You're growing into your looks, lad, and the girls are beginning to take notice. Since you're my heir, the parents are looking too. That's half of what weddings are about, eh?'

'Yes, sir.' Brunin mumbled. The Pantulf daughters were part of the circle of female dancers. The older one looked like a horse and had a laugh that set his teeth on edge. The other was about eight years old and an inveterate thumb-sucker. He had no idea what they were like beyond the superficial—although what mattered most were their dowries and whether they would enhance the lands that Brunin would eventually inherit from his father.

'I say you can do better than the Pantulfs and Peverels,' his father said, and his gaze fell briefly on the dancers, although Brunin could not tell if he was looking at any girl in particular. There were a dozen likely candidates. 'Much better.' With another squeeze of Brunin's shoulder and a wink, his father made his way back to his place on the benches.

Brunin continued thoughtfully on his errand. He had no particular interest in looking for a future wife; his main concern was with his training and the camaraderie of the other young knights and squires in Joscelin's household. Of course there had always been the good-humoured teasing about himself and Marion, but he knew it wasn't serious. He gazed again upon the dancers as the women threaded through to the outer ring again and his eyes chanced upon
Hawise. The tight lacing of her gown emphasised her figure. Against the fabric, her hair gleamed with tints of garnet and copper beech. Her head was thrown back in laughter, exposing the creamy line of her throat. What had his father said? That he could do better than Pantulfs and Peverels?

'Come on, lad, you're on duty. Don't stand around like a disused tent pole.' Joscelin's steward, who was overseeing the feast, gave him a warning nudge. 'Go and swill the grease out of that bowl and make haste.'

Chastised and brought down to earth, Brunin bowed and hastened to do the steward's bidding, the notion of wife-finding cast completely from his mind.

'Promise you'll tell us what it's like,' Marion whispered to Sibbi.

The women had retired to the bedchamber to prepare the bride for her wedding night. Sibbi's beautiful red dress had been carefully brushed and hung on the clothing pole, and the pearl and garnet belt locked away in her personal coffer. She stood barefoot in her linen chemise, the throat and cuffs tied with delicate ribbons of crimson silk.

'I won't tell you anything,' Sibbi whispered back fiercely, her cheeks flushing with indignation. 'It's no concern of yours.'

'But I want to know if it's nice, or if it hurts,' Marion said in an injured tone, as if her demand were quite natural and Sibbi just making a fuss. 'It must hurt if there's blood—'

'Leave her alone,' Hawise snapped. 'Have you no sense?'

Marion pouted. 'I was only asking…'

'Well, don't. How would you like such talk on your own wedding night?'

Marion flounced away in a huff and Hawise gave her sister a hug. 'Don't let her upset you,' she said.

'I'm not upset.' Sibbi looked speculatively in Marion's wake. 'But I think she is.'

The older women fussed around Sibbi, combing her hair until it crackled and the filaments floated on layers of energy. It wasn't particularly glossy, but like Sybilla's it was thick and strong with a life of its own.

'She's a healthy mare,' Hawise overheard Lady Mellette mutter to Brunin's mother. 'Her father's blood could be better, but she'll likely produce some sturdy offspring and the dowry she brings is useful indeed.'

Hawise turned to glower at Lady Mellette and was met by a gaze as sharp as broken glass. Eve FitzWarin looked cowed, her eyes downcast and her hands folded in front of her like a nun… save that her knuckles were white with pressure rather than clasped in serenity.

The groom arrived, borne into the wedding chamber on a tide of bawdy jests by the male guests. He too had been stripped to his undergarments, in this instance no more than a long shirt that came to his knees. There was much robust teasing—a traditional part of the wedding night ritual, but something of an ordeal for bride and groom. Everyone had crowded into the chamber to witness the couple being put to bed so that they could do their duty. The Bishop of Hereford solemnly blessed the bed, the bride and the groom, after which the women drew back the covers and settled Sibbi between the sheets. The moment of decorum was abruptly terminated as Hugh's companions picked him up between them and threw him in with his bride. The mattress bounced and several feathers flew out to the accompaniment of a loud jangling sound. A swift examination revealed that someone had tied numerous packhorse bells to the ropes supporting the mattress.

Hawise turned accusingly to Brunin. 'Now I know why you went into Ludlow yesterday,' she hissed.

Brunin looked the picture of wounded innocence. 'I was on an errand for your father, and I bought a couple of spare bells for my hawk's jesses.'

'Don't lie, I know it was you.'

He gave her a sly grin and she poked him. He sidestepped to avoid her and trod on Marion, who immediately squealed and made a show of being hurt. Brunin had to escort her to the window-seat where she could sit and rub her foot. Then she got him to rub it for her. Hawise rolled her eyes in irritation—as much at Brunin as at Marion. The latter just had to bat her lashes and act like a helpless ninny and men fell for it every time.

Arms wide, Joscelin began ushering the wedding guests out of the room, leaving the bride and her tousled groom to their bed. As Sybilla wished them well and drew the hangings to shut the couple away from the world, more bells rang in the folds of the heavy fabric.

'I have been giving you far too much free time,' muttered Joscelin to Brunin with a mingling of annoyance and mirth, 'Remind me on the morrow to increase your workload.' Inclining his head to Lady Mellette, he stood aside to let her and Eve precede him. The older woman's eyes had sharpened at the sight of Brunin and Marion in the window splay, but she said nothing. Hawise left with Cecily, but threw an exasperated look over her shoulder at the couple.

'Shall I carry you?' Brunin asked Marion, for the bedchamber was emptying swiftly now.

She shook her head. 'No, I can manage… just let me lean on you.'

Brunin was certain he hadn't trodden that hard on Marion's foot, but the way she was looking up at him, as if he were big and masculine and she were a dainty, easily bruised kitten, soothed emotions wounded by his grandmother's scowls. She pressed her lithe, slender body against his and the scent of sandalwood rose from her gown. Biting her lip, she took several cautious steps, and then tugged him to one side to let others pass and go down the stairs ahead of them.

'Do you think Sibbi will have a baby after tonight?' she asked.

Brunin gave an uncomfortable shrug. 'That is up to God.' He hoped that Marion was not going to start down her usual rutted track.

She turned, laying both her hands upon his chest, and looked up at him. Her pupils were as wide as a hunting cat's, almost obliterating the blue iris. 'One day it might be us in that chamber,' she whispered huskily. 'There has been a lot of wedding talk in the hall tonight. Your grandmother likes me; I know she does.'