Shadows and Strongholds (28 page)

'The Countess of Hereford is here,' said Brunin, a question in his voice as he dismounted from Jester. He too had recognised the mare.

'Yes.' Joscelin concealed a grimace. Cecily had not sent word that she was intending to visit. Roger wasn't here, or there would have been more horses.

'Take the deer to the kitchens,' he said to Brunin, 'and then come and find me.'

'Yes, sir.' Brunin took the pack pony's bridle and headed across the bailey. The two dead roe deer swayed from side to side on the felt saddle pad. Suddenly they didn't seem so much the fruits of a successful day's hunting, but as portents of trouble on its way. Sighing heavily, Joscelin pushed his hands through his hair and went to find his wife and stepdaughter.

The solar was filled with women: those of his own household, and those who had accompanied Cecily, all chattering and bustling as they unpacked chests and sorted out sleeping spaces. Reminded of a flock of hens running into the coop at dusk, Joscelin noted the industry with a sense of foreboding. This wasn't just a visit on a whim, but looked as if Cecily had arrived for a long stay. The bedchamber door was firmly closed when usually during the day it was wide open to allow traffic between the two rooms. Joscelin halted before it, assailed by a foolish urge to heel about and return to the men in the hall. Then he rallied. It was his chamber too, and where else could a man have authority, if not in the heart of his private quarters? Squaring his shoulders, he set his hand to the latch.

Hawise was kneeling by the hearth, simmering a pot of spiced wine on the edge of the flames. Sybilla sat on their bed, her arm curved around a weeping Cecily.

'What's wrong?' He closed the door and the sound of bustle diminished to a background mumble. 'What's happened?'

His question prompted a fresh onslaught of sobbing from his stepdaughter.

Sybilla's gaze met his above her daughter's bent head. 'There's trouble at Hereford,' she murmured. 'Hawise, is that wine ready yet?'

'Almost, Mama.'

'What sort of trouble?' Instinctively Joscelin set his hand to the hilt of his sword.

'Not the sort to be solved with a blade unless you want to go to war with the new King,' Sybilla said, a bitter note in her voice.

Cecily gave a loud sniff. 'Roger's been ordered to give up…' She gulped. '… to give up his castles at Hereford and Gloucester to King Henry.'

Joscelin's jaw dropped. 'He's been what?'

Cecily shook her head and buried her face in a linen square already saturated with tears, and it was Sybilla who repeated the words. 'It's supposed to be in accordance with the treaty everyone signed at Winchester,' she said. 'All lands are to revert back to those who held them in the time when the King's grandfather was on the throne, and fortresses built since that time are to be pulled down.'

'I know the terms of the treaty,' Joscelin said tersely. 'But surely there's room for a little leeway. Roger and his father were Henry's staunchest allies throughout the darkest period of the war. Henry can't take them away from him.' His tone rang with indignation.

Cecily blew her nose. 'It's not just Roger…' she quavered. 'Hugh Mortimer's been ordered to surrender his castles too—Cleobury and Wigmore and Bridgnorth. Roger says… Roger says that he will make a pact with him and they will fight the King.' She looked at her stepfather with swimming eyes. 'I have never seen him so angry. He was throwing cups and stools… he even took his sword to our marriage chest.'

Sybilla made an appalled sound. 'He was out of his mind with rage,' Cecily continued, shaking her head. 'It could have been any furniture… and then, because of his exertion, he started to cough and we had to summon the physician.'

Joscelin strode to the window and looked out on the normality and bustle of the castle bailey. He imagined how he would feel if a royal letter arrived demanding that he yield Ludlow into the King's custody and ice ran down his spine. What price loyalty? he wondered grimly, and how ironic that Roger and Hugh Mortimer should suddenly find themselves with a common cause after all these years.

'He swears he is going to go to war,' Cecily whispered. 'But I fear for him. He is not well, and he has enemies enough from the old days who will be all too willing to ride against him,'

Sighing deeply, Joscelin went to pour himself ordinary wine from the flagon on the coffer. He took a sip. It had the faintest taint of vinegar, as if it were on the turn. 'I will ride and speak with him if you wish,' he said.

Cecily flashed him a glance brimming with gratitude. 'Please,' she said. 'He might listen to you.'

'You should not have left him,' Sybilla gently reproved her daughter.

'I had no choice, Mama.' Cecily's voice descended towards tears again. 'He ordered my chests packed and the horses saddled. I'm not like you. I'm no good at standing my ground… If you had seen his temper…'

Sybilla tightened her lips, and patted Cecily's back like a mother soothing a colicky infant. 'Hush now,' she said. 'Done is done.' She looked again at Joscelin and he read her unspoken anger and concern. He could almost feel her willing the wine down his throat so that he could be on his way.

'It might be different if we had children,' Cecily wept. 'I know that he's fond of me but no more than he's fond of his dogs or his favourite horse… I can bind him neither with love nor with duty to his offspring. He won't see it. He says that if war comes to Hereford, I will be better protected at Ludlow.'

Joscelin turned back to the window so that she would not see the narrowing of his gaze. If Roger of Hereford was not safe, then no one was.

Following Joscelin into Roger of Hereford's chamber, Brunin was hit by the sour stench of sickness and sweat. Roger was on his feet, but looked as if he should be abed. His red tunic was a match for the burning crimson stars on his cheekbones. The rest of his face was the pasty hue of bread dough.

'Roger, dear Christ, man!' Joscelin slewed to a halt, his expression appalled.

'I will thank you not to take the name of the Lord God in vain,' said a mellifluous voice and a priest rose from a chair set to one side of the hearth.

My lord…' Joscelin hastened to the cleric and, dropping to one knee, kissed the episcopal ring. Recognising the thin, sharp features of Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of Hereford, Brunin swiftly followed suit. The Bishop inclined his head, showing that he was disposed to forgive, and reseated himself.

'I suppose Cecily sent you,' Roger rasped, his chest heaving.

'No, she didn't, but you should know that making your wife pack her baggage and return to her mother is sufficient insult to bring me down on you as fast as my courser can gallop,' Joscelin said brusquely. 'Not that you're in a fit state to answer for the dead. I've seen better-looking corpses. You should be abed!'

Roger leaned against a painted chest with a deep gash of raw wood in its side. Brunin could see his body trembling with the force of his heartbeat and the heat was coming off him in waves. 'I should,' Roger agreed, 'but I'll be damned if I let Henry take away my lands!' Sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat as he swallowed. 'It is better for Cecily to be with her mother now. I meant no insult.'

'So what will you do, Roger?' asked the Bishop, his gaze piercing. 'Take up arms and go to war? Have you not had enough yet?'

'If it comes to that, yes. I haven't held out these past years to be stripped of everything like a common thief.'

Exasperation flickered in Foliot's face and was then tucked away in the firm line of his mouth. 'You are not being stripped of everything,' he said. 'Henry desires the return of the castles of Hereford and Gloucester, which were held in royal domain before Stephen took the throne. By the peace treaty of Westminster, he is entitled to claim them. It does not mean that he has turned against you.'

Roger bared his teeth 'It certainly seems that way to me.'

'If he let you keep them while he took estates from others who fought for Stephen, how would it look?' The Bishop spread his hands as if ministering from the pulpit. 'The King has to be seen to be even-handed.'

Roger looked feverishly at Joscelin. 'Tell me that you have come to give me your support,' he said. 'Tell me that you will be fried in hell before you let Henry's officials come within ten miles of Hereford.'

Joscelin gnawed on his thumbnail. Brunin recognised the habit. There were times during the weeks of campaigning in the field when Joscelin's flesh had been bitten bloody. 'You are my son-in-law and my ally,' he replied. 'Of course I will offer you support… but not to rebel against the King.'

Bishop Gilbert had stiffened at the first part of Joscelin's answer. As the sentence finished, he exhaled with relief. Roger gave a choking splutter.

'Look at you, man,' Joscelin said brusquely. 'You're burning up with fever. You couldn't fight your way out of a flour sack just now, let alone organise the defence of this place. If you go to war, you will lose everything. I
like what Henry is doing no more than you… but I won't defy him.'

'Hah, and what if he made you sacrifice Ludlow?' Roger snarled with glittering eyes. 'After all, it wasn't yours in the first Henry's day, was it, and Gilbert de Lacy's claim is perilously strong.'

'Playing at what if is futile,' Joscelin snapped, beginning to flush. 'As is this conversation. Were you not out of your wits with fever, I would shake you until your teeth rattled in your skull.'

Roger started forward with raised fists, but took no more than two steps before his knees buckled and he went down like a shot deer. Joscelin leaped to catch him and braced Roger's weight with his own body. 'Brunin, run and find the physician,' he commanded.

'I am all right,' Roger wheezed. 'There is nothing wrong with me.'

And I'm Helen of Troy,' Joscelin retorted as he carried Roger to the bed. 'My dogs' old beef bones have more flesh on them than you have. You can't defy Henry, you're too sick,' he added. And I won't do it for you. Douse your anger and your pride, or they will destroy you.'

Roger closed his eyes. His lashes were gummy and clumped with pus. 'You think that matters to a dying man?' he croaked.

'Christ, you're not dying, and even if you were, it's the living that matter,' Joscelin snarled, and felt fear and helplessness sear through him as Roger turned his face to the wall and refused to respond.

Dosed by the physician, made to drink gingered wine and wrapped up in the bedclothes like a caterpillar in a cocoon, Roger finally slept.

'I am glad you have come,' said the Bishop as he and
Joscelin sat down before the hearth in the antechamber. 'I have been trying to talk sense into him for two days but he would not listen to me.'

'He did not sound as if he was listening to me, either,' Joscelin said grimly.

'Oh, he was. I think he expected you to take his side in his affairs—half the reason he sent you his wife. I think he was hoping that you would come roaring in here like a wild bull and insist that he take up arms against Henry' 'I am eternally grateful that you did not.'

Joscelin grunted. 'Even if I were thus inclined, I would hope to have more sense. There are many who are unhappy at having the influence they have built up diluted. Roger is only one tree in the forest. But if we are to have peace, then we need to compromise.'

'I am glad that you see it in such terms, my lord,' said the Bishop.

'Perhaps I can afford to.' Joscelin looked bleak. 'As Roger said, if I were commanded to yield Ludlow, then perhaps I would not be so reasonable.'

The Bishop gave him a considering look. 'You do know that Hugh Mortimer has been ordered to surrender Cleobury, Wigmore and Bridgnorth?'

'Yes, Cecily told us. She was afraid that Roger was going to join with him and begin a rebellion.'

'It was my concern too,' said the Bishop, 'but aside from you thrusting a broomhandle into the cogs—for which I am grateful—Roger's own body will not let him defy the King.'

Joscelin met Gilbert Foliot's gaze. Neither of them flinched from what they saw in each other's eyes.

'He is fighting the inevitable,' the Bishop said gently. 'He knows what he will not acknowledge, although he must come to terms with it soon. And perhaps that too is one of the reasons that he has sent his wife to Ludlow.' Foliot stroked the dark wool of his habit. 'Roger's estates will go to his brother since he has no heirs of his body to inherit, but I believe that the King will not transfer the earldom with the titles.'

Joscelin raised a brow. Gilbert Foliot had a far-reaching web of spies and intelligence-gatherers. Joscelin knew that asking him how he knew about certain matters was futile. The response would be a gentle, steely smile and a change of subject. 'Are you not moving too fast?' Joscelin asked.

'No,' Gilbert said sombrely, 'I do not think that I am.'