Shadows and Strongholds (36 page)

'What's happened? Is your mother—?'

'It's not my mother,' Hawise cried. 'My father's being attacked by Gilbert de Lacy'

'What?' Brunin strode to the window. Grudgingly Marion yielded him space. What he saw paralysed him. His breath clotted in his chest and a great surge of shock emptied him of all ordinary sensation. The battle beyond the bridge on the far bank of the river was desperate and it was obvious that Joscelin was going to be brought down.

'Do something!' Hawise struck his arm such a blow that he staggered and what air remained in his lungs was forced out on a harsh gasp. He inhaled, but it was like breathing through wool. The enormity of what was happening rendered him immobile, the transition from a state of passive awakening to horrified awareness was too rapid and intense to deal with.

She struck him again, her own reaction taking a different form. 'He's going to be killed before our eyes. Will you just stand there like a lump of wood!'

He stared at her.

'It's true what they all say; you are a coward,' she spat.

'You don't have the courage when it conies to the sticking point! You said you'd never give me cause to regret my choice and already you are proven a liar!'

Her words cut through the numbness and for a moment everything was exposed to the air in full, blinding pain.

'I will go myself and may you be damned!' She flung away from him towards the door.

The pain burst in a red mist that flooded him with its heat and gave him back the use of his limbs. Striding after her, he seized her arm in a bruising grip, swung her round and shoved her roughly back towards Sybilla. She staggered and almost fell, her eyes blazing with tears.

'Prepare yourselves to tend the wounded,' he snarled and, turning his back on her, strode from the room.

He was dimly aware of descending the tower, of going to the weapons chest and lifting out the axe that he had earlier oiled and sharpened. Of donning Joscelin's spare gambeson and hauberk. The latter was loose across his shoulders and long on the body, but there wasn't time to care about such things. Jamming the morning-star flail through his belt, he grabbed the axe and descended to the bailey.

There was no one to command the guards on the walls, for Joscelin's constable and marshal were both fighting for their lives in the melee, as were most of his knights. Brunin had been well and truly flung into the heart of the fire; the command and the consequences were his. No more pulling back, no drawing the blows. This was as real as the excoriating words Hawise had flung in his face.

The act of donning armour had cleared the red mist from his brain but it was as if a stranger issued terse orders to the soldiers and sent forth messengers to the town. The grooms had hastily saddled Jester; even as they brought him from his stall, Brunin was already reaching to the stirrup and swinging astride.

He nodded the command to open the postern that led out to the bridge, and rode Jester out at the head of four knights, two Serjeants and a dozen footsoldiers. A tocsin was ringing in the town and the burgesses were pouring from their dwellings, armed with spears and staves, pitchforks, clubs and axes.

Brunin increased the pace from a trot to a canter, from a canter to a controlled gallop. Jester's shoes rang on the bridge timbers. Brunin gave him his head and leaned forward. While he had been making ready, his heart had been thundering in spate, but now the flow was slow and hard. He knew precisely when to touch the reins, when to turn the horse, when to raise the axe. All of it, training, instinct, and raw, bright rage, fused into one powerful motion as he spurred the gelding into the heart of the melee and, in a fluid, controlled movement, brought the axe down upon the helm of one of the knights pressing Joscelin. A blaze of satisfaction burned through him at the scream, at the sight of blood, at the crumpling, falling body. An image of Hawise's scorn-filled face shimmered before his eyes and he struck again. Hard, sure, strong. He would show them again, and again and again, what he was made of, and why they should fear to awaken a sleeping dragon.

Joscelin was fighting on foot, the ground beneath him slippery with the blood pumping from the throat of his fallen, dying mount. Brunin parried a blow aimed at Joscelin and flipped the attacker's sword out of his hand. The knight yelled in pain at the pressure on his tendons and retreated. A second blow from Brunin hit the shield edge and splintered the wood. The knight's horse plunged sideways, fouling de Lacy who was trying frantically to reach Joscelin. Cursing, de Lacy tried to rein aside, but his destrier stumbled in a coney hole and pitched the Baron over its mane. De Lacy landed hard, his sword flying from his grip. Ernalt de Lysle spurred forward to protect him and the downward blow of Brunin's axe was met upon the blade of a sword. Sparks glanced from the strike of steel on steel and slivers of metal flew from the weapons. Brunin disengaged and struck again, but by now de Lysle's shield was in position. The axe thudded into the linden planking and wedged there. De Lysle wrenched, and Brunin was forced to relinquish his hold, but as he did so his hand was already grasping the flail, and he brought it round and down. The spiked ball struck de Lysle across the back of the wrist and, with a scream, the knight dropped the sword and snatched his hand away. Blood webbed between his fingers and it was clear that he had lost their use. He tried to protect himself with his shield, but it was wrenched away by one of the Ludlow townsmen, who toppled him from his horse with a blow from his mason's mallet. De Lysle hit the ground hard, slamming both breath and wits from his body.

'No, don't kill him!' Brunin commanded the townsman as he raised the mallet on high. 'Take his weapons and bind him. Even if his soul's worthless, his ransom won't be.'

'Do I get a share, sir?'

Brunin flashed a savage grin. 'I'll see you recompensed,' he said, and turned back to the battle in time to see Joscelin standing over the fallen Gilbert de Lacy, his sword at his throat.

'Yield or die. It is all the same to me whether I take you prisoner or kill you here.' Joscelin's breath sawed in his throat and a red trickle ran down his neck from a nicked earlobe.

De Lacy's gaze flickered, assessing the situation, and he raised one hand in surrender. 'I yield.' He gagged on the words as if they were poison.

Joscelin snapped his fingers. Two footsoldiers hauled de Lacy roughly to his feet. The Baron's throat corded with the effort of suppressing a scream and the knowledge that his enemy had suffered battle injuries brought a grim smile to Joscelin's lips. It wouldn't worry him if de Lacy died from his wounds. Seeing their lord captured and Joscelin's cause bolstered by the troops from the castle and the men of the town, who continued to pour across the bridge, those of de Lacy's men who were capable fled the field.

Brunin looked at the axe he had retrieved from the battleground. The steel-blue edge wore a clotted border of other men's blood. He would have to clean it again, he thought absently, otherwise the rust would take hold with a vengeance. The dead and the injured of both factions strewed the field. Three of the dead knights were his work, and de Lysle could easily have been a fourth. Brunin had fought with the detachment that came of being pushed over the edge, but he had kept his awareness, and now feeling was returning in increments. He could smell the blood and the hot stink of horse entrails, hear the groans of the wounded, and see beyond the victory of rescue to the red carnage. He began to tremble and had to make a conscious effort to stiffen his spine. There were things he could not afford to confront just now; things that had to be thrust to the back of his mind and shut away.

Swallowing his gorge, he turned from the bloody field and, leaving de Lysle to the townsman and a Serjeant, caught the reins of the knight's sweating stallion. Clicking his tongue to the beast, he led it across to Joscelin.

'You need a horse, my lord.'

Joscelin stared up at him. One of his eye-whites was blotted with red, either from a wound or the tremendous effort he had expended to keep himself alive. His knuckles were skinned and his sword made the blood on Brunin's axe blade look naught but a smear.

'You saved my life, boy,' he said in a hoarse voice. 'And that is the last time I am ever going to call you that. You have more than earned your manhood and the right to stand among my knights.' Seizing the horse's reins he swung into the saddle. Brunin saw him wince and suspected that the move was not as easy as Joscelin had made it look, but there was the matter of pride, the need to display strength in front of the vanquished Gilbert de Lacy. 'You are welcome into my family. I say now, for all to hear, that I am proud to call you son.'

Heat burned Brunin's face at the compliment, but there was as much pain as pleasure in his response. At the back of his mind, clamouring to escape from the place where he had locked them, were Hawise's words. She had accused him of cowardice, had flayed him with her tongue. He had only to recall the blazing contempt in her eyes to feel the nausea surge in his belly.

The men of Ludlow crossed the bridge and re-entered the keep, battered, bloody, but triumphant. Brunin watched the Serjeants remove de Lacy and de Lysle to the Pendover tower where there was a chamber with a heavy oak door and secure bolts. Sybilla came running out on to the sward and threw herself upon Joscelin, weeping, frantic, feverishly examining his injuries. Joscelin was somewhat taken aback by the reception from his usually pragmatic wife, but after a moment took her face in his hands and kissed her full on the lips, all sweaty and battle-mired as he was.

'I thought I was going to see you killed in front of my eyes!' she sobbed. 'I couldn't bear it! Not after Payne. Not after so many years!'

Murmuring platitudes to his wife, Joscelin turned towards the domestic quarters. He would deal with his prisoners when he had dealt with his own injuries.

Brunin looked briefly for Hawise, but there was no sign of her and he was glad that she had not come flying out to greet him. He knew that he ought to follow Joscelin and Sybilla to their chamber. He knew that Joscelin would be generous with his praise and Sybilla, given her current state, all over him with gratitude, but he didn't want that. And he didn't want to Hawise.

Dismounting from Jester, he led him away to the stables, shrugging off the congratulations, the back-slapping and camaraderie offered by the other men. They wanted him to be one of their number, but for the moment he could not cope with their loud-mouthed enthusiasm and their desire to talk about every move and blow of the victory snatched from defeat.

'Sir, shall I take him?' asked a stable boy, his manner both nervous and excited. It would only take a word from Brunin, an encouraging glance, to unleash the lad's tongue.

'No, I'll deal with him myself. Tend to the others. Let me be.' Brunin spoke in short sentences, the most he could manage. The energy of the battle was still churning inside him and was not going to subside in a moment.

The boy opened his mouth. Brunin drew a deep breath. 'Go,' he said with ragged control. 'Don't argue.'

Alert to danger, the lad tugged his forelock and ran off. Brunin pressed his head against Jester's flank. His headache had returned and he thought his skull was going to explode.

'Brunin?'

He turned his face, sideways along Jester's warm flank to look at Hawise and thought that she had a deal less sense than the groom's youngest apprentice.

Her voice was nervous and uncertain. 'I… My father said you saved his life, and I saw what you did on the field.'

'And I suppose that seeing is believing,' he snarled softly. He held out his hands, palms down, showing her the dark blood rimming his fingernails and staining his knuckles. 'Is this the kind of courage that you want from me? Is this proof enough of being "blooded"?'

She stared and he saw her swallow. He hoped that she felt as sick as he did.

'I… I should never have said what I did.' She wrung her hands as if washing them. 'All I could think of was that my father was going to die.'

'And that I was a "coward who was going to do nothing",' he said contemptuously, not in the least mollified by her admission that she was in the wrong. That she had thought the words was enough, whether she had spoken them or not.

'I… It was the way you walked into the chamber as if naught was wrong. And then you just stood there.' She reddened defensively.

'I wasn't allowed a moment to lose my wits and gather them again,' he said furiously. 'Damned in the space of a breath. Not much faith for a marriage, is it?'

Her eyes darkened; her chin came up. 'I came to apologise, not to be railed at.'

'Well, perhaps I don't feel much like forgiving you,' he said out of the pain thundering through his skull, and was both gratified and assailed by remorse to see the way she recoiled. 'You knew the words that would cut deepest,' he added, 'and you used them.' He turned back to the horse, his fingers working jerkily to loosen the girth, his mouth set in a tight line. Sensing the violent tensions in the air, the gelding flinched and sidled. 'I know where I stand, and it's at naught. You might as well be my grandmother.'

'Oh, in Christ's name, you are twisting everything awry!' Her voice rose and cracked.

'Am I?' He glared at her. 'Just leave me alone. I don't want you.' It was a lie. A swollen, aching lie. He had never wanted and despised anything so much in his life.

She stepped up to him, whether to cajole or remonstrate further he neither knew nor cared, for he was done with reason. Seizing her around the waist, he dragged her against the hard rivets of her father's hauberk, and kissed her. Not the sensual, tactile embrace of earlier, but one wild with need and lust, with anger and the remnants of battle frenzy. He held her tight, sealing her mouth with his, imprinting her with every pent-up emotion contained inside him. For a moment she stood frozen within his grip, too shocked to do anything but bear the brunt of the storm; and then she began to fight, pushing at him. kicking him in the shins, and finally clawing his face with her nails.

He noticed little of the pain, for his body was still keyed up from the combat, but the fact that she had scratched him at all, that she was fighting him, brought him to a precipice. To subdue her in rape, or let her go. The choice between manhood and cowardice. Ernalt de Lysle had had no qualms, he remembered.