Shadows and Strongholds (38 page)

'And then Master Brunin told her to go before he smirched his honour and hers… and she did. I saw her run across the yard. Master Brunin stayed awhile with his horse; I heard him cursing. And then he went off towards the alehouse.'

Joscelin made a face, for he knew what it was like for a young man after short, sharp battle when the blood was still afire. The slightest spark could ignite dry tinder. Likely a lover's quarrel had turned into a near conflagration. Brunin had done well to control all that tension and Hawise had probably learned a valuable lesson. Sybilla would draw the details out of her. He would indeed only be a drunk blundering across a flowerbed. The thought of a blundering drunk led him to ponder. Brunin might have proved that he could fight like a demon when it came to the sticking point, but there was more to command than ability on a battlefield.

Turning on his heel, Joscelin left the stables and headed for the alehouse. He did not know what he was going to find, but he hoped he did not have to be too harsh, for he understood all too well.

As he drew near, there was a scuffle in the shadows and an embracing couple hastily drew apart. One of the ale wenches hastened past him, her dark hair straggling around her shoulders and her unlaced chemise exposing the swell of her breasts. Eyes averted, she curtseyed to Joscelin on the run and made herself scarce. A pungent but not unpleasant aroma of mint and sage trailed in her wake.

'My lord, you are seeking me?' Brunin followed her into the light. His hair was wet, probably from a dunking in a water butt, and his eyes were dark and wide like a night creature's. The scent of sage and mint lingered about him too, as well as the sourer fumes of ale.

'Arc you sober?'

Brunin fenced the question. 'I am not drunk, my lord.'

'I am pleased to hear it. A man needs release after battle, but not until all of his duties have been discharged.'

'You have duties for me, my lord?'

He saw the vigilance in the lad's eyes and silently commended it. He was holding himself together well given that he had just been interrupted with a whore and had probably consumed more ale than he was willing to admit. Both voice and legs were steady, but it took more than one cup to taint the breath like that. Likely the unrequited lust was paining him too.

'Not so much duties as new responsibilities,' he replied.

Beyond the alehouse torches, a woman laughed throatily and they both glanced towards the sound. Joscelin saw the two scabbed-over stripes on Brunin's cheek. They had not been there as they rode back from battle.

'You and my daughter were overheard quarrelling.'

Brunin's expression closed. 'It is between her and me,' he said.

Joscelin nodded brusquely. 'I will not interfere, except to say that you should not let the heat of battle cloud your judgement.'

'No, my lord.'

The young man's tone was as expressionless as his marked face. 'Women are a law unto themselves,' Joscelin said wryly. 'You might think you are the master, but a woman always knows who is mistress.'

'You said you had responsibilities for me, sir.'

Joscelin sighed. Brunin was clearly on his pride, and who could blame him. 'Yes,' he said. 'On the morrow I will make it official, but tonight I want to say that you have earned your spurs. In my eyes, you are no longer my squire, but a knight full-fledged.' He gave Brunin a hefty clap on the shoulder.

Brunin stared at him. 'I did nothing, my lord.' His breathing was as harsh as tearing silk. Whatever else he had managed to shrug off, Joscelin's words had pierced his defences.

Joscelin snorted. 'I do not call what you did, nothing. You turned the battle around; you saved my life. Because of you, Gilbert de Lacy is my prisoner. The outcome could have been very different.'

Brunin frowned. 'I don't deserve the honour, my lord.'

'Let me be the judge of that.'

The young man glanced over his shoulder. 'Just now I…'

Joscelin's lips twitched with amusement. 'Yes, I know what you were doing, and likely why. But leave the whores and the drink to the soldiers.'

'Yes, sir.' Brunin cleared his throat and looked down at his boots.

'Come with me.' Joscelin took his arm and drew him across the bailey towards the chapel. The stained glass was lit from within and, as they drew closer, the soft sound of chanting could be discerned like a back thread running behind the bolder sounds from the alehouse.

The heavy door was open and Joscelin slipped inside. It was not a large chapel. Indeed, Joscelin had plans to enlarge it, but for the nonce it served. Tonight it was a mortuary for the men of Ludlow killed in the skirmish. Washed and tended by the castle's women, the bodies had been laid out before the altar and candles lit at the four corners of each makeshift bier. The smells of incense and spring greenery were not sufficient to mask the stench of death.

'Tonight,' said Joscelin softly, 'I will kneel in vigil to honour these men, and tomorrow, in grief, I will bury them. I will speak to their wives, to their children, their mothers, and promise that they will not starve… except for love and the want of a familiar face coming home through the door on a warm summer's evening or a fire-lit winter night.' He looked keenly at Brunin to see if he was absorbing the lesson and saw that the dark eyes were glittering in the candle-haloed darkness. 'That,' he said, 'is the nature and burden of responsibility. Hold your head up, and shoulder it as best you may'

Marion stared at the young knight whom de Lacy and one of the guards had just laid on the bed. Through the blood and bruises of battle, she recognised Ernalt de Lysle, with whom she and Hawise had once flirted at the Shrewsbury Fair, and the sight sent a surge of shock through her. His complexion was waxen, his eye sockets tinged with blue, but through the wreckage wrought by battle his features were still clear and fine and his hair shone like ripe wheat. She pushed back his sleeve, studied the damage done to his wrist, and recoiled.

'He is worth nothing to you if he dies,' de Lacy said in a grating voice. 'His family will pay naught for a corpse.'

Marion swallowed her gorge. 'He is not going to die, my lord,' she said, raising her chin at him. She set about cleaning and stitching the injury. Sibbi had always been the best at this kind of task, but Sybilla had trained them all, and Marion was competent. She had been prepared to sulk at being delegated the task of caring for the prisoners' injuries, but the sight of Ernalt de Lysle had infused her mind with images from a troubadour's tales. She was the gentle, merciful maiden, bestowing charity and care upon the wounded, handsome knight.

De Lysle's lids flickered open as she tended to him and his eyes were as she remembered them: coloured like the sky but as clear as glass. She was not about to let them grow hazy with fever and death. She would save his life and he would be eternally grateful to her.

Sybilla sat down on the rope-frame bed and set one arm around Hawise's shoulders. 'It does not take great wisdom to see that you and Brunin have quarrelled,' she murmured. 'I do not know the reason, but bear in mind that all of us have been out of our wits today'

'I insulted his courage,' Hawise whispered, looking down at her hands. 'He will never forgive me that.'

'You insulted his courage?' Sybilla gazed at her in surprise. 'I doubt that very much.'

'I did. I called him a coward.' Hawise sniffed. 'I was beside myself when Papa was being attacked. I didn't mean the words, but I said them. I tried to apologise but he wouldn't listen. Instead he—' She broke off and hugged herself.

'Did he hurt you?'

'No… Well, not much and only because he was holding me too tightly. He didn't hit me.'

'So you were embracing?'

Hawise swallowed and shook her head. 'It was not an embrace. I scratched his face and he bid me go before he harmed me against his honour.'

'Ah,' said Sybilla, a wealth of experience and knowing in the word. 'Wounding a man's pride is never wise. Best to let his blood cool and then speak to him again.'

'But what if he spurns me?'

'He won't.'

Hawise raised brimming grey eyes. 'How do you know?'

Sybilla's smile was wry. 'Your father and I often had similar quarrels when we were first wed—not on the same subject, but for the same reasons. Either he or I would say something that hurt the other and it would end in a blazing argument… but you are grown and we still share the same bed.' Tenderly she brushed a stray wisp of Hawise's hair away from her face. 'It will be all right; you will see.'

Hawise sniffed and wiped her face with her fingertips. 'I do not know what to say to him.'

'The words will come to you when they must. But perhaps you could do something too… Make a peace offering.'

A considering look entered Hawise's eyes. Whenever her parents argued, which was seldom these days, her mother would make amends on her part by sewing Joscelin a garment. She had even heard him jest that all he had to do when he wanted a new tunic was to pick a quarrel. She also knew that there were several rings and brooches in her mother's jewel casket that stood as apologies for short temper and lack of consideration. But a tunic or shirt was hardly a gift that fitted the crux of the argument.
I am sorry for my hasty words. Here is a tunic in recompense
. Hawise winced at the thought. Then a different image filled her mind. 'I will make him a banner,' she said. 'I know that we have some spare yellow silk in one of the coffers.'

Sybilla nodded with approval. 'Well thought of,' she said. 'A man's banner is one of the deepest symbols of his pride. If you stitch one for Brunin, it will be a token of your faith in him.'

Hawise rose to her feet. 'I will begin it now,' she said, feeling as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Dusk had fallen; there were still other duties to perform, but she could at least find the fabric and the embroidery silks.

Later that night, bearing a lighted candle, she went with her mother to the chapel to pray for the dead. Brunin was there with her father. He glanced at her once, but in the darkness and candle shadow she could see nothing in his eyes or expression. He was guarding himself as much as he was guarding the bodies. Hawise had to content herself with the thought that she would prove her pride in him by sewing the banner, and that matters would be different in the light of a new morning.

However, the light of a new morning brought not reconciliation but a messenger from Whittington. The man had ridden through the night to reach Ludlow; as Brunin emerged from the church, stiff from his vigil, his eyes gritty with exhaustion, he was greeted with the news that his father was gravely ill with a high fever and he was summoned to his bedside as fast as he could ride. There was no time to sleep: only to break his fast, pack his saddlebag and ride out.

Brunin's headache had returned during the night and now it pounded against the walls of his skull like a huge black rock. It was impossible to move and difficult to see around, let alone think. His stomach rebelled at the dish of wheat frumenty that Sybilla urged on him.

'You have a long ride,' she said. 'You cannot do it without sustenance.'