Shadows and Strongholds (4 page)

'But your mother would,' Joscelin said with a smile.

FitzWarin shook his head. 'Not in such a matter.'

'Perhaps not directly, but you would soon learn if she objected to your choice. The lady Mellette is not one to hold her peace—and I say it with the greatest respect. And it is out of respect that I will first consult with Sybilla. She is lady of Ludlow and even if I do take Brunin into my train, he will spend much time under her supervision—in the early days at least.'

FitzWarin continued to look as if he thought Joscelin was being over-indulgent, but he inclined his head. As you wish,' he said.

They left the players behind and kept on with their search, doggedly going from booth to booth, without success.

'Likely they are long gone by now,' Joscelin said as they paused beside the shops of the weapon smiths.

'They are here somewhere,' FitzWarin growled with the certainty of a terrier with its head down a badger hole. 'No one comes to the fair for a single day. Even if they have left the field, they will be lodged around about.'

'Sir.' Mark spoke up, his voice nervous and eager. He had come up from the river and tagged himself on to the end of FitzWarin's retainers.

FitzWarin followed the Serjeant's pointing finger towards another group of knights and squires who were at the far end of the weapon booths. Prominent amongst them was a tall nobleman with crisp black hair and a neatly cropped beard. He was accompanied by two youths, one flaxen-fair and clad in a red tunic, the other stocky, freckled, and wearing blue. The former had a swagger and an ostentatious knife at his belt.

Joscelin looked too but it was the sight of the noble rather than the squires that sent his right hand twitching towards his sword hilt. Gilbert de Lacy was his wife's cousin, but since de Lacy claimed that Ludlow was his, it was a cause for strife not friendship. De Lacy's father had been deprived of the fief more than fifty years ago for rebellion, but that had not prevented his son from campaigning vigorously, both through the courts and on the battlefield, to have the lands restored to their branch of the family. Joscelin would usually have sidestepped an encounter with him. While he could handle himself in a fight, he didn't relish a confrontation with the bitter, dangerous competence of Gilbert de Lacy.

Raising his head de Lacy noticed FitzWarin and Joscelin. His own hand went to the hilt at his hip and his angular cheekbones reddened. He checked his stride for an instant before continuing forward to a scabbard-maker's booth. Then he turned his back, deliberately ignoring Joscelin and FitzWarin. Exchanging swift glances, the squires held close to the shadow of their lord.

FitzWarin lowered his head like a bull and charged straight in to the attack, gripping de Lacy by the shoulder and jerking him round. 'My lord, your squires assaulted my son,' he snarled, 'and I demand redress.'

De Lacy threw FitzWarin off with a fierce shrug and contemptuous eyes. 'Boys are boys,' he retorted. 'If your son cannot fend for himself then you should not have let him stray from his wet nurse's tit.'

Goaded, FitzWarin lunged.

De Lacy blocked FitzWarin's fist on his muscular forearm and spoke hard into his face. 'Were I to intervene in every brawl and skirmish that my squires got into, I'd waste my lifetime, and I have more important matters to pursue.' He thrust FitzWarin away. 'I would willingly break both you and de Dinan on the battlefield, but I'm not stupid enough to make one of this fairground even if you are. Ernalt, Gerald, run back to my lodging and tell the steward I am on my way and to have wine ready. Quickly now.' He stood his ground, barring FitzWarin's and Joscelin's way until the boys had made themselves scarce.

'If I think it necessary to punish my squires, I will do so myself,' he said vehemently: 'They are mine to discipline.'

'Then make sure that you bloody their hides with your whip,' FitzWarin snarled. 'For if you do not, then I will. Rough and tumble is one matter. Using a knife on a child is another.'

Surprise flickered in de Lacy's expression.

'A knife,' FitzWarin repeated. 'Only a coward draws steel on the vulnerable. If you saw it and did nothing, you are a coward too. If you did not, you are as much at fault for letting your squires run wild like a pair of ill-trained dogs as I am for not watching over my son.'

A muscle ticked in de Lacy's cheek. Without a word, he spun on his heel and strode away. His retainers followed with several back-cast glances at their counterparts in FitzWarin's and Joscelin's retinue. The taverns were going to be dangerous places that evening.

FitzWarin let out a shaken breath, releasing rage and tension. Joscelin slowly relaxed his hand from his sword hilt. He had clenched the grip so hard that the pattern of the braided leather was imprinted on his palm.

'De Lacy,' FitzWarin bared his teeth. 'It would be de Lacy.'

Joscelin's right hand was trembling. He had badly wanted to fight and at the same time was vastly relieved that it had not come to that. 'Did you notice the men with him?'

'I was more interested in those misbegotten squires of his,' FitzWarin said tersely. 'What about his men?'

'I saw two of them outside a tavern yesterday, selling their swords.'

'You mean de Lacy is hiring soldiers?'

Joscelin nodded. 'Yesterday they were unemployed mercenaries. Now they have their fee. And if de Lacy is hiring, then it behoves me to double the guard at Ludlow and send out more patrols.'

'You think de Lacy will attack you?'

'I don't think he'll sit down to besiege Ludlow; he doesn't have those kinds of resources, but he can snap at my heels and cause me a passel of trouble. You'd best look to your walls too. He's not your enemy the way he is mine, but there is no love lost between you, and you are my ally. I wouldn't put it past him to incite your Welsh enemies into raiding your lands.'

'They'll receive a welcome that will last them a generation if they do,' FitzWarin growled.

Joscelin's dark grey gaze wandered over the swords, daggers, axes and spearheads displayed at the nearest booth, their edges honed to river-blue. Usually the sight of such beautifully crafted objects lifted his spirits, but today they seemed like a portent and he felt a deep melancholy rushing to fill the space where battle tension had been.

FitzWarin returned to his own lodgings in a mood as dark as a thunderstorm. A flagon of wine in one of the taverns had done nothing to lighten his humour. The brew had tasted like piss-vinegar and Joscelin had been taciturn and sunk in his own thoughts. FitzWarin had made his retainers return with him and banned them from drinking in the town. A brawl with de Lacy's men might vent the heat, but the potential cost was too great.

When he strode in the door, a servant was stirring a cooking pot and trying to keep the stew from burning on the bottom. His wile and mother were examining bolts of cloth laid out on a coffer and his sons, except for Brunin, were tumbling on the floor like a litter of puppies, even William, the two-year-old, who kept tripping over his smock.

'Husband.' Eve came towards him, a nervous, eager-to-please look on her face. He had married her eleven years ago when she was fifteen. The bearing of six sons had slackened once taut muscles, but she was still slender and the bones of her face were such that even in old age she would be a beauty. Her hair shone through its net like a sheaf of wheat and her wide-set hazel eyes were as appealing as a fawn's.

He greeted her with an indifferent mutter.

Are you hungry?'

He was, but not for over-cooked stew. 'Bread and cheese will do.' Going to the sideboard, he cut a chunk from the loaf that was standing there. Eve watched him, her underlip caught in her teeth.

'Where's Brunin?' he asked.

'In the sleeping loft.' She indicated the ladder stairs to the long roofspace above. 'Guy told us he'd been attacked.' Her voice trembled on the last word.

'Wolves always recognise weaklings.' The voice was pitched deep for a woman and as cold as a raw January morning. Leaving the bolts of cloth, the lady Mellette joined her son and daughter-in-law. Although elderly, her spine was as straight as a measuring rod. Her robe of dark blue wool and a tight wimple of bleached linen were fittingly severe. Even in her youth, she had been no beauty, but she possessed the more lasting gift of presence. No one was ever allowed to ignore the lady Mellette.

FitzWarin felt the familiar stab of anger and guilt. 'Brunin is not a weakling,' he snapped, his own ambivalence towards his son making his tone harsh. 'It could have happened to any child who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'As he always seems to be.' Mellette's expression was unforgiving. 'Guy told us that he'd wandered away from his guard. If he had been obedient and stayed where he was, this wouldn't have happened.'

FitzWarin thrust his free hand through his hair. 'Christ on the Cross, Mother, if he were obedient all the time, I'd worry about him more. At least it shows he has a spark to kindle.'

'And that it is like giving a fool a piece of gold and expecting him still to have it at the end of the day. And do not blaspheme at me!'

He did not apologise, but lowered his gaze rather than meet the blaze in hers. 'Did Brunin say anything?'

Mellette gave an impatient snort. 'As much as he ever does. Anyone would think that he had been born without a tongue in his head. I wonder about his wits too.'

FitzWarin swallowed his bread and clung to his temper. 'Brunin has both voice and wits when he chooses,' he said.

'Which is less than often.'

From the midst of the litter, the two-year-old uttered a loud wail as four-year-old Thomas sat down hard on him. Eve went to intervene, plucking her youngest son from the melee and hoisting him in her arms. An instant later, he was clamouring with outstretched arms to rejoin the fray. Mellette watched with a softening of approval then returned her attention to FitzWarin.

'You discovered who did it?'

'Two squires belonging to Gilbert de Lacy'

'Hah, well, that comes as no surprise. His father was a traitor and he's changed beds in this dispute between Stephen and Matilda more often than a whore on the eve of a battle. You have dealt with it, I trust?'

'Yes,' he said curtly. 'I've dealt with it.' Like his son, he did not intend to elaborate on the matter. Lifting the flagon, he poured himself a cup of wine.

His mother's brows drew together. 'You should let a servant do that,' she said, looking round for one.

'We're lodged in a merchant's house, not at the royal court,' he growled. 'I can do for myself.'

'That is no reason to let standards slip. Remember your blood is the blood of the Conqueror.'

Through a more than dubious lineage, he thought, but he managed to clench his teeth on the words. His mother was the bastard daughter of the Earl of Derby, who in turn claimed bastard descent from William the Conqueror, who was himself bastard born. FitzWarin's father was an adventuring mercenary whose fast wits and sword had brought him to the Earl's notice and earned him Mellette's reluctant hand in marriage. The slender, swarthy Warin de Metz had married high and the haughty lady Mellette considered that she had wed far beneath the status of her paternal line. The belief had soured the union from the start and although her husband was long in his grave, she could not let go of her bitterness. Her domain was a royal court, she was the queen and woe betide anyone who forgot the fact.

Mellette clucked her tongue against her teeth in irritation, then sighed. 'I have been thinking about the boy,' she announced.

'Indeed?' FitzWarin grimaced into his cup.

'You have five other sons, all robust and healthy' She indicated the noisy brawl of small boys. 'Why not dedicate Brunin to the Church? To have a son in holy orders is useful on all counts and it seems to me that he would be suited to the cloister.'

'No,' FitzWarin said more loudly than he had intended. The notion had sometimes occurred to him too and her words had touched the raw patch of his guilt. 'No,' he repeated on a more controlled note as her brows lifted in surprise. 'I hope that I have arranged for Brunin's future today. I spoke with Joscelin de Dinan about fostering him at Ludlow.'

That silenced her. Behind him, he heard Eve's soft intake of breath.

Mellette moved to a bench by the hearth and perched on its edge, knees pressed together, hands folded in her lap. 'The heir is usually educated within his own home,' she said. He did not miss the gleam in her eyes, nor the way that they flickered briefly to Ralf. Her thoughts were transparent.

'Usually, yes, but not always. I hope that experience in a different household will be the making of Brunin.'

'And Ralf and Richard, you will educate them at home?'

'Likely they will go for fostering too,' he said. 'I would not want to break the rules too far.'

She gave a contemptuous sniff. 'You think that an education by a Breton mercenary will better serve us and Brunin than sending him to the Church?'

'Joscelin de Dinan is more than just a Breton mercenary,' FitzWarin said shortly. 'He is of the line of the Counts of Brittany and Ludlow is an important fortress. Indeed, it makes Whittington look like a peasant's hovel.'

Mellette flinched at the comparison, her mouth puckering as tight as a miser's drawstring purse.

'He has the warrior skills, but he can play the courtier at need,' FitzWarin added. 'Brunin's education will be well rounded. Lady Sybilla is a conscientious chatelaine. She does her duty by her husband's squires.' He had been laying the bait in a trail of crumbs. Now he set down the remainder of the loaf, tempting her with the prize of Ludlow itself. 'Joscelin's heirs are his two daughters. Given Sybilla's age she is unlikely to bear him a son to inherit the lands.'

Mellette looked down at her clasped hands, her expression mulish. FitzWarin's resolve hardened. He would send Brunin for fostering whatever she said.

After a moment, she raised her head. 'Perhaps you ought to send Ralf to Ludlow. If you have a match in mind, your second son stands the better chance of impressing de Dinan.'

'No, Mother. I have offered him Brunin and for good reasons.' FitzWarin forced himself not to gulp the wine. He had already drunk more than he should in the tavern, plus the cups at the vintners' booths.