Shadows and Strongholds (42 page)

FitzWarin stood by the window in his chamber and watched the patrol ride in, Brunin at its head, Warin and Richard behind. He noted the disciplined order of the men and the way that everyone, even his brothers, deferred to Brunin. He noted too the way he held the shield tight in to his body, and the easy but alert posture in the saddle. And then he thought back to a day in Shrewsbury almost ten years ago and knew just how much he owed Joscelin de Dinan. Of course, the lad had always had it in him, but not every hand could have drawn it out.

He inhaled deeply and, at the peak of the breath, felt the air catch and scrape in his tender chest. He started to cough, and had to brace his arm on the window embrasure as the spasm ripped through him.

'Told you, you shouldn't be out of your bed,' declared Mellette sourly. 'But then no one listens to me.' She pointed a peremptory finger at an attendant, who hastened to serve FitzWarin with a cup of watered wine.

'I'll have a long enough lie-down in the grave without practising now,' FitzWarin retorted. He cast a jaundiced look towards the bed from which, a fortnight ago, he had thought he would never rise. No one else had either. He was still as wobbly as a spring lamb, but each day a little more of his strength returned, and he was able to expand his boundaries further. Before the day was out, he was determined to mount his horse and at least ride around the yard. He needed to be recovered enough to attend the Welsh muster, and before that to ride to Ludlow.

'I don't understand de Dinan's sudden haste,' Mellette said. She was clutching the parchment that the messenger from Ludlow had delivered an hour ago. She could not read, but she had had the scribe repeat the words several times over and had committed them to memory. 'Midsummer or Michaelmas, what does it matter when the pair are wed?'

'I know not, but there will be good reason.'

'Hmph.' She gave herself a shake like a hen ruffling its feathers. 'Perhaps he's got the girl with child.'

FitzWarin's lips twitched. 'If that had happened, that parchment you are holding would be smoking in your hand. What's more, we would not be worrying about the threat from the Welsh. We'd have the garrison of Ludlow washing against our walls by now.'

'Don't be foolish,' Mellette snapped. 'De Dinan's soft in the head but his wits are not entirely mashed.' She came to the window and narrowed her eyes at the dismounting patrol. 'I suppose you are going to agree to de Dinan's wishes?'

'I have no cause to refuse. And if Brunin has, I am sure he will tell me.'

They watched Brunin stride from the yard. He removed his helm as he walked and pushed down his arming cap so that his black hair stood up in tousled spikes. The shadow of a beard clung to his jawline and outlined his mouth. He had borrowed FitzWarin's hauberk and the rivets shone in the sun.

'He has become a man,' FitzWarin said. 'You should think on that in your dealings with him.'

Her lips compressed. 'He looks like his grandfather,' she said. It was more of a complaint than an observation and FitzWarin clenched his teeth. It might be worth founding a nunnery just to send her there and have peace.

'Indeed, if he is like him, then I will be glad,' he retorted, turning from the window.

Brunin made his report to his father. Their borders were clear and the villagers reported no raids, but there was an atmosphere. 'It is nothing I can lay my hand upon, save to say that it is like the still before a storm, or a hard snowfall,' he said. 'But it could be as much about the Welsh waiting to see what King Henry brings to them as preparing to assault our borders… I do not know, and that is the truth.' He rested his hand lightly upon the hilt of his sword as he spoke, the gesture instinctive. FitzWarin looked at the smooth skin, as yet unscarred by war and the grind of living, although already there were one or two marks of experience. His throat ached at the thought of all the promise contained in the young man standing before him… and all the ways that such promise could fail.

'Then we must stay vigilant and wait it out. Come summer I should have the strength to attend the muster.' He flexed his forearm as he spoke and smiled at Brunin. 'You will need a hauberk of your own if you are to accompany me… and a sword.'

Brunin returned the smile. Then his eyes flickered to his grandmother and the expression died to neutrality.

Mellette folded her arms. 'Joscelin de Dinan's sent his messenger again,' she said irritably. 'Says that he wants you to marry his girl before the June muster rides out.' She clucked her tongue. 'Means a deal of scrambling to be prepared in time. In my day we didn't do things in such unmannerly haste.'

Brunin looked from his grandmother back to his father. The hall was filling with the men arriving from the patrol and taking their places at the dining trestle. Ralf and Richard came to join the family group.

'Did Lord Joscelin say why?' Brunin asked, frowning deeply.

FitzWarin shook his head. 'Not in so many words. Only that he wanted to have such matters sorted lest the war prove difficult.'

'But a betrothal is as binding as a marriage.'

'Indeed, but it carries less obligation,' his father said. 'You will be his son-in-law rather than his daughter's betrothed. Not only will the ties be more binding, but there is also the hope that, should matters turn ill during the campaign and you or Joscelin be killed, you will leave an heir to Ludlow in your wife's womb.'

Brunin's face remained expressionless but FitzWarin noted his son's heightened colour. 'Lord Joscelin said nothing of the matter when I rode out,' he replied in a somewhat constricted voice.

'Well, other concerns were to the fore. Now we have a breathing space to consider and act as we think best. Joscelin writes that his daughter is eager for the match.' FitzWarin's look was shrewd. 'I see no reason for you not to be as eager as the girl. Perhaps the wedding will not be as great as one with more planning, but that is more of a woman's concern.' He flicked his gaze to Mellette, who looked as if she might choke on bile. 'If Sybilla and Hawise are content to have it this way, then I see no reason why our womenfolk should object. Indeed, with your mother in her condition, it can only be to the good.'

'Yes, sir,' Brunin said stiffly.

'Why the clenched jaw?' FitzWarin demanded. 'If you have objections, spit them out now.'

'Perhaps he does not relish the idea of duties beyond those he already has,' Mellette mocked. 'Or perhaps the girl does not appeal to him.'

Brunin's flush darkened and FitzWarin grinned. 'There'll be no worry on that score. He'd have to be made of stone not to appreciate her. He'll get over the shock soon enough.'

'Yes, but will she?' Ralf retorted, giving Brunin a playful punch to the arm.

'She will have no choice.' Mellette sent a withering glance towards her second grandson, then scowled at FitzWarin. 'At least they are to be married by the Bishop of Hereford; that counts for something. I suppose we had best make preparations. I won't have Sybilla Talbot and Joscelin de Dinan lording it over us, not when Brunin is the Conqueror's great-great-grandson.' Head high, stick thumping the floor, she stalked in the direction of the women's quarters, there doubtless to turf out chests and nag her daughter-in-law. The men exchanged rueful glances, which became grins, and then soft laughter, although Brunin's had something of a forced edge.

A pile of linen in her arms, Marion waited while the guard unbolted the prisoners' door. He and his companion had been deeply engrossed in a game of merels and he barely glanced at her as the door swung open and she slipped inside. Pulling the door shut, he slid the bolt back across and returned to the board.

Ernalt was waiting; the moment the bar slid home, he took the linen from her, placed it on his bed, and drew her into his arms. 'I thought you were not coming,' he whispered, his mouth close to hers.

'It was difficult to escape the women. They watch me closely. I said I would not be above a few minutes. I cannot stay.' She spoke in short, whispered rushes. A swift glance showed her that Gilbert de Lacy was kneeling before a small prie-dieu, his hands clasped in prayer and his eyes tightly shut. Whenever she and the women of the household paid their visits, he kept himself aloof, never speaking, not even acknowledging their presence. She knew thai he wanted to become a Templar knight, a fighting monk, and that their chosen path was chastity, but even so, it seemed strange to her that he should behave as if she and the other women did not exist.

Ernalt, on the other hand… Oh, Ernalt. Her breath came short and her loins melted as he cupped the side of her face with his palm. 'I wish you could,' he muttered. 'You do not know what these visits mean to me.'

'And me,' Marion confessed with an excited little giggle.

'Listen, I am not just a hearth knight; I have lands of my own, and when Lord Gilbert goes to the Holy Land, his son will need my craft and loyalty. I want… I want to make you my wife… if you will have me.' He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips.

Marion's stomach wallowed with a mixture of fear and longing. 'I would need Lord Joscelin's consent for that,' she said, 'and he would never give it.'

'Perhaps not now… but when a truce is made.' He increased the pressure of his palm against her cheek, forcing her to look at him. 'The word of Joscelin de Dinan is not everything. You are a grown woman and free to wed as you choose.'

Marion gave a soft gasp. They were words she wanted to be true, but she knew that they were without substance. 'No, I am not free.'

'You are only as caged as you wish to be.' He leaned in closer and touched his lips to hers; it was the gentlest brush of skin on skin, before he drew back. She shivered at the contact and closed her eyes.

'I promise you that when I am free, I will marry you,' Ernalt whispered. 'You will be Lady de Lysle and your own mistress. No one will command you to do anything, for you will be the one giving the commands.'

'I would have to obey you though,' she whispered, feeling drunk on his closeness, on the scent of him and the warmth emanating from his skin.

'Would that be such a hardship?' The hand that had been at her cheek trailed over her throat and lightly down her body. She shuddered as the caress skimmed the peak of her breast.

'No.' Her voice was no more than the pressure of her breath. 'You know it would not.'

He touched and stroked her, strengthening the spell. 'But first I have to be free.'

'When the ransom is paid you will be.'

'But my lord will be greatly impoverished. If we could escape…'

Marion's eyes widened.

'You could help us,' he said, still stroking. 'I want to be able to give you everything when you are my wife. Why should your guardian have it?'

'I… I have to go.' But she could not move for he had hemmed her in against the wall and the only way forward was into his arms. His hands continued their soft magic and he held her gaze with his own. When she tried to look down and away, he forced her head up.

'It wouldn't have to be much, love. No one would have to know'

'Then how… ?'

'Bring us more sheets and towels. If you are asked, say that my lord has asked for them.'

'Sheets and towels?' Marion was nonplussed.

'And tablecloths… anything that can be tied together.'

Her eyes flew to the window as she realised what he intended. 'No! You will be killed!'

'We'll be killed anyway, because Lord Gilbert has no intention of paying the ransom and when de Dinan runs out of patience he will hang us both. You don't want to be responsible for that, do you?'

Marion swallowed and mutely shook her head. The image he had conjured was too terrible to contemplate.

'Do it for me.' He pulled a ring from his middle finger and slipped it on to hers. 'Take this as a pledge of my faith; see, it has my seal on it. I swear on my honour that I will make you mine.'

Marion felt as if she were being swept headlong down a river in spate. She could see the banks on either side, but was too far away to grab them. 'I cannot,' she whimpered tearfully. 'You ask too much of me!'

'Would you have us fester here until we are brought out on to the battlements in chains and hanged?'

'Don't…' She pressed her hands to her ears.

Gently but firmly he grasped her wrists and pulled them down. 'Do what you must,' he said softly, 'but, for our sakes, make the right choice.'

He let her go then, and Marion fled. Knowing that the guards were waiting outside, she had to conceal her agitation until she was out of their sight and hearing. Leaning against the hard stone newel post, precariously balanced on the tower's wedge stairs, she closed her eyes and listened to the sick pounding of her heart.

'I can't, I can't,' she muttered to herself like a sinning nun desperately telling her prayer beads. But instead of the prayer beads she had a gold ring bearing the seal of a knight on horseback, sword raised. It was loose on her finger and she turned it round and round. Supposing Lord Joscelin chose to send out a warning to Gilbert's family by executing his knight? Everyone said that Lord Joscelin was soft-hearted, but she knew he must be capable of ruthlessness too. He would not have survived and prospered during the war between Stephen and Matilda otherwise. Could she afford to take the risk? Ernalt said that he loved her; he had given her his ring and promised to make her his wife. It was more than she had ever been offered before.

Marion wiped her eyes on her sleeve and tried to control her trembling. She could not return to the bower in this state, and the women would be looking for her by now. She was still unsure if she would do as Ernalt asked, but her resolve was stiffening by the moment. Removing the ring, she slid it on to the cord around her neck that held her crucifix. Then she tucked it down beneath her shift so that it lay between her small breasts and bumped with each erratic beat of her heart.

'Don't worry, she will do it,' Ernalt said as he tore up the linen Marion had brought, making strips to be braided into a rope. 'She just needs time to settle the notion in her head.'