Shadows and Strongholds (45 page)

FitzWarin stifled a guffaw and glanced towards the hearth where Mellette was ordering servants about from the comfort of a curule chair. Her walking stick jabbed; her tongue assaulted. She was wearing a silk gown, somewhat outdated for it belonged to her youth, but the hue was a deep royal purple, expensive beyond belief and seldom seen outside the households of the highest magnates in the land.

FitzWarin clasped Brunin's shoulder. 'It is you who carries the pride of our family, and I am glad that you do.' His tone was bluff, for he was ill at ease with compliments and emotion.

The door opened and a man robed in the dark habit of a Benedictine monk approached them. 'His Lordship the Bishop desires to know if you are ready to come to church,' he said.

'Is the bride ready?' FitzWarin asked.

The monk inclined his head. 'So I understand, my lord.'

Brunin felt his throat tighten. 'Then so am I,' he said in a constricted voice, and went to the door. In stately procession the FitzWarin family crossed the sward to the castle's chapel. Servants, retainers and well-wishers crowded around the outside of the building craning necks, pointing, exclaiming. Parents lifted small children on to shoulders; older children ran for the fistful of silver pennies that FitzWarin flung into the heart of the throng.

Inside the chapel, the Bishop of Hereford was waiting for them, his cope so encrusted with embroidery and gilding that it was almost as stiff as the covers of a psalter. His gaze flicked over Mellette's purple gown, but his expression remained diplomatically neutral. When he suggested that she might like to be seated on one of the benches lining the walls, she declined, declaring that she intended to stand and witness the marriage at close quarters.

Brunin looked towards the chapel's far door, willing the bridal party to arrive. His palms were slick with cold sweat, his heart in his throat. Mellette gave an impatient mutter. Then the door opened and a blaze of summer light poured into the room. For an instant Brunin's eyes were dazzled by the brightness. When he could see again, Hawise was walking towards him and it was an image he was to carry with him for the rest of his life.

The gown of saffron silk clung to her figure then flowed from the hips, the fabric shining like a river at sunset. As she walked, her hand upon her father's arm, the strap ends on her brocade belt flashed with gold. Her hair shimmered to her waist, citrine highlights from the gown glinting upon the garnet-dark waves. Her brow was crowned with a garland of pale dogroses and early gillyflowers, and she carried a second garland in her free hand. She walked stiffly and her complexion was pale, but that pallor only emphasised the deep water-grey of her eyes and the fine coppery arches of her brows. He felt as if he were standing in the midst of one of the romance lays that the troubadours sang in the halls on feast days. In a moment he was going to wake up on his pallet and find that he was still a squire; that there was harness to clean and horses to groom; that his knighthood was an illusion and so was the young woman who had conic to stand at his side with downcast lashes and breathing swifter than his own. Against his expectations the moment continued, the colours bright and intense, the sounds too. He could hear every shuffle of foot, every intake of air, every rustle of cloth; was aware, with a feeling that was so intense it was almost pain, of Hawise at his side, her arm still upon Joscelin's… and of Joscelin himself, taut-jawed with suppressed emotion.

The Bishop demanded to know of the families it mutual consent had been given to the match and, satisfied, asked the same of the couple. For a moment Brunin's voice stuck in his throat, but he forced it past the tightness, and it emerged clear and strong. Hawise raised her head and gave her own similar assent, looking directly at Brunin. From somewhere behind his right shoulder, Mellette clicked her tongue, obviously seeing this as more evidence of unseemly boldness. Suddenly his lips twitched. So did Hawise's, before she hastily lowered her gaze.

Fortunately the urge to lapse into a display of even less seemly mirth was overridden by the need to remember and perform the rituals of the marriage ceremony, but the shared humour had served to dissipate some of the tension. If Brunin's hands were not quite steady as he slipped the ring on to Hawise's finger and gave her the gold pieces that were a symbol of his ability to provide for her, nevertheless he did not fumble. Hawise then knelt to him in token of her willingness to submit to his will, her head bowed, her silk dress a pool of gold on the chapel floor. Mellette muttered something about hoping it was more than just show.

Brunin raised Hawise to her feet and bestowed on her the kiss of peace. Her skin was cold, her breathing swift, but he felt her cheek lift in a smile beneath his lips. The Bishop folded his stolo around their joined hands and blessed the bride and groom before conducting a wedding mass and a sermon concerning the duties that married couples owed to each other and their families.

Then they were walking side by side from the chapel, to the cheers of the crowd, the throwing of barley grains and a storm of rose petals. It was done. Man and wife. For better or worse.

Brunin ducked as his youngest brother William flung a fistful of barley from close range and the grains stung his skin like small hailstones. Grabbing Hawise's hand, he flouted all propriety by running with her towards the safety of the great hall. Laughing, she hastily snatched up the trailing hem of her dress and ran with him, exposing a scandalous amount of ankle in the process.

Joscelin chuckled and shook his head, his eyes full of laughter and sadness. His youngest daughter would always be his youngest daughter, but today he had given her into the keeping of another, and it was the start of a change that would take her further into womanhood and further away from him. Sybilla was both smiling and exasperated. The FitzWarin family stared with various expressions of astonishment, disapproval, envy, and badly disguised amusement. This marriage was going to change their lives too.

Since the men were soon to ride to King Henry's summons at Northampton, the wedding feast was not as elaborate as it would usually have been, but still there were numerous courses and plentiful wine. There were fish from the river beyond the castle, and eels from the Severn. Pigeons in wine sauce, coneys glazed with honey, chicken pies, platters of roasted songbirds, eggs coloured with saffron. White curd tarts flavoured with rosewater, junkets, delicate almond pastries and spicy gingerbread.

Hawise nibbled, but could not find the appetite to appreciate the food. Despite the beauty of her gown and the display put on in her honour, she thought that other people's weddings were infinitely more enjoyable.

'Not hungry?' Brunin asked.

Hawise shook her head.

'Neither am I… although doubtless I'll be starving on the morrow…'

She stared at him with widening eyes.

'I didn't mean because of… that,' he said hastily. 'I meant when all this… this…' He waved his hand at the crowd of diners. '… performance is over.'

'I was thinking the same myself She crumbled a piece of bread, gazing at the new gold ring gleaming on her middle finger, and frowned.

'What's wrong?'

'I was thinking that within a few days I must watch you and my father ride off to war, and that it is going to be very hard.'

He gave her a puzzled look. 'No harder than it has ever been.'

'Yes it will.' She turned the ring on her finger for a moment as if doing so was a key to unlocking what she wanted to say. 'I wasn't married to you before. I wasn't allowed to think of you as "mine". Now that you are, I have more to lose.'

'Is that how you think of me now—as yours?'

She thought she saw a glimmer of interest in his eyes, as if the notion was new to him and pleasing. Perhaps there was even a hint of smugness. 'How else should I think of you? I had my duties laid out for me in the chapel this morning.'

The smugness vanished. 'Duties, yes,' he said, 'and responsibilities, but those are cold words when measured against "mine" and "yours".'

'Yes, they are,' she said. 'And even colder when compared to love and faith.' She looked at him steadily. 'I would rather do my duty out of love for you than obligation, because then it becomes not a duty at all.' Then she laughed and reached to the large, silver-gilt goblet they were sharing. A loving cup and. of all the ironies, a gift from Mellette FitzWarin along with sundry other items of silver plate. 'I have drunk too much already' she said after she had taken a sip of the potent brew, spiced with cinnamon and black pepper. 'What will your grandmother think of a bride who is gilded on her wedding night?'

Brunin looked rueful as she passed the cup to him. 'I don't think it much matters whether you're sober or flat drunk.' He took a mouthful and swallowed. 'It is my ability to take your maidenhead that matters. We'll be judged and either damned or commended by the state of the sheets on the morrow' He glanced towards his grandmother. 'Drink if you want.' He returned the cup to her. 'I doubt she was sober on her own wedding night.'

'She was,' Hawise said and made a face. 'Or certainly aware enough to have the event burned into her memory'

'She told you about it?'

'Yes. In her usual way.'

The look he narrowed at Mellette before he lowered his gaze and schooled his expression to neutrality was annihilating. 'Our wedding night doesn't have to be hers.'

'God forbid,' Hawise said, and could not prevent a shudder. Involuntarily she glanced towards the open shutters where she could tell from the light that the sun was going down.

The musicians had been playing softly throughout the meal, but now they were preparing to strike up livelier tunes so that the guests could dance off some of the food and drink they had consumed. Brunin turned away to his left and, a moment later, hauled little Emmeline on to his lap. The child's cheeks were as scarlet as holly berries and her eyes as bright black as those of a little dormouse. Her silky raven hair had been braided with red ribbons, but it was beginning to wisp free from the bindings and tangle around her face. Hawise wondered if her own firstborn child would be as dark as Brunin and his sister, or fair and robust like the rest of the FitzWarins and her de Dinan and Talbot bloodline. Perhaps she would know in nine months' time. The thought sent a jolt through her stomach and loins.

Emmeline giggled at Hawise, exposing perfect small teeth and pink gums and wriggled to go down again. 'Dance,' she said in a peremptory little voice, tugging on Brunin's hand. 'Come and dance.'

'She is like my grandmother,' Brunin chuckled wryly. 'She thinks her word is the law.'

Bride and groom rose to lead the dance at their wedding, and were accompanied by a determined, dark-eyed little girl who glued herself to them for the first and second measure, before finally being lured away by Sibbi and
Hugh. The third dance was for Hawise and Brunin, a figure of eight and crossing of hands and bodies. Right side, left side, right again. Outer hip to outer hip and return. Fingers meshed, eyes linked, feet moving to the time and tune of the music, the tabor beating the rhythm like a hard, swift heartbeat.

In the Pendover tower, Gilbert de Lacy secured one end of the rope around the coffer under the window splay. 'Ready?' he asked, baring a grin.

Ernalt looked out and then down. It was a long drop to the rock-strewn grass at the base of the lower. He nodded stiffly, not relishing the coming moments, but filled with exhilaration at the thought of escaping under de Dinan's nose. They had spent the day smearing the paler sections of their makeshift rope with ashes and soot from their fire and Ernalt had taken pleasure in smirching the carefully worked embroidery on some of the pieces, imagining that it was the toil of that bitch of a daughter and her mother.

Earlier that day Marion had brought them food, wine and from somewhere a couple of dark cloaks and hoods, smuggled in beneath her own outdoor mantle. She had provided two knives as well, good and sharp.

'You will return for me… you swear?' she had said, her eyes filled with a wide, wild pleading.

Other women had used similar words to Ernalt before. Depending how cruel he was feeling, he would either promise or leave them in no doubt, but the outcome was always the same; he never went back. This time, however, the stakes had changed. 'I swear,' he had said and, framing her face between his palms, had kissed her mouth. 'Only wait for my sign.'

Now he fastened the dark cloak at his shoulder and drew up the hood. The last stroke of the compline bell tolled and faded into the sounds of laughter and music wafting through the open shutters in the great hall.

'They will all be singing a different tune on the morrow,' de Lacy said with a short laugh as he tossed the rope out of the window. Squeezing himself out of the narrow opening, he took a firm grip on the braided twists of linen and towel. He had removed his rings to stop them snagging on the fabric and threaded them around his neck. 'Pray that the material is strong and our twining good,' he said to Ernalt. 'Otherwise I will greet you in the next world.

Ernalt gave a tense nod and watched the rope go taut as Gilbert trusted his full weight to the lengths of knotted sheet and towel, and let himself down the wall. Peering out, Ernalt watched the dark shape swing out and down, out and down. He wiped his damp palms on his tunic and swallowed. His heart was pounding as if it would break from his chest. His turn in a moment… if the rope held, if no one saw them and raised the alarm. Pray God that they were all too busy celebrating.

De Lacy was in his middle years but still strong and athletic. He soon reached the base of the wall and gave the rope a sharp tug. Grossing himself, Ernalt climbed on to the ledge and squeezed himself through the opening. He knew that the rope would be strained from the weight already put on it, and tried not to let his imagination follow that path. Concentrate on the task in hand. One hand over the other; pay out the rope; push and leap, push and leap. The stone was gritty against the flat soles of his boots, the rope burned against his palms and he could feel the tight tug of strain upon his recently healed wrist. He waited for the alarm cry that would sound the knell on their escape, but there was nothing… only the distant
melange
of music and laughter from the hall and the occasional voice raised in drunken bonhomie. One more push and settle, one last jump and he landed in the long grass at the base of the tower. De Lacy was waiting for him in the shadows and together, moving with the low stealth of cats, they scrambled along the bottom of the wall towards the river.