Shadows and Strongholds (49 page)

Marion stared up at her through swollen eyes, her mouth a square wail. 'No, oh please, no!'

'You should have thought of the consequences,' Sybilla said grimly. 'You will stay in here and reflect on the enormity of what you have done. I am not prohibiting you from the main chamber, but, given the circumstances,
I doubt you will want to share company with the other women and our guests.'

When Sybilla had gone, Marion lay down on the bed, her body racked by tremors. She was in the grip of emotions that had torn away her fragile carapace and were attacking all the soft and vulnerable places deep inside. Sybilla might not hate her, but she hated herself, and she was angry at Joscelin and Sybilla, at Hawise and Brunin for driving her to these extremes. It was their fault as much as hers and they too should be seared by the guilt that was rending her asunder.

Ernalt… Her drowning mind clung to the thoughts of him as if to a spar on a deep, cold sea. He would return for her. He would lean down and raise her up and make her whole again. She must cling to that thought. Whatever happened, she must hold on tight and not let it drain through her fingers.

'Christ on the Cross, I will whip her bloody!' Joscelin snarled, his eyes the hue of a stormy sea—dark grey and quenched of light.

Sybilla, who had waited her moment and told him when they were alone in their chamber, hastened to stand between him and their door as he strode towards it. She had seen him enraged before when a younger, more volatile man, and as such knew how to deal with the situation—or thought she knew. Taking a bull by the horns always had its dangers. 'I thought of doing that myself when I first confronted her,' she said, 'but there is no point.' She raised her hands, palm outwards. 'It will not bring de Lacy back.'

'Mayhap not, but the girl needs teaching a lesson she will not forget and it will be my pleasure to give her that lesson.' His movements jerky with the force of his rage, he started to unlatch his belt.

'No.' Sybilla stepped forward and laid her palms against his breast. 'Her wits are half lost already. Beating her will only make her worse, and it will mar your own nature.'

'Then perhaps it needs marring for I have certainly been too soft,' he said grimly and pressed forward against her restraint, but not hard enough to make her fall back.

'I know you could do it,' Sybilla said. 'There is that in you which makes you capable… but do you want to unleash it? What would you become?'

Joscelin's hands left the belt and Sybilla realised with an inward slump of relief that she had control of the situation. 'Even if she is missing a wit or two, this cannot go unpunished,' he growled. 'Gilbert de Lacy is loose; the ransom is lost.' The lines bracketing his nose and mouth deepened. 'This was no blind folly. Her eyes were open. It was more than foolishness.'

'Yes, but seeing the world in a different, skewed way. You are right, it cannot go unpunished, but a beating will do nothing save scatter a few more of her wits.'

'Then what?' It was a rhetorical question. Joscelin turned away to prowl the room. She watched him. He still had the heavy, leonine grace that had attracted her even at the outset of their relationship when she was not sure if he was her enemy or not. 'I cannot betroth her. Even were I to find a suitable man or one willing to take the risk, I would not want to feel responsible for the aftermath. After this, though, I do not want to keep her at Ludlow… or even look at her.' He walked back to his wife, his face set with revulsion. 'I may not be the kind to beat women, but I fear that if I have to be in the same room as her, I might think of the harm she has wrought and find that spark.' He dug his hands through his hair, leaving deep channels in the grey-salted auburn. 'Ach, I don't know. I've to ride to the King's muster by the end of the week and I've too much to do. Leave it for now; just keep her from my sight. I'll decide what to do when I return… but like as not it will be a nunnery.'

Sybilla did not argue, for she was of the same mind herself, but a part of her remembered Marion as the tiny, parentless waif tucked inside Joscelin's cloak and wanted to weep.

The shutters were open to admit the first light of morning into the bedchamber. Parting the bed curtains, Hawise heard the drip of rain amidst the draggled birdsong and. gazing over at the window arch, saw that the narrow lancet of sky was dull grey. It was a day to dally beneath the covers and rise late; a day to play chess or merels in the hall, to sit with embroidery near the warmth of a brazier, a cup of wine to hand. What it was not, was a day for travel.

Brunin murmured in his sleep and reached for her. She let the curtain drop and curled herself around him, trying to shut out the crowing of the midden roosters. Brunin must have heard them too, for he muffled a curse against her throat. His body was warm and loose with slumber and she adapted herself to its contours. He rolled on top of her and she parted her thighs, welcoming, still sleepy herself. They had retired late last night for there had been much to do, and once abed they had not slept at first. The awareness of parting from a delight so recently discovered had left them greedy and wanting. Even drained and replete, an edge of hunger remained: a sensation in the gut like distant lightning. She rose to meet and match him, taking and giving a farewell present of pleasure and comfort. At the least it would be weeks before they could share themselves with each other again.

There were noises in the antechamber. Discreet coughs, shuffling, the murmured conversation of servants just that morsel too loud to be natural.

'It's raining,' Hawise murmured as she pushed Brunin's hair off his brow and absorbed the thundering of his heart against her body. 'We could keep the curtains closed and stay abed all day'

'You think they would let us?'

Her lips twitched mischievously. 'The bolt's across the door. They'd have to fetch an axe to break in.'

He ran his hands over her body and withdrew from her with a kiss. I would not put such a thing past my grandmother.' Leaving the bed, he padded across the rushes to the window and, screwing up his face, gazed out at the weather. 'The armour will be as red as blood with rust by the time we reach Wales.'

Hawise shivered. 'Don't say that.'

'What?'

'Red as blood.'

He returned to the bed and, sitting on its edge, stroked her night-tangled hair. 'It will be all right,' he said gently. 'None of us are inexperienced and Henry is a good general. We'll be home before the swallows fly'

He had said the same things last night, and so had she. There was no point in travelling the same rut. She just wished that he had not used those words about his armour. Nor did his comment about the flying of swallows comfort her, for it held a mournful ring.

'I wish I was riding with you.'

'So do I,' he said with a smile. 'A few days ago it seemed strange to share a bed. Now my camp pallet will seem empty with only myself for company'

Hawise bit her tongue on the remark that there were always women in the army's tail who would solace a man for a coin. Such words would only reveal her own insecurity and to no good purpose.

'And my bed the same,' she murmured. A pensive look crossed her face. She was to leave with her in-laws and travel to their marcher holdings: to their keep at Alberbury and then to Whittington to await Brunin's return from the Welsh campaign. After that the plan was that she and Brunin would go on a progress of the other FitzWarin manors scattered throughout the country, in order that the new bride might be feted before returning to Ludlow, hopefully before the winter. However, there would be no travelling for her party today. They were not bound by the same time constraint as the men, and she could not see Mellette and Eve FitzWarin being eager to set out in a deluge, especially as Eve's health was so fragile. 'Still,' she murmured, and bestirred herself to help him dress, 'the reunion will be that much sweeter for absence.' She kissed his throat, tasting salt on the tip of her tongue.

He returned her kiss, but she could see that although she was still held in his thoughts, they were already divided. And suddenly she knew and understood what her mother was feeling on those occasions when she would stop for a moment in the bower, a piece of Joscelin's clothing in her hand, and look towards the window.

'The Welsh won't know what has hit them,' Ralf gloated. His blue eyes gleamed and unconsciously he touched the hilt of his sword. He had recently been knighted and was itching to draw steel.

Brunin leaned to adjust his foot in the stirrup and glanced behind at the column of men. The lowering sky was reflected in the ranks of hauberk-clad warriors, marching out from the walled city of Chester in their gleaming mail like so many silver-scaled codfish pouring from the throat of a net. The clop of hooves and tramp of marching feet filled the morning with the sound of an army going to war: two thousand knights, attended by squires and grooms and footsoldiers, and a large contingent of archers, some of them Ludlow and Whittington men. The baggage wains rumbled along at the back, laden with barrels of salt pork and flour, with wine and cheese, with fodder for the horses and tents for the soldiers.

'Owain Gwynedd is no fool. It would not do to underestimate him,' Brunin replied. Although his words were cautious, he thought that the array looked magnificent, especially the banners, his black wolf snarling out beside
Joscelin's wyvern and his father's own wolf's-head standard.

'What is Owain Gwynedd going to do against our might?' Ralf scoffed. 'Our footsoldiers are better armed than the wealthiest of his men. The Welsh will never stand against us; Rhuddlan will be ours within the week.'

Brunin thought that such optimism might well be true, but the Welsh were unpredictable. They might not stand against a force like this one, might melt away into their mountain strongholds like mist before sun, but they were cunning in other ways. Being marcher born and bred, Ralf must know it too, but perhaps, like everyone else, he preferred to think on their bright armour rather than the rag-tag Welsh hiding in the woods with their bows and slings, waiting to pick off stragglers and spook the baggage ponies.

Once out of Chester, Henry divided his army, sending the bulk of the men and the baggage along the coast road to Rhuddlan. He himself chose to cut through the Welsh forests with his lighter troops and a seasoning of fully armed knights with the intention of flanking the town. He had employed Welsh guides and was filled with the complete confidence of a man whose every enterprise had thus far flourished. Joscelin was commanded to travel with the slower-moving baggage section, but the FitzWarins were bade join Henry's lighter contingent. 'God speed you,' Joscelin saluted as he prepared to ride on. A grin flashed across his face. 'I hope it doesn't rain or you'll all be as draggled as drowned rats.'

'And you won't?' FitzWarin asked with a raised brow.

'Not with a baggage wain to shelter in, and no trees to send drips down the back of my neck.'

'Hah, but we'll reach Rhuddlan long before you.'

The banter served to relieve tension. Just before he rode off, Joscelin turned to Brunin. 'Have a care to that banner,' he said with a nod at the black wolf. 'My daughter put a deal of time and effort into making it and I would not see it or its owner brought down.'