Shadows and Strongholds (57 page)

He laid her down on the bed, his breathing suddenly rapid and harsh. Marion's sobs were locked in her chest as his weight fastened her down and his mouth seized her breath. The roughness of his hose and braies scratched her thighs. Her jaw was strained by the grinding strength of his. She had wished for this, had dreamed of it with need, fascination and fear for as long as she could remember, and now that the moment was at hand, the need had turned to rejection and the fear was terror.

Ernalt braced himself on one hand and reached down between them, fumbling at his braies. She knew what he was doing. She had glimpsed grooms in the stables taking a piss, had observed drunken couplings at Shrewsbury Fair. She also had a distant recollection of seeing her parents, of being frightened of the strange, pained sounds they made. The memory assaulted her now, for Ernalt was making some of the same sounds as her father, and her own stifled whimpers were just like her mother's.

She felt a hot nudge against her thigh and then higher, against the soft, secret part of her: the womb passage that bled each month except when a woman was with child, when all the blood was stored up and came in one disastrous, carmine rush. Ernalt forced his way inside her and the pain was excruciating… This must be what it was like to give birth, save in reverse. Instead of pushing a child out, she was being riven by a monster forcing its way in.

The pain was so sharp that it took her voice and all that emerged was a hoarse crow. Ernalt cursed, withdrew, moistened himself with saliva and thrust again. Marion stared at the roof as he had his way. At first each heave of his buttocks caused such rending agony that she thought she would split asunder, but after a while her bruised flesh grew numb and it was only at the crest of each thrust that she felt a twisting pain in the small of her spine. Was this love? Was this what the troubadours sang about in their lyrics? It was a deception… or perhaps a deserved punishment for her betrayal.

His movements grew jerky and swift and he sought her lips, grinding his mouth down on hers, filling her voiceless throat with his groan as he spilled himself in her.

When he withdrew, he looked down at himself before wiping his penis on the bedsheets. 'You were right,' he said. 'You were a virgin.'

She closed her eyes, frightened to look in case there was an ocean of blood. Brunin and Hawise's wedding sheet had been no reassurance. There was a seeping heat between her thighs and she was too terrified to move.

'Don't worry. You'll grow to like it.'

She felt his weight sag the mattress beside her and heard him yawn. 'I can't sleep for long, my lord will want to see me soon enough,' he said. 'A couple of hours will have to suffice.' He yawned again. 'Don't think about leaving. You're mine now, and you'd not get far.'

Within seconds he was asleep, his breathing stertorous and rough. Marion placed her hand over her belly. The ache in her back was deep and grinding and she feared that she was mortally wounded. How could she flee when she hardly dared to move? Besides, his earlier warning had made it clear what would happen to her if she did leave his protection. Slowly, gingerly, she sat up and looked at the sheet. What she saw almost caused her to faint. Blood streaked her thighs and pooled on the sheet, although there was less than at the time of her flux. There were smears on the linen where he had wiped himself. For a long time she could do nothing but stare and shake, but finally the trembling eased and she stumbled from the bed. With cold, clumsy fingers she struggled into her chemise and gown. It took a long time for she was trembling violently and it was hard to see through her tears. Her veil she left on the floor. There was no point in putting it on. Veils were for respectable women and she was a whore.

Brunin and Hawise joined the wedding celebrations, eating their fill of roast mutton and batter pudding cooked in the drippings from the roasts, and followed by fruits stewed in honey. Hawise gave the bride the silver fillets from her own braids and, beneath his wife's amused, knowing gaze, Brunin presented the groom with the coins he had had in his pouch. The villagers' estimation of their new Norman overlords rose when Brunin proved that he could converse in simple English, and Hawise abetted him. The guests, being young newly-weds themselves, also went a long way to securing the people's seal of approval. When Hawise and Brunin joined in the dance of the handfasting carole and knew the movements, it brought shouts and claps of approval.

'That was good fortune,' Brunin said as he and Hawise rode homewards, leaving the villagers to continue their celebration. 'They were able to see us as more than just demanding landlords.' He laughed. 'My grandmother would have a seizure if she could see us. Consorting with peasants only leads to the rot of natural order, she says.'

'But you count it worth the silver in your pouch?' she asked with a mischievous smile.

'As much as you count it worth your hair ornaments.'

Hawise fingered the bare end of her braid. 'I am sure that my husband will buy me some more.'

He snorted. 'With what? Besides, I have yet to claim recompense for you making me hand over a bride-gift in the first place.'

She gave him a sultry look through her lashes and said nothing.

As they rode through the woods, Brunin became aware that Jester's pace had grown uneven. The horse was well rested and Brunin had not stretched him beyond a trot. Since they were near the hut in the forest, he rode up to it, drew rein and dismounted.

'What's wrong?' Hawise slipped from her mare's saddle and looked anxiously at him.

'Nothing, I hope. Brunin ran his hand down Jester's foreleg and picked up the hoof. 'A stone.' He reached to his belt knife and, straddling the gelding's foreleg, dug out the offending chip of flint. 'It's probably bruised the frog, but no lasting damage.'

Hawise had tethered her mare to a stump standing near the woodpile. 'I wonder if this has ever been a tryst-ing place,' she murmured. Leaning against the doorpost, she gave him another look from beneath her lids.

His groin was suddenly as hot and heavy as a lead ingot. He sheathed his knife, tethered Jester beside the mare and setting his hand to Hawise's waist drew her inside the hut. 'It is now,' he said. It smelled of must and fungus, of earth and old smoke, and it was exciting because it was so different from the formality of a bed in the keep.

He unfastened his cloak and laid it over a pile of old bracken in the corner. 'My grandmother would have a second seizure if she knew,' he grinned.

'A good thing then that she's ignorant,' Hawise murmured, her hand busy between them, stroking him to a pitch where he thought he would burst. He brought her down with him on to the bed of cloak and bracken. 'And that I know when to keep my mouth open… and when to shut it…'

It was too hot to last more than a few moments, but the intensity was so blinding that he felt as if the marrow had been sucked from his bones. Hawise lay beneath him and, running her fingers through his hair, took satisfaction beyond her own from the pleasure she had given him. He was never more hers than when she had him to herself, like this. They dozed awhile, rolled together in the fur-lined warmth of his cloak, and woke to kiss and touch lightly, both of them stretching out the moment yet knowing that soon it must end. Even so, it was almost dusk before they continued homewards and the setting sun on the tree trunks burned the late afternoon with the colours of fire. The world had a weird, mysterious light, as if they had suddenly crossed into the land of faery.

'You have a leaf in your hair,' Hawise murmured languorously.

He smiled and, teasing it out, scattered it from his fingers. 'Oak,' he said and refrained from remarking that her wimple was a touch disordered and the ends of her braids looked like foxtails. He rather liked the dishabille and he didn't want her to fuss.

By the time they came in sight of Alveston's palisade, the sun had set, the sky was turquoise and cold, and the moon was rising. Smoke drifted from the manor house louvres and torchlight shone in the auxiliary dwellings. They had barely started on the path to the main gate when one of the guards detached himself from his duty post and ran towards them.

'Now we'll have to pay for dallying so long,' Brunin said out of the side of his mouth. 'What's the betting they've been about to send out a search party'

'Sir, my lady.' The guard drew level with their mounts and the expression on his face banished all levity from Brunin's. This was no matter of greeting tardy strays. His immediate thought was that something had happened to his father, or that his grandmother had succumbed to the seizure about which they had been jesting.

'What is it, man?
Speak
!'

The soldier took a deep breath. His eyes flickered between Brunin and Hawise as if unsure where to settle. 'It's Ludlow, sir. Gilbert de Lacy's taken the castle and fired the town.'

Sybilla stared at the row of stitches. She could not remember sewing them, but the evidence of her eyes was testament to her industry. She was like Marion, mindlessly seaming garments as if the lines of thread held the meaning of life. She wondered if Marion was dead. She also wondered if the girl had had any part in Ludlow's overthrow. Reports were scattered and unclear. All that was known for certain was that Gilbert de Lacy had taken both town and castle in a single night of blood and fire.

'I was a young bride when I came to Ludlow,' Sybilla murmured to Sibbi and Hawise who had arrived with their husbands at Joscelin's call to arms. She gazed out of the window. From the high chamber at their manor of Stanton, where they had moved from Hartland, she could see the sheep grazing the harvested fields and watch an autumn wind tossing the trees. 'It had a wooden palisade then and the towers were only half built, but I was still bursting with pride that such a place should be mine.'

'Mama…' At a loss for words, Hawise touched her arm. Everyone was still reeling from the news of Ludlow's loss. Reality was like a blurred piece of window glass, thick and distorted.

'There were times when the war came so close that I thought we would lose everything, but we held on and I thought we had survived.' She gave a tremulous sigh. 'Now I am old, and what pride I had…' She broke off and with a shake of her head picked up her needle, but her eyes were too full to sew.

'We'll win it back,' Hawise said fiercely. 'Papa has sent an appeal to the King and our vassals arc rallying daily to our banner.'

Sybilla nodded. 'Yes, she said, her voice tight with the effort of controlling tears, 'we'll win it back, but when I think of the struggle when I thought that struggling was over, I feel very tired.' She turned as Joscelin entered the room and immediately pushed her lips into the semblance of a smile. It was one thing to unburden herself to her daughters who, as women, were fellow conspirators, another to expose her weaknesses to her husband, who needed her strength.

His tread was heavy as he crossed to the flagon and poured himself a cup of wine. The years that usually sat so lightly on him were now a visible weight. He too, she thought, was growing old and tired. It was a terrifying thought.