Shadows and Strongholds (64 page)

In his prison cell, Joscelin sat up on his straw pallet and stifled a groan. His skull felt as if someone had hacked open the top and poured molten lead inside. The night had been full of strange dreams and time had not been one smooth continuum but had passed in sudden flashes followed by long, motionless stretches.

He knew he was feverish. His heart was pounding too close to the surface of his skin and he could feel his own heat. Likely he would die here, which he supposed was appropriate since he had spent most of his prime fighting to hold it… and in the end he had failed. He wondered which Sybilla would rather have: his memory, or his return with his hands full of nothing. Last night he had dreamed of her and her hair had been the sea-coal black of their first years together, streaming down her back like a maiden's… or a mourner's. He had tried to tell her that he loved her but there had been no power in his voice. She must have heard him though, for her eyes had glowed from within like hard, blue jewels and she had held out her empty arms to him. 'Then give me Ludlow,' she had said, and evaporated from his dream. More nightmares had followed, the same scene playing over and again in his head: Brunin struck by de Lysle's lance; FitzWarin choking on a faceful of powdered lime. Ludlow burning, as he was burning.

He was in one of the lower rooms of the Pendover tower, one that never had a fire and smelled of damp stone. It was used to store barrels; fishing nets; ropes and other sundry equipment; wooden sleds for the winter; ladders for the apple season. The light came through a narrow aperture in the stone little wider than his wrist. A warped shutter stood on the floor beside it. It had to be lilted into place and thus far Joscelin had not bothered. The cool air felt good on his fevered body and the sight of daylight helped him to cope with the sensation of being pressed out of existence by the weight of stone above him and the knowledge of his own helplessness.

De Lacy had not been without compassion, if such it could be called. At least Joscelin had not been chained or manacled, and the wounds he had sustained in the last battle had been dressed in a perfunctory fashion, the bleeding stanched and linen bandages applied. He had several cracked ribs but had not been offered any binding for them. Yesterday evening a guard had given him a large chunk of reasonably fresh bread and a bowl of bacon pottage. A pitcher of ale had been provided too. Small mercies, but Joscelin did not believe that any higher grace would be offered. Why should it? In de Lacy's place he would have done the same.

He fell into a restless doze, punctuated by more bloody images of red sword edges and of fighting when he was too tired to carry on. He wanted to stop, to break free, but still his arm rose and fell, searing with the agony of pure exhaustion, and there was no way out. He jerked awake with a cry that almost tore apart his aching rib cage.

The trap door leading down to his prison had been thrown back and a guard was descending the steps in a square of light. Joscelin's gaze darted to one of the fishing nets as he considered grabbing and throwing it over the man, but he knew that he didn't have time or swift enough reactions. Besides, there would be more than one guard. The soldier reached the foot of the steps, turned and faced him with sword drawn.

'Stay where you are,' he warned.

Joscelin found a sour laugh. 'You must think me a great threat indeed,' he said. 'Where am I likely to go?'

The guard said nothing, but clamped his jaw and looked towards the steps, which another man was descending. As his face came into view, Joscelin's heart kicked in his chest.

Gilbert de Lacy stepped off the last wooden rung and advanced to the bed. Joscelin's first impulse was to rise to his feet. He was taller than de Lacy by almost a full head and shoulders, but it would have been an act of bravado and he was not even sure that he was capable of standing. Instead he reclined on the bed and stared at his old adversary with what he hoped passed for disdain.

De Lacy raised one brow to show that he was neither fooled nor impressed. 'One of the women will come to tend you,' he said. 'I do not forget the courtesies you extended to me when I was your "guest".'

'You expect me to thank you for such generosity?' Joscelin sneered.

'I expect nothing save your curses.' De Lacy gave a grim smile and sent a glance around the room. 'I could have walled you up in a darker, damper place than this and left you to rot, but that would be unchristian of me and a slight on my manhood. Some of my knights think that I should do away with you. It would be easy to claim that you had been killed in the heat of battle, but that would be a lie and it would prick my conscience.' He rubbed his thumb along his jaw and added conversationally, 'I'm going to have that old eyesore of a chapel pulled down and rebuilt in gratitude to God for answered prayers.'

'What makes you think you are going to keep Ludlow?'

'The fact that you are my prisoner and that Fulke FitzWarin is dead and most likely his son too. Accept it, you are beaten.' De Lacy folded his arms. 'I have always respected your abilities, but you have nothing left.'

Knowing how easy it was to be magnanimous from a position of victory, Joscelin gave a bitter laugh. 'Do not be too sure of that.'

He saw de Lacy's eyes flicker. He wasn't as certain of himself as he seemed. It was all bluff and counter-bluff.

'I hardly think that your son-in-law or your wife is going to arrive with a relieving army,' de Lacy said. 'You have no one else. The Plugenets are not strong enough, and I can call upon the Mortimers if I have need. Best to make an end of it here and now.'

Joscelin pulled himself up on the bed, although it cost him much in pain to do so. 'Take your sword then,' he said through clenched teeth. 'Thrust it through my ribs. Some of them are broken; it won't take much.'

De Lacy bestowed him the kind of look that a priest or schoolmaster might reserve for a recalcitrant child. 'I thought you might be more sensible than this, but I thought in vain.'

Joscelin gave a shallow gasp of humourless laughter. 'Sensible!' he choked. 'How much sense have you had for a score of years? Your grandfather was deprived of lands for treason. Ludlow is my wife's right.'

'A matter of opinion. Enough.' De Lacy made a casting motion as if throwing Joscelin's words away. 'The point can be argued for ever without gain. I am here to propose a bargain to you.'

'A bargain,' Joscelin repeated, thinking that an ultimatum was probably more likely. After all, de Lacy was right. He had nothing left to bargain with… except perhaps the King's favour once Henry came to deal with the dispute, and there was no guarantee of that.

De Lacy's eyes were bright and fierce in the gloom. 'Relinquish all rights in Ludlow and I will release you. I will even be prepared to discuss my cousin Sybilla's interest in some of the manors beholden to the castle.'

'And if I refuse?'

De Lacy's voice hardened. 'Then stay here and rot.'

Joscelin stared at him. 'I have nothing to lose by doing just that,' he retorted. 'If I die here, the walls will cry out for vengeance.'

'You have been listening to too many troubadour's conceits,' de Lacy said curtly. 'I will give you two days to think on the matter. And then I might begin considering what I should do about those other manors…' Turning on his heel, he went to the stairs. The guard stayed where he was and, after de Lacy had left, the trap door remained open, sending a slant of light down to the beaten-earth floor. Voices murmured at the top of the steps and, after a brief hesitation, there was a light tread on the rungs and two women descended to the prison. Joscelin's gaze sharpened at the sight of the second one.

'You!' he snarled and lunged upright. Pain lanced through his head and rib cage but he ignored it for the rage coursing through him was stronger by far. 'You have the gall to come here now! You truly are a whore!'

The guard took two rapid strides and pointed his blade at Joscelin's throat, fear flickering in his eyes 'Stay where you are, or you'll be singing out of your windpipe!'

Joscelin leaned back from the threatening tip of the sword. 'Get her out of here,' he said hoarsely. 'I would rather you poured Greek fire over my wounds than allow her to tend them!'

'Might be arranged,' the guard said with a nasty grin. 'The lady asked personally to see you.'

Joscelin glared at Marion. Her face was pinched and white, her eyes as huge as moons. 'Whether it be to gloat or to confess, I want none of her! Let her carry her own burdens.' He lay down, closed his eyes and turned his back.

'Please,' he heard her say softly. The words curled around his bleeding heart like lute wires and cut from him a response he did not want to feel. Amid the rage and revulsion came red pulses of tenderness and pity. 'You are dead,' he said in a husky voice. 'It is your ghost that talks to me. I will not listen.'

'I didn't want this to happen.'

He clenched his fists and willed her to leave. She did indeed sound like a ghost, her voice thin and thready and lost. He remembered taking her up on his saddle, a tiny little girl with finger-thin braids, crying for her dead mother and clinging to her cloth doll as if it were life itself. And then he thought of everything that she had done and the image of the weeping child was swept away on a dark and bitter surge.

He heard the scuffle of her feet on the earthen floor and then her rapid ascent up the steps. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like a dull, fast drum.

'Looks like you frightened her off,' the guard said. He gave a loud sniff. 'Best for you that you did. Lord Gilbert don't trust her further than he can throw a spear.'

Joscelin ignored the guard. The other woman came around the side of the pallet so that she was facing him.

'Lord Gilbert said we were to look at your wounds,' she said in a brisk voice.

'They don't need looking at,' Joscelin growled.

'Lord Gilbert gives the orders, and he wants you alive.' Her tone was practical and brisk. She had a double chin and teeth like an old horse. Her eyes were small and deep-set, but they sparkled with good humour. 'The sooner you let me tend you, my lord, the sooner you'll be left in peace.'

Slowly Joscelin sat up and let her have her way. She was quick and efficient. Her hands were large and mannish, but they were deft too.

'She's trouble, that one,' she said, jerking her head towards the stairs. 'Only got three wheels on her wain, as my mother used to say. Keeps insisting she's going to have a grand wedding when all this hue and cry is over, but if that happens, I'll eat my wimple.' She gossiped on as she worked, as if Joscelin were another woman. 'Told her, I did. Ernalt de Lysle's duped more silly lasses than there are herrings in a barrel. 'Course, she'll pay for it. I've seen her puking of a morn. Only way her child will have a father is if Lord Gilbert forces him to put a ring on her finger, and Lord Gilbert won't be keen to wed one of his best fighters to a lass with brains like a cracked pot.'

Unable to command her silence, knowing that the guard would not because he was listening in amusement, Joscelin detached himself If he had taught Brunin everything he knew, then Brunin in his turn had taught him a little of the art of retreating inside one's own mind.

The woman anointed his wounds with some foul-smelling unguent and gave him a tisane to drink which she said would calm the raging of his blood. 'Too much choler,' she said. 'Red hair's always a sign.'

When she went, the silence was as blissful as a trickle of cold water on his hot brow. The guard went to follow her out. 'Griselde'll be returning,' he said with a grin. 'Don't think you've escaped.'

Marion would have collapsed on the bed she shared with Ernalt and cried until she was a husk, but her stomach kept her at the garderobe, retching and retching until she ached from shoulder to groin. She had tried to tell Joscelin she was sorry, that she hadn't meant it to happen like this, but it had all come out wrong and the way he had called her a whore with revulsion in his eyes had been more than she could bear. She wasn't a whore… she wasn't! Whores lifted their skirts for any man who had the money to pay for their services. Whatever she had done had been for love and for not being loved enough.

Ernalt came into the chamber and walked into the garderobe. 'Sick again?' he said, arching one golden eyebrow.

She stood up and wiped her mouth with an offcut of linen from her sewing. Her stomach was so sore that she stood half hunched like an old woman.

'I hear that you went to tend Joscelin de Dinan,' he remarked, leaning in the doorway and blocking her exit. 'What did you want, his forgiveness?' His tone was dangerously soft.

Wordlessly she shook her head.

'Or perhaps you went to gloat.' He reached out to wrap his forefinger around one of her braids.

Marion gave him a reproachful look. 'No, not that.'

'Then what, sweetheart? To help him escape with a rope or a knife?' He twisted his hand, binding her braid across the width of it as if it were a bridle to tame an unruly horse, and pulled her towards him. 'I know how open you are to persuasion.'

She turned her head away, afraid that the smell of her breath would sicken him, and afraid of him too. 'I… I just wanted to see him, that was all.'

'Out of curiosity then.' He snorted. 'Jesu, you must think me a lackwit.' He fondled her breasts with his other hand. Her nipples budded but the underlying soreness made her flinch and immediately she realised her mistake.

'I love you,' she whimpered.

'Show me then.' He delved beneath his tunic to his braies. 'Show me just how much you love me.'

He took her from behind, standing up in the garderobe, with no more finesse than a soldier taking a whore in a stinking alley. Within moments he reached his release and, breathing harshly, leaned on her, forcing her body against the wall. 'Whatever reason you went to Joscelin de Dinan, you will not see him again, is that understood?' he panted against her ear. 'Wounded or not, he is a dangerous man and you obviously still harbour some regard for him. Who knows what you might hatch between you.' Straightening, he adjusted his clothing and left. Marion tottered over to the bed, collapsed upon it and folded herself into a ball. But unlike a hedgepig, she did not have the protection of spines. All of her was soft and open to attack.