Shadows and Strongholds (7 page)

'Beside the weapon booths, of all places.' He gave a humourless laugh. 'FitzWarin stepped straight in like a loose bull and I thought we were going to have a battle then and there.'

Sybilla's eyes widened in dismay. 'You didn't fight?' Mentally she shook herself. Of course they hadn't fought. It would have been the first tiling she would have heard about on his return and there were no marks on his body.

'No… but we came close.' Remembered anger flickered across his face. 'He looked at me as if I were a turd stuck to the sole of his shoe.'

She tossed her head. 'Looks count for nothing. He is not strong enough to come against Ludlow, and neither King Stephen nor the Empress will recognise his claim.' Her voice had strengthened with indignation as she spoke.

Although Joscelin was its lord, Ludlow was hers by the right of her blood and she was fiercely protective of that right.

'Yes, I know, I know.' Joscelin sighed and pillowed his arms behind his head. 'But between them, Gilbert de Lacy and Hugh Mortimer of Wigmore still cause a deal of trouble.' He spoke the names of the two largest thorns in his side with a suitably pained expression.

Sybilla studied his long bones, the fluid strength of his muscles, the tufts of auburn hair in his armpits. Despite being close to fifty years old, he still had the honed physique of an active warrior. 'Nothing we cannot handle,' she said by way of faith and encouragement. Leaning over him, she kissed the corner of his mouth. The 'we' was telling.

'No,' he agreed. 'Nothing we cannot handle.' But it was a long time before either of them succumbed to sleep.

Seated at the dais table in the great hall, Joscelin broke the bread that his chaplain had blessed and dipped it in the small bowl of honey at his side. His wife and daughters followed suit. Joscelin chewed, swallowed and licked honey from his thumb.

'I have something to tell you,' he said to the girls and was amused at the rapid communication of glances between them before they looked warily at him. He gestured to the two squires serving at the dais table. 'Hugh and Adam are growing into men,' he said, 'and it is time that I took a younger squire into my household for training. A friend has asked me if I will foster his son and, after discussion with your mother, I have agreed.'

A brief silence ensued, busy with more unspoken exchange between the girls. Hawise was the first to speak.

'How old is he?'

'About your own age,' Joscelin said. 'And his birth name is Fulke, although he is known as Brunin.'

'Is he going to marry one of us?' Marion wanted to know.

Taken aback, Joscelin blinked and it was his turn to exchange looks with Sybilla.

'Child, he is coming here to learn to be a knight, not a husband,' Sybilla replied firmly. She gestured to the bread and honey. 'Eat your food.'

Marion dropped her gaze to her platter, her lower lip developing a pout.

'When is he coming, Papa?' Sibbi asked.

'As soon as it can be arranged. I want you to welcome him and treat him as you would a brother.'

Sibbi nodded. 'Does he have any sisters at home?'

'No, only brothers. He's not used to girls, but I'm sure you'll help him grow accustomed.' He managed not to look too wry.

'Yes, Papa.' Sibbi tucked a stray wisp of dark hair behind her ear and resumed eating. Her cheeks were rosy and there was a gleam in her eyes.

'She will mother him to death,' Sybilla muttered from the corner of her mouth so that only Joscelin could hear.

He smothered a grin behind his hand. 'It won't do him any harm.'

'Marion will need extra attention so that she doesn't feel left out… and perhaps Hawise too,' Sybilla added shrewdly.

He considered the two girls. Marion was picking at her food, but then she had always had the appetite of a sparrow. Hawise, who usually devoured her meals, was toying with her second piece of bread, a thoughtful look on her face. After that first question, she had said nothing.

'Marion will want to bear his babies,' Joscelin murmured.

'And Hawise will lead him into more scrapes than a hound pup off the leash.'

Sybilla eyed him. 'And that is not cause for worry?'

He laughed softly and closed his hand over hers. 'Oh, yes indeed,' he said, 'but of the kind that I am glad to have.'

'Since it will likely be me dealing with them,' she retorted, but she was smiling.

They finished breaking their fast. Sybilla took Marion and Sibbi with her to the women's chambers to cut out some linen tunics. Usually Hawise would have gone with them, but her father beckoned her to accompany him instead.

Mystified, but delighted, she dusted breadcrumbs from her gown, hastily dabbled her hands in the fingerbowl and joined him. 'Where are we going?'

'Just a ride out,' he said. 'I want to look at the horses.'

Hawise gave a little skip. She loved going with her papa to view their horses. The mares and geldings that made up the herd grazed together with the common saddle beasts. There were separate paddocks for his destrier and his hunting courser, both stallions.

The grooms had saddled Rouquin for him and in minutes had tacked up Hawise's barrel-bodied chestnut pony, Sorelle. She was a competent rider and, with a boost up, settled herself in the saddle and drew the reins through her fingers. Her father smiled his approval. Surrounding them, his bodyguard and squires waited attendance.

'So,' he said as they rode across the bailey and over the bridge beyond the gatehouse. 'What do you think of having a "foster" brother?'

Hawise pondered the matter. She had been little more than a babe in arms when her father's younger squire,
Adam, had arrived in their household, and still a little child when he had entered adolescence. She had never played with him as such, and he had never encroached on what she considered her territory. 'I want him to come,' she said slowly. 'I'd like a boy to be my friend… but…' She bit her lip.

He bent his head and looked at her from under his brows. 'But what, sweetheart?'

'But how do I know that he'll be my friend? What if I don't like him?'

Her father covered his mouth with the palm of his hand. She couldn't tell if he was thinking or smiling. The former it proved, for when he took his hand away, his mouth was straight. 'Brunin will need some time to adjust to our ways,' he said. 'Think of how it would be if you had to leave home and go and live amongst strangers. For the first few days everything would be different and unsettling—yes?'

'Yes,' she said with a frowning nod.

'Just remember that when you meet him and do not expect too much at first. But I see no reason why you and he cannot be friends.' He winked. 'It would be good to have a companion in arms when you play at sieges, hmm?'

Again Hawise nodded. It would indeed and she felt a spark of excitement at the notion. But she would hate it if she was relegated to the role of admiring onlooker or binder of wounds. She had seen how the boys of the keep played and what they expected of their sisters.

'When I go to fetch Brunin from Whittington, I want to take him the gift of a pony'

Hawise gazed up at him in surprise. 'Doesn't he have one?'

'Yes, but he's almost outgrown it. His father was going to find him one at St Peter's Fair, but for one reason and another, by the time he came to look, there was nothing suitable. I said that I would see what I had among our own herd… and I thought that you might like to choose.' He watched her through his lids.

Hawise brightened at the thought and swelled a little with pride, for she recognised that the task was an important one, and he had entrusted it to her, not Sibbi or Marion.

After much deliberation, she settled for a sturdy Welsh cob, built on the same lines as her father's Rouquin, but a pony, not a horse. Its hide was the hue of sweet black cherries, its tail almost swept the ground, and its mane entirely covered one side of the proud, arched neck. It was the one she would have chosen for herself, had she not possessed her own adored Sorelle.

Her father smiled his approval. 'An excellent choice,' he said. 'I have no doubt that young Brunin will look well on his back.' He tilted his head. 'What's the scowl for, sweetheart?'

'I hope he's not faster than Sorelle. I don't want to lose too many races.'

Throwing back his head, her father laughed. 'I am sure you can hold your own in any situation,' he said.

'Stand still,' Mellette snapped. 'I've known a basket of live eels to wriggle less.' She turned Brunin by the shoulders to face her, her grip bony and hard.

Behind a blank expression, Brunin mentally grimaced. He was being made ready for his departure to Ludlow, and was heartily sick of the fuss. A thorough head-to-toe scrubbing in the bathtub earlier that morning meant that his black hair gleamed with the rainbow sheen of a crow's wing. His smooth olive skin was marred at the cheekbone by a scabbed-over cut caused by a branch-whip whilst riding in the woods. He would have liked to be in the woods now with nothing but the hoofbeats of his outgrown pony and the flicker of falling leaves for company. But since Lord Joscelin of Ludlow was expected at any moment, his place in the scheme of things was strictly preordained.

His grandmother snatched a comb out of the hands of a maid, and drew it through his hair until he felt the sharp antler teeth scraping his scalp.

'Same mop as your grandsire,' she muttered. 'Never looks tidy. In my day, the best men wore their hair like
King William. Shaved and short. None of this long nonsense.' Standing back she considered him with narrowed eyes. Brunin's stomach churned with the sudden fear that she was going to send for the shears and barber him as bald as a June sheep.

'That will have to do,' she said. 'There's no making a silk purse from a sow's ear, but at least you're halfway presentable.' She tugged at his new tunic of dark-red wool, aligning a fold. The cuffs, neckline and hem were embroidered with a design of green and gold scrollwork that had taken his mother and her women several days to stitch. His chausses were made of expensive double-dyed blue Flemish cloth and bound with braid that matched the colours in his tunic. This outfit would see him through feast days and formal attendance in Joscelin's household. His mother had packed plainer garments in his baggage for everyday wear.

'Remember,' his grandmother said. 'You are a FitzWarin by name, but your great-grandsire was Earl of Derby and his sire was the Conqueror himself. You must not disgrace your blood… do you hear me, boy?' Her voice sharpened a notch.

'Yes, madame.' Brunin knew that his silence was annoying her, but he could think of nothing to say. Her lecture was an old one. Every day he and his brothers had their bloodline dinned into their heads. Besides, whenever he opened his mouth, he displeased her, so what was the difference? There was even a kind of painful satisfaction in watching her mouth purse and her knuckles clench.

'I still say it is a pity that your father is not sending Ralf to Ludlow,' she muttered with a glance towards Brunin's nearest brother. Ralf too was dressed in his finest tunic for Joscelin de Dinan's visit, and the sky-blue wool was a perfect foil for his fair colouring.