Shadows and Strongholds (70 page)

Marion stood by the window in her chamber at Ludlow. The attendants had just trooped out of the room after depositing her travelling chest against the wall. Ernalt's shield was propped against the chest; his naked sword lay across it, awaiting the attention of polish and grindstone. There had been little point in taking the coffer in the first place; no need for the fine silk gown and gauzy veil. No wedding. Ernalt lay on the bed with his boots on, the muddy soles spoiling the coverlet she had embroidered with such painstaking care. That would not have happened in Lady Sybilla's household. Sybilla would have given a single look and the offending male would have immediately removed his boots. But then the male would not have offended in the first place—even though he had the right. Sybilla had always commanded the respect that kept such lack of consideration at bay. Marion knew the kind of respect that she herself commanded. Even if by some miracle Ernalt did raise her from concubine to wife, she would never have what Sybilla and her daughters had. When she thought of the future of the child growing in her womb, son or daughter, she felt an aching despair.

'Stop staring like a lackwit and pour me wine,' Ernalt commanded tersely.

She went to the pitcher and the cups set beside it. Lord Gilbert's chirugeon had dealt with Ernalt's injuries. His mutilated finger was bandaged and wrapped in a leather archer's guard and the sword cut on his neck had been left to scab over in a crust of beaded blood.

'You should not have run to FitzWarin,' he said as she handed him the wine.

Her throat tightened. 'I… We were once children together. I thought he might help me.'

'That was a stupid thing to think.' he said softly.

'You said you wouldn't marry me; you said I was a whore. What else should I have thought?'

'And what did he say?'

She made to turn away, but he grasped her wrist with the hand not holding the wine and held her fast. 'Tell me, what did he say? Did he call you a whore too? Would you have lain with him if he asked it?'

Marion tugged again and managed to wrench herself free. 'He said…' She swallowed. 'He said that my bed was of my own making.' From somewhere within her lacerated mind, she found a last spark of defiance. 'And yes, I would have lain with him had he asked it.'

He came up off the bed, but tiredness and injury hampered his speed. Marion ducked under his arm and ran for the door, but tripped on her gown and sprawled her length. He strode after her, seized her by the arm and flung her back into the room, slamming her against the coffer. Her thighs caught the lid and she sat down on it, the air punching from her lungs. His exertion had opened the wound on his neck and the drip of blood on to his hand made him stop and raise his arm to his throat to examine the extent of the damage. Marion's fingers encountered the hilt of his sword. She groped, wrapped her hand around the grip and, panting for breath, brandished it at him.

He looked at her over his bloody hand with a mingling of astonishment, laughter and growing rage.

'Put that down or I'll use the flat of it to beat you into next week,' he said huskily.

'I'll use it, I swear I will.' Her voice was thin, her hands shaking.

'You truly have lost your wits. Give me that.' He took a step towards her and Marion made a token thrust with the weapon. His swordbelt was hanging over the edge of the coffer and as he reached her he caught his foot in the strap and tripped. Marion's gesture of feeble bravado would have done nothing on its own, but the force of his falling weight caused the blade to pierce his chest.

His eyes locked with hers. There was lingering fury in them and then an expression of wide bafflement. 'What have you done?' he said.

In panic she snatched her hand from the hilt and tried to push him away, but his body leaned into her, forcing the sword in deeper. He tried to speak again, but all that emerged was a wordless croak. His chest shuddered but he could not draw breath and he fell upon her, pinning her under him on the coffer.

Weeping, gasping for breath, Marion forced herself out from beneath him. He fell to the floor with a dull thud, limbs flopping like those of the cloth doll she had owned in childhood. His gaze was fixed and blank.

'Ernalt… ?' She crammed her fists against her mouth and stared at him, but he didn't move. A draught from the open shutters blew over him, lifting the fair hair off his brow, but his eyes did not blink.

'Ernalt, get up.' She stooped, touched him, and then retreated with a small scream as a thin trickle of blood ran from his mouth corner. Her knees buckled and she collapsed against the coffer. Whimpering, she sat in the rushes, folded her arms around her midriff and rocked slowly back and forth.

She did not know how much time passed. Someone knocked on the door, but it was barred and when she didn't open it, they went away. The breeze outside strengthened and a shower blew over. She heard rain hissing in the air and the light in the chamber darkened. When she roused herself, the light had returned and drenched birdsong was filtering through the window. There was a steady drip, drip of water on to the embrasure seat where the direction of the wind had gusted the rain into the room. Marion clambered unsteadily to her feet. Nerving herself to touch Ernalt, she took hold of his arm and dragged him towards the bed. Her eyes were drawn to the sword hilt and the protruding inches of steel beneath it and the way the weapon shook as she struggled with his dead weight. It was impossible for her to put him on the bed as she wanted, he was simply too heavy, and finally she arranged his body on the floor beside it, drawing his legs together, straightening his tunic. She fetched a ewer and cloth and wiped the blood from his neck wound and the corner of his mouth. She closed his eyes; she combed his hair until it shone like wheat-coloured silk. Fetching his cloak from the coffer, she spread it over him from throat to knee, concealing the sword in his chest. Now he looked as if he were sleeping. She had always liked him best in repose, the harsh words and judgement silenced, the handsome features smooth and relaxed. No threat and nothing to contradict illusion.

For a long time, she stared at him. The room darkened as it rained again, then brightened. She stripped off her travelling gown and dressed herself in the brocade gown in which she had intended to be married. The gold brooch Ernalt had given her secured the deep neck opening, and his ring was on her heart finger. Marion unbraided her hair and combed it out with the same comb she had used on Ernalt, until it was a skein of golden silk. Over it she draped her best veil, the one edged with the little seed pearls that had been a gift from Joscelin one Christmastide. She secured it with golden pins and, as she pushed the last one into place, went to the window. There was another raincloud on the horizon, but as yet the sky sparkled and a rainbow stood out against the incoming grey. Her eyes on the sweeping arch of colour, Marion slipped off her shoes and stepped up on to the ledge, her bare feet traced with shadowy blue veins. She had to squeeze herself sideways for the aperture was not large, but there was space enough. Perched on the ledge, one side of her body facing the open sky, the other the enclosing chamber, she looked down. It was a dizzyingly long way, but she had been falling for a long time and for much further than the distance between here and the base of the rock-cut ditch from which Ernalt had once climbed up to her. Her gaze turned inwards one final time and embraced the enshrouded knight on the floor, and then she looked out, fixed her stare upon the rainbow's vivid hues and flung herself towards them, arms outspread like wings.

It had been a hot day and the dusk was woven with the scent of dust and the green aroma of new-mown hay. Seated on a bench against the manor wall, a cup of sweet English ale in his hands, Joscelin watched the swallows dip and swoop over the manor house and outbuildings. His tunic was folded on the bench beside him and his shirt was pushed back to the elbows, revealing sinewy, freckled forearms. The hair sprouting on them was still red, unlike that on his head where only his nape now showed a tinge of the original strong auburn. He was entering his winter years, he thought ruefully, the time of brittle hoar frost. He had many regrets—things not accomplished in the swift summer season—but he preferred not to dwell on what could not be changed. Spring always followed winter; new shoots, green with sap, took the place of the old and sere, but born of the same roots.

'Deep thoughts?' Sybilla asked with a smile. She had brought her sewing into the evening warmth but the light was now not strong enough for her eyes to see her stitches.

'Melancholy,' he replied with a self-deprecating smile that deepened the creases in his cheeks.

She gave him one of her questioning looks and he shook his head.

'It is no more than a pang at wondering how many summers of swallows we have left to watch.'

Sybilla laid her hand over his, her skin mottled and veined like an autumn leaf. 'As many as God is merciful enough to give us,' she murmured.

He chuckled softly. 'Wise as ever.'

They sat in silence again. When they had first come to Lambourn, Joscelin had been dubious about how content they were really going to be with such an alteration to their circumstances. But the manor was tranquil and prosperous and its atmosphere had drawn them in like a sunlit embrace. For Joscelin, it had been like the relief of shedding his hauberk. When he donned his mail he always felt a sense of strength and power, perhaps even arrogance, but after a while the weight became oppressive and he was glad to remove it and relax. Coming to Lambourn had felt like that, but he had never been certain that Sybilla felt the same.