Shadows and Strongholds (21 page)

Brunin grasped the bay's bridle close to the headstall and, with a click of his tongue, followed Joscelin and his retinue from the horse fair. He heard laughter at his back, and his ears burned. Although he knew it unlikely that he or his new horse were the object of the mirth, his imagination was raw.

'It will look as if we are running away, my lord,' muttered Hugh, who was flushed with chagrin.

'But we had finished our business,' Joscelin replied evenly. 'If we linger with no more purpose than making a show, he will have driven us to respond. I do not fear him. That is all that matters.'

'But—'

'Enough,' Joscelin said curtly. 'I will hear no more.'

On returning to their lodgings, Brunin's new mount was greeted with reserve by the women. Sybilla said little enough, but her expression made it clear that she would be having words with Joscelin later on. Sibbi was too interested in Hugh to pay much attention to the new purchase. Marion took one look at the horse and, turning from Brunin, flounced off to the sleeping loft above the main room. Hawise regarded the new mount with narrowed eyes and folded arms.

'You gave up Morel for this bag of bones?' she asked as Brunin, somewhat dismayed by the women's reactions, led the bay towards the outbuildings where the rest of Joscelin's mounts were tethered.

'I haven't given up Morel,' he snapped. 'My feet almost touch the ground when I ride him now. You knew that I was going to buy a bigger horse for weapons training at the fair. William de Cressage is having Morel for his son Meric—he's a good lad. Your father's going to take him for a junior squire next year.'

She trailed after him, continuing to look sulky. Someone had been dressing her hair and for once it was tidied into a neat braid, with smaller braids plaited into the main one. The laces of her gown were drawn tight at the sides, emphasising the curve of developing bosom and narrow waist. Brunin glanced once and then gave his attention to the horse, which was slobbering at his right shoulder.

'He's not a nag,' he said quietly. 'A man does not have to be handsome to make a fine warrior—just efficient and skilled.'

Hawise shrugged, as if physically discarding his words. 'But you do not know if the horse is good or not and ugly men can as easily make bad warriors as handsome ones.'

'The trader said he was trained to the tilt.'

'The trader would.' Her tone was cynical.

Brunin swallowed his irritation. 'I tried him myself and he knew what he had to do. Indeed, he was eager to do it. Whatever my pleading, your father would not have bought him had he considered him dross.'

She followed him into the barn. Having tethered the horse, he fetched a pile of hay from the stooks in the corner and a pail of water.

'Does he have a name?'

Brunin could tell from the change in her voice that she was trying to make amends without having to apologise. Her nature might be generous, but he had discovered that she found it difficult to admit to being in the wrong. 'No,' he said. 'What about "Ugly"?'

Her eyes flashed and her colour rose. 'Yes,' she said. 'That would indeed be appropriate.'

He gave his attention to the horse, hoping that she would go away, but she ignored the hint.

'Well, you cannot call him "Beauty".' Advancing to the horse, she laid the palm of her hand against its smooth bay neck. ' "Jester" perhaps?'

Brunin rather liked the name but responded with a grunt that could have meant anything.

'You know that Marion won't talk to you for a sennight now.' Reaching on tiptoe, she scratched the horse behind his ears and the gelding turned to butt her with his comical white-snipped nose. 'You won't be her "knight" any more.'

Brunin filled his hand full of oats from an open sack and offered his palm to the gelding. 'Her opinion matters not to me,' he said curtly. It wasn't true, although he would never admit it to Hawise. He took pleasure in the admiring glances Marion fluttered at him from beneath her lashes, in the way she curled her arm around his in the great hall and smiled up at him as if he were her world. She was often querulous and demanding, but she had a sweet, playful side that could melt most male hearts at a hundred paces. He knew that she was sizing him up as a future bridegroom, especially in the light of Sibbi's betrothal, but he viewed such notions as foolish play of the kind indulged in by girls as they chattered over their embroidery in the domestic chambers.

Hawise smiled. 'It matters not to me either,' she said. 'Except when I want to smack her.'

Brunin had to swallow a grin. Giving his new horse a final pat, he turned towards the lodging. Hawise walked beside him, her stride long and confident, almost masculine. She didn't fold her arm around his, nor did she bat her lashes at him. And, despite their recent argument, he was far more comfortable with that than Marion's clinging adulation.

Sybilla handed Joscelin a cup of wine. 'You are going to tell me you knew what you were doing,' she said. 'That you weren't swayed by a boy's whim.'

Joscelin gave her a preoccupied smile. 'Rather say that the boy knew what he was doing, love. There's a good beast hiding within those raw bones and untidy markings.'

'If you say so.'

'I do.' He took his wine and went to the embrasure. Swallows swooped in the gloaming over the river, their cries a poignant reminder of a summer that was past its zenith. Another month and they would be gone to wherever they went in the winter months. The grain was ripe in the fields and the harvest imminent… if it didn't burn. He thrust his shoulder against the wood and sighed. There was melancholy in the air tonight. 'I have been thinking.' He turned round to Sybilla. Beyond her the girls were seated in a semi-circle trying out different ways of braiding each other's hair. Giggles and snatches of whispered conversation drifted over to him, and echoed the cries of the birds preparing to fly the familiar roost… as Sibbi would fly soon enough.

'About what?' Sybilla was smiling but her gaze was wary.

Joscelin chewed his thumbnail. About Gilbert de Lacy'

'What of him?'

'I was wondering whether I should bargain with him tor a truce, at least until the harvest is gathered in and the winter months past.'

A truce?' Sybilla's voice remained level but her pinched expression left him in no doubt that she thought he had lost his wits.

He gave a defensive shrug. 'Other men are making pacts while they wait to see in which direction the balance will ultimately lean. Ranulf of Chester has made alliances with Ferrers and Derby and yet they fight on opposing sides. Your son-in-law flirts with Robert of Leicester.'

'Why should you think that my cousin Gilbert will even consider a truce?' she demanded. All of his life has been one long striving to take Ludlow. If you sue for peace, he will think you are wearying of the fight—that you are weakening.' Joscelin's grey eyes flashed. 'He knows that I will never yield him Ludlow,' he snapped. 'But I believe he will welcome a period of truce to gain breath.'

'And why do you believe that?' She put down her wine, her action as precise and controlled as her words. He knew that language. The beginning of their marriage had been fraught with it.

'Because he too has harvests to bring in, because he too has lost men. He might be fighting for his own gain, but he needs to take stock and decide whom to support: Stephen or Henry. Sooner rather than later it will end and those who are wise will not be caught with their braies around their knees.'

Sybilla frowned at him. 'When were you thinking of calling this truce?'

'Now, since he is in Shrewsbury for the fair.'

'And if I ask you not to?'

He met her gaze and was not reassured by the emotions it contained. Anger, hostility, hurt. 'Do you not want to spend a winter at peace and see the people fed because the harvest has been vouchsafed?'

Her lips thinning, she turned away from him. He hardened his resolve. Sybilla was fiercely possessive over Ludlow and distrusted her cousin Gilbert with every bone in her body. Joscelin had always viewed Gilbert as his sworn enemy, but had sufficient pragmatism to see the advantage of talking peace as well as war.

'Would you see us fight ourselves into the ground this winter?' he demanded. 'Would you sec the harvest fields on fire and the flames reflected on the blade of my sword?'

Her back remained to him but he saw her flinch at his words, and perhaps their tone. 'He won't agree to talk with you,' she said stiffly.

'That is up to him. At least I can say I have tried.'

Sybilla sighed heavily and threw up her hands. 'Do as you please,' she said. 'But if, by some remote chance, he does want to talk, do not expect me to welcome him with open arms.'

'I promise I won't.' Relieved at her yielding, glad to relinquish his own harsh stance, he went to her and embraced her from behind, leaning round to kiss her cheek and finding it half turned from him.

'Men and their promises,' she said and did not relent into a smile.

Taking Joscelin's invitation to Gilbert de Lacy was a task that Brunin would rather have forgone, but he was not given a choice.

'You'll never overcome your fears unless you face them,' Joscelin had said as he dismissed Brunin with an impatient wave of his hand. 'Make haste now'

Brunin had never felt less like making haste, but since Joscelin had commanded with an irascible look in his eyes, he strode out briskly towards de Lacy's lodgings, which were situated over the bridge from the abbey in the town. When he arrived, de Lacy's squires and grooms were preparing to exercise their lord's string of horses. Observing Brunin, the fair-haired squire turned the powerful dun stallion he was riding and came over.

'What do you want?' he demanded, looking Brunin up and down with hauteur but no recognition.

Brunin cleared his throat and forced himself to look up into the hostile, woad-blue eyes. He tried not to think about the dagger resting in the sheath at the young man's right hip. Even after several years, he could still feel his belly tightening and shrinking. 'I have a message for Lord Gilbert de Lacy,' he said.

'Give it to me. I will make sure he gets it.'

Brunin tried to breathe slowly and not show how intimidated he was. 'I was told to deliver it in person.'

'I doubt that Lord Gilbert will want to trouble himself.' The squire nudged the dun forward, forcing Brunin to give ground as the stallion pawed the air with a powerful foreleg.

'Even so, I am charged with the duty.' Brunin's throat was tight and it made his voice husky, but at least the words did not emerge as a squeak.

The young man looked irritated. 'You'll have to wait,' he said. 'There's no one to take you to him.'

Above them a door opened. A brindle greyhound clattered down the outer stairs, followed at a more sedate pace by Gilbert de Lacy, who was dressed in a split-front riding tunic. The Baron reached the foot of the stairs, opened his mouth to speak to his squire, and stopped as he saw Brunin.

'He says he has brought you a message, my lord,' said the young man in a tone that conveyed his contempt for Brunin. 'I told him he would have to wait.'

Brunin scowled at his tormentor before bowing to Gilbert de Lacy.

'A message?' said de Lacy. 'You're de Dinan's squire, are you not? I saw you at the horse fair yester eve trying out that bay nag.'

'Yes, sir.' Having dropped his gaze for sufficient time to be courteous, Brunin looked up again. The hound thrust its moist nose into his hand and licked his fingers.

'De Dinan bought him too.'

The squire sniggered. 'Handsome is as handsome does, Ernalt,' de Lacy said, waving him about his duties.

Ernalt. Committing the name to memory, Brunin watched him ride off, the dun's muscular haunches flexing and clenching.

De Lacy turned back to Brunin. 'I wouldn't have bought the bay myself,' he said. 'But then I stand on my dignity and that is something that Joscelin de Dinan has never done.'

Brunin stiffened at the remark. 'The horse will prove himself, sir.'

De Lacy looked amused. 'Well, either that or he'll prove what an ass his buyer is.' He clasped one hand lightly around the hilt of his sword. 'So, what message does your lord have for me—aside from "rot in hell"?' His smile developed a sour edge. 'I can think of nothing he could say to me that I would find of interest, unless he is offering to surrender Ludlow'

'My lord requests that you meet with him to talk of a truce between you.'

The smile became one of bared teeth. 'Indeed?'

'Yes, my lord.' Brunin watched the pulse beat hard in de Lacy's throat, and the ruddy colour flow into his face.

'He's a Breton mercenary. I should not be surprised at his gall,' de Lacy growled, 'and yet I am. Or perhaps there is more to it than that. Why should he want a truce? Are the steps of the dance too fast for him these days?' He spoke above Brunin's head, his eyes narrow and speculative.

Brunin understood that no answer was required. He waited quietly—something that was easier to do now that de Lacy's squires had ridden off.

'Tell him I will come to him when I have finished my business at the fair,' de Lacy said. 'Perhaps around the hour of noon.' He gave Brunin a hard smile. 'But tell his wife not to wait the dinner hour for me.' He nodded in dismissal and moved to where a lad of about Brunin's own age was holding a copper-coloured stallion. Mounting in one smooth motion, he reined about and whistled to the dog.

Brunin closed his eyes, exhaled hard, and took the message back to Joscelin on legs that were suddenly as unsteady as a drunkard's.