Shadows and Strongholds (5 page)

'Name them,' she challenged.

'He is my heir,' FitzWarin said. 'Joscelin will not accept a second son as a mate for one of his daughters, no matter how accomplished the boy might be. And Brunin needs a chance to step out of the shadows. Joscelin de Dinan can give him that chance.'

Mellette's jaw rotated as if she were chewing on his words and finding both nutrition and grit. 'I suppose that if he goes to Ludlow, we will not have to sponsor him through the priesthood,' she grudgingly admitted, 'and it may be that Joscelin de Dinan will work a miracle and turn base metal into gold.' Her tone said that she was sceptical but. willing to see what happened.

Knowing that it was as much agreement as he was going to receive, FitzWarin abandoned his wine and moved towards the loft stairs.

'Husband, do not wake him,' Eve said quickly. 'He's asleep.'

He paused and turned. Eve swiftly lowered her eyes.

'Don't fuss, woman,' he said, but in a gentler voice than he had thus far used since coming home. The steps creaked beneath his tread, but he reckoned that if Brunin could sleep through the brawling of his brothers, a few stealthy footfalls would not disturb him.

The shutters were open and FitzWarin paused briefly by the window. Men were still drinking in the taverns—women too, he thought as a particularly piercing cackle arrowed through the window. Lanterns and cooking fires glimmered among the booths as many of the owners sat vigil with their stock. There was a pervasive smell of woodsmoke and onion stew. A horse whinnied and was answered by several others. Sighing, he turned into the twilit room and paced along the row of pallets laid out on the floor.

Brunin was on the end one, his form outlined by a coverlet of striped Welsh wool. He was breathing so quietly that FitzWarin had to lean close and look for the rise and fall of his chest. The child's right forearm was flung across his eyes and even in sleep, the fist was tightly clenched. With great gentleness, FitzWarin lifted Brunin's arm and laid it down at his side. The boy made a sound and the dense black eyelashes flickered, but he did not waken. Exasperated, baffled, assailed by a wave of affection so strong that it was almost grief, FitzWarin watched his firstborn son sleep. He remembered the night he had been born, a wild, stormy one in March, the wind strong enough to uproot trees and flatten hayricks and hovels. The midwife had come from the birthing chamber,
a
snuffling bundle wrapped in her arms, and presented the men with the next link in their bloodline.

FitzWarin's father had been alive then, and he had been the first to hold the child. Even then, the resemblance between grandfather and grandson had been marked. Not just the colouring, but the shape and symmetry of flesh and bone, one new as a tight-furled hawthorn leaf at winter's end, the other sere and tattered from the long autumn's descent into withered old age. FitzWarin had never seen his father weep, but he had done so that night. Now he was dead, and the spark he had passed on was in danger of being quenched.

Hearing soft footfalls, he turned to see Eve coming towards him. The dusk had leached the colour from her skin and hair and made dark pools of her eyes so that she resembled a faery creature from the hollow hills. His Welsh nurse had told him such stories of fey women and he often thought of his wife thus. Much of the time she was like an empty shell and it was as if her true substance walked elsewhere. Their marriage had been arranged to suit ambition and policy, without a shred of romance involved. They performed their marital duties but it was like a social dance between two strangers. She was attentive, docile, obedient and abundantly fertile. Since he had never strayed from their marriage bed nor raised his fist to beat her, he considered that he was a good and considerate husband.

Stopping at his side, she too studied their son with a troubled gaze. 'He hasn't said a word.' Her tone was quiet and expressionless. 'Not to me or anyone. Your mother tried to make him speak, but it just seemed to push him further out of reach.' She bit her lip. 'If I could take his pain, I would.'

FitzWarin was surprised into a glimmer of deeper feeling that led him to lament the cramped sleeping conditions and wish for their bedchamber at Whittington. He set his hand to her waist and his tough, swordsman's fingers spread to the upper curve of her buttocks. 'Brunin has to learn to stand up for himself,' he said gruffly.

She stiffened. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'He has to learn. As all men do.' Her expression was blurred by the gathering dusk, but there was no mistaking the bitterness in her usually tractable voice.

'Eve?' The word was startled out of him and he eyed her askance.

Her throat rippled. 'In God's name, my lord, send him out of this household before it is too late.' Twisting from his embrace, she almost ran from the chamber.

Her leaving caused the boy to stir on his pallet and mutter in his slumber, but what he said, his father could not tell.

FitzWarin washed his hands over his face. A dull ache compounded of an excess of wine and tension was beginning to pound in his skull. He could not face going back down to the women and his yelling boisterous offspring. After removing his boots, he stretched out on the empty pallet beside Brunin and shut his lids. He fell asleep, his right arm bent across his eyes and his fist tightly clenched.

Her head propped on a bolster, Hawise de Dinan lay on her back in her parents' bed, and stared at the canopy. Beside her, she could hear Marion trying not to giggle and that made Hawise want to giggle too. She compressed her lips, fighting the explosion gathering beneath her ribs.

'You're supposed to have your eyes closed. You're badly injured,' said Sibbi crossly.

Hawise strained her gaze sideways at her sister who was wearing their mother's second-best green gown, purloined from the clothing coffer, and the matching silk wimple. She was holding a roil of linen bandage.

'People die with their eyes open,' Hawise pointed out. Not that she had actually seen anyone breathe their last, but she had been to a vigil in the chapel last year for one of the knights and remembered that they had had to put coins on his lids to keep them shut.

'Well, you're not dying, you're just wounded.'

'Can I groan then?'

Sibbi rolled her eyes.

'I'd be groaning in real life, wouldn't I?'

'She would,' Marion reinforced, with a vigorous nod of her flaxen head. She had a cushion stuffed up her dress. 'I think the baby's coming,' she said. 'Can I groan too?'

'No, you can't.' Sibbi's slate-blue eyes flashed with irritation. 'And you can't give birth until I've bound up your husband's wounds!'

The three girls were playing at 'sieges'. It had been Hawise's idea, for she was a tomboy with a vivid imagination and she had easily projected herself into the role of bold knight saving the castle from assault. Marion had opted to be the lady of the keep and, being just as fond of drama as Hawise in a different way, had added the embellishment of pregnancy to her perils. Sibbi, who was two years older than her sister and Marion, was keener on the nurturing aspect of the game. She wanted to bind the imaginary wounds, make them better, and practise her bandaging skills at the same time. Delivering a baby was somewhat beyond her knowledge, but a cushion was a start.

'Give me your arm.' she said to Hawise.

'You're supposed to give me lots of wine and get me drunk first,' Hawise said knowledgeably. 'When Papa fell off his horse and broke his collar bone, Mama made him drink three quarts of Welsh mead before she tended him.'

'Well, you'll just have to pretend,' Sibbi snapped.

Hawise screwed up her face and tried to remember the incident. Her father had spoken a lot through clenched teeth and been very bad-tempered. The mead had improved matters but when he had started singing a song about eight lusty maidens and a ginger cat, her mother had bundled Hawise from the room. A tremendous pity. She would have liked to know how the song ended.

Hawise submitted to having her arm bandaged and pinned against her body, uttering a few moans to improve the authenticity and even daring her father's favourite curse of 'God's sweet eyes', until Sibbi clucked her tongue and Marion threatened to tell on her.

Hawise sighed. 'How long do I have to lie here?'

'Until you're better.'

'Papa didn't. He was on a horse the next day.'

'Can I have the baby now?' Marion asked querulously. She kneaded the bulge beneath her gown with small clenched fists.

Sybilla de Dinan appeared in the doorway that led through to the day chamber for the castle's women. She was winding a length of spun wool on to her spindle as she regarded the girls with amusement. 'Sibbi, Hawise, your father's home from Shrewsbury,' she said. 'I've just seen him ride in.' Advancing to the beds, she paused before Hawise. 'Very accomplished,' she said, tucking the spindle in her belt and examining Sibbi's handiwork. 'I could not have done better myself.'

Sibbi blushed with pleasure.

'Although Hawise had best take it off, lest her father think she has met with an accident…'

'Will Lord Joscelin think I'm with child?' Marion piped up.

'Of course he won't,' Hawise sniffed. 'You're not married. Anyway, it takes a long time to grow a baby… doesn't it, Mama?' She turned so that Sybilla could unpin the bandage.

'Yes, three seasons.' Sybilla's expression was still warm with amusement, but a guarded look had entered her eyes. She turned to Marion. 'You'll need some braid to decorate that new gown of yours. Do you want to come and choose the colours now?'

Marion chewed her underlip and thought about the offer. Then she nodded and having solemnly tugged the cushion from beneath her dress, cast it on the bed as if she were suddenly afraid of it and ran to clutch Sybilla's hand.

Hawise unwrapped the bandage, threw it down in an untidy tangle, and dashed for the door, her heavy auburn braid bouncing against her spine like a bell rope, the soles of her shoes flashing.

With a sigh and a head shake, Sibbi picked up the snarl of linen strips and began rolling them back into a neat coil.

Hawise pelted down to the hall and out into the bailey where the men were dismounting. Her papa had only been gone for two days, but she was wild to greet him. He had promised to bring her some bridle bells for her pony and a set of leather juggling balls from the fair.

By the time she reached him, he had dismounted from his roan cob and was talking to a couple of his knights. A long train of pack ponies was clopping away towards the undercroft. 'Papa!' she cried and flung herself at him.

He caught her in mid-run and swung her round in his arms, making her shriek with delight. Then he kissed her soundly on the cheek and set her down.

'Did you remember my bridle bells and juggling balls?' she demanded, hopping from foot to foot.

'Your what?' He rubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw and Hawise felt a jolt of apprehension at the blank look on his face. Just as the apprehension was about to become panic, he winked. With another shriek, she threw her arms around his waist and hugged him.

Laughter rumbled in his chest. 'How could I forget them when I know the terrible consequences of doing so? You can have them when I unpack my baggage.' He glanced down and, with a smile, tugged the leather belt at her waist. A wooden sword in a cloth sheath was thrust through it. 'What's this?'