Shadows and Strongholds (54 page)

Hawise stared at him. 'He cannot do that!'

'He can, because he is the King. It is the same dispute that vexes your father and Gilbert de Lacy, save on a smaller scale. There are two claims and Henry has ruled that, for the moment, the de Powys brothers should hold Whittington.'

'But that's not fair!' Hawise cried.

'So we told Henry—and in words more forceful than that.' He swilled his lace again and pressed the water away with his hands.

'And what did he say?'

'That playing Solomon is always difficult… that there are hundreds of such disputes waiting to be resolved after the wars of the last fifty years. He finds the de Powys brothers useful and, since they have their feet in both camps and are fluent Welsh speakers, he's prepared to be sympathetic to their claim. Iorwerth Goch will yield the castle to them and, in the meantime, Henry compensates us with one of his own manors.'

'And that is it? You lose Whittington for ever?' Hawise knelt by the tub and began scrubbing his back with the washcloth, putting all the vigour of her indignation into the action.

'No,' Brunin said, and with a hiss half turned and took the cloth and soap dish away from her before she flayed him alive. 'There is still room to appeal through the courts and get the lands restored, but for the moment possession is nine-tenths of the law' He shook his head as she made to protest. 'We were overrun by the Welsh. We were looking the other way when we should have been attending to our walls. Henry has given Whittington to the other claimants as a salutary lesson and because it suits him to have men of Welsh blood but English loyalties holding the keep.'

'But you were looking the other way because he had summoned you to his Welsh campaign.'

He shrugged. 'It makes no difference. We still had a garrison at Whittington and the responsibility was ours.'

'And if possession is nine-tenths of the law, will you get it back?'

He was silent for a time, and Hawise was beginning to wonder whether to ask again or leave it alone when he finally drew breath to reply. 'Yes,' he said softly. 'We will get it back; however long it takes. The name of FitzWarin will not be forgotten at Whittington.' His jaw tightened and Hawise saw the lines of strain in his throat and across his shoulders. If he did not already have a headache, he was going to suffer a blinding one soon.

She took the cloth back from him and, this time, she was careful and her hands were very gentle, and after a while he relaxed, and then he grew tense again for different reasons, and for a while the matter of Whittington was of less importance than the dance of touch.

From the corner of her eye, Marion watched Brunin catch Hawise around the waist, pull her to him and nuzzle her throat. Hawise laughed and gave him a bright look through her lashes and a nudge with her hip before slipping from the embrace to place a freshly laundered chemise in one of the travelling coffers.

They couldn't keep their hands off each other, Marion thought sourly. Even if they were married, it was scandalous. There was a burning feeling inside her that she identified as jealousy—and fear that she would never have what they had. They were preparing to visit several FitzWarin manors, returning by way of the estates of Hawise's dowry, and Marion was glad that they were leaving. Their laughter seemed to linger in the corners of the keep and even when she thrust her fingers in her ears she could still hear it inside her head. At night, lying on her pallet, she knew that in the next tower they were in bed together. Her mind felt the sweat of their bodies as they slid against each other, heard the sounds of pleasure they made, and was burned by the reflected heat of their lust. All night it kept her awake, like a fire licking in small cat-tongues along the pathways of her blood. Her loins were heavy and ached with dull need. Her thoughts were feverish, and the name of Ernalt de Lysle was on her lips as she counted her prayer beads through restless fingers and spoke his name like an invocation. She conjured his image and imagined him in the bed beside her. He would tell her how beautiful she was. He would stroke and caress her and in her turn she would wind her fingers in his golden hair and draw him down and they would become one.

Every night she would fall asleep to this vision of light and awaken in pitch darkness to nightmares of blood. Sometimes it was a wedding sheet, smeared with the red proof of her defloration; sometimes many sheets, twisted into a long rope like an umbilical cord dangling out of a moonlit turret window, the knotted end drip-dripping into the grass… and sometimes she would dream that Ernalt had thrust a knife into her belly and she would waken with a scream, clutching her stomach, and for an instant she would think she saw him lying beside her, drenched in blood, blue eyes staring into eternity.

Joscelin and Sybilla were leaving Ludlow too; a visit to their other manors was long overdue. Marion was supposed to be accompanying them but she had no intention of doing so. She knew that Joscelin had plans to put her in a convent along the way and she was never going to let them imprison her thus.

Hawise left the coffer and went into the outer chamber to speak to her mother. Marion heard the women talking and the sound of light laughter. She felt excluded and miserable. Brunin sauntered across to the window, braced his arm on the splay and looked out, his other hand resting lightly at his belt. She looked at the scar running from the base of his fingers towards his wrist. It was still new enough to be pinkish red and showed the marks where the stitches had lain. Marion thought of them touching Hawise's body and shied away from where that led. But not swiftly enough, for he turned his head and looked at her with his knowing, sable gaze.

She thrust out her lower lip. 'Everyone blames me, but it wasn't my fault.'

'It was your choice though… and if Lord Joscelin decides to support you in a nunnery rather than beneath his own roof, then that is his choice too.' He faced her. 'After all, you are not happy here, are you?'

She looked down at her hands. 'I wanted to marry you once,' she said. 'But I'm glad I didn't, and I am happier than you know.'

His expression grew wry. 'That is for certain,' he said. For a moment he hesitated as if he were going to say more, but then it was as if the words defeated him. With a slight shake of his head he left her and she heard him go into the other chamber and speak to Hawise, his voice losing its wariness and developing a softer timbre. For an instant she had a vision of herself, Brunin and Hawise as children, playing in the bailey. The memory of her own laughter haunted her. She had been happy then, but the memory was little more than a faded echo.

Out in the bailey the dinner horn sounded and a squire arrived to announce to the household that food was about to be served. Marion wasn't hungry, but she followed everyone else to the great hall. Let them be lulled by her passivity. She had to be cunning.

The smell of bread, onions and meat as she entered the hall almost made her retch. Near the end of the hall were two trestles set out for travellers and minor guests. Seated at one of the benches was a man dressed in the sober garments of a merchant and, as she passed, he raised his eyes to her. She was surprised and affronted that a man of his class should bandy looks instead of lowering his gaze… until he deliberately touched his cloak clasp. Her gaze widened upon Ernalt's brooch and her breath locked in her throat. Somehow she managed to keep on walking, somehow she succeeded in taking her own place at the high trestle in a manner that did not cause remark. But she could not prevent the shaking of her hands as she broke the bread and sprinkled salt into her portion of lamb stew. Her partner for the duration of the meal was Lord Joscelin's squire. Fortunately he had the ravenous appetite of a developing adolescent and although he attended to her, his courtesy was a matter of form and he was more interested in the food than watching her. Now and again she looked furtively towards the foot of the hall to check that the traveller was still there. He was eating with gusto and talking to his companions as if he had never looked at her or shown her Ernalt's brooch. Biding his time, she thought, as she must bide hers.

When the meal was finished, Marion murmured an excuse about taking a walk to aid a queasy digestion, insisted that she would be all right, and went outside. She strolled the bailey paths, trying to look nonchalant, although her heart was thundering and she had to keep rubbing her hands because they were wet with perspiration. A chill wind was blowing across from Whitcliffe and she wished that she had brought her cloak for her armpits were icy.

He caught up with her near one of the bailey store sheds and, with a swift glance around, drew her into the lee of the timber wall.

'Mistress Marion,' he said. His eyes were narrow and of a brown that was almost as dark as Brunin's. His hair, by contrast, was the yellow-grey of old fleece. He wore no sword, but a large dagger was slung from his belt and the solid weight of his garments spoke of prosperity.

She looked around fearfully. 'You have a message for me?'

He opened his hand and held out the brooch. 'Sir Ernalt sends you this as a token and bids you to tell him a time when it will be safe for him to come for you.'

Taking the brooch, she closed her own fingers over it, feeling the residual warmth of his hand and the hardness of the gold. Ernalt had kept his word. He had not forgotten. Her joy made her feel almost as sick as her misery had done before. 'My lord and lady are leaving to visit their lands in Devon,' she said in a trembling voice, 'and they want me to accompany them.'

'When?'

'Soon. Two days' time, I think.' She searched his face and anxiety rippled through her. 'They want to put me in a nunnery.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Two days…'

Marion gave him an eager look. 'You could bring me to him.'

'No, mistress, that was not my instruction and, besides, it would be too dangerous.'

'No more dangerous than him coming to me,' she said with a puzzled frown. 'Indeed, less so.'

He looked at her hand, clasped over the brooch. 'By that token you know that Sir Ernalt loves you beyond measure, but you must also know that he is ambitious. He wants you to be the lady of a great castle. He wants to see you gowned in silk and to treat you like a queen.'

Marion smiled with pleasure at the words, and then her eyes widened as the deeper meaning reached her. 'Ludlow…' she said. 'He wants Ludlow'

'Only so that he can secure your future. Gilbert de Lacy's wife would be the Lady of course, but you would be mistress of the chamber and her deputy. You would have rooms of your own and Sir Ernalt would be the constable.' His voice grew soft and persuasive. 'With Joscelin de Dinan and his family absent, the castle will be easier to take and there will be no bloodshed. But we need someone inside to help us.'

She started to shake her head.

'You aided Lord Gilbert and Sir Ernalt to escape. If you do not help them now, then your only reward for loyalty will be incarceration in a nunnery. If you do your part, then you will gain gratitude and respect beyond measure… and have your love for the rest of your days. Your loyalty is to him, is it not?'

Put like that, the truth was indisputable. Marion swallowed. 'What must I do?'

When he had gone, Marion hastened back to the bower. She did not have to pretend to be ill, for her stomach was so queasy with anxiety that she was sick several times. No one questioned her when she went to lie down on her pallet. Lady Sybilla brought her a cold cloth for her forehead and, after a few murmured words, mercifully let her be. She stared at the painted ceiling. Her choice was made; her path set. A nunnery and a lifetime of prayer and repentance, or Ernalt and Ludlow. No choice at all.