Shadows and Strongholds (58 page)

'There is news,' he said and took a deep drink.

And not good, she could tell. Abandoning her needlework, she went to him. 'Tell me.'

He looked into the depths of his cup. 'Several of our vassals have renounced their oath to me and chosen to declare for de Lacy.'

She winced and asked him for names. When he gave them she was disappointed but not surprised. Even during the settled times there had been opposition to their tenure of Ludlow. Her claim was on the distaff side and his was through marriage to her. Nor had they produced sons to follow them, only sons-in-law, and not every man was keen to follow a FitzWarin or a Plugenet. 'They do not matter,' she said. 'William de Criquetot and Walter Devereux were always weak reeds. We have other, loyal men to call upon.'

He conceded the point with a shrug and another cup of wine. 'We'll be ready to march on Ludlow by the morrow,' he said. 'The less time de Lacy has to become entrenched, the better. FitzWarin has a troop waiting at Alberbury, and he's called in support from all of his vassals.'

She could feel him going through tallies in his head, collating, thinking, planning. Once such crises had been challenges to meet or cunningly circumnavigate. Once. When they were younger. Sybilla drew herself up. Maudlin self-pity would solve nothing and she would not add to Joscelin's burden by weeping. 'I will write again to the King,' she said. 'And Bishop Gilbert will add his words to mine. Henry must act on this matter.'

'And who knows which way Henry will jump,' Joscelin said bleakly.

In the cramped side chamber allotted to himself and Hawise, Brunin was examining the rings in his hauberk for split or damaged links. His hands were black from the iron and grease, and his gaze intent on his task. Hawise wondered if it were a little like her mother's sewing: a mindless repetitive action that served to pacify frayed and querulous energy. Her own habit was pacing, a trait that she had inherited from her father. The thought of him made her lengthen her stride until she came up short against the chamber wall.

'It has hit my father hard that men who have sworn him fealty have renounced their allegiance and given it to de Lacy,' she said.

He looked up from his inspection. 'There have always been pockets of sympathy within the ranks of his vassals for Gilbert de Lacy. They would rather have the direct line rule them than a woman with a Breton husband.'

Flushed with indignation, Hawise turned from the wall to face him. 'But Gilbert de Lacy's line has not ruled here for more than fifty years!'

'That makes no difference in some men's eyes,' Brunin said. 'Whittington was given to my grandparents on their marriage by the Earl of Derby, long before your mother came into possession of Ludlow, but the span of years has not prevented Roger and Jonas de Powys from taking it… and King Henry from upholding their claim.'

Hawise sat down beside him. 'I thought I understood how you and your family felt when Whittington was lost,' she murmured, 'but I didn't have an inkling… until now.'

And how does it feel to be the landless wife of an impoverished knight?'

She drew herself erect. 'We're neither landless nor impoverished.'

'But considerably less well off than we were.' He rippled the mail through his fingers to inspect the next section. 'Our forefathers possessed only their swords and their wits—or mine did. But it's a heavy price to pay in pride.' His tone was neutral, his face blank, which told her that he was affected more deeply than he was willing to admit.

'You will always have that.' Her glance fell on the furled black wolf banner.

He followed the direction of her gaze. 'Yes,' he said sombrely. 'That can't be taken.'

For a while there was silence as he continued to work his way through the hauberk. Hawise rose, began pacing, stopped herself and folded her arms before she was tempted to chew her fingernails. On the morrow he would ride with her father and FitzWarin to Ludlow. Having seen him in battle, she was afraid for him.

Her flux had begun on the night that they received the news about Ludlow. Either naturally late or a bleed brought on by the shock of the tidings, no one could say, but all she knew was that she was not pregnant. They had tonight to conceive a child, and then he would be gone to war. For a moment she considered pushing the hauberk aside and falling upon him in broad daylight. However, there was no more than a curtain across the chamber doorway and they might be interrupted by anyone, including her father and Emmeline.

Brunin shifted the mail again, searched, and then looked up at her. 'Your father heard news other than the defection of his vassals,' he said. 'Has he told you about Marion?'

'He has said nothing. What of her?' Her stomach turned over. 'Has something happened to her? Is she dead?'

'To him she is,' Brunin said grimly. 'It seems that she let a rope down from the Pendover tower wall and allowed de Lacy's men to tie a ladder to it. She kept watch while they did it…' He paused and looked down at the dark iron rivets and she knew that he was holding back.

'What else?
Tell me
!' she demanded.

His mouth twisted. 'You will not like to hear this. Ernalt de Lysle has taken our chamber for his own and installed Marion there as his whore.'

The cold feeling increased. The notion of Ernalt de Lysle and Marion sporting in her marriage bed was so vile that Hawise almost retched.

'I thought about saying nothing,' Brunin admitted. 'But if we regain Ludlow, you would see and hear for yourself.

'I will burn the bed and the sheets and scrub the walls with lye,' she spat vehemently and returned to her pacing, but the room was not large enough to contain her turmoil. She felt as if she had been violated and was certain what she would do to Marion if she ever came within strangling range.

Brunin set the hauberk aside, wiped his hands on a linen rag and halted her wild stride by taking her in his arms. She gripped his sleeves, digging in her fingers as if seeking a handhold on reason.

'God help me, I want to see both of them dead!' She pressed her forehead against his breast, tears spilling. 'How can it have come to this?'

She felt his palms against her spine, firm, strong, steadying. 'When I first came to Ludlow, Marion greeted me as if I were a prince, not some dubious changeling with a common mercenary for a grandsire. To have that sort of adoration was balm on the raw places…' He shook his head. And now new places are raw.'

Hawise lifted her head from his breast and saw the revulsion, anger and sadness in his face. If only for a moment, and with her, the neutrality was gone, and she was glad of it, for it made her feel less unworthy.

'Why did she do it?' she asked. 'How could she?'

'For love,' he said. 'Or for love denied.'

'Love!'

'You saw how she sought it: like a drunkard craving wine.' There was an odd note to his voice. 'I know because it could have been me.'

Hawise's throat tightened. 'That's not true.'

'I held back; she ran forward. That's the only difference. Pretending you don't need, or admitting you do: which is the more honest?'

She frowned. 'But if I were your father's enemy and I
asked you to put a ladder over the castle wall in the dead of night, would you do it?'

'No, I wouldn't.'

'Not even for love?'

'No, because duty and loyalty would hold me in check. Marion has a conflict of duty with your family She thinks that they have abandoned her… that they do not love her as Ernalt de Lysle loves her.'

'And for certain he does not!' Hawise said abruptly. 'He loves himself and the notion of glory and—'

'You do not need to tell me about the true nature of Ernalt de Lysle,' Brunin growled. 'But he has the gilded charm to make women fall for him, and a plausible tongue.'

Hawise blushed and dropped her eyelids. That was all too true. There but for the grace of God…

'Marion was ripe to fall into his hand.' A look of reluctant compassion crossed Brunin's face. 'Despite what she has done, I cannot help but pity her.'

'We should have watched her more closely,' Hawise said, not certain that she could find pity in her own heart at the moment.

'Hindsight is a hard taskmaster. None of us realised how desperate she was.'

'What will happen to her when we retake Ludlow?'

Brunin pulled her closely against his body. 'That will be for your father to say, and I am glad I am not him.' He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face and his expression was bleak. 'Whatever he decides, he will still be more merciful to her than Ernalt de Lysle.'

Marion opened her eyes. She was alone in the bed, but. the feather mattress still bore the indentation of Ernalt's body and when she touched the sheet it was warm. Leaning up on her elbow, she winced at the morning through her tangled hair. Her mouth was dry and tasted foul and a blinding headache pounded her skull like an internal fist. She had no recollection of the previous night… or only as far as the second flagon of wine. Matters had grown hazy then, before blurring into oblivion. The fact that she was naked and that there were red suck marks on her breasts and finger-shaped bruises on her thighs revealed what the night had held.

'You're awake then,' Ernalt grunted. 'Christ, I've seen better-looking harridans.' He moved into her line of vision, already dressed in shirt, hose and braies.

'Why don't you bed with one of them then?'

'I've thought about it, sweetheart.' He plucked his tunic off the coffer and tugged it over his head. 'But then you'd have to find somewhere else to sleep and I doubt you'd like the company half so well as mine.'

Marion sat up. Her stomach was rolling like a barrel in a flood. She was too queasy to retort. Besides, she had learned that a wrong answer would result in a slap. Never to the face, of course. He didn't want her appearing in the hall with black eyes or a split lip. That kind of abuse was for the common men. More to the point, Gilbert de Lacy would have frowned on such uncouth behaviour.

'Get yourself cleaned up.' Latching his belt, Ernalt advanced to the bed and patted her cheek, his fingers hard enough to sting, although not leave a mark. 'Your face is your fortune—that, and the sweetest, tightest scabbard in which I've ever sheathed my sword. Remember that, and you'll do well.'

'But you love me… don't you?' she pleaded. If he loved her, everything would be all right.

'Yes,' he said. 'Of course I love you.'

His tone was impatient but at least he had said the words. She wanted to ask him about their betrothal, but she didn't want to provoke his anger. He had assured her that they would kneel before a priest, but he desired her to have a proper wedding with a grand feast and many guests. Marion desired that too, but sooner rather than later. She needed to be his wife, not his whore.

Leaving the bed, she realised she was still drunk, for the world tipped and reeled and when she took a step she almost fell. She had a raging thirst that she knew could only be cured by more wine. Last night's flagon was still on the coffer, but contained naught save sticky dregs. Attendants would provide Ernalt with a flagon if he commanded, but it was different for her. She might have given de Lacy's men a way into the castle, but that did not mean they viewed her as a heroine for the deed. Many of them saw it as just another example of the duplicity of women. When she walked through the castle it was as if she did not exist. The soldiers avoided meeting her gaze and stood aside when she passed, as if even the air surrounding her were tainted. Lord Gilbert's servants ignored her when possible. Those of Lord Joscelin's who remained in Ludlow shunned her with hatred in their eyes. If she wanted wine, she would have to fetch her own and run the gauntlet of all those unspoken words.