Shadows and Strongholds (59 page)

She tottered into the latrine and sat down on the wooden seat. Her head throbbed and the smell of the waste shaft almost sent her delicate stomach over the edge. 'Jesu,' she moaned softly. She could hear Ernalt moving about in the main chamber. He was whistling to himself, which meant dial he was currently as satisfied with his life as she was wretched in hers.

As she was leaving the latrine, the sound of a hunting horn wound through the open shutters. Ernalt ceased whistling and turned towards the sound with pricked ears.

'What is it? What's wr—'

He made a peremptory gesture. 'Be quiet.'

She held her breath and the horn came again, three sharp blasts from the direction of the gates.

Ernalt swore. He strode to the door, heaved it open and bellowed for an attendant.

She stared at him with widening eyes. 'What's happening? Tell me!'

'How should I know? It's the alarm horn.' He was already unfastening his belt and lifting his gambeson off the clothing pole. 'Likely Joscelin de Dinan has come for a second fight beneath the walls. If he has, he'll die.' Striding to the door, he flung it open and bellowed for a squire.

Marion set her hand to her breast as her heart began to pound. If Joscelin retook Ludlow she was doomed. If he failed, then she had the chance of a life… but what kind? She was already reeling beneath the weight of her conscience. If she had to look upon Joscelin's body…

or Brunin's… Uttering a small cry, she fled back into the latrine and hung over the fetid hole, retching.

'I told you, there is nothing wrong with me,' FitzWarin growled. 'Christ's wounds, can't a man cough and spit without being fussed over like an old woman! I'll let you know when I'm ready for the grave. In the meantime, you can stop scowling like that and pass my gambeson.' Brunin didn't stop scowling, but did as his father asked. They were camped in the remnants of a hill fort that had been occupied by outlaws for a time during the wars deep over the land and there was a dampness in the air that was aggravating his father's weakened chest. Not that FitzWarin would admit to such weakness. As far as he was concerned, a cough that made him sound as if his lungs were full of rusty nails was a minor inconvenience.

'You are stubborn,' Brunin said.

'Hah, since when has that been a failing of the FitzWarins? You'll need every ounce of your own before we've finished if we're to have Ludlow and Whittington restored. Neither are going to be handed to you on a trencher.' FitzWarin's lips thinned. 'I will do what I must, as will you.'

In silence Brunin helped him don his armour. He had not realised how thin his father had become, but now, standing close, pulling padding over unfleshed shoulders, tugging the mail shirt over the gamebeson, he felt as if he were dressing an old man, and not the proud, muscular warrior who had filled his childhood with a mingling of fear and admiration. The best years had gone, Brunin thought. The world was autumnal and looking towards winter. It was not the frame of mind with which to approach the task in hand. He set his jaw and with brisk efficiency finished performing the duties of a squire. Better not to think at all except on a purely practical level.

FitzWarin nodded brusque thanks and a brief, intense look passed between father and son, saying much that would never be openly acknowledged. 'Fasten up your ventail,' FitzWarin said gruffly. 'You don't want to take a spear in the throat. I intend to have six sons remaining at the end of this day'

'Who is fussing now?' Brunin asked with a smile, moving to buckle his throat protector.

'Don't be insolent,' FitzWarin said, but his lips twitched.

Joscelin was waiting for them outside the tent, fully armed. The steam from his cup of hot ale rose into the cold air. A red sun was lipping the horizon to the east and the soldiers were finishing their dawn meals of bread and bacon. A groom brought up his destrier, a hot-blooded sorrel, twitchy with oat-feeding, its hooves dancing a drumbeat in the moist grass.

FitzWarin eyed the beast dubiously. 'You hear of old men trying to recapture their youth with disreputable women and wild horses,' he said.

Joscelin gave a fierce grin and finished the hot ale in several large gulps. 'And how you envy them,' he retorted. 'Do you know any disreputable women?'

'Plenty, but none that I'd pass on to you.' FitzWarin turned aside to cough and spit.

'Selfish bastard.' Joscelin went to the sorrel and slapped its glossy neck. 'I intend taking every advantage I can get,' he said. 'And a young, spirited stallion is one of them. I'm experienced enough to control him. It's the wild young men who need the steadier horses… isn't that so, Brunin?'

'Yes, my lord,' Brunin said neutrally as their own attendants arrived with his father's bay and Jester, the latter sloping along in his usual world-weary fashion.

'It will be like old times,' Joscelin said, his tone over-hearty. 'Do you remember when we rode together for the Empress Matilda and none could stand against us?'

FitzWarin grunted. 'Yes, I remember. There is no need to jolly along these old bones. They know the tune of their own accord.' Turning to his destrier, FitzWarin set his foot in the stirrup and swung astride with the ease of a lifelong horseman. 'And I can still dance the steps as fast as any man living, and faster than those I've killed.' He reined his stallion about. 'Come, let us ride and recoup these lands of yours, for our grandchildren.'

Brunin mounted Jester and fell in behind his father and Joscelin. He unfurled the wolf banner and watched it catch and float in the morning breeze before handing it to a serjeant. Ralf rode up to join him on his grey, his handsome face wearing a morose expression. As they passed the baggage lines, his gaze swept to a woman standing outside one of the tents. Her face was pale and her eyes red, but she was not weeping. Brunin glanced too.

'I know I should not have brought her,' Ralf said quickly, 'but her father disowned her when he heard that she had taken up with a Sais, and I could not have sent her alone to Alberbury… not with our grandmother there.'

Brunin stemmed the retort that Ralf should know better than to bring his leman to a battle-camp. As his brother said, what else was he supposed to do? 'Lady Sybilla will need more women for her chamber,' he murmured, 'and Hawise would gladly take her under her wing. She is short of companions.'

Ralf's fair complexion reddened. 'I am not looking for charity,' he muttered.

'And I wouldn't offer it,' Brunin retorted. 'I do it not from charity, but because I know she would suit.'

'She is Welsh.'

Brunin shrugged. 'What of it? So is Emmeline's nurse. So's Madoc the groom.'

'I thought after what had happened to Whittington…'

Brunin shook his head at his brother. 'Ralf, you're an ass,' he said, 'and I almost love you.'

Ralf gave him an offended look. 'There's no need to be insulting.'

The road to a battle wasn't particularly a place for mirth, but Brunin threw back his head and laughed.

In Ludlow's great hall, the women were preparing to receive and treat the wounded. Marion ran a strip of linen bandage through her fingers. The fabric was soft and yellowed with age and had once been a swaddling band. She knew that the other women were looking at her. Their eyes pricked her like needles. Most of them were de Lacy's camp followers, but a few Ludlow women had remained. No one actually said 'whore' but she knew what they were thinking. She wanted to shout into their scornful faces that Ernalt was going to marry her as soon as Joscelin de Dinan had been defeated—that she would make them pay for their contempt.

'Swaddling bands eh?' One of the women pointed to the linen in Marion's hands. 'Best keep some back, wench, you'll likely be needing them.'

Marion looked haughtily down her nose. Griselde was a knight's wife, but as common as tripe despite her rank. She had protruding teeth and a way of sucking saliva through them that made Marion feel sick.

'Still,' Griselde said with a gesture of her large, mannish hands, 'if you give your knight a big belly, that might tempt him to the altar.'

'He wants us to have a great wedding,' Marion deigned to reply. 'We are waiting until Lord Gilbert has Ludlow for certain.'

The woman snorted. 'If he were as smitten as you seem to think, he'd have had you before a priest on the first night. Instead, he merely had you, didn't he, my love?' She laughed at her own humour.

Marion flushed with rage. 'You'll regret saying that.'

The woman's eyes brightened with scorn. 'No, wench, the regret will be yours. You're not the first to be taken in by comely looks and false words and you'll not be the last—especially where that knave is concerned.'

'That's not true!' Marion cried. 'You arc jealous because you've got a face like a horse and no man will look at you.'

Griselde chuckled at the insult. 'Yes,' she said. 'I may have a face like a horse, but it's the ride that matters, not the looks of the animal. Most men would jump at the chance to straddle a winsome filly like you, but for the long distances they return to the plodding mares with the comfortable saddles and big, childbearing backsides.' She slapped her own hefty rump. 'I've known Ernalt de Lysle since he was a brat setting fire to cats' tails and practising archery on the yard hens. There's one of the village girls has a daughter she claims is his, but he won't acknowledge it. And one of Lady Amabel's maids had to be sent to a nunnery.'

Marion's hands were shaking. 'Did he give either of them a gold ring?' she demanded in a seething voice. 'Did he give either of them a brooch?'

'No, only shortened girdles… but then they didn't have access to a castle.'

'Griselde, that's enough, let her be,' said one of the other women.

Griselde shrugged. 'She needs to hear some home truths.' She looked at Marion. 'Good luck to you, girl. Whether he marries you or not, you'll need it.'

Marion wiped her hands on the swaddling band and tossed it aside. Griselde was just jealous and lying to upset her. Ernalt meant it; he was going to marry her. She would not think about her flux. It was due and would arrive at any day. She recognised the signs from the soreness of her breasts and the bloated feeling in her stomach. She was not with child; she knew she wasn't.

From outside there came a sudden flurry of yelled commands and a stench of fatty smoke gusted through the open shutters of the hall windows. A maidservant screamed in fear and several of the women exchanged nervous glances.

'It has begun.' Griselde scowled round at the others. 'Why are you all looking like frightened mice? This is what sorts the true garrison wives from the limp ninnies.'

Marion glared at Griselde, hating her. Once she was wed to Ernalt and in a position of authority at Ludlow. she would have the sow thrown out.

The stench grew stronger and the first casualty was carried in, an arrow sunk deep in his shoulder.

'Bastards have fired the gates with brushwood and pig fat,' he gasped through bared teeth. 'They're going to break through!'

Marion ran from the hall, uncaring whether the others thought her a 'limp ninny' or not. The vision of the men of Ludlow bursting into the keep and wreaking their vengeance filled her with terror. They wouldn't stay their hands for the sake of her womanhood; nor would Ernalt be spared. She thought of the killing that had gone on when, with her help, Ernalt and de Lacy had stolen into the castle—the shrouded corpses lining the wall by the well—and her stomach rebelled. She clung to the wall near the kitchens, retching. Each breath she drew between spasms was filled with the reek of burning. Her ears were assaulted by the clash of hard battle: shouts of command; the excited rage of battle cries; the screams of wounded men and horses. She straightened and swallowed, trying to stem the convulsing of her stomach. Thrusting her fingers in her ears to dull the sounds of battle, she ran for the safety of the chamber she knew she should never have left. Once within, she bolted the door and pushed a heavy coffer in front of it. The effort bruised her thighs and set deep furrow marks in the palms of her hands but she did not notice. All she cared about was shutting out the world so that it couldn't reach her. When her barricade was done, she crawled to the far side of the bed where the shadows were darkest and curled against the wall in a fetal huddle, a bolster over her head.

On seeing Joscelin's approach, Gilbert de Lacy had sent soldiers to the attack—Welsh and Irish mercenaries. Brunin had judged by some of their outmoded apparel and the preponderance of facial hair and bare legs.

Joscelin had brought up siege machines—rams and perriers and ladders—and also a cart containing barrels of soft, white lard and a pile of rancid, fatty hams. Even in the autumnal cold, the smell was stomach-turning. It had been difficult, dangerous work piling dry furze and barrels of fat against the tightly closed gatehouse doors while arrows whined overhead and de Lacy's men made constant, destructive sorties. Despite the efforts of Joscelin's own archers to keep the men on the battlements pinned down, several de Dinan men were struck. But, finally, the kindling was in place and blazing torches were hurled into the noxious pile to set it alight and burn through an opening to the bailey. Out of arrow range, Joscelin's
Serjeants waited with the iron-shod battering ram. On the wall the defenders frantically tried to hurl cauldrons of water down on the gates, but were vulnerable to Joscelin's bowmen. Such water as struck the spot hissed away to steam and caused the black smoke to boil up as if from the mouth of hell, driving back attacker and defender alike.

When the smoke was on the cusp of dying down, Joscelin sent in the ram to pound the burning timbers. The sound of the great iron head hammering on the oak was like grounded thunder and the head of the ram itself grew as hot as a sword blade on a smith's anvil. The solid boom reverberated through Brunin's body. Jester's ears flickered and he sidled. Brunin drew his sword and licked his lips. When the gates gave the fighting would begin in earnest.

'I never thought when I saw those gates hung that I would be the one assaulting them,' Joscelin said as he swung into the saddle and adjusted the wyvern shield on his left arm.