Shadows and Strongholds (66 page)

'I recall that de Dinan changed sides too,' Henry said with a sharp look at the Bishop.

Foliot shrugged. 'Only the once, and in your lady mother's favour. You know his loyalty, sire.'

'I know that while they are warring with each other, they are not serving me,' Henry said tightly. 'You were right to bring this to my attention. I will deal with the matter once and for all.'

'Sire,' Brunin said, knowing that for better or worse the brake was about to be applied to the runaway cart.

'And have one of the chirugeons look at your wound.'

'My wife is here, sire, she will tend to it.'

Henry nodded and made to move on, then he paused and looked at Brunin. 'I will be fair,' he said, 'but I can promise nothing.'

Brunin bowed and the royal entourage continued its scything path down the nave towards the great cathedral doors.

'What did he mean by that?' Rail asked, frowning.

Going to one of the benches at the side of the nave, Brunin eased himself down. 'He meant,' he said bleakly, 'that we might not get Ludlow back.'

A midwife from Ludlow town had been called to attend the birth of one of the soldiers' women. The ordeal over and the mother safely delivered of a son, the midwife was now attending another summons in one of the private chambers. A few questions, a deft examination of Marion's belly and she stood away from the bed.

'Well?' Marion questioned, anxiously wringing her hands.

'Mistress, you are indeed with child. You have all the signs.'

Even though Marion had suspected the worst, the confirmation sent cold panic flooding through her limbs. 'You are certain?'

The woman looked affronted. 'I have followed my calling since the days of the first Henry. I am certain, my lady.' She folded her hands loosely in front of her own stomach, rounded with a fondness for ale and the march of time. 'I judge that the babe will be born next year, in the summer.'

Marion sat up, icy sweat dewing her palms, brows and armpits. 'What must I do?'

'In what way, mistress?'

Marion swallowed. 'M-my mother died in childbed. I don't want… I don't want that to happen to me.'

'You are not your mother, mistress,' the woman said tactfully, keeping to herself the observation that Marion was as narrow as a weasel through hip and flank. Unless the child was small, she would not have an easy time. 'You must rest all that you can and avoid heavy foods.' She pursed her lips. 'You should also pray to St Margaret and make offerings in her name.'

Marion nodded, absorbing the detail with greedy desperation.

'Of course, should you wish to bring on your flux, there are certain herbs that will… regulate your menses,' the woman hinted. 'But once you reach the stage where the infant quickens, then it becomes too dangerous, and a mortal sin.'

Marion chewed her lip. 'What what will happen if I take the herbs now?' she asked nervously.

The midwife shrugged. You will suffer vomiting and severe cramps in the belly as your womb purges its contents.'

'There will be blood?'

'Like a flux, but heavier. It is not as dangerous as childbirth, but it still remains a risk. On rare occasions the bleeding does not stop.'

Marion turned white, as if the words had the power to drain all the blood from her body. For an instant she had thought there might be an escape, but it was a blind alley. Besides, this was Ernalt's child growing in her womb: his heir. He would have to hasten the marriage now. All she had to do was live through the ordeal of the birth. 'Help me choose,' she whispered.

The midwife withdrew slightly. 'I cannot help you do that, mistress. The decision must be yours.'

'But I cannot—' She broke off as Ernalt stormed into the room.

'Pack the baggage chests,' he commanded, ignoring the midwife as just another servant. 'The King's officials are in the hall and we've to ride to Gloucester.' His features were flushed and agitated.

'Gloucester?' Her eyes widened. 'Why?'

'Because that's where the King is,' he snapped. 'Make haste. We're leaving now. Make sure you pack my court tunic. I've got to go. Lord Gilbert's waiting for me.' He banged out again.

Dismissing the midwife, Marion rose from the her! and went to Ernalt's travelling coffer. She had never been to court before, had only heard about it from the lips of troubadours and occasional guests who had attended there. Even Sybilla with her important connections had never been. Perhaps Ernalt would marry her at court before the King and all the high barons of the land. That would be an occasion indeed, a glittering moment and the fulfilment of her best dreams. Her hand descended to her belly. She was fecund with Ernalt's child. A son, it would be a son, the birth would be easy and she would be a great lady. It was all going to come true.

She set to packing the coffer, her mood swinging violently between euphoric hope and terrified despair.

The trap door squeaked open again. Joscelin eyed it with trepidation. He could tell from the quality of light in the window-slit that it wasn't time for one of Griselde's pungent visits to assess the state of his health. She had taken a fancy to him. He had tried being rude, but that only encouraged her. Refusing to respond meant that he had to listen to her verbal assault without the satisfaction of retort and it by no means deflected her. Her response to civility was a simpering familiarity that chilled his blood. Clenching his fists, he rose to his feet, putting distance between the bed and himself.

No one descended the ladder. Instead, he received a command, phrased as an invitation, to come up. Joscelin rubbed his grizzled chin. Either he had been ransomed and was about to be set free, in which case he was probably now a landless pauper, or de Lacy had tired of keeping him prisoner and had decided to execute him. Neither were reasons to set foot on the steps, but he had no doubt that if he refused they would come down and get him.

He applied himself to the rungs and was not pleased to discover that his legs were trembling. His ribs had begun to heal, but they still twinged sharply as he climbed, and he had to narrow his eyes against the increasing brightness of the light. He was like a mole, he thought, squinting out into the open, perhaps to meet the vicious blow of a club.

Two guards hauled him up the last few steps and into the ground floor chamber. There was no sign of de Lacy, but the knight de Lysle was in the room, together with a pair of squires and a barber. To one side a bathtub steamed, and the smell of infused herbs wafted in Joscelin's nostrils. Mercifully the dreaded Griselde was absent. He absorbed the scene with relief and curiosity. Obviously he wasn't about to die, otherwise there would be no need to spruce him up and a priest would have been present.

'You are summoned to answer before the King,' said de Lysle, looking as if his mouth were full of vinegar. He gestured to the bathtub. 'In mercy my lord has chosen to give you your dignity'

Joscelin snorted. 'In "mercy",' he scoffed. 'What you mean is that if I am brought before the King looking as I do, it will reflect badly on my gaolers and generate dangerous sympathy.'

'Read it as you will, my lord, it matters not.'

Knowing that he would be forcibly stripped and scrubbed if he did not comply, Joscelin stood passively while the squires removed his sweat-stained, filthy garments. 'So, the King has come to Ludlow?' he asked.

De Lysle hesitated for a moment. 'The King has sent his summons from Gloucester.'

'And am I summoned alone, or does Lord Gilbert ride to Gloucester to answer to the King as well?'

De Lysle gave him a cold look. 'Lord Gilbert does indeed ride to Gloucester,' he said, 'but to do homage for his new castle.'

Joscelin returned the knight's gaze in similar wise. Whatever Henry intended for Ludlow, he would not entrust such a declaration to a common messenger. It was too important.

He stepped into the tub and the hot water stung his flesh. Gazing down at himself, he saw the ravages of time and battle. There were thin white scars, and newer ones, pink and red. His muscles might still be iron-hard, but the skin no longer clung to their contours: it was folded over them in narrow, crêpy pleats. One more battle, he told himself. One last battle to fight.

Marion disliked riding and it was a long time since she had sat on a horse. Usually she had opted to travel in the women's baggage wain, but since there wasn't one of those and since Ernalt hadn't wanted to share his saddle, she was forced to ride on her own. Her mount was a hard-mouthed brown mare that kept wandering out of line and trying to crop grass at the roadside. Twice Marion had almost fallen off and she was mortified by the mingled amusement and irritation of the better riders.

She wanted to speak to Ernalt but he was travelling ahead with the men and she was at the back of the line, relegated to a place just ahead of the servants and baggage ponies. It was not until they stopped for the night in Hereford that she was able to talk to him, but he was distracted and bad-tempered.

'What is it?' he demanded impatiently, casting a glance over his shoulder towards his companions, who were talking around the fire. They were staying in Hereford Castle, which was currently held by a royal caretaker. Ludlow too was in royal hands for the nonce. As Gilbert de Lacy had ridden out a royal garrison had ridden in and occupied the battle scarred wall walks.

'I… I have some important news.' She had envisaged telling him in the garden at Ludlow. or a sun-flooded chamber with birdsong cascading through the open shutters. Not here in haste and impatience with the other knights laughing in the background. But if she was to be wed before the court, he needed to know.

'Yes?' he prompted.

'I'm… I'm with child. The… the midwife says I am.'

He looked her slowly up and down. Are you indeed?' A slow, almost smug grin spread across his face as he took her by the waist and pulled her against him. She felt the heat of his hand through her dress and the hard pressure of palm and fingers. There was a gleam in his eye like that of a barnyard rooster about to tread a hen. He looked over his shoulder again, but now she knew that he was considering where he could find some privacy to couple with her.

'One of the knight's wives said that you have got women with child before.'

He shrugged. 'What of it? All men sow wild oats, but who knows if a furrow has been ploughed and sown by others.'

'This child is yours,' she said swiftly.

He gave a low chuckle. 'Sweetheart, I know that. If I thought you'd been spreading your legs elsewhere, I'd kill you here and now and castrate your lover. You are mine.' His forefinger probed the cleft of her buttocks. Mortified lest someone should see, she tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast, and ground his loins against hers.

'I thought…' She swallowed. 'I thought that when we reach Gloucester, we could be wed. You said it should be a grand occasion and what could be more grand than before the King and the court?' She hated the notes of anxiety and pleading in her own voice 'And now that I am with child…'

The urgency of his movements ceased.

'We both have our court gowns,' she continued hastily, 'and the matter of Ludlow is to be resolved. There could not be a better time.'