Shadows and Strongholds (9 page)

'The truth,' Joscelin said with both humour and warning in his voice.

Hugh lowered his eyes and fixed them on Brunin. 'Not very often, my lord. And only when I deserved it… even if I did not think so at the time.' He winked at Brunin and ducked the playful cuff that Joscelin aimed in his direction.

'That is not to say that I am as soft as new butter,' Joscelin said. 'If I treat you fairly, I expect the best in return. And the same goes for everyone under my rule.'

Brunin nodded and tried to look knowing, although he felt out of his depth. The easy attitude between Joscelin and his squires was like a new language… one that he very much desired to learn, but was not sure how to go about doing so.

Joscelin released his grip on the swordbelt and again directed Brunin to the coffer. Brunin laid it beside the scabbard, and lightly touched the gilding on the pattern of stamped lozenges. When he became a knight he wanted a belt like that.

When he turned again, the squires were helping Joscelin to remove his hauberk, the weight of which would have been too much for Brunin. Between them, the youths carried and draped the mail shirt over the coffer near the window. Brunin received Joscelin's spurs and placed them beside the sword and belt while the squires dealt with the quilted undertunic that Joscelin wore beneath his mail.

Now Joscelin was down to his tunic proper, of green wool with detailed embroidery of red and blue. A fabulous round brooch closed the neck opening, amber and garnets glowing like honey and blood amidst the gold.

'Well, young man, am I fit to face your grandmother, do you think?' Joscelin raised his hands and raked them through his hair, leaving deep feather marks in the glossy-russet. His variegated grey eyes were agleam and Brunin was unsure whether to smile or not. Playing safe, he murmured a dutiful response.

'You need not wear your cloak inside,' Joscelin said. 'Take it off and put it over there with mine.'

Brunin raised his hand to the pin, and then remembered why he was supposed to keep it on. His throat didn't hurt, but from the reaction of the adults, he knew that it must look worse than it was. 'I'm… my mother said.

'And I know why she said it. I have seen the bruises; there is no point in hiding them from me.'

Slowly, a little unwillingly, Brunin removed the garment and the good humour vanished from Lord Joscelin's eyes as he studied the marks. 'They are fresh,' he said. 'How did you come by them?'

Brunin shrugged. 'I had an argument with my brother,' he said reluctantly. His natural reticence had been exacerbated by both his grandmother, who never listened to his side of a story, and a subtler conditioning that suggested only weaklings told tales.

'Your brother did this?' Joscelin lifted his brows. 'Which one?'

'Ralf, my lord. But it doesn't matter.'

'It doesn't?' The eyebrows remained aloft.

Brunin shook his head. 'Not now, because I kicked him in the stones.'

Joscelin rubbed his hand over his mouth. 'Ah, now I understand why he was hunched over in the courtyard like an old man.'

Brunin compressed his lips. Behind Joscelin, Hugh and Adam were openly grinning and their expressions were so infectious that Brunin almost choked.

'Well,' said Joscelin, 'it seems to me like tit for tat. Doubtless if someone was trying to throttle me, brother or not, I'd kick him in the stones, too. Once you start your training, we'll deal with all the things you can do to protect yourself against an opponent bent on killing you… although it seems to me that you have made an excellent start.'

The door opened and FitzWarin strode into the room in his usual vigorous manner that made him look as if he was being blown from behind. Then he stopped, hands to his belt, and looked at the rare smile lighting his son's face, and the humour glinting in Joscelin's eyes.

'Is everything well?' he asked.

'Very well indeed.' Joscelin gave Brunin a conspiratorial look. 'I think my new squire is going to be a great asset to my household.'

'Of course,' said Mellette, 'the boy is not without some training. He might not be able to carve meat and cut trenchers, but he can pour wine well enough and set the high table.'

Joscelin nodded. 'From what I have seen, he is quick to learn,' he murmured. 'He does not chatter like a magpie, but perhaps that is all to the good. His silence does not mean that he is dull-witted. Far from it.' He was seated at the dais table in the great hall with Mellette one side of him and Eve FitzWarin the other. An appetising aroma wafted from the dishes set at intervals along the board. There was boiled wheat delicately flavoured with almond milk, soft white bread, and a spicy fruit and venison stew. FitzWarin's chaplain had blessed the food and folk were setting to with a will.

Mellette gave him a narrow look. 'None of my grandsons is dull-witted,' she said.

'Indeed not, my lady. Only sometimes a quiet child is seen as being thus, when in fact he is absorbing knowledge like a cloth soaking up water.'

'When he was smaller and just learning to talk, he would ask questions faster than I could answer them,' Eve volunteered in her soft voice. ' "What" and "why" were constantly on his tongue.' She glanced almost wistfully at Brunin where he sat at a side table on the dais between Joscelin's two squires.

Joscelin chuckled. 'My youngest daughter is still like that.'

Mellette's lips pursed. 'Would you serve me with some of the venison, my lord,' she said, changing the subject, reminding Joscelin of his manners.

Joscelin applied himself to sweetening the older woman. Probably her face would crack before she allowed a genuine smile to cross it, and he did not attempt that far. But he pandered to her desire to be treated like a lady of the royal court rather than a dowager living in a timber keep on the edges of Norman rule. Under his deference and subtle flattery, she thawed a little. The lines between her brows relaxed. She preened and made elaborate hand gestures as she spoke, emphasising the wealth of gold on her fingers. Joscelin silently hoped that the meal was not going to be one of those interminable affairs that lasted all night. He could do without that particular aspect of court life. He was biding his time, waiting the moment when he and FitzWarin could sit in the private chamber, cups in hands, feet pointing towards the fire, heels resting on the snoozing deerhounds. There were matters other than the fostering of FitzWarin's heir to be discussed, but the dinner table was not the place.

Finally the meal drew to a close and Mellette signalled for the fingerbowls and napkins to be brought forward. She beckoned peremptorily at Brunin, indicating that he should perform this task for his parents and their guest.

Brunin had been lulled into a false sense of security by the presence of Joscelin's squires. They had been talking to him cheerfully throughout the meal and sharing dishes with him as if he had long been of their number. Hugh had been telling him all about Ludlow and what his duties would entail and Adam had been adding amusing asides and remarks. He was never to leave Lord Joscelin's shoes on the floor because one of the dogs had a habit of chewing them to pieces. If he saw Mistress Sibbi approaching with a pile of bandages, he was to run for his life. Ela the cook's wife baked the best griddle cakes along the Marches and if you were nice to her, she'd give you one.

'Hah, if you're nice to Wulfrun, the laundry wench, she'll give you one too,' Hugh said.

Adam nudged him. 'Yes, but he's too young yet. Save that for when he's got the wherewithal to do something about it.'

The way the youth's eyebrows were waggling, Brunin knew that they weren't really talking about griddle cakes. Kissing probably, which wasn't on his agenda of interests.

'I think your grandmother wants you,' Hugh murmured, sobering.

'Looks as if you're getting fingerbowl duty,' Adam said.

'That's one of the first ones. If you spill it, it's only water—it's not as if you're wasting good wine.'

The warm feeling abandoned Brunin as if someone had snatched off his cloak on a midwinter day. He rose to his feet and approached a trestle on the edge of the dais where bowls of clean water and napkins were laid out. He could feel his grandmother's eyes boring into him like hot needles and knew that she was expecting perfection of him. The pressure of such knowledge made his hand tremble as he draped a napkin over his arm and lifted the bowl of beaten silver.

Approaching the high table he walked with deliberate care, certain that at any moment the contents of the bowl were going to slop over the sides, or the napkin drop from his arm into the floor rushes. His heart was racing and he felt queasy. The journey from trestle to table seemed to take for ever, but finally he stood before his grandmother.

'Guests first,' she said, her eyes censorious. 'Surely I do not have to tell you that.'

Stiffly, Brunin presented the fingerbowl to Joscelin, who washed his hands and dried them on the proffered napkin. 'You'll have plenty of occasion to learn,' he said easily. 'There will come a time when you can handle the ceremonies without even having to think about them… Your grandmother now.' With a smile he indicated the frowning old woman.

Courage bolstered, Brunin picked up the bowl and took two paces to the side to offer it to Mellette. Unfortunately, the second of those paces was over the rump of one of the hounds that had settled under the table to wait for scraps, its presence concealed by the drape of the cloth. Brunin tripped forward, his midriff connecting with the edge of the table. The water in the fingerbowl flew towards his grandmother in a bright silver arc, drenching her bosom and lower face in a great wet slap. She sucked a breath over her voice in a crow of shock, her eyes as wide as bridle rings, then gasped, her mouth working like a trout's. The dais table became a frozen tableau of people poised and staring in horror.

Spinning on his heel, Brunin fled, thrusting past the servants, ducking and avoiding an attempt by one of the stewards to seize his scruff, pushing past the startled usher and bursting out into the cold autumn air. The duty guards ceased resting on their spear hafts and looked at him in surprise as he exploded from the hall In panic he ran from them and away from the domestic buildings towards the storage barns and stables in the bailey. There were plenty of hiding places and, if he was lucky, they might not find him for hours.

Hens scattered before his flying feet. A pair of doves clapped skywards, winging for the safety of the shingled cote roof. He ducked into a barn near the wooden palisade that protected the ladies' garden from the depredations of the bailey's poultry and fowl. Lord Joscelin's horses were stabled there and the animals lifted startled heads from mangers and hay nets to watch him run past into the deepest shadows at the end of the barn, and there bury himself under a mound of bedding.

His breath roared in his ears and, beyond that sound, he could hear the movement of the horses, the swish of their tails, the stamp of their hooves. He bent his head against his upraised knees, his eyes screwed shut. There was a superficial darkness, but behind it, in merciless clarity, he could clearly see the moment when the contents of the fingerbowl had dashed across his grandmother's face. He imagined the sting of her rod across the backs of his hands, but that didn't matter as much as the fear that Lord Joscelin might not want him now and that he would be forced to stay at Whittington and shamed into the bargain.

One of the horses gave a low nicker and his stomach clenched as he heard a man's voice speak softly in response. Peering through the hay, he saw Joscelin de Dinan standing beside the roan cob, his hand on its neck. He appeared to be alone, and his expression was calm. Brunin deliberated. Should he stay where he was, hold his breath and hope that Lord Joscelin would go away, or should he stand up and make a clean breast of it? The lord of Ludlow glanced briefly at the bedding pile, but his gaze did not linger. He sauntered over to a large black pony and clicked his tongue to it, acting as if he had all the time in the world and that it was usual to spend it in a stable.

Summoning his courage, Brunin unfurled from his hiding place and emerged in a small eruption of hay.

'I wondered how long it would take,' Joscelin said. 'When I was a boy I used to lie for hours outside my father's warren, waiting for the coneys to poke their noses out of their burrows.'

Brunin swallowed. He did not know how to respond, or even if he was expected to.

'There is no need to look so worried,' Joscelin continued in the same easy tone. 'I have no intention of dragging you back to the hall. That would be the worst thing to do in the circumstances. I told them that since you were going to be my squire, I would deal with you.'

'Are you going to whip me?'

'What?' Joscelin's gaze widened. His eyes were the opaque gold-grey of field flints. 'God save you, child, of course I am not going to whip you. What happened was an accident… I hope.'

Brunin licked his lips. 'I tripped over my grandmother's hound. It always hides under the tablecloth.'

'Well then, it is not your fault.' The man looked to be almost on the edge of laughter. 'Unfortunate, I grant you, but not your fault. Gome here.'

As wary as a cat, Brunin approached. When Joscelin reached out to pluck stalks of hay from his hair and tunic, he almost flinched, and Joscelin's levity vanished.

'You have suffered rough handling, haven't you?' he said. 'And I can see that it's going to take longer than a day to alter things. If I were your father I'd…' He shook his head and seemed to change his mind about what he had been going to say. 'I suppose I have that chance now, don't I, and so do you. No use crying over a spilled fingerbowl.'

Brunin gave him a questioning look. He wasn't going to be whipped, that much was obvious, but he was not sure what Lord Joscelin was talking about.

'Tonight you will sleep on a pallet in my room with Hugh and Adam, and I will talk to your grandmother. She will have nothing further to say to you about the misfortune just now'. His expression hardened. 'I give you my promise on that.'

'Thank you, my lord,' Brunin said, feeling relieved and grateful, but still uncertain of his ground.