Shadows and Strongholds (17 page)

FitzWarin lifted his shoulders. 'What news had you last heard?'

Joscelin glanced to the young Earl of Hereford. 'Roger sent us the message that the Prince had narrowly escaped defeat at Devizes but was whole and still strong of purpose.'

'So he is,' Roger said. 'He knows that his time is coming and Stephen knows that his own is running out.'

Sybilla leaned forward, a frown between her brows. 'But there is more to this matter, or you would not be avoiding my gaze.'

FitzWarin cleared his throat. 'There is no point in sweetening the truth, madam. Prince Henry is returning to Normandy. Indeed, he has probably sailed already.'

'Returning to Normandy?' Joscelin sat forward too, looking alarmed. 'Was his cornering at Devizes more serious than we thought?'

FitzWarin shook his head. 'It was a damned hard fight,' he said, 'but no worse than some I've been in, and the Prince has played a man's part throughout. But he needs more money and men, and they are better to be found in Normandy. His resources are so stretched that the best he can obtain from the situation is to be chased from pillar to post while Eustace and Stephen follow him, burning all in their wake. For England's sake, as much as his own, he has to leave.'

'And how long will it be before he returns with reinforcements?' Sybilla's generous mouth pursed with displeasure. 'How much longer do we have to live on promises and watch the smoke rise from our burning fields?'

FitzWarin narrowed his eyes at Sybilla's forthright remark.

'The Prince is not abandoning us; he will return as soon as he can,' Roger said emphatically. 'These are the final throws of the dice. Men have seen that Henry is no green boy, but has the maturity to govern like a king.'

Sybilla raised her eyebrows and Roger flushed beneath her stare, but held his ground.

'Henry has been in England for almost a year and Stephen has been unable to destroy him. Nor will he now'

Joscelin sighed in resignation. 'In truth I had expected as much. If nothing else, we are well prepared. All I hope is that Mortimer and de Lacy do not see Henry's leaving as a signal to redouble their attacks on Ludlow.'

'They will not dare when they have the full might of Hereford to contend with,' Roger said. 'Before, my troops were split between those following the Prince and those in my garrison, but now I can bring the full brunt to bear on anyone who dares to think us prey for the taking.'

Joscelin grunted assent and looked a trifle more sanguine. Sybilla's expression remained tense, but she allowed the subject to lie for the nonce.

'I have some good news to take home to my wife and mother,' FitzWarin announced as Brunin went round replenishing the cups. His gaze lingered on his son. 'Before he left, Prince Henry enfeoffed me with two estates in Gloucestershire to hold of him in chief. Only a quarter the size of Whittington, but fertile and bringing rich profit.' Pride and pleasure filled his voice—as well they might. In addition to being an acknowledgement of his loyalty, each acquisition was another step up the rung of FitzWarin ambition. He waited for the murmured congratulations to finish before adding. 'And Eve sent word that she is again with child—due at midsummer.'

Joscelin smiled. 'That too is good news,' he said, "although you will need to obtain lands hand over fist to support your brood.'

FitzWarin grinned agreement. 'At least I have had no dowries to find thus far, but my mother seems to think that it will be a girl this time and daughters are always useful for making alliances through marriage.' He looked at Brunin. 'Would you like a sister, lad?'

Brunin tilted his head and wondered if he should jest. The news was no great surprise to him. For most of his life his mother had either been expecting a child or recently delivered of one. 'Better than a brother,' he dared, and was relieved when his father and Lord Joscelin laughed.

In the bedchamber, Hawise opened the shutters and peered out on the moonlit ward. The churned snow resembled hard-beaten egg-white and deepening frost glittered on the surface. It looked beautiful and eerie and she had half a mind to sneak out and walk through it. The other half knew it was nonsense. She would never win past the maids and the deep cold would shred her lungs.

'Close the window, you're bringing a chill into the room and the night air is bad for you,' Sibbi said querulously. She had recently begun her fluxes and at the time of her bleeding was irritable beyond belief for one of usually so sweet a nature. With a sigh, Hawise drew in the shutters and latched them. The candle guttered at the sudden puff of air, then steadied.

Marion was sitting on her bed, humming softly to her straw doll. It was swaddled with strips of linen left over from the cutting of a gown and its face was made of more linen sewn around a ball of compacted fleece. She didn't play with it as often these days, but still indulged in a nightly ritual of singing it a lullaby. Her expression was thoughtful.

'Brunin's father will be a rich man now,' she broke off her singing to remark as she laid the drill in a small basket lined with sheepskin.

Hawise sat on her own bed. 'What of it?'

Marion half shrugged. 'If I marry into a rich family I can have lots of jewels and dresses and drink from silver cups.'

'You want to marry Brunin, don't you?'

Marion lifted her chin. 'I might.'

The idea of a betrothal between her father's youngest squire and Marion filled Hawise with dismay. She knew that in the fullness of time all of them would be betrothed, but her mother had always said that they need not worry about such things yet. She said that she wanted them to be women when the choice was discussed, not little girls. Hawise occasionally thought about it, but it was something far off and adult. When Sibbi had begun her fluxes, the matter had resurfaced, but not with any urgency.

'You can get married when you are twelve years old,' Marion added. 'And I was twelve last month.'

'Yes, but boys have to be fourteen,' Sibbi pointed out. 'Besides, you haven't started your fluxes yet. Mama and Papa won't think of marrying you to anyone for a long time.'

Marion thrust out her lower lip and looked stubborn.

'You've plenty of dresses now,' Hawise said frostily. 'And you drink out of silver cups on special days. There are lots of families richer than Brunin's.'

'Yes, but he's related to King Stephen and Prince Henry,' Marion said grandly. 'He's got royal blood.'

'Well then, his family can do much better than you,' Hawise snapped, feeling both pleasure and guilt at her own spite.

Marion flung her a murderous stare through narrowed lids before turning her back with a flounce.

When Sybilla came to bid the girls goodnight, it was to a room that bore the chill of a squabble. She had encountered such atmospheres before and thought little of it… but it was several days before there was a thaw between Hawise and Marion, and it left its mark. As they were growing up, the small rubs of childhood were becoming harsher frictions.

Brunin peered into the cradle at his new sister. Today had been her official christening, although she had been baptised at her birthing a month earlier. Her name was Emmeline and like him she was dark of hair and eye.

Joscelin had taken advantage of a lull in the skirmishing along the Marches to attend the festivities at Whittington. A christening, being a celebration of life, was a perfect opportunity to renew hope for the future.

Brunin had no particular interest in babies; they belonged to the world of the bower and the nursery, which he was rapidly leaving behind. However, since this was his first sister and since everyone said that she resembled him, he had paid more attention to her than he would have done a new brother—although he still could not understand why the visiting women and girls were so dewy-eyed. Sibbi and Lady Sybilla were adoring and Marion positively obsessed. Only Hawise had shown some sense of balance and even she had been utterly-fascinated when the wet nurse had arrived to put the baby to suck and change her swaddling.

Marion joined him. She had been keeping vigil by the cradle for most of the day and had only yielded her watch when a visit to the garderobe became a necessity. 'I wish we could take her back to Ludlow,' she said wistfully.

Brunin grimaced at the notion. 'She would probably cry all the way.'

'Don't you like her?'

He shrugged. 'Yes,' he said, but without strong conviction. A baby was a baby. It slept, it bawled, it sucked from the tit, it shat itself and bawled again.

Suddenly Marion bowed her head and sank in a demure curtsey. Turning, Brunin found himself eye to eye with his grandmother. Following a recent stint of growth, he was now taller than her, but her blue stare still cut him down.

'The girl knows not to bandy looks with her elders,' she said. 'So why do you still dwell in ignorance?'

Brunin studied his feet and muttered an apology.

'Joscelin de Dinan seems to think you are making good progress, but then perhaps he is easily satisfied.'

Brunin clenched his fists. She had paid him little attention thus far and he had hoped to escape the visit without wounds from her tongue. Now he realised that such a hope was futile. She would have her say, and it would be all the more acute for nigh on two years of waiting.

Mellette turned to Marion. 'You, child,' she said sharply. 'Are you one of Joscelin de Dinan's daughters?'

'No, my lady. Like Brunin, I am being fostered,' Marion said in a sweet, deferential voice.

'Indeed?' Mellette looked her up and down. 'What's your name?'

'Marion de la Bruere, my lady'

Brunin's grandmother considered the reply with a speculative look in her eyes, said, 'Hmph,' and went on her way.

Brunin breathed out and unclenched his fists. His stomach felt as if it was full of cold marrow jelly.

Marion was gazing in Mellette's wake, her own expression thoughtful.

'Girls with red hair are unlucky,' Ralf taunted.

Hawise glared at him. She had taken a hearty dislike to Brunin's brother who had returned from his training with the Earl of Derby for the baby's christening. He was tall and fair, his looks and nature reminding her of a young mastiff. 'That's not true.'

'It is. everyone knows it They're full of temper and not to be trusted.'

'Prince Henry's got red hair. So has my father.'

Ralf flicked a glance towards the dais table where her father sat at his ease, talking with FitzWarin and other male guests. 'Yes, but they're men. You're just a girl…' He turned to the younger boy at his side for support. Richard FitzWarin looked uncertain, but gave a half-nod.

Hawise drew herself up. And you are a mannerless lout,' she snapped. 'No wonder Brunin was glad to come to Ludlow if he had to suffer you at home.'

'Hah, we all had to suffer him,' Ralf sneered. 'He's useless.'

'He's worth ten of you,' Hawise retorted, her complexion brightening with anger. 'If my father could hear you, he'd take a whip to your hide.'

'And how's he going to hear? I suppose you are going to carry tales to him like a spoiled little milksop?' His lip curled with contempt and his gaze flashed to Brunin who had just walked within earshot. 'Has he told you yet about the time he pissed his hose in terror of Gilbert de Lacy's squires?'