Shadows and Strongholds (39 page)

Almost retching, Brunin forced the porridge down. The messenger sat close by with his own bowl of frumenty and a cup of ale.

'Your father said it was nothing, he refused to rest, and he grew worse,' the man said. 'Now he's raving out of his wits and they brought the priest to him yester sunset just as I was setting out.'

Brunin pushed his bowl away, the bottom third still filled with the boiled wheat, knowing he could not stomach another mouthful. 'Is anyone else sick?'

'No, sir. Your lady mother has been unwell, but then—' He broke off and attended to his food.

'But then what? Tell me!'

'But then she's with child again, sir, and suffering with sickness as women do.'

Brunin thrust to his feet and immediately felt as if someone had shot a crossbow bolt through his skull. He paused for a moment, closed his eyes and summoned his strength. The thought of his father dying made him fed as if a vast, dark chasm were opening beneath his feet, and deep within it, darker than the darkness of loss, was the knowledge that as the heir he would have to take the FitzWarin barony into his hands and rule it.

He barely made it outside the hall before he was violently ill. The spasms ripped through him like the strokes of a lash, dragging him inside out, flaying him raw.

'Best to get it over with now,' Joscelin said, and he felt the solid brace of the older man's hand on his shoulder. 'I won't ask if you are fit to ride; I can see you are not, but sometimes a man has to push his will beyond his limits.'

Slowly Brunin straightened. His stomach felt as if there were a fist inside it, tightening, clenching, drawing every part of his being downwards.

'You have the strength,' Joscelin said compassionately and, taking Brunin's right hand, placed a pair of spurs in it. 'I was saving these for your knighting,' he went on, 'but yesterday you earned the right to wear them and call yourself a knight.'

The words brought a sudden pressure to the back of
Brunin's eyes. He looked down at the spurs through a glitter of moisture, and then up at Joscelin. The grey gaze was knowing and filled with concern; the mouth held its natural curve so that it looked as if Joscelin were smiling, even though he wasn't.

'Put them on,' Joscelin said gently. 'And you had better take my old sword from the weapons chest. The roads are not infested with outlaws as they were in King Stephen's time, but there are still dangers out there, not least from the Welsh.'

'Not least,' Brunin agreed shakily as he managed to rally. Stooping, he fastened the spurs to his heels. When he rose again, Joscelin clasped him to his breast. 'Godspeed,' he said.

Brunin returned the embrace, clinging for a moment to Joscelin's solid bulk, then pushed himself away and headed for the tower to fetch the sword. When he arrived, Hawise was there before him, her father's spare swordbelt in her hands. Brunin swallowed. He was not going to be sick again.

'Let me buckle it on for you,' she said.

'I can manage. I've done it often enough as a squire,' he answered gracelessly, without meeting her eyes, and held out his hands for the belt.

'Then let me be your squire now.'

He said nothing but allowed her to kneel and pass the belt around his waist, to fasten the ties with nimble fingers. His own would have fumbled at the task this morning and, although her presence was unwanted, he realised she was doing him a favour. While she worked, he stared blankly at the wall.

'I want to mend what happened yesterday,' she said in a low voice as she brought the scabbard and laced it to the swordbelt. 'But I cannot do it alone.'

His head was thundering, making thought and understanding impossible. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Forget everything that was said. Put it behind us.'

Brunin grimaced as a particularly vicious bolt of pain stabbed through his skull. Rising from her knees, she faced him. 'I don't want us to part in bad blood.' She raised her hand to touch his scratched face. 'I am sorry'

Brunin shook his head, then wished he hadn't. 'My wits are so bludgeoned that I forget my own name just now,' he said. Raising his hand to cover hers, he gave it a brief squeeze. 'Pray for my father," he said, 'and for me.'

As a way of mending the breach between them it was a feeble rope, but it was a rope none the less and Hawise grasped it with both hands. 'Of course I will,' she whispered. 'God speed your journey' Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his other cheek, not quite venturing his lips. Nor did he offer them, for his mind, such as existed beyond the thundercloud filling most of his skull, was occupied with thoughts of his journey and what awaited him at the other end.

Marion entered the prisoners' chamber with two maids in tow and a serving boy bearing a breakfast of frumenty and ale for de Lacy and his knight. Outside, Brunin was preparing to leave for Whittington and his stricken father, but Marion had more important things to do than bid him farewell.

Despite spending a sleepless night, she had dressed carefully in a gown of blue linen, and braided her hair with silk ribbons of the same speedwell hue. She had cleaned her teeth with a hazel twig and chewed cardamom seeds to perfume her breath. She walked with small, light steps so that her footfalls barely sounded on the rush-strewn floor.

Marion curtseyed demurely to Gilbert de Lacy who was standing by the window, staring out across the river. Bidding the serving lad leave the food dishes on the single coffer in the room, she went to de Lysle's bedside.

He was warm to the touch and his face and throat gleamed with sweat. Marion bade one of the women bring her a bowl of tepid water and a cloth. She asked him how he was faring, her voice demure and sweet.

His eyelids flickered and Marion admired the heavy, dark-gold lashes. Although he had a low fever, his eyes were lucid and they met hers with recognition. 'I have felt better, demoiselle,' he said and submitted his wrist to her examination.

The flesh surrounding her stitches was puffy red and hot to the touch, but there was neither smell nor sign of the inflammation spreading further up the arm, for which she was greatly relieved, and said so.

He grunted. 'I suppose I must be grateful for small mercies.' His tone was petulant, but Marion forgave him, for he looked so vulnerable like a little boy clad in the bones of a grown man.

He took the bowl of frumenty she offered him, but, although he was clumsy, refused her offer to feed him. 'Why should you care if I starve or not?' he asked brusquely. 'You seem tender of my welfare, yet I am an enemy'

Marion lowered her lashes. 'You are not my enemy, sir,' she murmured. 'I remember you kindly from the fair at Shrewsbury where your lord and Sir Joscelin made a truce. I know that it is broken now, but I was bidden to attend to your needs, while you are kept here, and…' Her voice dropped to a whisper. '… and I find no hardship in doing so.'

Ernalt exchanged glances with Gilbert, who had turned from the window and was gazing intently at Marion like a hawk watching small movements in a wheat field. The Baron made a terse, circumspect gesture.

'Indeed,' de Lysle replied a trifle more courteously, 'it is no hardship in turn to be tended by so fair a guardian—although a cage is still a cage.'

'I can do nothing about that,' Marion said defensively. 'Mayhap not. Besides'—he gestured to his injured arm—'a bird with a damaged wing cannot fly far. Better the cage… for the nonce at least.' He ate the frumenty to the last scrap and, thanking her, handed back the bowl. It was no coincidence on his part that their fingers touched. The contact brought a flush of scarlet to Marion's cheeks.

The rushes on the floor crackled behind her. Flustered, Marion turned to Gilbert de Lacy who stood watching her, a horn of ale in his hand. His face was marked blue and yellow with bruises and the intensity of his stare frightened her. 'Has Lord Joscelin said anything to you about us?'

'No, my lord. Indeed, he would not.'

'And what of Lady Sybilla?' Gilbert demanded harshly. 'Surely she speaks to her women?'

Marion shook her head and rose to her feet. The melting feelings engendered by Ernalt de Lysle's proximity vanished like windblown smoke. 'Not of you, my lord,' she said, remembering that Sybilla had told her not to talk to de Lacy.
He will try and worm knowledge out of you to no good purpose
, she had warned, her mouth drawn tight.
Do not give him the smallest opportunity for he will seize it with both hands
.

The guards, who had been standing inside the door, made a show of bracing their weapons. De Lacy eyed them, gave a contemptuous snort and walked back to the window.

Marion went to the door. On the threshold she paused and looked over her shoulder at Ernalt de Lysle. Meeting her glance, he inclined his head and laid his hand across his heart, fingers and palm flat. Marion uttered a small gasp and fled.

When the door had been bolted behind the guards and the men were alone, de Lacy turned round.

'With a little coaxing, she will peck corn out of your hand like a tame pullet,' he said.

Ernalt studied his wrist. The stitched wound had been left open to the air to let it dry. It was sore and tight, and throbbed in time to the beat of his heart. 'You want me to coax her?' He was not averse to the notion. She was as pretty as a spring morning and as full of promise. He smiled at his lord. 'You certainly seemed to frighten her off.'

De Lacy snorted. 'I'm the ogre. She has been reared on Sybilla's tales of my perfidy and savagery, but you are different. You follow me because you have given me your knightly oath and your loyalty is proof of your worth.' Here he raised an ironic brow and Ernalt responded with a smile in a similar vein. 'You are young and handsome and it was obvious from the way she was looking at you that she's ripe for the plucking.' De Lacy folded his arms. 'I may have turned a blind eye to it, but I know perfectly well that it's a task you're good at.'

'What, "plucking"?' Ernalt's smile became a grin.

'In a manner of speaking. Seducing young women away from the safety of the maternal coop and into the briars.' De Lacy bent him a stare that was half jesting, half severe. 'And yes, I want you to coax her. She may be of great value to us.'

'In what way?'

De Lacy hooked up a footstool with the side of his boot and sat down. 'If you are patient with her, you can find out about the movements of the people in this place. How many soldiers does de Dinan keep on active duty at any time? What are their routines… what are de Dinan's routines? Cozen her into telling you.'

'That should not be difficult,' Ernalt said. 'From what I remember, she is jealous of Lady Sybilla's daughters and craves flattery and attention the way a plant craves water.'

De Lacy gave a decisive nod. 'then I will keep out of your way when she makes her next visit and leave you to bait the trap. If you are good at your work, it may be that she will give us more than just information.'

Ernalt raised his brows. 'Help us escape, you mean? Do you think that she has such a capacity?'

De Lacy rose and returned to the window. Bracing his arms on the stone surround, he stared out. 'I think that she has, but she needs careful handling.'

Ernalt clenched the fist of his damaged arm to feel the needles of pain in the stitched wound. 'Subtle as the spices in a blancmange,' he smiled.

De Lacy gave a grunt that might have been amusement, but Ernalt could not tell, for his lord was still staring outwards. 'I would never have guessed from his early showing that the FitzWarin boy would have shaped up to become so fine a warrior,' de Lacy commented after a moment. 'He will bear watching.'

'I could have taken him,' Ernalt said angrily. 'My horse was at the wrong angle, that's all. If he'd been fighting beside de Dinan, he'd have been cut down in the first charge.'

'Perhaps,' de Lacy said, 'but, as I said, he will bear watching. Whatever tactics he employed, they worked and he fought with competence.'

Ernalt fell silent. De Lacy might be speaking the truth, but he didn't particularly want to agree with him.