Shadows and Strongholds (16 page)

'But not in direct male line,' Gilbert growled. 'Sybilla is my cousin out of my father's sister… the distaff line twice over.' He jutted his jaw. 'I will have it, I swear. One day, I will ride under that gate arch, climb its tower and plant my banner on its walls.'

'Amen to that,' Hugh said. 'But you must acknowledge that that day will not be tomorrow, or the next one, or even next year… and perhaps never if we do not drive Henry from England.'

Gilbert snorted down his nose. 'Henry or Stephen, what's the difference? I have ceased to have faith in the word of rulers and kings. The only honour I trust is my own.'

De Mortimer narrowed his eyes. 'You drink my wine and tell me that?'

'I am never less than honest with any man,' Gilbert said with a bleak smile. 'For the nonce we are allies because we have a common enemy. I am not impugning your own honour, but neither am I foolish enough these days to have blind faith… except in the matter of my God.' He made the sign of the Cross.

De Mortimer returned the smile with an equal lack of warmth. 'Well then,' he said, 'shall I withdraw my aid and leave you to your own war?'

'Only a man too foolish or too proud refuses a boost into the saddle,' Gilbert replied. 'Let us say that we are both looking in the same direction but at different objects.'

De Mortimer conceded the point by raising a forefinger from his goblet. 'I have to go south to aid Eustace, but you are welcome to use my lands to launch raids on Ludlow. If you can keep de Dinan pinned down, so much the better.' Rising to his feet, he stretched. 'I'm for my bed. I've a fair distance to ride on the morrow.'

Gilbert bade him goodnight and stayed awhile to finish his wine and gaze into the fire. De Mortimer's loyalty was to Stephen, and his interest in Ludlow that of a man with a thorn in his side. Should de Dinan suddenly declare for Stephen, then Hugh would immediately become Ludlow's ally. But for Gilbert the matter was more than a thorn. It was a barbed spear in his heart.

From childhood it had been dinned into him that Ludlow rightfully belonged to his branch of the family. He was the eldest son of the eldest son. The castle had been taken from them when his father had been involved in a rebellion, and given instead to his uncle whose loyalties were not in question. The latter had died childless and instead of passing Ludlow to Gilbert, who was the next in line. King Henry had bestowed it upon Sybilla, whose claim was through the distaff line. Gilbert's side of the family had always considered it an unjust decision. The rebellion had not been against Henry; it had taken place before he had become king, and it had been in an honourable cause. When old Uncle Hugh had died and the lands had become vacant, Gilbert had expected to inherit, but King Henry had said that he would not give the lands where he could not trust and that it was the end of the matter. Far from it, Gilbert thought with an unconscious frown. It would never end until a de Lacy of the true bloodline sat in the great hall at Ludlow and dispensed his justice from there.

Draining his wine, he considered retiring, but he was not tired. His mind was still churning and no amount of wine or fire-staring would settle him down. From long experience he knew that the only solace to be found was in prayer. Beyond the driving desire to regain his birthright, another flame burned with almost as much vigour. Three years ago, many men had answered the call to go on crusade and protect the Holy Land from a renewed infidel onslaught. Gilbert had thought about taking the Cross, but the ties of family duty had kept him in England. However, he had sworn to himself that once he had secured Ludlow for his bloodline, he would take holy vows, become a Templar knight and end his days in military service to God.

He rose to his feet and his squires followed suit. He thought about bringing them with him for the good of their souls, but he desired solitude and he knew that the youths would only pay lip service at this time of night. Sometimes he suspected that Ernalt in particular paid lip service all the time.

'Go to bed,' he told them and bent a warning look on Ernalt, who had recently been caught with his hand up the skirt of a garrison knight's daughter. 'Your own, unless it's your ambition to be gelded.'

The boys smirked. Gilbert increased the ferocity of his glower until their faces fell. Turning on his heel, he left the chamber and sought the calming solace of the chapel.

Fingers red with cold, Brunin moulded the snow in his hands into a compact ball and hurled it. Hugh ducked, but the edge of his cloak caught a starburst of white crystals.

'You've got the aim and eyesight of a girl!' Hugh jeered. His words were cut off in a splutter as a large snowball smacked him in the mouth.

'No, he hasn't!' Hawise cried with glee, sending a second snowball whirling after the first. One of her father's dogs leaped up and intercepted the missile in its jaws, then capered around the ward, shaking its head and sneezing.

Hugh snatched up a fistful of snow and ran towards Hawise, furrowing through the ermine whiteness like a plough. Shrieking with laughter, she fled. Marion clung to Brunin, hiding behind him, hampering his aim. 'Don't let him get me!' she squealed. She floundered, lost her footing and fell, dragging Brunin down on top of her.

'Ouch!' she cried. She wasn't really hurt but she knew that big eyes and a quivering lip were sure ways of getting attention. If it was masculine attention and stolen from Hawise, so much the better. The dog flurried around them, barking and wagging furiously.

'Are you all right?' Brunin rolled over and, thrusting the dog aside with his forearm, scrambled to his feet. Glancing across at Hawise and Hugh, he grinned as the latter caught his prey and started stuffing snow inside her hood. Marion flashed him an upward glance, saw that his attention had wandered, and gave a gasp. 'I don't know.' She screwed up her face.

Turning back to her, Brunin grasped her hand and helped her to her feet. Marion looked down at their linked fingers and imagined her own adorned with a betrothal ring. She would be Lady FitzWarin and have a castle of her own and a dozen different gowns to wear like the ladies in the troubadours' stories.

'Can we go within and get warm?' she asked plaintively, leaning against him and fluttering her lashes. 'I am so cold.'

Brunin didn't want to go in. His hands were numb and tingling, but he was exhilarated and raring for more sport. Lady Sybilla had sent them out because she said she didn't want them under her feet, and Lord Joscelin had given him and Hugh leave from their duties to hold a snow-fight. Indoor tasks could be left until darkness fell and, with the snow this thick, it wouldn't harm the horses to spend the day in their stalls.

Hugh helped Hawise to her feet. Removing her hood, she set about tipping the mountain of snow from inside it. Her braids had come loose, her hair streamed down her back in a curtain of garnet twists and she was red-lipped and laughing.

'Please,' Marion said, insistently pathetic now.

'Why don't you go and stand by the guards' fire and warm your hands.' He indicated the wrought-iron brazier in the corner of the bailey where several soldiers were standing around the blaze of logs it contained, hugging themselves in their cloaks, stamping their feet.

Marion tugged his arm. 'You come with me,' she said.

He was spared such purgatory by a shout from one of the guards manning the wall walks above the gatehouse. Hugh ceased beating snow crystals from his cloak and looked apprehensive. Brunin suddenly felt as if he had swallowed a snowball and that it was slowly melting, filling his stomach with freezing water. Ever since the ambush at the end of last summer Ludlow had been held in a state of high tension. There hadn't been any serious attacks, but there had been several skirmishes between patrols sent out to secure their boundaries and test those of the enemy. Herds had been driven off, hamlets raided, grain stores burned. Not all of it was the work of de Lacy and Mortimer, Prince Eustace's mercenaries had played their part in some of the more savage raids. Joscelin had retorted in kind for he too had once been a mercenary and he knew the movements of the dance as well as his enemies if not better.

No one went or. serious campaign in January. Brunin told himself, as the guard replaced his shout with three rapid blasts on the horn at his belt. There was no fodder for the horses and the weather was too cold for the men. The horn rang out again, but this time on one long, sustained note.

Brunin's taut shoulders relaxed. Hugh exhaled a long cloud of breath. 'Friends,' he said with a self-conscious laugh of relief.

The guards were making haste to open the gates that led on to the bridge.

'Must be a large troop,' Hugh added, joining Brunin and dusting snow crystals from his hair. 'The guard wouldn't shout for a handful of men.'

The gates swung inwards and moments later mail-clad riders entered the bailey, riding two abreast. The banners proclaimed Hereford and FitzWarin. Brunin felt a surge of pleasure and pride as he saw his father's silks rippling on a spear end. At the end of last October, having strengthened the garrison at Whittington, his father had ridden to join Henry's army in the south. The threat from Mortimer and de Lacy was less to him and the Welsh had been quiet during the autumn and winter; thus he had been free to aid Prince Henry's cause.

FitzWarin dismounted from his stallion, tossed the reins to an attendant and, with a gleam in his eye, crunched through the snow to greet his son.

'Christ, boy, every time I sec you, you've grown!' He thumped a gauntleted hand down on Brunin's shoulder. His glance flickered to Marion who was still clinging to Brunin's arm. Immediately she dipped him a curtsey and lowered her eyes, displaying that she knew her manners and how to mind them before guests. FitzWarin absorbed the detail with approval and in the same glance dismissed her from his mind.

'What are you doing out here, lad?'

'We had some free time,' Brunin said. 'We've been having a snowball fight.'

'Hah, when I was a squire, I never had any free time,' FitzWarin said gruffly, but he was smiling. 'Where's your lord?'

Brunin led his father across the ward to the domestic buildings. News had already gone ahead and Joscelin and Sybilla were on hand to welcome their unexpected guests and furnish them with warmth and wine. For a while Brunin was busy with flagon and cups, helping to remove mail and surcoats, and fetching warm water to thaw frozen hands and feet. The conversation ebbed and flowed around him and he had small opportunity to listen. Not that he missed much, for most of the talk was conventional pleasantry to begin with. By the time the men settled down to the meat of the matter Brunin had more leisure to take notice of what was being said. Sybilla remained with the men. While most women would have retired to their sewing, or the overseeing of feeding the multitude, Sybilla delegated those tasks and remained firmly at the centre of discussions. She was lady of Ludlow and it was her right and her intention to know everything. Her daughters had stayed too, although they were expected to sit, observe and say nothing. Like Brunin, the larger part of their duty was to listen and learn.

'What news of Prince Henry, my lords?' Sybilla asked, the pitch of her voice low and pleasant.