Shadows and Strongholds (19 page)

Joscelin made a face. 'You are probably more right than you know—and, given what has just happened, God knows when that will be.' His fingers clenched on the reins in frustration. 'We need Henry here now, while Stephen is still reeling from the death of his wife. She was his backbone.'

'Yes, my lord,' Brunin said dutifully.

Joscelin bent him an astute look. 'Never underestimate the importance of women in the scheme of things,' he said. 'It is a mistake too often made by men, and I include your father in that. A woman can make, but she can break too, and when the pieces shatter, they are difficult to pick up and reassemble. Remember that.'

Brunin thought of his grandmother and the strewn debris of all the people she had broken beneath the rod of her will. There were some parts of himself that he would probably never find because he dared not go looking for them in the shadows where she had cast them.

'I suppose that Prince Henry is going to find that out soon enough,' Joscelin added with a sudden wry grin and flicked a warning glance at Brunin. 'I would counsel you never to tangle with older women—except that I married one myself… They can be tricky, but I promise that you'd never be bored.'

'No, my lord.'

Joscelin chuckled. 'You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you, and I do not suppose I would have done either at your age.'

Brunin studied his reins. He had an inkling, but he wasn't going to tell Joscelin about one of the maids at Hereford and the exciting, disturbing propositions she had put to him. He had been rescued by the crone employed to keep the fire going in the solar… which had been both a relief and a pity. Another moment and the maid's hand would have reached its intended destination and he might just have plucked up courage to touch her breasts.

Joscelin's grin became a deep, reluctant laugh. 'I won't ask,' he said. 'The answer might disturb my notions of your innocence.'

'So, what news do you bring from Hereford?'

Joscelin sat down on the cushioned bench in the private chamber and took the wine Sybilla gave him. 'What makes you think I bring any news?' he asked nonchalantly.

'You have that look about you—like a hound waiting to be taken out for a walk.' Joscelin laughed. 'That's not very flattering.' 'You asked.' She sat down across from him and drew forward her braid-weaving frame. Cupping the numerous small wooden squares in her palm, each one threaded at the corners with embroidery silks, she gave them a quarter-turn and pulled the weft thread tight. 'Has Henry finally been persuaded of the importance of returning to England? Is that what you are waiting to tell me?' Joscelin made a face. 'Not precisely,' he said. Sybilla's mouth drew tight. The expression might have been caused by her concentration on the pattern she was weaving, but, given her interest in the political machinations and power struggles that surrounded them, Joscelin suspected not.

'You would have thought,' she said, 'that when he receives a plea from his own uncle to make haste, he would heed it.'

'He did.' Joscelin stretched out his legs and winced as his knees creaked. 'There was a council held at Lisieux and detailed plans made for his return. Roger had his scribe read the letter to me.'

Sybilla turned the threaded tablets, creating a pattern of red and white chevrons. 'Then what has changed?'

Joscelin studied her over the rim of the cup. 'King Louis divorced his wife…'

She looked up from her weaving, her eyes filled with surprise. 'What does that—'

'And Henry had her at the altar with a new wedding ring on her finger before the old one was scarcely off,' he concluded with a wolfish grin.

Sybilla's gaze widened into astonishment.

Joscelin laughed. 'Yes,' he said. 'Eleanor of Aquitaine. Eleanor of Poitou. In one fell swoop Henry has become lord of an empire and the most envied husband in Christendom… and of course Louis loves him not. He might not have wanted his wife, but he hardly expected the likes of Henry to snap her up like a starving hound.' His mirth subsided into thoughtfulness, and he raised one forefinger in amendment. 'Although from what I heard, she was as keen to wed as he was. I suppose it spites Louis, and while Henry may not be a handsome man, he is certainly an energetic one. And, of course, he has red hair.' He smoothed his own with deliberation.

Sybilla smiled at the joke, but with no more than a token curve of her lips.

'Henry sends word that he will come as soon as he sorted out his few difficulties across the Narrow Sea. Louis is saying that it is an offence for a vassal to marry without his overlord's permission, and since Henry owes him fealty for Normandy, he is in breach of feudal law'

'And meanwhile we wait and pray'

Joscelin shrugged. 'Yes,' he said. 'We wait and pray'

Sybilla sighed heavily. 'Oh, the colour wearies my eyes,' she said, and pushed the weaving frame aside with unwarranted force for one whose actions were usually steady and measured.

Joscelin looked at her askance.

She bit her lip. 'Why did Louis divorce her?'

'Consanguinity.'

'That's the excuse, not the reason,' she said, and her voice was unsteady. 'It has taken him a long time to realise that he and Eleanor were related beyond the permitted degree.'

'I do not know what is in the French King's mind,' Joscelin said uneasily. He knew where this was leading and that it was inevitable.

'Yes, you do. There have been rumours aplenty for some time.'

Joscelin waved his hand. 'Very well. Louis divorced Eleanor because he couldn't get a son on her and she was proving too mettlesome for him to handle both in bed and out of it.' Leaving the bench, he went to Sybilla and pulled her roughly into his arms. 'Which has no bearing on our marriage. For one thing we're not related within a prohibited degree, for another I don't have Louis's monkish tendencies—and mettlesome suits me well.'

She gave him a challenging look 'And if it didn't?'

'Then I'd be as foolish as Louis and justly served.' He made an exasperated sound and kissed her. 'I knew that you would respond like this. Did it never occur to you that in my turn I might worry about you fleeing our marriage bed for the arms of a young suitor?'

She pushed at him. 'That's preposterous.'

'Yes,' he said. 'As preposterous as you suggesting that I'd divorce you in the same wise that Louis divorced Eleanor. I waited a long time for a place like Ludlow, and a woman like you.' One arm held her trapped, the other plucked at her wimple pins. 'Loose your hair for me,' he said.

'It's grey… I don't…

Like a waterfall… Loose it.'

Slowly she raised her hands to her head, removed the wimple and the net that held her braids. They tumbled down, each as thick as his wrists, silver and black entwined; bound with red ribbons; scented like honeysuckle.

'Forget Louis and Eleanor,' he said, untying the ribbons and combing his fingers through the plaits until all that was left of them were undulating waves in her sea-wash curtain of hair. 'Forget Henry and Eleanor too. They have no place in our bedchamber. That belongs to us alone.'

St Peter's Fair, Shrewsbury, August 1152

Despite the continuing war, Shrewsbury clad itself in festive garb and prepared for the annual fair. There were winter supplies to be bought in, bargains to be struck, secrets to be whispered to the highest bidder, alliances to be made and broken while the silver grease of coin kept the wheel of trade ponderously turning.

Sybilla arrived in Shrewsbury with her household and a tally of required purchases as long as her arm. When Joscelin groaned that she would empty their treasure chest, she retorted that she was a thrifty housewife and had she been frivolous, the list could have been twice as long. Of course, if he wanted to see his daughters dressed in sackcloth… Throwing up his hands in capitulation, Joscelin had abandoned his squires and serjeants to the mercies of the women, and gone in search of fellow husbands with whom to commiserate and share a flagon.

On escort duty to Sybilla, Brunin leaned against a mercer's booth, facing outwards, arms folded, dagger sheath prominent at his hip. Hugh stood beside him, hand on sword hilt, gaze restlessly prowling the crowd. Hugh had been knighted at midsummer and within the last month negotiations had opened between his family and Sybilla and Joscelin over a match between himself and Sibbi. Taking his new responsibilities seriously, Hugh was being determinedly grave and mature. Brunin hadn't seen him smile all morning. Not that there was much to smile about when escorting a handful of women around the clothing and haberdashery booths. Even Hawise, who was usually sensible about the matter of shopping, seemed captivated by the array of cloth and was as avidly engaged as her companions. Brunin fervently hoped that the cookstalls were next on Sybilla's formidable list for it was almost charge of destriers on a battlefield.