Shadows and Strongholds (41 page)

Brunin said nothing, but Ralf received the impression that he was thinking hard. 'Sian is your woman,' he said at length.

Ralf shrugged. 'I suppose you could call her that.' He cleared his throat and looked at the ground. 'She's got red hair,' he mumbled, and suddenly had to stagger away to be sick again.

Brunin watched, feeling sorry for him, and irritated, but behind that irritation was a thawing of hostility. Perhaps he owed this Sian more than he knew. Ralf tottered back to the bench and put his head in his hands. His fair hair flopped forward over his fingers. 'Our grandmother would explode like a barrel of pitch if I brought Sian to Whittington,' he groaned. 'I can't marry her, and I can't keep her under this roof… but I can't afford to keep her anywhere else.'

Brunin gave a wry smile. 'It's a long traipse to Oswestry… or Wales.'

Ralf thrust out his lower lip. 'I won't give her up.'

Brunin made a gesture with his spread hands to indicate that he acknowledged the dilemma but had no solutions. He did not ask if Ralf's opinion of red-haired women had changed. That much was obvious. He thought of Hawise. Of the storms of the previous couple of days. He was not sure that they had weathered them yet. He remembered little of their farewell; only that she had said she was sorry, her eyes wounded with imminent tears. He grimaced. If Henry was going to take on the Welsh and he had to ride with the English force, then there would be no wedding in June. A blessing or a curse, he could not decide; nor, given his current difficulties, did he very much care.

'I need sleep,' he said and, stretching like a cat, rose to his feet. 'And you do too, but first you had better dunk your head in the water butt. Then we'll go and see how our father fares.'

A shudder ran through Ralf as he gained his feet. 'I hate the sick room,' he said in a low voice. 'I hate the stench and the way our mother and grandmother sit there like two mourners at a bier.'

'How do you think our father feels?' Brunin answered, his voice harsh to cover his guilt. He had felt exactly the same as Ralf on walking into the bedchamber. 'Do not let your own self-pity overcome your compassion or your duty.'

'Hah, you're turning into a priest again,' Ralf snapped, and lurched off in the direction of the water butt.

Marion inclined her head to the guard and waited while he opened the door to the prisoners' chamber. They had been here a week now and had settled into a routine. Their care had continued to fall to Marion, for Sybilla refused to go near them, as did Hawise, and that suited Marion very well indeed for it meant she had Ernalt to herself.

As she entered the room, her stomach darted with anticipation. She directed the maids accompanying her to lay the food they were bearing on the coffer and then told them to make de Lacy's bed. De Lacy himself was sitting by the window, staring out as he always did. He seldom acknowledged the presence of the women and kept his distance—for which Marion was glad, for he made her nervous. So did Ernalt, but for entirely different and much more delightful reasons.

'How is your arm today, sir?' she asked softly.

'Much improved, demoiselle, owing to your diligence and care.' His voice was vibrant and pitched low, so that it struck her somewhere between midriff and loins, and spread in delicious rings of sensation. He rolled back tunic and shirt to expose the wound. It was drying nicely and would soon be ready to have the stitches removed.

Marion sat on the edge of his bed and took the pot of honey salve from her basket of nostrums. She was acutely aware of his gaze as she removed the stopper from the jar, scooped a dollop on to her forefinger and anointed his exposed arm.

'So gentle,' he murmured. 'I will miss your touch when my wound no longer needs attention.'

She blushed and looked quickly over her shoulder, but the women were busy with their bedmaking.

'They are not listening,' Ernalt said. 'But I wish you could stay. It is so lonely confined to this chamber and my lord is not the best of company'

'Lad) Sybilla would never allow it,' Marion whispered, studying him from beneath her lids.

'Just to play a game of chess or merels. Would she truly be so cold as to deny such a request?'

'I… don't know'

'Then will you ask her?'

Marion gnawed her lip. 'She has no cause to love you or your lord.'

'She is right to be cautious. But is loyalty to one's lord so bad a thing? It was my duty to follow him and do his bidding. To refuse would have been dishonourable.' He gave her a warm smile. 'Although captivity does have its compensations.'

Marion started to withdraw from his wrist, but he captured her hand in his. 'I do not want to lose my wits to boredom. My heart I have already lost, and the lady looks at me as if she does not know what she has taken.'

Marion gasped and snatched her fingers away. 'You must not talk like that!'

'What is wrong with the truth?'

The other women had finished making de Lacy's bed and were turning back into the room. Cheeks flaming, Marion rose from Ernalt's bedside.

'Ask her,' he said again. 'By your mercy, demoiselle.'

Marion stood aside and he rose while the women saw to his covers.

'What if she refuses? What then?' she said in an agitated whisper.

'Then I must accept and respect her judgement. But I trust your good sense to make her see sense too,' Ernalt said smoothly.

'Knowing Henry, he'll want money as well as men,' Joscelin sighed to Sybilla, 'but I expect some of the service can be commuted to coin.' Husband and wife were in the private chamber, talking over the royal summons to the assembly at Northampton where the forthcoming campaign against the Welsh was to be organised.

'Will you go with him into Wales?' Sybilia's voice was deliberately neutral, and, because of that, Joscelin recognised her anxiety.

'That depends on what he asks. If he desires my sword, then I am honour bound to give it to him.'

'I am proud of such honour, but I fear it too.'

He ran his hand down her arm in a gesture of comfort and understanding. 'You would fear more without it, love.'

Sybilla sighed. 'I suppose I would,' she capitulated. 'The wedding will have to be postponed.' She glanced towards the window embrasure where Hawise was busy at her embroidery. Yellow silk spilled over her lap and her lips were pressed firmly together in concentration. 'Unless you want it to go forward in the midst of preparations for war.'

Joscelin shook his head. 'That would be overloading an already piled trencher, both for them and for us. Besides, the lady Mellette will expect a wedding of great splendour and ceremony, and neither her family nor ours will have the time for that until the autumn at least… perhaps longer if FitzWarin does not recover from his illness.'

Behind them came the soft sound of a throat being cleared and they turned to look at Marion who was twisting her clasped hands together at waist-level.

Joscelin raised his brows. 'Child?'

'I was wondering if I could take a chess set to our hostages,' she said hesitantly. 'It would be an act of charity'

'Charity!' Joscelin snorted. 'Do you not think I gave them enough charity when I spared their lives?'

'Yes, my lord.' She looked at the floor and bit her lip.

'Did either of them ask you to do this?' Sybilla asked suspiciously.

'Sir Gilbert spends all his time looking out of the window,' she said breathlessly. 'Sir Ernalt says that he will lose his wits to boredom. I thought that—' She broke off.

'Sir Ernalt is also very handsome,' Sybilla said with a knowing look. 'Perhaps you have lost your wits to his appearance.'

'No, my lady' Marion reddened. 'He is indeed fair to look upon, but he is our prisoner and, because of his lord, our enemy. I thought it no great sin to give him a chess set. If I was wrong, forgive me.'

Sybilla opened her mouth, but Joscelin pre-empted her with a wave of his hand. 'I do not suppose that Ludlow will fall for the giving of a simple chess set,' he said. 'You have my permission.'

'Thank you, my lord.' Marion did her best not to skip away, but her delight was still obvious.

'Was that wise?' murmured Sybilla. Joscelin gave her a sour smile. 'It was certainly charitable,' he said. 'Oh, let her have her way. All to the good if it gives her more experience as a chatelaine and hones her maturity.'

Sybilla looked sceptical but said nothing.

Hawise glanced up from her sewing to watch Marion take a chessboard and box of pieces from one of the coffers. Marion gave her a blinding smile but no explanation, and in a moment was gone from the chamber.

Now that she had raised her head from her needlework, Hawise paused to rest her eyes.

'You are progressing well with the banner,' Sybilla said, joining her.

Hawise sighed. 'But I do not know if it will be ready for June.' She smoothed the silk beneath her fingers. A half-embroidered wolf in crimson and black snarled across the bright background. Crimson and black lozenges decorated the borders too. 'Perhaps he is more like a cat,' she said with a smile, 'but no man would go into battle with a cat blazoned on his banner.'

Sybilla smiled at the words, but in a preoccupied way. 'My love, your wedding day is set for midsummer…'

'Yes, Mama.' Hawise knew what Sybilla was going to say. She had heard the rumours in the hall. 'You are going to tell me that I have longer than I thought to stitch this banner.'

Her mother nodded. 'Yes, child. The King has called a council for midsummer, and from there his barons will muster and ride into Wales… and that probably includes your father and Brunin.'

Hawise studied her sewing. 'What if we were to wed despite the muster?'

'There would be very little time.' Sybilla looked dubious. 'Perhaps it would be wiser to delay the marriage. You and Brunin will have enough to deal with, without the adjustments being husband and wife will demand of you.'

'I know that, but I have had time to think while I have been stitching Brunin's standard. We have been betrothed for over a year and I have known him for more than half my life.' She swallowed, for she had not often challenged her mother's opinion. 'I think that it will be easier if we are wed. I want…' She bit her lip. 'I want to have the same as you and Papa have—to be able to talk and touch freely, knowing that a chaperone's eyes are not watching our every move. I want to have Brunin to myself without guilt of fear. When all eyes arc upon us, we arc like mummers. We act our part, without being our true selves.'

'I thought after the argument you and Brunin had that you would desire more time before the wedding.'

'No, Mama. Perhaps that was one of the difficulties. If we could just have—' She broke off and picked up her needle. It was something to do and gave her an excuse to drop her gaze from her mother's searching one. 'It would have made a difference,' she said in a firmer voice. 'If my father goes away to war, you and he will have your chance to say a proper farewell. But Brunin and I will not.' She made a slow, neat stitch, forcing herself to concentrate.

'Yes, I see,' said Sybilla slowly. 'And I understand. You have grown up, haven't you? I will speak with your father, and Brunin's family will have to have their say… and Brunin too.'

Hawise watched her fingers take another stitch. Brunin most of all. She would not dwell on the thought that he might prefer a postponement.

'You do know that being wed will not put an end to arguments,' Sybilla warned ruefully. 'Indeed, it may even provoke them.'

'Yes, Mama, I know.' Hawise answered with a smile. 'I have watched you and Papa, but at least you have a chance to resolve them away from other eyes.'

'So be it.' Sybilla rose to her feet. 'You are certain about this?'

Hawise nodded. 'I have had a long time to ponder while sewing this,' she said, a mischievous curve to her lips. 'Perhaps men should embroider and think instead of taking up the sword to solve their disputes.'

Sybilla laughed. 'That would be beyond their capabilities. Solid heads are for butting down walls, not embroidery!'

Hawise laughed too. Her mother left, but it took a while before Hawise resumed her sewing, for her hands were trembling and she did not want to spoil the neat, intricate work. She had set the cart rolling. Now she had to hope that any obstacles on the road ahead were navigable.