Shadows and Strongholds (55 page)

A hundred years ago, the manor of Alveston had belonged to King Harold of England. It was the same size as Alberbury but, since it was sufficiently distant from Wales and had never been a source of dispute during the long and destructive civil war, lacked a castle. Although a tranquil place, it was not quite a backwater. The land was fertile and the village of Tockington with its prosperous mill was also part of the grant.

'An insult,' Mellette had muttered as she stalked around the manor, finding fault with everything. 'If the King thinks we are going to be satisfied with this poky rat-hole, he is sadly mistaken. Did we fight for his cause all those years to be thus rewarded?' She had pointed out woodworm holes in a bench seat and stirred a disgusted toe in the ancient floor rushes, raising a cloud of chaff and small flies.

Hawise had put such failings down to bad stewardship. The manor was no palace, nor even a castle, but beneath the neglect it had a pleasant aspect. But, of course, it wasn't Whittington and she could see why Mellette's dignity was incensed.

'It is not an insult,' FitzWarin had grated, his voice made harsh by more than just irritation. His cough had returned with the onset of the damper autumn weather and, despite doses of horehound tisane and wearing a token of St Anthony around his neck, was proving persistent. 'It is a sop to keep us quiet while the dust settles. We take it through the courts and we sue for Whittington's return.'

'Hah, and who should have the last say but the King?' Mellette snapped, not in the least appeased.

'Henry will do right by us.' FitzWarin had replied, setting his jaw grimly—whether at the subject matter or in endurance of Mellette's carping was unclear.

'And this… this worm-eaten hovel is an example of his justice?'

Wincing at the memory of the argument, one of many, Hawise glanced at Brunin. They had gone riding in the autumn gold, partly to explore the new lands and partly to escape from Mellette's oppressive presence. The old lady had always been shrewish and hard to please but recently her querulous behaviour had become unbearable. Hawise was relieved that she and Brunin would soon be leaving the FitzWarin household and joining her parents at their manor of Hartland in Devon. She could hold her own with Brunin's family, but having to do so every waking moment was wearing. Brunin had said little, but Hawise knew him well enough to recognise the reticence of endurance… and something else that reminded her of the silent, dark-eyed boy who had first arrived in Ludlow, wary and vulnerable as a cornered wild thing. The presence of his grandmother was like a shadow over him, and recently the size of that shadow had been growing as Mellette's behaviour deteriorated.

They followed deer trails through the woodland between the village and the river. There was little breeze, but unfelt movements of air sent leaves twirling ground-wards in silent feathers of mottled green and gold.

'It is strange,' Brunin said, gazing round.

'What is?' Hawise smiled.

'This. To ride through the woods with only you for company and enjoy the peace of the day. Usually when I go riding in a forest, it is among armed men and our hands are never further than an inch from our swords.'

'But you cannot give up the habit of watching and listening, can you?' She looked round too, trying to imagine what it would be like to face sudden ambush. The notion made her shiver.

'No.' His smile remained but his eyes were sombre and she saw the way he glanced at the healed scar on his right hand.

'Are you pleased that the King has given this land to your family?'

'Providing it is a sweetener and not a permanent replacement for Whittington, yes,' he said and looked at her. 'It is your family too now,' he added with a bleak grin.

'I know that, but I am still growing accustomed to the notion.'

'Not comfortable, is it?' He clucked his tongue to Jester and turned along a trail branching away from the main one.

Hawise thought of several different answers, all diplomatic, and abandoned them. Between her and Brunin there would be honesty. 'No,' she said, 'but I can bear it.'

He made an ambiguous sound that might have been amusement or just wry acknowledgement of her words.

'I know the strength of the FitzWarin will and I am honoured to be a part of it.'

He gave her a glance filled with sardonic humour. 'Then I must cherish your pride and honour, and not ask about happiness.'

'That is for Ludlow,' she said. 'In which you are promised a half-share. I may now be a FitzWarin wife, but, by the same law, you are now a de Dinan son. God willing, when I bear our children, they will have the pride of both heritages.'

'God help them, you mean,' he said with a grin, then he sobered and glanced at Hawise who had laid her hand against her belly. She saw his look and hastily took the reins again.

'It is too early to tell,' she said brusquely. 'Far too early' Her flux was late, but by less than five days. Her bleeds were usually regular; she could generally time herself by the phases of the moon, but a late or missed flux did not necessarily mean a pregnancy. Mellette had been watching the laundry baskets like a cat at a mouse hole, waiting for signs of the monthly bleed, her eyes growing brighter and narrower with each morning that passed.

Brunin said nothing and spoke instead to the horse, slapping its neck, the gesture intended to smooth away the momentary awkwardness between himself and Hawise.

They came to a small, unoccupied shelter in the forest: the occasional dwelling of a swineherd or a woodsman. There was kindling and neatly cut wood stacked nearby, and the remnants of a fire in which were scattered the small bones of a hare. Brunin and Hawise did not linger, merely marked the place and continued through the trees until they thinned out on the edge of the village.

A sound came to their ears and the sensation of a regular thump, thump, thump beating up through the ground. Hawise tilted her head to listen. 'Music,' she said with a brightening of curiosity in her expression. The smell of roasting pork wafted on the cool autumn air and someone laughed loudly, the sound saturated in ale. 'It's not a saint's day that I recall.'

Hawise and Brunin left the trees and rode into the village. Smoke was rising from several outdoor cooking fires over which cauldrons simmered and it seemed that the entire population of Tockington was outdoors. Indeed, more than the entire population, Hawise thought as she counted the number of houses and matched them to the amount of people. Either that or the village was a most fertile community. A large firepit had been dug in the garth of one of the more prosperous dwellings and a hog and a sheep were roasting on two spits suspended over the flames. Nearby two women were serving bread and ale from a trestle piled with loaves and earthenware jugs. Children shrieked and darted, playing chase among the adults, some of whom were talking in groups and drinking ale from fat pottery cups while others danced in rings to the vigorous music. At the centre of one of the rings stood a young couple: the man wearing a dark green tunic, the woman a lavender-coloured dress. Both had garlands of leaves and berries in their hair, and the girl's brown tresses hung to her waist.

'It's a wedding,' Hawise said, her eyes lighting up. She nudged her mare with her heels. 'What an auspicious time to introduce ourselves.' She looked at Brunin, her eyes sparkling. 'Do you have some silver in your pouch?'

He laughed. 'My father warned me that taking a wife would be like cutting holes in my purse.'

She gave him a lofty look. 'If you would rather not give a bride-gift, that is your choice, but they've seen us so it's too late to sneak back into the trees.'

'I'll be glad to give a bride-gift,' he retorted. 'Providing there is recompense.'

'What sort of recompense?'

He smiled at her through narrowed lids. 'Something in keeping,' he murmured and turned his attention to the village reeve and the seniors of Tockington who were approaching their horses.

Marion stood on the wall walk of the Pendover tower. The night was dark and overcast with the occasional stutter of rain blown from the mouth of a gusting wind. Unconsciously she played with Ernalt's ring. Tonight its cord hung outside her gown. She would have worn it on her wedding finger, but it was too large. Her cloak was pinned with his golden brooch too.

Joscelin and Sybilla had left without her, for she had been deemed unfit to travel. She had feigned some of her malaise, but excitement and worry had genuinely upset her stomach and she had given a convincing portrayal of being too sick to go on a journey. The convent, however, still loomed large in Lord Joscelin's plans for her. She had overheard him saying to Sybilla that he would deal with the matter as soon as they returned.

Marion took a few paces along the wall walk. There was no sign of the guard but she could hear the scrape of his boots moving away from her as he marched between the towers. She leaned over the battlements, listening so hard that she felt as if her ears were about to bleed with the effort. Three times the messenger had come from Ernalt and three times she had given him information: about guard positions, about numbers, about the senior officers left in the keep. She had measured the distance between these battlements and the ground. This was her last chance to withdraw from the bargain she had made.

She thought she heard a whistle and her heart began to thump. Leaning over, she peered down between the merlons, but could see nothing. The whistle came again, louder this time. Biting her lip, she took the ball of twine she had brought from her chamber and, after a single hesitation, wrapped the end twice across her knuckles and cast the ball over the wall. She felt it running loose and then the sudden tug as it was caught at the foot of the wall. Further rapid movements rippled up the string, tightening the bands around her hand. Two fierce tugs told her that the task below was completed and she began pulling in the thick twine, fist over fist. It seemed to take an eternity and although she knew that the guard would not return yet, she was terrified that she would be caught.

Blessedly the twine's load finally came into sight: a ladder fashioned from plaited leather strips. It was light and insubstantial, but strong enough for men to scale. Marion dragged the ladder on to the wall walk and secured it in one of the crenel slots. Then she unfastened and balled up the twine and threw it down again as a signal that all was ready.

The flimsy ladder wobbled as the man below set his weight to it. Marion's eyes darted to the fastenings. What if they weren't secure enough and he fell to his death? Eyes wide with fear, she watched the ties stretch and yield as he climbed, but the knots held and after what seemed an age but she realised could have been no more than a couple of minutes, fingers grasped the stonework and Ernalt hauled himself over the edge and gained the wall walk. He was panting hard, for he had made the climb in his mail shirt. His sword hung from a baldric at his back.

'Well done, my love,' he said with a fierce laugh. His arm went around her and his mouth came down on hers in a hard kiss that stole her breath and made her shiver. 'Well done indeed!' He half turned to give three swift jerks on the ladder and then kissed her again, his hand running possessively over her body as it might run over the flank of a favourite hound.

Her face blazed with joy at his praise. 'You are pleased then?'

'Beyond measure. You have not forgotten the rest, love?' He cast his gaze along the wall walk.

'No, the chamber door is open and the women are abed.'

He nodded. 'Go and join them,' he said. 'Keep out of the way and wait for me to fetch you.

Marion nodded. 'What are you going to—'

He set his hand across her lips. 'Best that you do not ask too many questions, sweetheart. What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over—or so they tell me. Go quickly now… my lady.' He kissed her again.

Marion sped back to the women's chambers on a surge of emotion so mixed and powerful that she was almost beyond coherence when one of the senior maids, Dame Aude, demanded to know where she had been.

'T-taking some air,' Marion stammered, cheeks burning. 'There is no rule against it.'

Dame Aude looked disapproving. 'No, but the night air harbours evil humours, and you were too ill to make the journey with my lord and lady'

'I have taken no harm and I am back now,' Marion replied with lowered eyes and meek voice. She turned towards her alcove, but she could feel the older woman's eyes boring into her spine.

'When Lady Sybilla returns, it will be my duty to report everything to her,' Dame Aude said reprovingly.

'I will remember your diligence,' Marion replied and had to bite her tongue on the triumphant remark that Lady Sybilla was never going to return and that very soon Aude was going to have to answer to 'Lady Marion'.

Once in the safety of her own small chamber, she sat on her bed and occupied her time winding a length of thread around the ring that Ernalt had given her, narrowing the diameter until it fitted her wedding linger snugly. Soon. Soon she would be a bride and a great lady.

Ernalt's men, who had been hiding down near the river, climbed the leather ladder one by one. Their breathing was loud in the silence of the night and their weapons made small clinking noises as they footed each rung. As the soldiers reached the battlements, Ernalt directed them into the top room of the tower where the women were sleeping. Several screams floated up the stairwell and then abruptly ceased, causing Ernalt to give a soft chuckle. A good slap could be instrumental, although he hoped Marion hadn't been one of the screamers. He intended to make her do so for different reasons soon enough.

As the last men struggled over the merlon and reached the wall walk, Ernalt heard the sound of the guard returning. The man was tunelessly whistling the melancholic ditty 'Bird on a Briar', a lantern in one hand and a spear balanced on his shoulder. As his lantern light fell on the soldiers, his eyes widened in alarm. He had time for one shout before Ernalt's knife took him in the throat and he fell to the wall-walk boards, his blood spraying the crenellations like red rain.