7

Twenty miles lay between Hereford and Ludlow: a comfortable distance that could be covered in less than a day when it was high summer.

Henry had departed the city while the sky was scarcely gray with first dawn, hastening toward Bristol and reinforcements.

“To be sixteen again, eh?” said FitzWarin as he gained the saddle in the full light of day and gestured his squire to take up his banner.

Joscelin grinned. “It has its advantages,” he said. “Then again, there’s value in experience.” His eyebrows flashed with innuendo before he turned to Brunin, who had just mounted Morel. “Feeling better this morning, child?”

“Yes, my lord.” Brunin gave a brisk answer to Joscelin’s query. A night’s slumber within the security of stone walls and two hot meals with as much wheat bread as he could eat had done much to restore him.

“Good. Then, if you are up to it, you can bear my shield for a time. Certainly you’ll handle it better than Adam.” Joscelin’s tone contained both humor and asperity. Brunin followed his glance to his second squire, who was mangling an attempt to mount his black and white cob, Pie. Adam’s complexion was green and, as he finally gained the saddle, his throat bobbed convulsively.

“Young idiot,” Joscelin growled. He looked at Brunin. “Just remember when temptation comes your way that a boy will drink beyond his means and a man will know when he’s had enough.”

“Yes, sir,” Brunin said dutifully. Inside he was grinning from ear to ear, for the task of shield-bearer was important and would not usually have been given to the youngest squire. Not wanting to gloat at Adam’s expense, he did his best to conceal his delight. Taking up Joscelin’s red and gold wyvern shield, he set it by its long strap at his back. It was heavy, but bearably so, and his pride lightened the burden.

“By rights I should let Adam take his punishment and bear the shield anyway, but, as your father is always saying, my heart is too tender.” Joscelin cast a laughing glance over his shoulder. “We’ve all been boys when we should have been men and how else is a boy to become a man, save by performing men’s tasks?”

FitzWarin made a rude sound at the speech, but it was good-natured. He was as glad as Joscelin to be going home—even if it was to prepare for storms to come.

They rode out into morning sunshine and took the road toward Ludlow. Now and again, Joscelin or FitzWarin would make a comment and the other would laugh. It was not so much the humor that caused the mirth as the release from tension. Ludlow was only twenty miles away and each stride of the horses brought them closer to home. Hugh had a good voice and struck up a bawdy song that was taken up by some of the others. The sunshine was hot and the morning was filled with the creak and smell of leather, the jingle of harness, the hollow clop of shod hoof on dusty road. Adam had to keep diving from his horse to retch into the verge. The older men laughed and teased him mercilessly.

The weight of the shield began to make Brunin’s spine and shoulders ache, but he endured the discomfort, determined not to show it lest his father or Lord Joscelin take the task from him. He wanted to bear the shield all the way to Ludlow and ride proudly into the bailey with it still at his back for everyone to see. He counted Morel’s strides along the road and envisaged how much ground they were covering. When Joscelin inquired if he was tired, he shook his head and set his jaw.

As they began the final stretch of their journey, the forest closed in at the roadside. It was supposed to be cut back to make it difficult for outlaws to waylay travelers or ambushes to be set up, but the summer’s growth and a recent lack of diligence meant that the greenery was thicker and darker than it should have been. Frowning with displeasure, Joscelin murmured to FitzWarin that he would have sharp words with the men responsible and make it a priority to have the woodland shorn away from the road.

Adam had to scramble down from his mount and dive into the bushes again as his bowels added their protest to his malaise. Good-natured jeers followed him, but were cut off as an instant later he sprinted from the bushes, clutching his unlaced braies at his waist.

“Ware arms!” he cried. “Soldiers in the woo—” The end of the warning was cut off in a grunt as an arrow slammed into his spine and he fell forward on the road at Morel’s hooves.

Brunin’s eyes widened in horror. A second arrow thudded into the wyvern shield and the force of the blow almost punched him from the saddle as Morel canted sideways with a startled snort. Instinctively, Brunin gripped with his thighs and tightened his grip on the reins.

He heard Joscelin roaring orders, but later was not to remember what they were. Two knights dismounted, ran to Adam, hauled him up and threw him across his horse. Amid a hail of arrows, the company spurred up the road to outrun the archers, but, beyond the bowmen, mounted troops and footsoldiers were waiting.

Brunin swallowed. The same terror he had felt at Shrewsbury Fair surged over him, but this time, conditioned by training and new experience, his reactions were different. Every sense was poised on a knife-edge, keen and sharp as he kicked Morel forward and brought the arrow-pierced shield to Joscelin. The faster everything became, the more time seemed to slow down. His father bellowed at him to get back, and the command was like a shout echoing in a cavern. He reined Morel about and peeled back into the ranks of men. Above his head he saw the banners snapping on the enemy lances and heard the battle shouts of Wigmore and de Lacy. The clash of weapons was hard, fast, terrifying; in a dreadful way it reminded him of a full dining hall on a feast day, save that the aggressive roars were not of laughter, but of fear and fury and effort, and the assault of blades was upon human flesh, not haunches of venison. He saw Joscelin’s stallion rear, forehooves pawing, and the wyvern shield smash down into a footsoldier’s face. He saw the FitzWarin banner plunge and come back up, blood running down the point and staining the bright silk, and his father’s bay stallion shouldering into an opponent’s mount.

A gap opened in the fighting and one of Joscelin’s serjeants yelled at him to gallop through it. Brunin slammed his heels into Morel’s flanks and the pony surged forward. He felt Hugh beside him, his fist around the bridle of Adam’s horse. Adam was bent over Pie’s withers, the arrow protruding from between his shoulder blades. There was no blood from the wound itself, but it dripped steadily from the squire’s open mouth into his mount’s silver mane.

A low-hanging branch whipped at Brunin and he ducked low over Morel’s straining neck. Behind them he could still hear the clash of battle, but it was fading, as if they were out of the dining hall and into the vestibule.

“Don’t slow!” the serjeant bellowed. “Not for anything!”

Brunin didn’t, not until Morel began to labor, and then he sat up and slackened the rein to ease the winded pony. Through the thundering of his heart, he heard hoofbeats drumming fast from behind and his gut twisted. The serjeant drew his sword and turned, grimly. Then he slumped. “Thank Jesu!” he gasped.

Brunin saw his father’s bloodied banner and Joscelin’s battered wyvern shield. The rest of the troop followed them at a hard pace and Joscelin was gesturing wildly.

“Ride on!” he roared. “Don’t stop, you fools, ride on!”

Brunin dug his heels into Morel’s flanks and the pony gamely gave him a burst of speed, but was soon blowing hard. After a mile of this punishing pace, Joscelin hauled on the bridle and slewed his stallion to face the road behind. It was quiet save for the ticking sound of settling dust. Sunlight dazzled down, for now the trees were cut back the requisite distance, and the woods were a silence of green-gold leaf dapple.

“There’s no sign of pursuit, but that does not mean they have drawn off.” He reined hard about, kicked his mount’s heaving flanks. “We won’t be safe until we’re behind Ludlow’s walls.”

With as much haste as the flagging horses could muster and the injured men stand, the company hastened on to the castle. The guards had seen their approach and the gates were already flung wide. Word had gone speeding to the lady in her chamber.

As the gates closed behind them and the great walls embraced them like the arms of a mother, Brunin began to tremble. A familiar wave of nausea hit his belly. He swallowed and swallowed again, determined not to shame himself. He watched them take Adam down from his horse, the arrow protruding from his back like the stalk on some strange fruit, his chin crimson with blood, the front of his gambeson and his horse sodden with it. Joscelin knelt by him, propping him in his arms, murmuring words of comfort while the youth fought for breath and his lifeblood gushed from his open mouth.

“Brunin, run for the priest,” Joscelin commanded over his shoulder in a cracking voice. “Make haste!”

Brunin slipped from Morel’s back and sprinted toward the chapel. On his way he caught sight of Lady Sybilla running from the living quarters with her women, the smile of greeting on her face already changing as she realized something was wrong.

Father Ailred was sorting through a wooden chest near the chapel door and looked up in myopic surprise as Brunin gabbled out Lord Joscelin’s command. For an instant the little priest stood frozen in shock, then, shaking himself, hastened outside. Brunin ran after him, his heart drumming and his stomach pushing into his chest. The heat of the afternoon sun was hot enough to bake bread; the sky was as blue as enamel and the smell of blood like the day of a pig-slaughter.

Father Ailred fell to his knees at Adam’s side, speaking in swift Latin, doing what had to be done with haste while the soul still occupied the body. Joscelin held the youth, bracing himself to absorb the shudders of imminent death. Sybilla knelt too, clasping Adam’s hand so hard that her knuckles were white. Brunin stared, his eyes locked on the scene.

“Jesu…Jesu…” Hawise came to Brunin’s side, her eyes huge, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth.

Close by, Marion stood as rigid as an effigy. “Look at all the blood,” she whispered. “There was a lot of blood when my mama died.”

Father Ailred sat back on his heels, his fingers glistening red. His voice rose in a prayer for the dying, powerful with the breath that was denied the young man. Adam arched in Joscelin’s arms in a final paroxysm as he strove to live and then slumped, eyes staring blankly at the sun. Joscelin’s hands were red to the wrists, the rims of his fingernails black with blood. He bent over the dead youth and his own body shuddered.

Hawise gave a small, wounded whimper. Marion said nothing, but swayed from side to side as if in a trance. Sybilla’s senior maid, Annora, came belatedly to her senses; setting her arms around the girls like a mother hen, she hustled them away toward the living quarters. Sibbi remained, but turned her face into Hugh’s breast. He raised his arm and set it around her shoulders, drawing her in close. He clenched his hand around her braid like a man clutching a lifeline.

Brunin watched Joscelin slowly relinquish his hold on Adam and rise to his feet, his movements slow and stiff as if he had been repeatedly kicked. A litter was fetched and Adam placed gently on it—face down, for the feathered shaft was still lodged deep in his flesh. For the rest of his life, Brunin was never able to view the arrow-shot carcass of a deer without feeling sick.

***

He was in the stables rubbing the caked sweat from Morel’s hide with a twist of straw when Hawise came to find him, her face tear-streaked and swollen. She had unbound her hair, as girls and women did in grief, and it framed her face in wild auburn spirals. Brunin had not cried. The shock and the pain had channeled inward, not out. He kept reliving the moment when the arrow had struck. He kept seeing Adam die and the desperation in Lord Joscelin’s face. Henry’s difficult campaign had seasoned Brunin to some of the brutal realities of warfare, but today had been the difference between wading in a stream and being swept away in a red torrent. That was why he was lurking in the stables, seeking solace from Morel’s solid bulk and solitude for himself.

“I knew you would be here,” she said.

Brunin gave a defensive shrug. “I had to gallop Morel hard. He needs tending.”

She sat down on a heap of straw and wrapped her arms around her raised knees. “Papa said it was Hugh Mortimer and Gilbert de Lacy and that they were far too close to us. I wasn’t supposed to hear…but I did.” A shiver rippled down her spine.

Brunin compressed his lips; turning back to Morel, he groomed the black hide with long, forceful strokes. Most of the sweat had gone, but there was comfort in the motion of his arm—in a different kind of repetition to that occupying his mind.

“Do you think they’ll come for us?”

The frightened misery in her voice made him turn. He knew her fear for he could feel it crawling through his own bones. It was all too easy to imagine an army of mail-clad men gathering outside their walls, intent on slaughtering everyone within. “No,” he said, more bravely than he felt. “Ludlow is far too strong for them to take. Your father says so, and it’s true.” He threw away the twist of straw and, wiping his hands on his hose, sat down beside her. “They are desperate because Prince Henry is here and they know their time is slipping away. Even if we were ambushed, we managed to fight our way out, and they didn’t chase us because we had wounded too many of their men.” He found comfort in comforting her and, as he spoke the words, realized that they were true. De Lacy and Mortimer had not pursued them because they were matched and dared not risk riding closer to Ludlow where the balance would have tipped in Joscelin’s favor.

She gnawed her lower lip. “Were you frightened when they attacked?” she whispered.

Brunin grimaced. He didn’t know what to say. It had been drilled into him that only a coward admitted to fear…that only a coward felt fear. His grandmother in particular was adamant on that issue, and, since the incident at Shrewsbury, his father too had been vehement on the subject. And now Hawise wanted to know…and he was afraid to answer. Was that cowardly too?

“I don’t remember,” he said.

She looked disbelieving. “You don’t remember?”

Jerking to his feet, he returned to fussing with the pony so that his back was to her. It was easier that way. “Well, only bits of it,” he said. “It was as if none of it was happening to me.” He laid his hand flat against Morel’s side, taking courage from the glossy black flank. “But afterward I felt sick.” He preferred not to tell her about the initial surge of terror, so huge that it had numbed him. He didn’t have the words to describe it, nor truly the comprehension.

“I was frightened,” she admitted in a small voice. “Mama said everything would be all right, but I could see she was afraid too.” She rubbed her chin against her upraised knees. “Papa wasn’t scared,” she said on a more vibrant note. “But I’ve never seen him so angry. I think there’s going to be lots more fighting. He says that de Lacy and Mortimer will pay.” Her voice shook. She was in desperate need of reassurance.

“They will,” Brunin said awkwardly

Hawise rose and came to the pony. Leaning against the opposite side to Brunin, she pressed her face into Morel’s hot, black neck and wept. Unsure what to do, Brunin stood rooted to the spot. When his mother cried, his father would stalk out of the room, growling about the weakness of women. He had never seen his grandmother weep. Marion and Sibbi always ran to Sybilla for comfort. Hawise usually went to her father, or else, like him, sought a corner alone.

Uncertainly he came around to her and set his arm across her shoulders. He didn’t know what to say, but the act of going to her and touching seemed right and when she turned and cried against him, rather than against the pony, he felt his vitals knot with pain and his eyes start to burn.

***

That night, a vigil was held for Adam in the castle chapel. His body had been washed and tended by Sybilla and the women, the arrow that had killed him drawn from the wound and burned on the fire. He had been gowned in his best tunic, and a sword had been placed between his clasped hands. Grim-faced, Joscelin stood guard before the bier upon which the youth lay. FitzWarin and Hugh stood with him…and Brunin, who had begged to be allowed to keep vigil too. Beeswax candles burned on the altar and in every sconce and niche, so that although there were shadows, none were deep, and the air in the chapel was scented with honey.

Sybilla brought the girls, each bearing a lighted candle, and for a time they prayed at the bier. Sibbi wept quietly throughout. Hawise and Marion were dry-eyed, but the former’s face was a swollen testimony to all the tears she had shed, and the latter looked so pale and wraithlike that Brunin fancied he could almost see through her.

After a few hours, Marion began to sway on her feet; Sybilla made the girls leave their candles and took them away to bed. But later she returned and knelt to keep vigil with Joscelin.

Several times during the night, Brunin almost fell asleep. The need to close his eyes crept over him like a slow, warm blanket. Despite his preoccupation, Joscelin noticed and nudged him awake. On the third occasion he murmured that Brunin should lie down for a while. No one would think less of him. But Brunin shook his head and adamantly refused. Joscelin gave him several sips of sweetened wine and sent him to duck his head in the rain barrel outside the door. After that, Brunin stayed awake until the cockerels began crowing on the dung heaps and a new day brightened in the east. It seemed a lifetime since yesterday morn when they had set out from Hereford. In a way it was, and although he could not fathom the difference yet, Brunin knew that he had changed.

***

Joscelin rubbed his hands over his gritty eyes and poured another measure of wine into his cup. In the two days since the ambush on the road, he had barely slept. There was too much to do, or so he kept telling himself. He dreaded the time when he had to stop and allow thoughts beyond the practical into his mind. He dreaded having to face Adam’s father when he rode in to claim the body of his son. Wine, he hoped, would grant him an interim oblivion tonight.

FitzWarin was drinking with him, but not as fast. His mood was somber and, although he was keeping Joscelin company, he was saying little.

“I will understand if you choose to take the boy back to Whittington with you on the morrow,” Joscelin said, summoning his voice from the dregs of his cup.

FitzWarin shifted in his chair and patted one of the deerhounds as it raised its head. “You do not want him anymore?”

“No, of course I want him. But after what has happened, perhaps you would rather keep him at your side.” Joscelin looked down into the murky lees in his cup. “Perhaps I am not to be trusted with other men’s sons.”

FitzWarin gave a rude snort. “I never thought to hear you talking from wine and self-pity. You’re supposed to be the one with the clear head.”

“It doesn’t feel clear at the moment,” Joscelin said bleakly. “Indeed, I’m not even certain that it’s my head.”

“And that’s a good reason for me to ignore everything you say.” FitzWarin leaned forward and opened his hand. “Christ, man, there was nothing you could do. If not Adam, someone else would have taken that first arrow. We were riding in good formation; we fought them off and gave them a hiding into the bargain. Your patrols should have been more diligent in keeping that undergrowth cut back, but that’s one mistake and, since you have spent the summer away, not your fault. God knows, if you are going to wallow in guilt, you’re a weaker man than I took you for.”

Joscelin tried to feel anger, but it wouldn’t come. “Then perhaps you should indeed take your son,” he said.

“Perhaps I should rattle your teeth in your skull,” FitzWarin retorted impatiently. “I watched the way you dealt with Brunin on campaign and I have seen the difference in him that time with you has wrought. He is as likely to fall down a well at Whittington or get trampled by a horse as he is to be struck by an arrow. You take too much blame on yourself. I can think of no man who is a better master to his squires.” Finishing his wine, FitzWarin rose to his feet and stretched. “I’m for my bed,” he said. “And you should be too.”

Joscelin grimaced. “I doubt I will sleep.”

“You’ve got wine; you’ve got your wife. Never fails for me.”

Despite himself, Joscelin found a laugh…and realized that what FitzWarin said was true. Perhaps, mercifully, he would find a brief respite in the remedies suggested.

***

At Wigmore, Gilbert de Lacy was also suffering a fretful lack of sleep. A sword blow had reached past his shield in the skirmish with de Dinan’s troops, and he was nursing not only a cracked collar bone, but dented pride and frustrated ambition. He had picked his moment, chosen his place, and attacked hard—to no avail except to sound a warning at Ludlow that would set it even further beyond his reach. He had retreated with three dead men and a passel of wounded ones who would take days and in some cases weeks to heal.

“That bastard has the luck of the devil,” he muttered to his ally, Hugh Mortimer, lord of Wigmore and ardent supporter of King Stephen.

“Of which bastard are we talking?” Hugh asked. “Henry of Anjou certainly has it, since he’s slipped through all our traps like a fox and managed to reach Bristol.”

De Lacy shifted on the settle, trying to ease the nagging ache in his damaged clavicle. He had little interest in whether Henry of Anjou had avoided the traps or not. Nor did he care about Stephen and Eustace. They were all cut from a similar cloth. His main reason for forming an alliance with Hugh of Wigmore was their mutual objective of wresting Ludlow from Joscelin de Dinan, and everything else was little more than the backcloth on which to sew his stitches.

“Let Prince Eustace deal with Henry of Anjou,” he said. “I was talking of Joscelin de Dinan.”

Hugh tugged a fleshy earlobe. “Luck plays its part, I agree, but he’s no novice at war. He was a field mercenary before he took command of Ludlow, and field mercenaries are not given castles like that unless their abilities are exceptional.”

“Not that exceptional,” Gilbert grunted sourly and glanced to his squires who had no tasks for the moment and were engaged in a game of dice. “Ernalt, more wine,” he snapped.

The blond youth rose and went to the flagon. A healing cut striped one cheekbone where a tree branch had whipped him during the fight. He had been supposed to stay back with the archers but had ignored the order and engaged in a skirmish with one of de Dinan’s footsoldiers. As it happened, he had wounded the man and come out of it with his own hide intact. Gilbert had whipped him for disobedience, but, in acknowledgment of his courage, not too hard. Besides, whipping seldom had any effect on Ernalt. The youth’s mental hide was as tough as boiled leather.

“Ludlow is mine,” he said as he took the wine from the squire’s hand and dismissed him. “I will not rest until it is in my family’s possession again.”

Hugh ran his forefinger across his upper lip. “To which de Dinan would answer that it does belong to a de Lacy. His wife is one by blood, if not by name.”

“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 honor 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 now we are allies because we have a common enemy. I am not impugning your own honor, 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 with a brusque nod. “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 good night 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 honorable 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 sleepy. 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 vigor. Three years ago, many men had answered the call to go 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.