11

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 had 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 outward, 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 noon and his stomach was rumbling more loudly than a charge of destriers on a battlefield.

He wanted to go and look at the horses, but for that he had to wait for Joscelin. With the memories of his childhood burned into his brain, he had no intention of wandering off anywhere on his own—even with a dagger at his belt. He knew that Gilbert de Lacy was in Shrewsbury for he had glimpsed his entourage across the Foregate yester eve, including his two squires, now almost grown men. To his great relief and continuing apprehension he had not sighted them today but they were bound to be in the throng somewhere.

“Show me the gold wool.” Sybilla pointed to a bolt of cloth. The mercer lifted it from his shelf and created a fan of pleats on the counter. “Hawise, this will suit you; what do you think? Good and thick for winter.”

In previous years, the sight of bolts of fabric rowed on the shelves of the mercer’s booths at Shrewsbury Fair would have glazed Hawise’s eyes with as much boredom as the men’s. Today, however, the cloth exuded a fascination. Her fingers itched to pinch and rub; to smooth over cold, glossy silk; to crumple linen and test for softness. “I like it.” She picked up the end to hold it against herself.

Sybilla considered and gave a satisfied nod. She gestured to her steward, giving him permission to haggle a price. “Enough for a dress and a length over for alterations and patching,” she said. “Now show me that blue.”

Hawise moistened her lips with greedy pleasure as the next bolt thudded onto the counter. This was for her too, and also for Sibbi. She heard Brunin heave a deep sigh and pretended not to hear. He was as bad as her father. Marion watched the mercer’s apprentice measure and cut with envious eyes.

“I wouldn’t want to wear the gold, or the blue,” she said loftily. “They’re too dull.”

“For your fairness, perhaps,” Sybilla said. “But not for Hawise and Sibbi. I was thinking of the light blue up there for you, or that rose-pink.” She pointed out a couple of bolts.

Marion’s eyes brightened and she leaned on the counter to scrutinize Sybilla’s suggestions.

Sybilla had the mercer bring out his chemise linens for her perusal.

“Finest weave of Cambrai,” the trader said proudly. “Only shipped in a fortnight since.”

Hawise set her hand beneath the fabric and fancied that she could almost see her fingers through it.

“If you’ve a bride in the family, it’ll be fit for the wedding night,” the mercer said, eyeing the girls. Sibbi blushed and glanced quickly over her shoulder at Hugh, but he was watching the milling crowds. “And if not, it’s still a dainty thing to wear against the skin. Almost as fine as silk, but a deal less costly.”

Hawise willed her mother to be swayed and was delighted when Sybilla bought sufficient for an undershift each.

Finally, when every shelf of the mercer’s booth had been inspected and plundered, Sybilla announced that they would visit a cookstall to fortify themselves for the afternoon ahead. Watching Brunin stifle a yawn and unfold himself from his leaning post, Hawise was reminded of the rangy stable cats at Ludlow.

“Never mind,” she said with the sympathy of one whose own appetites were temporarily sated, “you’ll get to look at the horse fair soon and we’ve bought enough linen to make you a new shirt too.”

He gave her a sidelong look in which she was surprised to read irritation. “I am not a child to be cozened by promises of rewards for patient behavior,” he said stiffly and turned away with Hugh to forge a way through the crowds.

Hawise gazed after him in astonishment.

“Pay no heed,” Sybilla murmured with a smile. “No male’s temper is proof against accompanying women around the merchants’ booths. Why do you think your father has delegated the task?”

Two squires clutching hot pasties eased past the women. One youth was of ordinary looks: brown-haired, snub-nosed, and stocky. His companion, however, caused Marion to inhale sharply and Hawise to stare, her stomach wallowing. He had wheaten hair, eyes of deep woad-blue, and features of the kind that adorned her imagination when the minstrels in the hall sang of bold and handsome knights.

His gaze traveled over the women and for one liquefying moment paused on Hawise. Then it moved to Marion and held for longer. In the instant before the press of the crowds and the angle of direction separated the parties, he smiled and closed one eye in a knowing wink.

“Who do you think he was?” Marion whispered, agog.

Hawise craned back over her shoulder, but to no avail for the young men were already out of sight.

Brunin stared after the squires too, but he already knew their identities. He tightened his fist around the hilt of his knife, reassuring himself with the solid presence of the leather grip, knowing that this time he was not defenseless, but his mouth filled nonetheless with the bitter taste of fear.

***

It was late afternoon by the time Brunin was relieved of his duties with the women and finally able to go with Joscelin to look at the horse fair. Since it was high summer, the latter was set to continue into the late dusk.

Joscelin grinned and slapped the youth across the shoulder blades as they walked toward the lines of tethered horses. “So how has your lesson in patience been, lad?” he asked. “I hope you know your sarcenet from your samite and your twill from your wadmal by now.”

Brunin looked pained. “I do not know about that, my lord, but my brains have certainly gone wool-gathering.”

Joscelin threw back his head and laughed. Brunin laughed too, but the sound had a hollow ring. He was remembering the fear that had jolted through him when he saw de Lacy’s squires. He wanted to speak out and rid himself of the moment but, reluctant to sound unmanly, tightened his lips and pressed the emotions down, as if weighting a floating corpse with stones.

Brunin, Joscelin, and the Ludlow men set about examining the beasts for sale with as much pleasure and concentration as the women had perused their cloth. And, like the cloth, there were all kinds to consider, from the coarse workaday to the refined and magnificent and all qualities between.

Joscelin looked in the mouth of one and shook his head at Brunin. “Teeth have been filed to make it seem younger,” he said.

They moved on from that particular seller and avoided another whose horses had whip scars on their rumps. Brunin admired a large gray stallion with arched crest, rounded rump, and restively stamping hooves.

“Ideas above your station,” Joscelin chuckled. “That’s not a training mount; that’s a warhorse in every sense of the word. He’d battle you all the way to Normandy and back.”

Brunin had not thought for a minute that he would be able to have the stallion, but it still gave him wistful pleasure to look. A training mount, he told himself and, with an inward sigh, turned from the highly bred beasts to more prosaic fare. Hugh pointed out a handsome chestnut and Brunin tried him, but despite being young, the horse already had a hard mouth and its muscles shivered nervously as if constantly attacked by midges. Joscelin liked the look of an older dun, and the horse was sound of wind and limb, but Brunin was not as enthusiastic.

“It’s like women,” chuckled one of the knights. “Either you want them enough to burst your braies, or they’re as appealing as skin on cold pottage.”

Joscelin flashed a smile. “You can live on cold pottage skin,” he said. “‘Bursting your braies,’ as you call it, creates more trouble than it’s worth.”

Brunin ignored their banter and approached a raw-boned gelding standing near the back of a horse line. It was a bright bay with black mane and tail and its two hind legs were white to the gaskins, making it look as if it were wearing hose. A white blaze straddled its cobby face and slipped to one side, covering one nostril and giving the horse a comical appearance. When he set his hand to its neck, it breathed on him gustily and immediately set about searching his garments as if expecting to find a hidden tidbit.

“This one,” Brunin said.

Joscelin lifted his head from examination of the dun and stared with widening eyes. Hands on hips, he wandered over to Brunin’s find. “Jesu! He looks as if he was made out of all the bits God had left over when he’d finished!” he scoffed. “Why in the name of St. Peter should you want him?”

Brunin flushed beneath Joscelin’s scorn, but stood his ground. “Not all that is plain is dross,” he said. “He’s got a strong back, and his coat’s in good condition. See, no mange. And he’s young—only about six or seven. He’s been well handled in the past too.”

Joscelin arched his brows. “I am relieved to see you are not a complete fool,” he said. “A halfwit rather than a lack-wit, but he’s still a nag.”

“I could try him…” Brunin willed Joscelin to say yes. He could see that the matter hung in the balance, that Joscelin was wondering whether to humor him or have done. Brunin stared at Joscelin and set his jaw. The older man’s gray-hazel eyes filled with a smile.

“I once said to Sybilla that you were the most obedient and biddable squire I had ever trained and she replied that one day you would find your feet and surprise me.” He waved his hand. “Oh, go on. Put your saddle on him.” He turned to the coper who had been watching the exchange with alert eyes and the scent of a sale in his nostrils. The man scuttled with alacrity to help tack the horse up.

“How did you come by the beast?” Joscelin wanted to know. “I doubt you bred him yourself. No one would be that foolish.”

The coper looked affronted. “He is a fine mount, sire. I would have been proud to have bred him, but you are right, I did not. He was sold to me by a knight who owed a debt to the Jews.”

“By a knight…?” Joscelin stared at the horse in fresh appraisal. Brunin efficiently cinched the girths, working swiftly, horribly afraid that at any moment Joscelin was going to change his mind.

“Yes, my lord. Said he were a destrier, full trained.”

A rude snort erupted from Joscelin’s nose. “If that’s a destrier, then I’m a priest’s catamite! Good Christ, no one rides a gelding into battle. I’ve seen better donkeys in my time!”

Brunin set his foot in the stirrup and swung astride. The horse’s head came up and it pricked its long, mulish ears.

“There’s a quintain post over there if you want to try your hand with a lance.” The coper nodded obligingly at a short run of churned grass and a post with a crossbar. On the end of the crossbar was a ring fashioned of woven withies. “Has the lad started tilting at the ring?”

“He has, but he’s not having that horse,” Joscelin said.

Brunin drew the bay out of the line and leaned to take the blunted lance that the coper had propped against the side of his booth for clients to use. Brunin was aware of Joscelin shaking his head and looking skeptical, but it only made the youth more determined. He dug his heels into the bay’s flanks and urged him toward the quintain run. The bay responded to the lightest touch on the reins and canted his haunches sideways at the dig in the side. His long ears waggled and as Brunin turned him to face the quintain, he felt a ripple surge through the horse.

Couching the lance, Brunin set the gelding at the target and immediately realized what he had found. The bay’s stride was short because of the shortness of the run, but smoothly controlled, and he brought Brunin straight as a die to the target. As the youth neatly lifted the ring off the hook, the bay turned away on a right lead and brought them back to the start of the run. Brunin pulled the lance head back to his body and tipped the ring off into his hand. The horse coper waddled up, took it from him, and replaced it on the quintain. Again Brunin made a run and again the horse did everything except put the lance on the ring.

Joscelin rumpled his hair. “I’m a priest’s catamite,” he said softly as Brunin reined about and returned to the line, his eyes shining.

Joscelin looked in the horse’s mouth, sounded its wind, tested its legs. He kept repeating the word “nag” and “mule” to himself. Brunin held silent, his throat dry with apprehension. He couldn’t say why he so badly wanted the bay, only that it was an instinct that came from the gut.

“How much do you want for him?” Joscelin asked. The coper named his price and Joscelin choked. “Hell’s teeth, I’d expect to get a Spanish stallion for that, not a spavined hobby like this. I tell you what. I’ll give you five marks. Take it or leave it.”

The coper looked affronted and said he would leave it; the horse was worth four times that amount.

Brunin knew desperation, but he fought not to let it show on his face. He knew that much about buying and selling. He willed Joscelin not to walk away.

The coper looked around. Other customers had arrived to look at his wares. After a lull in the late afternoon, the evening crowds were beginning to throng the fair while the light lingered—and some of them, made careless by drink, had a lighter grasp on their purses. He named a lower price and Joscelin increased his in the time-honored fashion. Finally a deal was agreed and a tally stick notched, recording the sale. Brunin’s chest swelled with joy and gratitude.

“No, do not thank me,” Joscelin said, holding up his hands. “I still cannot believe what I have done. And when your father sees what I have bought to carry his son to knighthood, I’ll be fried alive.”

“He looks nothing, sir,” Brunin said. “But that doesn’t mean he is nothing. He’ll prove his worth.”

“He had better do,” Joscelin said ruefully.

A shout from the quintain caught their attention and they turned to see Gilbert de Lacy’s fair-haired squire tilting at the ring. He was mounted on the gray stallion that Brunin had admired earlier and the pair were a glorious sight. Brunin narrowed his eyes and watched the young man perform the maneuver with flawless precision. He used thighs and heels to turn the horse, showing off his considerable equestrian skills and muscular strength as he mastered the stallion. Brunin willed the horse to stumble or the rider to make a clumsy mistake, but neither happened.

A smiling Gilbert de Lacy arrived to watch his squire’s performance and cupped his hands to shout words of pride and encouragement. The wry humor faded from Joscelin’s face, leaving it taut and grim. De Lacy looked up and across. An air-scorching stare passed between the two men.

“Come,” Joscelin said to Brunin, without taking his eyes from de Lacy. “We are done here and the light’s fading.”

Brunin grasped the bay’s bridle close to the headstall and, with a click of his tongue, followed Joscelin and his retinue from the horse fair. He heard laughter at his back, and his ears burned. Although he knew it unlikely that he or his new horse were the object of the mirth, his imagination was raw.

“It will look as if we are running away, my lord,” muttered Hugh, who was flushed with chagrin.

“But we had finished our business,” Joscelin replied evenly. “If we linger with no more purpose than making a show, he will have driven us to respond. I do not fear him. That is all that matters.”

“But—”

“Enough,” Joscelin said curtly. “I will hear no more.”

***

On returning to their lodgings, Brunin’s new mount was greeted with reserve by the women. Sybilla said little enough, but her expression made it clear that she would be having words with Joscelin later on. Sibbi was too interested in Hugh to pay much attention to the new purchase. Marion took one look at the horse and, turning from Brunin, flounced off to the sleeping loft above the main room. Hawise regarded the new mount with narrowed eyes and folded arms.

“You gave up Morel for this bag of bones?” she asked as Brunin, somewhat dismayed by the women’s reactions, led the bay toward the outbuildings where the rest of Joscelin’s mounts were tethered.

“I haven’t given up Morel,” he snapped. “My feet almost touch the ground when I ride him now. You knew that I was going to buy a bigger horse for weapons training at the fair. William de Cressage is having Morel for his son Meric—he’s a good lad. Your father’s going to take him for a junior squire next year.”

She trailed after him, continuing to look sulky. Someone had been dressing her hair and for once it was tidied into a neat braid, with smaller braids plaited into the main one. The laces of her gown were drawn tight at the sides, emphasizing the curve of developing bosom and narrow waist. Brunin glanced once and then gave his attention to the horse, which was slobbering at his right shoulder.

“He’s not a nag,” he said quietly. “A man does not have to be handsome to make a fine warrior—just efficient and skilled.”

Hawise shrugged, as if physically discarding his words. “But you do not know if the horse is good or not and ugly men can as easily make bad warriors as handsome ones.”

“The trader said he was trained to the tilt.”

“The trader would.” Her tone was cynical.

Brunin swallowed his irritation. “I tried him myself and he knew what he had to do. Indeed, he was eager to do it. Whatever my pleading, your father would not have bought him had he considered him dross.”

She followed him into the barn. Having tethered the horse, he fetched a pile of hay from the stooks in the corner and a pail of water.

“Does he have a name?”

Brunin could tell from the change in her voice that she was trying to make amends without having to apologize. Her nature might be generous, but he had discovered that she found it difficult to admit to being in the wrong. “No,” he said. “What about ‘Ugly’?”

Her eyes flashed and her color rose. “Yes,” she said. “That would indeed be appropriate.”

He gave his attention to the horse, hoping that she would go away, but she ignored the hint.

“Well, you cannot call him ‘Beauty.’” Advancing to the horse, she laid the palm of her hand against its smooth bay neck. “‘Jester’ perhaps?”

Brunin rather liked the name but responded with a grunt that could have meant anything.

“You know that Marion won’t talk to you for a sennight now.” Reaching on tiptoe, she scratched the horse behind his ears and the gelding turned to butt her with his comical white-snipped nose. “You won’t be her ‘knight’ anymore.”

Brunin filled his hand full of oats from an open sack and offered his palm to the gelding. “Her opinion matters not to me,” he said curtly. It wasn’t true, although he would never admit it to Hawise. He took pleasure in the admiring glances Marion fluttered at him from beneath her lashes, in the way she curled her arm around his in the great hall and smiled up at him as if he were her world. She was often querulous and demanding, but she had a sweet, playful side that could melt most male hearts at a hundred paces. He knew that she was sizing him up as a future bridegroom, especially in the light of Sibbi’s betrothal, but he viewed such notions as foolish play of the kind indulged in by girls as they chattered over their embroidery in the domestic chambers.

Hawise smiled. “It matters not to me either,” she said. “Except when I want to smack her.”

Brunin had to swallow a grin. Giving his new horse a final pat, he turned toward the lodging. Hawise walked beside him, her stride long and confident, almost masculine. She didn’t fold her arm around his, nor did she bat her lashes at him. And, despite their recent argument, he was far more comfortable with that than Marion’s clinging adulation.

***

Sybilla handed Joscelin a cup of wine. “You are going to tell me you knew what you were doing,” she said. “That you weren’t swayed by a boy’s whim.”

Joscelin gave her a preoccupied smile. “Rather say that the boy knew what he was doing, love. There’s a good beast hiding within those raw bones and untidy markings.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” He took his wine and went to the embrasure. Swallows swooped in the gloaming over the river, their cries a poignant reminder of a summer that was past its zenith. Another month and they would be gone to wherever they went in the winter months. The grain was ripe in the fields and the harvest imminent…if it didn’t burn. He thrust his shoulder against the wood and sighed. There was melancholy in the air tonight. “I have been thinking.” He turned around to Sybilla. Beyond her the girls were seated in a semicircle trying out different ways of braiding each other’s hair. Giggles and snatches of whispered conversation drifted over to him and echoed the cries of the birds preparing to fly the familiar roost…as Sibbi would fly soon enough.

“About what?” Sybilla was smiling but her gaze was wary.

Joscelin chewed his thumbnail. “About Gilbert de Lacy.”

“What of him?”

“I was wondering whether I should bargain with him for a truce, at least until the harvest is gathered in and the winter months past.”

“A truce?” Sybilla’s voice remained level but her pinched expression left him in no doubt that she thought he had lost his wits.

He gave a defensive shrug. “Other men are making pacts while they wait to see in which direction the balance will ultimately lean. Ranulf of Chester has made alliances with Ferrers and Derby and yet they fight on opposing sides. Your son-in-law flirts with Robert of Leicester.”

“Why should you think that my cousin Gilbert will even consider a truce?” she demanded. “All of his life has been one long striving to take Ludlow. If you sue for peace, he will think you are wearying of the fight—that you are weakening.”

Joscelin’s gray eyes flashed. “He knows that I will never yield him Ludlow,” he snapped. “But I believe he will welcome a period of truce to gain breath.”

“And why do you believe that?” She put down her wine, her action as precise and controlled as her words. He knew that language. The beginning of their marriage had been fraught with it.

“Because he too has harvests to bring in; because he too has lost men. He might be fighting for his own gain, but he needs to take stock and decide whom to support: Stephen or Henry. Sooner rather than later it will end and those who are wise will not be caught with their braies around their knees.”

Sybilla frowned at him. “When were you thinking of calling this truce?”

“Now, since he is in Shrewsbury for the fair.”

“And if I ask you not to?”

He met her gaze and was not reassured by the emotions it contained. Anger, hostility, hurt. “Do you not want to spend a winter at peace and see the people fed because the harvest has been vouchsafed?”

Her lips thinning, she turned away from him. He hardened his resolve. Sybilla was fiercely possessive over Ludlow and distrusted her cousin Gilbert with every bone in her body. Joscelin had always viewed Gilbert as his sworn enemy, but had sufficient pragmatism to see the advantage of talking peace as well as war.

“Would you see us fight ourselves into the ground this winter?” he demanded. “Would you see the harvest fields on fire and the flames reflected on the blade of my sword?”

Her back remained to him, but he saw her flinch at his words and perhaps their tone. “He won’t agree to talk with you,” she said stiffly.

“That is up to him. At least I can say I have tried.”

Sybilla sighed heavily and threw up her hands. “Do as you please,” she said. “But if, by some remote chance, he does want to talk, do not expect me to welcome him with open arms.”

“I promise I won’t.” Relieved at her yielding, glad to relinquish his own harsh stance, he went to her and embraced her from behind, leaning around to kiss her cheek and finding it half turned from him.

“Men and their promises,” she said and did not relent into a smile.

***

Taking Joscelin’s invitation to Gilbert de Lacy was a task that Brunin would rather have forgone, but he was not given a choice.

“You’ll never overcome your fears unless you face them,” Joscelin had said as he dismissed Brunin with an impatient wave of his hand. “Make haste now.”

Brunin had never felt less like making haste, but since Joscelin had commanded with an irascible look in his eyes, he strode out briskly toward de Lacy’s lodgings, which were situated over the bridge from the abbey in the town. When he arrived, de Lacy’s squires and grooms were preparing to exercise their lord’s string of horses. Observing Brunin, the fair-haired squire turned the powerful dun stallion he was riding and came over.

“What do you want?” he demanded, looking Brunin up and down with hauteur but no recognition.

Brunin cleared his throat and forced himself to look up into the hostile, woad-blue eyes. He tried not to think about the dagger resting in the sheath at the young man’s right hip. Even after several years, he could still feel his belly tightening and shrinking. “I have a message for Lord Gilbert de Lacy,” he said.

“Give it to me. I will make sure he gets it.”

Brunin tried to breathe slowly and not show how intimidated he was. “I was told to deliver it in person.”

“I doubt that Lord Gilbert will want to trouble himself.” The squire nudged the dun forward, forcing Brunin to give ground as the stallion pawed the air with a powerful foreleg.

“Even so, I am charged with the duty.” Brunin’s throat was tight and it made his voice husky, but at least the words did not emerge as a squeak.

The young man looked irritated. “You’ll have to wait,” he said. “There’s no one to take you to him.”

Above them a door opened. A brindle greyhound clattered down the outer stairs, followed at a more sedate pace by Gilbert de Lacy, who was dressed in a split-front riding tunic. The Baron reached the foot of the stairs, opened his mouth to speak to his squire, and stopped as he saw Brunin.

“He says he has brought you a message, my lord,” said the young man in a tone that conveyed his contempt for Brunin. “I told him he would have to wait.”

Brunin scowled at his tormentor before bowing to Gilbert de Lacy.

“A message?” said de Lacy. “You’re de Dinan’s squire, are you not? I saw you at the horse fair yester eve trying out that bay nag.”

“Yes, sire.” Having dropped his gaze for sufficient time to be courteous, Brunin looked up again. The hound thrust its moist nose into his hand and licked his fingers.

“De Dinan bought him too.”

The squire sniggered. “Handsome is as handsome does, Ernalt,” de Lacy said, waving him about his duties.

Ernalt. Committing the name to memory, Brunin watched him ride off, the dun’s muscular haunches flexing and clenching.

De Lacy turned back to Brunin. “I wouldn’t have bought the bay myself,” he said. “But then I stand on my dignity and that is something that Joscelin de Dinan has never done.”

Brunin stiffened at the remark. “The horse will prove himself, sir.”

De Lacy looked amused. “Well, either that or he’ll prove what an ass his buyer is.” He clasped one hand lightly around the hilt of his sword. “So, what message does your lord have for me—aside from ‘rot in hell’?” His smile developed a sour edge. “I can think of nothing he could say to me that I would find of interest, unless he is offering to surrender Ludlow.”

“My lord requests that you meet with him to talk of a truce between you.”

The smile became one of bared teeth. “Indeed?”

“Yes, sire.” Brunin watched the pulse beat hard in de Lacy’s throat and the ruddy color flow into his face.

“He’s a Breton mercenary. I should not be surprised at his gall,” de Lacy growled, “and yet I am. Or perhaps there is more to it than that. Why should he want a truce? Are the steps of the dance too fast for him these days?” He spoke above Brunin’s head, his eyes narrow and speculative.

Brunin understood that no answer was required. He waited quietly—something that was easier to do now that de Lacy’s squires had ridden off.

“Tell him I will come to him when I have finished my business at the fair,” de Lacy said. “Perhaps around the hour of noon.” He gave Brunin a hard smile. “But tell his wife not to wait the dinner hour for me.” He nodded in dismissal and moved to where a lad of about Brunin’s own age was holding a copper-colored stallion. Mounting in one smooth motion, he reined about and whistled to the dog.

Brunin closed his eyes, exhaled hard, and took the message back to Joscelin on legs that were suddenly as unsteady as a drunkard’s.