20

Spring 1157

Gilbert de Lacy gazed across woods and fields steeped in spring sunshine. The trees were in bud and early leaf, their delicate green filtered with gold. Across the cliff, across the river, Ludlow Castle shone as if dipped in honey. From this vantage point, he had seen it in all its seasonal incarnations: snow-clad and brown through frost-fronded branches; silvered in mist like a faery palace from a romance of King Arthur; concealed like a stag in the woods by dark summer green. The longing cut into him, and the frustration. No matter how many bandages of truce and reason were laid upon the wound, the bitter sense of injustice and loss bled through.

Like a sharp pain in flesh, his gaze was drawn to the scarlet and gold wyvern banner rippling from the battlements. “Henry promised to restore the lands of the dispossessed,” he said in a bitter voice to de Lysle who was riding at his left shoulder. “But he has not kept his word. It seems that he would rather sweep the matter under a bench than deal with it. If I wait his pleasure, my grave will come to me before Ludlow does.” He drew the reins through his fingers and his horse jibbed at the pressure on the bit. “Whatever Henry says, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“So how do you intend to unseat Joscelin de Dinan if the King shows no interest?” de Lysle asked.

“The King must be made to show interest.” De Lacy turned his stallion about. “I have been patient for too long.”

***

A week later, Joscelin rode out of Ludlow, intent on visiting a tenant who wanted him to witness a grant to the monks at Wenlock.

“I am fit to accompany you,” Brunin protested, when ordered to stay behind, but Joscelin shook his head and would have none of it.

“So you say, but I would rather you took another day’s rest than ruin yourself and the horse.”

“But—”

“No arguments.” Joscelin raised a forefinger. “You can sort out my weapons chest if you want something to do and see about sharpening up my spare sword.”

“Yes, my lord,” Brunin said with resignation. Three days ago, while Brunin was exercising the gelding, Jester had put his foot in a coney hole and taken a fall. The horse had escaped with a strained foreleg, but Brunin had struck his head and been knocked out of his senses. Although he recovered his wits within the hour, he had been able to see two of everything, had been white as sifted flour, and sporadically vomiting. Three days later, he was still suffering from a persistent headache. Jester had been rested up in the stables and tended by the head groom who had declared the horse to be fit as soon as his master was.

Sybilla had muttered darkly about the coneys. They had been introduced to Ludlow by Gilbert’s branch of the family and kept within an enclosure, their meat and fur a valuable addition to the castle’s domestic supplies. However, some of them had burrowed their way out and spread to the surrounding countryside where their nibbling and digging caused havoc.

Brunin watched Joscelin ride out. He glittered as he rode, for he was using the occasion to break in his new hauberk, the old one having seen out its better days during three decades of hard strife.

Brunin sighed and turned to his duties. A headache threatened in the background, but he pushed it aside, determined to ignore it. If the women thought he was suffering, they would have him back on his bed, and after three days of sleep and inactivity, his body was twitchy with excess energy. He climbed the stairs to the domestic chamber and asked Sybilla for the key to Joscelin’s weapons chest.

“You are feeling better?” she asked as she unfastened the key from the ring at her belt.

“Yes, my lady.” He made a face. “I would have ridden with my lord this morning, if he had not ordered me to rest another day.”

“Well, the task he has left you should keep you gainfully occupied until noon…and I can find plenty for you to do after that.” Sybilla gave a soft laugh at his expression, pressed his shoulder, and left him.

Although he had been a part of the family since his arrival at Ludlow, it astonished Brunin how much deeper that involvement had become since his betrothal to Hawise. Before he had been like a piece of trimming attached to a garment. Now he was part of the garment itself, woven so firmly among the other strands that any attempt at removal would cause a destructive tear.

The weapons chest was stored in a corner of the main bedchamber that Joscelin had marked for his own territory. Here stood his hauberk pole, currently occupied by his old mail shirt. The garment was supported by an ash stave thrust through the sleeves. The leather of the ventail section was black with grease and sweat. A close inspection revealed that some of the rings were slightly different in shade and shape and indicated where the hauberk had been repaired in the aftermath of battle and altered to fit its wearer as he grew from slender youth to wide-shouldered man in his prime. Brunin lightly touched the oiled rivets. He was to be knighted before he was wed, and he would receive his own hauberk then, and a pair of silver spurs in token of his transition from youth to man. Perhaps then, garbed like a knight, he would feel more like one.

He knelt before the chest, a solid affair crafted of carved oak and reinforced with wide iron bands. Having turned the key in the lock, he unsnapped the hasps and laid back the lid. Inside, stored in oiled and waxed bundles, was the story of Joscelin’s life as a mercenary, a knight, and lord of a great marcher castle. An old Dane ax of the kind that King Stephen had favored came first to Brunin’s hand. There were a few minor rust pits and he set it to one side for cleaning and reoiling. A waxed hide unrolled to reveal several hunting knives and an English seax. The hilt needed attention, but since Brunin had never seen Joscelin carry the weapon, he assumed that it was kept as a memento rather than being functional. Another ax came to hand, some spearheads and arrow points, a mace and a morning-star flail. Brunin grimaced at the latter. He had trained in its use…or tried to, but it was a fickle weapon, as likely to wrap itself around. the head of its wielder as strike an enemy. Mastered, however, and as demonstrated by Joscelin, it was a fearsome thing to use, capable of splintering bone with a single blow. He wrapped the leather grip around his wrist, grasped the handle, and experimentally swung the ball and chain.

“My mother said you’d be playing. She knows you too well.”

He spun around to find Hawise standing behind him, laughter in her eyes.

“Playing?” he repeated and looked affronted. “You don’t ‘play’ with one of these.” He put it in her hand.

“What were you doing then?”

“Practicing. The moves aren’t subtle with a flail, but they have to be controlled, otherwise you’ll do more damage to yourself than your opponent.”

She swung the chain, winced at the jerk of the ball against her wrist, and, hastily handing it back, came to inspect the rest of the contents of the chest. He glanced over his shoulder but there was no sign of a maid. Hawise was here without a chaperone, and it was by her mother’s consent. Sybilla was putting a lot of trust in him and her daughter.

“Is there a reason for you seeking me out?”

She slanted him a look through her lashes. “Who said that I had sought you out? Perhaps I wanted to look inside my father’s weapons chest.”

“Perhaps.” He laid the flail to one side and gestured. “Most of it is clean of rust. Your father wanted me to check after the winter damp.” He was pleased at the conversational way that the words emerged—as if her presence was not raising the fine hair along his forearms. The contents of the chest had been interesting a moment ago, but now all he could think about was the way the fabric of her gown was drawn tight to her waist by the side lacings and how the arrangement emphasized the curve of her breasts.

Thus far Brunin had managed to keep his hands to himself, but there had been moments when the temptation had almost proved too much. Their courtship, if such it could be called, was taking place under the sympathetic but watchful eye of Sybilla, and the less sympathetic but equally watchful scrutiny of her father. Hawise was his daughter, his child, and while he accepted that she was old enough to wed and bed, he was uncomfortable with the notion of her taking the steps that led to those events. Sybilla would say, “Let them be alone awhile,” and Joscelin would agree, but his notion of “awhile” was somewhat narrower than his wife’s. Even when they were unchaperoned, as now, and Joscelin was absent, Brunin felt that he should be looking over his shoulder. The need to be on guard was a constant, anxious counter-balance to his ardor.

Hawise knelt before the chest, gathering her skirts to one side so they would not be in the way. One foot peeped from beneath the hem, revealing a laced goatskin shoe and a narrow ankle clad in silk hose. Brunin swallowed at the sight and heat flooded into his groin.

“I remember this sword!” she cried, removing the one that Brunin was supposed to oil and check for sharpness. “When I was a little girl my father used to wear it all the time. It came from Brittany with my great-grandfather.” She laid her hand to the hilt and drew the weapon from the scabbard. The blade was still mirror bright, but then Brunin knew that it was checked twice a year, even if Joscelin possessed newer swords.

“Do you remember when we used to fight with wooden swords?” she asked.

“Only too well.” He grimaced and rubbed his arm. “You might not have been skilled, but you were lethal.”

She poked out her tongue at him and, rising to her feet, faced him with the blade. Then, slowly, she sheathed it. Probably she had not intended the gesture to be suggestive, or erotic, but it was, and Brunin’s breath came so short that it was almost like being punched.

Hawise too seemed to realize what she had done, for she hastily replaced the weapon in the coffer. He saw the ripple of her throat as she swallowed. “I came to tell you that my mother has given us the high chamber in the north-west tower for our own…after we are wed,” she added. “And she has promised us a bed and furnishings.”

“That is generous of her,” Brunin heard himself say. The words sounded stilted to him, as if he were speaking at a formal gathering and not to Hawise personally. The word “bed” leaped out at him.

“I…We are going to sweep it out later today and sort out which hangings to put up on the walls. Do you have a preference?”

He shrugged. “None. Whatever you wish.”

She looked at him. “Is your head hurting?”

“No…well, only a little. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re frowning, as if you are troubled.”

Brunin decided that riding out with Joscelin would have been much less dangerous than staying here. “Hawise, I…”

“What?”

He came to her and set his hands at her waist. The feel of her body warmth through the taut cloth, the scent of her, was too much. “This,” he said and angled his head to kiss her. Her lips were full and soft and, after the briefest hesitation, they parted beneath his own. She raised her hand and set her palm to the side of his face, then down to his throat and around the back of his head, where her fingers tightened in the hair at his nape. The feelings created by her touch were exquisite. She leaned into the kiss and pressed herself against him and Brunin swallowed a moan. Raw lust warred with moral responsibility. Your lord’s daughter, he told himself with the rational part of his mind. Your future wife: you have the right, said the part that was burning to be quenched. She must have been torn both ways too, for after a moment, she broke the kiss and drew back, breathing hard. Her eyes were hazy and she licked her lips as if savoring the taste of the kiss.

“Jesu,” she said and gave a husky laugh that almost caused him to break into a sweat. “If this is a foretaste of what is to come, then there will be naught left of me on my wedding morning save a pile of ashes.”

He laughed too, attempting to diminish the hungry tension. They were both sensible. Opportunities for dalliance like this were rare and never lasted long. They could have made clandestine assignations, of course, but they both knew what was at stake and what was expected of them. She would come to her wedding most properly a virgin and there would be proof on the sheet in the morning. For there not to be would be a source of shame and a blight to the start of their married life. A woman who yielded was not to be trusted. A man who took advantage and caused the shame was dishonorable. “Those who play with fire…” he jested weakly and, closing the lid of the weapons chest, sat down upon it. In the corner of his eye, her father’s hauberk gleamed, reminding him of its owner’s presence. The heavy pulsing at his groin subsided to a slower, duller ache. It seemed a long, long time until midsummer.

Hawise tilted her head to one side. Her cheeks were pink, but the mistiness was leaving her eyes. “I have never asked you,” she said, “but how many women have you bedded?”

Brunin was taken aback. “What sort of question is that?” He folded his arms, half smiling, half defensive.

“A curious one? Since we are to be wed, I want to know such things about you.”

“Why?” He began to feel uneasy. “Surely a marriage is a beginning. We do not need to drag our past behind us.”

The flush in her cheeks deepened and spread to her brow. “But we are shaped by what has happened in the past. That’s why my mother wanted me and Sibbi to have some say in our marriages—because she didn’t. That is why your father sent you to us at Ludlow, rather than keeping you at Whittington, and why mine hesitated before he committed himself.”

“Did you hesitate too?”

“Of course. It was the most important decision of my life.”

Her frankness made him smile. “I am glad you decided in my favor.”

“And you?” she demanded. “What did you say?”

“You want the honest truth?”

“You know I do. What are you going to say? Never look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“No, but that is what my father said when my grandmother remarked that it was a pity you had to have red hair and a Breton mercenary for a father.”

Hawise drew herself up.

The smile became a chuckle. “Hold your indignation. Those were my grandmother’s words, not mine. Out of her hearing, my father said that your family were probably thinking it a pity that the blood of the Conqueror should flow through the veins of an objectionable old crone.”

Hawise was diverted into a splutter, but not for long. “And what did you say?”

He sobered. “I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I knew it was a possibility, but I had never dared to hope. There are many families your father could have chosen. And to know that you had been given a say in the matter and not refused…” He fell silent, pondering what to say without exposing too much of himself. “It was a great honor and responsibility,” he said at last. “I swear you will never regret your choice.” There were no words of love. He would not have known how to speak them, or even be familiar with the emotion. He knew lust; he knew the warmth of friendship and affection. Sometimes she exasperated him beyond bearing, and sometimes he ached with the need for her presence. But he was no troubadour, and his feelings were conflicting. He knew that emotions could be both enemy and friend and he was wary.

“I will hold you to your oath,” she said with a smile and a tilt of her head. “But you still haven’t told me the number of women you have bedded.”

He looked exasperated and amused. “I do not see that it matters…unless you think I need the experience.”

She blushed. “No…but it is natural for women to wonder.”

“Is it?” His eyes shone with a salacious masculine gleam. “Is that what you talk about together when the men are out warring or hunting?”

“Sometimes.” Hawise folded her arms and made a face at him. “But not in the same fashion as you men do. You all laugh and brag about your conquests to each other and are not thought the worse for your deeds or boasting. But if a woman does that, she is branded a slut and a whore. If I do not come to my marriage bed a virgin, then I am shamed. If you do not, then it is a matter of no consequence…save that some will laugh at you for not having the knowledge and pity me your lack of experience.”

He shrugged. “Some men brag of their conquests in the same way that some women will browbeat others by talking of their clothes and possessions,” he said. “It is a means of making themselves appear more important and powerful than they are.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I am sorry if you are vexed, but my experience is my business alone. All I will say is that you can rest easy that no woman in Ludlow is going to look at you askance and say she had me first.”

The subject matter had put a high color in her cheeks. “I am glad for that, even if Marion tries to tell me otherwise.”

He looked indignant. “That was no more than a kiss.”

“Not to hear Marion speak.”

Brunin exhaled hard. “You were there. You saw what happened. And I have never laughed or bragged about it. There is only Marion who keeps it alive and out of pique. As soon as your parents settle a husband on her, she’ll forget she ever wanted to be my bride.”

“Mayhap, but it doesn’t help that the last offer my father made to that knight of Bishop Gilbert’s was turned down. Marion’s been brooding like a thundercloud ever since.”

“I—” He closed his mouth and looked toward the stairs as they heard the sound of footfalls. Moments later, Annora poked her head around the door and said that Sybilla wanted Hawise. Then she waited to escort her. The maid’s shrewd gaze went to the closed weapons chest and Brunin seated upon it and calculated the distance between the couple.

He was tempted to make the sarcastic observation that they still had all of their clothes on, but decided that it wasn’t worth the aggravation, and besides, Annora was only doing her duty. Murmuring that he would speak with Hawise later and repeating that he had no preference as to the hangings in their prospective chamber, he returned to his task.

Once he had checked and oiled the weapons, secured the chest, and returned the key to Sybilla, he went to inspect Jester. Three days of rest seemed to have cured the leg strain and when he rode the horse around the bailey at a bareback trot, there was no sign of the injury. Satisfied, he returned the gelding to the stables and gave him a thorough grooming. It was a pleasure to do so, for, despite his comical ugliness, Jester’s glossy copper-bay coat put many a more elegant mount to shame. By the time he had finished working on his mount, Jester’s hide was shining like a mirror, Brunin’s arm was aching, and so was his head. Overcome by a nauseous lassitude caused by the dregs of his concussion, he lay down in the empty stall next to Jester’s. The groom had cleaned it out and refurbished it with a pile of thick, fragrant hay, redolent with the scents of the meadow from which it had been cut. Rather than seek out his pallet, which would have meant toiling up a set of narrow tower stairs, Brunin lay down in the horse bedding and closed his eyes.