Her head propped on a bolster, Hawise de Dinan lay on her back in her parents’ bed and stared at the canopy. Beside her, she could hear Marion trying not to giggle and that made Hawise want to giggle too. She compressed her lips, fighting the explosion gathering beneath her ribs.
“You’re supposed to have your eyes closed. You’re badly injured,” said Sibbi crossly.
Hawise strained her gaze sideways to her sister who was wearing their mother’s second-best green gown, purloined from the clothing coffer, and the matching silk wimple. She was holding a roll of linen bandage.
“People die with their eyes open,” Hawise pointed out. Not that she had actually seen anyone breathe their last, but she had been to a vigil in the chapel last year for one of the knights and remembered that they had had to put coins on his lids to keep them shut.
“Well, you’re not dying; you’re just wounded.”
“Can I groan then?”
Sibbi rolled her eyes.
“I’d be groaning in real life, wouldn’t I?”
“She would,” Marion reinforced, with a vigorous nod of her flaxen head. She had a cushion stuffed up her dress. “I think the baby’s coming,” she said. “Can I groan too?”
“No, you can’t.” Sibbi’s slate-blue eyes flashed with irritation. “And you can’t give birth until I’ve bound up your husband’s wounds!”
The three girls were playing at “sieges.” It had been Hawise’s idea, for she was a tomboy with a vivid imagination and she had easily projected herself into the role of bold knight saving the castle from assault. Marion had opted to be the lady of the keep and, being just as fond of drama as Hawise in a different way, had added the embellishment of pregnancy to her perils. Sibbi, who was two years older than her sister and Marion, was keener on the nurturing aspect of the game. She wanted to bind the imaginary wounds, make them better, and practice her bandaging skills at the same time. Delivering a baby was somewhat beyond her knowledge, but a cushion was a start.
“Give me your arm,” she said to Hawise.
“You’re supposed to give me lots of wine and get me drunk first,” Hawise said knowledgeably. “When Papa fell off his horse and broke his collar bone, Mama made him drink three quarts of Welsh mead before she tended him.”
“Well, you’ll just have to pretend,” Sibbi snapped.
Hawise screwed up her face and tried to remember the incident. Her father had spoken a lot through clenched teeth and been very bad-tempered. The mead had improved matters but when he had started singing a song about two lusty maidens, a wayfaring man, and a ginger cat, her mother had bundled Hawise from the room. A tremendous pity. She would have liked to know how the song ended.
Hawise submitted to having her arm bandaged and pinned against her body, uttering a few moans to improve the authenticity and even daring her father’s favorite curse of “God’s sweet eyes,” until Sibbi clucked her tongue and Marion threatened to tell on her.
Hawise sighed. “How long do I have to lie here?”
“Until you’re better.”
“Papa didn’t. He was on a horse the next day.”
“Can I have the baby now?” Marion asked querulously. She kneaded the bulge beneath her gown with small clenched fists.
Sybilla de Dinan appeared in the doorway that led through to the day chamber for the castle’s women. She was winding a length of spun wool onto her spindle as she regarded the girls with amusement. “Sibbi, Hawise, your father’s home from Shrewsbury,” she said. “I’ve just seen him ride in.” Advancing to the beds, she paused before Hawise. “Very accomplished,” she said, tucking the spindle in her belt and examining Sibbi’s handiwork. “I could not have done better myself.”
Sibbi blushed with pleasure.
“Although Hawise had best take it off, lest her father think she has met with an accident…”
“Will Lord Joscelin think I’m with child?” Marion piped up.
“Of course he won’t,” Hawise sniffed. “You’re not married. Anyway, it takes a long time to grow a baby…doesn’t it, Mama?” She turned so that Sybilla could unpin the bandage.
“Yes, three seasons.” Sybilla’s expression was still warm with amusement, but a guarded look had entered her eyes. She turned to Marion. “You’ll need some braid to decorate that new gown of yours. Do you want to come and choose the colors now?”
Marion chewed her underlip and thought about the offer. Then she nodded and having solemnly tugged the cushion from beneath her dress, cast it on the bed as if she were suddenly afraid of it and ran to clutch Sybilla’s hand.
Hawise unwrapped the bandage, threw it down in an untidy tangle, and dashed for the door, her heavy auburn braid bouncing against her spine like a bell rope, the soles of her shoes flashing.
With a sigh and a head shake, Sibbi picked up the snarl of linen strips and began rolling them back into a neat coil.
Hawise pelted down to the hall and out into the bailey where the men were dismounting. Her papa had only been gone for two days, but she was wild to greet him. He had promised to bring her some bridle bells for her pony and a set of leather juggling balls from the fair.
By the time she reached him, he had dismounted from his roan cob and was talking to a couple of his knights. A long train of pack ponies was clopping away toward the undercroft. “Papa!” she cried and flung herself at him.
He caught her in mid-run and swung her around in his arms, making her shriek with delight. Then he kissed her soundly on the cheek and set her down.
“Did you remember my bridle bells and juggling balls?” she demanded, hopping from foot to foot.
“Your what?” He rubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw and Hawise felt a jolt of apprehension at the blank look on his face. Just as the apprehension was about to become panic, he winked. With another shriek, she threw her arms around his waist and hugged him.
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “How could I forget them when I know the terrible consequences of doing so? You can have them when I unpack my baggage.” He glanced down and, with a smile, tugged the leather belt at her waist. A wooden sword in a cloth sheath was thrust through it. “What’s this?”
“We’ve been playing sieges,” she said. “And I was the lord of the castle.”
His lips twitched. “I hope you fought off the enemy.”
She nodded. “But I was wounded and Sibbi had to look after me. And Marion was having a baby.”
Her father made an interested sound in his throat and she could tell, from the vibration that ran through him, he was silently laughing. Behind them, she heard the chuckles of the knights, but it was a comfortable sound and she felt indulged rather than ridiculed.
“I might have another surprise for you soon,” he said as she grabbed his hard, callused hand and began pulling him toward the living quarters.
Hawise frowned up at him. Her imagination scurried, but she could think of nothing she particularly wanted beyond bridle bells and juggling balls…unless perhaps a pair of stilts. “What sort of surprise?” she asked.
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll have to talk to your mother first.”
Hawise squeezed him back, exerting all her pressure until he screwed up his face in mock agony and she giggled.
“Tell me, Papa,” she demanded.
“On the morrow.” He tweaked her auburn braid.
“Is it a toy?”
He shook his head. “Wait and see,” he grinned.
She was intrigued and mystified but knew her papa and the boundaries he set well enough to realize that he wouldn’t say until he was ready and that neither cajolery nor stamping and tantrums would work. Indeed, the latter would merit the flat of his hand. Besides, despite her high spirits and impulsive streak, she was a stoical child who could be patient when the occasion arose. “Promise you’ll tell me first.”
“I’ll think about it.” He gave her another wink.
***
Replete with spiced chicken stew, white bread, and an obscene quantity of honey and rose-water tart, the girls were preparing for bed. Gowned in their chemises, their hair combed and their prayers said, they sat on their beds and chattered like sparrows as they waited for Sybilla to come and snuff the candle.
“I don’t know what sort of surprise,” Hawise said. Having imparted the information, she was now the center of attention. She tossed three of the five leather balls in the air and for a moment succeeded in keeping them in rotation. “Papa said it wasn’t a toy, though.” The balls fell around her and she picked them up to begin again.
“Perhaps it’s some cloth for a new dress,” Marion predictably suggested as she flicked back her hair. The strands shone like a field of barley, pale gold and silky under the breeze.
Hawise shook her head, her own thick curls glowing like dark wine. “I thought of that, but Papa’s not interested in clothes or buying them.”
“A puppy then,” Sibbi offered.
Hawise thought about that. Her papa had several large hunting hounds that followed him around the keep and slept across his chamber door. Their mother would pat the beasts in passing but, although she was kind to them, was largely indifferent to dogs. She probably wouldn’t object if worn down by pleading. “No,” she concluded with a regretful shake of her head, “because Papa would have brought a puppy with him and he wouldn’t have asked her about it.”
The girls mulled the problem over in silence for a while, Sibbi sitting in contemplation, hands folded neatly in her lap, Hawise casting and dropping her juggling balls, and Marion stroking her already smooth hair with the antler-work comb that Joscelin had brought her from the fair.
“Perhaps he wants her to have another baby,” Marion said at length. “That would be a surprise.”
Hawise dropped the balls and Sibbi’s head jerked up. Both girls stared at Marion.
“Yes.” Marion nodded decisively. “They don’t have a son and everyone knows that boys have the best claim to family lands.” She continued her grooming like a cat washing itself, her air feline and knowing.
“They would have had one sooner than now,” Sibbi said doubtfully.
Marion shrugged. “Ask them. I bet it’s true.”
“All right, I will.” Hawise dropped her juggling balls, scrambled to her feet, and ran into the main chamber.
Marion’s eyes widened as if she hadn’t expected quite so immediate a result.
Hawise found her mother putting away her sewing. Sybilla had removed her wimple and hairnet. Her curly hair was tamed into two thick braids, the sable-black stranded here and there with silver. She had changed from her ordinary dress of brown wool to the crimson one with the deep neckline broidered in gold. It was Hawise’s favorite of her mother’s gowns, and her father’s too, for she had often heard him say so.
“I was just coming to kiss you good night,” Sybilla said, and then her gaze sharpened. “What’s the matter?”
“Marion said that Papa wants you to have another baby.”
Her mother straightened. A look of complete astonishment crossed her face. “Where did she get that notion?”
“Papa has a surprise for us, and Marion said that was it.”
“It certainly would be a surprise,” Sybilla said with a shaken laugh. “I think, failing a miracle, we can safely say that Marion is wrong.” She latched her sewing basket and, taking Hawise by the hand, turned toward the small anteroom where the girls’ beds were arranged.
“He said that he had to talk to you first.”
“Well, it won’t be about babies, I can promise you that.” She brushed Hawise’s red curls tenderly with her palm.
Later, when the girls had been kissed and settled and the lantern snuffed, Marion’s mattress rustled. “Well, if it’s not a baby, then it’ll be a betrothal,” she whispered knowingly. “One of us will be given a husband.”
“Go to sleep,” Hawise hissed, “or else I’ll tell Mama, and she’ll be cross this time.” Hawise had already been unsettled by Marion’s talk of babies and wanted no more threats of disruption to the security of her life.
“Tell her. I don’t care,” Marion said, but fell silent after that.
Hawise closed her eyes and, as she waited for sleep, wondered what the surprise was, her previous anticipation now tinged with more than a little apprehension.
***
Sybilla moved quietly around the bedchamber, tidying clothes, pouring wine into two cups, lighting the beeswax candles that for thrift had been left until now. Joscelin sat in the cushioned window seat, watching the first stars prick the twilit sky. Now and again, he cast his glance to her work, but he said nothing and the silence between them was companionable.
Sybilla finished what she was doing and brought the cups of wine to the window. She stood looking out for a moment, enjoying the sight of the evening light against the castle towers. She had lived here for most of her adult life and every stick and stone of Ludlow was as familiar as her own hand. Joscelin took a swallow of the wine and leaned his head against the wall. “Good,” he said.
“It’s from a new barrel.” She looked at him mischievously. “Knowing your taste, I thought you’d appreciate it.”
He gave her a sleepy smile that made her cheeks grow warm. “You know my tastes well.”
“I should do by now.” She sat down beside him and he pulled her close so that she was leaning against his chest rather than on cold stone. His palm rested at her waist, the gesture light but possessive.
Joscelin had been eight and thirty when they had wed, and she a recent widow whose husband had died in sudden violence during a war with the Welsh. Her first marriage had been a political arrangement as most matches were, but they had made a success of it and she had been grief-stricken when Payne had been killed. Almost immediately, without respect for mourning, King Stephen had forced her remarriage to Joscelin, one of his most experienced mercenaries. Those first months had been difficult, but although he was a soldier first and had long been a bachelor, Joscelin had a courtier’s polish and an innate liking of women. She knew her good fortune and its limitations—as he knew his.
“So,” she said, “what is this surprise of yours?”
“Surprise?”
“You told Hawise that you had one for her.”
“Ah, yes.” He grinned.
“And Hawise told the other girls. Marion seems to think that we are to have another child.”
She felt his snort of amusement, although the comfortable atmosphere developed a strained quality. Sybilla bit back the apology that sprang instinctively to the fore. She was nine and forty and her flux had not come in a seven-month. Nor had she proved a prolific breeder of offspring in her fertile years. As Payne’s wife, she had borne Cecily and Agnes. Since her remarriage she had only quickened twice, each time with a daughter.
“Marion is still fascinated by the matter?” he asked.
Sybilla sighed. “I think a little less than of yore, but still too much for comfort. Whenever the girls play, she is always the lady of the keep and about to give birth. It is as if by acting out the part, she tries to heal herself, or make the outcome different.”
“You have great patience.”
“I need it,” Sybilla said ruefully and took a long swallow of her wine. “I could kill the fool of a maid who let her wander into the birthing chamber when her mother was bleeding her life away in childbirth.” She folded her arms with indignation, remembering the day when Joscelin had brought Marion to Ludlow from her home—a wan little thing of five years old, peering fearfully over the edge of his fur-lined cloak. Her father, who was one of Joscelin’s knights, had died in a fall from his horse and the shock had sent her heavily pregnant mother into labor. There had been complications, and the woman and baby had died, leaving Marion an orphan. Sybilla had taken her under her wing and was raising her with Sibbi and Hawise, but it was no easy task.
She took her mind from the thought and concentrated on her husband. He might have inquired out of politeness, but she was not sure that he would understand or be particularly concerned. “Your surprise,” she prompted.
“Well, in a way it does concern a child,” he said, “although not as small as Marion might be anticipating. And it will involve you to an extent.”
“You have another orphan for me?” She kept her voice light, but behind her smile, she braced herself.
“Not as such.” He told her about his meeting with FitzWarin at St. Peter’s Fair and the request that had been made. “I said that I would consult with you first.”
“Providing that he is house-trained, I have no objection.” Her eye corners crinkled with humor.
“Then you will take him?”
She had seldom met the FitzWarin family. Occasional weddings and marcher gatherings had brought her into passing contact with the womenfolk. Eve FitzWarin possessed the beauty and responsiveness of an effigy. Mellette Peverel was an autocratic matriarch with a sword for a tongue. FitzWarin himself had sometimes visited Ludlow and had campaigned often with Joscelin in the war between Stephen and Matilda. He was not at ease with women the way Joscelin was and more than a little dour. But she had seen him laugh once and it had changed his face.
“Yes,” she said, “I will be glad to take him.” She studied Joscelin. “What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing.” He avoided her gaze. “The boy will need gentle handling.”
She sat up and faced him. “As Marion needs gentle handling?”
“No, not quite like that. But…” He made a gesture. “He needs encouragement from me…and the tenderness of women from you. He’s not had much of either in his own household. FitzWarin did not put it in those terms exactly, but I know what he meant, and after what happened at the fair…”
Sybilla raised a questioning eyebrow and Joscelin gave her an abbreviated account of Brunin’s ordeal. As she listened, her indignation grew. “The poor child,” she said. “Even if FitzWarin is your friend, he is a dolt.”
“Sometimes,” Joscelin conceded, “but you were not there to see the undercurrents. Whatever else, he loves the boy. I’ll have a scribe draft a letter on the morrow and send a rider to Whittington.”
She nodded. “You had better tell Hawise about him, because I am not sure that she believed me. Marion certainly didn’t.”
He chuckled. “I promise I’ll do it in the morning, straight after mass.” Draining his wine, he set his cup aside.
Sybilla gave him a considering look. “You don’t think FitzWarin is inveigling a match between his son and one of our daughters?”
“Of course he is,” Joscelin said easily. “In his place, I would certainly have an eye to the future, but it is the secondary reason for his request. We can observe the boy’s progress and measure our decisions as the future dictates. I am in no hurry to betrothe our girls, and I think you are of the same mind?”
“Indeed,” Sybilla said. “I want them to be content with the choice we make when the time comes, and for that they need to be old enough to have a say in the decision.”
He took the end of her braid in his hand and ran his thumb over the wiry silver and dark strands. “You want them to have the choice that you did not?”
“Yes.” She covered his fingers with hers, thinking that sometimes his perception was too keen for comfort. “That is not to disparage you or Payne. Perhaps you also would have preferred a choice…a younger wife, for instance?”
He gave her that sleepy smile again. “I have no complaint with my lot,” he said. “Younger wives bring their own burden of troubles and there is much to be said for experience.” His hand left her braid and, with slow deliberation, he unpinned the brooch that fastened the neck of her gown. Leaning into his body, Sybilla closed her eyes and raised her face to his.
***
Usually he would fall asleep after they had made love, but this time he did not. “The squires that attacked the boy…they belonged to Gilbert de Lacy,” he murmured as his heartbeat slowed.
Sybilla held her breath. Her cousin’s name was one that had echoed down the years of both her marriages as he continuously pressed his claim to Ludlow. Payne and Joscelin had thwarted him at every turn, but that had not deterred him. Rather his persistence had grown until it was a constant, nagging pressure. A knot of apprehension replaced the languor of good lovemaking.
“To be fair, he did not know about the assault on Brunin. I could see the surprise in his eyes.”
Sybilla raised up on her elbow and, by the light of the candles, gazed at her husband. His expression gave little away, but she knew how to read him by now. The tightness of line at his mouth corners, the taut eyelids that should have been lax with sleep and satisfaction: all spoke of his unease. “You came face to face with Gilbert?”
“Beside the weapon booths, of all places.” He gave a humorless laugh. “FitzWarin stepped straight in like a loose bull and I thought we were going to have a battle then and there.”
Sybilla’s eyes widened in dismay. “You didn’t fight?” Mentally she shook herself. Of course they hadn’t fought. It would have been the first thing she would have heard about on his return and there were no marks on his body.
“No…but we came close.” Remembered anger flickered across his face. “He looked at me as if I were a turd stuck to the sole of his shoe.”
She tossed her head. “Looks count for nothing. He is not strong enough to come against Ludlow, and neither King Stephen nor the Empress will recognize his claim.” Her voice had strengthened with indignation as she spoke. Although Joscelin was its lord, Ludlow was hers by the right of her blood and she was fiercely protective of that right.
“Yes, I know, I know.” Joscelin sighed and pillowed his arms behind his head. “But between them, Gilbert de Lacy and Hugh Mortimer of Wigmore still cause a deal of trouble.” He spoke the names of the two largest thorns in his side with a suitably pained expression.
Sybilla studied his long bones, the fluid strength of his muscles, the tufts of auburn hair in his armpits. Despite being close to fifty years old, he still had the honed physique of an active warrior. “Nothing we cannot handle,” she said by way of faith and encouragement. Leaning over, she kissed him. The “we” was telling.
“No,” he agreed. “Nothing we cannot handle.” But it was a long time before either of them succumbed to sleep.
***
Seated at the dais table in the great hall, Joscelin broke the bread that his chaplain had blessed and dipped it in the small bowl of honey at his side. His wife and daughters followed suit. Joscelin chewed, swallowed, and licked honey from his thumb.
“I have something to tell you,” he said to the girls and was amused at the rapid communication of glances between them before they looked warily at him. He gestured to the two squires serving at the dais table. “Hugh and Adam are growing into men,” he said, “and it is time that I took a younger squire into my household for training. A friend has asked me if I will foster his son and, after discussion with your mother, I have agreed.”
A brief silence ensued, busy with more unspoken exchange between the girls. Hawise was the first to speak.
“How old is he?”
“About your own age,” Joscelin said. “And his birth name is Fulke, although he is known as Brunin.”
“Is he going to marry one of us?” Marion wanted to know.
Taken aback, Joscelin blinked and it was his turn to exchange looks with Sybilla.
“Child, he is coming here to learn to be a knight, not a husband,” Sybilla replied firmly. She gestured to the bread and honey. “Eat your food.”
Marion dropped her gaze to her platter, her lower lip developing a pout.
“When is he coming, Papa?” Sibbi asked.
“As soon as it can be arranged. I want you to welcome him and treat him as you would a brother.”
Sibbi nodded. “Does he have any sisters at home?”
“No, only brothers. He’s not used to girls, but I’m sure you’ll help him grow accustomed.” He managed not to look too wry.
“Yes, Papa.” Sibbi tucked a stray wisp of dark hair behind her ear and resumed eating. Her cheeks were rosy and there was a gleam in her eyes.
“She will mother him to death,” Sybilla muttered from the corner of her mouth so that only Joscelin could hear.
He smothered a grin behind his hand. “It won’t do him any harm.”
“Marion will need extra attention so that she doesn’t feel left out…and perhaps Hawise too,” Sybilla added shrewdly.
He considered the two girls. Marion was picking at her food, but then she had always had the appetite of a sparrow. Hawise, who usually devoured her meals, was toying with her second piece of bread, a thoughtful look on her face. After that first question, she had said nothing.
“Marion will want to bear his babies,” Joscelin murmured. “And Hawise will lead him into more scrapes than a hound pup off the leash.”
Sybilla eyed him. “And that is not cause for worry?”
He laughed softly and closed his hand over hers. “Oh, yes indeed,” he said, “but of the kind that I am glad to have.”
“Since it will likely be me dealing with them,” she retorted, but she was smiling.
They finished breaking their fast. Sybilla took Marion and Sibbi with her to the women’s chambers to cut out some linen tunics. Usually Hawise would have gone with them, but her father beckoned her to accompany him instead.
Mystified, but delighted, she dusted breadcrumbs from her gown, hastily dabbled her hands in the fingerbowl, and joined him. “Where are we going?”
“Just a ride out,” he said. “I want to look at the horses.”
Hawise gave a little skip. She loved going with her papa to view their horses. The mares and geldings that made up the herd grazed together with the common saddle beasts. There were separate paddocks for his destrier and his hunting courser, both stallions.
The grooms had saddled Rouquin for him and in minutes had tacked up Hawise’s barrel-bodied chestnut pony, Sorelle. She was a competent rider and, with a boost up, settled herself in the saddle and drew the reins through her fingers. Her father smiled his approval. Surrounding them, his bodyguard and squires waited attendance.
“So,” he said as they rode across the bailey and over the bridge beyond the gatehouse. “What do you think of having a ‘foster’ brother?”
Hawise pondered the matter. She had been little more than a babe in arms when her father’s younger squire, Adam, had arrived in their household and still a little child when he had entered adolescence. She had never played with him as such, and he had never encroached on what she considered her territory. “I want him to come,” she said slowly. “I’d like a boy to be my friend…but…” She bit her lip.
He bent his head and looked at her from under his brows. “But what, sweetheart?”
“But how do I know that he’ll be my friend? What if I don’t like him?”
Her father covered his mouth with the palm of his hand. She couldn’t tell if he was thinking or smiling. The former it proved, for when he took his hand away, his mouth was straight. “Brunin will need some time to adjust to our ways,” he said. “Think of how it would be if you had to leave home and go and live among strangers. For the first few days everything would be different and unsettling—yes?”
“Yes,” she said with a frowning nod.
“Just remember that when you meet him and do not expect too much at first. But I see no reason why you and he cannot be friends.” He winked. “It would be good to have a companion in arms when you play at sieges, hmm?”
Again Hawise nodded. It would indeed and she felt a spark of excitement at the notion. But she would hate it if she was relegated to the role of admiring onlooker or binder of wounds. She had seen how the boys of the keep played and what they expected of their sisters.
“When I go to fetch Brunin from Whittington, I want to take him the gift of a pony.”
Hawise gazed up at him in surprise. “Doesn’t he have one?”
“Yes, but he’s almost outgrown it. His father was going to find him one at St. Peter’s Fair, but for one reason and another, by the time he came to look, there was nothing suitable. I said I would see what I had among our own herd…and I thought that you might like to choose.”
Hawise brightened at the thought and swelled a little with pride, for she recognized that the task was an important one, and he had entrusted it to her, not Sibbi or Marion.
After much deliberation, she settled for a sturdy Welsh cob, built on the same lines as her father’s Rouquin, but a pony, not a horse. Its hide was the hue of sweet black cherries, its tail almost swept the ground, and its mane entirely covered one side of the proud, arched neck. It was the one she would have chosen for herself, had she not possessed her own adored Sorelle.
Her father smiled his approval. “An excellent choice,” he said. “I have no doubt that young Brunin will look well on his back.” He tilted his head. “What’s the scowl for, sweetheart?”
“I hope he’s not faster than Sorelle. I don’t want to lose too many races.”
Throwing back his head, her father laughed. “I am sure you can hold your own in any situation,” he said.