Shadows and Strongholds (60 page)

FitzWarin rode up on his other side. 'Why should you?' His voice was raw and cracked with coughing. 'It was treachery from within that caused this, and at a time when you might reasonably be thinking of a peaceful old age.'

Joscelin gave a bitter laugh. 'The only peace I've known has been snatched out of the hands of war like a starving dog snatching bread from a camp fire and wolfing it down. I had more time for peace during Stephen and Matilda's dispute than I have had since Henry assumed the throne.'

From within the heart of the fire came a splintering crack as the gate timbers gave beneath the battering head of the ram. They could hear the defenders yelling as they tried frantically to shore up the imminent breach. Again and again the ram struck at the weakening timbers and suddenly a jagged hole opened up. Soon there was a gap large enough for a horse and rider to charge through. Brunin drew on the reins, thrust his shoulder behind the shield, drew his sword, and spurred Jester into the mouth of hell. Reeking black smoke filled his lungs and stung his eyes. Someone came at him from the right side and he cut hard with the sword, feeling the edge connect and bite. His opponent screamed and went down, but another immediately took his place.

De Lacy's men swarmed to defend the broached entrance. A near-spent arrow lodged in Brunin's mail, another whizzed past his helm. The archer was brought down by one of the de Dinan bowmen. He saw his father and Ralf battling with several knights and spurred Jester to their aid. but before he could reach them, his rein was seized by a serjeant. Brunin hacked downwards, aiming for his opponent's collar bone, and was rewarded by a grunt of pain, but the soldier held on and wrenched Brunin from the saddle. Jester skittered sideways, reins trailing. Brunin landed hard and felt white pain surge through his shield shoulder. The serjeant leaned over him, dagger in hand. Brunin kicked out and punched with his sword hand. The serjeant reeled and Brunin grabbed his dropped sword, scrambled to his feet and attacked. His shield arm was numb, and he knew that he had only one swift chance if he were going to live. Dagger in one hand, sword in the other, the serjeant had no shield either. Brunin aimed for his legs as the most vulnerable part of his body, for they were unprotected. Twice the serjeant parried the blows. The third time, Brunin cut him down, but received a dagger slash that partially opened the healing scar from Wales.

Brunin staggered over to Jester and caught the trailing reins in his bloody right hand. Clenching his teeth, he set his foot in the stirrup and gained the saddle. Two serjeants came at him and he reined out of their way, knowing that if they managed to position themselves one either side, he was finished. He dug his heels into Jester's flanks and urged the gelding out of the fray. The air was cloudy with powdered lime that had been thrown by both attackers and defenders, burning the throat, flaying the eyes. He spurred Jester through the flaming gateway and cantered to where Joscelin's chirugeon had set up his post. The chirugeon was bending over FitzWarin, who was silling on the ground, his chest harshly rattling as he fought to breathe. Brunin's vision contracted down to that single sight. He thrust his feet from the stirrups and leaped from the horse. Pain tore through his shoulder, but he scarcely noticed it. Ralf had removed his helm and was kneeling at their father's side, pale fingers of lime streaking his cheeks. As Brunin crouched beside him, Ralf raised streaming, anguished eyes.

'A lime jar exploded against the browband of his helm,' he said, 'and he breathed in the powder… He's been coughing ever since.'

'I have tried to make him swallow milk,' the chirugeon said, 'but I fear to small avail.'

Brunin stared at his father's scarlet, almost purple complexion, the blue lips, the struggle for air. 'Where's the priest?' he demanded, glaring round.

Despite his desperate condition, the last word galvanised FitzWarin to his feet. 'No!' he choked. 'Not… dead… yet… Tell you… when… I want a priest…' Raising the chirugeon's horn of milk to his lips, he spluttered the potion down in an astonishing testament to the strength of will over the body's frailty.

Encroaching nightfall streaked the sky with bands of grey-purple. From Ludlow the sound of horns blaring the retreat was sweet to the ears of the exhausted attackers, for it was de Lacy who was sounding them, but, with darkness imminent, Joscelin could not pursue the assault and the gains he had made had cost his men dear in life and limb. He too was forced to pull back and consolidate. He positioned soldiers in the taken gatehouse, fully aware that on the morrow the fight would begin again to take the core of the castle.

FitzWarin's breathing had eased somewhat, but remained a ragged, bubbling wheeze, and it was obvious that he could neither fight on, nor command men. The chirugeon had clucked his tongue over Brunin's hand and restitched the wound, washing it in mead and then smearing it with beaten egg white before applying a bandage. The shoulder he had shrugged over. It wasn't broken, but there was sufficient damage for it to be unwise to bear a shield for a week at least.

Brunin was sitting outside their temporary shelter, eating bread he didn't really want in order to keep up his strength, when Joscelin came to see him. Wine—which he did want—was rationed. No one could afford to be drunk tonight. He nodded over his shoulder into the tent where FitzWarin was resting, propped up against blankets and bolsters to aid his breathing. 'He is awake if you want to speak to him,' he said. 'I do not think that he dares to sleep lest he does not wake again.' He took a fast mouthful of the wine, remembered that he was moderating himself and let it go down his throat in small swallows.

Joscelin gave him a direct look, his flint-grey eyes filled with sadness. 'I am sorry,' he said.

Brunin glanced towards the walls of Ludlow. The stench from the burned-out gates overlaid the comforting smoke of their watchfires. 'So am I.'

A vast ocean of meaning was contained in the six words they had exchanged, most of it too dark and painful to articulate.

'How's the shoulder?'

Brunin began to shrug and stopped. 'Better than the hand,' he said, then looked enquiringly at Joscelin.

'I am unscathed.' Joscelin tried to laugh, but the sound fell far short. 'The devil's luck, so my enemies have always said. Who knows, perhaps they're right.' He ducked into the tent. Brunin look another slow swallow of wine and bent his head. The heat from the camp fire throbbed through his hand. He thought of Hawise with a longing that was almost desperation.

Joscelin sat down on the low campstool at FitzWarin's bedside. As always such furniture appeared to have been made for a smaller frame than his: his knees were up around his elbows. FitzWarin was propped up on blankets and bolsters which had been padded around the backrest of his shield. His breathing was laboured and his eyes were closed.

Slowly he lifted his lids. 'It's you,' he said in a voice that was like the harsh scrape of besom twigs across a clay floor. The faintest of smiles curved his blue-tinged lips. 'I thought for a moment that fool boy had gone and fetched the priest.'

'No, it's me. And that "fool boy" as you call him has proven his mettle time and again today' Joscelin returned the smile. 'Perhaps we are the fools.'

FitzWarin snorted. 'My seed gave him life; you raised him. What chance does he have?'

Joscelin chuckled reluctantly, acknowledging the sally.

'More than us,' he said. 'He is married to Hawise, and she is her mother's daughter without a doubt.' Then he sobered. They both knew that the banter was a cover for deeper, unspoken emotions.

'And he receives half of Ludlow… whatever's left of it.'

'Gates and towers can be rebuilt.' Joscelin gave a shrug, as if it did not matter… but it did.

FitzWarin's gaze followed a late-season moth as it fluttered around the tent, creating fuzzy shadows on the linen sides. 'But first they have to be retaken,' he said.

Joscelin shot out his fist and caught the moth just before it blundered into the candle flame and singed its wings. 'Yes,' he said. 'First they have to be retaken.' He moved from the stool to cast the insect out into the night air. Doubtless its second chance at life would be wasted in the greater conflagration of someone's camp fire, but he had given it that grace. Returning to his seat, he leaned towards FitzWarin, his hands clasped. 'You cannot stay here,' he said.

'I know that. I am going home to Alberbury on the morrow—nearest I can die to Whittington.' His smile was a travesty.

There was no point wasting time in denials. 'Take Brunin with you,' Joscelin said. 'He should not fight anyway, when he cannot hold a shield or properly grip a sword.'

FitzWarin stared at him, his eyes still fierce blue within the death-smudged sockets and filled with knowing. He pushed himself upright against the cushions and Joscelin saw him swallowing and struggling not to cough. 'I have said I do not need a priest, but that will soon change.' Spasms racked through him. Joscelin reached to the jug on the floor, poured a cupful of watered wine and held it to FitzWarin's livid lips. More dribbled down FitzWarin's chin than he actually swallowed, but the coughing abated sufficiently for him to draw breath.

'All I can hope is that Brunin is ready. It will be a heavy burden I lay on him.'

'He is ready,' Joscelin said, his voice tight with suppressed emotion.

'Do you remember that day at Shrewsbury when I asked you to take him?'

Joscelin gave a pained smile. 'I remember it well.' Facing Gilbert de Lacy at the weapon booths. If he knew then what was going to happen, he would have made a fight of it and damn the consequences.

'I wasn't sure then that he would ever be ready. Some say he is like my father… and indeed to look upon Brunin in the shadows is like seeing his ghost. But he's not like my father at all. He's like me.'

'No,' Joscelin contradicted. 'He is like himself. And he stands in nobody's shadow.'

FitzWarin nodded. 'I knew from the first why I asked you to foster him,' he said hoarsely, 'and you have not disappointed.'

'Neither has he,' Joscelin said, swallowing a tightness in his throat.

For a long time he sat with his friend. They said little more. FitzWarin had neither the strength nor the breath for conversation and Joscelin could think of nothing to say. Yet the silence had import for it was a leave-taking. Sitting for the last time with FitzWarin, Joscelin felt as if he were saying farewell to his own vitality.

Wind-buffeted and wet, Hawise rode towards Alberbury in response to a summons from her husband. His father was dying and Brunin needed her. The messenger had arrived at Stanton yesterday and, as well as the summons, had brought the news that her father had taken the gates and the gatehouse towers at Ludlow. but that de Lacy still held the rest of the castle. Her father needed more men, thus Sybilla was out seeking and buying the support that Joscelin needed.

Dusk would soon be upon the small travelling party, which consisted of Hawise and four men-at-arms. She had not brought a maid for none of them could ride as well as she, and would have slowed her down. Her domestic household was following with little Emmeline at a pace dictated by the speed of the baggage cart.