Shadows and Strongholds by Elizabeth Chadwick

Author:Elizabeth Chadwick
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Time Warner
Published: 2012-04-28T14:55:12+00:00

Hawise hid in her mother's garden until the fit of weeping had run its course. She was shivering with shock and fear from the encounter in the stables and, with the added ingredient of remorse in the brew, was in a complete turmoil. She was deeply ashamed of the words she had cast at Brunin when he had wandered into the chamber, unknowing, unsuspecting, still as sleepy as a half-awakened cat. They were words that should never have been uttered and God alone knew the damage she had wrought. Something vital between her and Brunin had been broken; she had tried to mend it. but it had all gone terrifyingly wrong. She thought that he did not know how to mend it either. When he had grabbed her, he had been no different to Ernalt de Lysle at Shrewsbury Fair. She shuddered and had to wipe her forefinger knuckle beneath her eyes to remove a fresh welling of tears. It was only two months until she and Brunin were to wed… God help them both. They couldn't marry like this, and yet it was expected of them—their duty. Her mother was always saying that there was no such word as 'cannot'. But there were many others in its place and they filled Hawise with dread. 'Duty' and 'obligation', 'loveless', 'forsaken', 'despised'.

Joscelin's wounds were several, but superficial. The reflexes that had served him as a young mercenary had slowed but a little with age, and the slight edge he lacked had been more than compensated for by the weight of experience. He had made the right decisions when turning axe and blade and mace. He knew that in the morning he would be as stiff as a rusty sword blade, that muscles which were fluid now would not be so accommodating once they had cooled.

He bore with Sybilla's fussing, allowing her to bind and bathe while he recovered his equilibrium. The act of tending him appeared to have restored her balance too, for she had ceased to tremble and some of her colour had returned. Around them, in the bower, the other women were succouring the wounded. The dead had been removed to the chapel.

'What will you do with my cousin?' Sybilla asked. Her voice had recovered its usual low pitch, but it was breathless, as if she were struggling with tears or deep anger. She handed the bowl of bloody water to her maid and bade her dispose of it.

'I do not know yet,' he answered cautiously.

'I would set his head on a spear and proclaim it from the bridge.'

'I had thought about it.'

'There is nothing to think about.'

Definitely anger, he decided, as he saw the darkness in her eyes. He knew how she felt, but his own fury had been channelled into battle and he was too tired to add fuel to the fire and let it burn up. 'If I give him the just deserts you suggest, then I am risking dire consequences to myself. Gilbert de Lacy

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