They had heard that Gilbert de Lacy had taken Templar vows and gone to fight in the Holy Land, leaving Ludlow to his son. A merchant who had recently visited Ludlow had told Joscelin and Sybilla that, before he left, Gilbert de Lacy had demolished the old wooden chapel and replaced it with a domed one built in stone, representative of the Temple in Jerusalem. New gates had been furnished and a programme of rebuilding set in motion. In a way, Joscelin was glad. The more de Lacy altered Ludlow, the less Joscelin felt that it still belonged to him. Sybilla had absorbed the news with barely a flicker, but for a few days had immersed herself in the business of Lambourn with a quiet desperation. That had faded now and she seemed to have found a new equilibrium. He supposed it was one thing to remove a hauberk, quite another to go barefoot in one's shift. Such adjustment was bound to take longer.
The guard on duty on the wooden wall walk above the gatehouse suddenly straightened up and shouted a warning. For a moment, Joscelin's stomach wallowed, but no more than that. These days such shouts were few, and presaged visitors, not attack. Momentarily hampered by the complaint of stiff sinews, he creaked to his feet and moved carefully towards the gates. Sybilla sent a maid to warn the kitchens of more mouths to feed.
Determined not to let the stairs defeat him, Joscelin clambered to the top of the gatehouse and stepped on to the timber walkway—by which time his heart was thundering in his ears and his knees were afire.
'It's your son-in-law, my lord,' announced the guard, whose name was Ascelin. At Ludlow, he had been brawny and muscular. Now he was as plump and comfortable as a well-fed barnyard hen, his belly reclining on his swordbelt. He pointed a stubby forefinger towards the approaching troop. Summer dust was rising from the hooves of a troop of horses and the light was at that stage of day when every colour was as sharp as glass. Joscelin fixed his eyes on the yellow, black and red of Fulke's wolf banner, borne by the standard-bearer, and then on the familiar bay gelding and grey mare pacing behind it. Joscelin's heart continued to pound. He summoned all the breath he had left in his body and, cupping his hands, turned towards the bailey to bellow the news to Sybilla.
He had to negotiate the steps again, which, although not as exhausting, was just as difficult as climbing up them because one slip would have meant a bone-breaking fall. By the time he reached the foot of the stairs, two Serjeants were swinging the gates open to admit the troop.
Just inside the archway, Brunin drew rein. Pointing towards Joscelin, he murmured in the ear of the small boy who had been sharing his saddle, and carefully slipped the child to the ground.
Very gingerly, Joscelin crouched to his knees and watched his grandson run towards him. He could not believe that this confidently agile little boy was the same round-faced infant to whom he had bidden farewell last autumn.
'And who might you be?' Joscelin asked, through a sudden tightness in his throat as the child reached him and for the first time hesitated.
'I'm Fulke.' The voice was confident too. Joscelin found himself staring into the mirror of his own eyes: dark flint-grey and bright with curiosity. The boy's hair was crow-black like his father's, but the way he stood, sturdy and foursquare, reminded Joscelin very much of Hawise as a little girl.
'And do you know who I am?'
The child nodded. 'You're my grandpa.' The word came out slightly mangled, but considering Fulke was not yet three years old, it was a passable attempt.
'Have you ridden a long way?'
Fulke gave another vehement nod and suddenly turned shy.
'Well, only from Worcester today, but we've been on the road almost a week… haven't we?' Brunin arrived and ruffled his son's hair. 'A good thing he likes riding.' Joscelin eased from his crouch and Brunin embraced him hard.
Sybilla greeted their visitors, her face bright with pleasure, and Joscelin warmed to see her like that. She kissed Brunin, cuddled her grandson and then hugged Hawise, who presented her with a swaddled bundle.
'And this is William,' Hawise said.
'Although he has been called other names in the middle of the night,' Brunin said drily.
They entered the manor house and, as the dusk gathered, the attendants closed the shutters and lit beeswax candles. The women retired to murmur over the baby and catch up on almost a year's worth of gossip, and the men sat at the table, cups of wine to hand, legs comfortably stretched out. Little Fulke sat with them, snugly ensconced in his father's lap, and slowly chewed his way through a piece of bread.
'Well.' said Joscelin. 'you will never get to command Ludlow, but I do not suppose that matters now you're in charge of provisioning a great keep such as Dover.'
Brunin smiled and gave a wry shrug. 'I would rather it was Ludlow'
Joscelin grunted. 'So would I, but be glad for what you have.'
'I am.' Brunin tousled his son's black hair and the child looked briefly up from his preoccupation with the piece of bread. 'Daily…'
'I was sorry to hear about the death of your grandmother.'
Brunin sighed and for a moment a vestige of the old shadows filled his eyes. 'The end of her life was better than the rest of it put together,' he said. 'Since Dover is a royal castle, she thought she was at court. Thought her place had been recognised at last.' He smiled bleakly: 'She was convinced that I was her husband, which was awkward at times.'
'You are indeed the image of your grandfather to look upon,' Joscelin said. 'I can see how her confused mind might make the comparison. The resemblance is a strong strain in the blood.' He glanced towards the women and the dark-haired, dark-eyed baby that Sybilla was dandling on her knee. Emmeline sat with them; a young woman now, she had Eve's bones, but was all raven and sable like her brother.
Brunin looked thoughtful. 'People say that, saving the hair, our eldest is like you… and I hope that is true in all senses of the word.' His arm tightened around the sturdy child in his lap.
'Hah.' Joscelin waved the sentiment away with an embarrassed hand. 'He'll do well enough being himself, won't you, boy?'
Busy with his bread, but aware that a question had been asked, Fulke merely nodded vigorously and Joscelin laughed.
'I am fully aware that Henry gave Dover to me as a gift for family loyalty and a sop to keep me quiet,' Brunin said.
'He would not have done so unless he thought you had the ability. Henry is no fool. He knows men, and he knows how to use them.'
'Henry has hinted about giving Fulke a squire's place at court when he comes of age.'
Joscelin's eyes brightened. A place at court was a sure way to royal patronage and greater things. A sign too of royal favour should any more signs be needed. 'That is good news.'
Brunin rose from the trestle and lifted Fulke on to his shoulders. 'A hint is not a promise and a promise is nothing until it is fulfilled,' he said.
'Ah.' Joscelin rose too. 'The matter of Whittington, you mean. I take it you are no further down that road than you were before?'
Brunin shook his head. 'I have writs and pleas in the King's court but so has Roger de Powys. I am further down the road in that I can't see the start of it when I look over my shoulder, but I can't see the end either.' His expression hardened with determination. 'I won't give up, though,' he said, clasping his hands around his son's legs. 'This one will have his full rights when he comes to manhood. For the nonce I can be patient. Hawise and I have a family to raise and a life to build out of what we have.'
Together the men left the dais and joined the women's candlelight, while outside the summer night settled over the land in a star-scattered mantle.
My novel
Lords of the White Castle
was published in 2000. Not only was it shortlisted for the Parker Award for the best Romantic Novel of the Year, the response from readers was phenomenal and the e-mails just poured into my in-box. It tells the story of medieval outlaw Fulke FitzWarin and his endeavours to have his family lands restored.
Lords of the White Castle
was based upon the FitzWarin family history, which had been written down in the thirteenth century as a rhyming story and was the sort of tale that would have entertained a medieval household in the great hall of an evening.
Lords of the White Castle
, however, is only the latter part of the FitzWarin tale. When I read the family's earlier history I realised that it was every bit as fascinating as the later material and was crying out to be told, and thus
Shadows and Strongholds
was born.
The original rhyming romance has a core of solid truth, but in the interests of making a ripping good yarn, the chronicler played fast and loose with many facts, especially with regard to the timing and placing of some of the major players. For example, he thinks nothing of attributing part of the career of Brunin's father to Brunin himself or moving the Welsh attack on Whittington by thirty years after the likely occurrence. Mellette Peverel, Brunin's grandmother, has yet to turn up in any genealogy and it is doubtful that the FitzWarins were in any way related to the English royal house. Obviously if you have read this far, you will realise that for dramatic purposes I have colluded with much of the chronicler's deception, but since this is a work of fiction, I am not as constrained as a historian or academic. While keeping to a general truth, I have mostly followed in the footsteps of the aforementioned chronicler. Since his timing is so erratic in the early part of the romance and further research has turned up details of which I was unaware when writing
Lords of the White Castle
, readers of both books might find a few minor anomalies between the novels, but nothing, I hope, that horribly jars. As far as timing issues go, I have been fairly vague, although occasionally you may encounter a date. This has been a deliberate ploy on my behalf, caused by following the wonderful, but winding path of the original medieval writer of the FitzWarin romance.
Following on from the above, I thought I would write a couple of paragraphs on the known historical facts because I realise that readers often like to know what is truth and what is fiction and follow up details for themselves.
Brunin FitzWarin of
Shadows and Strongholds
was known in his adult life as Fulke le Brun, so described because of his swarthy complexion. Brunin is a diminutive and might well have been a childhood name. Red-haired heroines often populate historical fiction, but in the case of Hawise de Dinan it might have been true as her father had ancestors in the male line with the appellation 'The Red' and Hawise and Brunin's third son, Philip, was called
'Philip the Red', suggesting that he had auburn colouring. I therefore felt it appropriate to give it to Hawise. Incidentally, there was some antipathy towards red-haired people in the Middle Ages. It was seen as a manifestation of undesirable traits, including bad temper and inconstancy!
The chronicle tells us that Fulke le Brun (Brunin) spent his squirehood at Ludlow and this aspect of the tale is highly probable. Both Joscelin de Dinan and his FitzWarin allies were self-made men who had risen from minor positions to more powerful baronial status by their own effort and ambition.
During the mid twelfth century, Joscelin de Dinan and Ludlow were under constant threat from Hugh Mortimer of Wigmore and Gilbert de Lacy. It seems likely that it was in fact Hugh Mortimer who was held for ransom at Ludlow, not de Lacy, but the writer of the FitzWarin poem states that it was de Lacy. Certainly the latter had a strong claim on Ludlow through the male line and Henry II ruled that he should have it and gave Joscelin de Dinan Lambourn in exchange. The tale of Ernalt de Lysle and Marion de la Bruere may seem to be part of the chronicler's imagination, but some historians believe that it has a core of truth and that the castle was indeed taken by help from inside during a fierce private war between Joscelin de Dinan and Gilbert de Lacy. Marion's presence is still said to haunt the foot of the tower from which she flung herself and visitors may sometimes feel a cold frisson as they pass the spot.
Whittington Castle too was a source of dispute. From what I have been able to glean, it was owned by the Peverel family but, before they had set their Norman stamp on the estate, it had been held by the ancestors of a Welshman called Rhys Sais. The FitzWarins were the
Peverels' sitting tenants who took Whittington for their own when their overlord went on crusade, probably having entrusted it to them. When he didn't return, his estates were divided up between his four daughters. The FitzWarins, a family on the make, quietly appropriated Whittington and, in the chaos of the civil war between Stephen and Matilda, set about consolidating their hold and raising their profile. Dates are obscure but at some point in the mid-years of the twelfth century, Whittington was taken from them (probably lost in a Welsh raid) and given into the custody of the de Powys brothers, Roger and Jonas, descendants of Rhys Sais. The FitzWarins appeared to have thought of this bestowal as a temporary measure (unlike the exchange of Ludlow for Lambourn) and began suing through the courts for the restoration of what they plainly saw as their castle and their lands.
For readers wanting to investigate the subject for themselves, I would recommend Glyn Burgess's excellent work
Two Medieval Outlaws: Eustace the Monk and Fouke FitzWaryn
, published by Boydell & Brewer (ISBN 0 85991 438 0). For Joscelin and Sybilla's story I have found
Ludlow Castle: Its History and Buildings
, edited by Ron Shoesmith and Andy Johnson, published by Logaston Press (ISBN 1 873827 51 2), an invaluable guide.
I welcome responses from readers and can be contacted either from my website (which is updated when I have the time!) at
http://www.elizabethchadwick.com
or by direct e-mail at
[email protected]
. I also have an online group of readers who meet to chat via e-mail about my work and historical fiction in general. It's run by my good friend Wendy Zollo and the address for that is
[email protected],topica.com.