Brunin said nothing. That opinion had been overruled by his father. It did not matter how many times his grandmother voiced it, she had still been defeated.
'Brunin will do his best,
Belle-mère
,' his mother said quietly.
'Well then, let us hope it is good enough,' the older woman snapped, as always getting the last word, before she stalked from the chamber to see how matters were progressing in the great hall.
Eve laid her hand on Brunin's head. 'I would say pay her no heed,' she said softly, 'but that is both disrespectful and hard to do. She is, after all, your grandmother and her blood is in you.' Her voice shook, then steadied. 'But the road you take from here is your own. I know that your best is good enough.' He felt her fingers in his hair, combing it off his brow as tenderly as his grandmother had not. It was an awkward caress and Brunin stood still beneath it, unsure what to do. A part of him yearned to reach out and respond, but, aware of the presence of his brothers who would scorn such a thing, he remained still.
His mother stifled a sob. Her hand descended to his shoulder, squeezed hard and briefly, and was gone. When he had mastered the stinging of his own eyes and dared to look round, she was engaged in conversation with his infant brother's nurse.
Ralf sauntered over to him. He was large for his age. Brunin topped him by a head but the difference looked less because of Brunin's slender darkness and the younger boy's much stockier build.
'When I go for fostering,
grand-mere
has promised me it will be with an earl, not a common mercenary,' he taunted. 'My training will be better than yours.' Ralf made it sound like a sneer, although in truth he was consumed by jealousy. Even if he was pleased at the thought of being the eldest son left at home, he deeply desired the position that Brunin was taking up because it was a step on the road to manhood.
Brunin shrugged. 'What if Lord Joscelin was a mercenary? He has had to fight for what he has.'
'So?' Ralf thrust one foot forward and placed his hands on his hips, attempting to intimidate Brunin the way that he intimidated the younger ones.
Brunin stared him out. 'So he will be able to teach me how to fight too… and better than an earl who hires men to do it for him. Besides, our grandsire was a common mercenary, so it's in our blood too.'
Ralf's chest swelled. 'You'll never learn; you're no good at fighting,' he jibed. 'I wouldn't have pissed my hose if I'd been attacked by two older boys.'
'How do you know you wouldn't?'
'Because I'm not a coward.'
The last word was too much for Brunin. His foot swept out and neatly hooked Ralf off his feet. He planted his right boot firmly on his brother's sleek tawny hair, as close to the scalp as he could.
'You whoreson!' Ralf gasped, and his eyes filled with tears for the pain was not the dull bruise of the wrestling matches which he usually won anyway, but sharp and stinging, and he was effectively pinned down and rendered helpless. 'Richard… Richard, get him off me!'
Ralf's accomplice came running. Without lifting his foot, Brunin pivoted and elbowed his oncoming brother in the midriff. Richard went down with a choking gasp.
'Boys!' Eve started towards her sons, her hands outstretched in supplication. Brunin looked at her and removed his foot from Ralf's hair. It was a mistake, for Ralf leaped on him like a young wild boar, his fingers grappling for Brunin's windpipe. Ralf's weight brought them down and Brunin banged his chin on landing and his teeth snapped together. He tasted blood as he rolled and slammed his knee into the softness of Ralf's groin.
'Boys!' Eve cried again, wringing her hands. 'Stop it, stop it now!'
'That will do!' This time it was a masculine voice that thundered the command. FitzWarin strode forward, seized Ralf by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet. Ralf immediately doubled over, clutching his groin and retching. Richard was gingerly sitting up, one arm across his stomach. FitzWarin spared him the flicker of a glance before grabbing Brunin's arm and raising him too, and not gently. Then he stopped and stared.
'Christ on the Cross!' He laid his fingers over the livid marks at Brunin's throat. Brunin could feel blood dribbling down his chin from his bitten tongue and sleeved it away on the cuff of his new tunic, staining the painstaking embroidery.
FitzWarin rounded on his wife. 'Is it beyond you to keep order for even a moment?' he ground out.
Eve flushed. 'They were at each other before I knew it. I do not even know how it began.'
'He started it,' Ralf croaked, pointing at Brunin.
Brunin said nothing. He looked at his cuff and then at Ralf with a gaze that was like dark water—anything could have lain under the surface.
FitzWarin glared at his sons. 'Then I will finish it,' he snapped. 'Joscelin of Ludlow has this moment ridden in and I want you in the bailey to greet him. One step out of line from any of you, and you'll wear the stripes of my horsewhip for a month. Understood?'
'Yes, sir,' Brunin said. Ralf and Richard echoed the response with subdued murmurs and downcast lids. The younger boys looked on in round-eyed silence.
FitzWarin gave a brusque nod. 'Make yourselves presentable and come straight down.' He shook a warning fist. 'I mean what I say, and don't think I will stay my hand because we have a guest.' He strode from the room on a rush of angry air.
Brunin spat bloody saliva in R.alf's general direction. Huddled over his bruised testicles, Ralf could only glare murder. Richard prudently sidled out of the way and took charge of the little ones.
'Let me see.' Eve FitzWarin tipped back Brunin's head and looked into his mouth. 'A bitten tongue,' she said with relief. 'The bleeding will stop in a moment.' Hands shaking, she used a length of clean swaddling band dipped in the water jar to wipe the blood from his face. 'Here, put on your cloak; it will hide those marks at your throat.' She fussed around Brunin, draping him in his outdoor cloak of double-lined wool, fastening it with a pin of heavy silver, pushing his hair off his brow. Brunin endured her fretting with the same stoicism that he brought to most trials and tribulations.
'I feel sick,' Ralf said, fishing for sympathy despite all.
'So do I,' said his mother, tight-lipped. 'Every day'
Joscelin de Dinan dismounted from Rouquin and handed the reins to a waiting groom. A stiff autumn breeze whipped around him, blowing his cloak against his legs, threatening to pluck his cap from his head. Removing his shield from its long strap at his back, he gave it to one of his squires. Behind the youth, the rest of Joscelin's entourage dismounted in a rattle of weapons. It was a common sound these days, even when the visit was a social one.
Turning, Joscelin faced Whittington's bailey and the stout timber service buildings, gleaming with limewash.
'Welcome!' FitzWarin stepped forward to greet Joscelin with a strong handclasp. 'I am glad to see you!'
Joscelin grinned. 'And I you. I am looking forward to broaching a barrel of that wine you bought in Shrewsbury,' he said mischievously.
'I think I can find better than that for so honoured a guest,' FitzWarin replied, his colour high. 'You had a good journey here?'
It was obvious to Joscelin that FitzWarin was ill at ease. In Shrewsbury, on neutral ground and with only his immediate retainers to hand, he had been relaxed. Now, he was trying too hard to play the affable host.
'We went unmolested and it did not rain,' Joscelin said with a smile. 'That is as much as any man can hope for in these troubled times.' He looked round at Whittington's walls. Unlike Ludlow, which was stone built, Whittington was mainly timber, but well protected by the surrounding marshy ground. The main threat was from the Welsh, who were not masters of the siege, and unless a castle could be taken with sudden onslaught, were not inclined to attack it. Here the 'sudden onslaught' would be straight across a bog, and that would bring any attacker to an ankle-deep standstill.
'Welcome, my lord. Will you come within and unarm?' Joscelin turned to face the lady Mellette. Although she smiled in greeting, it was a mere stretching of her lips without genuine warmth. The carriage of her head and the set of her jaw told of pride, and an authority that it would take a brave man to flout. Her daughter-in-law, who should have been the one to step forward and speak, remained in the background with the children, her eyes modestly downcast.
'Thank you, my lady' Joscelin bowed his head and returned Mellette's smile. He could play the courtier's game when called upon to do so and he had encountered women of her ilk before, the Empress Matilda being one of them. 'Perhaps I could request the services of my newest squire in helping me to remove my mail?' His glance flickered briefly to the line of boys waiting with their mother and descending in increments from Brunin to the toddler who was holding his nurse's hand and sucking his thumb.
She looked taken aback, but almost immediately rallied. Like an experienced swordsman, he thought with grim humour. 'As you wish, my lord, although how much help he will be, I do not know.'
Joscelin leaned a little closer to her than was polite, but it meant that his words did not carry beyond his lips and her left ear. 'It does not matter how much help he is or isn't at this stage,' he said with emphasis. 'Only that I should speak to him and put him at his ease, and that he should speak to me.'
Mellette took a step back. 'You will be fortunate to get him to speak at all. my lord, but if you desire him to attend you, then by all means take him.'
He inclined his head because, courtier or not, he could not bring himself to thank her, and moved to stand before Eve FitzWarin and the children.
'My lady,' he said.
She dipped him a curtsey and murmured obligatory words of welcome. Joscelin felt as if he were standing before a house with a light in the window but the occupant long gone.
'My wife sends her greetings,' he replied, 'and says to tell you that she will look after your son as if he were her own. You know that you are welcome to visit Ludlow whenever you choose.'
Eve raised her eyes to his. They were smudged as if with exhaustion or tears, but nothing could detract from their wide beauty. The warm hazel tints put him in mind of the autumn forest beyond the keep. 'Thank you, my lord, that is kind.'
She spoke the words as if there were not much of that kindness in her life. Joscelin turned to the boys. Brunin was staring straight ahead like a well-drilled serjeant under the inspection of his lord. In the stiff breeze his heavy raven hair fluttered like the wings of a bird. His cloak was pinned high at his throat and showed a lining that matched his tunic.
'So, Brunin.' Joscelin laid a firm hand to the boy's shoulder. 'If you are to be my squire, we might as well begin. I want you to help me unarm.'
'Yes, my lord.' A tinge of colour flushed the boy's olive complexion. Joscelin's grip had flattened the lie of the cloak and what he saw on the boy's throat gave him pause for thought. He said nothing though, merely stored the sight in his mind for further investigation.
Feeling as if he might burst with the emotions roiling through him, Brunin led Joscelin de Dinan to the guest chamber. In anticipation of Joscelin's arrival, the room had been swept out and aired. An embroidered frieze depicting a hunting scene had been hung at eye level along the back wall and the bed was spread with his mother's best coverlet of Flemish wool lined with coney fur. A ewer of water and a deep brass bowl had been set out, on a coffer in case Joscelin should desire to wash, and beside it stood a flagon and cups.
Brunin stood waiting, trying not to breathe hard. The climb up the stairs had not winded him, but he was feeling sick with apprehension. What if he did something stupid and shamed himself and his family at the first test? What if Lord Joscelin said that he was useless and he did not want him in his household? What if he asked to take Ralf instead?
Lord Joscelin stood with his hands on his hips gazing around the room, a half-smile on his lips, his expression one of amiable curiosity. He didn't look as if he was about to be angry, but Brunin had learned never to take anything or anyone at face value.
Joscelin reached to his scabbard and unfastened the thongs binding it to his swordbelt. 'Here,' he said to Brunin, 'lay this carefully on that bench, and don't put your fingers on the steel.'
Reverently, Brunin took the sword from Joscelin's large, hard hands. 'I know about not touching the blade,' he said, to show his new lord that he wasn't ignorant.
Joscelin's lips twitched and straightened. 'I am glad that you do. A squire must learn how to handle and look after all weapons. It is one of the first lessons of his training.'
Brunin walked carefully over to the coffer, pacing as if he were involved in an important ceremony. The sword had a pommel shaped like the fat silver body of a stew-pond carp and a grip of braided leather that spanned more than two of his hand-widths. With great reverence, he laid the scabbarded sword on the coffer and turned round.
'Now then.' Joscelin indicated the two youths who had come to stand at either side of him. 'This is Adam and this is Hugh. They will soon finish their training, although, like you, they are my squires. If you are not sure of something and you need to ask when I am not by, then you need not fear to approach one of them.'
Brunin nodded dutifully to show that he understood, but he was wary. Although the youths, who were old enough to show beard stubble, gave him encouraging smiles, he did not smile back.
Joscelin held his gaze while he unlatched the gilded swordbelt and passed it across. As Brunin took it, Joscelin's hand stayed a moment on the strap so that he and the boy were connected by the leather. 'I truly mean you need not fear,' he said. 'I know what happened at Shrewsbury Fair, but I promise that you will come to no harm beneath my rule. I expect swift service and obedience, not miracles.' He glanced briefly to the elder of his squires. 'How often have I beaten you, Hugh?'
The youth rolled his gaze heavenwards as if the answer was written on the roof beams.