Shadows and Strongholds by Elizabeth Chadwick

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.

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Chapter Four

     
    'Stand still,' Mellette snapped. 'I've known a basket of live eels to wriggle less.' She turned Brunin by the shoulders to face her, her grip bony and hard.
    Behind a blank expression, Brunin mentally grimaced. He was being made ready for his departure to Ludlow, and was heartily sick of the fuss. A thorough head-to-toe scrubbing in the bathtub earlier that morning meant that his black hair gleamed with the rainbow sheen of a crow's wing. His smooth olive skin was marred at the cheekbone by a scabbed-over cut caused by a branch-whip whilst riding in the woods. He would have liked to be in the woods now with nothing but the hoofbeats of his outgrown pony and the flicker of falling leaves for company. But since Lord Joscelin of Ludlow was expected at any moment, his place in the scheme of things was strictly preordained.
    His grandmother snatched a comb out of the hands of a maid, and drew it through his hair until he felt the sharp antler teeth scraping his scalp.
    'Same mop as your grandsire,' she muttered. 'Never looks tidy. In my day, the best men wore their hair like

King William. Shaved and short. None of this long nonsense.' Standing back she considered him with narrowed eyes. Brunin's stomach churned with the sudden fear that she was going to send for the shears and barber him as bald as a June sheep.
    'That will have to do,' she said. 'There's no making a silk purse from a sow's ear, but at least you're halfway presentable.' She tugged at his new tunic of dark-red wool, aligning a fold. The cuffs, neckline and hem were embroidered with a design of green and gold scrollwork that had taken his mother and her women several days to stitch. His chausses were made of expensive double-dyed blue Flemish cloth and bound with braid that matched the colours in his tunic. This outfit would see him through feast days and formal attendance in Joscelin's household. His mother had packed plainer garments in his baggage for everyday wear.
    'Remember,' his grandmother said. 'You are a FitzWarin by name, but your great-grandsire was Earl of Derby and his sire was the Conqueror himself. You must not disgrace your blood… do you hear me, boy?' Her voice sharpened a notch.
    'Yes, madame.' Brunin knew that his silence was annoying her, but he could think of nothing to say. Her lecture was an old one. Every day he and his brothers had their bloodline dinned into their heads. Besides, whenever he opened his mouth, he displeased her, so what was the difference? There was even a kind of painful satisfaction in watching her mouth purse and her knuckles clench.
    'I still say it is a pity that your father is not sending Ralf to Ludlow,' she muttered with a glance towards Brunin's nearest brother. Ralf too was dressed in his finest tunic for Joscelin de Dinan's visit, and the sky-blue wool was a perfect foil for his fair colouring.
    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