Shadows and Strongholds by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

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,'