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Ludlow.'
    That silenced her. Behind him, he heard Eve's soft intake of breath.
    Mellette moved to a bench by the hearth and perched on its edge, knees pressed together, hands folded in her lap. 'The heir is usually educated within his own home,' she said. He did not miss the gleam in her eyes, nor the way that they flickered briefly to Ralf. Her thoughts were transparent.
    'Usually, yes, but not always. I hope that experience in a different household will be the making of Brunin.'
    'And Ralf and Richard, you will educate them at home?'
    'Likely they will go for fostering too,' he said. 'I would not want to break the rules too far.'
    She gave a contemptuous sniff. 'You think that an education by a Breton mercenary will better serve us and Brunin than sending him to the Church?'
    'Joscelin de Dinan is more than just a Breton mercenary,' FitzWarin said shortly. 'He is of the line of the Counts of Brittany and Ludlow is an important fortress. Indeed, it makes Whittington look like a peasant's hovel.'
    Mellette flinched at the comparison, her mouth puckering as tight as a miser's drawstring purse.
    'He has the warrior skills, but he can play the courtier at need,' FitzWarin added. 'Brunin's education will be well rounded. Lady Sybilla is a conscientious chatelaine. She does her duty by her husband's squires.' He had been laying the bait in a trail of crumbs. Now he set down the remainder of the loaf, tempting her with the prize of Ludlow itself. 'Joscelin's heirs are his two daughters. Given Sybilla's age she is unlikely to bear him a son to inherit the lands.'
    Mellette looked down at her clasped hands, her expression mulish. FitzWarin's resolve hardened. He would send Brunin for fostering whatever she said.
    After a moment, she raised her head. 'Perhaps you ought to send Ralf to Ludlow. If you have a match in mind, your second son stands the better chance of impressing de Dinan.'
    'No, Mother. I have offered him Brunin and for good reasons.' FitzWarin forced himself not to gulp the wine. He had already drunk more than he should in the tavern, plus the cups at the vintners' booths.
    'Name them,' she challenged.
    'He is my heir,' FitzWarin said. 'Joscelin will not accept a second son as a mate for one of his daughters, no matter how accomplished the boy might be. And Brunin needs a chance to step out of the shadows. Joscelin de Dinan can give him that chance.'
    Mellette's jaw rotated as if she were chewing on his words and finding both nutrition and grit. 'I suppose that if he goes to Ludlow, we will not have to sponsor him through the priesthood,' she grudgingly admitted, 'and it may be that Joscelin de Dinan will work a miracle and turn base metal into gold.' Her tone said that she was sceptical but. willing to see what happened.
    Knowing that it was as much agreement as he was going to receive, FitzWarin abandoned his wine and moved towards the loft stairs.
    'Husband, do not wake him,' Eve said quickly. 'He's asleep.'
    He paused and turned. Eve swiftly lowered her eyes.
    'Don't fuss, woman,' he said, but in a gentler voice than he had thus far used since coming home. The steps creaked beneath his tread, but he reckoned that if Brunin could sleep through the brawling of his brothers, a few stealthy footfalls would not disturb him.
    The shutters were open and FitzWarin paused briefly by the window. Men were still drinking in the taverns—women too, he thought as a particularly piercing cackle arrowed through the window. Lanterns and cooking fires glimmered among the booths as many of the owners sat vigil with their stock. There was a pervasive smell of woodsmoke and onion stew. A horse whinnied and was answered by several others. Sighing, he turned into the twilit room and paced along the row of pallets laid out on the floor.
    Brunin was on the end one, his form outlined by a coverlet of striped Welsh wool. He was breathing so quietly that FitzWarin had to lean close and look for the rise and fall of his chest. The child's right