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forearm was flung across his eyes and even in sleep, the fist was tightly clenched. With great gentleness, FitzWarin lifted Brunin's arm and laid it down at his side. The boy made a sound and the dense black eyelashes flickered, but he did not waken. Exasperated, baffled, assailed by a wave of affection so strong that it was almost grief, FitzWarin watched his firstborn son sleep. He remembered the night he had been born, a wild, stormy one in March, the wind strong enough to uproot trees and flatten hayricks and hovels. The midwife had come from the birthing chamber,
a
snuffling bundle wrapped in her arms, and presented the men with the next link in their bloodline.
    FitzWarin's father had been alive then, and he had been the first to hold the child. Even then, the resemblance between grandfather and grandson had been marked. Not just the colouring, but the shape and symmetry of flesh and bone, one new as a tight-furled hawthorn leaf at winter's end, the other sere and tattered from the long autumn's descent into withered old age. FitzWarin had never seen his father weep, but he had done so that night. Now he was dead, and the spark he had passed on was in danger of being quenched.
    Hearing soft footfalls, he turned to see Eve coming towards him. The dusk had leached the colour from her skin and hair and made dark pools of her eyes so that she resembled a faery creature from the hollow hills. His Welsh nurse had told him such stories of fey women and he often thought of his wife thus. Much of the time she was like an empty shell and it was as if her true substance walked elsewhere. Their marriage had been arranged to suit ambition and policy, without a shred of romance involved. They performed their marital duties but it was like a social dance between two strangers. She was attentive, docile, obedient and abundantly fertile. Since he had never strayed from their marriage bed nor raised his fist to beat her, he considered that he was a good and considerate husband.
    Stopping at his side, she too studied their son with a troubled gaze. 'He hasn't said a word.' Her tone was quiet and expressionless. 'Not to me or anyone. Your mother tried to make him speak, but it just seemed to push him further out of reach.' She bit her lip. 'If I could take his pain, I would.'
    FitzWarin was surprised into a glimmer of deeper feeling that led him to lament the cramped sleeping conditions and wish for their bedchamber at Whittington. He set his hand to her waist and his tough, swordsman's fingers spread to the upper curve of her buttocks. 'Brunin has to learn to stand up for himself,' he said gruffly.
    She stiffened. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'He has to learn. As all men do.' Her expression was blurred by the gathering dusk, but there was no mistaking the bitterness in her usually tractable voice.
    'Eve?' The word was startled out of him and he eyed her askance.
    Her throat rippled. 'In God's name, my lord, send him out of this household before it is too late.' Twisting from his embrace, she almost ran from the chamber.
    Her leaving caused the boy to stir on his pallet and mutter in his slumber, but what he said, his father could not tell.
    FitzWarin washed his hands over his face. A dull ache compounded of an excess of wine and tension was beginning to pound in his skull. He could not face going back down to the women and his yelling boisterous offspring. After removing his boots, he stretched out on the empty pallet beside Brunin and shut his lids. He fell asleep, his right arm bent across his eyes and his fist tightly clenched.

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Chapter Three

     
    Her head propped on a bolster, Hawise de Dinan lay on her back in her parents' bed, and stared at the canopy. Beside her, she could hear Marion trying not to giggle and that made Hawise want to giggle too. She compressed her lips, fighting the explosion gathering beneath her ribs.
    'You're supposed to have your eyes closed. You're badly injured,' said Sibbi crossly.
    Hawise strained her gaze