LITMIR.BIZ

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if you could stick me with that pretty toy, before I had you on the floor under my boot.’ Gervase sat, cast off his cloak. ‘Still frequenting stews such as this for your entertainment?’ His lips curled at the rank smoke, the unpleasant mix of scents of rancid onions and sour ale, of damp and unwashed humanity. Hugh’s weathered face softened into a smile of easy camaraderie of long standing, which Gervase returned as they finally clasped hands in greeting. Hugh continued to wear his years well. There were a good dozen years between them, but they had fought side by side over those years to keep the March at peace. Grizzled, stocky, the Marcher lord enforced his authority with steely blue eyes and a common touch that made him popular and easy to approach.

      ‘For your information, Ger, I’m here for any news of interest,’ the Marcher lord chided gently, yet with the authority of experience and the scattering of grey in his hair. From his power base in Hereford, Hugh de Mortimer had taken it upon himself to keep his finger on the tumultuous pulse of the March in the name of the King. ‘I had a meeting with one of my informants here.’ Hugh eyed Gervase, the growth of beard, the black, rain-matted hair. ‘Thought you were in Anjou.’

      ‘I was. Just returned.’ Stretching out his right leg, a groan indicating a recent injury from a fall from his horse, one that still ached in cold wet weather, Gervase ran his hand over his rough chin and cheeks with distaste. ‘Some hard travelling with little time for home comforts. As for the crossing …’ His expression said it all. ‘I was bound for Monmouth. And then I heard some interesting news on the road this side of Gloucester.’

      A gleam lit the keen blue eyes. ‘Salisbury?

      ‘Salisbury. That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d know more if there was anything to know. Your lines of communication are excellent. Tell me what’s afoot.’

      ‘Salisbury’s dead,’ Hugh confirmed, turning smartly to business. ‘That’s what you wanted to hear.’

      ‘So it’s true.’

      ‘And you are thinking of the future of Clifford.’

      ‘How would I not?’

      ‘That this is your chance to get it back?’

      ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. The son and heir has as much an iron fist as his father. The lands will be held secure. I doubt the change in ownership will make much difference. And I’m too far stretched with the Anjou possessions to engage in a major conflict, however much I might desire the castle.’

      Hugh’s hand closed over the Fitz Osbern’s wrist, pulled him closer. ‘But listen, Ger. Rumour has it that the new Earl’s primary interest will not be in the March after all. That he has not inherited Clifford, or the other two border castles. Nor has his brother Walter.’

      Gervase paused, ale halfway between table and lips. Blood sang through his veins, a sudden bubble of warmth to lift his spirits.

      ‘If not Gilbert, then who?’

      ‘The Earl’s daughter. A girl from his second marriage. He married Petronilla de Clare a dozen years ago. So this daughter must be young—a mere child, I think.’

      ‘A child?’ Gervase tapped his fingers against the cup at the new slant on affairs.

      ‘That’s what my sources tell me. It might be in your interest after all to spy out the land.’ A sly smile on Hugh’s face, at odds with the ingenuous open stare.

      ‘It might. Well, now! Clifford in the hands of a child, a girl.’

      Fitz Osbern sat and thought, staring down into his ale.

      Clifford. The name had been engraved on his consciousness when a small child, written there in a forceful hand by his father. By rights the little border fortress was his, part of the Fitz Osbern estates. He knew it well, had once lived there for a short period when he was first wed to Matilda de Vaughan. Urgently, he pushed that unwelcome memory away to concentrate on what he recalled of the stronghold itself. For the most part a rough-and-ready, timber-and-earth construction, with only a token rebuilding in stone to provide basic living accommodation. But that was not important. What was, was that it held a strategic position on the River Wye, where the river could be forded, and was one of the original Fitz Osbern lands granted to his ancestor after the Conquest by the grateful Conqueror. It was undeniably part of his inheritance.

      But then Clifford had been filched from his father, Henry, Lord Fitz Osbern, by the Earl of Salisbury when Lord Henry was campaigning in Anjou and he, Gervase, was holding court in his father’s name in Monmouth. All was done and dusted by the time his father returned, or before he could raise his own force and march to Clifford from Monmouth. By that time Salisbury was smirking from behind the walls.

      And so Clifford had become a constant thorn in the Fitz Osbern flesh, of loss and humiliation that had worn his father down. Not in the best of health, he had seen it as a disgrace, a stain on his honour. A suppurating sword wound had carried him off to his grave only twelve months after. Gervase’s frown grew heavier. Any attempt by Gervase to recover the castles by force would have had Salisbury descending on him with the weight of a full battle force backed by all his Longspey wealth and influence, not to mention King Stephen’s ear.

      But now Stephen was dead, so was Salisbury. And Clifford was owned by a child …

      ‘Does it mean so much to you?’ Hugh had watched the play of emotions over what he could see of his friend’s features. ‘It’s small, needs total refurbishment if you mean to keep a siege at bay. I doubt there’s been much rebuilding or improvement since the first wooden tower and earth ramparts were put into place. Does it matter so much that you reclaim Clifford?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ There was no mistaking the light in Gervase’s eyes. The utter conviction in his voice. ‘It means everything.’

      ‘Because of your father.’

      ‘Because of him. And family honour, I suppose.’ A pause. ‘And because of Matilda …’

      ‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten …’

      ‘I hadn’t.’ Gervase’s hands clenched round the mug. ‘I’ll never forget. She died there, and I was not there to save her.’

      The flat emotion in his face dissuaded Hugh from pursuing that line. He cleared his throat. ‘So what will you do?’

      ‘Tomorrow I ride for Clifford. I can hardly pass up so perfect an opportunity, now can I?’

      ‘No. Want company?’

      Gervase searched the Marcher lord’s face. What better support could he ask for when planning a raid into hostile territory? A firm sword hand and a courageous spirit. A wealth of sound advice. Of recent years he had become used to acting on his own authority. Isolated, his mother said in moments of sharp honesty. Perhaps a friendly face at his shoulder would be welcome …

      ‘Well?’ Hugh prompted. ‘Do you want me or not?’

      Gervase noticeably relaxed, nodded. ‘I do. If you have a mind to come and see me crow over my victory—then by all means.’

      ‘Let’s drink to it.’

      With a combined force, on the following morning the two men took the road west out of Hereford toward Clifford. The day broke with a sharp wind and bright scudding cloud. The Black Mountains now came into sharp focus, rising out of the plain before them. Their objective, the small border fortress, stood on the south bank of the Wye to the north of the main ridge.

      The company rode at ease in such familiar territory. Hugh stretched his limbs in the saddle, flexed his shoulders. He might appreciate town life—soft living, Gervase had called it—but it was good to ride in congenial company again. Conversation ranged wide, but gradually they circled to more personal matters. Hugh was quite prepared to take advantage of the long family association and touch on a sensitive nerve, the nerve he had neatly avoided the previous night. He knew Gervase would resist, but in the clear light of day broached the subject anyway.

      ‘You, Ger, need

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