Elizabeth Chadwick (13 page)

“She’s a fine, spirited lass,” Theobald said, admiring her lissome figure as she made her way to the stairs. And that spirit must be very strong, he thought, to withstand her father’s bullying and emerge relatively unscathed, except for a certain tense manner of glancing. “She is my bride; I’m entitled to indulge her a little.”

“Aye, well, for your own sake, make sure a little does not become too much,” le Vavasour growled. “Women spoil very easily.”

Somehow, Theobald managed to bite his tongue on the remark that Robert le Vavasour had certainly spoiled Maude’s mother with his treatment. Theobald intended to keep her daughter safe from any such spoiling.

***

A short time later, Maude returned to the great hall, driven from her chamber by the presence of her grandmother and the other female guests and their insatiable quest for gossip. It was like being a young pullet in a hen house, pecked and harassed by the older birds who knew their place and wanted to show her hers.

Her father was no longer at the high table. Instead, a young, raven-haired knight had taken his seat. He looked vaguely familiar but she could not immediately place him. Certainly, he had not been present at the previous day’s nuptials. She would have remembered his striking, hawkish looks. He was eating bread and cheese with gusto and nodding vigorously to Theobald’s conversation. His recent arrival was clear from the helm and sword laid to one side of his platter and from the dust clinging to the surcoat he wore over his mail. On her husband’s other side sat another young man, his attire more suited to that of celebration. Instead of a sword and helm, a handsome lute lay at his right hand, and, unlike his companion, he wore neither mail nor surcoat. Nearby were several more armor-clad young men, hungrily breaking their fast.

Maude considered turning around and retiring to her chamber again, but quickly dismissed the notion. Rather the unknown than the hen coop. Putting on a welcoming smile, she went forward.

The knight raised his head and his jaw ceased in mid-chew as their eyes met. Maude put her hand to her midriff and, beneath her palm, drew a short, congested breath.

Theobald beckoned her to come and sit with them on the bench. “Do you remember Fulke FitzWarin?” He gestured to the knight.

“No. I…I mean yes.” With an effort Maude tore her gaze from the young man’s smoke-hazel eyes. In his turn, FitzWarin broke the contact by lifting his cup to wash down his food.

“I am not sure that I remember you,” he said ruefully. “Jean warned me that you would have grown into a rare beauty, but his words do not do you justice.”

The young man in the fine clothes smiled. “They do not, my lady,” he agreed.

Theobald introduced him as Jean de Rampaigne, his former squire. Maude gathered her scattered wits and responded. He was more handsome than FitzWarin if neatness and regularity of feature was a consideration, but his roguish grin and merry eyes were endearing without Fulke’s smoldering attraction.

She took her place beside Theobald, squeezing up against him so that no part of her touched Fulke. His mail-clad arm rested on the board. She looked at the shine of light on the rivets, her eyes traveling its length to the cuff of gambeson and tunic and following by natural progression the tanned contours of his hand. The lean, strong fingers were quite beautiful. A narrow white scar across the knuckles and a newer pink one curving around the base of the thumb, only served to enhance the appeal by suggesting that here was both experience and vulnerability.

“So, what brings you from the jousting circuit?” Theobald inquired.

Fulke drew in his arm and, leaning back, folded it inside the other. “Jean had errands for Lord Hubert and I offered to ride escort.”

“If I had known you were in England, you would have been welcome at my wedding.”

“I know that, my lord, but considering your other guests, it was for the best that my mother represented our family.”

“Perhaps so.” Theobald waved his arm. “But I insist you stay for tonight. I’ve missed your company and there are years of tales to tell. You’ll want to wash away the dust of the road and be rid of your mail.” He glanced at Maude and cleared his throat.

She realized with a jolt of panic that it was now her duty as lady of the castle to see to the comfort of their guests. What would her grandmother do? Maude rose unsteadily to her feet and then looked desperately at her husband.

“I believe there is an empty wall chamber now that Prince John has departed,” Theobald prompted.

“Oh yes, indeed.” She smiled gratefully at him and turned to his guests. “I will show you where it is and the maids will fill some tubs so that you can bathe.”

Fulke collected sword and helm from the trestle and looked at Theobald with wry amusement. “I am to occupy Prince John’s chamber? I do not know whether that says something about your sensibilities, or your sense of humor.”

Theobald waved him away. “Just my sense, since we are sore-pressed for space. Go on with you.”

Fulke gave Theobald an amiable, sarcastic salute and turned to Maude. “My lady.”

Blushing furiously, she led Fulke and his small entourage from the hall. At least, she thought with relief, she had not caught his gaze in speculation on that damned bridal sheet. Indeed, he had seemed at pains to avoid looking at it, and for his chivalry she was glad.

She showed them the chambers that had recently been vacated by Prince John, then excused herself to chivvy the maids and summon Lady FitzWarin from the women’s chambers. Fulke watched her leave, his gaze lingering on the doorway even when she was gone from sight.

When Maude had entered the hall, he had almost choked on his bread. Gone was the thin, huge-eyed waif of his memory, replaced by a young woman, still coltish and slender, but certainly not a child. The eyes, a clear cat-green, the braids heavy white-gold falling beyond her veil, the cheekbone and jaw finely wrought, and, God in heaven, that wide, cushion-soft mouth.

Far from being a skinny child to whom he could relate as brother to sister, or his former tutor’s wife to be treated with passing courtesy, Maude le Vavasour was quite simply the most alluring young woman he had ever seen.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Jean boasted with cheerful superiority. He gave Fulke a hearty nudge. “I’ve seen poled oxen with less glazed expressions.”

“What?” Shaking his head, Fulke turned around.

“Maude le Vav—I mean Maude Walter. I told you she’d be a rare beauty.” Jean grinned. “It’s not very diplomatic to fall head over heels in love—or in lust—with your mentor’s wife, you know.” He ducked beneath the blow that Fulke aimed at him and danced out of reach. “Admit it, she’s a peach.”

Fulke turned to prop his sword in a corner and lean his helm against it. “She is indeed lovely,” he shrugged. “But you exaggerate my response. Besides, even if she is of marriageable age, she is yet little more than a child.” It was a discomforting thought to add to his turmoil.

Jean flourished his lute. “True, but not for long. Give her a few years to learn her power and she’ll be another Melusine.”

“You mean she’ll fly out of the chapel window like a bat?” Fulke’s tone was deliberately light and sarcastic.

Jean rolled his eyes. “No, I mean she’ll take your soul and you’ll be glad to give it.”

Fulke was prevented from making an answer by the appearance of two manservants bearing bathtubs, several maids with fresh pallets and bedding, and, hard on their heels, his mother. For the moment at least, all jesting, both frivolous and serious, stopped.

***

That evening the wedding celebrations continued, albeit in a less fulsome vein than those of the previous day. Fulke found himself obliged to dance with the bride, for he would have seemed churlish otherwise.

“You must be more comfortable now that you have shed your mail,” she said as they took their positions in the open space framed by a rectangle of dining trestles.

“And much lighter too, my lady,” he replied with a smile.

They grasped each other’s wrists and turned in a slow figure of eight. It was a traditional carole, always danced at weddings and symbolized the eternal bond between man and woman. In the smoky, candlelit darkness, the clear green of her eyes was almost obliterated by the wideness of her pupils.
Theobald’s wife,
he told himself.
A
child
. But it was not a child’s body that turned and moved with supple grace beneath his hands. The slender waist; the brush of her braids as she stepped past him and round; the curve of breast.

“I remember you stealing my brother’s ball because he would not let you play,” he said, trying to reestablish the connection with the child she had been.

Maude wrinkled her nose. As a little girl, the mannerism had been endearing. Now it sent a chill down Fulke’s spine. “My grandmother was furious,” she said, “but I cared not.”

“And are you still the same?”

“Only on the inside,” she replied with a demure flicker of her lashes. “Outwardly I am learning to be a lady.”

The dance finished. Bowing to her, Fulke made his escape, letting another knight take his place. It did not help matters when there was a break in the dancing and Jean took up his lute to sing the ballad of Melusine. First composed in Westminster’s kitchen on a snowy December evening, Jean had honed the song until it was a work of art. The listeners could almost see the witch standing before them with her shimmering hair and eyes.

“Are you ailing, my son?” Hawise laid a gentle hand on Fulke’s sleeve, her voice filled with concern.

He forced a smile. “Not in the least, Mother, but I’ve heard that damned song of Jean’s so often that it drives me half-mad.” Abruptly he jerked to his feet and stalked from the hall, leaving her to gaze after him in consternation.

Standing outside, Fulke took several deep breaths to clear his head of the cloying fumes of smoke and song. Theobald’s young wife was only affecting him because he had been too long without a woman, he told himself. Abstaining from tourney whores was a simple matter of self-preservation, but nevertheless that abstinence meant he was very susceptible to the charms of sweetly scented almost-virgins like the delectable Maude le Vav—Maude Walter.

There were watch fires in the ward for the cheer of the guards on duty. A woman, who had been talking to the men, detached herself from their company and sauntered toward Fulke. She wore the paneled dress of a wealthy woman, the sleeves so long that they almost trailed the ground, but the low curve of the neckline had no modesty of laced undershift to conceal her cleavage and her glossy dark braids were brazenly exposed.

Fulke recognized her immediately. Hanild was a courtesan whom he knew from general acquaintance and a long-ago closer intimacy. She was neither the youngest nor the prettiest of the court whores, but she had an earthy allure that went beyond mere looks and she was known to be barren. No man—or youth as he had been then—was going to bed her and then find her knocking at his door with a swollen belly.

“A long time since I’ve seen you, Fulke FitzWarin,” she said, her hands on her hips and a speculative look in her slanting dark eyes.

“I’ve been following the tourneys,” he replied with a dismissive gesture. “You didn’t leave with John’s retinue then?”

She laughed sourly. “Oh no. There’s more money to be made at a celebration than a wake. When Prince John is in a filthy mood he takes it out on his followers, and, in their turn, they take it out on me. I’d rather earn my living in pleasure than in pain.” She moved closer, tilting her head to look up at him. “Do you know why John is in such a temper?”

“No idea,” he lied. “I am only here to escort my mother home, and of course to honor Lord Walter’s nuptials.”

“Oh.” Hanild looked disappointed. In her experience, men were somewhat cagey of being seen with her if their respectable womenfolk were in the vicinity.

“But she’s in the hall.” He took her hand, preventing her from withdrawing. “And I’m…I want…”

Her breath caught. Sometimes it was for money alone. On rarer occasions business and pleasure mixed. She smiled. “I know what you want,” she said throatily. “Fortunate indeed that I did not leave with John.”

***

To get to her own chamber, Maude had to climb past the one that had been given to John and now housed Fulke FitzWarin and his troop. She had not seen Fulke for the latter part of the evening and wondered if he had retired early. He had seemed distracted and there had been an air of constraint about him when they danced.

Suddenly, through the wood, she heard Fulke speak, and a woman answer, her reply ending on a husky laugh. Before Maude could move on, the door opened and the owner of the laugh emerged, fingers busy braiding her loose dark hair, her expression one of sated languor.

The woman stopped short as she encountered Maude and swiftly curtseyed.

“I do not believe I know you,” Maude said stiffly.

“My…my name is Hanild de Bruges. I arrived with Prince John’s entourage.”

“But you did not leave with them.” Maude realized with a rush of chagrin that the woman must be one of the court whores. It was difficult not to feel intimidated by her. Hanild was tall for a woman and positively towered over Maude who had yet to attain her full growth. A musky scent wafted from her body.

A masculine hand gripped the door and pulled it wider to reveal Fulke FitzWarin, clad in naught but shirt and chausses. After last night’s initiation, Maude well recognized the glazed look in his eyes. “Mistress Hanild is an old friend,” he said impassively. “I invited her to talk a while.” His hand left the door and descended lightly to the whore’s shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.

Maude colored to the roots of her hair. It was quite plain that the last thing they had been doing was talking. She wanted to snap that her household was not a brothel, that his manners were execrable to bring a whore to his chamber, but she bit her tongue. He was, after all, a guest. Besides, the sight of him standing there in disarray, his eyes hazy in the aftermath of recent pleasure, was disturbing.

“Then I’ll bid you good night,” she said stiffly and left them at a dignified walk, but once out of sight, she gathered her skirts and ran, feeling the world’s greatest fool.