Elizabeth Chadwick (14 page)

Fulke groaned and struck the doorpost.

“It’s all right,” Hanild murmured, rubbing her cheek against the back of his hand. “She’s only a child. She won’t make trouble for you.”

“She already has,” Fulke said wryly.

***

“I encountered Fulke FitzWarin with one of John’s whores,” Maude told Theobald with indignation as her maid curtseyed and left the room. “She’s called Hanild and she has remained behind to ply her trade among the men.” Although Barbette had already combed Maude’s hair, she began to groom it again like an angry cat sleeking down ruffled fur.

Theobald pillowed his hands behind his head and regarded her, with amusement in his eyes. “Yes, I know Hanild,” he said.

She looked up sharply.

“Not in that sense, of course,” he added hastily. “But since she dwells in John’s retinue, our paths sometimes cross. Men become lonely away from their wives. Some, like Fulke, are bachelors, and women like Hanild serve as a vent for a young man’s heat. Still,” he mused, “it is unlike him. He’s no prude, but he’s usually discreet these days, and discreet is not a trait you can claim for Hanild.” He looked askance at his bride. “Where did you see her and Fulke?”

“She was leaving his chamber as I climbed the stairs.” Abandoning the comb, she came to join him in the bed. Theobald put his arm around her and drew her against him, but companionably so. “I felt foolish,” she admitted, “and also angry at his lack of manners in bringing her to the private quarters.”

He ran a silky tress of her hair through his fingers. “I’ll speak to him,” he said.

“No!” She was immediately alarmed. “Say nothing. I would feel more foolish yet—like a child carrying tales. Now I have told you, I am not as angry.”

“As you wish,” he soothed. “Belike the spirit of celebration got the better of Fulke’s senses. We all make mistakes.”

Maude did not feel as forgiving as her husband. It was one matter for Prince John to bring a courtesan as part of his retinue; quite another when she lingered to solicit after John’s departure and the guests took every advantage.

Fulke FitzWarin was no better than the other ignorant oafs who had raised bawdy cheers at the presentation of the bridal sheet. As she snuggled back against Theobald’s chest, she felt anger, humiliation…and relief. The pedestal she had been in danger of building had tumbled. Fulke FitzWarin was nothing.

Alberbury, Shropshire, September 1195

Hawise FitzWarin was in the bailey, talking to a peddler who was laying out his wares on a red cloth, when the guard on duty shouted that Lord FitzWarin had returned.

“I have silver needles,” the man said. “So fine that they will pass through silk and leave no hole.”

Hawise shaded her eyes in the direction of the gate.

Sensing that he was losing her attention, the peddler raised his voice. “See this white rose-petal unguent, guaranteed to make your hands so soft and smooth that no man will be able to resist kissing them.”

“I’ll have some then,” said Hawise’s maid with a giggle, “but only if you refund my coin if it doesn’t work.”

“There’s no question of that, mistress. You’ll be desired all the way to Land’s End, I promise you.”

Ignoring their banter, Hawise went to the gate. It was almost three weeks since her husband and sons had set out for London to press their case for the return of Whittington. They had been loyal supporters of King Richard, had contributed funds to the crusade and sacrificed a year’s wool clip toward his ransom. In return, their case deserved a fair hearing. With Hubert Walter as Justiciar, Brunin had a firm hope that their plea would succeed.

Two serjeants unbarred the gates and swung them inward to admit the troop. Hawise stood well back from the horses and the dust raised by their trammeling hooves. Autumn might be on the threshold, but the softness of rain had yet to damp down the heavy summer dust. Her heart swelled with pride as she watched her menfolk draw rein and begin dismounting. They were so vital, so handsome, and now, for a short time at least, they were hers.

Brunin dismounted from his courser and immediately turned to search for her. There were shadows of fatigue beneath his fine dark eyes and he was favoring his left leg where an old injury always plagued him when he was tired. But beneath the dust, beneath the exhaustion, he was glowing.

“We have it!” he cried fiercely as he saw her. “Beloved, we have it!”

She ran into his arms. Gripping her as tightly as his shield in battle, Brunin swung her round and kissed her. She tasted dust on his lips and felt the salt moisture of either sweat or tears on his stubbled cheek. “Oh, that is wonderful news, my love! You should have sent word ahead so that we could have a feast in celebration!”

“No, I wanted to tell you myself,” he said against her ear. “I wanted to give it to you whole.” He thrust his hand inside his tunic and brought out a vellum packet mounted with the Justiciar’s seal.

“What’s this?” Hawise took it from him.

“Hubert Walter’s adjudication that Whittington is ours.”

Hawise looked from the package to her husband. She laughed, more than half of her humor derived from disbelief. “Just like that? You were not made to jump through burning hoops like a tumbler’s dog?”

“Not one.”

It seemed too good to be true, but she did not want to be a killjoy and dilute the euphoria of the moment by expressing doubts. Perhaps Hubert Walter truly had given them Whittington on the strength of their abiding loyalty. After hugging her husband again, she turned to greet her sons. Engulfed in half a dozen sweaty embraces, she saw that they shared their father’s optimism. Even Philip, the quietest of the brood, wore a smug smile. William was positively gloating, and Fulke sported an ear-to-ear grin—as well he might since he was the heir and the one who would reap the full benefit of their gain.

***

“So what happens now?” Hawise asked as Brunin’s squire finished unarming his lord and took the hauberk away for scouring. In a corner of the chamber, the maids were preparing a bathtub. Hawise had been raised with the rule that travelers, whether guests or family, should always be greeted with the offer of water for washing, clean clothes, and refreshment. While the boys could do for themselves, using the laundry tubs if they so required, Hawise observed the formalities with her husband. A bath in their chamber gave them an opportunity to be alone and allowed him to soothe his aching joints and muscles without admitting weakness.

Moving stiffly to the tub, he eased himself into the steaming water with a groan of pleasure. “What do you mean?”

“Do you just ride up to Whittington’s gates with that judgment in your hands and command FitzRoger to leave?”

“Not unless I want an arrow through my throat.” He swilled his face and scooped his hands through his hair. With a pang of regret, Hawise saw that there was more silver than black these days. “I have to wait for the official writ from the Justiciar, for which I must pay the privilege of forty marks.” Brunin grimaced at her. “I know it’s one more expense to bleed us dry, but once I have that writ in my hands, I have recourse to demand that royal officials evict Morys FitzRoger.”

“He will resist that, surely,” she said with a note of anxiety. Although Brunin was skilled in battle, he was no longer young and it worried her to think of him with a sword in his hand.

“No doubt,” said Brunin with a wintry smile, “but he will be offered suitable compensation. The royal manor of Worfield, so Hubert Walter suggests.”

Hawise brought him a cup of spiced wine. He drank it swiftly, his free arm resting on the edge of the tub, his knees slightly bent to accommodate his length. “And when will you have the writ?” she asked.

“In the due course of judiciary business.” The gleam in his eyes dulled a little and weariness deepened the natural lines of aging in his face. “However long that might take. But our true right to Whittington has been recognized. It has taken more than forty years to come this far, but I know that our sons will reap the reward. There will be a Fulke FitzWarin at Whittington again. I feel it in my bones, and they never lie.” She saw him force a smile. “Just now they are telling me that I’m no longer young enough to keep up with my sons and not pay for it.”

“Wine and a bath will refresh you,” Hawise said, concealing another pang at his words, which were an uncanny reflection of her thoughts. His health was not as robust as it had once been and he was much quicker to tire these days. “Doubtless our sons are counting their saddle sores in trying to keep up with their father.”

***

“‘
Fulco filius Warini debet xl m. pro habendo castello de Witinton sicut ei adiuticatum fuit in curia regis,
’” read the scribe in a nasal voice. “Fulke FitzWarin pays a fine of forty marks to have the castle of Whittington as adjudged in the King’s court.”

Morys FitzRoger gripped the lion’s head finials on the lord’s chair in Whittington’s great hall and ground his teeth. His complexion darkened and the veins in his throat bulged like whipcords. The scribe, recognizing the signs, laid the document carefully down and began edging away. The messenger who had brought the letter from Morys’s contact in the Justiciar’s department had already made himself scarce.

“I will see the shit-eating son of a whore in hell first,” Morys wheezed. “Let him pay as many fines as he wants. Those words aren’t even worth wiping my arse upon.” Leaping to his feet, he snatched the vellum off the trestle, spat copiously upon the careful brown lettering, and then thrust the document into the flame of a wall cresset. “Whittington belongs to my bloodline and it always will.”

The flame hissed on his spittle as the vellum was consumed. Drips of red wax splashed on the floor like blood.

“I don’t understand,” said Weren, his eldest son. “Why, after all this time, has the judgment gone in his favor?”

“Why?” Morys’s upper lip curled. “Because he’s a lick-arse, and where his tongue cannot reach, his eldest son’s does—right up the Archbishop of Canterbury’s backside. They have Hubert Walter’s favor, and his word is the law of the land.” He dropped the last twist of vellum before the flames scorched his fingers, then stamped on the burning fragment, grinding it beneath his heel.

“Then what can we do?”

Morys glared at the young man. “What can we do?” he parodied in cruel imitation of Weren’s light voice. “You’re like a mewling infant still in tail clouts. Have you no mind of your own?”

Weren turned crimson. “Yes, Papa, but I defer to you.”

“Then set aside your deference for a moment. Tell me what you would do.”

Weren frowned, clearly struggling. “Fight?” he said.

“With the judgment in FitzWarin’s favor? Do you have pottage for brains? Why do you think the FitzWarins have never sought to take Whittington by force of arms in all the time that they have disputed it?”

“Because they are not strong enough?”

Morys bared his teeth. “Because, boy, any use of arms would have made them outlaws and destroyed their claim. If we take up weapons against them, then we become the outlaws and it won’t just be the FitzWarins evicting us, but the entire feudal host of Shropshire. And we are certainly not strong enough to withstand that.”

“I would submit a counterclaim,” Morys’s second son Gwyn spoke out. “Even if the FitzWarins are as thick as thieves with Hubert Walter, he is a man of high importance and to him the ownership of Whittington is but a small matter and easily forgotten. FitzWarin may be his friend, but we can make friends too—with the clerks who administer his commands.” To emphasize his point, he patted the money pouch at his belt.

Morys eyed Gwyn with shrewd approval. The only thing the lad had ever done wrong was to be born second. The older man sometimes thought that Weren’s brains had been left behind in the womb and Gwyn had collected them on the way out. “Indeed we can,” he said. “Hubert Walter will not always be the King’s Justiciar. He is already Archbishop of Canterbury and a papal legate. A man can only stretch himself so far before he fails.”

Gwyn stroked his sparse sandy beard. “If the FitzWarins are in high favor with Hubert Walter, perhaps there are other great men upon whose toes they have stepped. Was there not a rumor concerning FitzWarin’s heir and a quarrel with Prince John?”

Morys chewed his lip and considered. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I cannot remember the details, but it bears investigating. Prince John has lands in the Marches and if he does harbor a grudge against the FitzWarin family, perhaps we can put it to good use.”

Gwyn gave his father a thoughtful, sly look. “It would be fortunate for us if Fulke le Brun were to meet with an accident of some sort?” He phrased the statement as a question.

Not just brains, thought Morys, but underhand cunning. He did not know whether to be proud or disgusted. Sometimes cunning was a milder way of saying dishonor. “From a point of personal satisfaction, yes,” he agreed. Returning to the board, he poured himself a cup of wine. “Other than that, it would be of no benefit to us. FitzWarin has six sons, all of them dyed in the same wool as their sire. We would be rid of one devil only to land ourselves with another, and then another.”

“But we have to stop them, for if they gain possession, we have nothing.”

Morys nodded. “Believe me, lad,” he said fiercely, “there is naught I would like better than to take my sword and hew the entire brood of them limb from limb and feed the pieces to the devil, but we would destroy ourselves into the bargain. No, we play a waiting game. After all, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

Winchester, Summer 1198

Maude approached the bedside and knelt to kiss her brother-in-law’s episcopal ring.

“Daughter,” he croaked and gave her a tired smile. His lips were cracked and his breath was sour. Sweat shone in the slack folds of his jowls and soaked the hair surrounding his tonsure so that it stood up in spiky brown clumps.

Maude wondered if he was dying. Certainly it was in Theobald’s mind. They had received an urgent message from a clerk of the judiciary household to say that Hubert had been taken ill with an ague.

“Hubert.” Theobald too kissed the ring of office, and then embraced his brother.

A glimmer of amusement appeared in the sunken eyes. “Don’t fret, Theo, you’re the eldest and I have no intention of dying before you. I’ve too much to do here on earth to give my spirit to heaven just yet.” Hubert struggled to prop himself up against the bolsters and was taken with a bout of harsh coughing that left him gasping for breath.

Theobald helped him to sit and Maude brought him watered wine. Hubert drank greedily, then laid his head back with a gasp. “It was good of you to come though.”

“You fool,” Theobald said fiercely. “You’ll work yourself into the grave.”

“You scarcely sit at home with your feet on the hearth yourself.”

“But I’m not the Archbishop of Canterbury, the papal legate, the Justiciar,
and
the Chancellor either,” Theobald snapped. “Collecting coin for tourneys, being a traveling judiciary, and administering a few chosen estates hardly compares. And don’t tell me that I’m nagging like an old woman. Whatever you say, you would not have sent for me unless you believed you were very sick indeed.”

Hubert fiddled with the ties fastening his nightshift. “I admit I have been very ill, Theo, but I do truly believe that with God’s aid I will recover.”

“And then what? Make yourself ill again?”

Hubert cast a commiserating gaze to Maude. “Is he harsh like this with you?”

Maude looked from one to the other. Theobald’s expression was exasperated. She knew how worried he was about Hubert. She also knew that railing at the sick man would achieve nothing beyond more exasperation. “Only for my own good, so he claims,” she replied demurely.

Theobald gave an indignant splutter and Hubert chuckled, started coughing, and once more had to resort to the wine. When he had recovered, he reached out a febrile hand to pat his brother’s shoulder.

“I’ll put you out of your misery, Theo. You’ll be pleased to know that even now one of my scribes is copying out a letter of resignation to King Richard. I am yielding the post of Justiciar. As you rightly say, I cannot be all things to all men, and, in truth, God should come first.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Theobald folded his arms and tried to look stern.

“The notion has been in my mind for some time. Indeed, I have been grooming Geoffrey FitzPeter to take over the responsibility.”

Theobald grunted. “I’ll be even more pleased when you are well enough to leave your bed. Until you are, I am going to be your watchdog and ensure that you lift not so much as a little finger.”

“Then I will die of boredom instead of overwork!” Hubert protested, looking dismayed.

“You think my company boring?”

“Of course not. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Maude left the brothers to their argument, which she knew they were both secretly enjoying. Theobald would know to stop before Hubert grew too tired.

Servants had brought their traveling baggage within the palace, the brass-bound clothing coffer, the pieces of their bed which would be assembled in a guest chamber, her embroidery frame and braid loom. She did not know how long they would be staying. There was no denying that Hubert was very sick, but if he was bright enough to argue, he was probably on the mend.

Theobald’s interests had fared well while Hubert was Justiciar, but it had meant more responsibility and more time spent traveling the country. The increased pace had taken its toll on her husband too.

Of late Theobald had spoken of his wish for a quieter life. The revenues that had come to him as a result of Hubert’s powerful position had been put toward founding various religious establishments. There was an Augustinian abbey at Cockersand in Amounderness, and several monasteries in Ireland. He spoke often of returning there, as if the place was drawing him. Sudden, dangerous illness had caused Hubert to evaluate his life, but Maude felt that Theobald had been unobtrusively putting his own house in order for the past year and more.

She gazed at the pieces of their bed. They still shared its broad, feather mattress when he was home or when she traveled with him, but mostly for the purpose of sleep. Occasionally he would wrap her in his embrace and, murmuring love words, enter her body with his, but it was an infrequent demand and not one that she sought to encourage. The pain of that first time had diminished, but the act was still uncomfortable. Mostly, Theobald treated her as a sexless companion. He would talk to her, using her to explore his ideas, to grumble or expound theories in the closeness of their bed where there were only her ears to hear. And for that she loved him and granted him the use of her body ungrudgingly on the rare occasions that he hungered.

Younger men tried to tempt her, believing that she could not possibly be satisfied with Theobald, but Maude rejected their advances with icy disdain. All they wanted was to get their hands beneath her gown and she had no time for their tawdry lusts. When she attended tourneys with Theobald, they would clamor to wear her favor, and sometimes she had to give it for goodwill, since Theobald was responsible for collecting the fees of those hoping to make their mark on the field. She had a store of purpose-bought ribbons to distribute.

Sometimes Fulke FitzWarin would attend the tourneys, but he kept his distance as she kept hers. A polite nod in passing was as much as each gave in acknowledgment of the other. If by chance they sat close at the tourney feast, their conversation was courteous but stilted and without eye contact.

The reputation of Fulke and his troop drew large audiences and the revenues from the tourneys they attended were satisfyingly high, delighting Theobald. Such was the level of expertise, there were even murmurs that Fulke’s talent rivaled that of the great William Marshal in his youth. His skill with a lance brought other rewards too, Maude had noticed with a jaundiced eye. Not just from women like Hanild, but others of more refined birth whose blood was stirred by his performance in the field. They wanted him to perform heroically in their beds too. Her cheeks flushed and she turned abruptly from studying her own bed.

“Lady Walter?” A wiry, handsome young man with an olive complexion and dancing dark eyes was addressing her from the doorway. He bowed. “I do not know if you remember me. We were introduced at your wedding. My name is Jean de Rampaigne and I’m one of His Grace’s retainers.”

“Yes, of course I remember,” Maude said. It was a half-truth but in her position she had quickly learned the courtesies that greased the wheels. She had been introduced to many people and although he looked familiar, she could place him in no particular context.

“I am glad that Lord Theobald has arrived,” the young knight said. “He is family and His Grace will recover more swiftly for seeing him. I think that Lord Theobald is one of the few people to whom my master will listen. If his older brother tells him to stay abed and rest, he might do so.” He looked wry. “When he summoned you, he did truly believe he was at death’s door, and so did we. He takes too much upon himself.”

“So he has admitted. I suppose it must be a family trait.”

“He has told you that he is to resign the post of Justiciar to Geoffrey FitzPeter?”

She nodded.

“I’m to carry the message to King Richard as soon as the scribe has made fair copies.”

Giving him a more thorough scrutiny, Maude replaced his clean-shaven visage with a cropped black beard and dressed him in a tunic of bright red wool instead of the plainer tawny robe he wore now. “I remember you at Lancaster! You played a lute and you sang a song about a woman called Melusine.” She smiled at him. “I thought you were very accomplished.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The white flash of his smile gave him the face of a handsome rogue. “I do sometimes travel in the guise of a troubadour. Singing for my supper is a useful skill to have.”

“I did not realize you were a member of Hubert’s household.”

He shrugged. “No reason for you to do so. I served as a squire with your lord husband, but I took the Cross with Lord Hubert.” He tilted his head to one side and a gleam that was almost mischievous entered his eyes. “When I came to Lancaster it was in the company of Fulke FitzWarin. He was once one of your husband’s squires too.”

“Yes, I know,” Maude said warily.

“He’s a good friend, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

She gave him a stony look. “Then perhaps you should ride the tourney circuits and frequent the taverns,” she said, and then closed her mouth, realizing that she must sound censorious and angry when it was none of her concern what Fulke FitzWarin did with his life.

His smiled widened. “Ah no, my lady. I have enough excitement in my life as it is.”

The door opened and Theobald emerged from the sick room. Maude was pleased to see that he had cast off much of his anxiety. Clearly, he too now thought that Hubert would live.

“Jean!” He strode forward to embrace the young knight. “How are you faring?”

“Well, sire. And you?”

Murmuring her excuses, Maude went to organize her maids and begin sorting the baggage coffers.

***

Mounted on his dun cob, Brunin listened to the whistle of the autumn wind and felt its sharpness not only about his face, but also in the right arm holding the reins. There was a tight band across his chest, constricting his breathing. The autumn woods surrounding the keep at Whittington wore a dying treasure of gold, bronze, and verdigris against a sky of knife-blue and the beauty was so powerful that it cut him to the core. But still the pain was not as great as that engendered by the sight of the castle, his birthright, standing on the marshy ground beyond the woods. Close enough to touch, unattainable as a star. He gazed upon the lime-washed timber palisade and gatehouse, on the roofs of the wooden structures within its outer defenses; the smug twirls of blue domestic smoke rising through its louvers; the guards pacing the wall walks, sharp sunlight reflecting off their spear tips.

“My lord, it is not safe,” said the knight Ralf Gras, whom he had brought for company. His father was a FitzWarin tenant and Ralf had served his apprenticeship as one of Brunin’s squires.

Brunin smiled bleakly, without taking his eyes from the keep. The pain had eased a little, becoming a dull ache. “I’ll take the risk.”

The young man said nothing, but Brunin sensed the unspoken question. “A messenger arrived from the court yester eve,” he said. “Hubert Walter has yielded the post of Justiciar to Geoffrey FitzPeter.”

Ralf raised his brows. “Is that bad news, my lord?”

Brunin grimaced. “Hubert Walter granted me the right to Whittington in the royal court, pending the granting of an alternative estate to Morys FitzRoger in compensation for his loss, but now I doubt how much further it will go. I have no rapport with FitzPeter and, as John’s man, he will not be interested in advancing the judgment.” He spoke quietly, his bitterness present but controlled.

The night before he had not been as restrained. Fortunately, owing to the lateness of the hour, the messenger had delivered the letter in his private solar and only Hawise had been present to witness the force of his rage.

“A lifetime of waiting and lies and broken promises,” he had snarled, hurling a goblet across the room, following it with the flagon, kicking a coffer so hard that he had almost broken his toes. “It is over three years since Whittington was adjudged to me, and still I am made to wait for it and look like a fool!” He had sent the candle stand crashing over to accompany that remark and Hawise had shrieked at him to stop. He had roared at her like a goaded bull and all the fury remaining in him had imploded across his chest in a band of fiery lead. He had a vague recollection of sitting on their bed, doubled over with pain, of Hawise’s arms around him and the terror in her voice. Mercifully, the pain had ebbed, but the undertow had dragged something of himself with it, leaving him hollow with loss.

Hawise had not wanted him to ride out from Alberbury this morning, but she could not stop him any more than he could stop himself. The need to see Whittington was a compulsion that drove all other considerations from his mind. Now, from the shelter of the trees, he sat and gazed until his eyes watered with the staring.

“My father spent all his life in dispute over this place,” he said. “I was still a youth when we lost it, but I can still remember standing on the wall walk and looking out toward Wales.”

“How did you come to lose it?” Ralf asked curiously.

Brunin spoke with the flatness of a tale told so often that it emerged by rote. “The Welsh raided Whittington in the last years of King Stephen’s reign while we were elsewhere. They took the keep and slaughtered the garrison.” Brunin’s lip curled. “Roger de Powys was their leader. He was half-Norman, half-Welsh with a few scattered holdings, but gaining Whittington gave him prestige.” His horse sidled. Le Brun drew the reins in tight, controlling himself as much as his mount.

“King Stephen and Prince Henry had no time to spare for war in Wales as well as war with each other. De Powys was left in possession of Whittington and we were given Alveston as a temporary measure with the unwritten promise that Whittington would be restored to us when Roger died.” He looked at Ralf. “All men on whatever side they fought were supposed to have the lands that had been theirs in the time of the first Henry before the conflict began. But a royal promise is not worth the quill with which it is written.” Brunin almost spat the last word. “So now I come to look at what is mine by right and held in the hands of a thief at the behest of an oath-breaker.” For an instant longer he gazed upon the timbered keep and the banners fluttering from its battlements then pivoted his horse and dug in his heels.