Elizabeth Chadwick (15 page)

They trotted single file through the woods, intending to meet the road that linked Oswestry to Shrewsbury. But as they crossed a small charcoal burner’s clearing, a party of huntsmen with dogs and hawks barred their path. The wind roared through the trees like an ocean on the turn and Brunin felt its surge within his body. Pounding, taking, and threshing him in its tumult.

A beautiful peregrine falcon perched on the gloved fist of Morys FitzRoger, preventing him from drawing his sword. His companions, however, including his sons, freed theirs from their scabbards with alacrity. Morys held up his left hand to stop them, the movement slow and controlled to avoid frightening the hawk.

“I presume you have come to look at what you cannot have,” he said to Brunin in a contemptuous voice. “For a man who bears the teeth of a wolf on his shield, you have nothing left with which to bite.”

Brunin had reached to his own sword hilt but refrained from drawing the weapon. Partly it was because they were two against ten, but mostly in response to the terrible pain that was ripening in his chest. “Whittington is mine, as adjudged in the King’s court,” he gasped. It was hard to breathe, as if he were sucking air through a cushion.

“Face the truth,” Morys sneered. “That judgment was a sop from Hubert Walter’s office to keep you quiet and off the Justiciar’s back. They’ve forgotten you and they’ve abandoned the judgment. You are trespassing on land that is not yours and never will be.”

“This is not the end.” It took all Brunin’s determination, all his stubborn pride to keep him in the saddle. A gray haze veiled his eyes.

“Oh, I think it is. If ever you trespass on my territory again, I will kill you out of hand. Go home, old man, and nurse your bones by your own hearth instead of coveting another’s,” sneered FitzRoger, as if the ten years by which Brunin was older than him was a lifetime. He gestured. The knights in the hunting party closed around Brunin and Ralf Gras, disarming them while two of the huntsmen set out with dogs to make sure no hostile troops were hiding in the forest. Finally, FitzRoger had Brunin and his companion escorted through the woods to the Oswestry road.

Brunin leaned over his saddle as the pain crashed over him, wave upon wave, surging, grabbing him, dragging him away from the shore and out to sea.

“Sir?” In consternation, Ralf grabbed the bridle of his lord’s mount.

With a last conscious effort, Brunin exerted pressure on the reins and brought his horse around so that he was facing the road to Whittington. “Tell Hawise…” he said, fighting for breath, “tell Hawise that I’m sorry.”

Ralf’s instincts and reflexes were swift. He was off his horse and managed to catch his lord as he toppled from the saddle.

But there was nothing he could do.

***

Snow had covered the land in a white shroud, and in the bitterly cold air a leaden sky threatened to turn the light covering into a full blanket. The peasants huddled close to their hearths and housed their beasts in a partitioned section of the same room for warmth and shelter. Folk obliged to be out in the weather wore their warmest cloaks and hoods, and travelers made haste to reach their destinations.

Fulke rode into Canterbury on a freezing December dusk to seek shelter and audience with Archbishop Hubert. His Grace, however, was absent on business, although his elder brother and wife were in residence.

“It grieved me to hear of your father’s death.” Theobald Walter offered Fulke his hand in sympathy. “He was a fine man and, as I came to know him, a good friend.”

Fulke returned the handclasp. Theobald’s fingers were warm. His own were frozen claws from gripping the reins. Even with gloves, the cold still penetrated. “It was a full month before the messenger found us with the news,” Fulke said grimly, his eyes dark with pain. “The tourney season was good and the weather held so fine that we stayed longer than usual. If we had come home at the appointed time, I might have been able to prevent what happened.”

“I thought your father died because his body failed him.”

Fulke gratefully took the hot wine that Theobald offered. They were alone in the warmth of the private solar, the shutters barred against the inclement weather and several charcoal braziers giving off a luxurious heat. There was no sign of Maude, and he assumed she was keeping to the women’s chamber since a high proportion of celibate—and supposedly chaste—clergy occupied the Archbishop’s residence.

“That is partly true,” he said. “But I believe that his heart not so much failed as broke within him. He could neither eat nor sleep for thinking of the injustice done to us over Whittington. The knight who brought him home to my mother said that my father was humiliated by FitzRoger and it was the final blow to shatter him.”

“Humiliated?” Theobald’s gaze sharpened.

Fulke told him about his father’s visit to Whittington and the incident in Babbin’s Wood. “Perhaps my father was foolish to go there, but I can understand the frustration that drove and eventually killed him.”

Theobald sat down with his wine and lapped his fur-lined cloak over his knees. “I cannot say that I understand the depths of your father’s striving for I have never been deprived of something I consider my birthright, but I sympathize.” He looked shrewdly at Fulke who had remained on his feet, his tension palpable. “We are all driven by our demons—ambition, hatred, love.”

Fulke took a swallow of wine. “He wanted Whittington above all things, perhaps even above my mother who was the light of his life. I have often wondered if Whittington was his darkness. Certainly it destroyed him.”

“You must not let it destroy you,” Theobald said, his gaze troubled.

Fulke paced to the shutters, stopped and swung around. Candlelight shone on his hair like a reflection in black water. “I have no intention of letting it do so, but still it is my legacy. For my father’s sake I have to see this matter through to the end.”

Theobald was silent, considering. “Can you not just let it drop?” he said at last.

Fulke shook his head. “The Curia Regis has granted our entitlement to Whittington. We have a ruling that confirms our claim, but the order commanding FitzRoger to quit has never gone out from the Justiciar’s bench. The matter has to be settled and, as head of my family, it becomes my duty. Besides, Whittington is not some small, insignificant manor. It encompasses more than seventeen geldable hides, including more than a league of woodland, and land for twenty-five ploughs.”

“So that is why you are here to see my brother?”

“He was the Justiciar at the time of the ruling, and he still has contact with that office and the officials. He trained Geoffrey FitzPeter as his successor.”

“Do not expect miracles,” Theobald warned. “Hubert does have a certain influence, but Geoffrey FitzPeter is not a man to be pushed without strong reason.”

“Is justice not a strong enough reason?” Fulke demanded.

Theobald shook his head. “You know the world of court politics as well as I do. Justice is always subject to personal loyalties, favors owing, debts called in, and bribery. None of us is exempt.”

Fulke paced the room. “My brother William wanted to ride straight to Whittington, lay siege to the keep, and slaughter Morys FitzRoger and his sons out of hand. Ivo and Alain were all for it too. They said the only way we would ever get Whittington back was over Morys’s dead body.”

“What was your answer?”

“I said that to get to Morys we would have to step over my father’s dead body too, and that I had at least to try a final time to obtain Whittington through the King’s court.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Now I wonder if William was right. Perhaps I should have followed my gut and theirs and gone to Whittington with fire and sword.”

“You would have been foolish to do so,” Theobald said. “Two wrongs do not make a right.”

“Then what does?” Fulke asked bitterly. “If I do not succeed in wringing a notice from Geoffrey FitzPeter to take seisin of Whittington, then two wrongs or not, I swear on God’s holy name that I will go to war and damn the consequences.”

***

Despite the bone-chilling wintry conditions, Maude had been thoroughly enjoying herself among Canterbury’s merchants and traders. Wrapped in a cozy, fur-lined cloak and hood, her shoes lined with fleece, she was insulated against the cold. Shopping was not only pleasurable: it also helped to fill the hollow feeling that sometimes disturbed her sense of well-being. Although he had not the slightest interest in trailing around the booths himself, Theobald was quite content to let her go out with her maid, two serjeants, and a purse full of silver to purchase whatever she desired. She did not know whether to be flattered by his trust in her common sense and good taste, or irritated by his lack of enthusiasm.

She had bought him a beechwood cross intricately carved with a knotwork design that the trader had assured her was Irish. It was strung on a simple leather cord and she thought that Theobald would like it. The rusticity of the wood combined with the beauty of the carving could not fail to appeal since his mind was often on Ireland and his foundations there.

For herself she had purchased several belt lengths of braid, some linen to make a chemise, and fine silver needles that would not leave great stitch holes in the fabric. She had enjoyed the stalls, their colors bright and brave in the winter chill, and the haggling had roused her competitive spirit.

As she made her way back to the palace, the snow that had been threatening all day began to sprinkle down like fine ground almonds through the mesh of a sieve, dusting the ground, outlining the contours of the houses. The flames from chunky wax candles shone golden through the thick window glass of the Archbishop’s palace, drawing Maude toward their cheering warmth. She walked briskly across the courtyard, her nose and cheeks numb with the cold, her eyes sparkling.

The environs of the Archbishop’s palace were always busy with couriers, supplicants, guests, and clerics, so Maude paid no heed to the two horses that a groom was tending until one of the animals threw up its head and whinnied as something startled it. Maude turned instinctively to look. Cursing, the attendant dodged the sudden flail of hooves to grab the headstall and bring the horse under control. It was a striking liver-chestnut stallion with distinctive white face markings. She knew the animal well, even if she did not recognize the nondescript dun rouncy at its side. Blaze, Fulke FitzWarin’s destrier. Her heart rose and plummeted, and rose again.

“What is he doing here?” she said with agitation.

“My lady?” Barbette hunched over her folded arms and looked longingly toward the palace.

Maude shook her head. He did not appear to have arrived with a great retinue. Obviously, he was making a personal visit, which meant that, with Hubert absent, he would be closeted with Theobald. She drew a deep breath, steeled herself, and went within.

***

Opening Theobald’s chamber door tentatively, Maude gazed around. There was no sign of her husband. Fulke FitzWarin sat in a curule chair near the brazier, his elbows on his knees, his head braced in his hands, and his entire posture one of utter weariness. He looked so vulnerable, so different from the brash tourney knight of her experience whose traits she had exaggerated in self-defense, that she felt a rush of compassion.

He must have sensed the draught from the door, for he raised his head and looked around. Immediately he lowered his hands and rose to his feet. “Lady Walter,” he said and bowed. The smoke-hazel eyes gave nothing away, except by the dark smudges beneath them, yet his jaw was taut with the effort of appearing impassive.

“Lord FitzWarin,” she returned, using the title that was now his by right. There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence. Maude considered muttering an excuse and leaving him, but that was the coward’s way out and even if she and Fulke had never been at ease with each other, it would still have been unforgivably rude. Gathering her courage, she entered the room and came to him.

“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death,” she said. “He and your mother extended me every kindness when I was at Westminster. I have written to Lady Hawise, and I will visit her when I can.”

“That is good of you, my lady,” Fulke replied, avoiding her gaze.

“How is she?”

“Grieving—as we all are.”

He was shunning her, each reply given grudgingly with scarcely a movement of his lips. She felt a twinge of irritation. “More wine, my lord?” She picked up his empty cup.

He shook his head. “My skull already feels as if it is stuffed with a whole fleece. Another cup and I would be on the floor.” He cleared his throat and moved away to stand before the shutters. A chessboard stood on a low table and he toyed with one of the squat ivory pieces. “Your husband was called away by one of the stewards, but he said he would not be long. If you have duties, do not let me keep you.”

Maude flushed. “I have the duty of seeing to your comfort.”

“I doubt anything you could do would improve that,” he said, then dug his hands through his heavy black hair and flashed her a look in which she saw her own irritation mirrored. “I am not good company at the moment, Lady Walter, and best left to my own devices. By all means, find me a sleeping space and a pallet on which to lay my head. I would be grateful even if my gratitude does not show.” He gave her the semblance of a smile, the merest curve of his lips that did not reach his eyes.

“Of course. You will excuse me.” Glad that he had given her a reason to retreat, Maude briskly left the room and did not return. Having survived one encounter, she was not going to risk a second.

Fulke slumped against the wall and put his face in his hands. Theobald arrived to find him standing by the chessboard, shuddering with dry rigors. Wrapping him in a paternal embrace, murmuring words of comfort, the older man brought him back to the warmth of the brazier.

***

Hubert Walter took a large bite out of his portion of chicken in verjuice and, chewing, considered Fulke’s request. “I agree the matter of Whittington should have been settled long ago—one way or the other,” he said. “But the course of justice does not often run as smoothly as we would wish.”