Elizabeth Chadwick (16 page)

It was Hubert the royal official speaking and Fulke had to struggle with his patience. A raw headache pounded behind his eyes and he had barely touched his food. He had no time for all the delicate spices, the little touches and fripperies that graced the Archbishop’s rich and Epicurean table—not tonight anyway. His need was for the plain and simple, without gilding or embellishment.

“I know your family lost Whittington when the Welsh overran it and the de Powys family took possession. What was temporary became permanent because the de Powys family had their feet in both camps and restoring Whittington to your family would have upset the delicate balance at the time.” Hubert smiled without humor. “Henry trusted the FitzWarins not to rebel more than he trusted the Welsh.” He wagged a salutary forefinger. “You were given Alveston to compensate.”

“As a sop,” Fulke said, unimpressed. “Alveston is a quarter the size of Whittington. And I am not so sure that King Richard can have the same trust in me as he had in my father and grandfather.”

“Is that a threat?” Hubert’s eyebrows rose.

“A threat, a warning, call it what you will. There are two sides to the bargain when an oath of loyalty is sworn. We have kept our side, answered calls to arms, and performed feudal service on demand. It seems to me that all we have received in return is a pouchful of nothing.”

Hubert dabbed his lips with a fine linen napkin. “Those are harsh words, Fulke, and dangerous too.”

“It is a grief for me that I should have to speak them, Your Grace, but they are true. I do not want to spend the rest of my life fighting this dispute as my father did and die bequeathing it to sons of my own. It must be finished now.”

Hubert Walter leaned his head against the hard back of his chair and studied Fulke, as if by gazing he could draw out his character and examine its workings. “I can promise nothing,” he said at last, “but I will do what I can. Since Whittington was adjudged to your father, and it belonged to your family in the time of the first King Henry, I would say that you have a reasonable case. You have a death duty to pay to inherit your father’s estates.”

“A hundred marks,” Fulke said on a slightly aggrieved note. It was the standard payment for the relief on a barony, but still it would absorb this year’s wool clip and more besides.

Hubert nodded, ignoring Fulke’s tone. “Then let Whittington be included in the list of lands for which you pay your fine. I will ask Geoffrey FitzPeter to have a document drafted, and when I go to King Richard in Normandy after the Christmas season, I will see that he lends a sympathetic ear to your case.”

Knowing the many occasions when hope had turned to disappointment for his father, Fulke’s expression did not lighten with joy, but he was nevertheless grateful. If matters had gone the wrong way, he might have found himself an excommunicate. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He bowed his head.

Hubert eased his bulk in the chair. He reminded Fulke of an overfed tawny lion. Sleepy, flabby, but still powerful enough to kill with an indolent flash of claw. “Do not thank me,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I know your capabilities and Richard needs men like you to take his part, not act against him. I would hate to see your playing on the tourney field become a thing of deadly earnest.”

“Indeed, Your Grace, so would I.”

Hubert raised his cup in toast. “To peace then.”

“To peace,” Fulke said, and crossed himself.

***

“His father’s death has hit him hard,” Theobald remarked to Maude as they prepared for bed that night. “It was strange to see him like that. He reminded me of the youth he was when he first became my squire, and at the same time all trace of the youth had gone.”

Maude drew a comb through her hair. “He has responsibility now, where he had none before,” she said.

“Mayhap.” Theobald looked up from examining the knotwork cross she had given him. “But it is more that he loved his father dearly. I held him in my arms and he wept for him.”

“Fulke FitzWarin wept?” Maude ceased combing and turned to stare at Theobald. She thought of the moment she had opened the door and seen Fulke sitting with his head in his hands, of his attempt to be civil, her own frosty courtesy. Chagrin washed over her. She felt small and mean.

“Why do you persist in thinking of him as a mannerless boor?” Theobald demanded with exasperation. “Fulke can be as stubborn as an ox, I admit, and once set on a course it’s impossible to deflect him. He lacks diplomacy. With Fulke there are no sugared words, just the blunt truth, but that does not mean he lacks finer feelings.”

“I did not say that.” Maude jutted her chin at him defensively. She was in the wrong, but, as always, admitting it was hard. “He just seems so…so impervious!”

“I think he is like that in front of you because of his pride. Few men will open themselves to a woman, even if it be their mother or their wife.”

“You do.”

“In certain matters, yes, but only God has seen the true baring of my soul.” He looked at the little cross and tucked it down inside his linen shirt so that it lay against his skin.

This was why he was so keen to found his monasteries, she thought. God, being masculine, would understand a man’s soul and make allowances. It was a somewhat blasphemous notion and she kept it to herself.

Coming to the bed, Theobald took the comb out of her hand and gently began to run it through her hair, smoothing out the tangles, making the silvery waterfall sparkle with life. “Besides,” he said gently, “Fulke deliberately keeps you at arm’s length. You are his mentor’s wife and the age gap between you and me is so large that tongues will wag about the state of our marriage at the slightest opportunity.”

Maude rounded on him with flashing eyes. “That is wicked. I have never so much as looked at another man since our wedding day!” Her face was bright with indignation. “And certainly not at Fulke FitzWarin!”

“Hush now, be not so wroth.” Theobald drew her back to him, an indulgent smile in his eyes. “I know you are faithful and I know your eyes do not stray—or if they do it is only in the manner that they would to admire a fine horse or a meadow of flowers. I do the same myself. But Fulke has known the ways of the court and the tourney and therefore he is careful.”

“He has no reason to be,” she snapped. “I am not some simple-witted tourney slut to be devastated by his charm!”

Behind her, Theobald shook his head and with an exasperated half smile abandoned that particular strand of the conversation. While he would have liked to foster a decent friendship between Maude and Fulke, he was also aware of the inherent jeopardy. They were both young and volatile. “I am glad that my brother agreed to help him,” he remarked instead. “It was the right thing to do.”

Maude was just as glad to leave talk of her relationship with Fulke FitzWarin. There were too many conflicting emotions to make sense of any of them. She was horribly aware of having protested too vehemently about the faith of her marriage vow. Theobald might be growing old, but his perceptions remained sharp. “Do you think he truly will rebel if the decision goes against him?”

Unseen by Maude, the fine lines around Theobald’s eyes tightened, but she did not miss the sudden hesitation of his hand in midstroke. “It takes a great deal to push Fulke over the line, but once it is done, he will not go back. I hope he receives his wish because yes, in the wrong circumstances, he is quite capable of rebelling with a vengeance.”

***

It was a warm evening at the end of March 1199 when Richard Coeur de Lion rode beneath the walls of the fortress of Châlus Chabrol in Aquitaine to urge on his soldiers. They were besieging the keep, which belonged to his enemy, the Vicomte de Limoges. The defenders were pinned down by arrows from Richard’s archers, but one crossbowman, using a frying pan as a shield, stood up on the castle walls, took aim, and loosed a shot. Richard had been laughing with admiration at the man’s boldness, but that stopped abruptly as the bolt struck Richard and lodged firmly in his collarbone.

At first it seemed a superficial injury, but the bolt was in deep and the surgeon had to probe the wound to extract the iron head. Fever quickly developed and the festering wound turned gangrenous.

On the sixth of April, as the world basked in the renewal of spring, Richard Coeur de Lion died, bequeathing his soul to God and his throne to his brother, John. And to John’s care were consigned all the charters and documents, all the writs that were awaiting Richard’s attention. Among them, close to the top of the pile, was a request from Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, that Fulke FitzWarin be given full seisin of his father’s lands, including the keep of Whittington and all its environs and appurtenances.

Roscelin, the clerk responsible, gathered the vellum scrolls, slammed them back in their coffer, and sent them on to their new master to be sanctioned.

Alberbury, The Welsh Marches, Summer 1199

Fulke studied the roll of vellum that the messenger had recently presented to him and grimly broke the seal. He had known it was coming, but even so, he could feel a knot of anger and apprehension tightening in his belly.

“What is it?” Hawise rose from her tapestry frame by the window and came across to him.

“What I’ve been expecting. A summons to pay homage to John at Castle Baldwin in two weeks’ time.” He could not keep the distaste from his voice and the wolfhound dozing beneath the dais table raised his head and whined.

His mother took the document and screwed up her eyes to study the royal seal.

“He might be the anointed King of England and due my homage,” Fulke growled, “but kneeling at his feet and swearing loyalty will be a bitter draught to swallow.”

Hawise raised her eyes from the letter and looked anxiously at him. “You will do it?”

Fulke winced. “What other choice do I have? There is no one else. John’s nephew Prince Arthur is only a child of twelve—and a spoiled French brat, so I’ve heard from those who have met him.” He shrugged. “The devil you know, or the devil you don’t. I warrant a long spoon’s needed to sup with either.”

“What of Whittington?”

“John must honor the judgment,” he said grimly.

“And if he does not?”

He looked at his mother. In the year since his father’s death she had grown old before his eyes. It was as if she had half died when they buried her husband. The hollows beneath her cheekbones were cadaverous, the angle of her jaw so sharp that it was almost a blade. “I will cross that bridge if it arises,” he said.

“It was your father’s dearest and dying wish that we regain Whittington.” Her voice faltered slightly and her hand trembled on the vellum.

“I know that, Mama.” So dear that it had killed him and turned his mother from a beautiful, vivacious woman into a crone overnight. “I will do all within my power to honor his memory.” He set his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

Hawise leaned against him briefly, then, with a shaky breath, drew away and stiffened her spine. “Sometimes I think that it would have been better if my father had arranged my marriage to a man I did not love, then the pain of loss would not be so great.” Her eyes glittered with tears. “But then I tell myself that I would never have known the joy either, or borne sons who fill me with such pride. All of you honor his memory.”

Fulke said nothing. Words, no matter how comforting, were just words and he found himself awkward in the face of his mother’s life-consuming grief. Clearing his throat, he pivoted on his heel and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

He heard the lost cry in her voice and his own throat tightened and swelled in response. She had been so strong and vibrant when his father was alive that her disintegration now was all the harder to bear.

“To find my brothers and tell them,” he said, taking refuge from emotion in practicality. “I will not be gone long. Finn, come.” He snapped his fingers to the dozing wolfhound, a great-grandson of the bitch that Oonagh FitzGerald had given him. Tail wagging, the dog rose and followed him.

Outside the door, he encountered his aunt Emmeline bearing a jug of wine. She was his father’s widowed sister and had the FitzWarin dark brown eyes and warm olive complexion.

“Was the news good?” she asked.

“I’m to go and pay homage to John for my lands,” Fulke said neutrally. He nodded over his shoulder toward the interior of the room. “Look after her. She needs you.”

“Aye, we’re all grieving, but she’s finding it hard to move on,” Emmeline replied sympathetically and pointed at the jug. “Third one today. She’s like a soldier with a battle wound, drinking to numb the pain.” Then with a little sigh, she entered the room and drew the curtain pole across. Fulke heard Emmeline’s soothing murmur and his mother’s reply, the sound rising and cracking on a sob. Clenching his fists, he strode away in search of his brothers.

***

King John sat in state in Castle Baldwin’s great hall and gently stroked the breast feathers of the white gyrfalcon that perched on his gloved wrist, its talons gleaming like scimitars. It had just been presented to him as a gift. Such birds, the fastest and fiercest of the longwings, were rare and beautiful. Gray ones fetched a high price, but the expense of the white lay in the realm of magnates and kings, of which he was now one.

Through eyelids narrow with suspicion, John surveyed the kneeling man who had presented him with the bird. Morys FitzRoger was a minor border baron who could ill afford so costly a gift unless he expected high favor in return. John could think of no reason why he should wish to grant this man a boon, even if he was pleased with the gyrfalcon. He had learned from a very young age that everything and everyone had a price, either material or emotional.

“There is a war horse too, sire,” FitzRoger announced, “a destrier bred from the line of the de Bellême grays. I ask you to receive it as a token of my loyalty.”

A murmur went around the gathered courtiers. The de Bellême grays were renowned for their looks, their stamina—and their cost. John’s suspicion increased, and so did his curiosity. The man was clearly desperate to buy his good favor. Perhaps FitzRoger had committed some heinous crime in Richard’s reign and desired to wipe the slate clean. Alternatively, perhaps he was trying to divert suspicion from rebellious tendencies by proving how “loyal” he truly was. John knew there were many barons who begrudged him the Crown and were not to be trusted out of his sight.

“Your generosity does you credit,” he said with a regal tilt of his head. He gently stroked the gyrfalcon’s breast. “But then I ask myself what you hope to gain. No man beggars himself just for the joy of presenting a gift.”

FitzRoger’s head remained bowed. “My only desire is to serve you to the best of my ability, sire.”

“Well, that’s refreshing to hear.” John shot a barbed look at his courtiers. He was reasonably sure of William Marshal, Hubert Walter, and de Braose. William Ferrers, Eustace de Vesci, and Ranulf of Chester were more suspect and would bear watching. “Remind me, what lands do you hold?”

Now Morys FitzRoger looked up and John saw him flush and his breathing quicken. Here then was the meat of the matter. “I hold the honor of Whittington, sire, as it was held by my father when your own sire bestowed it upon him.”

“Whittington.” The name tugged at John’s memory. What was it about Whittington?

“If it be your pleasure, I request that you confirm the lands to me and my heirs by your charter,” FitzRoger plunged on, and in the Baron’s eyes John saw a hunger that verged on desperation. John’s vision suddenly filled with the image of another man kneeling at his feet in the cloudy dust of a summer highway, not in homage but in resentment. Hard on the heels of that came the recollection of a raw winter’s evening at Westminster and a splintered chessboard. “Surely the lordship of Whittington is in dispute?” he said silkily. “Does not the FitzWarin family possess a claim?”

FitzRoger’s flush darkened and he lifted his head. “A false claim, sire. Once they held the land from Lord Peverel, but they lost it during the war between King Stephen and Empress Mathilda. It has been ours since that time, and so granted by the settlement between King Stephen and your father.”

John handed the hawk to a courtier and motioned FitzRoger to rise. Then he leaned back on the carved oak throne and lightly tugged at the dark beard on the point of his chin. “So you say. Do you have a charter?”

“It…It was always a verbal understanding, sire.” FitzRoger looked as if he might choke.

“And the FitzWarins: do they have written evidence to back their claim?”

Morys shook his head emphatically. “They do not, sire.”

He would say that anyway, John thought. “So it is your word against theirs, but you have the advantage of possession.” He continued to toy with his beard. Clearly, FitzRoger desired passionately to hold on to the land and the castle—as well he might, given its important position and the accompanying estate. Likely he could wring more from him than a gyrfalcon and a Bellême stallion and still be avenged on the FitzWarins for past humiliations. John began to smile with malicious delight. “Have your claim written down by a scribe and copies made.” He gave a gracious waft of his hand. “Bring them to me when you have done so and I will put my seal to them.”

Morys stared and swallowed, plainly unable to believe his good fortune. He began to stammer his gratitude and John cut him off with a silencing gesture. “Of course, the fee for a barony usually stands at a hundred marks,” he said pleasantly, knowing that in all likelihood the fool had beggared himself or gone into debt to buy the falcon and destrier.

Morys blanched. “I would need a little time to raise such a sum, sire.”

“I think you would need more than a little, but since you please me, I am disposed to be generous. You may have Whittington in perpetuity for fifty marks, and I will make you a warden of the March.”

FitzRoger’s eyes widened. “Thank you, sire,” he said in a voice drenched with astonishment and relief.

John eyed him with scornful amusement. If the Baron had not been such a thorn in FitzWarin’s side, he would have dismissed him out of hand. As it was, he would nurture him for the sheer pleasure of making Fulke FitzWarin grind his teeth.

***

Fulke stood by the farriers forge attached to the lodging house at Castle Baldwin and broke his fast on a fragrant crust of new bread smeared with honey. The smith’s son held Blaze firmly by the cheek strap while his father stooped over the stallion’s hind leg, fitting a new shoe. The stink of hot metal and burning horn joined the heavy waft of woodsmoke on the morning air.

“A fine beast, my lord,” said the smith, Blaze’s hoof clamped between his knees. He set about banging in the nails. “Some of ’em have to be shod in a frame the way they bite and kick, but this ’un’s got the manners of a prince.”

Fulke’s lip curled at the comparison. The princes of his acquaintance had not been renowned for their manners—unless it be lack of them. “He’s trained to stand while being shod.” Sauntering over to the stallion, he patted the muscular liver-colored hide before offering Blaze the remnants of his bread and honey on the flat of his palm. “Try and mount him without permission and it’s a different matter. He’ll buck you off in the midden before you’ve even hit the saddle.”

“You got him well schooled then, my lord?”

Fulke smiled. “You can’t afford not to with a tourney mount.” The stallion whiffled up the bread and chewed it with obvious relish. “No one’s going to steal him if I’m unhorsed during a mêlée, because he won’t let them.”

Iron nails gripped between his teeth, the smith secured the shoe and, releasing Blaze’s hoof, straightened up. “Saw a fine beast through here earlier this morn,” he said. “Going as a gift to King John I’ll warrant.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the castle brooding above the village. Fulke followed the man’s gesture to the red and gold banners fluttering on the lime-washed walls, proclaiming that King John was in residence. The village was bursting with men like himself who were here to tender their homage to the new King. Fulke glowered and bit his thumbnail. As duties went it was one of the more onerous.

“A fine gray,” the smith continued, “with a great arched crest and a rump you could dine off for a month. If I’d been his owner, I wouldn’t have parted with him.”

“Neither would I,” said William FitzWarin, emerging from the lodging house to hear the end of the conversation. His brown eyes were still bleary with sleep. “Not to a swine like John.” Yawning and stretching, leaving a whiff of stale wine and armpit in his wake, he went to sluice himself at the trough.

Fulke glanced at the smith and his lad. “Watch your tongue, Will.”

“Why? It’s the truth. By all accounts you’ve said and done far worse where our beloved sovereign is concerned.” William plunged his hands into the trough and splashed his face.

“You need not fear that I or young Hal will carry tales,” the smith said. “I know when to mind my own business.” He took the payment of a silver halfpenny and scrutinized it carefully to make sure that the rim had not been clipped.

Alain and Philip tottered out of the lodging house, squinting like moles at the bright morning light and obviously suffering the effects of last night’s conviviality. Fulke shook his head with exasperation, but he was grinning too. “Best get yourselves spruced up and break your fast if you can bear to eat,” he called. “We’ve an appointment with the King. Where are Ivo and Richard?”

“Still snoring.”

“I’ll kick them up,” William volunteered, sleeking back his wet hair.

“I—” Fulke spun at the thunder of hooves in the smithy yard and stared as Jean de Rampaigne drew his bay courser to a dancing halt.

“Christ in hell, Fulke, get to the castle,” he panted. “John’s just promised Whittington to Morys FitzRoger for fifty marks.”

“What?”

“I saw and heard the entire exchange. FitzRoger is to write himself a charter and for the payment of fifty marks John will put his seal to the claim.”

“The whoring son of a leprous gong farmer!” Fulke snarled, completely forgetting his reprimand to William. Snatching Blaze’s bridle out of the lad’s hands he vaulted into the saddle without recourse to stirrup and plunged the horse around.

“Wait!” cried William. “I’m coming with you!” He sprinted off to saddle his own horse.

Fulke was so consumed by rage that he heard nothing but the hot pounding of blood in his ears. He slammed his heels into Blaze’s flanks and with a leap of surprise the horse went from stand to flat-out gallop. Jean reined his courser around and spurred after him.

Fulke reached the keep only to find his way barred by the guards on duty who were dubious about admitting a raging madman.

“I demand to see the King, it is my right!” Fulke roared. Blaze danced and circled beneath him. Fulke drew the reins in tight and gripped with his thighs, swinging the destrier to confront the crossed spears. He fought the urge to draw his sword and hew his way through, knowing that if he so much as bared a blade he would be dead. Still, his right hand twitched on the reins with the need. His chest heaved as he struggled for control.