Elizabeth Chadwick (19 page)

Manor of Higford, Shropshire, Summer 1200

As Fulke and his brothers dismounted in Higford’s bailey, his aunt Emmeline ran out to greet them. Putting her arms around Fulke, she kissed him on either cheek in greeting, and then she hugged him fiercely. “I am so sorry.” She moved on to his brothers, doing the same to each one. “At first she would not let us send a message. She thought that while you were in Brittany you were safe, but Lady Walter said you should know. Your mother gave in…but too late for you to see her. She died little more than a week after the messenger left.”

Fulke stared at his aunt. The sun beat down fiercely as only it could in July. Hot and overhead for much of the day. “Lady Walter said?”

Emmeline nodded. “She came to visit your mother and stayed with her until the end, God bless her. Your mother was much comforted by her presence.”

“Is she here now?”

“No, she’s gone to her father, but she did say that she would return this way on her journey south.”

Fulke did not know whether to be pleased or relieved. At least it was one less portion on his trencher which was already piled with a detritus of worries and demands. He was not sure that he would have been able to cope with Maude Walter too. “We have come from my mother’s grave at Alberbury.” He cleared his throat. “There is a deal of unfinished business before she or our father can truly be laid to rest.”

“I know that.” His aunt took his arm. “But you can suspend it at least until you’ve removed that armor and refreshed yourselves.”

Fulke resisted her tug. “If you take us in, Aunt Emmeline, you will be guilty of aiding hunted rebels,” he warned.

She drew herself up to her full height, which brought her eyes level with his chest. “I am almost insulted enough to order you out of Higford’s gates,” she snapped. “I am a FitzWarin too, your father’s own sister. Even if I did not take you in for loyalty’s sake, I would do so for love.”

“Then thank you.” Fulke stooped to kiss her cheek. “We are grateful.” He resisted her insistent pull on his sleeve. “There is one more thing.”

She lifted her brows.

“My troop.” He gestured toward the castle gates. “I bade them wait behind in case you would rather not succor them too. Many have joined my retinue since my banishment. There are in excess of fifty knights, all with horses.”

His aunt blinked once and then recovered. “By all means admit them,” she said. “I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and with such a troop inside its walls, no one will dare to assault Higford.”

“We won’t trespass on you for long, I promise.” Fulke gestured Alain to fetch the men. “Just long enough to plan our campaign.”

“So, you won’t return to Brittany. There is nothing I can do to persuade you to dwell in safety there?”

“Nothing,” he confirmed. Brittany had been necessary at the time. It had given him space to think, to decide whether to live out his life as a hearth knight and mercenary, a servant and dependent of his distant relatives, or to risk all and fight for his own lands. “My choice is made—and if I die in the attempt, then so be it. At least I’ll be in good company.”

***

They stayed a night and a day with Emmeline FitzWarin and, late the following afternoon, as the heat cooled from the air, donned their mail and buckled on their swords.

“I do not know whether to wish you Godspeed or beg you not to go,” his aunt said as Fulke set his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The shadows in the bailey were beginning to lengthen, blocks of gray encroaching on intense sunlit gold.

“Stay with the first,” Fulke advised with a humorless smile. “You know that none of us will heed the second.” He leaned down to take the traditional farewell cup of wine from her, drank, and passed it on to William.

“Higford’s gates are open if you have need.”

“I know, and I can never thank you enough.”

“You do not need to thank me, I have told you.” Emmeline made a shooing motion and then dabbed her eyes with the trailing edge of her sleeve. “Just return in one piece, that is all I ask.”

“If I can.” He gave her a smile that was more reassuring than his answer, turned the horse, and, with Blaze on a lead rein, headed for the gateway. It was a good three hours’ ride to Whittington, longer if they took circuitous roads and byways to avoid being seen. By moonrise he wanted to be secure in Babbin’s Wood, which was the nearest hunting preserve to Whittington—the lord’s game larder. This time, however, the prey was to be two-legged and the hunter was going to become the hunted.

***

In the gray light of early morning, Gwyn FitzMorys opened his eyes and lay listening to the bird song while he gathered his wits. Beside him on the pallet, Alfrun the forester’s widow snored gently, her breath heavy with the taint of stale wine. She was past thirty years old, but still handsome with masses of coarse black hair and full, red lips. She was also, for a consideration in silver, very accommodating to a young man’s lust and Gwyn found his way to her door at least twice a week. His father was amused, his brother scornful—but only because he was jealous.

Quietly Gwyn reached for and donned his clothes, then slipped outside the small timber-framed cottage to sluice his face in the water barrel. Alfrun’s chained dog growled at him, realized who he was, and wagged its feathery tail. Gwyn scooped the water from his face, palmed it through his hair, and, having patted the dog, went to his horse which was tethered on the other side of the cottage. A night of bed sport had made him ravenous. At the keep they would be paddling the day’s bread from the oven about now. Quietly he harnessed the cob and swung across its back, then with a click of his tongue urged it on to the track. Alfrun would not expect a good-bye. She knew well enough that he would be back.

He had traveled less than a quarter of a mile when he thought he heard voices. He drew rein to listen, head cocked, ears straining. The sound came again, soft and elusive. His horse pricked its ears in that direction, making Gwyn positive that it was not imagination. Heeling about, he guided the cob through the tangled undergrowth of ivy suckers, brambles, and moss-grown dead branches. Perhaps a peasant family was abroad early and gathering wood, he thought, but the notion did not ring true. Wood-gatherers were usually women and children. Faint though the voices had been, they were definitely masculine.

Gwyn touched the dagger on his hip for reassurance. Surely not outlaws, he thought. They would not dare with the keep so close. And surely not Llewelyn’s Welsh either, for they would cross the border at King Offa’s Dyke and raid from the direction of Gobowen—unless of course they were lying up and waiting their chance. The fine hairs at the base of his neck began to prickle. Or perhaps…

Gwyn’s fears were confirmed as he saw the dull flash of mail through the trees and, to his right, a man standing sentry duty, his posture slouched as if he had been there some hours, but his eyes nevertheless watchful. Gwyn stared at William FitzWarin in shock, and William FitzWarin stared back at him while raising and blowing on the hunting horn slung from his shoulder.

Gwyn whipped the cob around, dug in his heels, and, uncaring of the danger posed by tree roots and low branches, raced hell for leather in the direction of the keep.

Cursing, Fulke ordered his troop to mount up, but not because he intended to pursue Gwyn FitzMorys. The young man had far too great a start on them. It had always been a danger that someone would chance into the woods and see them.

“God knows what he was doing in the middle of the woods at this hour,” William said with bared teeth. “Christ, I wish I’d had a bow with me. I’d have shot him straight out of the saddle. Now he’ll raise the hue and cry and they’ll come into the forest after us.”

“What do we do, fight or flee?” Philip FitzWarin drew up his mail coif, concealing his copper-bright hair.

“We fight,” Fulke said. “I know we have lost the element of surprise, but that was always a chance we had to take. Now Morys will come to the hunt a little more prepared, but all is not lost. Gwyn only saw William and our perimeter guard post. It is my belief that he will underestimate both our numbers and our fighting ability.”

“You think he will come out?” William untethered his horse from the low branch of an oak tree. “Is it not more likely that he’ll skulk behind the keep walls and keep his yellow liver safe?”

“Oh yes, he’ll come out,” Fulke said softly. “And you are wrong about him being a coward, Will. His ways might be sly and conniving, but he will fight if he thinks he can win.” He narrowed his lids. “John granted him Whittington and forced us into exile. That will make FitzRoger feel self-righteous with anger and make him overconfident that he can defeat us.” Untying Blaze, he mounted up. A short command, a swift twist on the reins, and he was out of their campsite and heading for the forest track that led to the castle not half a mile away.

Fulke and his troop reached the edge of the woods as the rising sun turned the morning from pearl to streaming gold. Metallic dazzles winked on the armor of the troop approaching the wood at a fair canter from the direction of the keep.

“See,” said Fulke to William, pointing at FitzRoger’s bold green shield with its device of two golden boars.

“Let me take him,” William begged. “Fulke, if you love me, give him to me!”

“I love you well, but not well enough to give him to you when he’s mine!” Fulke said as he tugged the morning star flail from his belt and wrapped his fingers around the leather grip. The spiked ball swung gently on its chain. It was so destructive a weapon and its technique so time-consuming to perfect that only the most skilled knights used it, and seldom in a tourney where there were set rules. The morning star was a weapon for battle, not courtesy.

Fulke turned in the saddle to address his troops, who were fretting their horses, adjusting their shields, checking their weapons. He saw excitement, tension, a little fear.

“You have all ridden and trained with me long enough to know your part,” he cried. “The only difference between this and a tourney are the rules of engagement.
À l’outrance
. Sharp weapons and no ransoms taken unless it be your particular desire. The land is flat, no advantage to either. Keep your wits in the midst of valor and victory is ours.”

“Victory!” William echoed, punching his sword into the air, his lips parted in a snarl.

“Victory!” came the response from more than fifty throats and, on that resounding note, Fulke sprang his troop from the woods at a fierce and focused gallop. Morys’s own troop had been cantering toward the woods in a haste of anxiety rather than an organized charge and there was consternation as Fulke and his men broke from the cover of the trees and thundered toward them.

Fulke’s mouth was dry, his hand slick with cold sweat as Blaze carried him toward the point of impact. The ground throbbed beneath the galloping hooves and the vibration carried up through his saddle and coursed in his body like a wild heartbeat. Closer and closer. Sunlight flashing on armor, its dazzle on a sword blade, the rapid breathing of his horse and the thump of its stride. His own voice shattering inside his helm as he roared his battle cry and swung the flail.

The clash of the two lines meeting was a solid whump of sound that expanded and splintered into numerous individual battles. The morning star wrapped around a knight’s helm with stunning force and knocked him senseless from the saddle. Fulke pivoted Blaze with his knees and urged him into the depth of the fray in search of the green shield and gold boars of Morys FitzRoger. Several times he drew close, only to be engaged by one or other of Morys’s bodyguards. Frustrated, he forced himself to remain focused and not lose his temper. Somewhere off to the right he could hear William’s voice roaring out the FitzWarin name as he always did in battle, using it as a talisman to anchor him to the task in hand and to intimidate his enemy. Ivo’s lighter voice replied, followed almost simultaneously by Alain’s ox-like bellow.
“FitzWarin!”
Fulke howled, not to be outdone, and redoubled his attempts to reach Morys FitzRoger.

There was a sudden gap and at the end of it the green and gold shield. Fulke spurred Blaze into the space, the flail already on the back swing. Over and down, hard and swift. Morys’s eyes flickered with horror as too late he realized the danger. His shield flashed high, but not swiftly enough and the ball of the morning star struck down on his shoulder, smashing the mail links into the quilted tunic beneath, bruising flesh and cracking bone. Morys’s shield dropped as he lost the use of his left arm. Fulke drew back to strike again. Screaming the retreat in a voice torn with pain and urgency, Morys reined his destrier away and spurred for the keep walls. Fulke’s second blow came down instead on the horse’s crupper. The animal squealed and stumbled, but quickly regained momentum and, beneath Morys’s desperate urging, was soon galloping flat out.

Blaze’s stride faltered as one of Morys’s knights cut across Fulke’s path and launched a sword blow. Fulke warded it on his shield and struck with the morning star, then swerved Blaze to one side and again took up the pursuit. He had to catch Morys before he gained the safety of the castle.

Morys and his fleeing troops hurtled into the village, scattering poultry in all directions. The bridge over the ditch was down and there were archers on the palisade walls. As Fulke made one final effort, Morys waved a frantic command and a storm of arrows hailed down on their pursuers.

Cursing, Fulke reined Blaze to a skidding halt and turned to spur out of missile range.

He was almost clear when the crossbow quarrel hit him, the vicious point piercing through his mail and gambeson to lodge in the flesh of his thigh.

William and Ivo were quickly at his side, the latter grabbing Blaze’s rein and drawing the horse well out of harm’s way.

“Fulke?” William’s face was white.

Fulke clenched his teeth. Blood was seeping from the wound but he could tell it was not mortal—or not mortal as yet. “I’m all right,” he managed to gasp. “It’s only a flesh wound, not in the bone.”

“Can you ride?”