Elizabeth Chadwick (26 page)

Hubert’s brows rose toward the high fringe of his tonsure. “With the Queen and her ladies in the women’s chambers, I should imagine,” he answered as bluntly as Fulke had asked, gesturing the two men to be seated. “The King and Queen arrived shortly after noon. I need not tell you how dangerous it is for us both that you should be here. Even disguised as you are, there are those who will recognize your face.”

Fulke knew that Hubert was taking a risk as great as his own. If it became known that the Archbishop had entertained a wanted rebel in his rooms, the latter’s career as Chancellor would be in jeopardy. “I do not plan to remain a moment longer than I need,” he said. “But since you summoned me, I assume you are willing to help.”

“Not exactly willing,” Hubert said with a dark look, “but I have a duty to my brother’s last wishes, and I am fond of my sister by marriage. I have no desire to see her sold off in order to further her father’s ambitions or fulfill the King’s lusts.”

“That will not—” Fulke began, but was silenced by the Archbishop’s raised hand.

“Yet I do not wish to encourage a man who desecrates abbeys, trusses blameless brethren like Christmas capons, and blasphemously masquerades as a monk,” Hubert added severely.

“I have confessed and done penance for that sin,” Fulke answered, trying to sound sincere even though he was lying through his teeth. “I know it is not an excuse, but at the time I was cornered and there was no other course.” He leaned forward and spread his hands, showing that he was being open with the Archbishop. “I am deeply sorry for your brother’s death and I grieve for him myself. He was my friend and mentor.”

Hubert’s expression softened slightly. “I know there was a longstanding bond between you and that Theobald regarded you highly.” He sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps too highly. On the day that he died, he wrote to me with the express request that if Maude was put in a position where she had to remarry, that I do all in my power to ensure it was to you. He also seemed to think that you would be willing.” He gave Fulke an assessing look. “Did he ever discuss the matter with you?”

Fulke flushed beneath the other’s scrutiny. “He did not,” he said and cleared his throat.

“Were his thoughts correct?”

Judgment day would be easier than this, Fulke thought, suppressing the urge to squirm in his seat. “Yes,” he said and decided to leave it at that. Either Hubert Walter knew him by now, or he never would. Explanations would only tangle the web.

Hubert’s shrewd gaze nailed him for a moment longer and then lowered without conclusion. “As Maude’s nearest kin, her father has the right to pay a fine to take her and her dower lands under his control until he finds her a suitable husband. The man who weds her will need le Vavasour’s permission and have to pay for it dearly.”

“With what?” Fulke snorted.

Hubert rubbed his chins in thought. “A promissory note might suffice if le Vavasour thought that his son by marriage could repay him at a future date in land and prestige. He respects powerful men.”

There was emphasis placed on the last four words and Hubert Walter’s look was charged with meaning. He would not say the words directly but Fulke understood the implications. If he wanted Maude, he was going to have to browbeat Robert le Vavasour into agreeing. And what if she refused him? Struck him across the face and called him a thief at the graveside, her gaze filled with revulsion? But surely he had to be a better option than her father or John.

“I need to meet with him, and I need to speak with Maude,” he said.

“That can be arranged.”

“And mayhap after that I will need the services of a priest.”

Hubert Walter smiled bleakly. “That too can be arranged,” he said.

***

Shortly after the dinner hour, Robert le Vavasour came to Hubert Walter’s private solar to discuss the matter of his daughter’s value in the marriage market. Hubert had briefly raised the subject before the meal, requesting le Vavasour attend him in private so that they could discuss the young woman’s future and come to an agreement.

“If Maude has been pleading with you to keep her under your wing, you can save your breath,” le Vavasour snapped. “I am her father and her custody belongs to me.” His manner so perfunctory it was almost an insult, he dipped his knee and kissed the air over Hubert’s ring of office.

“I do not dispute your rights,” Hubert said mildly. “You must do as you see fit in the matter.”

“You have suddenly changed your tune.” Le Vavasour looked suspicious. “Only two days since you were insisting she should stay with you.”

“I was concerned for her.”

“And now you’re not?” Without being invited, le Vavasour prowled further into the chamber and sat down on a padded bench.

“Oh no. She is still very much in my thoughts.” Hubert went to a coffer at the side of the room and, in the absence of any servants, poured wine into three goblets. “How much you would consider a reasonable sum to let her marry where she chose?”

Le Vavasour’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“Let us say for curiosity’s sake.”

“It would depend on the bridegroom.” He took the cup Hubert offered him. “You’re not the first to broach the subject today.”

“Oh?”

Le Vavasour took a mouthful of wine and pouched it in his cheeks, savoring its richness. Hubert waited patiently, his expression impassive.

“Falco de Breauté approached me with an offer for Maude just before we sat down to dinner.” Le Vavasour scowled at the Archbishop. “Not of your doing, I hope. You’ve not invited me here to talk about him?”

“Indeed not!” Hubert’s nostrils flared. Falco de Breauté was one of John’s mercenaries and renowned for his complete lack of qualm or sensibility. Tell him to spit a baby on his spear, pay him the right fee, and he would do it. He was, however, utterly loyal to John—who had plainly been busy since their conversation earlier.

“No, I thought not.” Le Vavasour rubbed his jaw. “But I ask myself where a common mercenary, a baker’s son, could have obtained a sum to buy my daughter, and the only answer is from the King himself.”

“That would seem likely,” Hubert said. “An heiress of sound family is as good a way as any for him to reward loyalty.”

“Not with my daughter, it isn’t,” le Vavasour growled. “I’ll not have my grandchildren bearing the blood of a common French baker—even for a thousand marks!” He wafted his hand angrily. “I’m not a fool. I know that the girl is pretty and biddable when she chooses not to sulk and make a parade of her contrariness. I’ve seen the way the King looks at her. I know that if I give my consent, my first grandchild could be half royal. I said I would think on the matter, but it will take more than the sum de Breauté is offering to wipe out the stain of his lowly birth. I know he would rule Maude’s estates with an iron hand and give her some of the discipline she lacks with the buckle end of his belt, but that’s not enough to commend the bastard by far.”

“Indeed not,” Hubert said neutrally.

“So.” Le Vavasour spread his arms across the back of the bench and crossed his legs. “I assume you have some sort of proposition to put to me yourself—a man for her of your own choosing, or a bribe to pay me off.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the third goblet. “The first, I suspect, although I have not seen anyone in the hall today whom I would remotely consider making my kin.”

“You are shrewd, my lord,” Hubert said wryly, wondering if le Vavasour was going to take the bait. Going to the door, he opened it, and spoke quietly to one of the two knights guarding it, then ushered him into the chamber, leaving Jean de Rampaigne on sole watch. Dressed in full mail, borrowed from the armory, clad in a face-obscuring helm with long nasal bar, and a mail aventail covering his jaw, Fulke was anonymous.

Robert le Vavasour stared. “What trick is this?” He reached to his belt, instinctively grasping for his sword, but he was not wearing it since no man came armed into the presence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

“There is no trick, my lord.” Fulke propped his spear against the wall, removed his helm, and pushed down his coif. He raked his fingers through his flattened raven hair. “This is a guise to keep me safe rather than to threaten you.”

Le Vavasour continued to stare. “Are you mad?” he choked at Hubert without taking his eyes off Fulke. “You want my daughter to wed an outlaw?”

Fulke went to the coffer and took the wine that had been poured for him. Turning in a jingle of mail, he raised his cup in a sardonic toast to Maude’s father. “Think how valuable I am,” he said before Hubert could answer. “John has offered a thousand pounds of silver for my hide and put a hundred knights in the field to acquire it.”

“That is hardly a reason for me to give my daughter to you!” le Vavasour spluttered.

“No, but you are a man who respects personal worth,” Fulke said.

“What Fulke means,” Hubert said hastily, “is that his breach with the King is a temporary one.”

“In the end, John will see that he could save himself considerable expense and aggravation by restoring my lands.” Fulke sat down opposite le Vavasour. Beneath the borrowed mail shirt and gambeson, he wore his merchant’s tunic, the plum-colored wool and edging of blue and gold braid revealing that its wearer could afford to dress expensively. There were rings on his fingers too, and a gold cross secured to the rivets of his hauberk. Fulke well knew how much store le Vavasour set by wealth and outward appearance. The raid on John’s baggage train in the autumn had been worth every moment of danger.

“I will not be dragged into your petty rebellion,” le Vavasour snapped.

“It is not petty,” Fulke said quietly, although there was a sudden gleam of anger in his eyes. “I am not asking you to join me, only that you give your consent to a match between myself and your daughter.”

“I’d rather—”

“Give her to a baker’s son?” Hubert Walter interrupted. “A common mercenary? Buy the King’s favor with her body and see her used and passed on?” He pointed at Fulke. “His grandsire was lord of Ludlow and his line is descended from the Counts of Brittany.”

Le Vavasour ground his teeth. Fists clenched, he took two paces toward the door and then swung round and glared at Fulke. “Why do you want her? What’s the advantage to you?”

Fulke knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Mooting loyalty and love would only earn a snort of derision from a man of le Vavasour’s ilk.

“I admired the way your daughter conducted herself as my lord Walter’s wife,” he said. “She was gracious with others but never familiar, and she always appeared to enjoy robust health as well as being pleasing to look upon. Such qualities are frequently difficult to find in one woman. Also she has some experience of life. I have no particular desire to take a virgin child into my bed. Of course,” he added, “there is also the matter of her lands. Yorkshire, Lancashire, Leicestershire, Ireland. Plant those acres with my own, plough and sow them—think of the harvest they would yield.”

“But you haven’t got any lands.” Le Vavasour’s response was automatic. Fulke could see that he had captured the man’s interest.

“The King will have no choice but to restore them,” he said confidently. “Already he has too much to deal with. Normandy and Anjou set for rebellion. The Welsh making inroads. He needs every fighting man he has. I should be among his warriors, not whining in his ear and stinging his flesh like an angry gnat.”

Le Vavasour pursed his lips and looked at Fulke, appraisal in his stare. Fulke knew that the baron would be aware of his skills in the field, and his athletic appearance spoke for itself. Le Vavasour would also know he was born the eldest of six sons, all vigorous and strong like himself. A bloodline predisposed to healthy males was a great advantage in the marriage stakes. Not to mention the qualities of his famous grandsire Joscelin de Dinan and the links with high Breton nobility.

“I have been offered a thousand marks for her,” le Vavasour said. “How much are you prepared to bid?”

Fulke shrugged. “A fair price.” Obviously, le Vavasour would want more than a thousand marks. There would be no advantage to him in accepting Fulke’s suit otherwise. “Does a thousand pounds of silver instead seem appropriate?” There was a difference in the measures, a mark being seven shillings less than a pound.

Le Vavasour’s lips curved in an arid smile. “Would that be now, or when your lands are restored?”

“A deposit of two hundred pounds now, the rest in later installments,” Fulke said briskly as if he was very certain.

“And if you renege?”

“I won’t.”

Maude’s father considered, holding Fulke with an unblinking stare that reminded him unnervingly of a snake. At last, he gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. “So be it. The girl is yours for the sum of a thousand pounds of silver. Let the Archbishop draw up a contract.”

Fulke let out his breath on a sigh of relief.

“Of course,” le Vavasour mused, “I need not go to the trouble of giving you my daughter in marriage. I could as easily gain a thousand pounds of silver by handing you over to the King.”

“You would not live long enough to enjoy the fruits of your betrayal,” Fulke said dispassionately. “Nor would it make any difference to my claim. Even if I die, I have five brothers to succeed me. Besides, you are implicated, as the Archbishop of Canterbury will himself attest.”

“Not worth my while then,” said le Vavasour with a humorless smile.

Hubert Walter lifted a scroll of vellum from the trestle. “I took the liberty of drawing up a draft contract earlier. Only the details need to be added. With Jean de Rampaigne as witness there is no reason why the wedding cannot be performed now.”

Le Vavasour’s smile remained, but his eyes narrowed. “Do not take me for granted,” he said. “I am no tame dog to trot to heel.”

No, Fulke thought, you are vicious and cunning, and you would not be doing this unless it suited your purpose.

“That was never my intention, my lord,” Hubert Walter said evenly. “But this saves us time. There are safer places for Fulke to be than Canterbury.”

The Baron grunted. “You have a sound reason for everything you do, Your Grace,” he said in a less than complimentary tone.