Elizabeth Chadwick (27 page)

Hubert Walter chose to ignore the jibe and went to the door. A murmured request sent Jean de Rampaigne to fetch Maude.

***

Maude was dozing miserably on her pallet when the maid came to summon her with the news that Hubert Walter desired to see her and an attendant was waiting to escort her to him.

She rose and washed her face in the ewer, blotting away the stains of her earlier tears. Her stomach was queasy. What did Hubert Walter want? Having argued with her father this morning, she had no desire for another confrontation, another mauling at the hands of a man who was “acting in her best interests.” Unfortunately, she could not turn down a summons from an archbishop, especially when he was her host.

“Likely it is about your proposed marriage,” Queen Isobel said with a feline smile. She was sitting near the brazier, eating honey nougat while a maid dressed her hair with red ribbons.

“What marriage?” Maude stared at Isobel and felt as if she had swallowed a bucket of ice.

The Queen put a small white hand across her mouth. “Oh, have I spoken out of turn? Didn’t you know?”

“What marriage?” Maude repeated.

Isobel lowered her hand, revealing that the cat smile had grown to a near grin. “Falco de Breauté has offered your father a thousand marks for you.”

Maude swallowed and felt sick. She had seen how Falco de Breauté treated women in public and knew that in domestic privacy it would be far worse. The bruise on her arm where her father had gripped her was as nothing compared to what awaited her if she became de Breauté’s wife. The man was a wealthy mercenary, but not to the tune of a thousand marks. Therefore, it followed that he must have obtained the coin from somewhere—in all likelihood from John, or why else would Isobel be so well informed?

“Falco de Breauté can go piss in the wind,” she said furiously, and stalked to the door, her mind racing frantically with thoughts of running away.

“Lady Walter,” said the guard and, as he swept her and Barbette a bow, he cast a twinkling glance from beneath his brows.

Maude was buffeted by another shock, this time more pleasurable. She had not seen Jean de Rampaigne since her arrival in Canterbury, but now here he was in the full armor and surcoat of the Archbishop’s guard. “Why am I summoned?” she demanded as he ushered her before him and the door to the women’s chambers closed with what seemed like a far too final thud. “Is it about my proposed marriage?” The last words were spoken scathingly.

Jean looked taken aback. “You know about it?”

“The Queen has just taken great pleasure in enlightening me. I hope that your master has plans to thwart it. I will scream my refusal all the way to the altar.”

From looking taken aback, Jean’s expression changed to one of dismay. “The Queen knows? How?”

“I suppose John must have told her.”

De Rampaigne halted in the corridor and faced Maude. “Either we are talking at cross purposes or there is an entire plot here about which I am ignorant. Just who have you been told you must wed?”

“Falco de Breauté has offered my father a thousand marks for the right to take me to wife,” Maude answered, frowning. “Is that not why the Archbishop has summoned me?”

“No, that is not why,” he said and began walking again, striding out so that Maude had almost to run to keep up with him.

“Then what?”

Jean did not answer for their rapid progress had brought them to the Archbishop’s chamber. He knocked on the door and shouted his name to request entry.

Maude fought the urge to turn tail and run as she heard the scrape of footsteps and the clunk of the draw bar. Then it was too late. The door swung inward on silent hinges and she let out a gasp of shock as she found herself standing breast to breast with Fulke. He was clad in a mail shirt, the iron rivets making his eyes as dark as a stormy sea. His expression was one of self-containment overlaid by wariness.

Her father stood a little to one side, rubbing his hands and the Archbishop was busily preparing seals for two sheets of vellum. Maude took all this in at a glance as Jean closed and bolted the door.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice that was hoarse with shock. “If you are caught, you will be killed!”

He shrugged. “But only if,” he said, “and I have no intention of giving John that satisfaction.” The mail rivets on his hauberk flashed as he drew a deep breath. “I am here because I have come for you…”

“For me?” Maude returned his gaze blankly.

Before Fulke could speak, le Vavasour stepped forward. “FitzWarin has offered me a thousand pounds of silver for your hand in marriage, daughter, and I have agreed.”

“What?” Maude’s stare shifted to encompass all of the men. She began to tremble. “Am I to be bought and sold like a brood mare in the ring?”

“Maude.” Her father’s voice was a warning growl. “Curb that tongue of yours before I curb it for you.”

“As you would have done this morning?” She was all too aware of the closed door at her back. “Is there not a spark of decency in any of you?”

Le Vavasour reddened. “God’s blood, girl, you try me sorely. I’ll have you bitted and bridled like a mare indeed to cure your insolence…”

“Peace,” Fulke said with a curt gesture. He turned to the fuming le Vavasour. “Will you grant me leave for a private word with your daughter?” The calm tone of his voice was belied by the rapid beat of the pulse in his throat. Maude wondered at whom his anger was directed.

Her father glowered, but nodded brusque consent. “You have my permission to thrash her if she oversteps her bounds,” he said.

Hubert Walter’s expression was inscrutable. He gestured toward the small curtained-off antechamber beyond. “You may speak in there,” he said.

Maude was in half a mind to refuse just to be contrary, but when Fulke held out his arm in a courtly gesture and gave her the look of a conspirator, she took it and went with him.

He drew the curtain and crossed to the far side of the chamber. It was only a matter of a few yards, but it would make all the difference as far as being overheard was concerned. Then he faced her.

“Do you have any objections to marrying me?” His voice was pitched low, but it was not a whisper—that too would have carried and mayhap conveyed the wrong impression to those beyond the curtain.

They stood two feet apart, but she could feel him without touching. “I object to being passed around like an item of furniture or…or a prize cow. John wants my body, Falco de Breauté wants my land, my father wants me to do as I’m bid, and you want to save me from all of them by taking me for yourself.” She paused to draw an indignant breath. “What I want matters not one whit.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To be left alone to mourn decently for my husband.” Her eyes began to sting again.

“You cannot have that except in your dreams.” He gave a pragmatic shrug. “You have to make a choice, no matter how reluctant you are.”

She wanted to lash out, to rage and kick at the corner into which she was being forced. But there was another desire too. Take his offer, it said. Take him and cling on tight for the wild ride.

“I grieve for Theobald too,” he said softly.

Her tears brimmed and spilled over. “I know that.”

“I held him in high esteem. He was my mentor; the man who brought me from gauche squirehood to the full stature of knight.”

Maude wiped her eyes on her sleeve, swallowing and swallowing again to try and dispel the aching lump in her throat.

“I swear that I will honor his memory and I will honor you.”

She gazed at him through her swimming vision. “It is just that I do not trust my own judgment where you are concerned.” A self-mocking smile glimmered through her tears. “I look at you and my reason flies out of the window.”

“Like a bat at mass,” he said. “My own reason does the same.”

Maude raised her brows at him. “What?”

“You’ve heard the song of Melusine with her silver hair and sea-water eyes?” He came closer and reached to her hand. “Collected men’s hearts and wore them as a necklace, still beating?” His thumb stroked her palm. “Is it not better to be reasonless together than apart?”

“Seduced out of my wits instead of beaten, you mean?” she said, rallying now, the curve of her lips growing almost mischievous.

His arm lightly encircled her waist and he drew her against the cold rivets of his hauberk. “Surely you would rather the first?” he murmured. With the armor and padding between them, there was little physical sensation, but the symbolism was enough to add fuel to the spark that had kindled.

Maude hesitated, knowing that she stood on the brink. One more move and the battle would be over. She had nothing to lose but herself, and, in recompense, Fulke had sworn her his heart. He bent his head to claim a kiss, but she twisted out of his arms.

“You may seduce me as much as I like,” she declared, making a face at him, “but not until we are wed.”

The wary expression that had crossed his face as she thrust him away was replaced by one of rueful amusement. He touched her cheek with his forefinger. “Well then,” he said, “let us go and kneel before the Archbishop, and make our vows in the sight of God.”

***

Seduction of any kind had to wait. The wedding ceremony was a brief, simple affair. Their hands bound by Hubert Walter’s purple stole, they gave their oaths. Fulke produced a ring of simple braided gold, which the Archbishop blessed, and as Fulke slipped it onto Maude’s finger, pronounced them man and wife unto death.

Unto
death
. Maude shivered at the thought. How long would that be? A few hours, a few days, or a lifetime? Fulke kissed her, but it was a formality before witnesses and there was none of the breathless pleasure she had experienced in the antechamber. After Fulke came her father, and Jean, and finally Hubert. As he kissed her on both cheeks, she experienced a sudden rush of affection, followed by a melancholy lump in her throat and a sparkle of tears, because he reminded her of Theobald and all the safety and gentle affection she had left behind on a windswept Irish shore.

“If you set out now while the court is readying to dine, you’ll have several hours of daylight on your side and very few witnesses to see you leave,” Hubert said practically.

Barbette was sent to the women’s quarters to fetch cloaks and her mistress’s bow and quiver. If questioned she was to say that Lady Maude was going to practice her archery. Ideally Maude would have liked to take her coffer and her favorite green dress, but could not do so without rousing suspicion. Besides, she was aware of the necessity of traveling light.

Fulke was not riding Blaze, but a gray palfrey of high quality with a fluid pacing motion to eat up ground and carry the rider for long distances in comfort. Fulke mounted up and, leaning from the saddle, held out his hand. Maude grasped his strong, tanned fingers and swung up behind him on the leather grid of the crupper. Jean de Rampaigne offered his own hand to Barbette.

Maude turned to her maid. “My danger does not have to be yours, Barbette,” she said. “Stay here if you wish. The Archbishop will find you another household.”

Barbette shook her head. “I have served you since your marriage to Lord Theobald, my lady. I know that I could not be comfortable with any of those women we are leaving behind.” Barbette settled at Jean’s back and gave a mischievous smile. “Well, not as comfortable as this anyway.” She put her arms around Jean’s waist.

“I agree.” Jean grinned.

Maude laughed and her spirits lightened. Suddenly there was a feeling of camaraderie and adventure. It was them against the world, and they were fearless.

Fulke clicked his tongue and Maude put her hand through his belt, taking a firm grip. Occasionally she had ridden like this with Theobald, but the emotions had been different. She had been more interested in her surroundings than the closeness of the man guiding the horse. Now the landscape had changed. She was aware of every fiber of Fulke’s cloak. The way his hair grew, the sleek black layering like the folded wing pinions of a raven. The glimpsed line of cheekbone and the flicker of dark-lashed lid at the slight turn of his head. His strong, lean hands on the reins. The thought of them on her body sent a small shiver through her, part fear, part anticipation.

They rode out of Canterbury as the cathedral rang the hour of vespers. It being nearly midsummer, several hours of daylight traveling remained and Fulke urged the palfrey into a smooth trot. After about half a mile they met a merchant riding toward the city, his pack mule laden with chaplets of fresh flowers twisted together with fine wire and hemp string. News that the court was at Canterbury had spread like wildfire and traders were taking every advantage.

Fulke drew rein and reached to the pouch at his waist. A quarter-penny was exchanged and the merchant unfastened a chaplet fashioned of woodland greenery and dog roses, delicately fragrant.

Turning in the saddle as the man moved on, Fulke crowned Maude’s plain white wimple with the circle of flowers.

“Every bride needs a chaplet and a ring,” he said.

Maude felt silly tears fill her eyes and had to bite her lip.

He would have kissed her then and she would have kissed him back, but at that moment a troop of armed horsemen arrived, heading for Canterbury, and Fulke pulled aside to make way rather than call attention to themselves. One of the last riders in the party, a sergeant in quilted gambeson, eyed the four travelers curiously, and even as the troop rode on, looked over his shoulder, frowning.

“I think he knows us,” Jean muttered. “Have you seen him before, Fulke?”

“No, I—”

“He served under Theobald for a while, but he was dismissed because he was always brawling and causing trouble.” Maude watched the receding horsemen with troubled eyes. “But he knows me and he knows Barbette.” Her grip tightened in Fulke’s belt. “He entered Theo’s service in the days when he was collecting tourney fees. It may be that his memory will tell him who you are too. I know he will not think twice about making inquiries and earning himself some Judas silver.”

“Then we had best be on our way.” Fulke guided the gray back on to the road and urged it to a rapid trot to put distance between themselves and any pursuit that might come of the chance encounter.