Elizabeth Chadwick (3 page)

“You don’t believe it?” Fulke said.

Marjorie swept the eggshells off the table into her apron. “I only know what I’ve been told, and there’s no smoke without a fire.”

“There’s a family legend that my own grandsire fought a giant, but it’s only a tale he invented to amuse my father when he was a child.”

“Aye, well, you’ll not convince me, young man. You only have to look at them to know they’re different. If there’s not a demon in Prince John, I’ll eat my apron, eggshells and all.”

She went to the midden bucket. Fulke scooped the last morsel of boar and sauce onto the heel of his loaf and demolished it.

Jean took his lute and ran experimental fingers over the strings. “It would make a good ballad set to music,” he said. “‘Fair Melusine.’” A silvery cascade of notes like strands of moonlight rippled from the soundbox.

Fulke watched with replete fascination. Although he enjoyed music, particularly rousing battle songs and bardic Welsh sagas, his own skills were negligible. Playing a lute was beyond him. His voice had but recently broken and while it held promise of being deep and resonant when he attained full manhood, his notion of pitch was such that he knew his singing would sound like a dog in a dungeon.

“A lute will open doors that are locked to the booted foot and the sword,” Jean said. “Men will welcome you for the cheer and entertainment it brings to their hearths. Folk will pay you with your supper; strangers will more readily accept you. And sometimes women will let you enter their sanctuaries.” His eyebrows flashed with innuendo.

Fulke reddened. Women and their sanctuaries were of tremendous interest to his rapidly developing body, but they were a mystery too. The high-born ones were guarded by chaperones and kept at home until they married. Girls of lower degree kept their distance if they were decent. Those who weren’t had designs on a royal bed, not the lowly pallet of a squire. The court whores preferred clients with a ready source of income. Other than what fitted where, Fulke had little notion of what to do, and no intention of exposing his ignorance.

Jean leaned over the lute, his fingers plucking a melody to pay for the supper they had just enjoyed. His voice was clear and true, pitched high, but strong as a bell and it chimed above the mélange of kitchen sounds, telling the story of Melusine. Fulke listened in rapt and slightly jealous admiration. It was truly a gift and he found himself wishing that he had it. As his mind absorbed the notes and the words, he studied the reverence with which Jean treated his lute. The sight of the squire’s lean fingers on the strings brought to mind another image: his own hands working with an equal reverence to smooth the scars from the surface of his shield.

Suddenly all pleasure and gathering lassitude were gone. As Jean’s voice lingered to accompany the lute on the final note of the song, Fulke jerked to his feet and headed for the doorway.

Ignoring the loud applause and demands for more, Jean swept a hasty bow and ran after his charge. “Where are you going?” He snatched Fulke’s sleeve.

“My shield. I left it in John’s chamber.”

“You can’t go there now.” Jean’s voice rose in disbelief. “The kitchens are one matter, but my lord would certainly have us flayed for doing that!”

“It’s new,” Fulke said stubbornly. “My father sent it as a gift to mark my year day.”

“Christ’s wounds, are you a little child that you must have it now?” For the first time irritation flashed across Jean’s amiable features. “Leave it until the morrow.”

“You don’t understand. It’s a matter of honor.”

“Don’t be such a fool. I—”

“Come or go as you please,” Fulke interrupted passionlessly, “you will not stop me.” He stepped out into the wild night. The sleet had turned to snow as the temperature dropped and they were surrounded by a living, whirling whiteness.

Muttering imprecations, Jean ducked his head into the wind and hurried along beside him.

***

The door to the royal apartments was closed and a soldier stood guard outside. Flickering light from a wall sconce played over his mail, turning the iron rivets to gold. It also caught the wicked edge of his spear tip.

He fixed the youths with a stern eye. “What are you doing here, lads?”

Fulke had a retentive memory and knew all the guards who did chamber duty. Roger’s bark was worse than his bite. “I left my shield earlier,” he said. “I’d like to fetch it, sir.”

“I heard all about ‘earlier.’” The guard scrutinized Fulke’s injuries. “Good thing I wasn’t on duty then,” he said sourly. “The man who was is to be whipped for not investigating the commotion.”

“He wouldn’t have heard; we weren’t near the door,” Fulke said. “Besides, there had been a commotion all afternoon.”

“Well, someone has to take the blame, don’t they?” He gestured with the spear. “Go on, get you gone before there’s more trouble.”

Fulke drew himself up. At fifteen, he stood almost two yards high, and he matched the guard easily. “I have come for my shield,” he repeated. “Once I have it, I will leave.”

“Now listen here, I don’t take orders from a shaveling like—”

“My lord Walter sent us to fetch it,” Jean interrupted, stepping forward. “Master FitzWarin is in his charge.”

“Lord Walter sent you?” The guard raised his brows.

“Yes, sir. As you know, he’s responsible for training the squires attached to Lord Glanville’s retinue. He wants to see the shield.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” The man opened the door and gestured Jean to enter. “Not you,” he said to Fulke. “It would be more than my life is worth. I’ve no intention of hanging for a boy’s petty squabble.”

Moments later Jean returned. He was holding the shield in a curious fashion so that the blazon faced inward and all that was visible was the wooden backing and arm straps.

“Satisfied?” The guard closed the door and stood foursquare in front of it, making it clear that he would not budge again.

“Thank you, my lord,” Jean said, bowing and using the inflated form of address to flatter the man’s vanity. He started to walk rapidly away.

Fulke hurried along beside him. “What are you hiding?” He grabbed for his shield. “Give it to me.”

Reluctantly, Jean let him have it. “There’s no sense in losing your temper.” He laid a restraining hand on Fulke’s sleeve.

Fulke gazed mutely at the shield he had been so carefully tending that afternoon. The smooth, painted leather had been scored repeatedly with the point of a knife, completely obliterating the blazon. So strong was the malice in the knife that several deep grooves had been cut into the underlying wood.

Rage rose within Fulke like a huge, red bubble and with that rage came hatred. To destroy a man’s blazon was to insult not only him, but also his entire family and bloodline.

“Whatever you are thinking, he is not worth it,” Jean said, his gaze darting between Fulke’s expression and the shield. “We can have one of the armorers put a new skin on this and no one will know the difference.”

“But I will,” Fulke said in a voice choked with fury. “This changes everything.”

“Look, we have to go back to my lord’s lodging. We’ve risked enough as it is.”

Fulke gazed at him blankly for a moment, then, with a shudder, controlled himself. He walked stiffly into the adjoining hall, his fist clenched tightly upon his shield strap. There he stopped and stared like a hound spotting its prey. King Henry was talking to a cluster of officials and courtiers. And John was with him, a little pale around the gills, but showing few other signs of damage.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Jean muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Lord Theobald will not be tender with the shreds of us that remain.”

Fulke shook with the effort of controlling his rage. “I’ll kill him, I swear I will,” he snarled.

His glare was like a lance and John sensed it, for suddenly he turned his head and their eyes met as if they were on a battlefield. John murmured something to his father, who was deep in conversation with Ranulf de Glanville.

The King bent an ear to his son’s swift murmur, and then he too stared across the room at Fulke. “Christ,” muttered Jean beneath his breath as Henry crooked his finger and beckoned Fulke.

Fulke swallowed, but more with the effort of restraining his fury than with trepidation at approaching the royal party. He strode over to the group, his head high and the shield brandished to show John that he knew what had been done. Only when he reached the King did he kneel in obeisance and bow his head, his black hair flopping over his brows.

“Get up,” Henry commanded.

Fulke did so and immediately towered over his sovereign who was of average height and stockily built. The once flame-red hair was sandy-silver and Henry stood with shoulders braced as if his kingship weighed heavily.

“You have your grandfather de Dinan’s size,” Henry said, narrowing his eyes. “And the same propensity for trouble, it seems. What do you have to say for yourself in answer to my son’s accusation that you tried to kill him?”

“That his accusation is a lie, sire, and that he struck the first blow.” Fulke raised his hand to indicate his swollen nose and puffy eyes.

John went from ashen to crimson. “You cheated and you were insolent,” he snarled.

“I have never cheated in my life,” Fulke said hoarsely and brandished his shield. “My lord Prince talks of insolence, but what of insult!” He thrust the ruined surface toward Henry and the courtiers.

“You tried to kill me!” John sputtered. “You threw me against the wall in a fit of rage!” His eyes darted around the circle of barons, seeking sympathy, and lit on Ranulf de Glanville. “You saw with your own eyes, my lord!”

“I saw the aftermath,” de Glanville replied. “I doubt that whatever the provocation it was Fulke’s intention to kill you. He would be stupid to do so, and while he is often rash and hot-headed, he is no fool.”

Fulke gave de Glanville a grateful look. “I hit out in self-defense,” he said, his shoulders heaving. “Lord John had already battered me with the chessboard and I had to stop him from doing it again.”

“You stinking whoreson, that’s not—”

“Hold your tongue!” Henry snapped, turning on John. “In truth I have never known you when you are not picking a quarrel over some imagined slight. If Fulke did any harm to you, then I suspect it is no more than you deserve. Come to me for justice, not favoritism.” He turned to the Justiciar. “Ranulf, see that my son receives a lesson in self-discipline. If the buckle end of a belt is involved, I will not be dismayed.”

De Glanville raised one eyebrow, his composure unshaken. “Yes, sire.”

John turned as white as a table napkin. “Papa, you would not.” His voice was torn between indignation and pleading.

Henry took hold of John by the shoulders. “You are my youngest child.” His voice was almost weary now. “One day soon you must have lands settled upon you, but how can I give you the responsibilities of a ruler when you cannot even play a game of chess without squabbling?”

John pulled away from his father. “Perhaps if I had the responsibility now, I would not need to squabble at chess,” he spat and, with a furious glare at Fulke that threatened retribution, stalked off in the direction of his chamber.

Fulke looked at the floor, embarrassed, waiting for the King’s dismissal and perhaps a flogging of his own. In the aftermath of temper his legs felt weak and he was freshly aware of the pain in his face.

Henry touched the damaged shield. “Take this to the armory and have it seen to,” he said. “Lord John’s privy purse will meet the cost.”

“Thank you, sire, but I would rather pay for the mending myself.”

“Have a care that your pride does not bring you down, Fulke FitzWarin,” he said quietly. “If it is the be-all, then it can become the end-all.”

Fulke bowed and Henry moved on.

De Glanville said, “I thought Lord Walter would have more sense than to let you wander about near the royal chamber.”

“He did, sir, but I had to fetch my shield.”

De Glanville looked suspicious. “He knows you are out then?”

“He’s gone to the abbey,” Fulke answered, licking his lips. “With the Archdeacon of York.”

“I see. In that case you had better hope that he is in a lenient mood when he returns.” The Justiciar flicked his hand in a gesture of dismissal.

“Sir.” Fulke bowed and prepared to make his escape.

“A word of warning, FitzWarin.”

“Sir?” Fulke stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“The King was right to warn you about pride. If I were you, I would tread very carefully. Prince John will bear you a grudge for today’s incident, and he has a very long memory.”

Fulke hefted the ruined shield so that it protected his body from shoulder to shin. “So do I, sir,” he said.

Lambourn Manor, January 1185

Hawise FitzWarin opened bleary eyes on the morning—at least she assumed it was morning from the stealthy sounds filtering through the bed hangings from the chamber beyond. In winter, it was difficult to tell night from day with all the shutters barred against the weather.

The sharp ache behind her eyes and her dry mouth reproached her for celebrating Twelfth Night too deeply. They had broached a cask of their best Gascon wine and the dancing had made her very thirsty.

“The only thing more potent than that brew is me,” her husband had whispered against her ear as they swirled past each other in a wild carole. He was merry with wine himself, although nowhere near the point of incapacity.

“Prove it,” she had said recklessly, her breath suddenly short and her loins liquid.

And he had done. Hawise had not been so much in her cups that she could not remember the heat of his mouth on her breasts, the teasing lap of his tongue, or the hard masculinity of his body pushing hers into glorious dissolution.

It had ever been thus between them, a fact for which Hawise always thanked God in her prayers. Marriages were made for alliances, for land and wealth and influence, never for love. She had known Fulke le Brun, called Brunin because of his dark coloring since he had been her father’s squire and they had grown up together. Fortunately, their parents had agreed that a match between them was suitable to all parties, but she knew just how rare love matches were.

He was lying on her hair. Biting her lip, Hawise gently tugged its masses from beneath his shoulder. He grunted and rolled over, trapping her again. In sleep, he was as warm as a brazier and his heat contrasted pleasantly with the cold air on her exposed shoulder.

“Aren’t they awake yet?” demanded an impatient child’s voice.

“Shhh, no, Master Ivo. You know you cannot disturb your mama and papa when the bed curtains are closed.”

That was the warning voice of Peronelle, Hawise’s senior maid.

“But I have to. I’ve got something important to tell them.”

“Later,” said the maid firmly

Hawise compressed her lips on a smile. Closed bed curtains were a sacrosanct privacy across which no one in the household was permitted to trespass. It had been a rule instigated on the day after their wedding night when the bloody bed sheet had been displayed to the guests as proof of her virginity and Brunin’s ability to take it. Since then, Brunin had insisted that what went forth behind the bed curtains, be it sleeping, talking, or coupling, were matters between husband and wife and not for public consumption, even if that public was their own offspring.

“But they’re awake; I just heard Papa’s voice.”

“God,” muttered Brunin against her throat. He rolled onto his back.

Hawise sat up, her head gently pounding. She fumbled about on the coverlet until she found her shift, heedlessly discarded the night before, and fought her way into it. Then she parted the curtains.

Candlelight illuminated the chamber with a dull, golden flicker and the room was warm. From the ashy glow of the charcoal lumps in the two braziers, Hawise could tell they had been alight for at least an hour. So it must be full morning and she had missed mass.

Ivo and Peronelle were squaring up to each other near the clothing pole, both with hands on their hips.

“There!” cried Ivo, pointing in triumph. “They are awake. I told you!”

Peronelle turned to the bed. “Only because you have disturbed them,” she said irritably and curtseyed. “Good morrow, my lady.”

Hawise murmured to the maid and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Behind the bed curtains, she heard a muffled rustling as Brunin turned over.

“What is so important that it cannot decently wait?” she demanded of her fourth-born son as she took the cup of watered wine Peronelle presented.

Ivo hopped from foot to foot. It was no coincidence that his father had nicknamed him “flea.” “Fulke’s here,” he announced, a broad grin spreading over his freckled face.

Hawise almost choked on her drink. “What?”

“I went out to the stables to tend Comet, and he was just riding in. He’s brought a friend with him called Jean and he’s got a lute. They’re in the hall, breaking their fast.”

Hawise stared at her son while various thoughts galloped through her aching head. She knew the court was spending Christmas at Windsor, which was less than two days’ journey, but she had no particular expectation that Fulke would manage a visit. King Henry was notorious for not staying in one place above a few nights and a squire’s duties were many. Indeed, she had sent him a new cloak and a box of honey comfits against the likelihood that she would not see him this side of Candlemas. “What’s he doing here?” she wondered aloud.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Her husband emerged from the bed curtains and, scratching his beard, ambled over to the latrine shaft.

“He says he’s got some news.” Ivo did a handstand and fell over in the rushes.

“I’m sure he has,” Brunin said. He looked down at his stream of urine. “The question is what.”

“That’s why I came to fetch you.” Ivo stood on his hands again. “He won’t say until you come down.”

“Careful of the brazier,” Hawise snapped as Ivo’s feet landed perilously close to the wrought-iron stand. She drank the rest of the watered wine and turned to her clothing pole. “He’s like you,” she said to Brunin. “Never writes a letter and springs surprises like coneys popping out of a warren.” She selected a gown of pine-green wool hemmed with tawny braid.

He turned around, sharp humor in his eyes. “And I suppose that your contrary nature is not part of the melting pot?”

Hawise raised her arm so that Peronelle could tighten the side lacing of her gown. “Does not the Church say that it is a man who plants the seed and that woman is just the vessel?”

“Aye, well, wine takes on the taste of the oak in which it’s matured,” he retorted.

Hawise made a face at him and Ivo giggled. She sent him out to herald their arrival, bundled her hair into a silk net, and covered it with a veil and circlet.

Brunin in the meantime had donned his own clothes. Latching his belt, he went to the door and opened it, ushering Hawise before him. “Let’s find out what that wretched boy has done,” he said.

“You gave him a man’s shield for his year day,” Hawise reminded him and laid a cautionary hand on his sleeve. “Just remember that he is almost an adult. He has been away from us for ten months and the court will have wrought changes.”

“He’s still my son, is he not?”

“Exactly,” Hawise said and led him from their chamber into the hall.

Fulke was sitting on a bench drawn up to the fire, his long legs extended to the warmth and his new cloak still pinned across his shoulders. Seated beside him was a handsome youth whose dark hair, brown eyes and tanned complexion could have made him a family member. As Ivo had said, he carried a lute. However, after one brief glance, it was not at the guest she looked, but at her eldest son, and in shock.

The malleable features of childhood had been pared to the bone and remolded to leave a hawkish visage, so reminiscent of her father that she almost gasped. All that he possessed of the FitzWarin line was the heavy, crow-black hair and quick brows. The rest was pure de Dinan—even down to the nose, where thin, straight symmetry had been replaced by a version that held echoes of his grandfather’s war-battered visage.

“Mama.” He drew in his legs and stood up.

“Jesu, what have you been doing!” Hawise cried and threw her arms around him. He had grown again. She was tall for a woman, but the top of her head only reached his collarbone. Pulling his head down, she kissed him heartily on either cheek and then ran her finger down the dent in his nose. “How came you by this?”

“That’s what I’ve come to tell you, or at least part of it.” He broke from her grasp to embrace his father. “We have leave from court to come here for two days.”

The word “we” reminded Hawise of her obligation as hostess and she turned to Fulke’s companion who had also risen to his feet. He was slightly older than her son, perhaps seventeen or eighteen and wirily slender of build.

“Jean de Rampaigne, squire to Lord Theobald Walter,” he said before she could ask, and bowed over her hand with impeccable manners.

“You are welcome,” Hawise responded warmly. “A pity that both of you could not have been here for the Christmas celebrations.” She gestured around the hall where servants were dismantling the evergreen trimmings and a laundry maid was bundling up the linen tablecloths and napery for washing.

“Why should they want to come here to celebrate when they could roister at court?” her husband asked, only half in jest. “I know at their age I took my chances.” He greeted Jean de Rampaigne with a brisk handclasp.

“We didn’t gain leave until last night, Papa.” Fulke sat down on the bench, then, like a restless dog, stood up again and turned in a circle. One hand rose to push his heavy hair off his brow in a gesture so reminiscent of his father that it sent a pang through Hawise. “I have so much to tell you that I do not know where to start.”

“The beginning might be a good place,” Brunin said. “If it’s going to be a long story, we might as well break our fast at the same time.” He gestured to the dais where bread, cheese, and ale were being set out on a fresh linen cloth.

The youth nodded. “It might be for the best.”

***

Fulke watched his father’s expression harden as he told him about the incident with the chessboard. “I could not have done anything else,” he said.

“Yes, you could,” Brunin said grimly. “You could have made sure he stayed down.”

“But I thought you wanted a place in the royal household for me above all else because of Whittington?”

“What do you take me for?” His father pushed his own platter away and replenished his cup. “Of course I want Whittington, but in justice and honor. I won’t grovel for it and neither will any of my sons.” His gaze swept along the trestle to the five younger boys, all listening agog. “I would be more angry if you had let him get away with it.”

Fulke looked uncertain. “I was not sure how you would take the news.”

Brunin sighed. “Perhaps I placed too great a burden on your shoulders. Whittington is my responsibility. It won’t be yours until I die and, God willing, that will not be until you are a man full seasoned and it is in our hands again.”

Fulke smiled dutifully. He did not want to think of his father dying. Unlike King Henry’s sons, he had no desire to wrench the reins of government from the control of the previous generation. His time would come when it was ripe.

Brunin lifted his cup. “You are still at court, so I take it the storm has blown over?”

“After a fashion.” Fulke made a seesawing motion with his hand. “I’m no longer one of Prince John’s close personal attendants, but I still receive lessons with him.” He looked at Jean, who had been quietly attending to his meal without taking part in the conversation. “I’m serving as a squire to Lord Theobald Walter at the moment. He’s nephew to Ranulf de Glanville and Prince John’s personal tutor in arms.”

“I know Theobald Walter and his lineage,” his father said, “although I was unaware he had become a royal tutor. I suppose that’s Ranulf’s influence. He’s in a position to do his relatives great favors. Not that I’m saying Theobald Walter is unworthy of the post,” he added as Jean looked up from his food. “He’s a skilled swordsman with a good brain, but advancement is often a matter of the right connections and fortunate opportunities.” He turned to Fulke. “At whose instigation did you change your post?”

“Lord Theobald thought it would be a good idea,” Fulke said. “So did everyone else.” He tensed his jaw, sensing that a storm was brewing.

His father grunted. “Although no one saw fit to inform me or ask my opinion about my son’s future.”

“It is only a few weeks since it happened. I would have written but the opportunity arose to come and tell you myself.” Fulke held his father’s gaze. “I made the decision to join Lord Walter of my own free will.”

“Did you now?” Brunin’s eyes narrowed. “And what does a stripling of fifteen know about the world?”

“More than he did a month ago,” Fulke replied, refusing to look away although there was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew he risked a whipping. His father’s word had always been the law and he had never challenged it because that was the way the river ran. Honor and obey. “And,” he continued, “enough to realize that I have more to gain by serving as Lord Walter’s squire than in remaining a companion to Prince John.”

His mother touched Brunin’s sleeve and leaned to murmur something against his ear. Fulke thought he heard the words “shield” and “manhood.”

For a moment his father’s expression remained harsh, but gradually the lines between nose and mouth grew less pronounced and a glint of humor lit in the peat-brown eyes. “If Lord Walter has chosen you and you have agreed to let him be your mentor, then I suppose I must yield to your judgment, since mine was wrong in securing you a place in John’s chamber.”

“Lord Walter is a good master, sir,” Jean spoke up. “He is strict but he is fair. The King chose him above several others to be Prince John’s tutor in arms and he is the Justiciar’s nephew.”

“I am not in my dotage or a dullard to be unaware of those points,” said Brunin, the humor still in his eyes, but his voice sharp with warning.

“No, sir.” Jean looked down. “But I want to assure you that Fulke will have no reason to regret his change of household.”

The older man nodded. “That remains to be seen.” He folded his arms. “Tell me this: would you die for your lord?”

“No, sir,” said Jean without hesitation.

“No?” Brunin’s brows disappeared into his thick fall of hair.

“He wouldn’t let me. He would put himself in the way first.”

Fulke’s father gave a grunt of amusement. “A regular paragon.” He turned again to his son. “It seems I should be thanking God on my bended knees for your change of circumstance.”

Fulke reddened at the hint of sarcasm. “I am pleased to have joined his retinue, Papa, but it is only one of the reasons I’ve been given leave to visit, and not even the main one at that.”