Elizabeth Chadwick (30 page)

“Damn you,” Maude gasped. “Damn you!” And dragged his mouth down to hers.

***

“Take me with you on the morrow,” she requested a few moments later when the shock waves of pleasure had receded sufficiently for her to speak.

Gasping harshly, eyes closed, Fulke shook his head. “Too dangerous,” he got out between breaths. “I don’t know how Llewelyn will respond.”

“But it’s dangerous here too.”

“Not as bad as across the border.”

“So you wed me and then abandon me.”

“Christ, Maude, I don’t have the strength for another fight.” Rolling over, he looked at the rafters. “I need to parley with Llewelyn. The likelihood is that I can make an agreement with him, but there is always a danger that he will turn on me or take me hostage to win favor with John. I cannot bring you with me for these early negotiations. Better to stay here with a picked number of my men. If all goes well, then I will come for you.”

“And if it doesn’t? Am I supposed to sit here, wringing my hands and wondering if I am a wife still or a grieving widow?”

“I know it will be hard…sometimes I think that the waiting is worse than the doing, but you must see you are safer here for now.” He took her hand in a sweat-warm grip. “If it comes to a fight, I need to have my wits about me,” he said. “If I have to look out for you, my attention will be split and it will be more dangerous for us both.” He squeezed her fingers.“I came for you at Canterbury; I will come for you at Higford, I swear on my soul.”

“Indeed you do swear on your soul,” Maude said with intensity, “for if you do not keep your word, may you be damned in hell.” She threw herself against him, clinging to the damp, taut flesh, wanting him inside her again. To possess and be possessed.

And because he had made a promise on his soul and he knew that to fail her now would be to put a tarnish on his oath, Fulke somehow managed to rise to the occasion a third time.

***

The goblet was fashioned of silver, inlaid with a hunting scene in black niello. Oblivious of its beauty or cost, John seized it from the table and hurled it against the chamber wall. William of Salisbury ducked. Sticky wine dregs splattered his tunic. Hubert Walter stood his ground and narrowly missed being brained.

“Fulke FitzWarin!” John roared like a curse. “I am sick to the back teeth of hearing his name in connection with outlawry and murder! And you are his accomplice!” He stabbed his forefinger at the Archbishop. “You had him in your grasp and you let him go. Now Morys FitzRoger is dead and his sons clamor for vengeance!”

Hubert’s pale complexion flushed, but he maintained his composure. “Sire, whatever his failings and wrongdoings, Fulke served my brother diligently and well. Since we are speaking plainly, it seems to me that you did him an injustice when you refused him Whittington. Some folk would say that your denial smacked of vindictiveness.”

John looked around for something else to throw, but there was only the chessboard within reach and the sight of the object, with all its associations, made him feel physically ill. “So there are different rules for different people?” He bared his teeth. “I deny him land and I am vindictive. He slaughters Morys FitzRoger and he’s justified? Christ, Hubert, you’re sailing dangerously close to the wind.”

“We only have his son’s word as to what happened,” Hubert said. “I doubt that Fulke would go out of his way to lay an ambush on the Shrewsbury road when he had women with him.”

“Yes, let’s talk about the ‘women,’ shall we, or one woman in particular. Maude Walter.” John’s fists opened and closed. “For that alone, I ought to dismiss you as Chancellor and confiscate Robert le Vavasour’s lands.”

“It was my brother’s dying wish that Maude and Fulke be brought together. An outlaw Fulke FitzWarin may be, but that does not make him excommunicate and you know as well as I that the matter of his inheritance could have been settled amicably long ago. Besides, Robert le Vavasour would never have accepted his daughter’s match to Falco de Breauté.”

John’s chest heaved. “You let him walk in and out of Canterbury without raising the hue and cry.”

“I am a man of God as well as your servant,” Hubert said.

“When it suits you.”

William of Salisbury, who had been silent thus far, stooped to pick up the goblet. He turned it around in his hands and said slowly, “Why don’t you pardon him, John? You need fighting men of sound ability, and no one can deny FitzWarin’s prowess. Better with you than against you.”

“I’d sooner wipe my arse with a leper’s loincloth,” John sneered, and the simmering anger inside him came dangerously close to boiling point again. As if it wasn’t enough that Fulke FitzWarin was a thorn in his side, his own circle of kin and advisers were sympathetic toward the son of a whore. He could not tolerate a betrayal, particularly from his half brother. Will was sheriff of Wiltshire, but he wore a blindfold when FitzWarin was active in the county. It was like having a favorite dog turn and bite off your hand.

“I want FitzWarin brought to justice,”John seethed. “And now.”

“I agree with Will, conciliation is the wisest path,” said Hubert. “You have been set on bringing Fulke to justice for two years and nothing has come of it but expense and humiliation.”

John showed his teeth. They were white and strong and his smile, when genuine, was his best asset. He was not, however, smiling now. “For a start, the sheriff of Shropshire can go. FitzAlan’s far too sympathetic. Henry Furnel can take his place. Gwyn FitzMorys is to be given a hundred marks from the treasury to increase his troop and pursue his father’s murderers, and the hundred men I have already assigned to the task are to be kept in place.” He glared at his half brother. “And if you do not look to the laxness in your own shrievalty, Will, I will replace you too.”

Salisbury flushed but said nothing.

“All for one outlaw?” Hubert raised his brows. “Surely the resources would be better spent in Normandy?”

“I want Fulke FitzWarin brought to his knees,” John said obstinately. “He’s more vulnerable now that he has a wife.” The thought, as he spoke it, gave him a brief surge of pleasure. Fulke would not move as fast or be as daring with a wife to consider. He must either bring her with him or leave her in a place of protection. It would be worth sending out spies as well as soldiers. Maude Walter had lessons to learn too. FitzWarin had not abducted her across his saddle; the bitch had gone willingly. As John thought what he would do to her when she came into his custody, it soothed the gripe in his belly. He turned to pace the room, each step flaring the crimson wool of his court gown.

Part of what he was thinking must have shown on his face for Hubert Walter exchanged glances with Will Salisbury.

“You will need to tread carefully where Maude Walter is concerned,” the Archbishop said on a warning note.

“Meaning?” John sneered.

“Meaning that her father is powerful in his own sphere and has alliances with neighboring lords of similar stature who need little excuse to foment unrest at the best of times. Meaning that she was my sister by marriage. I know you have certain preferences where women are concerned. I would hate to see her become one of them because you hold a grudge.”

John was beginning to realize how his father had come to the murder of Thomas Becket. A meddling Archbishop of Canterbury was a bane. When that Archbishop was also the papal legate and the Chancellor, and had been responsible for training all the senior civil servants upon whom John’s administration depended, the contest was frustrating and unfair. Worse still, John needed Hubert Walter’s experience and incisive mind to keep afloat the treasury that his beloved, chivalrous brother Richard had drained to the lees.

“If you had closed your fist on FitzWarin when he came to Canterbury, Morys FitzRoger would still be alive and I would not have the worry of a dangerous outlaw at large when I’m about to sail for Normandy,” he snapped, passing the blame.

Hubert Walter spread his arms. “He came under a truce to talk of my brother. He was a guest in my house. Arrest me if you want.”

“Thomas Becket looked the part,” John said snidely. “Your jowls proclaim that the only thing you are a martyr to is food.”

Hubert ignored the jibe. “When I was Justiciar I recommended that Fulke FitzWarin be given Whittington and that FitzRoger be compensated with a different fief. If that had happened, you would now have a warrior of William Marshal’s ability waiting to sail with you. As it is, he’s ranged against you instead.”

“I will not be held to ransom by the likes of Fulke FitzWarin,” John hissed. The discussion was going around in circles. His pacing had brought him back to the chessboard. Using forefinger and thumb, John flicked the bishop on its side with a spurt of malicious pleasure. “It will be as I say. Let him be hunted down and brought before me in chains like the common thief and murderer he is.” He flashed a glance at Hubert. “You warn him, old man, and, archbishop or not, I will see you in chains too. And you, Will, take heed. I’ve been generous, but that can stop in an instant.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize the control he had over his half brother’s purse strings.

Salisbury shook his head sorrowfully. “You are making a grave mistake.”

John moodily flicked over a knight to join the bishop. “Time will tell, won’t it?” he said.

“They say that the Welsh can move so quietly and track with such skill that you do not know they are upon you until you receive a spear in your back.”

Fulke smiled at the apprehension in Ivo’s voice. Put his brother in the midst of a mêlée or ask him to charge across open ground at opposing cavalry, and he would not balk. But give him the massive greenery of the Welsh mountain forests and the possibility of wild Welshmen lurking in ambush and he became as anxious as a nun in a brothel.

“They are men like us, not the faery folk they would have us believe,” Fulke said. “If we are being watched, they will see that I carry a white banner on my spear and that there are not enough of us to begin a war.”

“But we could be a raiding party,” William said, glancing around as if he could pierce the heavy, green silence.

“If we stay to the worn roads, we won’t be molested.” Fulke hoped he was right. It was unlikely that Llewelyn’s men would attack first and ask questions later, but not impossible. The relationship between the Welsh and the English was a delicate one. As often as truces were made they were broken. The Welsh would come raiding and seize lands that they claimed were theirs by ancestry. Oswestry had been Welsh and English so many times that it was like the oche on a tug of war. The English would try to village hop, taking a bite out of the fertile Welsh settlements on the border and pushing the Welsh back into the forest. Fulke’s own family was as guilty as any. Much of the land surrounding Whittington had as much claim to be Welsh as English.

The track narrowed and Fulke’s troop had to ride single file. A fine drizzle set in, misting the air like cobwebs and laying a fine gray haze upon their cloaks.

“What if we don’t find Llewelyn?” Ivo said. “What if we just wander around in these woods for days on end?”

Fulke cast his brother an exasperated glance. “Either we’re being watched, or we’re being left to our own devices. It cannot be both. If I had known how edgy you were, I would have bid you stay at Higford to guard Maude and brought Philip instead.”

They continued through the trees, the green gloom thickening around them and the smell of the forest floor catching pungently in their nostrils. A pair of wood pigeons took flight from a huge beech tree at the side of the track, the clap of their wings so loud that it had the men reaching for their swords and staring anxiously around.

“This is a Godforsaken place,” Ivo muttered,crossing himself.

“It’s a forest,” Fulke said. “Like any other forest.” He tried to sound indifferent, as if the heaviness and the gathering gloom were not affecting him. The drizzle increased to a soft patter and runnels of water dripped off the nasal bar of his helm. All the mail and harness would be as rusty as a monk’s cock after this and take hours of cleaning, he thought dismally The path became slippery and difficult with a steep, wooded bank to their right. Awkward, Fulke noted, if one had to swing a sword.

Suddenly there was movement in the trees. William snatched at his sword and Fulke held out his hand in a warning motion. “They’re not attacking,” he said. “This isn’t an ambush. God help us if it were.”

The men who appeared and blocked the path were dressed in the garments typical of Welsh infantry. Each warrior carried a spear and shield and a long knife at his belt. Most of them were either barelegged or wore short woolen hose reaching to the knee. The youngest members of the troop were clean-shaven, but all those old enough to grow facial hair sported impressive mustaches.

Their ranks parted to allow their leader through, and Fulke found himself looking at a man in his middle years, slight of build and dark of visage. Unlike his troop, he was wearing armor in the form of a slightly old-fashioned mail shirt with short sleeve pieces.

Fulke gestured to William. Having been raised as a squire in the Corbet household where connections with Prince Llewelyn were strong, his brother spoke enough Welsh to make a conversation. “Tell them who we are and whom we are seeking.”

William raised his hand in greeting.
“Cyfarch I, Fulke FitzWarin a ei brawd, rydyn ni’n ceisio Llewellyn Tywysog Gwynedd.”

A scornful look passed across the Welsh leader’s face and one or two of his younger men lowered their heads to conceal smirks. “Fortunately, I speak better French than you do Welsh,” the warrior said, his cadence lilting, but the flow of the words confident and smooth. “I am Madoc ap Rhys, and I am responsible for ensuring the safety of travelers through these woods.”

Fulke raised one brow. He knew what that meant. “My name is Fulke FitzWarin,” he responded, “and I am seeking Prince Llewelyn ap Iorwerth. I have heard that he is at Deganwy. Mayhap you can take me to him?”

“Why should I do that?”

“I have news for him,” Fulke said. “News that I would deliver in person.”

Madoc ap Rhys looked thoughtfully at the banner of truce. “Then you must want something,” he said. “The only time that a marcher lord comes into Wales under such a flag is when he has trouble on his own territory.”

“Let Prince Llewelyn be the judge of that.” Rain was now sluicing off Fulke’s helmet and soaking through his mail to the gambeson beneath. Beyond the creak and jingle of harness, the sound of the dripping forest was like a monotonous conversation.

Madoc eyed him narrowly, weighing him up. Then, abruptly, he gestured. “Come,” he said. “We will escort you to him.”

***

Built upon two hills guarding the estuary of the River Conwy, Deganwy Castle was a fitting stronghold for a prince. Although not as magnificent as keeps such as the White Tower or the fortifications at Windsor or Nottingham, it nevertheless held its own with most of the castles belonging to its wealthier English neighbors. Through the tipping rain, Fulke saw the dragon of Wales snapping from the battlements, revealing that Prince Llewelyn was in residence. Beyond the crenellations, the sea lay like a flat gray blanket, and it was difficult to judge where water ended and sky began.

Madoc ap Rhys led them through the iron-clad castle gates into the courtyard and bade them wait while he went within and sought audience with Prince Llewelyn. Fulke began biting his thumbnail, caught himself, and lowered his hand. It was too late now to worry. Llewelyn had the reputation of being an honorable host, which was more than could be said of many Norman lords of Fulke’s acquaintance.

Moments later, Madoc returned. “The Prince will see you and your brothers,” he said. “The others are to hand their weapons to the duty guard and go to the hall where they’ll be given food and they can dry out by the fire.”

Fulke inclined his head and gave charge of his men to Baldwin de Hodnet. “See that no one starts a fight,” he muttered, “or I will personally wrap their entrails around my shield.”

“My lord.”

Madoc grinned. “I do not expect you have problems of discipline?”

“Once and never again,” Fulke replied, and with William and Ivo followed the Welshman across the ward and up some narrow, twisting stairs to the private rooms on the upper floors.

At the door, Madoc stopped and held out his hand. “I must take your weapons too.”

Fulke had been expecting it. Although he felt uneasy without the comforting weight of a sword at his hip, he unfastened his scabbard and, behind him, heard the clink and shuffle of his brothers doing the same. Once the weapons had been handed to a guard, Madoc ushered the men into Llewelyn’s private chamber.

Fulke immediately felt more at home, for the room reminded him of the bedchamber at Lambourn or Alberbury. There was wealth, but not the silk opulence of which John was so fond. Bright embroideries colored the walls. The floors were carpeted with scented rushes, and wax candles burned in various holders to augment the light that showed dull gray sky through the arrow slits.

Llewelyn was using his bedchamber as his state room, an arrangement common to most magnates. Away from the bed, with its discreetly closed hangings, stood an ornate chair, a throne Fulke supposed, although no one was sitting on it. A group of courtiers clustered near a brazier, talking animatedly in Welsh. Madoc went and murmured to one of them—a slender, brown-haired man of about Fulke’s own age. The courtier nodded, said something to the others that raised a laugh, and, breaking from their company, came over to Fulke and his brothers.

William, who recognized Llewelyn from his squirehood days in the Corbet household, quickly knelt. Fulke and Ivo followed.

“It’s a pleasant surprise to have marcher lords kneeling to me,” said Llewelyn ap Iorwerth with barbed lightness. He bade them rise. “Despite my opinion of what you Normans would like to do to Wales, you are welcome at my court.” A raised finger sent a servant to bring mead. “I have heard all about your activities in England. Some I’ve dismissed as a minstrel’s fancy, but others bear the ring of truth. I suppose that is why you are here—seeking a bolt hole from King John’s wrath?”

“That is one of the reasons, sire.”

“One of them?” Llewelyn raised his brows. “I do not know why else you should seek me out. Unless of course you want to hire your sword to me.”

“I should be glad to fight for you, sire, but it is more than that.”

The servant arrived with the mead and, once it was poured, bowed and stepped out of earshot. Llewelyn looked expectantly at Fulke.

Fulke took a swallow of mead. It was sweet and potent with an underlying tang of heather. He drew a deep breath. “A few days since, I encountered Morys FitzRoger on the Shrewsbury road. There was a skirmish and I killed him.”

The Prince’s eyebrows rose.

“He was Gwenwynwyn’s man and King John’s vassal in the matter of Whittington. By the law of the land, Whittington should be a FitzWarin fief.”

Llewelyn swirled the drink in his cup, his expression thoughtful. “I know of your longstanding dispute, but I wonder why you think it should interest me?”

The Prince’s indifference was feigned. Fulke knew that Llewelyn had every reason to be interested in the news.

“You are right that I am here to request shelter at your court for myself and my retinue. In exchange I can give you fifty knights, all battle trained. I know there is no love lost between yourself and Gwenwynwyn and that King John is your enemy, as he is mine.”

“So, you are proposing an alliance?” A glint of amusement lit in Llewelyn’s peat-brown eyes. “In return for succor, you fight for me?”

Fulke smiled too. “No, sire. I fight for myself, but to your benefit. We have mutual interests.” He looked directly at Llewelyn. “It would be easy for you to take Whittington while Weren and Gwyn FitzMorys are in disarray, and if you did, you would need a seasoned military man to hold it for you.”

Llewelyn exhaled down his nose. “You want me to take Whittington for you?”

“In return for feudal service, sire.”

“You are audacious.” Llewelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Are you also foolish?”

“No, sire. I may gamble, but I always try to ensure the odds are in my favor. Whittington is a valuable keep. It guards the valleys of the Dee and the Vyrnwy. You have an opportunity to take that control from John and Gwenwynwyn and use it to your own advantage.”

The Welsh Prince considered him. “I shall think on the matter. In the meantime, you and your men are welcome under my roof for the price of your swords.”

“Thank you, sire. I—”

Llewelyn raised a forefinger. “Do not be too effusive in your gratitude. Odds in your favor do not mean that you will win. If we are allies, it is because we share a common enemy, not because we are friends.”