Elizabeth Chadwick (38 page)

Then Hubert Walter, John de Gray, William Marshal, and Robert of Leicester had arrived at Philip’s court to negotiate a truce between Philip and John. Hubert had exhorted Fulke to return to England and promised to do all within his power to end the quarrel between him and John. If only Fulke would surrender and mollify John’s pride, Hubert would guarantee the restoration of Fulke’s lands.

“Including Whittington?” Fulke had asked in a voice heavy with cynicism.

“Including Whittington,” Hubert had said as if his confidence was total. “John needs experienced fighting men as never before. And he needs loyalty too. When you take an oath, you are not the kind to abandon it on a whim.”

Fulke had been flattered but not drawn in either by the air of certitude or the praise. It was not as simple as that, never had been, and trust was a coinage so adulterated as to be worthless. He had promised to think on the matter and Hubert had sailed home alone.

The sea captain’s voice broke through his introspection. “So you’re returning to England with a laden purse?”

Fulke smiled without humor. “You have the laden purse now,” he said. Nearby the tavern-keeper’s three children were rolling like puppies. They were all girls, the eldest about seven, he reckoned, the youngest little more than two. He thought of his own daughters and ached at the memory of feeling little arms clinging tightly around his neck. Hawise with her bounce of red curls and incessant chatter. Jonetta with her solemn, dark eyes and peeping smile. Their new brother, little more than a blanketed scrap in his arms when Fulke had bade his family farewell in Canterbury. Likely sitting up and crawling by now. And Maude. The thought of his wife sent a pang through him. She had borne the journey to Canterbury with stoicism even though she was not fit to travel. They had carried her on a litter and she had not complained. Not once, although he had seen the teeth marks in her lower lip where she had bitten down to avoid crying out. She had agreed with him that his leaving England for a while was for the best, had not clung and wept, but he had seen the effort it had taken and he was still haunted by the look in her eyes. He had sought oblivion in the bottom of a cup and in the brutal competition of the tourney field, but even through the drunkenness and the gut surge of the fight, he had remained aware. The longing, the bitterness, the frustration had only increased.

“But why to England?” Mador demanded, refilling Fulke’s cup and tilting more wine into his own. “What is there for you in England?”

Fulke’s eyelids tensed. “The rest of my life,” he said bleakly. “Or my death.”

Fulke opened his eyes. He had been dreaming that he was on the deck of the ship and for a moment fancied that he could still hear the roar of the ocean and see the green swell parting beneath the surge of the ship’s bows. The roar resolved itself into the surge of the wind through the trees of the Andreadswald and the green swell into the fluttering of new summer leaves. It was a little past dawn and the small clearing was filled with the smell of barley cakes sizzling in bacon fat as Richard turned them over a charcoal fire. Other members of the troop were grooming their mounts, breaking their fast, stretching their sleep-stiffened limbs.

Fulke rose and entered the trees to ease his bladder. It was two days since they had landed at a small cove along the Dover coastline. Sailing into the port itself would have been suicide for a Breton ship with outlaw passengers. They had spent the first night in a shepherd’s hut on the Downs and the next day buying horses before setting out for Canterbury. The pilgrim road would have been the quickest, but also the most populated and therefore dangerous. Instead, they took to the smaller tracks and the deep shelter of the forests. Yesterday Fulke had sent a messenger to Hubert Walter, and now they waited.

Returning to the fire, Fulke speared one of Richard‘s barley cakes on the point of his eating knife and blew on the crisp brown crust. The camp was strangely quiet and after a moment he realized why.

“Where’s Will?” he demanded. “And where are Alain and Ivo?”

Richard kept his eyes on the greased frying pan as if it was of great fascination. “They went hunting.”

“Hunting?” Fulke said sharply. “Where?”

Richard looked uncomfortable. “They did not say—just that they would bring some meat for the fire.”

Fulke cursed beneath his breath. Meat for the fire might mean hare, deer, or coney from a wild warren. It might also mean supplies from a raided barn—a risk they could not afford. “Why did you not rouse me?”

“They said to let you sleep, that they would be back soon.”

“And you did as they bade you. Christ, have you no judgment of your own!” He glared at Richard, exasperated but knowing he should have expected as much. Richard was a follower, not a leader, and William’s character could be overbearing.

“Fulke, it’s nothing. They’ve gone hunting. They’ll be back before we’ve struck camp.” Richard’s brow furrowed. “You take too much of a burden on your shoulders.”

“Because others have no notion of responsibility.” He ate the barley cake without tasting it and gave orders for the camp to be dismantled, one ear cocked for the sound of returning hoofbeats. Perhaps he was jumping at shadows that did not exist. What bedeviled him was knowing that the control was out of his hands and all he could do was wait.

Richard was preparing to kick out the fire and Fulke was cinching his saddle girth when they heard muffled hoof beats and the jingle of harness. Fulke turned to the sound, and even though he knew the guards he had posted would not let an enemy through, long instinct drew his hand to the hilt of his sword.

The colors of horses flickered through the leaf dapple: oak brown, copper chestnut, and autumn-leaf dun. Harness winked in a flash of sunlight. So did armor and the tips of spears. Fulke drew his sword and his heart began to pound. Perhaps the guards had been ambushed and unable to sound a warning. He grabbed his shield from the tree against which it was leaning and signaled his men to draw their weapons.

The first riders into the clearing were two knights wearing plain surcoats of blue linen over their mail. The one on the near side wore an open face helm that revealed a portion of his narrow, handsome features.

“Jean?” With relief and pleasure, Fulke sheathed his sword.

“Never mind me, what about greeting your wife?” Jean twisted in the saddle to indicate the other riders.

Fulke followed Jean’s pointing finger to the small chestnut cob in the midst of the soldiers and the figure on its back. It was not obviously a woman on first glance, for a brown, hooded cloak covered all overt signs of gender, but once his attention was fixed, he did not know how he could have been so blind.

“Maude!” Breathing the name, he strode to her. She kicked her feet free of the stirrups and came down into his arms, and for a moment the world went away as he embraced her, his nose filling with the sweet herbal scent that she used to perfume her clothes. Sage and lavender and bergamot. The curves of her body, the pale sea-green of her eyes beckoning him to drown as they filled with tears.

A throat was loudly cleared and a voice said wryly, “Delighted though I am to see such marital harmony, the conception of your fourth child should be a private matter, FitzWarin.”

Maude blushed. Fulke released her and turned to bend his knee to Hubert Walter. The Archbishop was watching them from the back of his dappled mule with benign good humor.

“Your Grace,” Fulke said.

“Get up. You can’t help me from this nag in that position.”

Fulke hastened to aid Hubert from the mule. The saddlecloth was emperor purple, stitched with small crosses in thread of gold and must have cost a fortune. Hubert was wearing plain robes by his standards, with only a bare trimming of metallic braid and embroidery. He had always been a robust man, fond of his food but muscular beneath the flesh. Now the muscle tone was sagging and the flesh was taking rapid command. Hubert’s breathing was stertorous as he flicked dust from his robes and leaned on his staff.

“Your children are safe at my manor of Mailing,” Hubert wheezed. “I thought it best to leave them there for now. No one will dare to touch them under my roof and, as Maude can attest, they are all flourishing.”

Fulke nodded. His cup would have run over if he could have seen them now, but he knew the limitations as well as Hubert. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Hawise made this for you.” Maude produced a plaited loop of brightly colored scraps of wool. Attached to it was a wooden cross fashioned of two oak twigs, the pieces bound together with strands of strong, red hair. “She says you’re to wear it around your neck.”

“Made me bless it too,” Hubert said gruffly. “She has your will of iron.”

“She has mine,” Maude contradicted. “Fulke is merely stubborn.” There was a tremor in her voice.

Fulke swallowed the lump that came to his throat as he placed the offering around his neck. “For this, if nothing else, I have to make my peace with John,” he said and, cradling the cross, looked at Hubert. “Do you have tidings?”

Leaning on his staff, Hubert walked heavily to a nearby tree trunk and sat down in ponderous stages. “My knees,” he said ruefully. Rubbing them, he gave Fulke a somber look. “The King says that if you come to him at Westminster and lay down your arms in surrender, he will deal with you leniently. If you continue to play the outlaw, then he will hunt you down like a wolf in the forest.”

“How leniently?” Fulke demanded.

Hubert Walter screwed up his face. “He would not be drawn, but both Salisbury and Chester believe that he can be brought to see sense in restoring Whittington to you—as do I.”

“So, he has not been brought yet.”

“No, but he will.”

“You were confident that my father would have Whittington too,” Fulke said bitterly. “You were confident that you would make a truce of Philip of France and it came to naught.”

Hubert Walter gave an exasperated sigh. “And for that reason the King needs you as much as you need his pardon. Both of you must compromise.” Leaning forward, he emphasized the “must” with a thump of his staff.

Fulke tightened his jaw. “I will surrender to him, but I will not compromise on Whittington. That remains immovable. It was the reason I turned outlaw. Let him give me what is rightly mine and I will serve him to the best of my ability all of my days. If not…” He shrugged and glanced down at the crude little cross between his fingers. “If not, then what hope do either of us have? It’s nigh on twenty years since he struck me with a chessboard and I rattled his skull against the wall in recompense. In God’s name, Hubert, you must find an end to this for all our sakes.”

“That is what I am trying to do.” Hubert pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you will but attend the King at Westminster, I will guarantee your safety. So will William of Salisbury and Ranulf of Chester.”

Fulke frowned. He had lived so long without trusting that it was difficult to grasp an olive branch without fearing that it might turn into a snake.

“None of the other barons will lay a finger on you because while you might be a vicious thorn in John’s side, you are not a threat to them. Indeed,” Hubert added with bleak humor, “many of them sympathize with you. You are striking a blow for their interests as well as your own. The King cannot touch you lest it be with his hired men and you have proven yourself twice the worth of them. John needs you.”

“I will come,” Fulke said after a long pause. “But only with my full complement of men and an escort provided by my guarantors.”

“As you wish.”

Fulke tensed at the soothing note in Hubert Walter’s tone. The Archbishop was a renowned diplomat and statesman, a manager and manipulator of men. It was one of the reasons he was so favored by John. But behind Hubert the diplomat, Hubert the politician and Hubert the Archbishop, lay Hubert the brother of Theobald Walter. Fulke latched on to the thought.

“I doubt you can give me ‘whatever I wish,’” he said with a grim smile, “but I do thank you for what you have done…for keeping my wife and children safe.” He squeezed Maude’s waist.

“I could do no less for my brother’s memory, and even an Archbishop must have a conscience tucked somewhere about him.” Hubert heaved to his feet. “I leave it to you to escort your wife back to Mailing. Jean will travel with you as my representative.”

Fulke inclined his head. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Kneeling, Fulke kissed the Archbishop’s sapphire ring of office, then rose as a knight brought forward Hubert’s glossy, dappled mule.

Hubert rode away, his escort following, all save Jean de Rampaigne, who clasped Fulke’s arm and slapped him on the back before going to greet Richard and Philip.

Fulke drew Maude into his arms again and rubbed his stubbled cheek against the tender softness of hers. “I dare not hope,” he said. “I shut the faintest glimmer from my mind lest it be no more than a false dawn. We have had too many of them, too many broken promises for me to lower my shield.”

At the sound of horses crashing through the undergrowth, he snatched his recently sheathed sword from the scabbard. Maude clutched his arm in a reflexive gesture but recovered herself and stepped back, leaving him room to move.

Ivo burst into the clearing at a ragged canter and slewed his lathered mount to a halt. Blood spidered from a deep cut on the back of his left hand. Behind him came Alain, his complexion the color of whey.

“Will!” Ivo panted, leaning over the pommel. “Will’s been taken!”

Fulke’s heart had been pounding hard in response to the threat of attack. Now it seemed to stop within him. He strode up to the horse and grabbed the bridle in his fist. “What do you mean he’s been taken?” he snarled.

A sheen of sweat glistened in the hollow of Ivo’s throat as he swallowed. “We were following a deer trail, thinking to bring down a hind, but we came upon a poacher instead, butchering his kill.”

“And?” Fulke’s tone was like quenched steel.

Ivo bared his teeth in anguish. “An ambush had been set for the poacher by the royal foresters, and we rode straight into it. They knew we were not legitimately in the forest, for we were not blowing our horns to tell of our presence and we were carrying bows. We should have run, but you know Will.”

Fulke needed little imagination to see the scene for himself. It would not occur to William to retreat. Always, someone more responsible had to haul him away by the collar and Ivo and Alain were not of that ilk. He was furious. At William. At the men who had taken him. At the whole Godforsaken mess of fate.

“They’ll hang him for a traitor,” Alain said hoarsely.

“You should have thought of that before you went adventuring,” Fulke said. His voice was husky with the effort of control, and he spoke softly because once he raised it, he knew that the sheer volume of frustration and rage would fell every tree in the wood.

He turned to the staring, dismayed men. “Saddle up,” he said with a terse sweep of his arm. “We’ll ride after them. Jean, will you do me the courtesy of returning my lady to Mailing?”

“No,” Maude declared as Jean began to nod in agreement. “I’m not returning without my husband.”

Fulke turned to her, his body as tense as a wound trebuchet. “I will come to you as soon as I can, I swear.”

Maude laughed bleakly. “If I had a penny for every time you have said those words to me, I would be the richest woman in the world. As it is, they beggar me!”

“Maude…” He held out his hand to her, not knowing if he intended to remonstrate or reconcile. “Don’t be awkward…”

She took a step away from him in what could be either a gesture of release or rejection. “Go,” she said with glittering eyes. “Go and save William from a bed of his own making, but remember, you make your own too, and this is the last time that I will lie in it and wait for you.”

Fulke heard the hammering of blood in his ears and felt tension build within him until every nerve and sinew was whining with the effort it took not to break loose and lash out. He could sense the men watching him, waiting to see how he dealt with a woman who spoke so boldly.

“Jean.” He almost strangled on the word.

The knight nudged his horse forward. “My lady, shall we go?” he said to Maude with polite neutrality.

With a narrow glare at Fulke, she stalked to her mare. Refusing the aid of a boost into the saddle from Philip, she swung astride with the ease of a squire and gathered up the reins. Then without looking round, she turned the palfrey and rode out.

For an instant, Fulke stared after her, then, exhaling harshly, strode to his own mount. “Come,” he said brusquely. “We are wasting time that we do not have.”

***

John had sat on the bench throughout the morning, presiding over the court sessions of the forest hundred with unwaning concentration. Richard’s love affair had been with the sword and the machinery of war—occupations that had drained the Angevin treasury to a husk. John’s fascination was with the judicial process. How it could make and break, how it could be applied to create revenue and bring order, and how, in his own case, it could be manipulated and side-stepped to further his will.