Elizabeth Chadwick (40 page)

While Alain sat on the guard, Fulke took the keys from the floor where they had fallen in the scuffle and unlocked the wrist shackles. These he secured around the guard’s ankles.

“I knew you would come,” William said with relief. “I knew you would.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you had shown more sense in the first place,” Fulke snapped. “Are you fit to travel?” The sight of his brother’s bruised and battered visage filled him with fury at the perpetrators and worry at William’s physical condition.

“Fit or not, I’ll endure,” A fierce grin split William’s injured lip so that it began to trickle with blood. “Can you imagine John’s face when he finds out that you’ve broken me from his clutches?”

“Is that all it is to you? Another daring escapade?” Fulke glared at William. “Another deed to show that I can run rings around John if I choose?”

William reddened “I—”

“Christ, Will, you speak like a child, not a grown man. It is time that you discovered responsibility.”

“I don’t need lectures from you,” William snarled.

“God alone knows what you do need then. You said you knew I would come. Perhaps I should have left you to stew!”

“Go on then!” William made a vigorous throwing gesture, exposing a chafed ring of skin on his wrist. “Leave me. Let John hang me and then you won’t have to bother!”

“This isn’t the time to quarrel,” Alain pleaded urgently. “We shouldn’t delay.”

With an effort, Fulke swallowed the anger, frustration, and relief that were roiling within him and nodded brusquely. “You’re right, of course,” he said. He looked at William, at the glitter in the other man’s eyes, at the red flush of pride and chagrin on either cheekbone. “Come here.” He set his arm around William’s shoulders and engulfed him in a hard hug. William hesitated briefly and then responded, his hands gripping Fulke’s grimy tunic until the knuckles showed white. A stifled sob wrenched in his throat.

“Enough,” Fulke said, his own voice ragged. “It’s a long road home.”

***

It was a full hour before the alarm was raised. At first, the gate guards paid no attention when they saw that the stool outside the prisoner’s hut was empty. Since the kitchens were close by, they thought their companion had slipped away to eat and drink, or perhaps to relieve himself. By the time they did go to investigate, it was too late and their quarry long gone. John returned from his hunt in a jovial mood. They had brought down a ten-point stag after a fierce chase. Two hounds had been killed, but not favorite ones and they were easily replaced. The other dogs had been rewarded by the deer’s heart and liver and entrails, steaming and red from the slit body cavity. John was flicking bits of broken twig from his mount’s mane and animatedly discussing the day’s sport with Salisbury as they rode into the courtyard.

“The best chase in a long while,” he said. “I thought he was going to evade us in that thicket.”

Salisbury murmured agreement, his manner slightly preoccupied. He looked rapidly around the compound and rubbed the back of his neck.

A groom came to take the horse, and John swung down from the saddle with exuberance. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. A flagon of wine chilled in the well and a game of dice would occupy him before the dinner hour, and afterward, there was the prospect of hunting more tender prey among the women who had accompanied the court to the hunting lodge.

It was not until he entered the long hall that he realized something was amiss. Two knights hovered near the threshold, looking miserable. A serjeant was on his knees, head bowed in more than just deference. John knew abject fear when he saw it and some of his pleasure evaporated.

“You have something to say, Jacques?” he asked the more senior knight who had been in his service for several years.

The man swallowed and looked at the floor. “Sire, William FitzWarin has escaped.”

John stared. “What?”

In hesitant detail, the knight told him what had happened, now and then asking the sergeant to corroborate.

“A charcoal burner?” John’s complexion whitened. In his mind’s eye, he saw the ragged individual standing at the side of the road. He heard the shout and saw himself casting a silver brooch to the bastard.

“We saw no harm in him. Who searches a charcoal burner, especially when he is expected?”

“The whoreson,” John whispered. “The stinking, gutter-begotten, leprous whoreson!” Shoving the knight aside, kicking the sergeant in the ribs so that the kneeling man lost his balance and fell, John strode down the hall. Rage made tiny spots dance before his eyes. His chest rose and fell so rapidly that soon it became hard to breathe and he staggered. Checkmate. It was checkmate. Once more, he had been punched in his royal dignity.

Salisbury caught his arm and drew him to a bench. A snap of his fingers summoned wine. “Now you see why you need him fighting for you, not against you,” he said vehemently. “Think of the damage he could do to the French. It’s not as if he has lands in Normandy to safeguard. He would be as good as, if not better than, your mercenaries.”

Salisbury pressed a goblet into the King’s hand. John set his lips to the cool silver-gilt rim and gulped the rich, dark Burgundy. Sometimes he had a fancy that he was drinking his own blood.

“John?” Salisbury leaned over him.

He opened his eyes and gazed at his brother. “Very well,” he said and drained the wine to the sediment. “Let FitzWarin be pardoned for his crimes against me and let his lands be reinstated. But I do this for love of you, Will, not for love of FitzWarin.”

The look of delight in Salisbury’s eyes made John want to kick him. The words were out, but never had he wanted to revoke them more because it was admitting defeat. Even knowing that FitzWarin would have to kneel before him in surrender was no consolation. He raised his hand as Salisbury’s joy prepared to translate itself in speech. “Do not say anything else. You have pushed me to drink from a cup I would rather abjure. Do not make me renege on my acceptance.”

Salisbury’s face fell. “But you will sign a safe conduct if I have the scribes write it?”

John rose to his feet. “What’s wrong, Will, don’t you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Either you’re a fool, or you’re lying.” The expression on Salisbury’s face immediately filled John with guilt and a fresh spurt of anger. “Oh, do what you will, you purblind fool,” he snarled. “Write what you want and I’ll put my seal to it.” Snatching the flagon from the squire, he stalked away in the direction of his private chamber.

Salisbury bit his lip and stared after him. He even took several paces forward, then stopped. Turning on his heel, he gave orders to the scribes, then went in search of reliable witnesses.

It was late dusk when the raiding party arrived at Mailing. The Archbishop’s manor was smugly prosperous, with tile shingles on the roof instead of thatch or wood and a frame of seasoned oak. The honey-scented glow of beeswax candles beckoned from the open shutters, as did an appetizing savory aroma.

As the horses clattered into the yard and the men began dismounting, the manor’s heavy, iron-studded door swung open. There was a sudden blur of motion and a little girl with a sheaf of hair like red silk shot down the wedge of light and launched herself at Fulke.

“Papa, Papa!” she shrieked.

Fulke grunted as the child struck his thighs with what seemed like the weight of a small pony. Stooping, he swung her up into his arms and the cool, silky tips of her hair whipped his face. He did not have the heart to scold her for running in among so many horses. Lessons could come later. The clutch of her arms almost choked him but he didn’t care.

“Mama said Uncle Will had got into trouble again and you had to rescue him.”

“Well, I did, and now I’m here,” Fulke said, studiously avoiding William’s gaze. There were not enough grooms and each man was taking care of his own horse. Without a word, William took Fulke’s and led it away with his own.

“Are you going to stay forever and ever?”

Fulke winced. He could not risk staying at Mailing above a couple of days. The hunt would be on again with a vengeance and he could not afford to abuse Hubert Walter’s hospitality. “No one can stay in a place forever, sweetheart,” he fenced. “I am here now. That is what matters. Now, where’s your mother?”

Maude appeared in the doorway. Her right hand held Jonetta’s, keeping the infant from toddling after her sister, and her left cradled the baby. Her expression was impassive, but when Fulke strode over, the mask crumbled and her face contorted as she struggled not to weep in front of her children.

“You have William safe?” Her voice wobbled.

He nodded. “No harm to any of us. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I had to go.”

“I know you did. I’m…I’m sorry for what I said. But I meant it,” she added fiercely, “every word. I cannot bear to dwell in this living widowhood.” Then she was in his arms and they were embracing awkwardly, around their children. Need burned up in Fulke, stronger than love, more powerful than just desire. Had they been alone he would have taken her straight to bed and submerged himself. As it was, because of duty and propriety and external concerns, he drew away with a shuddering gasp and wiped his eyes on the cuff of his gambeson. Maude looked at him with luminous eyes, her complexion flushed and her breathing swift.

Hawise tugged at his chausses, demanding attention. He squeezed her plump little hand and, drawing another deep breath, bade her lead him inside the manor like the grownup girl she was.

The main room had a central hearth with enough space for two cauldrons and a griddle. Oak benches were neatly arranged around the perimeter of the chamber and the walls were decorated with bright embroideries, the colors overlaid by a patina of red and gold light from candle flame and hearth fire. He felt the sense of domestic order and neatness flow over him, bringing with it a powerful evocation of nostalgia. He was like a traveler returning to something that he had once experienced and loved, knowing that he could not stay.

His absorption in the hall’s atmosphere was disturbed by the arrival of another child, a cup of wine carried carefully in her hands. She had ash-brown hair divided into two neat, glossy braids, wide-set gray-gold eyes, and a sweet expression. Dipping him a respectful curtsey without spilling a drop, she presented him with the cup.

Fulke accepted it from her with a word of thanks and a puzzled look at Maude who was watching the girl with affection.

“This is Clarice d’Auberville, the Archbishop’s ward,” she said. “She became part of our household in Canterbury before Hubert brought us to Mailing, and I hope he will let her stay, since she is kin of a sort.”

Fulke raised his brows.

“Her father was related to Theo.”

Fulke looked at the girl and she looked gravely back. There was a slight resemblance to Theobald in the eyes and in the proportions of brow and nose. What a strange, serious little creature, he thought. In responding to one of his daughters, he would have crouched to be on a level with them or lifted them to his own height, but beneath the quizzical restraint of Clarice’s stare, he did neither.

“I am pleased to greet you, child,” he said formally and took a drink of the wine.

She dipped another curtsey and folded her hands demurely. “My lord.” Her voice was small but clear, acknowledging him with deference. Fulke almost spluttered. It was too much.

“Clarice, perhaps you could help fill more cups with wine,” Maude said. “We are to have a houseful tonight and I’ll need your help.”

Fulke gazed in bewilderment as Clarice murmured assent and walked with brisk decorum to the oak sideboard to begin arranging cups.

“Jesu,” he said. “I don’t know whether to pity or envy her future husband. How old is she?”

“Nearly nine years old.”

“She acts more like a grandmother!”

Maude smiled. “She does have a way about her,” she admitted, “but you’ll find it impossible not to grow fond. Hawise adores her.”

The noise and flurry of men entering the hall behind them curtailed all further conversation. Maude greeted William with a cool kiss on the cheek and words of welcome that were slightly forced. If William noticed, he kept it to himself. So did Fulke. Maude went to take command of organizing food and sleeping places for Fulke’s men, and Gracia whisked Jonetta and the baby away to bed. For a moment, Fulke stood like an island amid the chaos and bustle.

“Do you want some more wine?”

He looked down. Clarice was offering him a fresh cup while reaching to take the empty one from him.

Fulke laughed. “Child, you will make me as drunk as a May reveler,” he said, but took her offering rather than slight her.

She fixed him with that solemn gaze. It was almost like being scrutinized by a nun or a stern maternal aunt and he had to struggle not to laugh at the incongruity. Christ alone knew what she would be like when she was an adult. “I did but jest,” he added kindly. “You are being helpful.”

“I like to help.” She accepted the compliment as her due and, taking his empty cup, wove her way through the throng back to the sideboard. Thoroughly diverted, Fulke gazed after her until Hawise, who had not been put to bed with the others, yanked at the hem of his tunic. “Pick me up,” she demanded. “I can’t see.” Fulke scooped her into his arms and perched her on his shoulders. “High enough?”

She giggled and pulled his hair and the ghost of loneliness evaporated.

***

“How long?” Maude’s voice was a whisper. She and Fulke had retired to the curtained alcove of their bedchamber. Beyond the heavy woolen hanging, the floor was occupied by the pallets of sleeping men, servants, and children. There was scarce an inch of free space in the entire manor and she knew that everyone had needle-sharp hearing. “How long do we have?”

Fulke was sitting on the bed. He had earlier removed the ragged clothes of the charcoal burner and with a grimace she had set the garments aside to be cut up and put in the latrine for arse wipes. They were useful for nothing else. He had washed the charcoal dust from his body in the horse trough. “How long?” he repeated as he removed his clean tunic and shirt. Despite his ablutions, the smell of smoke and a tang of sweat still clung.

She could tell that he was hedging for time and that, therefore, the reply was not good. Not that she expected it to be. He had trespassed at the King’s hunting lodge; he had broken William free and in doing so run yet another ring around John. “Tonight? Tomorrow night? Next week?”

He rubbed his palms over his face. She looked at his hands and remembered the jolt they had sent through her at the time of her marriage to Theobald. She had fallen in love with Fulke on her wedding morn, had danced on the gossamer lines of a web, and now she was stuck fast.

“Sooner rather than later,” he said. “I dare not risk antagonizing Archbishop Hubert. This is a sanctuary for you and the children, not for me.”

“Then it is no sanctuary at all.” She unlaced the thongs fastening her shoes and pushed the latter off her feet, resisting the urge to throw them. “I cannot bear it.” Foolish words. She had to bear it because there was no other solution. She might be able to run through the woods after him, up hill and down dale, but the children could not, and they were what mattered.

She met his eyes and her breathing quickened. “Would you give up Whittington for me and your offspring?” she asked. “Would you surrender one thing in order to have the rest?”

“My principles and pride, six years of my struggle and fifty of my family’s?” His voice was neutral, but she was not fooled.

“Is it worth it?”

“That depends on the value of honor. Dross or gold.”

“So, your honor is priceless and because of it your life is dross?”

“Because of it, my life is honorable,” he said. “Without it,
I
would be dross.”

“Then there is no more to be said.” Maude bit her lip, tears of frustration filling her eyes. She knew that if she asked him outright to yield, if she pleaded and wept, he might do so for her sake, but it would be a hollow victory. As he had just said, he would feel diminished in his own eyes. He would grow to resent her for making him yield against his will. If she damned his honor, then she damned him. Yet the alternative of a life in exile, seldom together, always listening for pursuit, was just as unpalatable.

Tomorrow he would go. All they had of each other was tonight and she did not want to waste it in recriminations and quarreling, each of them chasing their own tails to nowhere.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her throat ached with the effort of containing her grief. She fumbled with the side lacings of her gown, catching the waxed ends on the eyelets. Fulke laid his hand over hers.

“If I could do it, I would,” he said.

“I know,” she choked. “Don’t speak.”

The lace knotted and she could not see through her tears to unravel it. Fulke tried but his hands were trembling, and in the end he had to cut the cord with his knife. Maude struggled out of the gown, no mean feat given the yards of material in the skirt and the small space of the alcove. Flushed, panting, tearful, she knelt on the bed and faced him, drinking in his scent and filling her eyes with his harsh, masculine beauty. She was parched with wanting, yet knew that to drink from the cup was only to want more and to be denied. Setting her hands to the hem of her chemise, she pulled that off too, and in the beat of heart and breath while discipline still held, she unfastened her braids and shook them out, clothing herself in the ashen silk of her hair.

“Holy Christ,” Fulke said softly. He reached out to touch its sheen, then brushed it gently aside so that his hand was on her skin. Her throat, her shoulder, her breast. Maude gasped. She met his eyes, saw the heaviness of desire and the effort of control. But tonight it didn’t matter. Not the first time.

She pushed his hand aside and threw her arms around his neck, carrying them body to body on the bed. “Now,” she demanded fiercely, “take me now.”

It was almost an echo of their wedding night: the enclosed space giving the illusion of privacy; the proximity of others that lent the intensity of silence to their lovemaking; and the knowledge of the danger in which they stood increasing an urgency already built by months apart. It was a white-hot conflagration, swift, profound, and shattering.

Washed up on the shore, lapped by small after-ripples of sensation, they lay half-drowned in each other’s arms, gasping like swimmers newly surfaced from a wild tide. She pressed herself against the damp, salt taste of his body, unwilling to relinquish her hold, her craving only increased by the momentary satiation. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, the thunder of his heart like galloping horses; her own beat hard in rhythm. Tonight was all they had, and the memory might have to sustain her for a long time.

Their second lovemaking was slow and languorous, like the gentle curling of surf on the beach, and afterward they slept shoaled together, surfacing again somewhere near dawn to join again in the poignancy of need and pleasure on the verge of parting.

They lay in the aftermath, reluctant to rise, drawing the closeness out to the very last grain. The sound of voices came to them through the curtains. A whispered argument was being conducted as to whether they should be roused or not.

Fulke made to part the curtains. Maude stopped his arm with an instinctive motion, and then withdrew its restraint. Time, unlike wine, could not be sealed up in a flagon and kept, much as she wished it could. Sighing, she sat up, reaching in the dark for her chemise.

Fulke opened the hangings a chink. “What is it?” he said brusquely. “If it’s petty, I will kill you. If not, then you are wasting time.”

Philip and William exchanged glances. The latter’s face wore the colorful hues of the beating he had received at the hands of his captors and he stood slightly hunched, favoring his kicked ribs.

“The watch has sighted riders approaching,” he announced. “Philip said it wasn’t an army and not to disturb you, but I said you needed to know.”

“Banners?”

“Salisbury and Chester.”

“Admit them. I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed.”

William gave Philip a triumphant look, which Philip accepted with a smile. “Perhaps you’re learning at last,” he said, and received a two-fingered salute by way of reply.

Fulke closed the bed curtains and reached for his shirt.

“I heard,” Maude said over her shoulder. She was rummaging in a narrow clothing coffer that had been squeezed between the foot of the bed and the wall. There were folded garments within, layered with dried rose petals and sticks of cinnamon bark. She withdrew a gown of green linen with deep side gores. The dye was beginning to fade slightly in the creases, but it was suitably decent to greet a couple of earls—certainly better now than the one she had worn last night. God knew where she was going to house Salisbury and Chester. Mailing was already stuffed to the seams. “What do you think they want?”