Elizabeth Chadwick (41 page)

Fulke shrugged. “Could be rags, could be riches. Let’s go and find out.”

Salisbury and Chester were in the great hall. Clarice had seen to their refreshment as attested by the fact that both men held brimming cups of wine and were looking with bemusement at the grave, sweet-faced child who was now inquiring as to the merits of their journey.

“Not one of yours, Fulke?” asked Salisbury as the men clasped hands and Maude gently directed Clarice to go and look after the other children, channeling the girl’s nurturing instincts in a different direction.

“How did you guess? No, Maude’s fostering her at the moment. She’s related to the Archbishop.”

“She’ll make someone a formidable wife.”

“Yes, it’s frightening.” Fulke smiled for form’s sake, but his eyes were wary. Although the social formalities were being observed, this was far from a social visit. Maude returned and, taking the place of the juvenile hostess, ushered the men to a quieter corner of the hall where a cushioned bench and two chairs were arranged around a brazier.

“I suppose you are here as a result of what happened yesterday?” Fulke asked.

Salisbury cleared his throat. “It would be foolish to pretend otherwise.” He crossed his legs and stared at the embroidery down the mid-seam of his shoe. “My brother has authorized myself and Ranulf to seek you out and offer you terms.”

Fulke’s heart jumped. Behind him, he was aware of Maude’s utter stillness. “Terms.” He nodded and bit the inside of his mouth. “What sort of terms?”

“Yield to John, acknowledge him your liege lord and he will restore your lands.”

“Including Whittington?” Fulke raised one eyebrow and was unable to prevent the note of disbelief in his voice.

“Including Whittington. I have his word on it.”

“I am sorry, my lord, but the King’s word is not enough.”

Salisbury flushed. “You cannot blame him for imprisoning your brother. Anyone in John’s position would have done the same with such an opportunity.”

“Mayhap they would, but that does not alter the fact that I would not trust John further than I could throw him.”

Sighing, Salisbury delved into the satchel at his shoulder and produced a sealed scroll. “I have here a safe conduct from the King for you, your brothers, and all your men so that you may come to Westminster with impunity and make your peace. It is witnessed by myself and Ranulf and the Bishop of Norwich.” He held the scroll out for Fulke to take. “John’s as weary of this conflict as you. He acknowledges that there has to be an end.”

Fulke took the scroll and broke the seal. “A pity he did not acknowledge it six years ago,” he said grimly and unrolled the vellum to look at the neat brown script of one of John’s army of professional scribes. “Is this the only copy?”

“John de Gray has sent a copy to Norwich and one to the Chancellor,” Ranulf said. “You might not trust the King, but you can trust his intent this time. He needs your loyalty.”

Fulke smiled without humor. “He could have had that six years ago too.” He wafted the scroll at the two earls. “Then it was just me. Men were scrambling over each other to please the new King, offering him all kinds of bribes for favors. Selling their souls. Now there is more discontent. John is losing Normandy. He is, some say, losing his grip on England. I do not believe it, but I know there is a cauldron of discontent.” He leaned forward to emphasize his point. “All it takes is someone like me to give it a more vigorous stir—mayhap inveigle my father-by-marriage and the northern barons into a revolt, draw in the Scots and the Welsh, and John would have a full domestic war on his hands. I may be a minor cog, but it is the minor ones that turn the larger ones, that turn the mill wheel and grind the corn…for better or worse.”

“You will not get a better offer,” Salisbury said stiffly.

“Oh, I know, my lord, I know. And I do not pretend to have the luxury of the upper hand, but still, there is sweetness amongst the bitter in having two earls bring me the King’s terms in person.” Rising to his feet, he went to Maude and handed her the letter. “Our son’s inheritance and our daughters’ dowries,” he said to her.

“Then you accept?” Salisbury asked.

Fulke set his arm around Maude’s shoulders. “You may tell the King that I will come to London and surrender to him as he requires.” He looked at the two men. “You can also tell him: stalemate. He will know what you mean.”

***

The summer sky was a deep manuscript-blue, reflecting in the River Thames as it wound past the palace and abbey in a glittering ribbon toward the city further downstream. Fulke gazed out on a traffic of galleys, cogs, and rowing boats; swans, cormorants, and restless geese. It was said that the geese laid their eggs at sea and so, being related to fish, could be eaten on Fridays with impunity.

Fulke inhaled deeply. Watching the geese, pondering on their mating habits was, he knew, procrastination. Before him, the palace of Westminster waited, and within it, like the beast in its lair, was John.

It had been sixteen years since Fulke’s last visit to Westminster. Then he had been a youth of nineteen, the glamour of knighthood veiling his eyes. He had watched as a king was crowned, had received the blow of accolade in the chapel, had encountered a little girl in a disheveled blue dress, her eyes brimming with indignation, never thinking that one day she would be the mother of his children. And before that he had played chess with a drunken, vindictive braggart who was now a king.

“Are you ready?” Salisbury asked.

“As ready as I will ever be,” he said, and received a reassuring thump on the shoulder from Ranulf of Chester.

“On the morrow you can go home to Whittington or Lambourn or Alberbury—wherever you choose,” said the earl at whose town house on the river strand Fulke and his family were lodging.

Fulke unconsciously grimaced at the prospect of yielding to John. The only consolation was that, in his turn, John would have to yield to him and grant him Whittington—the reason for, if not the root, of the quarrel.

Fulke and his men had donned their finest garments. Fulke wore his mail, burnished until the steel glittered as if it was fresh from the armorer’s workshop, and over it his surcoat of red and white silk appliquéd with the FitzWarin indents. His brothers were all similarly accoutered. They looked professional and formidable, as was Fulke’s intention.

The marks of violence on William’s face had faded to background hues of pale yellow and muddy purple. He gave Fulke a tight smile. “One last time pays for all,” he said quietly so that the words did not carry beyond the space between himself and Fulke. “And if he reneges on his promise, you will not stop me from killing him.”

Fulke looked at him sidelong. Salisbury had custody of Fulke’s sword, which was to be given to John in token of surrender. None of Fulke’s men had so much as an eating knife on show, but he knew quite well that William had a blade concealed inside his boot. “No, I will not stop you,” he said. “I promise.”

Salisbury led them into the Rufus Hall where John was holding court. The room, despite its great size, was packed with officials, administrators, courtiers, supplicants, and servants: a seethe of humanity all drawn here at the will of the stocky, dark-haired man seated on the throne at the far end. Fulke was put in mind of a nest of ants. There was that same sense of purpose and industry. Despite his antipathy, Fulke was impressed, but there were too many dark memories for comfort. The chess game in that winter’s dusk; the confrontation at Castle Baldwin when, in front of the entire court, John had given Whittington to Morys FitzRoger. Although Fulke was here under the guarantee of a safe conduct, he did not trust John.

Salisbury sent his herald to announce their arrival to the King. John dipped his head to listen to the messenger, then sat upright and stared down the hall, his hands resting on the lion’s head finials on the arms of the throne.

Fulke met John’s gaze. From a distance, he could not see what the eyes held. Hatred, resignation, weariness? Or perhaps, like his own, distaste and a desire to have the episode finished. Time to turn a new page, even if the awareness remained that a previous page existed.

John crooked his forefinger and beckoned. Fulke drew himself up and, Salisbury on his right, Chester on his left, walked down the hall, followed by his men. All he saw was John, although he knew at the back of his mind that a corridor of officials and courtiers watched his progress. They were a blur. The only items in sharp focus were the throne and the man seated upon it. John, by the Grace of God, King of England, lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou. He was not wearing his crown, and as Fulke drew closer, he saw that the once black hair was salted with gray and lines of care were beginning to deepen between nose and mouth.

Reaching the foot of the dais, Fulke paused. Salisbury and Chester both knelt. Fulke drew a deep breath like a man about to dive into deep water, and then knelt beside them, bowing his head, exposing his neck to the symbolic blow of the sword. Behind him, he heard the rustle of cloth, the clink of mail as his brothers and his men followed suit. And then he waited, his gaze upon the thickly strewn rushes and the fresh herbs that had been scattered upon them to add perfume and sweetness.

The silence stretched as John drew it out. Fulke forced himself to relax, to clench neither his fists nor his jaw. He could feel William’s tension, strung like the rawhide on a mangonel pulley.

Mercifully, Salisbury broke the moment. “Sire, I have brought Fulke FitzWarin into your presence so that he may surrender himself to your clemency and that you may give him the justice of his lands,” he said.

Salisbury must have been awake all night thinking up that clever turn of phrase, Fulke thought, still looking at the floor. He heard the whisper of fabric as John moved on the throne.

“Well then,” John said, the hint of a purr in his voice. “Let Fulke FitzWarin speak the words of surrender from his own lips.”

Fulke swallowed against a stubborn constriction in his throat. This was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do: submit to the man whose injustice had turned him outlaw. He raised his head and now looked straight at John. There was a waiting smile in the dark eyes, a smug curling of the lips. You bastard, Fulke thought, and a sudden spurt of anger broke through his calm. The knot in his throat vanished, and he lifted his voice so that it rang with strength and pride and men turned their heads.

“I, Fulke FitzWarin, do yield myself and my men unto the judgment of John, by the Grace of God King of England. I acknowledge him my liege lord and swear to serve him honorably to the best of my ability from this day forth. In token of my surrender, I yield to him my sword to break or restore as he will.”

William of Salisbury stepped forward and presented John with Fulke’s scabbarded sword, the leather cared for but worn, the sword grip bound with strips of overlapping buckskin.

John grasped the hilt and, rising to his feet, approached Fulke where he knelt at the head of his brothers and his men. The hair on Fulke’s nape prickled. He could sense William preparing to whip the concealed knife from his boot and launch himself at the King.

Slowly John drew the sword. Having been forged for Fulke, who was above two yards in height, it looked unwieldy in John’s hand. The shorter arms, the stocky body looked incongruous against the length of the blade and the deep handgrip.

“To break or restore,” John murmured, considering his reflection in the mirror gleam of the cherished steel. Salisbury made the smallest sound in his throat and John glanced briefly at his half brother. “The choice is mine.”

He held on to the moment, advancing at last to Fulke. “Some here would say that I should have given you Whittington when you first came to me, but I had already been asked by a man with a claim of common possession at least the equal of your claim to hereditary right.”

Fulke’s said nothing, determined not to rise to the bait and give John a way out. The ground, despite the cushioning of rushes, was hard beneath his knees. He willed William to hold his tongue and stay his hand.

“You have no reply?” John paused before Fulke, the sword raised.

“No, sire,” Fulke said impassively. “Unless you want me to repeat my oath of surrender. Each of us knows why the other is here.” He glanced around the hall, reminding John that the scene had witnesses. “And so does everyone else.”

John compressed his lips. “I wonder if they do,” he said. Abruptly, he gestured to Fulke. “Rise.”

Fulke almost staggered as his aching knees bore his weight. It was no mean feat to stand up in a mail shirt on legs numbed by kneeling.

“Gird on your sword.” John handed Fulke the belt and the weapon as if casting a crust to a beggar. Then he stalked to his throne and sat down. “Now come to me and kneel and do homage for your lands—including Whittington.”

Fulke’s heart was hammering. Suddenly his fingers seemed enormous and it was all he could do to latch the buckle of his sword belt and secure the scabbard lacings. Advancing to the throne, he knelt once more, his knees screaming protest, the long muscles of his thighs trembling with reaction. John leaned down and took Fulke’s hands in his. There was a moment when both men almost flinched from the touch, revulsion clear in every movement, but the clasp held. Once again Fulke raised his voice and in a loud voice proclaimed his homage to John. And John in his turn declared, although not as loudly, that he accepted Fulke’s homage and granted his entitlement to all his lands and specifically to Whittington.

John leaned further to give Fulke the kiss of peace. “And may it bring you naught but grief,” he whispered as his bearded lips brushed Fulke’s cheek.

Fulke rose and, stepping back, saluted the King. “Thank you, sire. Whatever you wish for me, may I return twofold as a loyal vassal.”

John made small chewing motions of his jaw. “You may go,” he said. “The Justiciar’s office will see to your needs.”

Fulke bowed again, deeply, then turned and walked from the King’s presence, his head held high and his hand on his sword hilt. He had given his surrender and his oath of fealty. John had restored his lands. Now they were bound in a pact, lord and vassal, and it seemed to Fulke that, like many an arranged marriage, the bride and groom had been forced into a match that neither desired, but which, out of duty, they would fulfill. It was, as he had said to Salisbury, stalemate.