Elizabeth Chadwick (46 page)

A woman screamed. Fulke drew his sword and pushed Collum behind him. Maude lowered her patient’s arm and groped on the trestle.

Everything became a sudden chaos of flashing weapons, battle cries, and savage motion. Fulke parried the blows launched at him, using his mail-clad body to shield the boy. In terror, Oonagh backed behind the trestles trying to keep them between her and the warrior who desired to run her through.

Blackbeard loomed, his teeth bared in a snarl. Fulke saw the ax blow descending and knew that even if he did manage to parry in time, it was useless against the cleaving power of the Dane ax. But instead of a heavy shearing edge separating his head from his body, there was a different singing in the air and a blur of motion. The bodkin head of a hunting arrow drove Blackbeard violently backward. The goose-feather shaft protruding from his mail shuddered once and stopped in tandem with the heart it had pierced. Blackbeard’s eyes were wide open from the shock of impact and they remained that way, glassy with death.

Fulke stared, then he turned his head and saw Maude in her archer’s stance. At ten paces, there had only been one outcome. Jean burst into the hall with several Docionell men and set upon the mercenaries who had broken through. There was a vigorous skirmish, sharp but short. Without the protection of his mighty bodyguard, Padraig O’Donnel was no match for Jean’s blade.

In the silence that followed the destructive whirlwind of battle, the boy knelt beside his uncle’s corpse and uncurled the fist from the hilt of the bloodied sword. “It’s mine,” he said as Fulke looked at him askance. “As it was my father’s.”

“Your father’s?”

“My uncle Padraig stole it from his body.”

Breathing hard, Fulke looked at the body of Padraig O’Donnel and pressed his hand to his ribs. His fingers came away red and sticky.

“It’s over,” the boy said, his voice filled with a new maturity despite its childish treble.

Maude pushed to Fulke’s side. “Let me see,” she said.

“What?” He looked at her nonplussed, thinking for a moment that she wanted a good look at the corpse.

“Your side, you’re bleeding again,” she said impatiently. “Let me look.”

“At least I know I am alive,” he said ruefully. “It is a good thing your aim is so true. I doubt you would have the skill to stitch my head back to my body.”

“Do not jest!” she snapped.

He swallowed. “Christ, if I did not, I would weep, and there’s too much to be done. Besides, there are others in worse case than me.” He indicated the surrounding bloody shambles. “Tend them first. I can wait.”

She clucked her tongue, but turned to the table and picked up a length of bandage. Although her hands were steady, she averted her head from the body of the black-bearded mercenary. Fulke issued a terse command and three soldiers bore the hulk from the room.

Oonagh came to look upon the corpse of her brother-in-law. “God rest his soul,” she said, making the sign of the Cross but speaking the words as if they were an insult. “Now perhaps I can celebrate my marriage as it should be celebrated.” Stepping delicately over the body, she went into Jean’s arms.

Whittington Castle, November 1214

On the feast of St. Andrew, Fulke’s daughter Hawise was betrothed to William, heir of neighboring Baron Robert Pantulf of Wem. The lands of FitzWarin and Pantulf marched side by side and the family had interests in common.

Hawise and William knew each other socially, although their contact had not been great thus far since William Pantulf was close to thirty years old, a handsome man of the world, and Hawise, although precocious, was not quite thirteen.

“Perhaps we should have had a wedding today instead of a betrothal,” said Robert Pantulf to Fulke as they watched the betrothed couple dance to the music of pipes and tabor in Whittington’s decorated great hall. He was an elderly man, beginning to stoop, but his eyes were full of life.

“Hawise is still too young.” Fulke shook his head and watched his daughter, an ache in his heart. It hardly seemed a moment since she was a small, curly-haired infant sitting in his lap and demanding his attention. Now she was practicing the steps of a mating dance with the man who would be her husband. Her hair, loose in token of her virginity, rippled like autumn leaves to her waist and she was wearing a laced gown the color of peacock feathers that showed the swell of developing breasts. She was caught in the narrow space between child and woman, innocence seeking knowledge and more enticing than she realized. The realization would be another step on the path.

“I was the same age as her when I was betrothed to Theo,” Maude said softly, joining the men and wrapping her arm around Fulke’s.

“As I said, too young to wed,” Fulke repeated. “She still has much growing to do before she is ready to be a wife.”

Pantulf smiled at Fulke. “Perhaps I detect a desire in you not to let her go?”

Fulke cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “She is my firstborn,” he said. “Of course it is hard.” He smiled ruefully, trying to lighten the moment. “Her little sister is only three years old and it seems not a moment since Hawise was that age.” He glanced at his youngest daughter. Mabile was sitting on Gracia’s knee, her little white-blond plaits braided with gold ribbon in honor of her sister’s betrothal. Mabile would never marry. He would always have one daughter at home, but that was tragedy, not a source of pleasure. Her birth had been difficult for she had been born feet first and it had been a long time before she breathed. At first she had seemed like any baby—perhaps a trifle more fractious, but as time passed, it became obvious that she was different.

Seated at a trestle beside their uncles William and Philip were Fulke’s two sons. Fulkin, a coltish, graceful ten, fair-haired and blue-eyed, and Ivo, conceived in Ireland, now seven, and dark like his sister Jonetta. For the moment, beneath the sharp gaze of the adults, they were behaving. “With boys it is different,” Fulke said. “They make your heart fierce with pride; they don’t melt it.”

“Aye,” Pantulf said gruffly and looked toward his son and heir. The two men watched the couple weave in the steps of the dance. William Pantulf moved with an athlete’s grace.

Fulke had seen him in the tiltyard and at swordplay. He handled himself well and, although lightly built, he knew how to make every stroke count. He also had patience and the ability to see humor in most situations—traits that were a necessity when it came to dealing with Hawise. His age had made Fulke pause for thought, but reflection had shown that although there were younger men aplenty, there were none he would trust with his daughter’s happiness and the control of the lands that were her marriage portion.

Pantulf gestured toward two dancing, giggling young women. “What about the other lass? Have you anyone in mind for her?”

“Which one? Oh, Jonetta. I’ve opened tentative negotiations with de Pembridge’s lad for her,” Fulke said. Jonetta sparkled like a dark jewel. By contrast, her companion looked drab, which was not really true. Clarice’s glow was softer and less easily seen from a distance.

“I forgot that the other one was your ward,” Pantulf said. “Had any offers for her?”

“One or two, but none that suited.” Fulke did not elaborate. Clarice, gentle, biddable Clarice, was twice as stubborn as either of his daughters. Hawise could be persuaded by flattery and attention, Jonetta by the promise of a new gown, little Mabile by the sticky bribe of a sugared plum. But nothing worked on Clarice. Neither threat nor cajolery, bribery nor bellowing. She did not wish to marry; she was happy as she was. Her proposed husband might be a paragon of manhood, but she did not want him. There had been no tears, no pleading, just an implacable determination. Since the offers in question had been merely good rather than excellent, it had been simpler for Fulke to abandon the issue.

“Aye.” Pantulf gave him a knowing smile. “While she stays unwed, her revenues are yours and you have an extra nursemaid and helpmeet for your household.”

“That is true.” Fulke nodded, thinking how good Clarice was with Mabile. “But I would not keep her from marriage deliberately. Rather it is her choice.”

“You give her a choice?”

“You do not know Clarice,” he said wryly. “My daughters can be contrary to the point where it is a wonder I have not torn my hair out by the roots, but with Clarice it is an art. You would not believe unless you saw.”

Pantulf raised his brows and looked with renewed interest on the unremarkable brown-haired girl swirling and turning with the other dancers.

“The strange thing about Clarice,” Fulke said, watching her too, “is that she has been an adult ever since she came to us—and that was as a child of barely eight years old. I can remember once when Maude and I were having an argument over something petty and she fixed us with a look that the sternest Mother Superior would have been hard pressed to duplicate. I felt about this tall.” He raised his thumb and forefinger in illustration.

Pantulf grinned. “Even more reason to find her a husband.”

Fulke shook his head. “I think,” he said, “that when the right man does appear, it will be Clarice who chooses him, not anyone else.”

“Papa, Papa, come and dance!” Hawise flourished up to him, her cheeks flushed with exertion and happiness, her peacock gown swirling. She tugged at his arm. “You’ve talked enough, come and dance!”

“Then again,” Fulke laughed to Pantulf, “perhaps I’m not strict enough with my womenfolk. You see how they order me about?”

“I see how they respond to you.” Robert Pantulf smiled. “God grant my son the same grace.”

***

“I am watching my children grow into adulthood,” Fulke said to Maude much later that night as they prepared for bed, “and I feel more than ever that I am standing in my father’s shoes.” His voice was a little slurred. You couldn’t drink good Rhenish wine all night and expect to keep a clear head. “I can remember when I was their age, and my father was mine.”

“You are feeling your years?” Maude looked teasingly at him. She was a little giddy herself. With a flick of her fingers she dismissed the maid and plumped down on the bed.

“I am feeling the passage of time.” He stooped to remove his shoes. “Yet everything seems to stand still. My father had no daughters for whom to provide betrothal celebrations, but I can remember Christmas feasts when we danced like that with relations and neighbors. I was one of the youngsters then, exhorting everyone to join the jigs and carols, and my father was the amused adult. Now we have changed places. Am I his ghost? Or is he mine?”

“You’re drunk,” Maude said, thinking that she was not so far off that condition herself. “First comes pleasure, then sadness.”

“Well, that’s true,” he said and cursed as his leg binding became knotted beneath the fumbling of his fingers. “I’m glad to see Hawise happy, I’m glad her marriage is settled, and I’m sad that I’m beginning to lose her. Already she looks to William Pantulf as if she draws her sustenance from him…”

Maude came and knelt before him to help with his leg binding. “That is as it should be,” she murmured.

“Yes, I know, and I’m glad of it, but it still cuts me like a knife.”

“You still have two more daughters.”

“Promise of more wounds. What sort of comfort is that?” He gave a broken laugh. “Jonetta will wed soon enough and Mabile…” He shook his head and swallowed.

“Oh, Fulke.” Maude unwrapped the second binding and moved up his body, pushing him back on the bed. She painted his face with the end of one of her braids and kissed him softly. “You still have a wife too. What sort of comfort is that?”

He threw his arms around her, enveloping her in a hug that almost crushed her ribs. “Where would I be without you?” he muttered.

“Likely in the hall with your brothers still drinking to old times,” she said flippantly, but stroked his hair with tender affection. In a moment, she would have to push him away so that she could breathe, but understanding his need, she pressed herself to him.

“Melusine,” he muttered, his breath sodden with wine fumes. In moments, he was snoring. Maude gently extricated herself, took a gasp of air, and looked at him in the faint flicker of the night candle. She thought he had been troubled of late, but it was more of an inkling on her part than anything he had said or done. Perhaps there were difficulties with the estates. Since returning from an expedition to Poitou with John in July, he had been poring over the accounts with his stewards and had been on several whirlwind visits to various FitzWarin manors. Occasionally he had been into Wales too. The cordiality that had existed between him and Llewelyn during the outlaw days had lost its robustness. They were polite with each other. Fulke had forgiven but not forgotten Llewelyn’s withdrawal of support and Llewelyn did not trust a marcher lord who had made his peace with John. Fulke was still a dangerous warrior, and some of the border lands were in dispute. Courteous but barbed words had been exchanged over the manor of Gorddwr, which had a FitzWarin tenant as lord over a settlement more than three-quarters Welsh.

Maude yawned. The morning would bring what it would bring. Perhaps drink had made her maudlin too, that and the realization that her eldest daughter was almost at an age to wed. And soon her sons would leave to begin their training in the household of Ranulf, Earl of Chester. First pages, then squires, then knights. But not yet, she comforted herself. There was still some small space of time to nestle her brood, and the glory was in seeing them fly and knowing that she had given them the wings to do so…all except Mabile, whose wings were of fragile, damaged gossamer. Everything came so slowly to Mabile and with great effort. At three, Hawise had chattered ceaselessly like a magpie from the moment she rose to the time she lay down to sleep. Mabile, however, had not even begun to grasp the intricacies of language. Sometimes, as if raging against her inability to communicate, the infant would throw spectacular screaming fits that were only comforted when she was held tightly and soothed like a swaddled infant. Most of the time she was silent. She would sit for hours, staring at images only she could see, and softly rocking herself to a heartbeat rhythm. It was eerie and disturbing to watch her. A heartbreakingly beautiful faery child, perfect and yet irrevocably flawed.

Maude found that she had been silently weeping and, knuckling the tears from her eyes, took herself to task. Curse the wine for exposing her vulnerable underside when she was always so careful to keep it hidden. She curled her body around Fulke’s insensible form, taking comfort from his solid warmth, and, closing her eyes, sought the panacea of sleep.

***

Next morning, nursing the remnants of a vile headache, Fulke wandered into the bailey and groaned as he saw his father-in-law riding into Whittington. Rain was threatening in the wind. The trees beyond the timber keep fluttered their final rags of color on winter-black branches. It was no day for travelers to be abroad, but Robert le Vavasour had always been contrary.

Fulke’s wolfhound bitch thrust her moist nose into his hand, seeking affection. He patted her head absently and watched le Vavasour dismount from a handsome bay cob—the sort of animal for long journeys when comfort was the requirement rather than hunting speed, or the fire and strength of a destrier. His father-in-law was dressed for a long journey, well bundled up in a thick cloak and hood, with tough, cowhide boots rather than the softer goatskin, and the leather well waxed against the weather. An escort of knights traveled with him, but not his domestic household. Not a social call then.

With a forced smile of welcome, Fulke went forward to greet le Vavasour. After all, he told himself, the old devil might finally have come to give him the manor of Edlington over which they had been in dispute for many years. It was supposed to be part of Maude’s dower, but le Vavasour insisted it wasn’t.

“Christ.” Le Vavasour’s gaze roved disparagingly over the timber battlements and walkways. “It always astonishes me that a man of your standing would turn outlaw for the sake of a place like this. Why don’t you build in stone? Surely it cannot be safe with the Welsh so close?”

Fulke abandoned the pretense of a smile. “Aside from the fact that stone costs money that I do not have,” he said curtly, “King John will not grant me permission to strengthen the fortifications.”

“A pity, but understandable.” A narrow, almost furtive look entered le Vavasour’s eyes. He pushed down his hood and stripped off his gauntlets. “Are you not going to invite me within?”

“Since you have ridden all this way to see me, it is the least I can do,” Fulke said dryly. “A pity you did not arrive yesterday. You could have celebrated your eldest granddaughter’s betrothal to William Pantulf of Wem.”

“I might have done if I’d been invited,” le Vavasour growled.

“It’s only a betrothal, not a wedding. We would not omit you from that in spite of what you have to say about red-haired girls.” Fulke beckoned to a couple of grooms and they hurried to help with the horses.

Le Vavasour grunted. “I speak as I find,” he said and followed Fulke’s open-armed gesture toward the keep.

“How are Juliana and Thomas?”

“Better for the distance,” le Vavasour said. “You know women and children. All right in their place, but not too close to yours.”