Elizabeth Chadwick (48 page)

When Maude came down at dawn, she found him there. Misery and anger flowed in expanding rings from her core. She hated her father, she hated Fulke, but she loved him too, and the more she loved and hated, the angrier she became.

With calm deliberation she saw to the breaking of fast and the preparing of rations to eat on the journey. She made sure Fulke had clean raiment in his pack. When he sat to break his fast, bleary-eyed and unshaven, she greeted him with frozen courtesy and saw that his trencher and cup were placed before him and filled.

“See,” said her father, nudging Fulke, “I told you that you have to show them who is master. All it takes is a little discipline.”

Fulke said nothing. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he gave Maude a swift glance from beneath his brows, but as her eyes threatened to meet his, he looked away and hardened his resolve.

His gut was rolling and he did not feel like eating, but with a long journey ahead, knew that he must. With grim determination he chewed and swallowed.

With no comprehension of manners or discipline, little Mabile wandered up to him and tugged at his knee. He scooped her up and sat her in his lap.

Le Vavasour frowned; Fulke ignored him and curled a protective arm around his smallest and most vulnerable daughter. Mabile sat for a moment then with a squeal pushed herself out of Fulke’s embrace. Clarice had entered the hall and it was to her that Mabile trotted. The young woman hoisted her up in her arms and kissed her cheek, while bidding a polite good morrow to the men.

“Discipline,” le Vavasour growled, his expression censorious. “You need to begin while they’re still in the cradle.”

“Spare me your advice,” Fulke said savagely. “Do I tell you how to order your household?”

His father-in-law shook his head. “The sooner we’re on the road, the better,” he said sourly, his implication being that Whittington’s atmosphere was unhealthy for any male in his right mind.

***

Fulke spared time to strip to his braies and bathe. He chewed a licorice root to freshen his breath but decided to let his stubble remain. It was December and wearing a beard would prove considerably warmer than going bare-chinned. If he caught lice, he could always shave. His sons loitered, helping him roll his hauberk in a bundle of oiled leather to keep it dry, watching enviously as he girded on his sword.

When he mounted up in the courtyard, Maude came to his stirrup and, in the traditional manner, presented him with his shield.

“Have a care, my lord,” she said.

The breeze wafted her veil away from her face, and the cold December sunlight made her eyes as light and clear as green glass. Fulke’s gut swooped with love and desire. He wanted to fling from the saddle and crush her in his arms, but, constrained by the presence and scowl of his father-in-law, and by a last vestige of pride, he stayed where he was. “And you,” he said. “I promise, everything will be for the best.”

She lifted her chin. “Then keep your promise.”

Unable to resist, he removed his gauntlet and leaned from the saddle to touch her cheek.

Hawise had dutifully presented her grandfather with his shield which he had accepted with his usual arrogance. “Come,” he said, nudging his horse with his heels. “We should not tarry.”

Fulke reluctantly lowered his hand from Maude’s cheek. She looked at him steadily and replaced his fingers with her own, tracing the echo of his touch.

He kicked his mount and followed le Vavasour out of Whittington’s gates, somehow feeling as if he were being tugged against his will.

Whittington Castle, Shropshire, March 1215

Clarice sat at her embroidery frame, industriously stitching a border of floral scrolls on to a linen cloth intended for the high table. Her manner was calm, her movements precise but containing an almost water-like fluidity. Press the needle into the linen, pass it through, pull away, creating an image of intricate beauty through a simple act of repetition. Sometimes she imagined herself as one of the goddesses of pagan times, weaving the life stories of mortals with her enchanted silks. There was even a certain dark thrill in taking her small, sharp sewing shears and snipping a thread. King John had already died several times that way in the depths of her imagination.

Fulke and Maude had been arguing again. Although the walls were thick, their voices still carried. Clarice had never understood how two people could love so deeply and yet quarrel fit to bring down the rafters. Of late, their disputes had been of a pattern. Maude would call him a fool for staying with the rebels; he would call her a shrew. She would retort with growing impatience, so would he, until Clarice was sure they could be heard at the other end of the village. Bursting with rage, they would tumble into bed and fight each other to exhaustion. A couple of days of besotted, heavy-eyed peace ensued and then it would begin again until finally he would ride away to join his fellow barons, leaving Maude to stamp and fume. They were currently at the midway stage in the latest bout of conflict. Fulke had been home for four days and the second argument had erupted with some spectacular blasphemies a short while since. Now there was silence.

Clarice snipped the end of her thread and, unconsciously pursing her lips, began another lifeline in blood-red silk. The pattern was one of green scrolls, curling into small red flowers reminiscent of tiny scarlet pimpernels. Outside it was a raw March day, full of gusting clouds with the occasional spatter of rain. Seated by the window to gain the benefit of the light, her left side was cold but her right was warmed by the heat of a brazier.

The door opened on a gust of air then banged shut. Fulke strode into the room, the hem of his tunic flaring with each vigorous step. Muttering beneath his breath, he sat down moodily at the small gaming table occupying the other embrasure and put his head between his open palms.

They had not taken each other to bed then, Clarice thought. Matters must have degenerated and tempers were still likely to be white-hot.

“Would you like some wine, my lord?” She rose quietly from her sewing and went to the flagon standing on the sideboard.

He looked up, his expression startled as if he had only just registered her presence in the room. “Do you see that as your reason in life, to be a cup-bearer?” His tone was savage.

The jibe hit Clarice in the soft space beneath her ribs, but she kept herself from flinching. “No, my lord. I was offering comfort.”

“I doubt I’ll find it in the bottom of a cup beyond a few hours.”

With a steady hand, she poured a small measure for herself and returned to her embroidery frame. Taking her needle, she began to sew, letting the flow of the motion restore her balance. She had entered the FitzWarin household as a child of eight, was now a young adult and by the rights of custom should have been married with at least one child in the cradle. But custom did not take the heart into account. She loved this household deeply and to think of leaving it was so painful that she avoided the subject. The FitzWarins were not her family—except vicariously through Theobald Walter, but she felt as if they were.

Fulke sighed and rose from the seat to pace the room again. He stopped at the sideboard and poured his own wine, then came to look at the embroidery.

“That is a very fine piece of work,” he said by way of apology.

Clarice flushed at the compliment. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You make it look so simple.”

“The stitches are not difficult.”

“But the pattern is.” He was standing behind her. She could not see his expression but she heard the wry note in his voice. “Rather like life,” he said. “Ah, Clarice, I have woven a design I am not sure that I like, but it has its fine points so I do not want to unravel it and leave the linen blank as it was before.”

“It would not be as before; it would be full of needle holes,” she said practically, and was rewarded with a snort of humorless amusement. He wandered away, but only to fetch a three-legged stool so that he could sit by her and watch.

Clarice took a steadying drink of her wine and tried to concentrate on her work.

After a moment, he said, “Do you think I am wrong? Do you side with the other women in my household by calling me a lackwit?”

“I side with no one, my lord.”

“So you have no opinion?”

“I did not say that.” She bit her lip and decided that she had better turn the tables of interrogation before it was too late. “Why should you want to unravel what you have sewn? What disappoints you?”

He shook his head. “You know about this charter of liberties that many of us want King John to acknowledge as the law of the land?”

“Of course I do.” She could not avoid knowing about it when it was the reason for Fulke and Maude’s quarreling.

“The demands are sound; indeed, they were first proposed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, not the barons. But they will limit John’s powers and his ability to raise revenues for the Crown. Instead of extorting silver, he will have to abide by a set of fixed fines and codes. He will not be able to force his barons to pay for his foreign wars; he will not be able to play the tyrant with a man just because he dislikes him.” His tone had grown vehement and Clarice could both hear and see that he passionately believed in the rights encoded in this charter. So would anyone, she thought. That was the part he was reluctant to abandon.

He drank his wine, rose to replenish his cup, and returned to the stool. His eyes were quartz-bright with fervor. “The King sees our demands in a different light. He views them as a curb to his power, an infringement on his royal authority to govern. He says that the men proposing these curbs are mischief-makers who want to bring him down.”

Clarice snipped off the crimson thread and, to rest her eyes from the color, selected a twist of green. “And is that true?”

“In part.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know that you only came to live in this household at the end of my quarrel with John, but you must know about it. And certainly there is no love lost between John and our two spokesmen, Robert FitzWalter and Eustace de Vesci.”

Clarice poked the thread through the eye of her silver needle and frowned. “Didn’t de Vesci’s wife…”

“Bed with King John,” he finished for her. “And not voluntarily. She was forced, so it is said, in order to keep her husband in favor at court—or at least to stop him from being persecuted by John’s officials. John being the lecher that he is, I do not doubt that the rumor is true. So, yes, de Vesci does have an ax to grind, and FitzWalter—I would not give him house room.” He spread his hands. “The difficulty is that the charter has the backing of many malcontents and troublemakers. John has the support of some very decent men who have turned a blind eye to his excesses and abided by their feudal oaths. If only those men could be persuaded to stand for the charter, then all would be well…but it isn’t.”

He sighed as he watched her set the needle in the fabric and expertly weave the new thread into the background. “So now Maude is angry with me because I am risking all that I have fought to gain and keeping the company of dubious men.”

“It is true that you could lose your lands?”

“Oh yes,” Fulke said. “Especially now.”

“Why?”

He looked down into his cup and grimaced. “Just before I came home, John announced that he intended to take the Cross.”

Clarice raised her head from her embroidery. She had grown up on tales of John’s cruelty, cunning, and perfidy, had lived through the papal interdict a few years ago during John’s dispute with Rome over the appointment of a new Archbishop of Canterbury. Despite John’s reconciliation with the Pope, taking the Cross seemed excessive for a man who gave little more than lip service to his faith. “He is going on crusade?” she asked.

Fulke laughed and shook his head. “If only!” he declared with vehemence. “No, I doubt that Constantinople need worry that he’ll follow in his brother’s illustrious footsteps. It is all done in the name of politics. He thinks he can weasel his way out of this charter by taking the Cross. The Church protects a crusader’s lands for a period of four years. Any man making war on another who has taken a crusader’s vow is at once excommunicated. Once John was at war with the Pope. Now they are allies.”

Clarice nodded and continued to sew. “So, what will you do?”

He sprang to his feet, almost tipping over the stool. “I am caught in a cleft stick,” he said in frustration. “I can withdraw and see my principles damned, or I can stay and my soul be damned and my lands declared forfeit.” He fixed her with a fierce stare. “What would you do, Clarice? And do not say that you side with no one, or it is not your place to offer advice. I am asking, and I want you to answer.”

She swallowed and stopped sewing. What would his wife do? Likely snap at him that wanting did not mean that he was going to get. But she wasn’t Maude, did not have her appetite for battle. It didn’t mean, however, that she was a weakling.

“I would have to decide which was more important,” she said slowly, “and probably it would be my principles. After all, I would have suspected when I first set out that there would be obstacles put in my way and they might involve forfeiture of land.”

“And the excommunication?”

She pursed her lips. “I would hope that God would still be merciful. It seems to me that the Pope often uses excommunication as a weapon of policy, not true religious concern, and if that is blasphemy, then
mea culpa
.”

The fierceness had left his expression. Instead, it was charged with amusement and surprise. “You look,” he said, “like a little brown mouse. You move around the place as quietly and unobtrusively as a well-trained maid, with seemingly no thought but for the comfort of others. Getting you to express an opinion beyond the fact that rushes need changing or there’s not enough salt in the food is like drawing a tooth.”

She flushed and gave him a reproachful look.

“But worth it,” he added with a sudden smile. “You’re not a mouse at all, Clarice d’Auberville. You’re a lioness in disguise.” He brushed her cheek in salute and left the room.

Clarice stared at the pattern of her sewing as if it had become a meaningless jumble. Her stomach churned with queasy pleasure. She pressed her cheek where his fingers had touched. Suddenly she was glad that she was alone, to savor the moment, to recover herself, to make a memory and lock it in a secret, gilded box at the back of her mind where no one would ever find it.

***

In a marshy meadow called Runnymede, on the road between London and Windsor, rebels and royalists met beneath the shade of striped awnings and King John put his seal to the charter of liberties. There was forced civility on both sides, and the atmosphere was rife with tension. John met the rebel lords with loathing in his eyes and found his black looks reciprocated.

When his gaze lit on Fulke, his lips pursed as if he just drunk from a cup of vinegar. Fulke returned the stare, jutting his chin, planting his feet wide, as if preparing to resist a blow. There was a saying from the Bible that a leopard could not change its spots. And Christ, it was true—of both himself and John.

When the King had put his seal to the great charter, thus agreeing to its terms, the tenants-in-chief came to kneel in turn before him and renew their oaths of fealty. Fulke swallowed as he watched fellow barons go forward and bend the knee, putting their hands between John’s, swearing their allegiance. His father-in-law was rubbing his hands together, looking both anxious and triumphant—like a small child caught up in the worrying exhilaration of a grown man’s game. Only it wasn’t a game at all. FitzWalter and de Vesci had attended the negotiations, but had not remained to see the charter sealed. Now Fulke realized that he should have gone with them.

He could not do it. He could not go forward and put his hands between John’s again. The contact would poison him beyond recovery. He felt physically sick. Turning on his heel, he pushed his way back through the witnesses, heading for his campaign tent and his horse line.

Le Vavasour stared in blank astonishment, then hastened after him, ignoring the growls of protest as he trod on men’s feet. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To join de Vesci,” Fulke said grimly. He wrenched his banner out of the ground and cast it down. “Dismantle the tent,” he commanded his wide-eyed squires.

“But you”—le Vavasour gestured back toward the crowd and the King—“haven’t given your oath of fealty.”

“Because it would be as false as John’s promise to honor that charter. You can see it in his eyes. The moment he is quit of this place, he will go to the Pope and demand that it be annulled because he was forced to agree to its terms under duress.”

“He has sworn he will not do so.”

“John would swear on his mother’s soul to get himself out of a scrape.” Fulke threw his eating bowls and two cups into a coffer, followed it by two candle stands, and began to dismantle the bench on which they had stood. “You do as your conscience bids you, Father, and I will attend to mine.”

Le Vavasour frowned. “John has sealed the charter. I can do no other but swear for him,” he said.

“Good, then go and do so.” Fulke kicked the bench legs viciously out of their sockets. When he looked up, his father-in-law had gone.

***

“I do not believe it!” Maude stared at her father in growing dismay and rage.

“You must, because it is true. Fulke would not give his fealty and now he has an outlaw’s price on his head. I could not persuade him to give his oath and he rode out as soon as he had packed his tent. Now John will have him excommunicated and his lands declared forfeit.” He spoke with a certain gloomy relish.