Elizabeth Chadwick (6 page)

Theobald swung into the saddle. “A good gallop in the fresh air,” he said, his gaze both sharp and sympathetic, “that will cleanse your blood. Make haste and mount up, lad. You too, Jean.”

Fulke went to his roan cob. He had saddled the gelding earlier and left it tethered to a bridle ring in the wall. Girard de Malfee stood nearby, adjusting the girth of his own mount. He darted Fulke a sly glance from beneath his brown curls, then looked to the right where a smiling Prince John had just gained the saddle of a handsome dappled courser.

Fulke untied the roan and, ignoring the stirrup, leaped for the saddle and swung his leg over. As his weight came down, the horse flung upward in a spectacular rear. Fulke clawed for the reins, squeezed with his knees and brought his mount jolting down to all fours. The roan squealed and bucked, arching its back, bunching its quarters, lashing out. It careered into two other horses and sent them skittering and bucking too. Dogs snarled and men dived for cover. Wild with pain and fear, the roan fought from one end of the bailey to the other, eyes rolling, bloody foam flecking the bit. Fulke clung like a limpet to its back. Then, in mid-plunge, the horse staggered and its back legs began to buckle.

“Fulke, in Christ’s name, let go!” Jean bellowed, his voice cracking.

Fulke heard the warning as if from a distance. He had bitten his tongue and the taste of blood filled his mouth. As the horse lurched and crumpled, Fulke kicked his feet from the stirrups and flung from the roan’s back to hit the bailey floor with a jarring thud. Pain shot through his rib cage like a massive kick. The roan struck the ground in a threshing tangle of legs, shuddered violently and was still.

The world swam, sparkled, and went out of focus. He was vaguely aware of Lord Theobald asking him if he was all right, of someone forcing him to drink strong wine laced with mead, of the roan being dragged to one side, the curious dogs being whipped off the corpse, and the hunt spurring out of the gates to the halloo of the hunting horn.

When Fulke returned fully to his senses, he was lying on a pallet in Lord Theobald’s chamber. Oonagh was leaning over him, her satchel of nostrums at her shoulder and the wolfhound bitch at her side. He tried to sit up, then gasped at a searing pain in his chest. Oonagh hastened to his aid, plumping the pillows and bolsters at his back. “I saw what happened from a chamber window,” she said. “You have some cracked ribs for certain.”

“Is that why you’re here, to tend my cracked ribs?” Fulke glowered, wishing that she would leave him alone.

“Yes, in part.” Rummaging in her satchel, she produced several lengths of linen bandage. “Raise your arms.”

Fulke did so and in seconds she had whisked off his tunic and shirt without him quite knowing what had happened. He looked obdurately at the wall. Last night he had slept in the stable beside his horse and now it was dead. Moreover, she had slept with Prince John, thus slaughtering his fragile dream. “And the other part?”

She leaned in close and began wrapping the bandage around his chest. “To ask a boon of you.”

“A boon? I fail to see what I can do for you, my lady, that Prince John cannot.”

“Then you must be blind, for Prince John does very little for me.” She wrapped and pulled. “Is that too tight?”

Fulke shook his head. “But I thought…I was told that you went to his bed last night.”

“That was pleasurable enough,” she said, “but what I received in exchange was hardly worth the bargain. I suppose you were also told I am to wed one of his drinking cronies?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I asked John to promise me my choice of husband. He said he would think about it.” She secured the end of the bandage with a small circular pin. “Obviously he came to a swift decision. Not that it matters to me. I will be a most loving and dutiful wife to Guy de Chaumont.”

Fulke blinked at her in bafflement.

“Or what remains of him in six months’ time.”

The tone of her voice made Fulke shiver. “You mean you’ll kill him?”

Oonagh laughed and shook her head. “What would that gain for me except another husband of John’s choosing? But if my lord de Chaumont was to meet with an accident—perhaps take a knock on the head while hunting and be rendered witless, the rule of the lands would fall to me, and whoever I appointed as administrator in my poor husband’s stead.”

Fulke swallowed. She was ruthless. Theobald, with his greater experience, had been quicker than he to see it, but now his own eyes were wide open. “So what do you want of me?” There was a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades. What if she asked him to arrange the “accident” to de Chaumont?

“I want you to take Tara.” She gestured to her dog. “As I said, a dead husband is of no use to me. Either Tara would rip out de Chaumont’s throat, or he would have her killed for her aggression. She does not growl at you. Take her back to England. She will serve you well.”

Fulke eyed the dog. As if sensing his stare, the bitch raised her head and thumped her tail on the floor. He wondered what Lord Theobald would say about the presence of a pony-sized hound snoring on his chamber floor. “Gladly, my lady,” he said, relieved to have escaped so lightly. Then he frowned. She had said “back to England” as if the journey was imminent. “What makes you think I will not be remaining in Ireland a while longer?”

“Your Prince.” Her blue eyes were as hard as glass. “When the silver is spent and the wine all drunk, then the game will end. There are good men in his retinue. Your own lord is one of them, William de Burgh another, but they can do nothing when they are fettered by the Prince’s command over them. I give you until the winds of autumn.” Leaning over him, she brushed her lips against his cheek. “A pity you are not ten years older,” she said “Or perhaps a blessing?” Going to the door, she stooped to the dog, put her arms around her, and murmured soft love words in Gaelic. Then, bidding Tara stay, she left briskly and did not turn around.

Fulke let out the breath he had been holding on a gasp of relief and regret, then clutched his ribs at the pain. After a moment the dog padded over to him and licked his hand.

***

“This was under your saddle cloth.” Seating himself on the end of Fulke’s pallet, Jean presented him with a shard of glass that had come from a broken goblet. Only the nobles who sat at the high table drank out of glass because it was expensive and difficult to carry between households without shattering. “The moment you set your weight in the saddle, it would have pressed into Russet’s flesh like a sharp spur.”

Fulke took the piece of glass and turned it in his fingers. Green light smudged his skin. A thick line of opaque red with roan hairs adhered to the vicious point at one end. It was not long enough to kill on its own, but sufficient to drive an animal mad with pain and make it burst its heart. He remembered de Malfee’s sly glance and Prince John’s smirk of pleasure. Doubtless they had thought it a fine jest.

“I know where to lay the blame for this,” he said grimly. “My father was right.”

Jean raised his brows in question.

“I should have made sure that the whoreson stayed down.”

***

In September a galley arrived from England, bearing letters and emissaries from King Henry, and Oonagh’s words were borne out.

“We’re sailing for England,” said Theobald as he dressed in his wall chamber for the dinner hour after attending a private discussion in John’s solar. “The traveling chests must be packed by dawn.”

Fulke had known it was coming. Even without Oonagh’s prophecy the signs had been present in the steady trickle of deserting mercenaries and the arguments of the townspeople over lack of payment for their produce.

“King Henry did not send more silver then?” He helped Theobald don his long court tunic of crimson wool.

Theobald shook his head. “If silver has arrived, lad, it is not for John. He might be Henry’s favorite son, but even favoritism has its limits. More silver would just buy more wine and Henry’s coffers are not bottomless. John will go home to a scolding and then be treated like a prodigal son.”

Fulke knew what Theobald meant. The Prince had been chastised over the incident with the chessboard, but the whipping had somehow never been administered.

Theobald latched his belt and checked that his scabbard was securely attached. “It is not all John’s fault,” he said as he ran a comb through his cropped tawny curls. “You cannot expect a spoiled stripling to do a man’s work. Still,” he added as he set the comb down on the coffer, “I suppose that lessons have been learned.” Reaching for his cloak, he smiled at Fulke. “You are not disappointed to leave, I warrant?”

“No, sire.” Fulke lifted his shoulders. “It is not that I have hated my time here, and I have learned much, but…” He flushed beneath his lord’s quiet gray gaze. “But I want to see my family again and my home.”

“It is always good to wander,” Theobald said, and his eyes left Fulke and swept toward the window embrasure and an arch of wintry gray light. “And always good to return.”

***

They sailed from Waterford on the morning’s tide. There was a bitter wind to blow them home and a choppy gray sea that Theobald eyed with alarm and Fulke with resignation.

As the last coffers were being loaded onto the ships, Jean returned from one of his kitchen forays with a mutton pie, a flask of mead, and the news for Fulke that Oonagh FitzGerald’s new husband, Guy de Chaumont, had been severely injured in a hunting accident.

The Welsh Borders, Summer 1189

The older FitzWarin boys and the de Hodnet brothers, Baldwin and Stephen, had spent the morning at the booths in Oswestry, examining the wares of the harness maker, horse-coper, and swordsmith. Fulke had a mended bridle to collect, William was looking for a new mount, and all the young men were passionate about the sleek blades displayed on the cloth outside the swordsmith’s booth.

Some were fashioned from a single bar of steel; others were made in the old way, from several layers of iron, beaten and hammered until they formed intricate ripples on the surface of the weapon. It was said that these blades possessed less strength than the plain ones, but for visual beauty, they were unsurpassed.

“I’m going to have one of these when I’m knighted.” William’s brown eyes gleamed covetously. He was eighteen now; slender, fiery, and desperate for the ceremony that would confer on him the badge of warrior manhood.

Fulke admired William’s choice. It would have been his own too, except that when it came his time to be knighted, the gift of his sword had been promised by Lord Theobald. The ceremony was to take place when Lord Theobald returned to England. He was currently fighting across the Narrow Sea in Anjou. King Henry and Prince Richard were at each other’s throats again. Prince John was with his father, opposing Richard, and from what news came to them here in the Marches, the situation was ugly and acrimonious.

Fulke was glad not to be attending Theobald. Instead of crossing the Narrow Sea, he had been summoned home when his father had fallen dangerously sick. Although Brunin had recovered from the high fever that had briefly threatened his life, Fulke had not returned to court. His father had deemed it better for him to learn the obligations of governance at home for a while rather than become involved in the vicissitudes of Angevin family warfare.

Today, however, Fulke had his freedom to enjoy the perfect Lammastide weather and the booths in Oswestry. English and Welsh folk mingled, intent on barter and purchase. Their languages blended, mixed with more than a seasoning of Norman French. Fulke knew it was not always this peaceful. Frequently the Welsh and English were at war with each other and Oswestry was a battleground, claimed by both sides and sacked by both too as a result.

Last time they had been in the town was the Whitsuntide of the previous year. Granted leave by Lord Theobald to visit his family, Fulke had been in Oswestry to hear the Bishop of St. David and his deacon, the irrepressible Gerald de Barry, preach the need for a new crusade to restore the Holy Land to Christian rule. Gerald had been so eloquent and passionate that several folk had answered the call on the spot and been handed red crosses to sew on to their cloaks. Fulke had felt the tug of the sermon but abjured, knowing that his own family’s Jerusalem was Whittington and his future already mapped out. William had stepped forward like a speeding arrow and been hauled back by Brunin’s hand on the scruff of his neck.

“Too young and so hotheaded you’ll burn yourself up,” their father had snapped with a glare at Gerald and the Bishop. “You were ever one to hear tales of a dragon at your nurse’s knee and straight away run off in pursuit of one.”

Prince Richard had sworn to take the Cross and ride for Jerusalem as soon as the matter of his inheritance was resolved. Lord Theobald’s brother Hubert had sworn too, and Ranulf de Glanville. Theobald himself was to remain behind in John’s retinue. It was a sensible move and made the best of both worlds for the Walter family. If and when the crusade departed, they would have influence both in the field and at home.

“I like this one.” Philip lifted one of the plain steel swords. It suited his nature, which was sturdy and cautious despite his unruly cloud of auburn curls.

Both de Hodnet boys opted for pattern-welded blades. Finally growing tired of their penniless enthusiasm, the swordsmith waved them away, grumbling that sweaty fingerprints would damage the steel.

The young men repaired to the alehouse where at least their purses could afford the price of two jugs between them. They sat at a trestle under the shade of an oak tree and took it in turns to drink. Tara, Fulke’s wolfhound, flopped nose on paws at his side and watched the world from beneath her brows. He combed his fingers through her harsh pelt, stiff as fine silver wire.

“It don’t bite, do it?” One of the alehouse girls paused warily to admire the massive dog. Moistening her lips, she darted her gaze over the assembled young men in similar wise.

William grinned broadly and raised the jug in toast. “No, but I do, sweetheart, if you want to sit on my lap and try me.”

“No, she doesn’t bite.” Fulke gave his brother a nudge and removed the jug from his hands. William was always boasting about the conquests he had made, but Fulke suspected that most were imagined in order to increase his brother’s standing among his peers.

Fulke’s own experience of women had considerably expanded since his return from Ireland. Hanild, one of the court whores, had taken a fancy to broaden his education and teach him “the differences between a knight and an oaf” as she had put it. Her instruction had been vastly pleasurable and more than a little enlightening, not to say a welcome release from the frustrations that now seemed to be plaguing William.

“Can I stroke her?”

“Of course.” Fulke spoke gently to the dog and studied the girl as she tentatively patted Tara’s head. Small, curvaceous, with a winsome, kissable smile. When William began talking about his own willingness to be stroked, Fulke bade him to hold his peace.

William reddened. “I saw her first!” he growled. “Find your own wench!”

“If you desire to be a knight, then act like one,” Fulke said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means holding your tongue until you have something worthwhile to say…either to me or the girl.”

She was looking fearfully at the young men, clearly not following the rapid French, but understanding enough to realize a quarrel was brewing.

William jerked to his feet. “You think because you’ve been to court, you can lord it over us all, play the master. Well, you’re not mine, and I’ll do as I please.”

“Go on then,” Fulke said with a sweep of his arm. “Make a fool of yourself.”

The brothers stared at each other, William breathing jerkily, Fulke maintaining an air of superior calm, although the shudder of his tunic neckline against his throat revealed how hard and swiftly his heart was beating.

“Will, sit down, you’re making a mountain from an ant mound.” Ever the peacemaker, Philip tugged at his brother’s sleeve.

William shook him off. “I don’t want to sit down. I’m sick of being told what to do.” He stalked away in the direction of their tethered horses.

Fulke stared after him, bemused at the speed with which the quarrel had hit.

“You have trampled on his pride,” Philip said. “And you have taken his place as king of the castle. While you were at court, Will was the oldest and strongest, the one who led. Now you are home and it is clear to all that he cannot hope to compete.”

“I don’t want to compete.” Fulke watched William swing into the saddle and tug on the reins. “God’s bones, I’ve seen enough fraternal squabbling at court to last me a lifetime. Heaven forbid that we should turn on each other like King Henry’s sons.”

“He’ll come round,” said Baldwin de Hodnet as William rode away. “His temper’s all blaze and no substance.”

“But heaven help those who get in its way while it’s burning,” Philip said with a grimace.

The girl had retreated as the quarrel sparked, but only as far as the alehouse door, and it was her cry that made Fulke and his companions turn on the bench to see that William’s path was blocked by a group of horsemen.

Fulke’s gaze narrowed on the banners fluttering from their spears. “Morys FitzRoger.” As he spoke the name, he was on his feet and running to his horse. Morys commonly titled himself lord of Whittington and was their sworn enemy. He was accompanied by his sons, Weren and Gwyn, and five men-at-arms. As Fulke swung into the saddle, his mind was racing. Even for honor or pride, they could not afford a fight. He had to extricate his hotheaded brother before one began.

He was too late. There was a sudden flurry and scuffle as William launched his brown cob at FitzRoger’s stallion and was immediately tipped from the saddle. He sprawled in the road to the accompaniment of jeers and laughter. FitzRoger playfully prodded the tip of his spear against the hollow of William’s throat.

“Let him be,” Fulke commanded as he rode up and drew rein.

“Well, well, not just one FitzWarin whelp, but three.” FitzRoger smiled as Philip arrived on Fulke’s heels with the de Hodnet brothers. “And far out of your territory.” He kept the spear at William’s throat while his other hand effortlessly controlled his bay destrier.

“Not as far out of it as you are out of yours!” William snarled from the ground with rash bravado.

“How so?” FitzRoger raised his brows in mock surprise. “Surely Whittington is closer to Oswestry than Alberbury.”

“Yes, and its ours!”

The smile broadened. “Yap all you want, you ignorant pup, but it won’t get you any further than the stink of your own kennel. You say Whittington is yours. Come and take it then.” He leaned with precision on the spear edge, drawing the smallest bead of blood like a jewel stitched on a tunic.

“Let him go,” Fulke repeated, and succeeded in keeping his voice level.

FitzRoger laughed. “Or else what, child? You will assault me with your eating knife like this purblind idiot was about to do?”

“As you say, he is of no importance. Why waste your time on him?”

“Oh, it isn’t time wasted,” FitzRoger said blithely. “I am more than willing to spend a few moments teaching him a lesson he will not forget in a hurry. Indeed, I have a notion to widen the education of all of you, since Fulke le Brun has plainly failed to teach you to mind your betters.”

William choked, as much from rage as from the pressure of the spear against his windpipe. FitzRoger’s men shifted in their saddles, easing their weapons, flexing their muscles. Behind the nasal bars of their helms, FitzRoger’s sons smirked at each other. Fulke’s hackles rose but he knew that he could not afford to lose his temper.

“My father has always taught us to give respect where respect is due, so we have never had cause to be polite to the house of FitzRoger.” Fulke cast a glance sidelong and down and uttered a sharp command.

A ripple of silver-gray fur and the slash of fangs on his spear hand were the first that Morys FitzRoger knew of the wolfhound’s attack. He bellowed and snatched his arm away, dropping the spear. In a blur of speed, Fulke seized the weapon, hooked it in the mesh of FitzRoger’s mail coif, and brought him crashing out of the saddle. The bitch went for his face and Fulke roared her off just before her teeth snapped shut on FitzRoger’s nose.

As swords hissed from scabbards, Fulke laid the spear edge against FitzRoger’s throat. “Do not believe me too soft to do it, for I will.” He glared at FitzRoger’s men. “I have fought in Ireland and I have been blooded. If my brother is a whelp, then I am a wolf.”

FitzRoger’s men stared, transfixed by shock at the speed with which the tables had turned.

“William, mount up.” Fulke jerked his head.

The youth scrambled to his feet and straddled his horse. Against his pallor, the trickle of blood at his throat was bright crimson.

“You will pay,” Morys FitzRoger wheezed from the ground. “I swear on my soul that you will.”

Glaring down into the hate-filled eyes, Fulke’s own animosity and contempt grew. The temptation to lean on the spear trembled through his hands and he had to remind himself that his aim was to get himself and his small company clear of the situation.

Without taking his attention from FitzRoger, he snapped at his companions to spur for home. “Do it!” he roared, as he felt rather than saw William hesitate. Once he heard the receding drum of hooves, he applied the slightest pressure to the spear, drawing blood as FitzRoger had drawn blood from William.

“You are right,” he said. “I will pay. I will give you everything you deserve. On my soul, before God, I swear it.” Removing the lance from the hollow of FitzRoger’s throat, he couched it and wheeled his mount one-handed. A terse command brought the bitch to his stirrup and he galloped after the others.

***

“Fulke, I’m sorry,” William said in a crestfallen voice as they slowed their blowing mounts to a trot and cut across an old drover’s track to avoid the next village.

“God on the Cross, you ought to be!” Fulke snapped. He was still not sure they were safe and his temper was ragged. “You could have got us all thrown into a cell or tied to our horses’ tails and whipped from one end of Oswestry to the other! Morys FitzRoger, however much we revile him, is still a man of influence in the town while we are just visiting squires—raw boys with eating knives at our hips in place of swords and scarce enough silver between us for a firkin of ale.”

“I said I was sorry. Besides, it’s not all my fault. FitzRoger wouldn’t let me pass.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to stand aside.” Fulke knew the answer to that even as he spoke. William would hold his ground even if confronted by all the fiends of hell.

“Would you have done so?”

“To avoid trouble, yes I would.”

William’s look was disbelieving. A smile suddenly twitched his mouth corners. “After what I saw you do to FitzRoger, even if it was to save my hide, I don’t believe you.”

“It’s the truth. And if you had used your wits and stood aside, I would not have been forced to set the dog on him and we wouldn’t be fleeing across the fields like outlaws.” Fulke gazed over his shoulder but the track behind them stretched empty until cut off by the upward slope of the land.

“It was worth it though, wasn’t it?” The beginnings of an incorrigible grin deepened William’s smile.

Despite his determination to remain angry, Fulke found his lips curling with reluctant humor. “That’s a question you’ll have to ask Papa when he lifts your hide with his belt,” he said.

William shrugged. “It won’t be the first time. Can I carry the spear?” He held out his hand.