Lords of the White Castle (10 page)

CHAPTER 5

Theobald came down to the hall on the third evening following Prince John's arrival in Waterford. His stomach, although still tender, had settled sufficiently to allow him to rise from his bed and he could consume bread and watered wine without being sick.

The evening meal and festivities were marked by a significant absence of Gael lords, although there were a reasonable number of colonist Normans and their families. Theobald had been horrified at what his squires had told him of John's behaviour towards the chieftains who had come to pay him homage. One of the barons, John de Courcy, had written to King Henry, informing him of the Prince's conduct and other senior lords, worried at the behaviour of the younger element, had signed the letter.

Theobald was not so optimistic as to believe that a single letter would bring a solution. Henry was notoriously blind to the antics of his youngest son and unlikely to act until the situation became so damning that it could not be ignored.

Breaking a morsel from the wastel loaf on his trencher, Theobald dipped it in the bowl of chicken broth at his right hand, and mindful of the lady Oonagh's advice, ate slowly. John had invited her to dine at the high table and she sat not far from Theobald, her eyes modestly downcast.

He had enjoyed her sick-room visits for she was as intelligent as she was alluring. Theobald was not married, but, looking at her, he thought he might like to be. So did every other man present—and youth. He cast an amused glance at his younger squire. The lad hadn't taken his gaze off her once.

It did no harm to dream. Fulke must know that she was not for him. Her wealth was here in Ireland and her next husband would be a man who intended to settle here, not a raw squire with a future rooted firmly on the Welsh borders. Theobald was aware that he could fit himself for the post. Given his abilities it would be simple enough to convince John, and there would be the advantage of not having to face a sea crossing back to England. Theobald shook his head and gave a smile of self-mockery. He was as foolish as the rest of her admirers.

Below the dais, the trestles were being dismantled to make space for dancing and entertainment. Even as the musicians changed the tempo and cadence of their playing from soft accompaniment to toe-tapping jig, men were on their feet and seeking partners. Oonagh was immediately surrounded, but not for long as there was a sudden flurry of snaps and snarls from the protective dog. Oonagh sharply bade the hound he down.

John was laughing as he waved her admirers away. He murmured close to Oonagh's ear and, linking her hand in his, claimed her for himself. As he drew her to the cleared space in the main part of the hall, she gave him a coquettish look and said something in reply that brought a flush of lust to his face. When they began to dance, it was with a symmetry that was hypnotic to watch. John might be small and stocky, but he was light on his feet and fluid of movement.

Leaning to replenish Theobald's cup, Fulke almost knocked it over. The older man could sense the agitation coming off his squire in waves.

'You're better off out of it, lad,' Theobald murmured. 'I am not saying that her character is like his, but they share similar traits. When it comes to matters of the heart, or should I say lusts of the body, they are both predators.'

'She doesn't know what he is like,' Fulke said grimly.

'Oh, I think she does, and she is very clever,' Theobald contradicted him. 'If she had agreed to dance with one of the others, they would have taken it as preferment to their suit. By going with John, she has put herself above them. If I am right, the next man she partners will be an older one and firmly wed.' He lifted his gaze to his squire. 'Long for her if you want, Fulke, but curb your jealousy: it's a waste of time. She is not for you.'

Fulke flushed. 'John's a lecher,' he said.

'John's an opportunist, and he exerts an attraction for women, but Lady FitzGerald can take care of herself. She is no innocent. If she was, do you think she would be flirting with the Prince as she is? Open your eyes, lad.'

Fulke's colour darkened and, for a moment, Theobald thought that he was going to be treated to a furious outburst. To his credit, however, the boy contained his anger. His flint-hazel eyes dwelled briefly on the swirl of dancers as Oonagh and John changed partners in a figure of eight and returned to each other. Then he looked away. 'Yes, sir,' he said stiffly.

'Ah, God, you're so young. What can I tell you? Women are not as strong as we are in the physical sense. We use our bodies to shoulder aside whatever lies in our way. They use theirs to bribe and persuade, but it has the same result—they get where they want to go.' Theobald wondered if he should arrange for one of the more decent women among the camp followers to endow Fulke with a little education and in the same thought decided against it. The lad was inordinately proud and it would only cause awkwardness where there should be trust and camaraderie. He would not dream of sending Fulke or Jean to procure a woman for his own use, so it behoved him to uphold moral standards, even if they were crumbling all around him.

The dance ended and, as Theobald had predicted, Oonagh partnered an older man and then a settler lord who was known to be devoted to his wife. Then, to Theobald's dismay, as another lively tune struck up and the men began to cluster, she approached Fulke and asked him to lead her among the dancers.

'My lady?' Fulke looked as if he could believe neither his ears nor his luck.

'Unless you would rather decline?' A dazzling look through her lashes. The hand on his sleeve. Theobald could understand her reason: Fulke would never be a contender for her hand in marriage. But whilst it was safe for her to dance with him, Theobald was not sure that such a move was in Fulke's best interests.

'Perhaps you would honour me instead.' Rising from the bench, Theobald extended his hand. 'I have yet to thank you for your care while I was sick.'

Oonagh looked briefly surprised, then she smiled. 'Of course, my lord.' She transferred her hand from Fulke's sleeve to Theobald's. As he led her to dance, she looked over her shoulder to the stricken Fulke. 'Will you take Tara outside for me?' she asked sweetly.

'My lady' Fulke gave Theobald an aggrieved look, bowed tersely and turned on his heel.

Theobald led her among the dancers. The heady smell of attar of roses wafted from her wrists and throat. Her warmth and suppleness were alluring. 'Leave the boy alone,' he murmured. 'He's too young.'

She arched her thin, glossy brows. 'Implying that you are not, my lord?'

They completed a half-circle and turned. 'Implying nothing of the kind. I suspect that you would be too much of a handful for me,' Theobald said wryly. 'I am asking you as a favour not to play games with Fulke, especially if you are going to involve Prince John in them.'

'May I know why?' She looked half annoyed and half amused.

'The details are unimportant. Suffice to say that the Prince and my squire are already on hostile terms. Adding you to the brew will only make the pot boil over again.'

They changed partners and returned to each other. 'I like Fulke,' she said, a contrary set to her lips.

'Then in pity's name let him be.'

'Have you never played the game of courtly love, my lord?'

'I always had more sense,' Theobald said curtly. Queen Eleanor had brought the convention with her from Aquitaine: a fashionable ideal of unrequited love where a man would worship an unattainable woman and strive to win the favour of her glance by composing songs and performing heroic deeds in her honour. Where the pain of denial was viewed as pleasure. Even if the lover did attain the possession of his lady's body, he was not permitted the satisfaction of spilling his seed, but must hold himself back for her honour. 'Play where you will,' he said softly, 'but do no damage to Fulke, because if you do, I will kill you.'

She narrowed her eyes. 'You speak plainly, my lord.'

'I know of no other way. You may not like what you hear from me, but you will never have to sift my words for hidden meanings.'

The dance ended and he swept her a bow. Oonagh returned it with a curtsey. 'Not because you threaten me, but for Fulke's sake, I will do as you say,' she murmured. 'But first I must find him and my dog. You will grant me that moment at least?'

Not particularly sanguine at the thought, but relieved that she had been reasonable, Theobald nodded and returned to his seat.

Fulke took the bitch on a circuit of the ward, pacing with her in the grey wash of the moonlight. He kicked at the ground. A pebble skittered from underfoot, struck the wall and rebounded with a click. He knew that Lord Theobald had partnered Oonagh because he wanted to warn her to keep her distance. As if Fulke could not make up his own mind, as if he were a child. A dance, he thought, angrily, would have cost and meant nothing. It would have salved his smarting masculine pride and redressed the balance of watching her flirt with John. He kicked the ground again, and Tara growled.

Suddenly the bitch abandoned him and loped across the ward, her tail wagging furiously. The greeting could only be for one person and Fulke's stomach churned as he saw Oonagh emerge from the hall. She was wearing her cloak over her gown and the moonlight caught glints of the silver braid woven down its edge. He followed more slowly in the dog's wake, feeling foolish and not a little resentful.

She gave a small sigh and shook her head. 'You should not be angry,' she said. 'Your lord has your interests at heart and in truth he is right. If I had known of your quarrel with Prince John, I would not have asked you to partner me in the dance at all.'

'It would not have mattered, my lady,' Fulke answered woodenly.

'I do not believe that, and neither do you.' She looked at him sidelong. 'He thinks that I am toying with you…

and perchance I am, a little. I like to flirt. But I meant what I said about your hands—they are gentle.' She moved closer, the moonlight drenching her in shades of silver, blue and grey. Her fingers meshed through his and as his body rippled at the contact, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

Fulke would have gasped except that she had stolen his breath. A wordless groan was trapped in his throat. The tightness of apprehension in his belly descended to his groin. His other hand swept around her waist. For an instant she resisted, and he was just about to drop his hand when she melted against him. He closed his eyes. If this was toying, she could play with him for ever. The softness of her breasts, the littleness of flank and thigh. The honeyed warmth of her mouth.

And then she broke the kiss and her lips were at his ear. 'I have to go. Think of me when you stand thus with another woman, and remember what I said about gentle hands. A man has need of them to be a good lover.'

Fulke swallowed. 'Don't go,' he pleaded.

'God keep you.' She turned away. The bitch growled, her hackles bristling in a ridge down her spine. Stiff-legged, she began to advance on a figure concealed in the shadows of the tower wall.

'Call your dog off, madam,' said Prince John, stepping into the moonlight.

Fulke went rigid. So did Oonagh, but the reaction was brief. A swift command brought the bitch circling to heel. Leaving Fulke without a backward glance, she went to John, the hand that had so recently been meshed in Fulke's now outstretched in greeting. John said something to her and scowled at Fulke from beneath his brows. She answered with a dismissive laugh and together they went within.