Lords of the White Castle (17 page)
Maude frowned. It must be news that concerned her, or why else should her neat appearance matter so much? Unless her father had been given a huge barony by the King and she was to sit at the high table.
'Is my father to be honoured by the King?' She tried to look at her grandmother, but the tight grip on her hair as Mathilda plaited the braid prevented her.
'Now why on earth should you think that, child?'
'Because you're making me dress up like one of those marchpane subtleties at the feast last night.'
'Don't be impertinent.' Mathilda tugged and wove, her lips tightly pursed. 'Don't you want to look like a beautiful lady?'
Maude pulled a face but withheld the retort that not if it meant having the hair twisted on her scalp until it was almost torn from its roots.
Her grandmother threaded the second fillet on to the braid. 'Your father will tell you everything as soon as he arrives.' She stepped back to consider the finished result. 'Holy Virgin, Maude, you look just like your mother when she was your age.' Suddenly the older woman's voice wobbled with emotion and tears filled her eyes.
Maude scowled and shuffled her feet. People were always telling her that she resembled her mother and she hated it.
'Look at me.' Her grandmother laughed tremulously, and wiped away her tears on the side of her hand. 'I'm an old fool.'
The tent flap parted, admitting Robert le Vavasour. A brisk September breeze had lifted the strands of hair he so carefully cultivated over the balding patch on the crown of his head. His eyes were bright with pleasure and there was a smile on his lips. Taking Maude by the shoulders, he turned her round for inspection. 'You've arrayed her proudly, madam,' he said to Mathilda. 'She looks like a princess.' He gave a stiff nod of acknowledgement to his former mother-in-law. Maude knew that they were not fond of each other, that it was only for her sake that her grandmother had agreed to look after her at court.
Mathilda de Chauz smiled tepidly. 'She has taken a notion into her head that the reason she is to look her best is because you are set to be granted an earldom by the King.'
He threw back his head and laughed, a bitter edge to the sound. 'To be granted that I'd need a fortune. The most I can hope to buy is a shrievalty.'
'And suitably reimburse yourself from the revenues,' Mathilda said sweetly.
Apart from a scowl, le Vavasour ignored her; still holding Maude's shoulders, he stooped to speak to his daughter. 'I have some good news for you, sweeting. Late last night I received an offer of marriage for you from none other than Theobald Walter, lord of Amounderness, and I have decided to accept. You are to exchange pledges of betrothal this morning in the chapel after the knighting ceremonies.' He gave her a smile that was supposed to reassure, but only made her want to run away. 'Of course, there will be no wedding until you have grown a little more. There would be no point now, and you still have much to learn before you can run Lord Walter's household. 'He pinched her cheek encouragingly.
Maude stared at her father. She felt like a puppy, dragged from a corner and thrown in front of the wolves.
'Well, child, have you nothing to say?'
Mutely, Maude shook her head. She looked at her grandmother, but Mathilda's expression was so rigidly controlled it was as if the tearful emotion of a moment since had never been.
'It is a fine match,' her father enthused. 'His uncle is the great Ranulf Glanville and his brother the Bishop of Salisbury. Theobald Walter is to be granted lands, privileges and a shrievalty. His lands march close to ours and we have interests in common. So much the better if our families are bound in marriage.' He turned her head on his palm, forcing her to look at him, and his tone grew stern. 'Now, I expect you to do your best for me. No sulks and tantrums. You are a Vavasour and you will bear that name with pride. I'll not have Theobald Walter reneging on this match because you act like a sulky infant. Do you understand?'
'Yes, Papa,' Maude whispered, her pupils so dilated that they almost masked the clear, pale-green iris.
'Good.' Her father nodded, clearly satisfied, and opened the tent flap. 'Come, we do not want to be late.'
Maude felt as if her legs were made of melting lead. How could they bear her up and carry the burden of her family name without stumbling? When she did not move, her father made an impatient sound and grabbed her arm, drawing her with him. Unresisting, numb with astonishment and shock, she followed him into the bright, brisk morning.
The abbey was not as packed as it had been for the coronation, but still a substantial number crowded into the nave to witness the knighting ceremony. There were women present today and the atmosphere, although formal, was more relaxed than the previous day.
Fulke's sword lay across the altar beside the swords of his brothers and the other nine young men who were to receive their knighthood from King Richard. Fulke's pattern-welded blade was a gift from Theobald Walter. The gilded belt and scabbard had been furnished from Lambourn's wool clip. His father had laughed, saying ruefully that while he did not have any daughters
to
drain his wealth in dowries, furnishing his sons' helms was an expense almost as ruinous. However, when knighthood came at the hands of Richard, Coeur de Lion, in the great abbey church of Westminster itself, it was an event worth every last fleece in family prestige.
Archbishop Baldwin blessed the swords with holy water, asking God that their owners might use them justly in defence of churches, widows and orphans and as a scourge against all evil-doers. Royal attendants girded the swordbelts around the waists of the postulants and each young man was presented with a pair of gilded spurs.
Richard, who had been standing a little to one side, now came forward. His eyes were bleary from the pageantry and feasting of the previous day, but his hair still glowed like spun gold and he wore the royal crown of England on his brow.
The postulants knelt before him, heads bowed. Fulke, first in line, gazed at the King's shoes. They were delicately embroidered in gold thread, the workmanship sitting somewhat at odds with the enormous size of Richard's feet.
There was a soft hiss of steel against fleece-lined scabbard as Richard drew the polished steel blade and laid it first upon Fulke's right shoulder, then his left.
'Fulke, son of Fulke, be thou a knight,' Richard declared in a ringing baritone and, sliding the sword back into the sheath, bade him rise. Facing the King, Fulke braced himself for the accolade, the final act that would confer knighthood upon him. By tradition it was a hefty clout to the shoulder, a symbol of the last blow a postulant would ever receive without the right to answer back as a full-fledged warrior. When it came, Fulke reeled because Richard did not pull the force of the blow, and the bright blue eyes were fierce.
While Fulke recovered, Richard moved on down the line, drawing the sword, speaking the words, striking vigorously. William had planted his feet wide in anticipation and when his turn came, he swayed at the accolade, but remained firmly grounded. Richard acknowledged the bravery with a nod and a faint smile that made William flush with pleasure.
Following the ceremony and the celebration of mass, the brothers turned to receive the hugs and congratulations of their family. Hawise was sniffing into a kerchief. Ivo wanted to look at the spurs and the sword and was sternly warned not to mar the steel with sweaty fingerprints. Alain demanded to know if the accolade had hurt.
'Not much,' Fulke said, 'but I would hate to face the King blade on blade in battle.'
'Wouldn't you like to fight with him on your side though, blade
by
blade,' said William, the glory still shining in his deep brown eyes.
'If you could keep up with him,' Philip said, rubbing his abused shoulder.
Theobald Walter came forward to congratulate Fulke and his brothers but after a moment took Fulke to one side. 'I have a boon to ask of you.' He clasped his hands together and wiped them one over the other, plainly ill at ease.
'Name it and it is yours,' Fulke said, his voice full of pleasure and high spirit.
Theobald gave a pained smile. 'You had best hear what it is first: I want you to stand witness to my betrothal to Maude le Vavasour.'
Fulke's eyed widened and his lips silently repeated the name.
'It is not what is seems,' Theobald said hastily, hot colour flushing his face and throat. 'I am not an old goat suddenly taken with lust for a lass not yet into womanhood.'
'I know that, sir.' Fulke continued to stare in disbelief. 'When I served as your squire, I sometimes wondered if you were human, all the temptations you resisted. Indeed, behind your back, we used to call you "the monk".'
'I know you did, and it amused me. Youths are easily led by their loins. Twenty years on it grows easier to resist the tugso to speak.'
Fulke rubbed his palm over his freshly barbered jaw. 'So, does Maude le Vavasour have vast lands or important family connections?' He was thoroughly curious to know what would drive a confirmed bachelor into a match with a girl who was almost young enough to be his granddaughter. Although he had quickly agreed with Theobald that lust was not the motive, he could not help remembering how Theobald had offered to return the lass to the women's hall last night.
'Not vast lands, but large enough and they march next to mine. Her father and I have interests in common.'
Fulke nodded expressionlessly, but something
of
what he was thinking must have percolated through, for Theobald bared his teeth.
'Taking a wife has always been something I said I would do one day when I found the right woman and the right lands. Well, I'm four and forty now and still waiting. The girl's dowry is more than acceptable, as are her connections. If I ignore le Vavasour's offer he will sell her elsewhere and I might not approve of the man who becomes my neighbour by right of her dowry' He looked at Fulke, his gaze hard and clear. 'I am not the kind of man who enjoys unripe fruit,' he said, i can give the lass the time she needs to grow into a woman and I will treat her well. You have seen how it is with some men, Fulke. They stroke their hunting dogs and beat their wives. The lass touched a tenderness in me last night, and I want to protect her.'
Fulke said nothing, feeling intensely uncomfortable.
'It matters to me that you give your consent to be a witness without a shred of doubt in my honour. 'Theobald laid his hand on Fulke's sleeve to emphasise the point. 'You are a new-fledged knight and you have promised to protect the weak and stand firm for justice. I want that integrity at my betrothal.'
Fulke was embarrassed at the turn his thoughts had taken and the way that Theobald had seen straight through them. He was also ashamed that he should harbour such doubts about his former mentor, a man whose honour and moral code had always been impeccable.
'I am not worthy' He clasped Theobald's hand, 'But I will stand witness, gladly.'
Hubert Walter, Bishop of Salisbury, was waiting in a side chapel with Maude le Vavasour, her grandmother, her father, and a small knot of witnesses. Fulke almost turned round and walked out again when he saw that one of the witnesses was a smiling Prince John, but Theobald propelled him forward, the flat of his hand firmly pressed into Fulke's twitching shoulder blade.
'For better or worse, he is my liege lord for Amounderness and my Irish lands,' Theobald muttered. 'It would be a grave discourtesy not to ask him to stand witness.'
Fulke continued to walk, but his spine was rigid and if he had been a dog, his hackles would have stood on end.
John was standing beside his illegitimate half-brother William Longsword. The Prince glanced up as Fulke entered the chapel and his face darkened. However, suddenly he smiled, his eyes meeting Fulke's in open malice. 'You are making an auspicious occasion of your betrothal, Theo,' he drawled. 'A prince, a bishop, a bastard, a child, and Parsifal the fool who became a knightall gathered in one holy place.'
Fulke curbed the urge to retort. They were, as John said, in a holy place and present to witness a betrothal. Beginning a verbal brawl would
not
be auspicious in the least. 'I am pleased to be of service,' he said lightly, 'and flattered at your reference, Your Highness, since Parsifal was the foremost of Arthur's knights in purity'
John gave Fulke a narrow-eyed scowl, then ignored him as if he was of no consequence.
Bishop Hubert raised his arms, spread them, exposing the gorgeous embroidery in his cope, and bade Maude and Theobald stand before him.
Feigning indifference to John, Fulke fixed his gaze on the couple. Theobald was a tall man, active and powerfully built. Maude came up to his armpit and his size and vigour made her seem by contrast as delicate as a faery child. Against the deep blue wool of her best gown, her little face was bleached of colour. White skin, pale hair braided as tight as a stay rope, eyes wide and glassy with fear.
She gave her responses in a faint but clear voice, repeating the words that Hubert Walter put in her mouth, holding out her small hand so that Theobald could engulf it in his tough, swordsman's grip whilst Hubert wound his stole over and around the link. Now they were bound together almost as closely as a husband and wife. The union could not be put asunder except by appeal to the Church.
Theobald sealed the promise by the bestowal of a ring set with a square-cut amethyst. Since the betrothal had been agreed in a hurry, there had not been time to have one made and although the ring had been a snug fit on Theobald's little finger, it was still too large for Maude.
Everything was too big for her, Fulke thought, watching her leave the chapel with her grandmother, her head modestly lowered in contemplation of the loose gleaming gold.
'Congratulations, Theo,' John declared, giving Theobald a hearty slap on the back. 'You'll enjoy teaching her to be a wife.' He winked salaciously.
Theobald's smile was strained. 'I am not intending to wed until she is ready,' he said.
'Sometimes women don't know when they're ready. You have to show them. 'John gave him another slap and went on his way. William Longsword spread his hands in a gesture that apologised for his half-brother, and hastened after him.