Lords of the White Castle (29 page)

'He has no reason to be,' she snapped, folding her arms vigorously. 'I am not some simple-witted tourney slut to be devastated by his charm!'

Behind her, Theobald shook his head and with an exasperated half-smile abandoned that particular strand of the conversation. While he would have liked to foster a decent friendship between Maude and Fulke, he was also aware of the inherent jeopardy. They were both young and volatile. 'I am glad that my brother agreed to help him,' he remarked instead. 'It was the right thing to do.'

Maude was just as glad to leave talk of her relationship with Fulke FitzWarin. There were too many conflicting emotions to make sense of any of them. She was horribly aware of having protested too vehemently about the faith of her marriage vow. Theobald might be growing old, but his perceptions remained as sharp as an awl. 'You know Fulke FitzWarin better than I,' she said. 'Do you think he truly will rebel if the decision goes against him?'

Unseen by his wife, the fine lines around Theobald's eyes tightened, but she did not miss the sudden hesitation of his hand in mid-stroke. 'It takes a great deal to push Fulke over the line, but once it is done, he will not go back. I hope that he receives his wish because yes, in the wrong circumstances, he is quite capable of rebelling with a vengeance.'

It was a warm evening at the end of March 1199 when Richard Coeur de Lion rode beneath the walls of the fortress of Châlus Chabrol in Aquitaine to urge on his soldiers. They were besieging the keep which belonged to his enemy, the Vicomte de Limoges. The defenders were pinned down by fire from Richard's archers, but one cross-bowman, using a frying pan as a shield, stood up on the castle walls, took aim and loosed a shot. Richard had been laughing with admiration at the man's boldness, but that stopped abruptly as the bolt skimmed the top of the red and gold shield and lodged in Richard's collar bone.

At first it seemed a superficial injury, but the bolt was in deep and the surgeon had to probe the wound to extract the iron head. Fever quickly developed and the festering wound turned gangrenous.

On the sixth of April, as the world basked in the renewal of spring, Richard Coeur de Lion died, bequeathing his soul to God and his throne to his brother, John. And to John's care were consigned all the charters and documents, all the writs that were awaiting Richard's attention. Among them, close to the top of the pile, was a request from Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, that Fulke FitzWarin be given full seisin of his fathers lands, including the keep of Whittington and all its environs and appurtenances.

Roscelin, the clerk responsible, gathered the vellum scrolls, slammed them back in their coffer and sent them on to their new master to be sanctioned.

CHAPTER 15

Alberbury, The Welsh Marches,

Summer 1199

Fulke studied the roll of vellum that the messenger had recently presented to him and grimly broke the seal. He had known it was coming, but even so, he could feel a knot of anger and apprehension tightening in his belly.

'What is it?' Hawise rose from her tapestry frame by the window and came across to him.

'What I've been expecting. A summons to pay homage to John at Castle Baldwin in two weeks' time.' He could not keep the distaste from his voice and the wolfhound dozing beneath the dais table raised his head and whined.

His mother took the document and screwed up her eyes to study the royal seal.

'He might be the anointed King of England and due my homage,' Fulke growled, 'but kneeling at his feet and swearing loyalty will be a bitter draught to swallow.'

Hawise raised her eyes from the letter and looked anxiously at him. 'You will do it?'

Fulke winced. 'What other choice do I have? There is no one else. John's nephew Prince Arthur is only a child of twelve—and a spoiled French brat, so I've heard from those who have met him.' He shrugged. 'The devil you know, or the devil you don't. I warrant a long spoon's needed to sup with either.'

'What of Whittington?'

'John must honour the judgement,' he said grimly.

'And if he does not?'

He looked at his mother. In the year since his father's death she had grown old before his eyes. It was as if she had half died when they buried le Brun. The hollows beneath her cheekbones were cadaverous, the angle of her jaw so sharp that it was almost a blade. 'I will cross that bridge if it arises,' he said.

'It was your father's dearest and dying wish that we regain Whittington.' Her voice faltered slightly and her hand trembled on the vellum.

'I know that, Mama.' So dear that it had killed him and turned his mother from a beautiful, vivacious woman into a crone overnight. 'I will do all within my power to honour his memory.' He set his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

Hawise leaned against him briefly, then, with a shaky breath, drew away and stiffened her spine. 'Sometimes I think that it would have been better if my father had arranged my marriage to a man I did not love, then the pain of loss would not be so great.' Her eyes glittered with tears. 'But then I tell myself that I would never have known the joy either, or borne sons who fill me with such pride. All of you honour his memory.'

Fulke said nothing. Words, no matter how comforting, were just words and he found himself awkward in the face of his mother's life-consuming grief. Clearing his throat, he pivoted on his heel and headed towards the door.

'Where are you going?'

He heard the lost cry in her voice and his own throat tightened and swelled in response. She had been so strong and vibrant when his father was alive that her disintegration now was all the harder to bear.

'To find my brothers and tell them,' he said, taking refuge from emotion in practicality. 'I will not be gone long. Finn, come.' He snapped his fingers to the dozing wolfhound, a great-grandson of the bitch that Oonagh FitzGerald had given him. Tail wagging, the dog rose and followed him.

Outside the door, he encountered his aunt Emmeline bearing a jug of wine. She was his father's widowed sister and had the FitzWarin dark brown eyes and warm olive complexion.

'Was the news good?' she asked.

'I'm to go and pay homage to John for my lands,' Fulke said neutrally. He nodded over his shoulder towards the interior of the room. 'Look after her. She needs you.'

'Aye, we're all grieving, but she's finding it hard to move on,' Emmeline replied sympathetically and pointed at the jug. 'Third one today. She's like a soldier with a battle wound, drinking to numb the pain. 'Then with a little sigh, she entered the room and drew the curtain pole across. Fulke heard Emmeline's soothing murmur and his mother's reply, the sound rising and cracking on a sob. Clenching his fists, he strode away in search of his brothers.

King John sat in state in Castle Baldwin's great hall and gently stroked the breast feathers of the white gerfalcon that perched on his gloved wrist, its talons gleaming like scimitars. It had just been presented to him as a gift. Such birds, the fastest and fiercest of the longwings, were rare and beautiful. Grey ones fetched a high price, but the expense of the white lay in the realm of magnates and kings, of which he was now one.

Through eyelids narrow with suspicion, John surveyed the kneeling man who had presented him with the bird. Morys FitzRoger was a minor border baron who could ill afford so costly a gift unless he expected high favour in return. John could think of no reason why he should wish to grant this man a boon, even if he was pleased with the gerfalcon. He had learned from a very young age that everything and everyone had a price, either material or emotional.

'There is a war horse too, sire,' FitzRoger announced, 'a destrier bred from the line of the de Bellême greys. I ask you to receive it as a token of my loyalty.'

A murmur went round the gathered courtiers. The de Bellême greys were renowned for their looks, their stamina—and their cost. John's suspicion increased, and so did his curiosity. The man was clearly desperate to buy his good favour. Perhaps FitzRoger had committed some heinous crime in Richard's reign and desired to wipe the slate clean. Alternatively, perhaps he was trying to divert suspicion from rebellious tendencies by proving how 'loyal' he truly was. John knew that there were many barons who begrudged him the Crown and were not to be trusted out of his sight.

'Your generosity does you credit,' he murmured with a regal tilt of his head. He looked at the bird, its fierce eyes and beak covered by an exquisitely stitched hood of scarlet silk. His forefinger gently dipped amongst the gleaming breast feathers and stroked with sensual slowness. 'But then I ask myself what you hope to gain. No man beggars himself just for the joy of presenting a gift.'

FitzRoger's head remained bowed. 'My only desire is to serve you to the best of my ability, sire.'

'Well, that's refreshing to hear. 'John shot a barbed look at his courtiers. He was reasonably sure of William Marshal, Hubert Walter and de Braose. William Ferrers, Eustace de Vesci and Ranulf of Chester were more suspect and would bear watching. 'Remind me, what lands do you hold?'

Now Morys FitzRoger looked up and John saw him flush and his breathing quicken. Here then was the meat of the matter. 'I hold the honour of Whittington, sire, as it was held by my father when your own sire bestowed it upon him.'

' Whittington. 'The name tugged at John's memory. What was it about Whittington?

'If it be your pleasure, I would request that you confirm the lands to me and my heirs by your charter,' FitzRoger plunged on and in the Baron's eyes John saw a hunger that verged on desperation. Johns vision suddenly filled with the image of another man kneeling at his feet in the cloudy dust of a summer highway, not in homage but in resentment. Hard on the heels of that came the recollection of a raw winter's evening at Westminster and a splintered chessboard. 'Surely the lordship of Whittington is in dispute?' he said silkily. 'Does not the FitzWarin family possess a claim?'

FitzRoger's flush darkened and he lifted his head. 'A false claim, sire. Once they held the land from Lord Peverel, but they lost it during the war between Stephen and Empress Mathilda. It has been ours since that time, and so granted by the settlement between King Stephen and your father.'

John handed the hawk to a courtier and motioned FitzRoger to rise. Then he leaned back on the carved oak throne and lightly tugged at the dark beard on the point of his chin. 'So you say. Do you have a charter?'

'It…It was always a verbal understanding, sire. 'FitzRoger looked as if he might choke.

'And the FitzWarins: do they have written evidence to back their claim?'

Morys shook his head emphatically. 'They do not, sire.'

He would say that anyway, John thought. 'So it is your word against theirs, but you have the advantage of possession.' He continued to toy with his beard. Clearly, FitzRoger desired passionately to hold on to the land and the castle—as well he might, given its important position and the accompanying estate. Likely he could wring more from him than a gerfalcon and a Bellême stallion and still be avenged on the FitzWarins for past humiliations. John began to smile with malicious delight. 'Have your claim written down by a scribe and copies made.' He gave a gracious waft of his hand. 'Bring them to me when you have done so and I will put my seal to them.'