Lords of the White Castle (41 page)

Maude was effectively pushed aside, Lady O'Donnel treating her as if she were of no consequence. A chit of a girl, Maude read in the other woman's eyes, a minor threat to be summarily dismissed. Silently she fumed.

Theobald, who was never clumsy, almost lurched to his feet at her question. 'I can show you the guest house, my lady,' he said. 'Women are not permitted further, but your son is welcome to see everything.'

'Then that will have to suffice.'

Maude watched them leave with the two boys. She could have been awkward and declared that she was coming too, but saw no point. Oonagh O'Donnel clearly did not desire her presence, and although Theobald was obviously discomforted by the woman and found her attractive into the bargain, he was hardly going to strike up a liaison in a monastery. Beckoning a squire, she told him to fetch her bow and quiver, and hoped that Oonagh's stay was not going to be a protracted one.

Theobald rubbed his thumb knuckle across his forehead, his expression tight with pain.

Maude eyed him with concern. Lately he had become susceptible to debilitating headaches and their frequency had been increasing. After a day like today, it was no surprise that he was suffering. She told Barbette to fetch some willow bark in wine and went to lay her palm against his brow.

'I am glad she's gone,' she murmured. Oonagh O'Donnel had departed shortly after noon, leaving her son in the care of Wotheney's Abbot.

Theobald closed his eyes. 'She always liked to cause trouble,' he said. 'Today she wanted to prove that despite having sons on the verge of manhood she could still outdo any woman in the vicinity.' He found a smile. 'I suppose it would be true if the contest was for harlotry. There is a rumour that she had her second husband mutilated so that she could have her freedom.'

Maude gazed at him in shock. 'Mutilated?'

'Aye.' He gave her a wry look. 'She didn't have him killed outright, because that would only have brought her another Norman husband to govern her land. He was "injured" in a hunting accident, so we heard—a knock on the skull that rendered him witless. Obviously she kept him alive until interest waned and when he died, she married Niall O'Donnel, the man of her choice—and there is no doubt those lads are of his siring, not Guy de Chaumont's.'

Theobald was not one to indulge in idle gossip. What he had told her was sordid enough, but it was the implications lurking behind the words that made Maude shiver and cross herself.

Theobald noticed her gesture. 'Yes,' he said, 'Oonagh O'Donnel is ruthless and self-seeking. She bedded John when I was here last and, if I had not prevented her, she would have sunk her talons into Fulke too.'

'And how did you do that?' Maude's hand remained at her breast. She felt like crossing herself again.

'Told her I would kill her if she did. He was no more than a green lad at the time.'

'And she obeyed you?'

Theobald rose and went to lie on the bed. 'Not from fear. I think she had a genuine liking for Fulke and thus chose to spare him. You've seen those great dogs of his?'

Maude nodded.

They're bred from a bitch she gave him as a leaving gift. That is why I think her regard for him went beyond lust.'

'And his regard for her?' Maude's voice was neutral. She would not permit a note of jealousy to enter.

Theobald gave a smile, wry and tight through the pain. 'He was a squire with a youth's interest in women made all the more intense by lack of experience. She was about your age but a hundredfold less innocent. You saw how she was in the hall, the way she talked and touched. Imagine the effect she would have on a young lad.'

Maude said nothing. She could imagine the effect all too well. Silently she agreed with Barbette that St Patrick had not rid Ireland of all its vipers. She was glad that Fulke was in England and had no cause to cross the sea and renew old acquaintances.

In the morning, despite liberal doses of willow bark in wine, Theobald's headache was worse and he complained that his vision was strange and blurred. Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear the difficulty only exacerbated the symptoms. Maude wanted him to spend the day abed. Theobald insisted he would rise. Finally they compromised, and those who had business with him came to his bedchamber. Despite the pain, Theobald was busy. Messengers came and went throughout the day and he dictated a plethora of letters and writs.

'You should slow down,' Maude said with troubled eyes.

'Some matters will not wait,' he answered. She could not argue or send those around his bedside away, because he had specifically requested their company.

Again, she went outside with her bow to practise at the targets and ease her worry. Theobald was past his prime, she knew that, but he was not yet in his dotage. He was her buffer from the world, her safe enclosure, and the sight of him ill made her feel vulnerable.

Two hours later, she was in the hall talking to one of the knight's wives when a panicking squire summoned her to the bedchamber. Theobald had complained that the pain was intolerable, had vomited several times and then collapsed. He was still breathing and his eyes were open, but no one could rouse him.

With a terrible foreboding, Maude sped to the chamber and went straight to the bed. It and Theobald had been tidied and cleaned while the squire went to fetch her. The tight, crisp sheets, the man flat upon it, his chest barely moving, put her in mind of a corpse on a bier.

'Theo?' She leaned over him and took his hand. It was cold in her grasp and limp. The pupil of one eye was wide and dark. The other expanded as her shadow took away the light from the embrasure. 'Theo, can you hear me?'

Nothing. She looked round at the sombre audience and fought the wave of panic that was threatening to rise and engulf her.

The Abbot arrived and with him the infirmarian, Brother Cormac, a rotund monk of cheerful disposition. Palm at her mouth, Maude watched him examine Theobald with gentle competence. The Abbot stood gravely to one side, his own hands tucked within his habit sleeves.

'I am afraid that he has suffered a seizure.' Brother Cormac spoke in French, but with a strong Gaelic accent. His brown eyes were sorrowful. 'I would be holding out false hope if I said that he would recover, although sometimes it does happen. But I think you should be prepared for the fact that God might take him to his bosom tonight.'

'There must be something you can do for him!' Maude cried.

'Daughter, his life is in God's hands,' the monk said gently.

'But he can't die, I need him!' She turned away, her hands covering her face, her body shaking. Suddenly she was no longer the archer, loosing flight after flight, but the target, struck and struck again. Barbette set a comforting arm around her shoulders. A cup of uisge beatha was pressed into her hands, but she thrust it aside. Tearing from her maid, she rushed into the garderobe and leaned over the pit, retching violently.

The first shock receded, but the pain remained, as if an iron fist was squeezing her core. She braced herself against the wall and breathed deeply. There would be time and too much of it to wallow in her fears. She must arrest her selfishness; Theobald's needs were uppermost.

Drawing herself upright, lifting her chin, she returned to the chamber and came to the bed. Theobald had not moved and they had closed his eyes to prevent them from drying.

'Can he hear what we say?' she asked.

Brother Cormac shrugged. 'Who can tell? It is as likely as not, my lady.' He stood back a little way.

Maude bit her lip. Kneeling at the bedside, she took Theobald's hand in hers. His skin was limp and cold. There was no answering squeeze of strength and reassurance. Terror stalked her, biding its time. She swallowed against the breath-constricting lump in her throat and raised her eyes to the Abbot. 'My husband wished to end his days as a member of your order. I beg that you ordain him as a monk—and if he is to die, then bury him here among your brethren.'

The Abbot inclined his head. 'It shall be done, daughter.'

She pressed her cheek to Theobald's unresponding hand. 'Let it be now,' she said and managed to speak firmly without the wobble of tears, although inside she was crying an ocean. Tucking her husband's chilled hand beneath the covers, she kissed his cheek. 'God speed,' she whispered. 'Know that I love you and that your love has meant everything to me.'

His stare was like a blank sheet of vellum and she could not tell if he had heard her, or if his soul was already beyond such mortal concerns. Biting back tears, she rose and stood aside to let the monks take her place.

Theobald died as a watery sun set over the Shannon, his passing marked by the soft chanting of monks and the mournful cry of gulls in the estuary channel. Candles flickered on the holy oil anointing his forehead and his hands clasped a silver reliquary cross.

Maude found that her tears had dried and she could not weep. The mantle of security that had protected her was gone, replaced by a threadbare, desolate uncertainty. Theobald had been granted his peace. She did not begrudge him that. What she did begrudge him was the fact that he had left her naked to the world; to the greed of men who would devour Theobald Walter's widow in a single voracious gulp.

CHAPTER 22

Higford, Shropshire,

May 1201

Fulke was seated on a bench in Higford's sunlit courtyard, smoothing a nick from his sword on a whetstone when Jean de Rampaigne rode in.

'Christ, you're harder to find than a virgin in a brothel!' Jean declared as he dismounted and led his horse to the stone trough outside the stable block. The sun had reddened his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His padded gambeson bore dark patches of sweat beneath the arms and around the upper chest. His hair was gently dripping.

Fulke sheathed his sword and strode across the courtyard to greet his friend, whom he had not seen since the late autumn when Jean had returned to Hubert Walter. 'That is intentional,' he said with a smile. 'Let John and his minions chase me up hill and down dale. They'll only waste their breath and resources.'

'Yes, well, it's my breath and resources that have been wasted this time, and in your cause,' Jean replied a trifle irritably. As his horse ruffled the water with its muzzle, he stooped to the trough, cupped his hands and splashed his face. 'I've been through every forest between Canterbury and Carlisle hunting for you. Came here twelve days ago and your aunt had no idea where you were apart from she thought you had gone north.'

'I am sorry for your trouble, but glad that even you have found me so elusive.' Fulke slapped Jean across his damp shoulders. 'Come. A pitcher of ale and one of Emmeline's chicken pasties will improve your temper.'

'God, and still the optimist after all this time,' Jean said acidly. 'Don't you want my news?'

'Indeed I do, but since it's been simmering in your pack for at least a twelve-night, I dare say it can hold a moment longer.' He snapped his fingers at a stable lad who was trundling a barrow of soiled straw to the midden heap, and told him to take care of Jean's courser.