Lords of the White Castle (65 page)

'Are you ready?' Salisbury asked.

'As ready as I will ever be,' he said, and received a reassuring thump on the shoulder from Ranulf of Chester.

'On the morrow you can go home to Whittington, or Lambourn, or Alberbury—wherever you choose,' said the Earl at whose town house on the river strand Fulke and his family were lodging.

Fulke nodded and unconsciously grimaced at the prospect of yielding to John. The only consolation was that in his turn John would have to yield to him and grant him Whittington—the reason for, if not the root of the quarrel.

Fulke and his men had donned their finest garments. Fulke wore his mail, burnished until the steel glittered as if it was fresh from the armourer's workshop, and over it his surcoat of red and gold silk appliquéd with the wolf's teeth device. His brothers were all similarly accoutred. They looked professional and formidable, as was Fulke's intention.

The marks of violence on William's face had faded to background hues of pale yellow and dull, muddy purple. He gave Fulke a tight smile. 'One last time pays for all,' he said quietly so that the words did not carry beyond the space between himself and Fulke. 'And if he reneges on his promise, you will not stop me from killing him.'

Fulke looked at him sidelong. Salisbury had custody of Fulke's sword which was to be given to John in token of surrender. None of Fulke's men had so much as an eating knife on show, but he knew quite well that William had a blade concealed inside his boot. 'No, I will not stop you,' he said. 'I promise.'

Salisbury led them into the great Rufus Hall where John was holding court. The room, despite its great size, was packed with officials, administrators, courtiers, supplicants and servants: a seethe of humanity all drawn here at the will of the stocky, dark-haired man seated on the throne at the far end. Fulke was put in mind of a nest of ants or a bee skep. There was that same sense of purpose and industry. Despite his antipathy, Fulke was impressed, but there were too many dark memories for comfort. The chess game in that winter's dusk; the confrontation at Castle Baldwin when, in front of the entire court, John had given Whittington to Morys FitzRoger. Although Fulke was here under the guarantee of a safe conduct, he did not trust John, and never would.

Salisbury sent his herald to announce their arrival to the King. John dipped his head to listen to the messenger, then sat upright and stared down the hall, his hands resting on the lion's head finials on the arms of the throne.

Fulke met John's gaze. From a distance, he could not see what the eyes held. Hatred, resignation, weariness? Or perhaps like his own, distaste and a desire to have the episode finished. Time to turn a new page, even if the awareness remained that a previous page existed.

John crooked his forefinger and beckoned. Fulke drew himself up and, Salisbury on his right, Chester on his left, walked down the hall, followed by his men. All he saw was John, although he knew at the back of his mind that a corridor of officials and courtiers watched his progress. They were a blur. The only items in sharp focus were the throne and the man seated upon it. John, by the Grace of God, King of England, lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine and Count of Anjou. He was not wearing his crown, and as Fulke drew closer he saw that the once black hair was salted with grey and lines of care were beginning to deepen between nose and mouth. The dark eyes were heavy lidded; since their last encounter, John had learned to conceal his thoughts, for they gave nothing away.

Reaching the foot of the dais, Fulke paused. Salisbury and Chester both knelt. Fulke drew a deep breath like a man about to dive into deep water, and then knelt beside them, bowing his head, exposing his neck to the symbolic blow of the sword. Behind him, he heard the rustle of cloth, the clink of mail as his brothers and his men followed suit. And then he waited, his gaze upon the thickly strewn rushes and the fresh herbs that had been scattered upon them to add perfume and sweetness.

The silence stretched as John drew it out. Fulke forced himself to relax, to clench neither his fists nor his jaw. He could feel William's tension, strung like the rawhide on a mangonel pulley.

Mercifully, Salisbury broke the tension. 'Sire, I have brought Fulke FitzWarin into your presence so that he may surrender himself to your clemency and that you may give him the justice of his lands,' he said.

Salisbury must have been awake all night thinking up that clever turn of phrase, Fulke thought, still looking at the floor. He heard the whisper
of
fabric as John moved on the throne.

'Well then,' John said, the hint of a purr in his voice. 'Let Fulke FitzWarin speak the words of surrender from his own lips.'

Fulke swallowed against a stubborn constriction in his throat. This was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do: submit to the man whose injustice had turned him outlaw. He raised his head and now looked straight at John. There was a waiting smile in the dark eyes, a smug curling of the lips. You bastard, Fulke thought, and a sudden spurt of anger broke through his calm. The knot in his throat vanished and he lifted his voice so that it rang with strength and pride and men turned their heads.

'I, Fulke FitzWarin, do yield myself and my men unto the judgement of John, by the Grace of God King of England. I acknowledge him my liege lord and swear to serve him honourably to the best of my ability from this day forth. In token of my surrender, I yield to him my sword to break or restore as he will.'

William of Salisbury stepped forward and presented John with Fulke's scabbarded sword, the leather cared for but worn, the sword grip bound with strips of overlapping buckskin.

John grasped the hilt and, rising to his feet, approached Fulke where he knelt at the head of his brothers and his men. The hair on Fulke's nape prickled. He could sense William preparing
to
whip the concealed knife from his boot and launch himself at the King.

Slowly John drew the sword. Having been forged for Fulke who was above two yards in height, it looked unwieldy in John's hand. The shorter arms, the stocky body looked incongruous against the length of the blade and the deep handgrip.

'To break, or restore,' John murmured, considering his reflection in the mirror gleam of the cherished steel. Salisbury made the smallest sound in his throat and John glanced briefly at his half-brother. 'The choice is mine.'

He held onto the moment, advancing at last to Fulke. 'Some here would say that I should have given you Whittington when you first came to me, but I had already been asked by a man with a claim of common possession at least the equal of your claim to hereditary right.'

Fulke's said nothing, determined not to rise to the bait and give John a way out. The ground, despite the cushioning of rushes, was hard beneath his knees. He willed William to hold his tongue and stay his hand.

'You have no reply?' John paused before Fulke, the sword raised.

'No, sire,' Fulke said impassively. 'Unless you want me to repeat my oath of surrender. Each of us knows why the other is here.' He glanced around the hall, reminding John that the scene had witnesses. 'And so does everyone else.'

John compressed his lips. 'I wonder if they do,' he said. Abruptly, he gestured to Fulke. 'Rise.'

Fulke almost staggered as his aching knees bore his weight. It was no mean feat to stand up in a mail shirt on legs numbed by kneeling.

'Gird on your sword.' John handed Fulke the belt and the weapon as if casting a crust to a beggar. Then he stalked to his throne, and sat down. 'Now come to me and kneel and do homage for your lands—including Whittington.'

Fulke's heart was hammering. Suddenly his fingers seemed enormous and it was all he could do to latch the buckle of his swordbelt and secure the scabbard lacings. Advancing to the throne, he knelt once more, his knees screaming protest, the long muscles of his thighs trembling with reaction. John leaned down and took Fulke's hands in his. There was a moment when both men almost flinched from the touch and the revulsion could clearly be seen in each of their faces, but the clasp held. Once again Fulke raised his voice and in a loud, if slightly shaking, voice proclaimed his homage to John. And John in his turn declared, although not as loudly, that he accepted Fulke's homage and granted his entitlement to all his lands, and specifically to Whittington.

John leaned further to give Fulke the kiss of peace. 'And may it bring you naught but grief,' he whispered as his bearded lips brushed Fulke's cheek.

Fulke rose and, stepping back, saluted the King. 'Thank you, sire. Whatever you wish for me, may I return twofold as a loyal vassal.'

John made small chewing motions, his jaw thrusting forwards and back. 'You may go,' he said. 'The Justiciar's office will see to your needs.'

Fulke bowed again, deeply, then turned and walked from the King's presence, his head held high and his hand on his sword hilt. He had given his surrender and his oath of fealty. John had restored his lands. Now they were bound in a pact, lord and vassal, and it seemed to Fulke that like many an arranged marriage, the bride and groom had been forced into a match that neither desired, but which, out of duty, they would fulfil. It was, as he had said to Salisbury, stalemate.

CHAPTER 34

Whittington Castle, Spring 1206

Dusting her hands, Maude eyed with satisfaction and disgust the pile of winter floor rushes that now occupied the midden heap at the far end of the castle ward. All morning the maids had been sweeping, the men shovelling and harrowing to remove the successive layers of detritus laid down between November and March. The winter had been so bitterly cold that when the rushes needed changing it had been warmer to throw a fresh layer on top than get rid of the old. By April, it had been like walking on a springy, soft midden layer. The sight of maggots this morning had finally galvanised her into acting.

The yard fowl were gorging themselves on the unexpected windfall with greedy disbelief. At least there should be a glut of eggs out of this, and a good supply of meat for the table, she thought with a grimace at the rank mound. The floor of stamped earth had to be purged with ashes and lye before a new layer of fresh green rushes was laid and scattered liberally with toadflax to keep away the fleas, and lavender to improve the smell. At least the hall would be pleasant to welcome Fulke's return—whenever that might be. He had been inordinately busy since the spring thaw, visiting their own manors far and wide, dispensing justice, receiving reports from reeves and stewards. Occasionally letters would arrive, written in his own hand, which was bold but difficult to read. They were hardly the stuff of troubadours. For a man who could wield a sword with such rare artistry, he had very little skill with the pen. He was well. He hoped she was well. He hoped that the children were well. The last such missive had arrived three days ago from Wiltshire and left Maude torn between fury and amusement.

An infant's shriek of delight made her turn to see Hawise pushing her little brother in one of the empty barrows. The sunlight made a flaxen nimbus of his hair and sparked Hawise's curls with fire.