Lords of the White Castle (67 page)

CHAPTER 35

Limerick, Ireland, Summer 1206

Maude and Fulke knelt side by side at Theobald's tomb in Wotheney Abbey and prayed for the repose of his soul, although neither had any doubts that he was at peace. The quiet wilderness of the place, the soft chanting of the monks were lullabies to soothe the most troubled slumber.

The only regret, Maude thought, in the midst of her prayer, was that they had not brought their children to lay their small hands on his effigy and light their own candles in his honour, if not his memory. Theobald would have liked that, would have liked to know that she and Fulke had offspring.

Not knowing what he would find in Ireland, Fulke had insisted that the children remain in England where they were safe from harm. Besides, the journey across the Irish Sea was a trial for adults, let alone infants of four, three and two. Clarice might have managed, but there was no point bringing her without the others. They were staying in the household of Ranulf of Chester, and while they might be missing their parents as much as their parents were missing them, they had the maternal cosseting of Clemence of Chester to compensate. Maude would not countenance sending her children to their grandfather. Le Vavasour might have mellowed since his marriage to Juliana and the birth of their son, but, remembering her own childhood, Maude would not trust him with her own offspring even though he was their grandsire.

She had not told Fulke yet, but her flux was more than two weeks late. She had suffered no queasiness, but her breasts were tender and she suspected that she was again with child. However, there had been a couple of false alarms over the past two years and she was not going to say anything until she was certain.

Together they lit candles and left the chapel, escorted by a young monk, tall and handsome, with the powerful bones of a Viking rather than an aesthete. Maude felt that she ought to know him, but it was not until Fulke was helping her into her saddle and the monk looked up to bid them farewell that recognition dawned. It was the eyes that nudged her memory, almond-shaped and of a startling cornflower-blue.

'You entered the noviciate here just before Lord Walter died,' she said as she gathered the reins.

'Indeed I did, my lady.' He bowed and seemed pleased that she had remembered. 'I had a vocation and my mother said that it was fitting that one of her sons should pray for the others.' His French bore a lilting Irish accent, soft as rain. 'She remembers Lord Walter with affection. I know that she would be pleased to receive your visit.'

Maude murmured a polite response and clicked her tongue to her mare.

'Your mother?' Fulke asked, looking intrigued.

The young monk nodded and smiled. 'The Lady Oonagh O'Donnel. De Chaumont was the name of her second husband, my father. She's a widow now. Her third husband died last autumn, God rest his soul.' He crossed himself. So did Fulke.

Maude rode on without waiting, her spine as straight as a lance. It was a few minutes later than Fulke came trotting up to join her, the look on his face one of keen interest and curiosity.

'I did not realise that you knew the Lady Oonagh.'

i don't know her,' Maude answered, tight-lipped. 'I only met her the once when she came to bring her son to the monastery. Theobald died just after so my mind was occupied with more important matters. Certainly I am not well enough acquainted to go visiting, or even to want to go visiting.' She twitched her cloak into place like a bird smoothing ruffled feathers and eyed Fulke sharply. 'You are not considering doing so?' In her mind's eye she saw again the slanting blue eyes, the lush, red mouth, and heard the feline purr of the voice.

His gaze slipped from hers and focused somewhere in the region of his mount's pricked ears. 'She is widowed,' he murmured, 'and her late husband's lands at Docionell border ours at Glencavern. For reasons of polity if not compassion, I ought to go.'

'For reasons of polity, I see,' she repeated, nodding vigorously. 'It has nothing to do with the lady herself then?'

'You're not jealous, surely!' he teased.

'Not in the least.' She tossed her head, i don't want you to make a fool of yourself, that is all. I met her when she brought her son to Wotheney shortly before Theo died, and I saw what she was like. The troubadours have a word for such women:
Belles dames sans merci
. Beautiful women without mercy.'

'Ah no, I've only met one such in my time.' He reached across the space between their mounts to grasp her hand.

She snatched it away. 'You need not try and cozen me,' she snapped.

'I wouldn't dare,' he said wryly. 'But I think that for "reasons of polity", and to protect me from myself, you had best accompany me.'

'I would rather beat myself with nettles.' She narrowed her eyes at him. 'I have been trying to remember what she said to Theo, but it is several years ago. Something about you being a fine young stag that she was tempted to go after and bring down. That she had always regretted letting you get away when you were a squire.'

'I'm older- and wiser now.'

'Not as old and wise as Theo, and even he was hard pressed to hold her.'

'She will be older too.'

'And likely more desperate.'

Fulke made an exasperated sound and rode off in front for a while. Maude looked at his broad back, protected by a gambeson thickly padded with raw fleece. Did it matter, she wondered? Either she trusted him or she did not. Either he had the wit to see beneath the surface, or he was a dupe. Not once had she questioned his fidelity during their months apart. Why now? Because she had seen Oonagh O'Donnel and the glamour she exuded. Because the woman had spoken of Fulke with husky amusement and the lingering regret of a lioness that had declined to feed and was now hungry.

She kicked the mare's flanks, urging her forwards in a trot to join Fulke. 'Go if you wish,' she said on a more placatory note, but with shadows in her eyes.

He looked at her. 'I think I have to,' he said, 'but not out of longing or lust. I outgrew those pangs years ago—except where you are concerned.'

She smiled briefly. She couldn't call him a liar on that score, but she could call him a flatterer. 'Then out of what?'

'Curiosity' He shook his head impatiently. 'No, it's more than that. It has to do with laying the past to rest. With standing before her as an equal, not some patronised squire.'

'But she will only patronise you as a grown man now. If you had seen how she treated Theo…'

He shrugged. 'Even so, if I do not face the challenge I will always wonder.'

Maude eyed him narrowly. The penchant for facing challenges was one of the strongest elements in Fulke's nature, but not always to his advantage. 'Just have a care,' she said.

'And you will not accompany me?'

Maude shook her head. 'I will be cutting nettles,' she said.

'Does it never do anything but rain in this Godforsaken place?' Jean de Rampaigne grumbled, drawing his hood over his ears and grimacing at the low grey sky. On Hubert Walter's death, he had left the Canterbury household and become one of Fulke's permanent retainers.

'It's what makes the grass green,' Fulke answered. 'And I'd hardly call it Godforsaken, the number of monasteries and convents that have sprung up.'

'Under our Norman influence.' Jean guided his mount around a deep wheel rut in the muddy track.

Fulke grinned. He wondered if Oonagh would make any impression on him. The thought of her irritated like an itch he could not reach. He knew that Maude was against him paying her a visit, but if the itch was to let him be then it had to be treated, and the only way of doing that was to confront it. Not lust, not longing, but unfinished business that needed closing off.

'So what are we going to do when we arrive? Sit and talk about the state of the weather?'

Fulke snorted. 'I doubt it,' he said with a touch of apprehension in his eyes. 'She's a recent widow—by misfortune rather than design this time,' he said wryly. 'As her neighbour, I need to know her intentions—find out if she's intending to remarry and, if so, whether it's to someone likely to start a war with his neighbours.'

'Then you had better hide behind your shield while you're asking her,' Jean said. 'If she could arrange a "hunting accident" for de Chaumont, she won't balk at dealing with anyone else who stands in her way'

'And I won't balk at dealing with her.' Fulke glanced over his shoulder at the solid troop of men at his back, their mail silver-sleek in the rain. Although his voice was filled with confidence of authority, he could not prevent the twist of tension in his gut. Oonagh O'Donnel was unpredictable and ruthless.

They crossed the boundary between Docionell and Glencavern, the only evidence of this being a boundary stone, lichened over and covered with thinly grooved lines, coiling like a spider's web. There were many such stones adorning the wild greenness of Limerick, some standing in circles like huddled old women, others lone sentinels, leaning as if blown by the wind.

As they drew nearer to Docionell, the lush smell of greenery and soft drizzle was overlaid by the more acrid scent of woodsmoke. The men became aware of a billowing cloud that did not belong to the blanket-grey sky. Fulke and Jean exchanged glances.

'Seems as if we're not the first visitors to pay our condolences,' Fulke murmured and slid his shield from its long carrying strap to the shorter hand grips, bringing it round on to his left arm.

'Could just be a barn fire,' Jean said, but not as if he believed it.

'It could.' The Irish, like the Welsh, were always conducting fierce clan wars and smoke from one burning settlement or another was almost as endemic as the rain. When a lord died, mayhem often followed, usually created by the lord's own relatives, all keen to grab their share.

Fulke and his troop approached cautiously. They were of a sufficiently large number to defend themselves, but there was no point in taking risks.

The stockade gate and the posts on either side were ablaze and the attackers were on the verge of breaking through. Barelegged, they brandished spears and hurled insults and missiles at the defenders who were desperately trying to douse the flames with cauldrons and buckets of water.

Fulke drew rein on the crest of a ridge overlooking the struggle which appeared to be very one-sided in favour of the attackers. He gnawed on his thumb knuckle. 'Either ride away or become embroiled,' he murmured to Jean. 'Do you have a coin to toss?'

'When you go to visit a lady, it's unchivalrous to turn away your respects unpaid,' Jean said.

Fulke looked sidelong at his friend.

'I've been waiting twenty years to see Oonagh O'Donnel again,' Jean murmured.

Fulke was unsure if Jean was jesting. The regular, olive-skinned features could wear any expression at a whim and the dark brown eyes were inscrutable. 'Then we had best go and join the melee,' he said, and urged his mount down the slope towards the fighting.

It did not take long for a scout from the attackers to notice them and cry the alarm. As Fulke and his troop came on towards the battle, shields forward on their left arms, horses lined up stirrup to stirrup, a herald galloped out to meet them, a spear brandished in his right fist. About ten yards from their line, he yanked his Hibernian pony to an unruly halt. 'I greet you in the name of Padraig O'Donnel, rightful lord of Docionell,' he declared in passable Norman French. 'What is your business?' His under-tunic was of Irish plaid but he wore a good Norman helm and short mail shirt.