Lords of the White Castle (71 page)

The boy flushed, but bit his tongue on a retort and followed Fulke. There were injured to be passed down the line and brought to the hall. The cauldrons of boiling water had to be hoisted to the battlements; the people needed to be encouraged to hold their guard. If the mercenaries took the compound, it wouldn't make any difference who had surrendered and who had fought. They would all be treated the same. Fulke took the boy everywhere, except into the thick of the fighting, ensuring that his red tunic was seen by the defenders.

Fulke and Collum were in the hall with Maude and Oonagh when a party of mercenaries led by Padraig O'Donnel broke through the walk defences and gained the compound. Maude was bandaging a soldier's arm wound and Oonagh was tending another man who had taken a blow to the skull from a slingshot stone when Padraig burst into the hall, his huge, axe-wielding bodyguard at his side.

A woman screamed. Fulke drew his sword and pushed Collum behind him. Maude lowered her patient's arm and groped on the trestle.

Everything became a sudden chaos of flashing weapons, battle cries and savage motion. Fulke parried the blows launched at him, using his mail-clad body to shield the boy. In terror, Oonagh backed behind the trestles trying to keep them between her and the warrior who desired to run her through.

Blackbeard loomed, his teeth bared in an ursine snarl. Fulke saw the axe blow descending and knew that even if he did manage to parry in time, it was useless against the cleaving power of the Dane axe. But instead of a heavy shearing edge separating his head from his body, there was a different singing in the air and a blur of motion. The bodkin head of a hunting arrow drove Blackbeard violently backwards. The goose-feather shaft protruding from his mail shuddered once and stopped in tandem with the heart it had pierced. Blackbeard's eyes were wide open from the shock of impact and they remained that way, glassy with death.

Fulke stared, then he turned his head and saw Maude in her archer's stance. At ten paces, there had only been one outcome. Jean burst into the hall with several Docionell men and set upon the mercenaries who had broken through. There was a vigorous skirmish, sharp but short. Without the protection of his mighty bodyguard, Padraig O'Donnel was no match for Jean's blade.

In the silence that followed the destructive whirlwind of battle, the boy knelt beside his uncle's corpse and uncurled the fist from the hilt of the bloodied sword. 'It's mine,' he said as Fulke looked at him askance. 'As it was my father's.'

'Your father's?'

'My uncle Padraig stole it from his body'

Breathing hard, Fulke looked at the body of Padraig O'Donnel and pressed his hand to his ribs. His fingers came away red and sticky.

'It's over,' the boy said, his voice filled with a new maturity despite its childish treble.

Maude pushed to Fulke's side. 'Let me see,' she said.

'What?' He looked at her nonplussed, thinking for a moment that she wanted a good look at the corpse.

'Your side, you're bleeding again,' she said impatiently. 'Let me look.'

'At least I know I am alive,' he said ruefully. 'It is a good thing your aim is so true. I doubt you would have the skill to stitch my head back to my body.'

'Do not jest!' she said sharply.

He swallowed. 'Christ, if I did not, I would weep, and there's too much to be done. Besides, there are others in worse case than me.' He indicated the surrounding bloody shambles. 'Tend them first. I can wait.'

She clucked her tongue at him, but turned to the table and picked up a length of bandage. Although her hands were perfectly steady, she kept her head averted from the body of the black-bearded mercenary and her complexion was white. Fulke issued a terse command and three soldiers bore the hulk from the room.

Oonagh came to look upon the corpse of her brother-in-law. 'God rest his soul,' she said, making the sign of the Cross but speaking the words as if they were an insult. 'Now perhaps I can celebrate my marriage as it should be celebrated.' Stepping delicately over the body, she went into Jean's arms.

CHAPTER 37

Whittington Castle,

November 1214

On the feast of St Andrew, Fulke's daughter Hawise was betrothed to William, heir of neighbouring Baron Robert Pantulf of Wem. The lands of FitzWarin and Pantulf marched side by side and the family had interests in common.

Hawise and William knew each other socially, although their contact had not been great thus far since William Pantulf was close to thirty years old, a handsome man of the world, and Hawise, although precocious, was not quite thirteen.

'Perhaps we should have had a wedding today instead of a betrothal,' said Robert Pantulf to Fulke as they watched the betrothed couple dance to the music of pipes and tabor in Whittington's decorated great hall. He was an elderly man, beginning to stoop, but his eyes were full of life.

'Hawise is still too young.' Fulke shook his head and watched his daughter, an ache in his heart. It hardly seemed a moment since she was a small, curly-haired infant sitting in his lap and demanding his attention. Now she was practising the steps of a mating dance with the man who would be her husband. Her hair, loose in token of her virginity, rippled like autumn leaves to her waist and she was wearing a laced gown the colour of peacock feathers that showed the swell of developing breasts. She was caught in the narrow space between child and woman, innocence seeking knowledge and more enticing than she realised. The realisation would be another step on the path.

'I was the same age as her when I was betrothed to Theo,' Maude murmured softly, joining the men and wrapping her arm around Fulke's.

'As I said, too young to wed,' Fulke repeated. 'She still has much growing to do before she is ready to be a wife.'

Pantulf smiled slightly at Fulke. 'Perhaps I detect a desire in you not to let her go?'

Fulke cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. 'She is my firstborn,' he said. 'Of course it is hard.' He smiled ruefully, trying to lighten the moment. 'Her little sister is only three years old and it seems not a moment since Hawise was that age.' He glanced at his youngest daughter. Mabile was sitting on Gracia's knee, her narrow white-blonde plaits braided with gold ribbon in honour of her sister's betrothal. Mabile would never marry. He would always have one daughter at home, but that was tragedy, not a source of pleasure. Her birth had been difficult for she had been born feet first and it had been a long time before she breathed. At first she had seemed like any baby—perhaps a trifle more fractious, but as time passed, it became obvious that she was different.

Seated at a trestle beside their uncles William and Philip were Fulke's two sons. Fulkin, a coltish, graceful ten, butter-haired and blue-eyed, and Ivo, conceived in Ireland, now seven, and dark like his sister Jonetta. For the nonce, beneath the sharp gaze of the adults, they were behaving. 'With boys it is different,' Fulke said. 'They make your heart fierce with pride; they don't melt it.'

'Aye,' Pantulf said gruffly and looked towards his son and heir. The two men watched the couple weave in the steps of the dance. William Pantulf moved with an athlete's grace.

Fulke had seen him in the tiltyard and at swordplay. He handled himself well and, although lightly built, he knew how to make every stroke count. He also had patience and the ability to see humour in most situations—traits that were a necessity when it came to dealing with Hawise. His age had made Fulke pause for thought, but reflection had shown that although there were younger men aplenty, there were none he would trust with his daughter's happiness and the control of the lands that were her marriage portion.

Pantulf gestured towards two dancing, giggling young women. 'What about the other lass? Have you anyone in mind for her?'

'Which one? Oh, Jonetta. I've opened tentative negotiations with de Pembridge's lad for her,' Fulke said. Jonetta sparkled like a dark jewel. By contrast, her companion looked drab, which was not really true. Clarice's glow was softer and less easily seen from a distance.

'I forgot that the other one was your ward,' Pantulf said. 'Had any offers for her?'

'One or two, but none that suited.' Fulke did not elaborate. Clarice, gentle, biddable Clarice, was twice as stubborn as either of his daughters. Hawise could be persuaded by flattery and attention, Jonetta by the promise of a new gown, little Mabile by the sticky bribe of a sugared plum. But nothing worked on Clarice. Neither threat nor cajolery, bribery nor bellowing. She did not wish to marry; she was happy as she was. Her proposed husband might be a paragon of manhood, but she did not want him. There had been no tears, no pleading, just an implacable determination. Since the offers in question had been merely good rather than excellent, it had been simpler for Fulke to abandon the issue.

'Aye.' Pantulf gave him a knowing smile. 'While she stays unwed, her revenues are yours and you have an extra nursemaid and helpmeet for your household.'

'That is true.' Fulke nodded, thinking how good Clarice was with Mabile. 'But I would not keep her from marriage deliberately. Blather it is her choice.'

'You give her a choice?'

'You do not know Clarice,' he said wryly. 'My daughters can be contrary to the point where it is a wonder
I
have not torn my hair out by the roots, but with Clarice it is an art. You would not believe unless you saw.'

Pantulf raised his brows and looked with renewed interest on the unremarkable brown-haired girl swirling and turning with the other dancers.

'The strange thing about Clarice,' Fulke murmured, watching her too, 'is that she has been an adult ever since she came to us—and that was as a child of barely eight years old. I can remember once when Maude and I were having an argument over something petty and she fixed us with a look that the sternest Mother Superior would have been hard pressed to duplicate. I felt about this tall.' He raised his thumb and forefinger in illustration.

Pantulf grinned. 'Even more reason to find her a husband.'

Fulke shook his head. 'I think,' he said, 'that when the right man does appear, it will be Clarice who chooses him, not anyone else.'

'Papa, Papa, come and dance!' Hawise flourished up to him, her cheeks flushed with exertion and happiness, her peacock gown swirling. She tugged at his arm. 'You've talked enough, come and dance!'

'Then again,' Fulke laughed to Pantulf, 'perhaps I'm not strict enough with my womenfolk. You see how they order me about?'

'I see how they respond to you,' smiled Robert Pantulf. 'God grant my son the same grace.'

'I am watching my children grow into adulthood,' Fulke said to Maude much later that night as they prepared for bed, 'and I feel more than ever that I am standing in my father's shoes.' His voice was a little slurred. You couldn't drink good Rhenish wine all night and expect to keep a clear head. 'I can remember when I was their age, and my father was mine.'

'You are feeling your years?' Maude looked teasingly at him. She was a little giddy herself. With a flick of her fingers she dismissed the maid and plumped down on the bed.