Lords of the White Castle (25 page)

She was still recovering from the ordeal of watching Fulke and being accosted by John when Theobald arrived to take her around the booths that had been set up to one side of the lodges and tourney ground.

Theobald gave her a fond look and led her among the stalls. 'There is no need to look so worried,' he said, giving her a squeeze. 'I told you that Fulke would do you proud. Why, he even held his own against William Marshal, which takes no small degree of skill. 'There was pride in his voice, for the part he had played in tutoring Fulke.

Maude murmured a suitable response and tried to sound enthusiastic.

'You still bear a grudge, don't you?'

'No, my lord. As you say, it is in the past.' Not looking at him, Maude pretended to examine some silk veils tied to the corner of a draper's booth. 'I have no doubt that Fulke FitzWarin is a
preux chevalier. '
She cast him a sidelong look, seeking to distract him from a subject about which she did not want to talk… seeking to distract herself too, if the truth were known. 'I need new ribbons for my hair,' she told him and indicated her denuded plait.

Smiling, shaking his head, Theobald indulged her. His woman, his child.

In the great hall that evening, Fulke and his troop were the toast of the trestles for carrying off the most prizes on the tourney field. King Richard presented them each with a fine hunting knife and a gallon keg of wine to celebrate their success. It was a popular result and men pounded the tables with their fists and eating knives to show their appreciation. William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke congratulated Fulke with a hefty slap as he approached the dais to receive his own prize of a golden, horse-shaped aquamanile.

Waiting until the furore had abated, Fulke left his trestle, and approached Maude where she sat among the gathered noblewomen. She reddened and her glance met his before she lowered her gaze to the crumb-strewn trestle.

'My lady,' Fulke said, and with a courtly bow—he could not quite bring himself to play out the charade by kneeling—presented her with the green hair ribbon, somewhat frayed and muddied from the clashes on the field. 'I thank you for your favour and the good fortune it has brought me.'

'If it has brought you good fortune, then keep it,' she said unsteadily without looking up.

Fulke inclined his head. 'I am honoured,' he said impassively. Duty done, he returned to his place and tucked the length of green silk into his pouch with ambivalent feelings of disappointment and relief. He pushed them impatiently from his mind as he joined his companions. There was a gallon of wine to drink and an arm wrestling contest had just begun. Far better to opt for the safe shallows of honest masculine camaraderie than to drown in the murky depths of courtly love.

Maude watched the men at their sport, laughing, drinking, still play-fighting with each other as they had done on the tourney field. They were like children, she thought scornfully, and within that scorn was aware of more than a tinge of envy. Had she been male, she would have been there in the thick of it, powerful and confident. She imagined her elbow resting on the board, her hand clasping Fulke's, saw herself forcing him down into defeat and felt the heat in the pit of her belly.

CHAPTER 13

Alberbury, Shropshire,

September 1195

Hawise FitzWarin was in the bailey, talking to a peddler who was laying out his wares on a red cloth, when the guard on duty shouted that Lord le Brun had returned.

'I have silver needles,' the man said. 'So fine that they will pass through silk and leave no hole.'

Hawise shaded her eyes in the direction of the gate.

Sensing that he was losing her attention, the peddler raised his voice. 'See this white rose-petal unguent, guaranteed to make your hands so soft and smooth that no man will be able to resist kissing them.'

'I'll have some then,' said Hawise's maid with a giggle, 'but only if you refund my coin if it doesn't work.'

'There's no question of that, mistress. You'll be desired all the way to Land's End, I promise you.'

Ignoring their banter, Hawise went to the gate. It was almost three weeks since her husband and sons had set out for London to press their case for the return of Whittington. They had been loyal supporters of King Richard, had contributed funds to the crusade and sacrificed a year's wool clip towards his ransom. In return, their case deserved a fair hearing. With Hubert Walter as Justiciar, Fulke le Brun had a firm hope that their plea would succeed.

Two Serjeants unbarred the gates and swung them ponderously inwards to admit the troop. From experience, Hawise stood well back from the horses and the dust raised by their trammelling hooves. Autumn might be on the threshold, but the softness of rain had yet to damp down the heavy summer dust. Her heart swelled with pride as she watched her menfolk draw rein and begin dismounting. They were so vital, so handsome, and now, for a short time at least, they were hers.

Fulke le Bran swung down from his courser and immediately turned to search for her. There were shadows of fatigue beneath his fine dark eyes and he was favouring his left leg where an old injury always plagued him when he was tired. But beneath the dust, beneath the exhaustion, he was glowing.

'We have it!' he cried fiercely as he saw her. 'Beloved, we have it!'

She ran into his arms. Gripping her as tightly as his shield in battle, le Brun swung her round and kissed her. She tasted dust on his lips and felt the salt moisture of either sweat or tears on his stubbled cheek. 'Oh, that is wonderful news, my love! You should have sent word ahead so that we could have a feast in celebration!'

'No, I wanted to tell you myself,' he said against her ear. i wanted to give it to you whole.' He thrust his hand inside his tunic and brought out a vellum packet mounted with the Justiciar's seal.

'What's this?' Hawise took it from him.

'Hubert Walter's adjudication that Whittington is ours.'

Hawise looked from the package to her husband. She laughed, more than half of her humour derived from disbelief. 'Just like that? You were not made to jump through burning hoops like a tumbler's dog?'

'Not one.'

It seemed too good to be true, but she did not want to be a killjoy and dilute the euphoria of the moment by expressing doubts. Perhaps Hubert Walter truly had given them Whittington on the strength of their abiding loyalty. After hugging her husband again, she turned to greet her sons. Engulfed in half a dozen sweaty embraces, she saw that they shared their father's optimism. Even Philip, the quietest of the brood, wore a smug smile. William was positively gloating, and Fulke sported an ear-to-ear grin—as well he might since he was the heir and the one who would reap the full benefit of their gain.

'So what happens now?' Hawise asked as le Brun's squire finished unarming his lord and took the mail hauberk away for scouring and greasing. In a corner of the chamber, the maids were preparing an oval bathtub. Hawise had been raised with the rule that travellers, whether guests or family, should always be greeted with the offer of water for washing, clean clothes and refreshment. While the boys could do for themselves, using the laundry tubs if they so required, Hawise observed the formalities with her husband. A bath in their chamber gave them an opportunity to be alone and allowed him to soothe his aching joints and muscles without admitting weakness.

Moving stiffly to the tub, he eased himself into the steaming water with a groan of pleasure. 'What do you mean?'

'Do you just ride up to Whittington's gates with that judgement in your hands and command FitzRoger to leave?'

'Not unless I want an arrow through my throat.' He swilled his face and scooped his hands through his hair. With a pang of regret, Hawise saw that there was a greater amount of grey than black these days. 'I have to wait for the official writ from the Justiciar, for which I must pay the privilege of forty marks.' Le Brun grimaced at her. 'Yes, I know, one more expense to bleed us dry, but once I have that writ in my hands, I have recourse to demand that royal officials evict Morys FitzRoger.'

'He will resist that, surely.' There was a note of anxiety in her voice. Although le Brun was skilled in battle, he was no longer young and it worried her to think of him with a sword in his hand.

'No doubt,' said le Brun with a wintry smile, 'but he will be offered suitable compensation. The royal manor of Worfield, so Hubert Walter suggests.'

Hawise brought him a cup of spiced wine. He drank it swiftly, his free arm resting on the edge of the tub, his knees slightly bent to accommodate his length. 'And when will you have the writ?' she asked.

'In the due course of judiciary business. 'The gleam in his eyes dulled a little and weariness deepened the natural lines of ageing in his face. 'However long that might take. But our true right to Whittington has been recognised. It has taken more than forty years to come this far, but I know that my sons will reap the reward. There will be a Fulke FitzWarin at Whittington again. I feel it in my bones, and they never lie.' She saw him force a smile. 'Just now they are telling me that I'm no longer young enough to keep up with my sons and not pay for it.'

'Wine and a bath will refresh you,' Hawise said, concealing another pang at his words, which were an uncanny reflection of her thoughts. His health was not as robust as it had once been and he was much quicker to tire these days. 'Doubtless our sons are counting their saddle sores in trying to keep up with their father.'

'
" Fulco filius Warini debet xl m. pro habendo castello de Witinton sicut ei adiuticatum fuit in curia regis," '
read the scribe in a nasal voice. 'Fulke FitzWarin pays a fine of forty marks to have the castle of Whittington as adjudged in the King's court.'

Morys FitzRoger gripped the lion's head finials on the lord's chair in Whittingtons great hall and ground his teeth. His complexion darkened and the veins in his throat and temple bulged like whipcords. The scribe, recognising the signs, laid the scroll carefully down and began edging away. The messenger who had brought the letter from Morys's contact in the Justiciar's department had already made himself scarce.

'I will see the shit-eating son of a whore in hell first,' Morys wheezed. 'Let him pay as many fines as he wants. Those words aren't even worth wiping my arse upon.' Leaping suddenly to his feet, he snatched the vellum off the trestle, spat copiously upon the careful brown lettering, and then thrust the document into the flame of a wall cresset. 'Whittington belongs to my bloodline and it always will.'

The flame hissed on his spittle as the vellum was consumed. Drips of red wax splashed on the floor like blood.

'I don't understand,' said Weren, his eldest son. 'Why, after all this time, has the judgement gone in his favour?'

'Why?' Morys's upper lip curled. 'Because he's a lick-arse, and where his tongue cannot reach, his eldest son's does—right up the Archbishop of Canterbury's backside. They have Hubert Walter's favour, and his word is the law of the land.' He dropped the last twist of vellum before the flames scorched his fingers, then stamped on the burning fragment, grinding it beneath his heel.