Lords of the White Castle (31 page)

Fulke grabbed William by his gambeson sleeve and marched him out of the great hall. In the bailey, he collected their weapons from the gate guards, their horses from an attendant. AH in grim silent for there was nothing to say. It had all been said—and done.

Jean de Rampaigne sprinted out of the hall as Fulke set his foot in the stirrup.

'Fulke, go!' He waved his arms wildly. 'Morys FitzRoger is demanding your blood and John's asking who is prepared to go out and hunt you down for an outlaw! Lord Hubert's doing what he can, and Chester and Salisbury, but John's mercenaries will do as John bids!'

Fulke gathered up the reins, if they pursue me, they will receive all that they deserve,' he snarled.

'Well then, God speed you, and lend strength to your sword arm.'

Fulke leaned down from the saddle to clasp Jean's arm. 'At least I still have friendship amongst all the falsehood,' he said, and then spurred for the gate.

Back at the smithy his troop was waiting, Philip and Alain galvanised into sobriety by de Rampaigne's earlier appearance and Ivo and Richard groggy but awake after a thorough dunking in the trough.

'Mount up,' Fulke snapped. 'We're riding for Alberbury. I'll tell you why as we go.'

'We're outlaws!' William cried as his brothers and the other knights of Fulke's company ran to their horses. 'Fulke's renounced his homage to the King—and more than time too!' He showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. 'And I've struck a blow for our family pride.'

'You'll have more blows to strike soon,' Fulke said furiously, 'and you had best make every one count. This isn't a tourney or an escapade.'

'I know. 'William's voice continued to gleam with relish and Fulke knew that his words had fallen on stony ground. He wondered if William understood the magnitude of what they had done. They were outlaws, landless men, game to be hunted down like wolves and their hides presented to the King for a bounty payment. And there was no retreat.

Their path was set. God on the Cross, what price family pride?

They were no more than a mile and a half from Castle Baldwin, on the Welshpool road, when a band of John's mercenaries, riding hard, caught up with them. Fulke knew immediately that there was to be no negotiation. Every man was fully armed and they were led by Pierre d'Avignon, who was one of John's hard-bitten mercenaries, known more for his acts of chevauchée than his skills as a diplomat.

Fulke signalled his own troop to turn and face their pursuers. The road was dusty and rutted. There was no room for a charge of more than four abreast, but that suited Fulke who was outnumbered.

'I have promised the King that I will return with your heads for the insult you have caused to him and his vassal!' d'Avignon bellowed, the words emerging somewhat muffled through the vents in his helm. There was no sign of Morys FitzRoger.

Fulke drew his sword. A lance was fine for the first charge providing you could keep it straight, but for serious close-in work on horseback, the best weapons were sword and mace and it paid to shorten the stirrup leathers. 'Then you are more than foolish to promise what you cannot have,' he shouted in reply, his own voice clear and powerful because he was wearing the older style of helm with an open face and just a nasal bar for protection.

The sun beat down, glancing on mail rivets, turning them to fire. Fulke watched d'Avignon drive in his spurs and slap the reins down on his destrier's wet neck. He saw himself respond, heard the stretched-out echo as he roared a command to his troop. He felt the bunch and surge of Blaze's muscles and the sudden cool stream of air over the burning links of his hauberk. Then the shock of meeting, the clash of blade on shield, of blade screaming and sparking on mail. Fulke knew the tactics. So did d'Avignon. Go for the collarbone and shoulder. Even if the sword could not part the mail, the force of the blow would break bones and disable. Once a man lost the use of his shield, he was easy prey.

Sweat stung in Fulke's eyes, but he was in better case than d'Avignon whose closed helm was acting as a cooking pot in the day's heat. Fulke thrust with his shield and swung his sword, urging Blaze with his knees. D'Avignon recoiled and his blow of retaliation went wide. Fulke pressed his advantage, chopping in hard beneath d'Avignon's shield. The mercenary gave an involuntary howl of pain; his guard went down and Fulke attacked in full earnest.

The battle in the road was ferocious but brief. Trained by their seasons on the tourney field, Fulke's troop fought as a cohesive team. Skilled though their opponents were, they were not accustomed to fighting in partnership. It was each man for himself and thus they were easy to pick off. Having dealt with d'Avignon, Fulke spurred to help Philip and Stephen who were fighting two against three. A swift blow brought one man out of the saddle and a backhand slash disabled the second, leaving his brother and companion well able to finish the task.

Crying the FitzWarin name at the top of his lungs, William had joined with Ivo in despatching two more opponents. A third mercenary pulled himself out of the fight and, digging in his spurs, fled back down the road towards Castle Baldwin.

'I cry quarter, I yield!' screamed a knight mounted on a black Friesian destrier as Fulke cut off his path of retreat. He threw down his sword, cast off his shield, and raised his hands in the air. His surrender was quickly echoed by the remaining half-dozen men. While they served John for pay, they couldn't collect it if they were dead.

'Hold your sword!' Fulke snapped at William, who was so consumed with the fire of combat that he was all for continuing to the death. 'There's naught to be gained in slaughter and we're wasting time that could be better spent.'

Blood was running down William's chin from a split lip where a sword hilt had struck him. 'They rode out intending to kill us.' He spat out a mouthful of red saliva and his eyes burned. 'Do we just let them go unscathed?'

'Hardly unscathed.' Philip gestured at the bruises, swellings and cuts sported by the soldiers. Some, like those sustained by the FitzWarin troop, were superficial; others would take more healing and leave permanent scars and disfigurement. And four of their pursuers were dead.

'Don't worry, they'll pay a price,' Fulke growled. He ordered the surrendered men to dismount. 'Take their horses,' he said curtly,' and their weapons.' He pointed with his sword. 'Your mail, gentlemen. We'll have that too. I would hate you to have the discomfort of walking all the way back to Castle Baldwin in this heat wearing those heavy hauberks. Your spurs also, so you don't trip.' He rotated the blade in his hand, causing the steel to flash with sunbursts. 'Make haste before I change my mind, or my brother loses his patience.'

Clearly reluctant, but driven by fear of death, the mercenaries did as they were bid. Soon two of their former mounts were laden with an assortment of hauberks and weaponry.

Fulke saluted them, an ironic grin, devoid of humour, curling his lips. 'Now you are free to go,' he said, 'and I trust we'll not meet again.'

Without waiting to see the soldiers start on their walk, he kicked Blaze to a trot. His brothers and the rest of the troop followed, the captured horses on lead reins, the sound of their booty making soft clinking sounds with each stride of the packhorses. His first deed as an outlaw leader. Fulke did not know whether to laugh or weep.

'Well,' John addressed the quivering soldier kneeling at his feet, 'where is Fulke FitzWarin?'

'I know not, sire.' The mercenary wiped a persistent trickle of blood from a cut across his eyebrow. 'When Pierre d'Avignon fell, I was forced to ride for my hie.'

'Pierre d'Avignon is dead?' John stared in furious disbelief.

'Yes, sire, and Amys le Marquis.'

John swore and clenched his fists. Every encounter with Fulke FitzWarin brought him back to the humiliation of that adolescent chess game where he had lost on all counts. And he was still losing. Morys FitzRoger looked shocked and disbelieving too. He was sitting in the window embrasure, head tilted while the blood clotted in his nose.

'I could have told you the outcome.' Hubert Walter spoke quietly so that the words would not carry, but they were heavy with emphasis. 'Fulke possesses warrior skills almost the equal of my lord Pembroke's and you have ground his family pride in the dust. I know that you have quarrelled with him in the past, but perhaps you should have been more conciliatory. Your brother Richard acknowledged his family's rights in the matter of Whittington. For the price of setting aside your grievance, you could have yoked a very useful man to your side.'

'There is truth in what His Grace says,' agreed Ranulf of Chester, and received a nod of approbation from William Longsword too.

'It's not too late to revoke your decision, sire.' Hubert opened his hand in a gesture of appeal. 'Return the gerfalcon and the horse and give FitzRoger alternative lands.'

John glared at his magnates, feeling a suffocating sense of betrayal. 'Are you telling me how to rule?' he spat, glaring at his half-brother and then the Archbishop.

'No, sire.' Leaning on his staff, Hubert bowed. 'Merely offering sound advice.'

John ground his teeth. 'I do not need your advice to deal with a traitor,' he said venomously. He pointed towards the embrasure. 'Morys FitzRoger is my sworn vassal for Whittington and that is my last word.'

'And my last word is that you are making a mistake,' Hubert said.

There was a sudden commotion at the far end of the hall as the remnants of John's posse made their entrance: limping, staggering, beaten, their armour stripped, their bravado in rags. His expression thunderous, John flung from the dais to meet them.

'FitzWarin took our horses and our armour, sire,' their spokesman gasped. A section of his surcoat had been torn off and wrapped around a bloody wound on his hand. 'He said to tell you that he would wage war against you until you gave him the justice of common law in the matter of Whittington.'

John's incensed bellow echoed around the hall, bringing immediate, shocked silence. 'By God on the Cross and the Devil in the pit of hell, I will give Fulke FitzWarin and his brothers the justice of common law,' he choked. 'I will have them strung from a gibbet on Whittington's battlements and they can gaze on their land from there!' Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. The urge to cast himself down amidst the rushes and drum his heels was almost overwhelming. In lieu, he flung to the nearest trestle and, in a single swipe, sent cups and trenchers crashing to the floor. With a tremendous heave that tore the muscles in his arms, but gave him a pang of dark satisfaction, he upended the trestle itself. Panting, he staggered away from his handiwork and looked around, but none would meet his gaze. He felt their shock and contempt.

'Satan's piss on the lot of you!' he roared and stormed from the hall, leaving Hubert Walter and Salisbury to the task of succouring the wounded knights.

'You cannot stay here, you know that,' Hawise said as she bathed a superficial cut on Fulke's hand with lotion of woundwort. 'They will pursue you in force after this.'

'Yes, Mama, I know.' Fulke's weary gaze fell on the window where the open shutters revealed the glimmer of a fine summer dawn. They had ridden through the night to reach Alberbury on drovers' paths, their ears cocked for the sound of pursuit.

By candlelight a chirugeon leaned over William, attempting to extract the broken remnants of two teeth from his gum. William, half-drunk on mead, was making a determined effort to remain still and not leap out of his skin at each probe. Now he turned his head. 'We'll not run away,' he declared in a voice blurred by blood and drink. 'Whittington is ours and we'll fight for it to the death!'

'And your death it would indeed be, you fool!' Hawise snapped. 'John will send out every baron, knight and Serjeant along the March to hunt you down.'

'I don't care about that.'

'I can see that,' Hawise said waspishly, 'but I do. You would die for no more purpose than to increase the burden of my grief. Sometimes I think that you have no wit beyond the desire to lift a sword.'

'Mama.' Fulke laid a restraining hand on her arm and felt her tremors through his palm. He could see by the set of her jaw that she was striving not to weep.

William's expression was both hurt and incredulous. 'I am fighting for our family's honour,' he said indignantly. 'I won't just crawl under a stone and hide like a louse.'

She shook her head at him. 'Did I say that was what I wanted you to do? By all means fight back, my son, but not now. You have to wait for the right moment.'

'Mama's right,' Fulke said as William prepared to continue the argument. 'John will raise the hue and cry throughout the borders. If we stay, we'll sell our lives dearly, but it will be small recompense for letting John win.'

'Then what?' William said sulkily.

'We cross the Narrow Sea until the furore has died down. John can't afford to keep men in the field just to lie in wait for us. There will come a time when vigilance relaxes and the soldiers are sent to other tasks. It is then that we return and make him pay.' He looked at his mother, speaking to her as much as his brother, i intend to make myself so much of a thorn in John's side that in the end he will be glad to give me Whittington in order to have peace.'

William grunted, declaring acceptance if not outright approval. 'And what of Morys FitzRoger?'

Fulke shrugged. 'Let him enjoy the fruits of his treachery while he is still able,' he said implacably. 'It won't be for long.'

CHAPTER 16

Alberbury, Shropshire,

Spring 1200