Lords of the White Castle (39 page)

Theobald kissed the top of her head and felt a tightness in his throat. To be told that she compared his love to a sheltering blanket was a tender, touching compliment but no consolation when matched against riding an untamed horse—by implication a stallion. Against his better nature, he felt hurt and possessive.

'We do not have to stay until morning,' he said. 'We can leave now if you desire.'

'Please,' she said and buried her face in the dry, sagey scent of his tunic.

CHAPTER 20

A pale thread of smoke dallied from the fire towards a leaf canopy of lamellar gold and the breeze sent flickers of changing light through the branches like fingers rifling a jewel box.

'Fine day,' remarked Jean de Rampaigne, joining Fulke on a fallen log that had been draped with a saddle blanket. 'Pity there won't be many more of them this side of winter.' Fulke rubbed his thigh. 'We have friends enough to give us shelter or look the other way.' His mouth curved in a grim smile. 'And we have the means to pay for our keep.' He glanced around the camp they had made the previous night after the raid on John's merchant train. Several laden pack ponies attested to their success. He had distributed most of the bolts of cloth amongst his knights but had retained for himself a cloak of heavy blue wool with a beaver lining. As Jean said, the fine weather would soon end and while red and gold silk was a wonderful luxury, it would not keep him warm on a winter's night.

Jean nodded. 'But a thousand pounds' worth of silver for your hide might sway the odds in the King's favour.'

'The odds were already in his favour. This raid will not alter that balance, but it will show him that an underdog can still have sharp teeth.' Continuing to rub his thigh, Fulke rose and walked to the fire. Men were breaking their fast on unleavened barley cakes smeared with honey or bacon fat and the horses were champing on rations of oats.

They couldn't stay here. Even without Jean's arrival at first light, he had known that they would be hunted for this. John had been made a laughing stock before the entire court and nothing less than death would punish the perpetrators. He stroked the crooked bridge of his nose with the tip of his index finger. They were still playing chess and neither of them had learned the lessons of the past. Fulke had expected John to be fair and John had expected to win.

'So where do we go now?' Jean asked.

Fulke swung round. 'We?'

Jean grinned. 'His Grace the Archbishop likes to have a foot in each camp.'

'As long as he doesn't get caught by the bollocks straddling both,' Fulke said acidly, and then gave an answering grin. 'But you are more than welcome to stay. There is no one I would rather have at my side.' He waved away Jean's flippant gesture of acknowledgement. 'Next, we go to Higford to repay my aunt for her generosity. After that, we divide our time between Morys FitzRoger and John. I'm going to burn them so badly that they'll be glad to make peace on my terms.'

Jean helped himself to a barley cake from a pile that Richard FitzWarin was just sliding off the griddle. Throwing it from hand to hand like a tickled trout, blowing on the crusted dark surface, he said with eyes firmly on the morsel, 'John attempted Maude Walter yester evening in between the roast and the subtleties.'

Fulke's hand closed over his sword hilt. 'What?'

'Oh, it was all kept quiet and besides, the arrival of your merchants put all other happenings in the shade. Apparently he granted Theobald leave to go to Ireland and suggested that Lady Maude might be better "served" by remaining behind and following the court.' With perfect dramatic timing, Jean bit into the barley cake then fanned his hand in front of his mouth. 'Hot,' he mumbled.

Fulke stared at him. A few merchants, a hundred marks' worth of damage. He had found pleasure in the deed, but now it seemed not nearly enough. 'And?' His voice was dangerously hoarse.

'And Lady Maude "served" him,' Jean said, drawing it out like the skilled storyteller he was while he observed the effect on his audience. 'But not as he expected, only as he deserved.' Jean polished off the rest of the barley cake and dusted his hands. 'She kicked him in the bollocks so hard that he was almost bent double when he received those merchants you robbed. Then she and Lord Theobald made preparations to leave the court. They'll be halfway to Bristol by now, heading to take ship for Ireland.'

Fulke let out the breath he had been holding.

'Don't worry; she's safe.' Jean folded his arms and looked shrewdly at Fulke. 'Her main concern was for you and the danger you were courting.'

'The danger
I
was courting!' Fulke laughed harshly. 'That is a case of a griddle calling a cauldron black if ever I heard one. 'Then he sobered. What other choices could either of them have made except unnacceptable ones?

'I never thought when I teased you at her wedding that she would indeed become your "Melusine",' Jean murmured.

Fulke made a wry face. 'Even if I am hers, she is not mine,' he said. 'And likely safer because of it. I think that—' He stopped speaking as a hunting horn sounded in the distance to the south, and then another one, a little to the east of the first. Swearing, he shouted the command to saddle up.

'They'll be riding from Marlborough to hunt you,' Jean said as he hastened to his own mount and unrolled his mail shirt from its waxed wrappings on the crupper. 'John will have alerted all the villages too. With a reward of a thousand pounds of silver on your head, you're worth the chase.' With the speed born of long practice, Fulke and Richard had the fire kicked out and the griddle dismantled in moments, the hot iron plate cooled with a splash of water from a leather costrel. By the time Jean had struggled into his hauberk, the packhorse was loaded and Fulke was swinging into the saddle. 'Well then,' he said with a wolfish grin. 'Let's lead them a merry dance.'

'A merry dance eh?' Jean gasped as he wiped his sword on his cloak and briefly removed his helm to blot his brow on his sleeve. 'I tell you, the steps are too fast for my liking. There must be more folk hunting you in this forest than there are trees.'

An attempt to break out on the eastern side had failed. A contingent of knights had been waiting for them and although Fulke might have won through, it was by no means certain. He had turned around, headed back into the woods and been met by a smaller hunting party. A difficult skirmish had brought them out free, but not unscathed. Blood was streaming from Ivo's brow where the edge of a spear had slashed up the side of his helm, narrowly missing his eye, and several other members of the company had been wounded.

'I cannot help that!' Fulke panted in return. 'If we are to win, then the steps have to grow faster yet!' He reined his sweating horse about. 'East!' he said. 'They won't be heavily guarding the south road because they won't expect us to head back towards Marlborough!'

'And when we get there?'

'There's Savernake Forest to give us succour, and Stanley Abbey.' Fulke wheeled Blaze and slapped the reins on the stallion's neck.

They followed the deer trails, leaping streams, thudding along moist paths, autumn leaves flickering down on them like golden feathers. The sound of hunting horns came close at times, at others diminished as they played a game of catch as catch can with their pursuers.

'Halt in the King's name!' A trembling lone huntsman barred their path, clearly a local villager rather than a soldier, for the only weapon he had about him was a reaper's sickle. He did, however, have a pair of powerful lungs, and a polished hunting horn, which he frantically set to his lips. William spurred forward and with a blow from the flat of his sword, struck the horn from the man's hands. It was the work of a moment to seize and bind him to a tree, gagging him with his leg bindings.

No one came to his aid; he was indeed the single outpost of the rearguard and the fleeing men were able to clear the forest. Fulke was in no doubt that they would still be hard pursued. Someone would soon realise they had doubled back. They could not take refuge in Marlborough and Ivo's wound needed tending. Stanley Abbey was their best option for it would buy them time and sanctuary if necessary.

As they approached the abbey, the porter saw them coming and ran to close the heavy oak gates of the lodge.

'Open in the name of Hubert, Archbishop of Canterbury!' Jean bellowed, thudding his sword hilt on the iron-studded wood.

The only response was the sound of a key grating ponderously in the huge lock.

Fulke turned in the saddle and gestured to Alain. 'You're the tallest,' he said. 'Make haste and have a word with that porter.'

Alain manoeuvred his mount up to the wall, then, while Richard held the bridle, he stood on the destrier's back, secured hand and footholds in the gritty stone, and hauled himself upwards and over. There was a quavery shout, the sounds of a scuffle and once again the key grated in the lock.

'Enter, brethren,' declared Alain, grinning at his own joke as he swung the gate open and ushered them within. The porter sat dazed on the ground, his head in his hands and a great graze on his forearm where Alain had wrestled him down.

He glared balefully at the dismounting knights. 'You will be declared excommunicate for this!'

'Let God judge as he finds,' Fulke snapped. He gestured Baldwin de Hodnet to help Ivo into the lodge. Philip, the best at tending wounds, followed.

Fulke turned back to the monk. 'Give me your robe.'

'I'll give you nothing but God's curse!'

Fulke's patience, already strung gossamer thin, snapped. Striding to the porter, he seized a handful of the dark grey habit and hauled him to his feet. With William's help and the victim's considerable hindrance, Fulke finally succeeded in divesting the porter of his gown. Shivering in his white alb, the man cursed them in the language of a street trader rather than a holy monk until William and Richard bore him squawking inside the lodge and parked him under guard in the corner. Removing his helm, Fulke donned the monk's voluminous garment and secured it at his waist with a rope girdle, then drew up the hood of the habit so that his features were cowled in shadow.

'What in God's name are you doing?' demanded Jean who had watched the entire incident with a mingling of amusement and disapproval.

'Trying on your clothes for size.'

'What?'

'Disguising my appearance to change the perceptions of others.' Seizing the porter's quarterstaff, Fulke went to the gates. 'Keep your ears open and be vigilant lest I need help,' he commanded. 'But do not come out unless I shout.'

Jean eyed him dubiously. 'I hope you know what you're doing.'

'What I must,' Fulke said shortly. 'What the outcome will be remains in God's hands.' He crossed himself and went out on to the highway, leaning on the quarterstaff for support as if he were injured.

He did not have long to wait before a group of pursuing knights came hurtling towards the abbey in a cloud of dust. Their leader halted his lathered mount and, scarlet with the exertion of the chase, leaned down to speak to Fulke. 'Tell me, brother, have any armed knights passed this way?' he demanded.

'Indeed they have, and in a mighty flurry.' Fulke pointed down the road with the quarterstaff. 'Almost rode me down in their haste, the villains. I pray you bring them to justice, but I fear you will have to belabour your horses.'