Lords of the White Castle (47 page)

'Not far now,' Fulke looked at Maude, who was drooping in the saddle. 'We'll be at Higford by compline.'

Immediately her spine straightened. 'I am all right,' she said defensively as she drew herself up. 'The warmth of the day has made me sleepy, that's all.'

It was a lie. She was exhausted. He only had to look at the dark shadows beneath her eyes to know that. They had been travelling hard, making sure that they had left any pursuit far behind. The weather had been kind in that it had not rained, but the heat was draining and they had been avoiding the towns which meant taking lesser-known paths through frequently rough terrain.

Maude had not complained, but Fulke knew the enforced travelling had taken its toll. When she had accompanied Theobald to Ireland, the pace had been protracted with comfortable stops in abbey guest houses and friendly keeps along the way. She had not been forced to live on siege rations and camp out on the hard ground every night. Nor had she been hunted.

Fulke thrust his feelings of guilt aside. It was unwise to keep chewing at that particular bone. She had agreed to the marriage, had gone with him willingly, and, as she had said, going back would be like returning to a prison.

But seeing her suffer filled him with remorse.

'I am not as frail as I look,' she said, as if reading his thoughts. 'You keep gazing at me as if I'm made of glass, but I'm not. I can stay in the saddle as long as you, or any of your men. I won't be treated differently.'

'I only said that it wasn't far to Higford,' he replied. 'I know full well that you are no fragile creature. In truth, you remind me of a hedgepig. Certainly you have the spines.'

Her eyes flashed, as he had known they would. They were indeed like glass, he thought, a green so clear and light that they gave the illusion of being translucent.

'Like always mates with like, so they say, and you have the bristles to prove it,' she retorted, touching her cheek where her skin was marked with a pink rash of stubble burn.

Fulke rubbed the dark four days' growth of beard on his chin. 'I'll barber this off the moment we reach Higford,' he promised. During the winter, he would have let his beard grow, but in the summer, it was too hot and prickly, especially if worn with a mail coif or closed helm.

'You think we'll be safe at Higford?'

'For a time at least. William FitzAlan is sheriff of Shropshire and I number the sons of many of his tenants among my men. He's sympathetic to my cause and, thus far, he's turned a blind eye. My Wiltshire lands are accessible too since William of Salisbury is the sheriff'

'He's John's half-brother!' Maude exclaimed. 'Are you wise to trust him?'

'He's also my friend. If he is forced to move against me then he will give sufficient warning. I would not abuse his hospitality, but I know I could claim it if I had to, and not be betrayed. He loves John, but he does not swim in the same murk.'

Maude chewed her lip and looked doubtful.

'Besides,' Fulke added, 'there are barons of the northern counties who will succour us. Eustace de Vesci hates John, and there is your father too.'

'You cannot rely on him,' she warned with a shake of her head.

'I would not want to dwell in his pocket,' Fulke shrugged, 'but we understand each other.'

'Do you?' Her expression was filled with distaste. 'Before you arrived in Canterbury, he threatened to use his fists on me to beat me into obeying. You heard him say that he would bind my tongue with bit and bridle.'

'I said that we understood each other, not that we were the same,' he said a trifle impatiently. 'I swear that he will never threaten you again.'

'Of course not. He gave that right to you at our wedding.'

'A man who beats a woman emasculates himself.' Fulke's voice was husky with revulsion.

Maude exhaled down her nose. 'My father would say that such an attitude is storing up trouble.'

'And the other way is not? I might bellow myself hoarse or burst with temper, but if ever I strike you, I grant you leave to divorce me.'

'If ever you strike me,' Maude said sweetly 'you will find your dagger in your ribs instead of at your belt.'

He laughed. 'You see what I mean about your spines?'

All thoughts of banter and dalliance were thrust from their minds as they rounded a curve in the road and saw a troop of horsemen advancing from the opposite direction. Fulke narrowed his eyes to try and focus on their banners. Then he cursed fluently and, swinging his shield round and down on to his left arm, unlooped the morning star flail from his saddle.

'Get to the back of the line,' he said urgently to Maude. Go, now! Alain, take her!'

'What is it?' Maude demanded, her stomach plummeting.

'Morys FitzRoger and his sons,' Fulke snarled. 'In Christ's name, go. If he charges, you'll be killed!'

White-faced, Maude swung her mare and dug in her heels.

Twenty yards from Fulke, Morys reined to a halt, clearly as surprised as Fulke by the encounter, but fully prepared to fight instead of avoid. With a slow flourish, he drew his sword for close-in fighting, the move copied by his men in a threatening rattle of sound. Then came the moment of silence, of held breath and building tension as both groups assessed each other and mentally selected their targets.

'FitzWarin, you're naught but a thieving outlaw!' Morys bellowed across the space where in moments the battle would fall. 'Tonight the heads of you and your brothers will be paraded on spears from Shrewsbury's walls where they can gaze on all the land they want!'

'You'll have to take us first!' William rose in his stirrups to retort, his own sword glittering in his hand. He was fretting the bridle and the horse circled and pranced, foam churning the bit.

Morys raised his hand, but Fulke pre-empted him and with a roar to his troop he dug in his spurs, gaining that important hair's breadth of advantage.

The shock of the two lines meeting was like the ripple of a giant serpent: a shuddering undulation. Dust boiled up around the struggling combatants. Desperate to protect Maude, terrified lest Morys's men broke the line, Fulke fought out of his skin. At some point in the frantic battle, he lost the morning star around the handle of an enemy's hand axe.

He managed to draw his sword. A flicker in his side vision warned him to duck and the blow aimed at him by FitzRoger that would have broken his collarbone clanged on the side of his helm instead. Stars dazzled in front of his eyes. He saw the heave of FitzRoger's shield as the Baron tried to manoeuvre his horse in for a second strike. Gritting his teeth, Fulke responded, his aim driven by years of training and practice rather than conscious effort. The sword edge sparked upon the mail rivets of FitzRoger's aventail and the power of the blow was only partially deadened by the padded leather beneath. Morys gave a choking grunt and folded over his saddle, gagging for breath. As the stars cleared from Fulke's vision, he saw that his blow had crushed Morys FitzRoger's throat.

FitzRoger lurched and toppled from his horse, striking the ground with a heavy thud. He clawed at his throat, convulsed and was still. As if the battle had been channelled through his body alone, the fighting ceased and men on both sides fell back.

'Papa!' Weren FitzMorys flung down from his horse and knelt at his father's side. 'Papa!' He shook the man in the dust, then turned him over, frantically seeking signs of life. 'You've killed him,' he said in a tear-choked voice, raising hate-filled eyes to Fulke.

'As he would have killed me,' Fulke retorted, chest heaving with effort. 'As he killed my father. It was a fair battle, and God has decided.' He gestured with his sword, the steel still clean and mirror bright. 'Take him and go while you are able.'

'You will pay for this!' Gwyn snarled, joining his brother.

'Do not waste your time with threats you cannot fulfil.' Fulke's tone was weary with distaste. 'I have given you mercy to take your father's body and go. Do it now, or let the bloodshed continue.'

The young men exchanged glances. Fulke saw their nervous uncertainty. Their only tempering had been the skirmishes of minor border battles. They were outclassed and they knew it. 'This isn't finished,' Gwyn warned as he and Weren raised their father's body from the dust and laid it across his horse.

'No,' Fulke said savagely. 'But it will be soon.'

The FitzRoger troop rode away, taking their dead and injured with them. Fulke turned to his own men. There were no fatalities, although there were several nasty wounds, including the loss of a finger and two broken collarbones. Ivo had been hit in the ribs by a flanged mace and was in considerable pain. Maude was busy with the victims, binding up, reassuring. Relief and weakness flooded Fulke's limbs when he saw that she had come to no harm.

He dismounted, and she ran to him, flinging her arms around his neck. He felt the tremors ripple through her body.

'Jesu,' she half sobbed. 'I thought you would be killed!'

'Hush, I'm all right.' He rubbed her back and suppressed the urge to crush her against the iron links of his mail. 'I've endured hard fighting before. 'The words mocked him with their shallow bravado.

'But men are dead, and do not tell me they were green to warfare. It could have been you.' She gulped and bit her lip, struggling for control.

'But it wasn't.' He tilted her chin on his thumb. 'If I was worried, it was for you, all soft and unprotected in the midst of a melee. You feared for me, but how much more did I fear for you.'

They kissed briefly, but with fire. Mindful of his duty to his troop, Fulke broke away to talk to the injured. Shaking, but aware of her own duty, Maude tended them.

William caught Fulke's arm. 'If we ride for Whittington now, what chance is there of taking it?' he demanded with gleaming eyes.

His fierce urgency kindled a momentary response in Fulke, but he forced himself to think with his head instead of his gut. 'The garrison won't open the gates for us while his sons still live, and we can hardly sit down for a siege without becoming victims ourselves.'

'Then what are we going to do?'

Fulke glanced over his shoulder. 'Get Maude and the injured men to Higford and consider from there,' he said, then lowered his voice. 'It is in my mind to cross the border into Wales.'

William's brows shot up. 'Wales?'

'Morys FitzRoger was kin to Prince Gwenwynwyn of Powys. You know how seriously the Welsh pursue blood feuds.'

'You think Gwenwynwyn will come after us?'

'I think it likely. Even without the fact that I've killed his distant cousin, Whittington is an important border fortress and Gwenwynwyn is John's ally on the borders. They both want to curb Prince Llewelyn of Gwynedd.'

William frowned, and then his brow cleared in understanding. 'So we are going to pay a visit to Llewelyn and offer our services to him?'

'I think it the best course of action in the circumstances.'

William nodded and even looked pleased. Inwardly Fulke grimaced. His brother was amenable to the notion of going into Wales because it promised new experiences and adventures. He was also buoyed up by Morys's death and doubtless would make others suffer his ebullience for several days. Fulke wondered if he should feel more euphoric himself. Perhaps it would come. Perhaps it would pierce the numbness of fatigue and he would manage to smile and raise a goblet in celebration—and perhaps it was the price for leading that he might not.

'What were you saying to William about Wales?' In the aftermath of lovemaking, Maude leaned over Fulke and studied him by the light of the thick wax candle burning on the pricket. There were few marks of the afternoon's battle on his body, the occasional red blotch of a bruise the only evidence that he had been fighting for his life. The memory of the attack would dwell in her mind for as long as she lived. Watching a tourney was completely different to being in the thick of a kill-or-be-killed struggle. No courtesy given, no second chances or blunted blades. The metallic smell of blood mingling with the gritty taste of dust.

She had overheard only part of the muttered conversation between Fulke and William while tending the wounded, but the furtive way that Fulke glanced at her had made her suspicious. They had the great bed to themselves in Higford's upper chamber and the rare luxury of being alone. Fulke's aunt Emmeline had insisted that everyone but the newly-weds should bed down around the hearth in the hall below.

Fulke twined his forefinger around a silver tendril of her hair then released it and gazed at the curl he had made. 'I have to visit Prince Llewelyn ap Iorwerth,' he said. 'Morys FitzRoger was kin to Prince Gwenwynwyn, and Llewelyn is his rival. Llewelyn understands all about making alliances as well as war with marcher lords.'

Maude narrowed her eyes, not impressed. 'When were you going to tell me?' she demanded. 'As you rode out of the gates? Or perhaps not at all?'

He shifted uncomfortably. 'I was just awaiting the right moment,' he said. 'This is the first time we have been alone all day… and the subject of Llewelyn, no matter how important, was not the first thing on my mind.'

'You should have told me before.'

He shrugged. 'Mayhap I should. Are you going to sulk and scold because of it?'

'Am I not entitled to do so?' Maude demanded crossly. 'How would you respond if I suddenly announced that I was taking off without so much as a fare-you-well?'

'It's not the same,' he said in a mildly exasperated tone.

'Why not?'

'Because if you took off it would be on a visit to your family or to a confinement of a friend or some such. Where I am going, there is mortal danger. If I did not tell you straight away, it is because I did not want to worry you.'

Maude sat up, her eyes blazing. 'You think I am some frail milksop to stumble over obstacles?'

'I have never known anyone less like a milksop in my life,' Fulke said. 'I thought I was being considerate.'

'Considerate be damned,' Maude snapped. 'You knew that telling me was going to be difficult, so you put it off'

'I won't make that mistake again,' he said wryly.

She leaned over and bit him, not entirely in play and certainly not in forgiveness. He yelped, grabbed her wrists and rolled her beneath him. They tussled back and forth, her hair tangling about them. She scratched him and he pinned her down and thrust into her. She cried out and clasped him with her thighs, but instead of the hard, fast surge that her desiring craved, he held still above her, braced on his forearms, black hair tangling at his brows. 'Now,' he panted, 'shall I be a considerate husband or not, my lady? It is for you to say.'