Lords of the White Castle (49 page)

The track narrowed and Fulke's troop had to ride single file. A fine drizzle set in, misting the air like cobwebs and laying a fine grey haze upon the wool of their cloaks.

'What if we don't find Llewelyn?' Ivo said. 'What if we just wander round in these woods for days on end?'

Fulke cast his brother an exasperated glance. 'Either we're being watched, or we're being left to our own devices. It cannot be both. If I had known how edgy you were, I would have bid you stay at Higford to guard Maude and brought Philip instead.'

They continued through the trees, the green gloom thickening around them and the smell of the forest floor catching pungently in their nostrils. A pair of wood pigeons took flight from a huge beech tree at the side of the track, the clap of their wings so loud that it had the men reaching for their swords and staring nervously around.

'This is a Godforsaken place,' Ivo muttered, surreptitiously crossing himself.

'It's a forest,' Fulke said. 'Like any other forest.' He made himself sound indifferent, as if the heaviness and the gathering gloom were not affecting him. The drizzle increased to a soft patter and runnels of water dripped off the nasal bar of his helm. All the mail and harness would be as rusty as a monk's cock after this and take hours of cleaning, he thought dismally. The path became slippery and difficult with a steep, wooded bank to their right. Awkward, Fulke noted, if one had to swing a sword.

Suddenly there was movement in the trees. William snatched at his sword and Fulke held out his hand in a warning motion. 'They're not attacking,' he said. 'This isn't an ambush. God help us if it were.'

The men who appeared and blocked the path were dressed in the garments typical of Welsh infantry. Each warrior carried a spear and shield and a long knife at his belt. Most of them were either barelegged or wore short woollen hose reaching to the knee. The youngest members of the troop were clean-shaven, but all those old enough to grow facial hair sported impressive moustaches.

Their ranks parted to allow their leader through, and Fulke found himself looking at a man in his middle years, slight of build and dark of visage. Unlike his troop, he was wearing armour in the form of a slightly old-fashioned mail shirt with short sleeve pieces—probably handed down from father to son.

Fulke gestured to William. Having been raised as a squire in the Corbet household where connections with Prince Llewelyn were strong, his brother spoke enough Welsh to make a conversation. 'Tell them who we are and whom we are seeking.'

William raised his hand in greeting. '
Cyfarch I, Fulke FitzWarin a ei brawd, rydyn ni'n ceisio Llewellyn Tywysog Gwynedd. '

A slightly scornful look passed across the Welsh leader's face and one or two of his younger men lowered their heads to conceal smirks. 'Fortunately, I speak better French than you do Welsh,' the warrior said, his cadence Kiting, but the flow of the words confident and smooth. 'I am Madoc ap Rhys, and I am responsible for ensuring the safety of travellers through these woods.'

Fulke raised one brow. He knew what that meant. 'My name is Fulke FitzWarin,' he responded, 'and I am journeying in the hope of finding Prince Llewelyn ap Iorwerth. I have heard that he is at Deganwy. Mayhap you can take me to him?'

'Why should I do that?'

'I have news for him,' Fulke said. 'News that I would deliver in person.'

Madoc ap Rhys looked thoughtfully at the banner of truce. 'Then you must want something,' he said. 'The only time that a marcher lord comes into Wales under such a flag is when he has trouble on his own territory'

'Let Prince Llewelyn be the judge of that.' Rain was now sluicing off Fulke's helmet and soaking through his mail to the gambeson beneath. Beyond the creak and jingle of harness, the sound of the dripping forest was like a monotonous conversation.

Madoc eyed him narrowly, weighing him up. Then, abruptly, he gestured. 'Come,' he said. 'We will escort you to him.'

Built upon two hills guarding the estuary of the River Conwy, Deganwy Castle was a fitting stronghold for a prince. Although not as magnificent as keeps such as the Tower of London or the fortifications at Windsor or Nottingham, it nevertheless held its own with most of the baronial castles belonging to its wealthier English neighbours. Through the tipping rain, Fulke saw the dragon of Wales snapping from the battlements, revealing that Prince Llewelyn was in residence. Beyond the crenellations, the sea lay like a flat grey blanket and it was difficult to judge where water ended and sky began.

Madoc ap Rhys led them through the iron-clad castle gates into the courtyard and bade them wait while he went within and sought audience with Prince Llewelyn. Fulke began biting his thumbnail, caught himself and lowered his hand. It was too late now for worrying to be of much use. Llewelyn had the reputation of being an honourable host, which was more than could be said of many Norman lords of Fulke's acquaintance.

Moments later, Madoc returned. 'The Prince will- see you and your brothers,' he said. 'The others are to hand their weapons to the duty guard and go to the hall where they'll be given food and they can dry out by the fire.'

Fulke inclined his head and gave charge of his men to Baldwin de Hodnet. 'See that no one starts a fight,' he muttered, 'or I will personally wrap their entrails around my shield.'

'My lord.'

Madoc grinned. 'I do not expect you have problems of discipline?'

'Once and never again,' Fulke replied and with William and Ivo followed the Welshman across the ward and up some narrow, twisting stairs to the private rooms on the upper floors.

At the door, Madoc stopped and held out his hand apologetically. 'I must take your weapons too.'

Fulke had been expecting it. Even valued guests at the English court were not permitted to go armed in the presence of the King. Although he felt uneasy without the comforting weight of a sword at his hip, he unfastened his scabbard without demur and, behind him, heard the clink and shuffle of his brothers doing the same. Once that formality was completed and the weapons handed to a guard, Madoc ushered the men into Llewelyn's private chamber.

Fulke immediately felt more at home, for the room reminded him of the bedchamber at Lambourn or Alberbury. There was wealth, but not the silk opulence of which John was so fond. Bright embroideries coloured the walls. The floors were carpeted with scented rushes, and wax candles burned in various holders to augment the light that showed dull grey sky through the arrowslits.

Llewelyn was using his bedchamber as his state room, an arrangement common to most magnates. Away from the bed, with its discreetly closed hangings, stood an ornate chair, a throne Fulke supposed, although no one was sitting on it. A group of courtiers clustered near a brazier, talking animatedly in Welsh. Madoc went and murmured to one of them—a slender, brown-haired man of about Fulke's own age. The courtier nodded, said something to the others that raised a laugh, and, breaking from their company, came over to Fulke and his brothers.

William, who recognised Llewelyn from his squirehood days in the Corbet household, quickly knelt. Fulke and Ivo followed.

'It's a pleasant surprise to have marcher lords kneeling to me,' declared Llewelyn ap Iorwerth with barbed lightness. He bade them rise. 'Despite my opinion of what you Normans would like to do to Wales, you are welcome at my court.' A raised finger sent a servant to bring mead. 'I have heard all about your activities in England. Some I've dismissed as a minstrel's fancy, but others bear the ring of truth. I suppose that is why you are here—seeking a bolt hole from King John's wrath?'

'That is one of the reasons, my lord.'

'One of them?' Llewelyn raised his brows. 'I do not know why else you should seek me out. Unless of course you want to hire your sword to me.'

'I should be glad to fight for you, my lord, but it is more than that.'

The servant arrived with the mead and once it was poured, bowed and stepped out of earshot. Llewelyn looked expectantly at Fulke.

Fulke took a swallow of mead. It was sweet and potent with an underlying tang of heather. He drew a deep breath. 'A few days since, I encountered Morys FitzRoger on the Shrewsbury road. There was a skirmish and I killed him.'

The Prince's eyebrows rose.

'He was Gwenwynwyn's man and King John's vassal in the matter of Whittington. By the law of the land, Whittington should be a FitzWarin fief.'

Llewelyn swirled the drink in his cup, his expression thoughtful. 'I know of your longstanding dispute, but I wonder why you think it should interest me?'

The Prince's indifference was feigned. Fulke knew that Llewelyn had every reason to be interested in the news.

'You are right that I am here to request shelter at your court for myself and my retinue. In exchange I can give you fifty knights, all battle trained. I know that there is no love lost between yourself and Gwenwynwyn and that King John is your enemy, as he is mine.'

'So, you are proposing an alliance?' A glint of amusement lit in Llewelyn's peat-brown eyes. 'In return for succour, you fight for me?'

Fulke smiled too. 'No, sire. I fight for myself, but to your benefit. We have mutual interests.' He looked directly at Llewelyn. 'It would be easy for you to take Whittington while Weren and Gwyn FitzMorys are in disarray. And if you did, you would need a seasoned military man to hold it for you.'

Llewelyn exhaled down his nose. 'You want me to take Whittington for you?'

'In return for feudal service, sire.'

'You are audacious.' Llewelyns eyes narrowed. 'Are you also foolish?'

'No, sire,' Fulke replied, his voice remaining calm, although he felt as if he were walking on a blade's edge. 'I may gamble, but I always try to ensure the odds are in my favour. Whittington is a valuable keep. It guards the valleys of the Dee and the Vyrnwy. You have an opportunity to take that control from John and Gwenwynwyn and use it to your own advantage.'

The Welsh Prince considered him. 'I shall think on the matter,' he said, in the meantime, you and your men are welcome under my roof for the price of your swords.'

'Thank you, sire. I—'

Llewelyn raised a forefinger. 'Do not be too effusive in your gratitude,' he said. 'Odds in your favour do not mean that you will win. If we are allies, it is because we share a common enemy, not because we are friends.'

CHAPTER 26

Maude hung over the chamber pot and retched. She felt terrible. Weak as a newborn kitten and as fatigued as an old woman.

Emmeline clucked her tongue in sympathy and whisked out of the room. When she returned, it was with a cup of sweet mead and a wooden platter containing two dry oatcakes.

Maude had staggered back to the bed and was sitting on its edge, clutching her aching stomach and wondering what she had done to deserve such a malady. Every morning for the past three days she had been as sick as a dog and she felt so tired that it was as if she had not slept at all.

'Here, eat these slowly and ease them down with mead," Emmeline said. 'They'll help stop the sickness.'

Maude took the bowl and looked at the oatcakes. Strangely, the sight of food did not make her feel ill, unless it be queasily ravenous. 'What is wrong with me?' she demanded in a voice querulous with worry and took a tentative bite.