Lords of the White Castle (60 page)

'When he can.' Maude forced steadiness into her voice. When indeed?

Clarice bent over the needlework and made several dainty stitches. 'Is he dead?' she asked.

'No, of course not!' Maude gasped and crossed herself. 'Whatever makes you say that?'

'When my mama died, they said that she had "gone away",' Clarice said. She set the needle precisely in the fabric and left it there. 'I waited and I waited for her to come back, but she never did because she was dead and no one would tell me about her. '.

Her composure was such that Maude felt an overwhelming surge of pity and grief. She put her arm around the girl's narrow shoulders and drew her close. 'Hawise's papa quarrelled with King John and had to leave England,' she said. 'I promise you that he is still very much alive.'

Clarice nodded and pursed her lips. 'Then when is he coming back?' She slanted a challenging glance at Maude who realised that Clarice would not believe until she saw with her own eyes.

'I cannot be sure of that… I am going to be honest with you and say that I miss him and I only wish that I knew.' It sounded as if she was deluding herself. Maude swallowed and began sorting through the tapestry silks, but all the colours blurred and ran together before her eyes, making it impossible to find the colour that she needed.

A warm May breeze rattled the halyards and flapped the clewed sails of the vessels in the harbour at La Rochelle. Fulke watched a herring gull wheel overhead and then settle on the spar of a sleek galley.

'Get you to England in a day and night,' said the ship's captain, whose name was Mador. 'Swifter than a cormorant skimming the water.' He clapped his hands and rubbed them together whilst eyeing Fulke from shrewd, weather-seamed eyes. 'What do you say?'

Fulke considered the vessel. Any ship plying its trade across the Narrow Sea would do if he were being practical. That old wine hulk down the wharf, or the fishing galley with the red sail that had just put off a cargo of Kentish oysters. But Fulke did not feel like being practical. He wanted to make a noble gesture, the reason he was looking at the largest galley along the length of the moorings, her new, clinker-built hull gleaming and her prow decorated with ornate carving. If he were going home, it would be in style. He would not skulk ignominiously into some obscure harbour aboard a poxy little boat stinking of shellfish or stale wine. Of course, he could have sailed last week with Hubert Walter and the Bishop of Norwich, but it would have been on their terms and he had not been sure at the time that he wanted to accept them.

'I say that if we can agree a price I'll take her,' Fulke said.

They repaired to a wharfside tavern where they drank tart red wine and dined on hot fritters filled with goat's cheese. After some hard bargaining, a fee was agreed and half the money paid over.

'They say that prowess in the joust makes men rich,' Mador said as he tucked the pouch of money into his leather mariner's satchel. Between his lids, his eyes were glints of bright sea-blue.

'What makes you think we have been jousting?' Fulke asked.

'You wear it as plain as your clothes,' the ship's captain said. He nodded at William who had just joined them. 'Half your teeth missing at a young age and one ear resembling a lump of pease pudding. There's a man who takes risks with his body'

William looked indignant.

'And you, my lord.' Mador gestured at Fulke. 'You have a mark high on your nose that has marred what was once fine and straight. Mayhap where a helm was forced back into your face?'

'A chessboard, actually,' Fulke said, touching the healed bone.

'Whatever. 'The mariner shrugged. 'I know the look; I've seen it oft times in mercenaries before. God knows, I am one myself' He drank a mouthful of wine. 'It is no coincidence they call outlaws wolf's heads. They bear the same hunger in their eyes as such beasts—lean and prowling and ready for the kill.'

'So now we are outlaws?'

Unconcernedly, Mador reached for a fritter and bit into it, hollowing his lips and blowing at the scalding heat of the cheese inside. "'Oo 'ell me,' he mumbled.

Fulke exchanged glances with William. He turned his cup on the board, and the dripped wine from its rim made a wet pattern on the scrubbed oak. 'My name is Fulke FitzWarin,' he said.

Mador managed to close his mouth on the fritter. 'Aye, I've heard of you.'

Fulke made a wry face. As usual, the ballads were doing the rounds of the taverns and winehouses.

'Heard you jousted in front of King Philip of France hisself.' Mador chewed noisily and swallowed. 'They say you defeated his champion and the King offered you lands and riches.'

'Not precisely.' Strange how tales enlarged with the telling, Fulke thought. He had indeed fought a French knight one to one under the eye of the King of France, and won, but there had been many such individual bouts. King Philip had sent one of his mercenary captains to offer Fulke a position, but the daily wage of a household knight, while generous, barely constituted lands and riches. Besides, even if offered, he would not have taken them for he had seen how fickle such gifts were. Philip was at war with John. Fulke could have had free rein to waste towns and villages throughout Normandy, but he had no stomach for such warfare.

Then Hubert Walter, John de Grey, William Marshal and Robert of Leicester had arrived at Philip's court to negotiate a truce between Philip and John. Hubert had exhorted Fulke to return to England and promised to do all within his power to end the quarrel between him and John. If only Fulke would surrender and mollify John's pride, Hubert would guarantee the restoration of Fulke's lands.

'Including Whittington?' Fulke had asked in a voice heavy with cynicism and distrust.

'Including Whittington' Hubert had said as if his confidence was total. 'John needs experienced fighting men as never before. And he needs loyalty too. When you take an oath, you are not the kind to abandon it on a whim.'

Fulke had been flattered but not drawn in either by the air of certitude or the praise. It was not as simple as that, never had been, and trust was a coinage so adulterated as to be worthless. He had promised to think on the matter and Hubert had sailed home alone.

The sea captain's voice broke through his introspection. 'So you're returning to England with a laden purse?'

Fulke smiled without humour. 'You have the laden purse now,' he said. Nearby the tavern-keeper's three' children were rolling like puppies. They were all girls, the eldest about seven, he reckoned, the youngest little more than two. He thought of his own daughters and ached at the memory of feeling little arms clinging tightly around his neck. Hawise with her bounce of red curls and incessant chatter. Jonetta with her solemn dark eyes and peeping smile. Their new brother, little more than a blanketed scrap in his arms when Fulke had bade his family farewell in Canterbury. Likely sitting up and crawling by now. And Maude. The thought of his wife sent a pang through him. She had borne the journey to Canterbury with stoicism even though she was not fit to travel. They had carried her on a litter and she had not complained. Not once, although he had seen the teeth marks in her lower lip where she had bitten down to avoid crying out. She had agreed with him that his leaving England for a while was for the best, bad not clung and wept, but he had seen the effort it had taken and he was still haunted by the look in her eyes. He had sought oblivion in the bottom of a cup and in the brutal competition of the tourney field, but even through the drunkenness and the gut-surge of the fight, he had remained aware. The longing, the bitterness, the frustration had only increased.

'But why to England?' Mador demanded, refilling Fulke's cup and tilting more wine into his own. 'What is there for you in England?'

Fulke's eyelids tensed. 'The rest of my life,' he said bleakly. 'Or my death.'

CHAPTER 32

Fulke opened his eyes. He had been dreaming that he was on the deck of the ship and for a moment fancied that he could still hear the roar of the ocean and see the green swell parting beneath the surge of the ship's bows. The roar resolved itself into the surge of the wind through the trees of the Andreadswald and the green swell into the fluttering of new summer leaves. It was a little past dawn and the small clearing was filled with the smell of barley cakes sizzling in bacon fat as Richard turned them over a charcoal fire. Other members of the troop were grooming their mounts, breaking their fast, stretching their sleep-stiffened limbs.

Fulke rose and entered the trees to ease his bladder. It was two days since they had landed at a small cove along the Dover coastline. Sailing into the port itself would have been suicide for a Breton ship with outlaw passengers. They had spent the first night in a shepherd's hut on the Downs and the next day buying horses before setting out for Canterbury. The pilgrim road would have been the quickest, but also the most populated and therefore dangerous. Instead, they took to the smaller tracks and the deep shelter of the forests. Yesterday Fulke had sent a messenger to Hubert Walter, and now they waited.

Returning to the fire, Fulke speared one of Richard's barley cakes on the point of his eating knife, and blew on the crisp brown crust. The camp was strangely quiet and after a moment he realised why.

'Where's Will?' he demanded. 'And where are Alain and Ivo?'

Richard kept his eyes on the greased iron of the flying pan as if it was of great fascination. 'They went hunting,' he said.

'Hunting?' Fulke said sharply. 'Where?'

Richard shrugged and looked uncomfortable. 'They did not say—just that they would bring some meat for the fire.'

Fulke cursed beneath his breath. Meat for the fire might mean hare, deer, or coney from a wild warren. It might also mean supplies from a raided barn—a risk they could not afford. 'Why did you not rouse me?'

'They said to let you sleep, that they would be back soon.'

'And you did as they bade you. Christ, have you no judgement of your own!' He glared at Richard, exasperated but knowing he should have expected as much. Richard was a follower, not a leader, and William's character could be overbearing.

'Fulke, it's nothing. They've gone hunting. They'll be back before we've struck camp.' Richard's brow furrowed. 'You take too much of a burden on your shoulders.'

'Because others have no notion of responsibility.' He ate the barley cake without tasting it and gave orders for the camp to be dismantled, one ear cocked for the sound of returning hoofbeats. Perhaps he was jumping at shadows that did not exist. What bedevilled him was knowing that the control was out of his hands and all he could do was wait, like a mother anxious about a child, or a wife pacing out the time between her husband's leaving and his return.

As a younger man, he had paid no heed, but he understood that anxiety now.

Richard was preparing to kick out the fire and Fulke was cinching his saddle girth when they heard muffled hoofbeats and the jingle of harness. Fulke turned to the sound, and even though he knew the guards he had posted would not let an enemy through, long instinct drew his' hand to the hilt of his sword.

The colours of horses flickered through the leaf dapple: oak-brown, copper-chestnut and autumn-leaf dun. Harness winked in a flash of sunlight. So did armour and the tips of spears. Fulke drew his sword and his heart began to pound. Perhaps the guards had been ambushed and unable to sound a warning. He grabbed his shield from the tree against which it was leaning and thrust his arm through the leather straps, signalling his men to draw their weapons.