Lords of the White Castle (63 page)

'Enough,' Fulke said after a moment, his own voice ragged with emotion. 'It's a long road home.'

It was a full hour before the alarm was raised. At first, the gate guards paid no attention when they saw that the stool outside the prisoner's hut was empty. Since the kitchens were close by, they thought their companion had slipped away to eat and drink, or perhaps to relieve himself. By the time they did go to investigate, it was too late and their quarry long gone.

John returned from his hunt in a jovial mood. They had brought down a ten-point stag after a fierce chase. Two hounds had been killed, but not favourite ones and they were easily replaced. The other dogs had been rewarded by the deer's heart and liver and entrails, steaming and red from the slit body cavity. Four bearers now carried the kill, its hooves bound to an ash spear shaft, its mighty antlers bobbing at the ground with each stride the men took. John was flicking bits of broken twig from his mount's mane and animatedly discussing the day's sport with Salisbury as they rode into the courtyard.

'The best chase in a long while,' he said. 'I thought he was going to evade us in that thicket.'

Salisbury murmured agreement, his manner slightly preoccupied. He looked rapidly around the compound and rubbed the back of his neck.

A groom came to take the horse and John swung down from the saddle with exuberance. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, revealing the pleasure and energy that the hunt had germinated. Salisbury dismounted beside him and handed his reins to his squire. John looked almost fondly at his brother. A flagon of wine chilled in the well and a game of dice would occupy them before the dinner hour, and afterwards, there was the prospect of hunting more tender prey among the women who had accompanied the court to the hunting lodge.

It was not until he entered the long hall that he realised something was amiss. Two knights hovered near the threshold, looking miserable. A Serjeant was on his knees, head bowed in more than just deference. John knew abject fear when he saw it and some of his pleasure evaporated.

'You have something to say, Jacques?' he said to the more senior knight who had been in his service for several years.

The man swallowed and his look darted between John and Salisbury, before settling on the floor rushes. 'Sire, William FitzWarin has escaped.'

John stared. 'What?'

In hesitant detail, the knight told him what had happened, now and then asking the Serjeant to corroborate.

'A charcoal burner?' John's complexion whitened. In his mind's eye, he saw the ragged individual standing at the side of the road. He heard the shout and saw himself casting a silver brooch to the bastard.

'We saw no harm in him. Who searches a charcoal burner, especially when he is expected?'

'The whoreson,' John whispered. 'The stinking, gutter-begotten, leprous whoreson!' Shoving the knight aside, kicking the Serjeant in the ribs so that the kneeling man lost his balance and fell, John strode down the hall. Rage made tiny spots dance before his eyes. His chest rose and fell so rapidly that soon it became hard to breathe and he staggered. Checkmate. It was checkmate. Once more, he had been punched in his royal dignity.

Salisbury caught his arm and drew him to a bench. A snap of his fingers summoned wine. 'Now you see why you need him fighting for you, not against you,' he said vehemently. 'Think of the damage he could do to the French. It's not as if he has lands in Normandy to safeguard. He would be as good as, if not better than your mercenaries.'

John closed his eyes and swallowed. Salisbury pressed a goblet into the King's hand. John set his lips to the cool silver-gilt rim and gulped the rich, dark Burgundy. Sometimes he had a fancy that he was drinking his own blood.

'John?' Salisbury leaned over him.

He opened his eyes and gazed into the worried, lugubrious features of his brother. There was not a single thread of Angevin temper or selfishness in William's nature—a Source of both relief and exasperation to John.

'Very well,' he said and drained the wine to the sediment. 'Let FitzWarin be pardoned for his crimes against me and let his lands be reinstated. But I do this for love of you, Will, not for love of FitzWarin.'

The look of delight in Salisbury's eyes made John want to kick him. The words were out, but never had he wanted to revoke them more because it was admitting defeat. Even knowing that FitzWarin would have to kneel before him in surrender was no consolation. He raised his hand as Salisbury's joy prepared to translate itself in speech. 'Do not say anything else. You have pushed me to drink from a cup I would rather abjure. Do not make me renege on my acceptance.'

Salisbury's face fell. 'But you will sign a safe conduct if I have the scribes write it?'

John rose to his feet. 'What's wrong, Will, don't you trust me?'

'You know I do.'

'Either you're a fool, or you're lying. 'The expression on Salisbury's face immediately filled John with guilt and a fresh spurt of anger. 'Oh, do what you will, you purblind fool,' he snarled. 'Write what you want and I'll put my seal to it.' Snatching the flagon from the squire, he stalked away in the direction of his private chamber.

Salisbury bit his lip and stared after him. He even took several paces forward, then stopped himself. Turning on his heel, he went to order the scribes, then went in search of reliable witnesses.

CHAPTER 33

It was late dusk when the raiding party arrived at Mailing. The Archbishop's manor was smugly prosperous, with tile shingles on the roof instead of thatch or wood, and a frame of seasoned oak. The honey-scented glow of beeswax candles beckoned from the open shutters, as did an appetising savoury aroma.

As the horses clattered into the yard and the men began dismounting, the manor's heavy, iron-studded door swung open. There was a sudden blur of motion and a little girl with a sheaf of hair like red silk shot down the wedge of light and launched herself at Fulke.

'Papa, Papa!' she shrieked.

Fulke grunted as the child struck his thighs with what seemed like the weight of a small pony. Stooping, he swung her up into his arms and the cool, silky tips of her hair whipped his face. He did not have the heart to scold her for running in amongst so many horses. Lessons could come later. The clutch of her arms almost choked him but he didn't care.

'Mama said Uncle Will had got into trouble again and you had to rescue him.'

'Well I did, and now I'm here,' Fulke said, studiously avoiding William's gaze. There were not enough grooms and each man was taking care of his own horse. Without a word, William took Fulke's and led it away with his own.

'Are you going to stay for ever and ever?'

Fulke winced. He could not risk staying at Mailing above a couple of days. The hunt would be on again with a vengeance and he could not afford to abuse Hubert Walter's hospitality. 'No one can stay in a place for ever, sweetheart,' he fenced. 'I am here now. That is what matters. Now, where's your mother?'

Maude appeared in the doorway. Her right hand held Jonetta's, keeping the infant from toddling after her sister, and her left cradled the baby. Her expression was impassive, but when Fulke strode over, the mask crumbled and her face contorted as she struggled not to weep in front of her children.

'You have William safe?' Her voice choked and wobbled.

He nodded. 'No harm to any of us. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I had to go.'

'I know you did.' She compressed her lips. 'I'm… I'm sorry for what I said. But I meant it,' she added fiercely, 'every word. I cannot bear to dwell in this living widowhood.' Then she was in his arms and they were embracing awkwardly around their children. Need burned up in Fulke, stronger than love, more powerful than just desire. Had they been alone he would have taken her straight to bed and submerged himself. As it was, because of duty and propriety and external concerns, he drew away with a shuddering gasp and wiped his eyes on the cuff of his gambeson. Maude looked at him with luminous eyes, her complexion flushed and her breathing swift.

Hawise tugged at his chausses, demanding attention. He squeezed her plump little hand and, drawing another deep breath, bade her lead
him
inside the manor like the grownup girl she was.

The main room had a central hearth with enough space for two cauldrons and a griddle. Oak benches were neatly arranged around the perimeter of the chamber and the walls were decorated with bright embroideries, the colours overlaid by a patina of red and gold light from candle flame and hearth fire. He felt the sense of domestic order and neatness flow over him, bringing with it a powerful evocation of nostalgia. He was like a traveller returning to something that he had once experienced and loved, knowing that he could not stay.

His absorption in the hall's atmosphere was disturbed by the arrival of another child, a cup of wine carried carefully in her hands. She had ash-brown hair divided into two neat, glossy braids, wide-set grey-gold eyes and a sweet expression. Dipping him a respectful curtsey without spilling a drop, she presented him with the cup.

Fulke accepted it from her with a word of thanks and a puzzled look at Maude who was watching the girl with affection.

'This is Clarice d'Auberville, the Archbishop's ward,' she said. 'She became part of our household in Canterbury before Hubert brought us to Mailing and I hope he will let her stay, since she is kin of a sort.'

Fulke raised his brows.

'Her father was related to Theo.'

Fulke looked at the girl and she looked gravely back. There was a slight resemblance to Theobald in the eyes, and in the proportions of brow and nose. What a strange, serious little creature, he thought. In responding to one of his daughters he would have crouched to be on a level with them, or lifted them to his own height, but beneath the quizzical restraint of Clarice's stare, he did neither.

'I am pleased to greet you, child,' he said formally and took a drink of the wine.

She dipped another curtsey and folded her hands demurely. 'My lord.' Her voice was small but clear, acknowledging him with deference. Fulke almost spluttered. It was too much.

'Clarice, perhaps you could help fill more cups with wine,' Maude said. 'We are to have a houseful tonight and I'll need your help.'

Fulke gazed in bewilderment as Clarice murmured assent and walked with brisk decorum to the oak sideboard to begin arranging cups.

'Jesu,' he said. 'I don't know whether to pity or envy her future husband. How old is she?'

'Nearly nine years old.'

'She acts more like a grandmother!'

Maude smiled. 'She does have a way about her,' she admitted, 'but you'll find it impossible not to grow fond. Hawise adores her.'

The noise and flurry of men entering the hall behind them curtailed all further conversation. Maude greeted William with a cool kiss on the cheek and words of welcome that were slightly forced. If William noticed, he kept it to himself. So did Fulke. Maude went to take command of organising food and sleeping places for Fulke's men, and Gracia whisked Jonetta and the baby away to bed. For a moment, Fulke stood like an island amid the chaos and bustle.