Lords of the White Castle (68 page)

'And—I greet you in the name of William Marshal, overlord of Glencavern,' Fulke responded. 'What is your business that you should be assaulting this place with fire and sword? Where are Lady Oonagh O'Donnel and her sons?'

The scout's gaze flickered along the line of horsemen and he moistened his lips. 'This land belongs to Lord Padraig,' he reiterated.

'He can prove his right to it? He has sworn an oath of homage for it?'

'This is none of your business. I'm warning you to leave while you still can.'

Fulke's smile was humourless. 'No, I think I'D stay. Besides….' Running his hand along his belt, right to left, he drew his sword and contemplated the blade. '… it's a while since I used this. I would hate to think of it rusting in the scabbard. Tell that to Lord Padraig.'

The scout licked his lips again, then abruptly whirled his pony and lashed the reins down on its hairy neck. He galloped up to a mail-clad knight who was directing operations with a mace, and gesticulated towards Fulke's troop.

'Now the fat is in the fire,' Jean murmured, drawing his sword.

Fulke narrowed his eyes the better to focus. At the Irish knight's left shoulder stood a man kitted out in the mail and surcoat of a professional mercenary. He towered head and shoulders above everyone else. A bushy black beard jutted on his chin, and a fearsome Dane axe rested casually over one shoulder. Fulke had seen the destruction
of
which such weapons were capable. A single stroke could shear a man's arm or split him skull to sternum like a bacon.

Fulke studied the besiegers. 'It is obvious that we are not here to aid them. Either they must fight or yield. They've had enough time to make up their minds. If they're going to fight, I do not want to give them space to organise.' He signalled the men to prepare to charge. He hoped the attackers would run, but if they stood their ground, then at least the power of the charge should do serious damage.

Jean cast off his cloak and levelled his lance, his banner fluttering from the socket beneath the spear. Down the line, harness jingled as men adjusted and waited the final cry. Below them, pinned on the flat ground between the burning stockade and the ridge, the men of Padraig O'Donnel dithered, and were rallied by the bellow of their leader to stand firm on the stockade slope.

'
FitzWarin
!' Fulke roared, and spurred Blaze. Through his body, he felt the powerful motion of the horse and the shudder of the ground as twenty destriers surged forward. He fixed his gaze on Blackbeard. Bring him down and Padraig O'Donnel was naked. Uttering a yell, he spurred in to engage.

Blackbeard whirled the axe, a weapon that Fulke's great-great-grandfather had faced on the field of Hastings. Light glittered on the blade, and its motion made a song of the wind. The action was so slow that Fulke could see the fragments of upward air it sliced, and the smooth effort of the arms that wielded it, and yet so fast that the terrifying delivery was inevitable.

Down it came, decapitating the accurate thrust of his lance head, shearing, slicing; on into muscle, sinew and bone. Fulke heard himself roar a denial. He tore on the reins and Blaze responded through a fountain of lifeblood, galloping on, forelegs still reaching for the ground ahead, back legs creasing, buckling.

Fulke flung himself from the saddle, hit the ground and felt his ribs crack. Someone stabbed down at him and the sharp silver edge of a spear pierced his flank. There was the whump of a sharpened sword blade and his attacker toppled, ripping the spear out as he fell.

'No!' Fulke gasped through near blinding agony, as Jean de Rampaigne stood over him protectively. 'Lead the men. We need to drive them off!'

Jean hesitated briefly, then with a grim nod bellowed a rallying cry.

Fulke crawled to the dead spearman, and taking the weapon from him used the ash shaft to lever himself to his feet. Strange shapes swam before his eyes. Red fish, black stars. He staggered and fell. Figures came running through the smoke and voices chattered in urgent Gael. He tried to defend himself, but they brushed his efforts easily aside as if he had no more strength than a child, and between them they carried him through what he could almost fancy were the burning gates of hell.

'Well?' Jean de Rampaigne enquired. 'Is he going to live?'

The woman who had been tending Fulke rose to her feet and washed her bloodied hands in a copper ewer. She wore no wimple as a widow should have done, and her hair, still as black as Jean remembered, hung down her back in a single heavy plait. Her gown was suitably sombre, but it clung to her figure, outlining the curve of breast and hip. More than twenty years on, tired and bloodstained as she was, Oonagh FitzGerald, now O'Donnel, retained her allure.

'He is lucky,' she said. 'The spear missed his vitals, but it is still a nasty wound and he has lost a deal of blood. Also he has broken several ribs.'

'You haven't answered my question.'

She fixed him with a stare the colour of harebells. 'That is because I do not know. For the moment he is safe and I have given him a sleeping draught so that he may help his own body to heal. 'The slightest of smiles touched her lips. 'As I remember, he was not one to remain still unless forced.' She glanced over her shoulder at Fulke's form, lying in the great chamber bed.

Jean looked too. Fulke was so still, so composed, that he might have been a dead man. Fortunate that the black-bearded giant had struck down a hundred marks' worth of destrier rather than the man riding it, and used the moment to make his escape. Fulke would not have survived a sustained attack.

'If he does not take the stiffening sickness or wound fever, then he will be no worse for his injuries,' she said. 'But they will take more than this day to show themselves. He must rest… and we must pray' As she drew Jean out of the chamber he had to step over the enormous wolfhound guarding the threshold.

'You still keep the dogs then?'

i value loyalty and I have found no creature to match,' she said.

'Not even your husband?'

She shrugged. 'A dog gives love unconditionally' She led him into a small private solar annexed to the bedchamber. Assembling two cups, she poured him a measure of Irish mead. 'I miss Niall, God rest his soul, and I curse him for dying and bringing his bane of a brother down on me in my vulnerability' Handing him the drink, she studied him. 'What brings you so timely to Docionell?'

'Business, my lady' Jean said, being as frugal with the truth as Fulke had been to Maude. 'Through marriage, Fulke has lands in Ireland, held of William Marshal of Pembroke. Since you are Fulke's neighbour, he deemed it a courtesy to pay a visit—particularly when he heard from your son at Wotheney that your husband had died.' He took a drink of the mead which was powerful and sweet, redolent of heather and clover.

'Courtesy,' she smiled. 'You would be more truthful if you said self-interest.'

'Rather call it concern for Docionell. You should be glad of it, my lady. Without our timely arrival, you would not still be mistress here, would you?'

She conceded the point with a lifted forefinger. 'So you came to make sure that I was not going to marry a warlord spoiling for a fight? Am I right, or has my siren song lasted down the years?'

Jean's eyes filled with humour. 'Not for Fulke,' he said. 'He only has eyes for his wife.'

She considered him with mutual amusement. 'What about you?'

'Me? I have no wife.' Still smiling, he wandered to the embrasure and looked out. The smell of smoke hung in the moist air, heavy as dark cloth, and the people were toiling by torchlight, aided by some of Fulke's troop, to mend the broken gate.

'They will be back.' She joined him at the window's arch, and leaned against the wall. 'Padraig wants this land.' Her face contorted. 'He claims that Niall promised it to him before he died, but that is not true. He claims that he should rule it since Ruadri is a monk promised to celibacy and Collum but thirteen years old. It would have been different had my eldest son not been killed whilst hunting. Adam would have seen him off.' She gave a shrug and the way she held herself dared him to extend sympathy or pity. 'As it is… Padraig knows how vulnerable I am.'

'Fortunate that you have good neighbours then,' Jean said laconically, pity the last thing on his mind. He was intensely aware of her presence, could almost swear that he felt the heat of her body in the small, chill space between them.

'Indeed it is,' she said. He heard the whisper of fabric as she moved away to replenish her cup. 'But how long will you stay? You did not come today with the intention of becoming embroiled in a battle. That was merely fortuitous for me and unfortunate for you.'

'We will stay as long as needed,' Jean said.

'Do not say things that are not true just in order to keep the peace of the moment,' she said scornfully. 'False promises are worse than none at all. As soon as Fulke is well enough to travel, you will make your excuses and go.'

'I would stay'

She looked at him, suspicion in her eyes now. 'Why would you want to do that?' she asked scornfully. 'A polished Norman knight, a courtier. What is the lure?'

Jean smiled. 'I was ever a man for new challenges, and if you remove the veneer, what lies beneath is not so polished.'

'Is that so?'

'Indeed it is, my lady'

'Well then, you are no different to the rest.' Oonagh paced restlessly to the door arch and looked through it at the sleeping man. 'His wife,' she said,' has he left her behind in England?'

'No, my lady. She is at Glencavern and I have taken the liberty of sending for her.' Her back was turned on him so Jean could not see her expression, but he thought her spine stiffened.

'Tell me about her,' she said.

'Mayhap you know her. She was formerly married to Theobald Walter.'

Oonagh turned. There was a gleam in her eye. 'Thin and pale as a stalk of winter grass,' she scoffed. 'Yes, I met her once.'

'Fulke has moved heaven and earth for her,' Jean said.

'When he was an outlaw he risked his life to ride into Canterbury and snatch her from under King John's nose. It is a love match the like of which most of us never see.' He could tell that it was not what she wanted to hear. Her expression was tight with displeasure, the full lips slightly pursed.

'He is no longer the untried squire whom you could twist around your little finger,' Jean warned softly. 'Then he was malleable. Now you will find forged steel.'

Her lips curved. 'That may be, but he came to visit out of more than just duty. And I am no longer the young widow. Then I was malleable too.'

'What drew him here was his duty mingled with the slightest tinge of curiosity, nothing more. It would be dangerous to think otherwise, and it seems to me that you are in enough danger already.'

'You would threaten me?'

'Never, my lady. Just advise. 'Jean inclined his head. 'Now, if you will excuse me, I have the men to oversee in Fulke's place.' He strode briskly from the room and, although he was tempted, neither hesitated nor looked back. She wanted Fulke out of pique, out of a whim to continue what she thought was unfinished. Out of a desire to have the security of a strong protector at Docionell—out of need itself, he thought with a grimace as he entered the smoky great hall. Well, there was need and there was need, and he intended to show her the difference.

CHAPTER 36