Lords of the White Castle (7 page)

Fulke's father gave a grunt of amusement at the quick response. 'A regular paragon.' He turned again to his son. 'It seems I should be thanking God on my bended knees for your change of circumstance.'

Fulke reddened at the hint of sarcasm. 'I am pleased to have joined his retinue, Papa, but it is only one of the reasons I've been given leave to visit, and not even the main one at that.'

'Indeed?' Le Brun signalled his squire, Baldwin, to replenish his cup.

Fulke cleared his throat. 'As soon as the winter storms abate, we're going to Ireland.'

'Ireland!' His mother stared at him in consternation. 'Why? What for?'

'King Henry has given John its lordship,' Fulke said. 'He's to go there and take oaths of fealty from the Irish clansmen and the Norman settlers.' He knew what everyone thought of Ireland: a back-of-beyond place across a dangerous expanse of cold, dark water. It always rained and it was infested with bogs and quarrelsome barelegged warriors who were less civilised than beasts. They were half ruled by a group of Norman colonists whose reputation was little better than the savages they were supposed to be governing.

'It was either that or the Holy Land,' said Jean. 'King Henry has been offered the throne of Jerusalem since their King's rotting to death from leprosy and they need a new ruler desperately. He didn't accept it, but Prince John was like a dog who spots a marrow bone just out of reach on a butcher's block.'

'John, King of Jerusalem!' Fulke le Brun choked on the notion and Hawise had to thump his back.

'Henry said that he was too young and inexperienced for the responsibility but that if he wanted a taste of ruling, he could try his hand at Ireland.'

'So he's going to be King there instead, and they're making him a crown of peacock's feathers and gold,' said Fulke expressionlessly. 'Lord Walter is to go with him as part of his household.'

Fulke le Brun took a long drink of wine and wiped his watering eyes. 'I doubt that Prince John is fit to be King of anywhere,' he croaked, 'but it will be good experience for you.'

'You approve then?'

'I do. The Welsh and Irish have many similarities. Their lands are impenetrable to vast armies; their wealth is of the hoofed and horned variety; and their allegiance is to small and petty chieftains. If you are to inherit and exploit our border fiefs when you are grown, Ireland will do you nothing but good.'

'Why does he have to go to Ireland to learn about the Welsh?' Hawise demanded fretfully.

Le Brun gently covered her hand with his and squeezed. 'Because, as you said to me, all hawks fly the nest. If they cannot test and strengthen their wings first, then how will they manage to soar and hunt?'

Hawise looked down at her platter and broke a wastel roll in two, but made no attempt to eat it.

'Don't you want Fulke to go to Ireland, Mama?' demanded William, their second-born son. He was thirteen years old and neither tact nor understanding were facets of his nature.

Hawise was silent for a moment. Then, raising her head, she gazed directly at Fulke and gave him the blind semblance of a smile. 'Of course he must go,' she said. 'Your father is right.'

Fulke eyed his mother curiously. Her reply had been an evasion. Clearly, she did not wish him to go to Ireland. 'Mama?'

'You'll need some more warm tunics before you leave.' Her voice was breathless. 'I'll measure you later this morn. You've grown at least a finger length since I made the one you're wearing. 'The catch in her breathing verged on tears. Excusing herself, she fled the trestle.

Fulke looked to his father for explanation, but le Brun spread his hands and shook his head. 'Do not ask me to unravel the mind of a woman,' he said. 'She warns me to tread lightly on your pride for you are almost a man grown, and yet she weeps at the notion of you joining that world.'

'She didn't weep when I went to court,' Fulke pointed out.

'Not in front of you, no, but she shed a few tears in private.' Le Brun frowned thoughtfully. 'I think the firstborn and the youngest are the most difficult to send out from the nest. Besides, the royal court might be a dangerous place, but it is ten times safer than an untamed country across the sea.'

'Should I go to her?' Fulke asked, prepared to do so, but not particularly relishing the notion. He had always viewed his mother as stronger than steel, had never thought of her as being prey to fear. She had instilled in him the confidence not to be afraid of new challenges and situations, so he had always assumed she was invulnerable herself. Apart from assuring her that he would come to no harm, he had no idea what to say. Given the chessboard incident with Prince John, he doubted his line of argument would be very convincing.

'No, leave her a while to gather her composure,' his father said, to Fulke's relief. 'Time enough to speak when she measures you for a new tunic'

'I'm to have a new tunic too,' William announced loudly. 'And I'm going away to be a squire as well.'

Glad of the diversion, Fulke turned to his brother. 'Where?' he asked. As far back as Fulke could remember William had wanted to be a knight, to wear mail and carry a sword at his hip. Not just with a boy's longing, but with a single-minded passion that was almost adult in its determination.

'To Caus, to Robert Corbet,' William said, his chin jutting with pride. 'And I'm to have a new pony too.'

Fulke made an interested sound. Robert Corbet was a neighbouring lord and a man of some influence in the Marches. Indeed, he was their overlord in respect of several manors including one of their major residences at Alberbury, and the Corbets had strong ties with the royal line of Gwynedd. Whilst not acquiring the polish of Henry's court, William would obtain a sound grounding.

'I'm going too,' announced eleven-year-old Philip, not to be outdone. He was somewhat quieter than William and Ivo, more thoughtful and less likely to act upon the goad of the moment. He was also the only one of the brothers to possess the copper-auburn hair of the de Dinan line, everyone else being raven-black.

'Are you indeed?' Fulke raised his brows and smiled.

'Me too, me too!' cried little Alain, plainly not sure what was being discussed but making sure that he was not left out.

'Don't be silly, you're only four,' Ivo scoffed. 'You have to stay in the bower with Mama and her ladies. So does Richard.' He jerked his head at another little boy, who had eaten a gargantuan breakfast and was still quietly stuffing his face.

Adroitly averting the storm, Fulke rose to his feet and plucked young Alain into his arms. 'But he doesn't today,' he said. 'Who wants to come and practise with swords on the tilt ground?'

The yell was unanimous.

Fulke le Brun grinned broadly. 'I'll go and get mine,' he said.

'Your father says that your swordplay has improved beyond all recognition,' Hawise said. She turned Fulke to face the window embrasure and measured him from knob of spine to mid-knee with a length of twine in which she tied knots to mark the length.

'Lord Theobald's a good tutor.' He looked out of the open shutters on the raw January afternoon. William was leading his brothers in a pretend raid across the bailey and berating the youngest two for not keeping up. A midden heap defended by their father's squires, Baldwin and Stephen, was their target.

Weapons practice that morning had fired William's enthusiasm to a state of near frenzy. It was as if he believed that the harder he battled, the sooner the time would pass to his attainment of knighthood—if he didn't get himself killed first. Lord Theobald said that superior fighting ability was a blend of instinct and intelligence. A good leader had to be one thought ahead of his opponent all the time.

'Stretch your arm.'

Obediently he complied and she measured him from armpit to wrist.

'I won't come to any harm in Ireland,' he said. 'Lord Theobald will not put his squires at risk.'

Hawise knotted the cord. 'If you trust Lord Walter, then so do I.'

'Then what is wrong, Mama? Why don't you want me to go?'

Hawise took another measure from armpit to knee. Then, stepping back, she sighed. 'I have striven never to hold you or your brothers back, by word or by deed. With my heart in my mouth I have encouraged you to gallop your pony bareback, to climb to the top of a wall, to fly a falcon that could gouge out your eyes with one strike of its talons.' She turned away to place the lengths of knotted cord in her sewing basket. 'I have hidden my fear because it is mine, not yours, and I never wanted you to become infected by it.'

'And you fear Ireland?' Fulke looked puzzled.

'No.' She shook her head a trifle impatiently. 'I have heard it is a wild place where it constantly rains and the people are untamed half-heathens, but in that respect it is little different to certain parts of Wales.'

'Then what?'

His mother bit her lip. "When I was a small child, we had reason to make a river crossing on a ferry, but in midstream the boat capsized and I was almost drowned. It was winter, the water was very cold and my clothes dragged me under. By the time my father pulled me out, I was more than half dead.' Her voice wobbled. 'Since that time I have harboured a dread of crossing water. I think of the river that almost claimed me, how I was dying even though I could see dry land on the other side.' She swallowed and compressed her lips, fighting for control. 'When I think of the ocean you must cross, my heart dies inside me.'

'I do not fear crossing water, Mama,' Fulke said. 'I have travelled on the great River Thames often enough these past months without mishap and I can swim.' He did not add that on more than one occasion he had played at water jousting, where opposing boats would come at each other and a pole bearer at the prow would try to knock his counterpart into the water. Then, of course, there was the exhilarating but more dangerous sport of shooting the arches of London Bridge at high tide. What she did not know could do her no harm.

From around her neck Hawise removed a small reliquary cross and, with shaking hands, gave it to him. 'Will you wear this for me when you go? It contains a lock of St Elmo's hair and it is proof against drowning.'

'Of course I will, Mama.' Fulke kissed the cross and placed it around his own neck, tucking it down inside his tunic.

She forced a smile. 'I might sleep a little easier now. I only wish I had something for Jean too.'

'Oh, he wears a token of St Christopher in his cap, and I've yet to see him not land on his feet whatever the situation,' Fulke said lightly in an attempt to ease the atmosphere. He was more than relieved as footsteps hammered outside and a panting William burst into the room.

'Are you still being measured or do you want to come and join us at ambushes?' He was pink with exertion and the joy of play. 'Jean says he'll take the part of Roger de Powys. We're using the midden as Whittington keep.'

'I've finished for the nonce,' Hawise said quickly and gave Fulke a gentle push. 'The tunic won't be ready for trying until late this evening.'

Fulke did not require a second bidding. The boy in him clamoured to be out with his brothers, and the man did too. He needed to release the tensions raised with a bout of vigorous activity.

Hawise drifted to the window and watched him as he emerged into the winter afternoon. The wind ruffled his dark hair. She saw how the other boys clamoured around him, William foremost and clearly full of worship; she watched the way he organised them, including the little ones. He had always possessed those abilities, but life at court was honing and polishing them, taking and changing him. If Whittington was to be theirs again one day, then he was their brightest hope. She touched her throat, feeling for a cord that was no longer there. With a sigh of self-irritation, she turned abruptly from the window and approached the bolt of fabric waiting on her sewing trestle. Worry only bred more worry. With six sons, she had cause enough to know.

CHAPTER 4