Lords of the White Castle (73 page)

Although Fulke had answered his father-in-law in a tepid fashion, his gut told him that his decision was already made.

'You are mad!' Maude cried when he told her of his intention in their bedchamber that night. 'You fought tooth and nail for your inheritance and now you are risking it by jumping into a stew of rebellion!' Her eyes flashed and she set her hands on her hips.

Fulke shook his head. 'It's not a rebellion, it's a meeting to discuss a charter of liberties, and your father would not be attending unless he deemed it necessary and safe. You know what he is like.'

'I know exactly what he is like,' she snapped. 'And that is why I am angry. Are you so filled with the desire to go playing at war that you do not see through his ploy?'

'Maude…'

'He wants you to go with him because his standing will be vastly increased when he arrives at St Edmunds with his son-in-law, the legendary Fulke FitzWarin, who made an art of being an outlaw and finally brought the King to capitulate. That is why he wants you to join him—to bask in the reflection of your glory'

'That is likely true, and of no consequence.'

'Of no consequence!' So great was her fury that it made her vision shimmer. 'And I suppose this jaunt to St Edmunds is of "no consequence" too! You are a vainglorious fool! You see your youth slipping away and instead of bidding it gracefully farewell, you're trying to recapture it in senseless rebellion!'

'It's not a rebellion!' His voice began to rise and she saw that she had touched a raw nerve.

'But it soon will be!'

'If we can get John to sign a charter of liberties—a code of honour, if you will—it means that never again will he be able to withhold land from a man on royal whim. Never again will a woman be constrained to marry against her will, or an heir pay more than he should to inherit his father's lands. It is for the good of all.'

'If this "charter" is so laudable, why haven't William Marshal, Ranulf of Chester or William Salisbury put their names to it?' she demanded.

'That's obvious. Marshal swears allegiance then follows it unquestioningly like a dog follows a master. Chester's waiting to see which way the wind blows, and William Salisbury is John's own brother—another dog.' He held out his hand to her in a gesture that asked for acceptance. 'I know that many of the lords who want this charter have their own axes to grind, but there is a core of truth worth fighting for.'

'Worth fighting for,' Maude repeated stonily. 'There you have it.' She flounced away and began unbraiding her hair, i sometimes wonder if all you want is the fight. Perhaps you have been warring for so long that you cannot live without it.' She tugged her fingers jerkily through the plaits, untwining the strands. 'I can see it in you. You talk of John's followers being dogs, but you are twitching like a leashed hound at the start of a hunt.' She flung round to look at him. 'Even if you do bring John to agree, he will not love you for it. Why stir up old hatreds?'

'Because they have never been resolved. Mud might sink to the bottom of a pool, but it does not disappear.'

'No, but at least it cannot be seen!'

'And that makes it all right?'

Maude clenched her teeth to dam the scream that rose within her. It was obvious that whether she raged or not his mind was set. 'Do as you will,' she said stiffly. 'I will not argue with you more.' She drew her comb through her hair with rapid strokes, snagging the strands, wincing slightly but receiving the snatches of pain as part of the moment. 'Go and play the knight errant just do not seek my approval for your game.'

'You could use your tongue to carve a side of beef,' he said. 'I come away bloody from any encounter. I'm as sick of fighting as you are.' Striding to the door, he banged out. Moments later there was a curse as he tripped over one of the sleepers in the antechamber, and then silence.

Maude bit her lip and continued to comb her hair, smoothing and slowing the motion to try and calm the hammer of her heart and the churn of her thoughts. Was she wrong to castigate him? Should she have smiled and said he was doing the right thing? John had many damning traits, and it was true that checks on his abuses of power would be of benefit to all, but surely others could carry the torch. Fulke had done more than enough. The difficulty was that Fulke felt there were still scores to be settled and a resolution to be reached. He could see himself as one of many rather than a man alone. Oh yes, she could understand the seduction, but that did not make it any the more reassuring.

She removed her gown, her shoes and hose, but retained her chemise for warmth as she climbed between the sheets. The bed was cold without Fulke's solid frame to warm her back and her icy feet. Maude curled up, drawing her knees towards her chin, and stared at the night candle, waiting. They had had arguments before—theirs was no milk-and-water marriage—but always the bed had been a source of reconciliation with passion redirected and channelled through flesh. Even if one of them stormed out in a rage, they always came back.

Her eyelids drooped. She woke with a sudden start, thinking that she had been asleep only moments, but the night candle was guttering on its pricket, the bed was cold, and it was obvious that Fulke was not returning to lie in it.

'Women,' said le Vavasour as he poured another generous measure of wine into Fulke's cup—he could afford to do so, since it was Fulke's wine, 'best not to give them ideas beyond bedding and breeding. Any man who does is storing up trouble for himself. Take my Juliana. She never questions my actions. I've made sure she knows better.'

Fulke drank the wine and sank in its cool red poison. 'She goads me beyond bearing,' he said. Somewhere in the wine fumes skulked the knowledge that he had walked out because Maude was far too perceptive. Perhaps all he did want was the fight, and because it was against John that made it seem right and reasonable.

'The buckle end of your belt would teach her to mind her tongue.'

Fulke looked at le Vavasour with distaste. 'I do not need to prove my manhood by beating my wife.'

'A man who beats his wife is master in his own household,' le Vavasour said with scant patience. 'She wouldn't cavil at your decisions then.'

'No,' Fulke agreed, thinking that it must be a desolate life when it contained neither affection nor concern, merely fear and in all likelihood loathing. 'She wouldn't cavil at my going because she would be glad to see the back of me.'

Le Vavasour rolled his eyes. 'You're in thrall, man,' he said. 'It isn't healthy to be tied to a woman's skirts.'

'I'm not.'

'Well then, stop looking towards those stairs as if you're ready to run back up them at any moment. Let her wait. If you go back, she'll know that she's won.'

Le Vavasour's words roused a spark of male belligerence in Fulke. He imagined her lying waiting for him. He would climb into bed, curl his arm around her body and whisper into her neck that he was sorry they had quarrelled. And she would turn into his arms and reply against his mouth that she was sorry too, but he would be the one to make the first move.

'Let her come to you,' le Vavasour said, watching him with narrowed eyes. 'You have to be lord in your own household.'

Fulke nodded. His father-in-law was right. If he went to bed now, it would be admitting that he was in the wrong, even though he still intended riding out in the morning.

Thus he remained where he was, and when the time came to sleep, he stretched out on a pallet in le Vavasour's chamber and let the excess of wine lure him into a deep slumber.

When Maude came down at dawn, she found him there. Misery and anger flowed in expanding rings from her core. She hated her father, she hated Fulke, but she loved him too, and the more she loved and hated, the angrier she became.

With calm deliberation she saw
to
the breaking of fast and the preparing of rations to eat on the journey. She made sure that Fulke had clean raiment in his pack. When he sat to break his fast, bleary-eyed and unshaven, she greeted him with frozen courtesy and saw that his trencher and cup were placed before him and filled.

'See,' said her father, nudging Fulke, 'I told you that you have to show them who is master. All it takes is a little discipline.'

Fulke said nothing. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he gave Maude a circumspect glance from beneath his brows, but as her eyes threatened to meet his, he looked away and hardened his resolve.

His gut was rolling and he did not feel like eating, but with a long journey ahead, knew that he must. With grim determination he chewed and swallowed.

With no comprehension of manners or discipline, little Mabile wandered up to him and tugged at his knee. He scooped her up and sat her in his lap.

Le Vavasour frowned; Fulke ignored him and curled a protective arm around his smallest and most vulnerable daughter. Mabile sat for a moment then with a squeal pushed herself out of Fulke's embrace. Clarice had entered the hall and it was to her that Mabile trotted. The young woman hoisted her up in her arms and kissed her cheek, while bidding a polite good morrow to the men.

'Discipline,' le Vavasour growled, his expression censorious. 'You need to begin while they're still in the cradle.'

'Spare me your advice,' Fulke said savagely. 'Do I tell you how to order your household?'

His father-in-law shook his head. 'The sooner we're on the road, the better,' he said sourly, his implication being that Whittington's atmosphere was unhealthy for any male in his right mind.

Fulke spared time to strip to his braies and bathe. He chewed a liquorice root to freshen his breath but decided to let his stubble remain. It was December and wearing a beard would prove considerably warmer than going bare-chinned. If he caught lice, he could always shave. His sons loitered, helping him roll his hauberk in a bundle of oiled leather to keep it dry, watching enviously as he girded on his sword.

When he mounted up in the courtyard, Maude came to his stirrup and, in the traditional manner, presented him with his shield.

'Have a care, my lord,' she said.

The breeze wafted her veil away from her face, and the cold December sunlight made her eyes as light and clear as green glass. Fulke's gut swooped with love and desire. He wanted to fling from the saddle and crush her in his arms, but, constrained by the presence and scowl of his father-in-law, and by a last vestige of pride, he stayed where he was. 'And you,' he murmured. 'I promise, everything will be for the best.'

She lifted her chin. 'Then keep your promise.'

Unable to resist, he removed his gauntlet and leaned from the saddle to touch her cheek.

Hawise had dutifully presented her grandfather with his shield which he had accepted with his usual arrogance. 'Come,' he said, nudging his horse with his heels. 'We should not tarry.' He gave Fulke a hard stare.

Fulke reluctantly took his hand from Maude's cheek. She looked at him steadily and replaced his fingers with her own, tracing the echo of his touch.

He kicked his mount and followed le Vavasour out of Whittington's gates, somehow feeling as if he were being tugged against his will.

CHAPTER 38

Whittington Castle, Shropshire,

March 1215