Lords of the White Castle (8 page)

The Irish Sea was a deep, cold green, topped with crests of white foam that broke and marbled in the steep troughs. A hard east wind strained the canvas sails of the ships that climbed and fell the mountain range of waves, their prows pointed towards the Irish coast and the port of Waterford.

Fulke's belly quietly churned as their vessel plunged down the small hillside and surged up the slope of the next. He was one of the fortunate ones, his nausea being mild. He had only been sick once at the outset of their journey. Lord Theobald, Jean de Rampaigne and other members of John's entourage were incapacitated in the deck shelter; all of them as green as new cheese and puking like pregnant women. Apart from the crew and a Welsh archdeacon, Fulke was the only one still upright, and he much preferred the wildness of the open deck to the groaning stench of the shelter.

The size of the waves made Fulke slightly apprehensive; it would only take one slip of the helm or one swoop of water larger than the rest to send their vessel to the bottom of the Irish Sea. He could well understand his mother's terror and even feel an echo of it in the churn of his belly. In his arrogance, he had thought that playing games on the River Thames was sufficient preparation, but rough water on the Thames was like a caress compared to the hammering fists of the Hibernian Sea. He touched the cross on his breast and murmured a prayer to St Elmo, seeking reassurance.

The Welsh Achdeacon staggered over to him, fists tightly clutching his cloak to his body. He was a small man in early middle age with sandy tonsured hair and a round face whose genial features were marred by an air of petulance. 'If they have no stomach for it now, they might as well turn round and head home,' he said scornfully. 'It will get no better.'

While on attendance duty at Milford Haven before they embarked, Fulke had served the Archdeacon at Lord Theobald's table. He was Gerald de Barry of Manorbier and he was accompanying this venture because he was one of the few people acquainted with the Irish and their customs. Wherever he went, he carried a wooden book containing pages of waxed tablets. The only reason he was not writing his tart and gossipy observances just now was that the sea was too rough for him to control his stylo.

'You mean the weather will grow worse?' Fulke glanced anxiously at the scudding fleece of grey and white clouds and then at the next glass wall of sea menacing their bows.

'It might at that; only God can say. Their sea is as contrary as the Irish themselves.' Malicious amusement filled Archdeacon Gerald's sloe-berry eyes. 'Why, lad, are you afraid?'

Fulke clutched his little cross. 'I have faith in God,' he said, reluctant to admit his doubts to the small, acerbic churchman.

'Very proper too, and you will need it. King Henry is sending a spoiled child to do a man's task. I have no doubt that blood will flow in direct proportion to the amount of wine consumed.'

Fulke said nothing. In all likelihood, Gerald was right—if the inebriated state of John and his immediate companions when they boarded ship at Milford was any indicator.

'Nor,' continued Gerald, wagging his forefinger like an Old Testament prophet,' do I think that those barrels of silver we loaded will ever reach the troops he's supposed to buy. Mark my words, we're in for a stormy passage.' The Archdeacon staggered across the deck to look out over the side.

In the short time he had known him, Fulke had quickly realised that Gerald had a tendency to exaggerate. Some of his tales about the Irish were clearly preposterous, such as the one about stones that could speak prophecy if a corpse was passed over them; but beneath the extravagance and fabrication, there was occasionally a kernel of truth—no reassurance to Fulke.

From his precarious position on the cross spar, the lookout bellowed warning of land. Fulke joined the Archdeacon at the side and squinted through spray-stung eyes. As they crested a wave, he saw the hazy outline of grey-green hummocks that did not move.

'The Wicklow Mountains,' said Gerald. 'We'll be in Waterford before nightfall.'

A trifle battered, but unharmed beyond the odd torn sail and leaky caulking, Prince John's fleet sailed into Waterford to be greeted by a handful of Norman—Irish settler barons who had put down conquering roots a generation before. Groggy, reeling from the effects of seasickness and wine, John and his entourage were escorted to the stronghold of Waterford, known as Reginald's Tower after the Norse leader who had originally built it.

Lord Theobald had been violently ill throughout the crossing and only a tremendous effort of will kept him upright as a groom led forward a bay gelding. He grasped the reins and swayed, his forehead clammy with sweat.

'Boost me up,' he commanded Fulke, the last word ending on a swallowed gag.

Fulke hastened to comply, fitting Theobald's foot in the stirrup and thrusting up as the Baron pressed down and heaved himself across his mount's saddle. A muffled oath escaped between Theobald's clenched teeth and he retched dryly into the horse's mane. Jean grasped the reins as the gelding sidled. His own normally golden complexion was sallow and his feet unsteady, but he was in far better case than their master.

'My lord?' He gave a concerned look upwards.

'Just keep the beast quiet,' Theobald gulped.

'Yes, lord. 'Jean exchanged a wry glance with Fulke and clicked his tongue, urging the horse to a gentle walk. From the direction of the saddle, there came a suffering moan. Fulke paced at Lord Theobald's stirrup and carried his banner. The moist sea breeze rippled through the embroidered silks and caused a pleasant snapping sound. Ahead of them the Angevin leopards blazed in thread of gold on their blood-red background. John's dark head bobbed in and out of view, crowned by a golden circlet and surrounded by a protective forest of spears and banners. Naturally, he rode on a white horse. After a single, sour glance, Fulke ignored him. There were more interesting sights to see.

The Irish of the town looked little different to the ordinary folk of England and Wales. They wore the same simple tunics in muted shades of brown, tawny and green. Here and there, an occasional blue garment or a richer dye marked out someone of wealth. The older men cultivated long hair and wore full, heavy beards that put Fulke in mind of a hermit he had once encountered living wild in the forest beyond Alberbury. The sound of Gaelic filled his ears with its strange, musical harshness. He had a smattering of the Welsh tongue, garnered from Alain's nurse Ceridwen. Irish had a difference cadence, less Kiting but strangely hypnotic.

He noticed that neither the native Gaels nor the Norman settlers were smiling. People bowed in deference to the spectacle of royalty, but their faces were wary and in some eyes Fulke was sure he detected a glimmer of scorn. He had an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades, a sensation of vulnerability that only diminished when they reached the safety of Reginald's Tower.

'Are you able to dismount, my lord?' Grasping the stirrup strap, he looked anxiously at Theobald whose hands were white-knuckled on the reins.

Theobald nodded wordlessly, lips tightly compressed. Leaning forward, he swung his right leg over the saddle and slid down the bay's side. For an instant, Fulke bore Theobald's full weight. He braced his shoulder and locked his thighs.

Swaying, Theobald pushed himself upright. 'Why do I feel as if I'm still on board a ship?' he demanded, then, uttering a groan, staggered to a corner of the bailey where he doubled up, retching once more.

'You have the same effect on me, FitzWarin,' Prince John paused to taunt him on his way into the tower. 'You make me sick as a dog.' His companions sniggered. At the back of their party, Archdeacon Gerald frowned with disapproval.

Fulke faced the Prince in polite but stony silence. Since the incident with the chessboard, John had taken every opportunity to bait him, although never when Ranulf de Glanville or Theobald Walter were within earshot. Now, with power to wield and Theobald incapacitated, he obviously felt safe to do so. The best remedy was to ignore him and hope that he would quickly grow bored with bouncing insults off a blank wall.

'Your Highness, will you come within? Everything is prepared for you,' said Philip of Worcester with an ushering gesture. He had been sent ahead of the main party to make ready for John's arrival.

John inclined his head. 'I certainly have no desire to remain out here with dolts and bumpkins,' he said. 'Perhaps you will see to it that my lord Walter receives adequate attention for his purging. I doubt his squires will be of much assistance.' He moved on and Fulke carefully let out the breath he had been holding.

'Pay no heed,' Jean muttered.

Fulke glowered. 'There is a tally in my mind and each time he goads me, I add another notch.' He went to Theobald who was leaning against the wall, his complexion the unhealthy hue of lime mortar. 'Can you walk, my lord?'

Clutching his stomach, Theobald slowly straightened. 'I'll be damned if I'll be carried,' he said hoarsely, and took the banner Fulke was holding to use as a crutch. A squire on either side, he made his slow way into the tower.

Philip of Worcester had managed to find a wall chamber where Theobald was able to He down and nurse his churning stomach. Jean went in search of a hot tisane for his lord to sip, leaving Fulke to see to the arrangement and unpacking of the travelling chests. Lord Theobald lay like an effigy on his travelling pallet. Fulke suspected that not only was his master suffering from the effects of
mal de mer
, but that he had eaten something that had disagreed with his gut. On board a ship, it was not difficult.

He went to the narrow window splay and peered out on a rainy April dusk. His constricted view yielded him the sight of a handful of the bailey buildings. He could have been anywhere from Westminster to Lambourn. The smell of woodsmoke drifted to his nose, and on it, the appetising aroma of roasting meat. On the bed, Theobald caught the scent too, and moaned.

The heavy curtain screening the chamber from the stairs rattled on its pole. Fulke turned, expecting to see Jean with the tisane. Instead, his eyes met the astonishing sight of a beautiful woman, accompanied by the hugest dog he had ever seen, bigger even than his father's deerhound, Griff. It had paws the size of trenchers, a shaggy, silver-grey coat, and his youngest brother could have ridden it as a pony. The woman wore a gown of rose-coloured wool in the Norman style, and a white veil bound in position with a woven band. Two heavy braids, glossy black as Fulke's own hair, hung to her waist.

'My lady?' His voice rose and cracked as it had not done in over half a year.

A swift word in Gaelic, a pointed finger, and the dog lay down across the threshold like a giant rug. She came forward, her step sure and confident. 'I was told that one of Prince John's lords was sick and in need of tending?' She spoke the Norman French of the court, but with a lilting cadence that curled around the words and made them seductive. Her eyes were a stunning hyssop-flower blue and the colour of her lips matched the deep rose of her gown. Advancing to the pallet, she looked down at the supine Theobald.

Fulke swallowed. 'He has the seasickness but it won't abate. Who are you?' The question blurted out of him like a splash of ink on a clean vellum page. All the blood in his body seemed to have left his head and travelled rapidly south.

As if aware of his discomfort, she gave him a slow, knowing smile: a little scornful, gently amused. 'My name is Oonagh FitzGerald, widow of Robert FitzGerald of Docionell in Limerick. Since my husband died in the winter, my home has been here, and since I also have some small knowledge
of
healing, it has fallen
my
duty to tend the unwell.' She wrapped one of her braids around her forefinger and considered him. 'And who are you?'

Fulke managed a clumsy bow. 'Fulke FitzWarin of Lambourn and Whittington, squire to Lord Walter.' She looked far too young to be a widow. Her skin bore the flawless bloom and rounded outline that spoke of a girlhood still recent. He wondered if he should offer condolences on her husband's death, then decided it was better not to say anything.

'And you did not suffer the seasickness yourself, Fulke FitzWarin?' Approaching the bed she laid her hand across Theobald's brow and gave him a reassuring murmur.

'No, my lady, or only a little at the beginning.'

'You are one of the fortunate ones then, like your liege lord the Prince.'

'You have met him, my lady?' Fulke spoke without inflection.

'Indeed I have.' Her own voice too was neutral, revealing nothing of her thoughts. 'He was in the hall when I was bade attend upon your master.' Reaching into the satchel slung from her shoulder, she withdrew a small linen pouch. 'Give him as much as will cover your thumbnail dissolved in hot wine. One cup now, another at compline and a third in the morning.'

Theobald weakly lifted his head. 'How soon can I rise from my bed?'

'As soon as the room ceases to sway and you stop vomiting,' she said. 'Although I think you could have answered that for yourself, my lord,' she added as Theobald lay back, his colour ashen and his throat working as he swallowed a retch.

i feel like a puling infant,' he groaned.

'Aye, well, 'tis the state of man from cradle to grave.' Her smile took the sting from the words. 'You must eat only dry bread and light broth for two days after you rise, lest the purging begins again.'

Fulke opened the pouch, sniffed the contents, and turned aside to sneeze.

'Mint and ginger, not suitable for inhaling,' she laughed and went to the door. Another word in Gaelic brought the massive dog to its feet.

'How much does it eat?' Fulke asked.

Oonagh gave him a teasing look. 'That depends on how hungry she is, and if anyone has been foolhardy enough to take liberties.' She gestured. 'Go on, stroke her if you wish. She won't bite unless I say.'

Fulke was fond of dogs. Indeed, he was more afraid that Oonagh would bite him than the bitch. He went forward confidently, let the dog sniff his hand and swipe it with a long, pink tongue. He scratched her beneath the chin and braced his knees as she leaned on him, an expression of canine bliss in her eyes.