Lords of the White Castle (80 page)

A smell of powdered stone dust filled the air, mingling with the sound of a mason's hammer chipping on stone. Alberbury Priory was growing out of the land cleared for its birthing, stone by mortared stone. It was to be a house of Augustinian canons when completed; Fulke had already negotiated with Lilleshall Abbey for the provision of a prior and monks.

Fulke watched the toiling labourers and artisans with a mingling of pleasure and irritation. 'Pleased as I am to see this working going forth to the glory of God,' he said, 'I cannot help but think that I could put these masons to better use at Whittington, strengthening the defences.' He folded his arms and frowned.

'Can't you just send them, sir, and set them to work?'

Fulke glanced at his son and namesake. The lad was almost eighteen with a nimbus dazzle of fair hair and dark grey eyes. Coltish, still growing into his limbs, but promising the athletic strength to balance his height. He was serving as a squire to Ranulf Chester and his leave was short: a couple of weeks to visit his family during the long days of midsummer and attend his sister Jonetta's wedding to Henry of Pembridge.

'It isn't as easy as that, son,' Fulke said wryly, i cannot strengthen Whittington unless I am given a licence from the King. If I build in stone without his yeasay, then he is entitled to command his sheriff to see that all the work is destroyed. Also I would be levied an enormous fine and we are already in debt to the Crown.'

'Well, why won't he give you permission?' The youth picked up a chip of stone and lobbed it across the grass.

'Because I was one of the rebels who took against his father. Because it is forgiven but not yet forgotten. Young Henry and his advisors could grant me permission to strengthen my keeps and then find that instead of using them to keep the Welsh at bay, I was fomenting another rebellion.'

'They don't really think that,' the young man said. 'Earl Ranulf would be happy for you to build in stone. Look at me, I'm his squire and his godson. He wishes you nothing but well.'

'Earl Ranulf may have a say in governing the country, but his word is not the law and there are others who are more cautious.'

'William Marshal, you mean.' The lad screwed up his face. 'He's almost in his dotage.'

Fulke cuffed his heir, not entirely in play. 'I hold William Marshal in high regard and so should you,' he growled. 'He may not be correct to be cautious, but his reasoning is sound.'

'Well, it doesn't seem sound to me to forbid you to strengthen Whittington. What if Llewelyn strikes?'

Fulke laughed without humour. 'Whittington will burn,' he said. Turning from the industry, he strolled back towards the keep. It was a slow process, regaining trust, he acknowledged. Slow and often frustrating. In the six years since John's death, the country had slowly settled back to normal, like a pool clearing after the throwing of a stone. Fulke remembered kneeling at the feet of John's nine-year-old son to pledge his homage. The child had been fair, with his mother's pale complexion and long, fine bones. The crown upon his yellow hair was a circlet belonging to his mother since John's regalia was somewhere in the murk of the Wellstream estuary. Henry's responses had been given in a clear voice, high-pitched as a bell, almost feminine. The eyes were Isobel's, the features thin and fastidious. There had been nothing of John to see, thank Christ, in any of the child's features or mannerisms. Fulke could not imagine playing chess with Prince Henry except on the most excruciatingly polite of terms. The sort of man he would make remained to be seen—as it remained to be seen with his own sons.

'I think, then, that I would strengthen and be damned,' said his heir.

Fulke's lips twitched. 'Yes, I used to think that way too. I must be getting old.'

Maude watched Clarice's silver needle fly in and out of the Flemish linen. The weave was so fine and tight that it did not seem possible that human hand had been involved in its manufacture. The quality had been reflected in the price, but since it was to be an altar cloth for the family chapel when the new abbey was consecrated, expense was not an issue. They were in Alberbury's garden, sitting together on a turf seat.

'I do not understand why you turned Hamelin FitzWilliam away,' Maude said irritably. The day before, Clarice had refused an offer of marriage to William of Salisbury's bastard son, Hamelin. It was true that the young man was only eighteen years old to Clarice's five and twenty, but good marriages had been made with a much wider age gap. He was a friend of young Fulke, pleasant, personable and mature for his years. 'Every match we have proposed, you have rejected.'

'I am content as I am.'

Maude suppressed the urge to throttle Clarice. The words were spoken serenely and the face remained smooth and untroubled. It was like talking to a nun who had such a powerful vocation that it was unshakeable. The same words every time, like a litany. The slight, sweet curve of the lips. Maude longed to shake that composure and see what lay beneath.

'If you had been raised in another household—my father's, for example—you would have been forced to the altar long before now,' she said darkly.

'I know, and I am thankful beyond measure that you have put no such pressure on me.'

'I think you are afraid,' Maude said sharply. 'You have such a comfortable nest with us that you don't want to fly away and feather your own.' She had thought that Jonetta's marriage the previous week to Henry of Pembridge would put Clarice in a receptive frame of mind, but apparently not.

Clarice set her needle neatly in the fabric and rose, hands pressed to the small of her back. 'Perhaps you are right,' she murmured, 'but I do not see why it makes you angry. While I remain unwed, my lord can avail himself of my revenues.'

Maude gritted her teeth. Arguing with Clarice was as futile as pummelling a bolster. 'I am not angry, merely concerned.'

'You need not be.' Clarice stooped to pluck a small clump of weeds from the soil. 'I have said I am content… unless of course you want to be rid of me?'

'Don't be foolish,' Maude snapped defensively. 'We have raised you as one of our own and we love you dearly' She met the perceptive grey-gold gaze for an instant, then looked at the embroidery. Clarice was as sharp as a needle and there was an undercurrent of truth in her observation. Maude sometimes found Clarice's presence annoying. Her air of serenity and her unfailing good nature could be as wearing in its own way as petulance and tantrums. Moreover, now that Clarice was a woman grown, there were frictions—unspoken but potent.

Clarice said nothing, but strayed further up the bed, pulling a weed here, deadheading a flower there. It was always her way. Arguments never went anywhere with Clarice because Clarice, quite simply, refused to argue. The docility was indicative of either a truly bovine nature or control beyond belief. Maude was still not sure which, she only knew that it was becoming increasingly difficult to live with it. Cut Clarice and likely she would bleed pure honey.

A shadow covered the sunlight on the embroidery frame. Looking up, she met the frightened eyes of one of the younger maids.

'What is it, Nesta?'

The girl dipped a curtsey, holding the folds of her gown with shaking hands. 'My lord sent me to fetch you, my lady. There's been a Welsh raid at Hilfrich… they've torched it. There are some villagers in the bailey—several sore wounded.' She swallowed.

Maude was immediately on her feet. 'Dear Jesu. Nesta, take care of Mabile.' She indicated her youngest daughter who was sitting in a corner of the garden, playing with a heap of shredded petals and singing in a strange, high-pitched voice. 'Clarice, come with me.'

Together the women ran from the garden to the keep. The first thing Maude saw was Hilfrich's reeve, Sion, his hand heavily bandaged and the wrappings brown with dried blood. Lying at his feet was a child of about Mabile's age, her fair plaits matted dark-red around a terrible wound in her skull. Fulke was crouching, his hand on the man's shoulder, his expression one of fury and grief.

'She's dead.' Sion said, looking numbly at Maude. 'One of them rode her down and she took a kick….' He didn't finish the sentence. His eyes were glazed and dry, looking inward to the horror of what he had seen. He was a Welshman. His wife was English, but there was no sign of her among the gathering of shocked, dazed villagers.

'What happened? Who did this?' she asked Sion. Clarice had found a blanket and she laid it tenderly over the dead child, covering the awful wound beneath its woven softness.

'They came without warning,' Sion said. 'Out of nowhere on horses they came.' His voice was as blank as his eyes.

'Who came?' Maude took his bound hand and gently unwrapped the bandages.

'The Welsh,' Fulke answered for the reeve, the word harsh with rage. 'Hilfrich is a border village. They claim it theirs.'

Maude was appalled. 'But why burn it to the ground? Always before they have raided for crops and cattle, not… not like this.' There was a deep cut across the back of the reeve's hand, exposing a glisten of tendon and bone. She winced: even with stitching, he would likely lose the use of the limb.

Fulke shook his head. 'I know not,' he said grimly. 'Llewelyn and I… we have had our differences ever since I made peace with the King and renewed my oath of fealty, but this…'

'Llewelyn? You think it was Llewelyn's men?'

'Who else could it be?' He moved on among the villagers, stooping to talk and console, promising them that he would deal with the matter. Young Fulke followed in his footsteps, white-faced but resolute.

Maude applied herself to tending the wounded. Earlier she had been irritated with Clarice but now she could do naught but bless the young woman as she moved efficiently among the villagers, her calm, competent manner visibly easing their distress.

'They are all telling the same story,' Fulke said later to Maude. He had ordered the horses saddled and was grimly donning his mail. 'No warning—just armed riders pouring into the village, torching the houses, driving off the livestock, riding down anyone who got in their way.'

'What are you going to do?' Watching him put on his armour, she felt sick with fear. For six years, there had been peace; seeing him in mail again made her realise how fragile that peace was, how complacent she had become, and now, caught off guard, how vulnerable they all were.

'Look at the damage,' he said.

'What if the Welsh are still there?'

'They won't be.' He gave her what she had long ago christened his wolfish look. 'And if they are, I'm no untrained farmer armed with naught but a hoe. They won't run with their tails between their legs because they won't be able to run. 'The last word ended on a grunt
as
he laced his scabbard to his swordbelt.

She gnawed her lower lip. The thought of him caught up in a fight chilled her but so did the notion that the aggravation between English and Welsh had taken a new and vicious turn for the worse. 'Why did they do it?'

'I would guess that Llewelyn is serving me notice of a full border war,' he said grimly. 'Henry won't let me strengthen my keeps and Llewelyn must know this; he has his spies. Hilfrich is only four miles from Alberbury. He's been at odds with Pembroke and Chester all summer.'

'You cannot withstand Llewelyn,' she whispered. 'Not alone.'

'Tell me something else I do not know,' he said bleakly.

'I will go again to the King, demand that he let me strengthen my keeps, for if he does not, the Welsh will overrun the borders.' He pulled her against him and kissed her hard. 'I hope not to be gone too long.'

As he left the chamber, his son stepped out. 'Take me with you, Papa?' he requested. 'I can act as your squire, I know what to do.'

Fulke looked at the lad. He might well need more than a squire at his left shoulder and had no intention of endangering the youth. Give him a few more years of experience and it would be different. He set his hand on the boy's narrow shoulder. 'No, I need you to stay here and guard your mother and sisters.' His fingers tightened as his son's face began to darken. 'And before you complain that I am wrapping you in swaddling, let me tell you that remaining here is just as dangerous. If the Welsh come, the responsibility for defending Alberbury is yours.'

'Yes, Papa.' The youth still looked crestfallen, but accepted the judgement. Fulke nodded brusquely, man to man, and turned to stride for the courtyard, only to find his way blocked by a breathless Clarice.

'Your spurs,' she said, showing him the silver crescents, then knelt to attach them to his boots. Fulke let her. Bending over in a hauberk was uncomfortable and breathing was difficult. He looked down at her bent head. Being still unwed and in her own domain, she wore no veil, and the skin of her parting was a precise white line dividing her glossy, braided hair. A feeling of tenderness flowed through him.

She rose to her feet, her face slightly flushed from stooping. 'God keep you, my lord,' she said and he saw the suspicion of moisture in her eyes. Then she left him, walking swiftly, her spine straight, her head carried high.

Fulke hastened out to the gathering troop in the courtyard. As he passed the industry at the priory, he crossed himself.'
Ora pro nobis
,' he said to an Augustinian monk who was one of the supervisory party from the Mother Abbey of Lilleshall. 'Pray for us.'

The hamlet of Hilfrich stood on the Welsh border a little over four miles from Alberbury, to which the villagers paid their dues. It was, or had been a small farming community: seven cots with stockades and vegetable garths, housing a total of six and twenty individuals. Now it lay in smoking ruins. Every house had been torched, every fence smashed down, every animal pen emptied and the animals themselves either driven off or slaughtered. Fulke guided his horse through the debris, the drifts of smoke smarting in his eyes, particles of soot floating in the air like black snow. The smell was choking and acrid.

A few bodies sprawled amongst the burning ruins. An old woman too slow to run. A man who had resisted them with a boar spear. He thought of the little girl back at Alberbury, ridden down by a warhorse. And his gorge rose.