Lords of the White Castle (83 page)

The November night was dark and cold. A single candle burned on the coffer and the faint scent of hot charcoal and incense filled the chamber. On the bed, Maude lay in the white, marble silence of death and Fulke sat beside her, gazing upon her face. Her eyes, those arresting cat-green eyes, were closed. Her blonde hair glowed loose on the pillow, like that of a virgin or a woman recently in the arms of a lover. Smoothed of pain, her face was young, the skin clear, the lips curled as if at some inner amusement. But she would never laugh again, and neither would he, he thought.

After the priest had gone, she had lapsed swiftly into a deep sleep from which no one could rouse her. Their farewell had been said on the threshold of the room when she had smiled at him. He had known, but not wanted to know. Now, although the knowledge was with him, he had little comprehension.

'The life I have led, I always thought that I would be the one to leave you,' he said to the still form in front of him. 'Wives become widows. Why didn't you permit me that selfishness?' He touched her hair: thick, heavy, silver-blonde. Many women lost the glory of their locks as they grew older, but Maude's had remained abundant and the colour meant that the first grey of ageing did not show. Now she would never grow any older, but already he felt twice his age. He could have stopped her drinking from that cup; he knew he could, but only to prolong her suffering. Hers was over; his had begun. The troubadours who sang the ballad of Melusine had omitted the detail that when she flew out of the window never to be seen again, she took her husband's soul with her.

The candle flame guttered as the door opened and Clarice tiptoed into the room, her gaze huge and dark in the shadow-light. A cloak hung at her shoulders and she carried a small oil cresset lamp in one hand and a flagon in the other. He looked at her resentfully. He did not want anyone intruding on this last night that Maude would rest in her own bed with him by her side. It was his vigil to keep alone.

He was thankful that she did not offer him wine, for if she had, he would have dashed the flagon from her hand. She poured a cup for herself and left the flagon within conspicuous view before seating herself across from him.

'We do not need your company,' he said.

She gave him a steady look, composed and reproachful. 'I know that you do not want to share this moment, but I loved her too.' Then she lowered her head over her clasped knuckles and began to pray, her lips moving silently.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft sputter of the candle as the flame caught an impurity in the wax. After a time, Fulke reached to the flagon and poured himself a scant cup. There was no sign of the flask of poppy syrup or the small bone measure. If it had remained, he might have been tempted to drink his own death.

He looked at the young woman quietly praying across from him. Candle and cresset lamp illuminated the gleam of moisture on her cheek. How was it possible to cry silently, he wondered, or was it just another sign of Clarice's fastidious perfection? And then he saw that she was struggling not to break the cadence of her breathing, that beneath the cloak she was shuddering with the effort of holding herself together.

He watched, feeling pity, exasperation, and envy, for he was unable to weep. The wound was
so
deep that it had maimed all his responses. 'Clarice…'

She made a choking sound and a gesture of apology. Rising, Fulke came around the bed and awkwardly folded his arms around her. It was the first time he had ever seen her discomposed, and somewhere deep within, his bleeding emotions struggled to respond.

'It's all right,' he murmured. 'Weep if you want.'

She turned her face into his breast and gave vent to her grief, clutching him so tightly that in the morning he would see bruises on his arms. Her voice rang in the darkness of the room, and the force of her breath stirred the light silver wisps of hair framing Maude's brow.

He held her, stroking her braids. His own grief burgeoned within him, but did not break for Maude's death had left too vast a hollow ever to be filled.

CHAPTER 43

Although the snow held off, there was frost that winter, hard as the iron edge of a war sword, and the Welsh raids continued through the chiming cold. Fulke moved his herds from the byres and winter grazing surrounding Whittington and pastured them on the royal lands at Lyth. He took out his troops on constant patrols, riding through the frozen silver landscape, feeling as if he were trapped inside a sorcerer's mirror. Ellesmere Water was a sheet of ice the thick grey-white of loafsugar. Swans huddled among the sedges, breast feathers resembling the fronded delicacy of snowflakes, necks curved round and bills tucked into the warmth of their folded pinions. Everything not dormant endured or died.

Torn between enduring and dying himself, Fulke was in perfect tune with the season. Losing Maude had left
him
frozen. He could not grieve, because somewhere the connection between feeling and expression had been severed. He lived without enjoyment of life, each day dragging into the next with a dreadful inevitability. His mind functioned on a practical, perfunctory level, but inside there was a void.

The Welsh were elusive. They raided; they slipped back over the border and melted into the hills. The only way to bring them to heel, Chester opined when he and Fulke met to discuss the situation, was to take an expedition into Wales, building castles as they went, in the manner that their ancestors had done to the English after the great Battle of Hastings. But for such an undertaking, royal troops would have to be mustered and the young King had matters more pressing on his trencher. For the nonce, his marcher barons could fend for themselves.

In a way, Fulke was glad of that fending. It occupied his time, gave him a purpose to rise in the morning and see each day through to its close. If he pushed himself to physical exhaustion he knew that he would fall into a fathomless slumber and not awaken until the morning. What he dreaded were the nights when he dreamed that Maude was sleeping beside him. He would feel the warmth of her body, the tickle of her hair, smell her perfume, and would awaken in pleasure only to find himself embracing the bolster. They were the bleakest times, the ones where he thought he would rather die than endure.

His children provided small islands of consolation and warmth in an otherwise barren landscape. Swift to show emotion, Hawise had wept a river of tears at the news of her mother's death. The tragedy had been made more poignant by the news that Hawise was to bear a baby. Now Maude would never know her first grandchild, or the grandchild know her save in memories planted by others.

Jonetta had grieved quietly with fewer outward signs of emotion, but much prayer in the chapel. The boys had wept, but they had not remained long—a few days for the funeral and mourning and then they had returned to the households in which they were squiring. Clarice had taken Mabile under her wing, mitigating the worst of the child's bewilderment and finding her own comfort therein. His brothers had visited him too, riding in from the scattered FitzWarin estates to grieve with him and keep him company, but Fulke could only bear so much of their concern and had not encouraged them to remain. Richard was the only one who stayed, and that was because he had always been with Fulke, had never evinced an interest in dwelling as other than a hearth knight in his brother's employ.

Drawing rein in the biting cold of a late January morning, Fulke dismounted at the gates of Alberbury Priory. It was still only half built, but the walls continued to rise and there was a small chapel to house the FitzWarin family tombs. One day, he would lie here himself with Maude on one side and his parents on the other. For the moment, they awaited him. He removed his sheepskin mitts and blew on his hands, which despite their covering still felt like blocks of ice. Father Lawrence, the Augustinian Prior, came out to greet him and offered him hot wine in his private solar—at the moment a timber hut in the precincts. The masons had downed tools for the winter and the scaffolded buildings had a deserted air, albeit made beautiful and crystalline by the heavy frost.

'You are welcome, my lord,' said the Prior. His tonsure fitted the surroundings, for it was silver too, thick and heavy. 'You take out the patrols, I see?'

'For what good it does.' Fulke looked around the solar. A charcoal brazier glowed in the centre of the room. There was a large trestle on which stood two heavy candlesticks and a devotional book was open in front of the Prior's oak chair. 'The Welsh will still come and there is no sign of a truce as yet between Marshal and Llewelyn.'

'You cannot make one of your own?'

'Not without breaking my friendship with Marshal and destroying any bridges I have begun to build with the King.' He took the wine that the Prior offered, his hands beginning to tingle and burn as feeling returned. 'The herds at Whittington have gone to Lyth.'

'And the herds at Alberbury?'

Fulke swallowed the wine. 'I am here to remove them, and to take my daughter and my ward to Lambourn,' he said, adding quickly, 'You need have no fear for the priory. Llewelyn would not burn down a church or harm monks. What he wants to destroy is my authority along the March—the keeps that house the men who stand in his way'

The Prior eyed him. 'Aye, well, there is not so much to burn down here as yet,' he said, 'but it may be different in the future.'

Fulke shrugged. 'Other things may be different too. I live in hope that in the spring the King will give me leave to strengthen my keeps. He must see the necessity by now.'
Live in hope. The
words mocked him. He socialised with the Prior a while longer, then left him to visit Maude's tomb. There was no effigy as yet, and even when one had been chiselled out of cold, Chellaston alabaster, it would be a winter thing, white and stiff, reflecting none of the living beauty that had been his wife. Then again, it was only her mortal remains that lay in the church. Her soul, like her namesake, had flown from the window and was long gone. She rested in peace. It was the living who were in turmoil.

He rode on to the keep at Alberbury. Like Whittington, all movable objects of value had been taken to manors that were not under threat from the Welsh; herds and livestock too. The stables were empty of all save the immediate mounts of the garrison and the patrol.

It was Gracia who came to greet him with the welcoming cup.

'Where is Clarice?' He looked around, seeking her familiar figure, but finding only servants.

'She's gone to see a wise woman over Knockin way, my lord,' Gracia said with disapproval. 'Wouldn't take no for an answer.'

Fulke looked at the maid in dismay. It was totally out of character for Clarice to take off anywhere, and to go in search of a wise woman on the day before a long journey was beyond comprehension. 'The borders are too dangerous for such a jaunt,' he growled. 'Why in God's name does she want to see a wise woman?'

'She says that we have run out of many herbs and simples and that she won't be able to obtain the same in Lambourn. Old Mother Ranild always has them to sell.' Gracia shook her head to show what she thought of the notion, i told her she shouldn't go, but she bade me mind Mabile and keep my counsel to myself.' Her voice took on a slightly aggrieved note.