Lords of the White Castle (12 page)

CHAPTER 6

The Welsh Borders,

Summer 1189

The older FitzWarin boys and the de Hodnet brothers, Baldwin and Stephen, had spent the morning at the booths in Oswestry, examining the wares of the harness-maker, horse-coper and swordsmith. Fulke had a mended bridle to collect, William was looking for a new mount, and all the young men were passionate about the sleek blades displayed on the cloth outside the swordsmith's booth.

Some were fashioned from a single bar of steel; others were made in the old way, from several layers of iron, beaten and hammered until they formed intricate ripple designs on the surface of the weapon. It was said that these pattern-welded blades possessed less strength than the plain ones, but for visual beauty, they were unsurpassed.

'I'm going to have one of these when I'm knighted.' William's brown eyes gleamed covetously. He was eighteen now; slender, fiery and desperate for the ceremony that would confer on him the badge of warrior manhood.

Fulke admired William's choice. It would have been his own selection too, except that when it came his time to be knighted, the gift of his sword had been promised by Lord Theobald. The ceremony was likely to take place when Lord Theobald returned to England. For the nonce, he was fighting across the Narrow Sea in Anjou. King Henry and Prince Richard were at each other's throats again. Prince John was with his father, opposing Richard, and from what news came to them here in the Marches, the situation was ugly and acrimonious.

Fulke was glad not to be attending Theobald. Instead of crossing the Narrow Sea, he had been summoned home when his father had fallen dangerously sick. Although le Brun had recovered from the high fever that had briefly threatened his life, Fulke had not returned to court. His father had deemed it better for him to learn the obligations of governance at home for a while rather than become involved in the vicissitudes of Angevin family warfare.

Today, however, Fulke had his freedom to enjoy the perfect Lammastide weather and the booths in Oswestry. English and Welsh folk mingled, intent on barter and purchase. Their languages blended, mixed with more than a seasoning of Norman French. Fulke watched the trading with pleasure, knowing that it was not always this peaceful. Frequently the Welsh and English were at war with each other and Oswestry was a battleground, claimed by both sides and sacked by both too as a result.

Last time they had been in the town was the Whitsuntide of the previous year. Granted leave by Lord Theobald to visit his family, Fulke had been in Oswestry to hear the Bishop of St David and his deacon, the irrepressible Gerald de Barry, preach the need for a new crusade to restore the Holy Land to Christian rule. Gerald had been so eloquent and passionate that several folk had joined the crusade on the spot and been handed red crosses to sew on to their cloaks. Fulke had felt the tug of the sermon but abjured, knowing that his own family's Jerusalem was Whittington and his future already mapped out. William had stepped forward like a speeding arrow and been hauled back by le Brun's hand on the scruff of his neck.

'Too young and so hot-headed you'll burn yourself up,' their father had snapped with a jaundiced glare at Gerald and the Bishop. 'You were ever one to hear tales of a dragon at your nurse's knee and straight away run off in pursuit of one.'

Prince Richard had sworn to take the Cross and ride for Jerusalem as soon as the matter of his inheritance was resolved. Lord Theobald's brother Hubert had sworn too, and their uncle, Ranulf de Glanville. Theobald himself was to remain behind in John's retinue. It was a sensible move and made the best of both worlds for the Walter family. If and when the crusade departed, they would have influence both in the field and at home.

'I like this one.' Philip lifted one of the plain steel swords. It suited his nature, which was sturdy and cautious despite his unruly cloud of auburn curls.

Both de Hodnet boys opted for pattern-welded blades. Finally growing tired of their penniless enthusiasm the swordsmith waved them away, grumbling that sweaty fingerprints would damage the steel.

The young men repaired to the alehouse where at least their purses could afford the price of two jugs between them. They sat at a trestle under the shade of an oak tree and took it in turns to drink. Tara, Fulke's wolfhound, flopped nose on paws at his side and watched the world from beneath her brows. He combed his fingers through her harsh pelt, stiff as fine silver wire.

'It don't bite, do it?' One of the alehouse girls paused warily to admire the massive dog. Moistening her lips, she darted her gaze over the assembled young men in similar wise.

William grinned broadly and raised the jug in toast. 'No, but I do, sweetheart, if you want to sit on my lap and try me.'

'No, she doesn't bite.' Fulke gave his brother a nudge and removed the jug from his hands. William was always boasting about the conquests he had made, but Fulke suspected that most were imagined in order to increase William's standing among his peers.

Fulke's own experience of women had considerably expanded since his return from Ireland. Hanild, one of the court whores, had taken a fancy to broaden his education beyond the arts of weapon play and ciphering—teaching him 'the differences between a knight and an oaf as she had put it. Her instruction had been vastly pleasurable and more than a little enlightening, not to say a welcome release from the frustrations that now seemed to be plaguing William.

'Can I stroke her?'

'Of course.' Fulke spoke gently to the dog and studied the girl through his lashes as she tentatively patted Tara's head. Small, curvaceous, with a winsome, kissable smile. When William began talking about his own willingness to be stroked, Fulke bade him somewhat curtly to hold his peace.

William reddened with indignation. 'I saw her first!' he cried. 'Find your own wench!'

'If you desire to be a knight, then act like one,' Fulke said tersely.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'It means holding your tongue until you have something worthwhile to say… either to me or the girl.'

She was looking fearfully at the young men, clearly not following the rapid French, but understanding enough from the tone to realise a quarrel was brewing.

William jerked to his feet. 'You think that because you've been to court, you can lord it over us all, play the master. Well, you're not mine, and I'll do as I please.'

'Go on then' Fulke said with a sweep of his arm. 'Make a fool of yourself.'

The brothers stared at each other, William breathing jerkily, Fulke maintaining an air of superior calm, although the shudder of his tunic neckline against his throat revealed how hard and swiftly his heart was beating.

'Will, sit down, you're making a mountain from an ant mound.' Ever the peace-maker, Philip tugged at his brother's sleeve.

William shook him off. 'I don't want to sit down. I'm sick of being told what to do.' He stalked away in the direction of their tethered horses.

Fulke stared after him, bemused at the speed with which the quarrel had hit. He had always thought himself fond of William, and the feelings of irritation and anger were unsettling. So too was the notion that William was clearly resentful of him.

'You have trampled on his pride,' Philip murmured. 'And you have taken his place as king of the castle. While you were at court, Will was the oldest and strongest, the one who led. Now you are home and it is clear to all that he cannot hope to compete.'

'I don't want to compete.' Fulke watched William swing into the saddle and tug on the reins. 'God's bones, I've seen enough fraternal squabbling at court to last me a lifetime. Heaven forbid that we should ever come to be like King Henry's sons.'

'He'll come round,' said Baldwin de Hodnet stoutly as William rode away. 'His temper's all blaze and no substance.'

Philip pulled a face. 'But heaven help those who get in its way while it's burning.'

The girl had retreated as the quarrel sparked, but only as far as the alehouse door, and it was her cry that slewed Fulke and his companions on the bench to see that William's path was blocked by a belligerent group of horsemen.

Fulke's gaze narrowed on the banners fluttering from their spears. 'Morys FitzRoger,' he hissed, and the instant he spoke the name, was on his feet and running to his horse. Morys commonly titled himself lord of Whittington and was their sworn enemy. He was accompanied by his adolescent sons, Weren and Gwyn, and five men-at-arms. As Fulke swung astride, his mind was racing. Even for honour or pride, they could not afford a fight. What he had to do was extricate his hot-headed brother before one began.

He was too late. There was a sudden flurry and scuffle as William launched his brown cob at FitzRoger's stallion and was immediately tipped from the saddle. He sprawled in the road to the accompaniment of jeers and laughter. FitzRoger playfully prodded the tip of the spear he carried against the hollow of William's throat.

'Let him be,' Fulke commanded, riding up and drawing rein.

'Well, well, not just one FitzWarin whelp, but three,' smiled FitzRoger as Philip arrived on Fulke's heels with the de Hodnet brothers. 'And far out of your territory' He kept the spear at William's throat while his other hand effortlessly controlled his bay destrier.

'Not as far out of it as you are out of yours!' William snarled from the ground with rash bravado.

'How so?' FitzRoger raised his brows in mock surprise. 'Surely Whittington is closer to Oswestry than Alberbury.'

'Yes, and it's ours!'

The smile broadened, but with threat, not friendliness. 'Yap all you want, you ignorant pup, but it won't get you any further than the stink of your own kennel. You say Whittington is yours. Come and take it then.' He leaned with precision on the spear edge, drawing the smallest bead of blood like a jewel stitched on a tunic.

'Let him go,' Fulke repeated. With an effort, he succeeded in keeping his voice calm and level.

FitzRoger laughed. 'Or else what, child? You will assault me with your eating knife like this purblind idiot was about to do?'

'As you say, he is of no importance. Why waste your time on him?'

'Oh, it isn't time wasted,' FitzRoger said blithely. 'I am more than willing to spend a few moments teaching him a lesson he will not forget in a hurry. Indeed, I have a notion to widen the education of all of you, since Fulke le Brun has plainly failed to teach you to mind your betters.'

On the ground, William choked, as much from rage as from the pressure of the spear against his windpipe. FitzRoger's men shifted in their saddles, easing their weapons, flexing their muscles. Behind the nasal bars of their helms, FitzRoger's sons smirked at each other. Fulke's hackles rose but he knew that he could not afford to lose his temper.

'My father has always taught us to give respect where respect is due, so we have never had cause to be polite to the house of FitzRoger,' Fulke retorted, and with a glance sidelong and down, uttered a sharp command.

A ripple of silver-grey fur and the slash of fangs on his spear hand were the first that Morys FitzRoger knew of the wolfhound's attack. He bellowed and snatched his arm away, dropping the spear. In a blur of speed, Fulke seized the weapon, hooked it in the mesh of FitzRoger's mail coif and brought him crashing out of the saddle. The bitch went for his face and Fulke roared her off just before her teeth snapped shut on FitzRoger's nose.