Lords of the White Castle (23 page)

Their eyes had met and the incandescence of his thoughts must have hit her, for she had not been flustered before. No, he dared not look at the sheet because he was already overwhelmed and struggling to come to terms with the notion that far from being a skinny child to whom he could relate as brother to sister, or his former tutor's wife to be treated with passing courtesy, Maude le Vavasour was quite simply the most alluring young woman he had ever seen.

She showed them the chambers that had recently been vacated by Prince John, then excused herself to chivvy the maids and summon Lady FitzWarin from the women's chambers. Fulke watched her leave, his gaze lingering on the doorway even when she was gone from sight.

'I told you, didn't I?' Jean boasted with cheerful superiority. He gave Fulke a hearty nudge. 'I've seen poled oxen with less glazed expressions.'

'What?' Shaking his head, Fulke turned around.

'Maude le Vav—I mean Maude Walter. I told you she'd be a rare beauty.' Jean grinned. 'It's not very diplomatic to fall head over heels in love—or in lust—with your mentor's wife, you know.' He ducked beneath the blow that Fulke aimed at him and danced out of reach. 'Admit it, she's a peach.'

Fulke glared at him, then turned to prop his sword in a corner and lean his helm against it. 'She is indeed lovely,' he shrugged. 'But you exaggerate my response. Besides, even if she is of marriageable age, she is yet little more than a child.' It was a discomforting thought to add to the turmoil in his mind. Not since the days of Oonagh FitzGerald had he been so instantly affected by a woman. Except this one wasn't yet a woman and as far from his reach as the stars. Desiring her was both dangerous and morally wrong. So said reason. His body, however, was less inclined to be persuaded, and in that, he suspected, he was in the same case as every red-blooded man in the keep.

Jean flourished his lute. 'True, but not for long. Give her a short span of years to learn her power and she'll be another Melusine.'

'You mean she'll fly out of the chapel window like a bat?' Fulke's tone was deliberately light and sarcastic.

Jean rolled his eyes. 'No, I mean she'll take your soul and you'll be glad to give it.'

Fortunately Fulke was prevented from making an answer, either verbal or physical, by the appearance of two manservants bearing bathtubs, several maids with fresh pallets and bedding, and, hard on their heels, his mother. For the moment at least, all jesting, both frivolous and serious, stopped.

That evening the wedding celebrations continued, albeit in a less fulsome vein than those of the previous day. Fulke found himself obliged to dance with the bride, for he would have seemed churlish otherwise.

'You must be more comfortable now that you have shed your mail,' she said as they took their positions in the open space framed by a rectangle of dining trestles.

'And much lighter too, my lady,' he replied with a smile.

They grasped each other's wrists and turned in a slow figure of eight. It was a traditional carole, always danced at weddings and symbolised the eternal bond between man and woman. In the smoky, candlelit darkness, the clear green of her eyes was almost obliterated by the wideness of her pupils.
Theobald's wife
, in Christ's name, he told himself.
A child
. But it was not a child's body that turned and moved with supple grace beneath his hands. The slender waist; the brush of her braids as she stepped past him and round; the curve of breast. He had to do something.

'I remember you stealing my brother's ball because he would not let you play,' he said, trying to re-establish the connection with the child she had been.

Maude wrinkled her nose. As a little girl, the mannerism had been endearing. Now it sent a chill of pure lust down Fulke's spine. 'My grandmother was furious,' she said, 'but I cared not.'

'And are you still the same?'

'Only on the inside,' she replied with a demure flicker of her lashes. 'Outwardly I am learning to be a lady.'

The dance finished. Bowing to her, Fulke made his escape, letting another knight take his place. It did not help matters when there was a break in the dancing and Jean took up his lute to sing the ballad of Melusine. First composed in Westminster's kitchen on a snowy December evening, Jean had honed the song until it was a work of art. The listeners could almost see the witch standing before them with her shimmering hair and eyes.

'Are you ailing, my son?' Hawise laid a gentle hand on Fulke's sleeve, her voice filled with concern.

He forced a smile. 'Not in the least, Mother, but I've heard that damned lay of Jean's so often that it drives me half mad.' Abruptly he jerked to his feet and stalked from the hall, leaving her to gaze after him in consternation.

Standing outside, Fulke took several deep breaths to clear his head of the cloying fumes of smoke and song and wine. Theobald's young wife was only affecting him because he had been too long without a woman, he told himself. Abstaining from tourney whores was a simple matter of self-preservation and besides, most of them were about as appetising as a bowl of cold porridge. Nevertheless, abstinence meant that he was very susceptible to the charms of sweetly scented almost-virgins like the delectable Maude le Vav—Maude Walter.

There were watch fires in the ward for the cheer of the guards on duty. A woman, who had been talking to the men, detached herself from their company and sauntered towards Fulke. She wore the panelled dress of a wealthy woman, the sleeves so long that they almost trailed the ground, but the low curve of the neckline had no modesty of laced undershirt to conceal her cleavage and her glossy dark braids were brazenly exposed.

Fulke recognised her immediately. Hanild was a courtesan whom he knew from general acquaintance and a long-ago closer intimacy. She was neither the youngest nor the prettiest of the court whores, but she had an earthy allure that went beyond mere looks and she was known to be barren. No man—or youth as he had been then—was going to bed her and then find her knocking at his door with a swollen belly.

'A long time since I've seen you, Fulke FitzWarin,' she said, her hands on her hips and a speculative look in her slanting dark eyes.

'I've been following the tourneys,' he replied with a dismissive gesture. 'You didn't leave with John's retinue then?'

Her teeth flashed. 'Oh no. There's more money to be made at a celebration than a wake. When Prince John is in a filthy mood he takes it out on his followers, and, in their turn, they take it out on me.' Her voice softened to a purr. 'I'd rather earn my living in pleasure, than in pain.' She moved closer, tilting her head to look up at him. 'Do you know why John is in such a temper?'

'No idea,' he lied. 'I am only here to escort my mother home, and of course to honour Lord Walter's nuptials.'

'Oh.' Hanild looked disappointed. In her experience, men were somewhat cagey of being seen with her if their respectable womenfolk were in the vicinity.

'But she's in the hall.' He took her hand, preventing her from withdrawing. 'And I'm… I want…'

Her breath caught. Sometimes it was for money alone. On rarer occasions business and pleasure mixed. She smiled. 'I know what you want,' she said throatily. 'Fortunate indeed that I did not leave with John.'

To get to her own chamber, Maude had to climb past the one that had been given to John and now housed Fulke FitzWarin and his troop. She had not seen Fulke for the latter part of the evening and wondered if he had retired early. He had seemed somewhat distracted and there had been an air of constraint about him when they danced.

The chamber door was firmly closed. Maude imagined him asleep on his pallet and her stomach fluttered. She should not be thinking about him. She should be going straight up to bed to prepare for her duty to Theobald.

Suddenly, through the wood, she heard Fulke speak, and a woman answer, her reply ending on a husky laugh. Before Maude could move on, the door opened and the owner of the laugh emerged, fingers busy braiding her loose dark hair, her expression one of sated languor.

The woman stopped short as she encountered Maude and, stifling an oath, dipped a curtsey. 'Lady Walter,' she gasped.

'I do not believe I know you,' Maude said stiffly.

'My… my name is Hanild de Bruges. I arrived with Prince John's entourage.'

'But you did not leave with them.' Maude realised with a rush of chagrin that the woman must be one of the court whores. It was difficult not to feel intimidated by her. Hanild was tall for a woman and positively towered over Maude who had yet to attain her full growth. A musky, feral scent wafted from her body.

A masculine hand gripped the door and pulled it wider to reveal Fulke FitzWarin, clad in naught but shirt and chausses. After last night's initiation, Maude well recognised the glazed look in his eyes. 'Mistress Hanild is an old friend,' he said impassively. 'I invited her to come and talk a while.' His hand left the door and descended lightly to the whore's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.

Maude coloured to the roots of her hair. It was quite plain that the last thing they had been doing was talking. She wanted to snap that her household was not a brothel, that his manners were execrable to bring a whore to his chamber, but she bit her tongue on the words. He was, after all, a guest. Besides, the sight of him standing there in disarray, his eyes hazy in the aftermath of recent pleasure, was unnerving.

'Then I'll bid you goodnight,' she said stiffly and left them at a dignified walk, but once out of sight, she gathered her skirts and ran, feeling the world's greatest fool.

Fulke groaned and struck the doorpost.

'It's all right,' Hanild murmured, rubbing her cheek against the back of his hand. 'She's only a child. She won't make trouble for you.'

'She already has,' Fulke said wryly.

'I encountered Fulke FitzWarin with one of John's whores,' Maude told Theobald with indignation as her maid curtseyed and left the room with his squire. 'She's called Hanild and she has remained behind to ply her trade among the men. 'Although Barbette had already combed Maude's hair, she began to groom it again like an angry cat sleeking down ruffled fur.

Theobald pillowed his hands behind his head and regarded her, a trace of amusement in his eyes. 'Yes, I know Hanild,' he said.

She looked up sharply.

'Not in that sense, of course,' he added hastily. 'But since she dwells in John's retinue, our paths sometimes cross. Indeed, her services are paid for by the exchequer. Men become lonely away from their wives. Some, like Fulke, are bachelors, and women like Hanild serve as a vent for a young man's heat. Still,' he mused, 'it is unlike him. He's no prude, but he's usually discreet these days, and discreet is not a trait you can claim for Hanild.' He looked askance at his bride. 'Where did you see her and Fulke?'

'She was leaving his chamber as I climbed the stairs.' Abandoning the comb, she came to join him in the bed. Theobald put his arm around her and drew her against him, but companionably so. 'I felt foolish,' she admitted, 'and also angry at his lack of manners in bringing her to the private quarters.'

He ran a silky tress of her hair through his fingers. 'I'll speak to him,' he said.

'No!' She shot away from him, her eyes wide with alarm. 'Say nothing. I would feel more foolish yet—like a child carrying tales. Now I have told you, I am not as angry.'

'As you wish,' he soothed. 'Belike the spirit of celebration got the better of Fulke's senses. We all make mistakes.'

Maude did not feel as forgiving as her husband. It was one matter for Prince John to bring a courtesan as part of his retinue; quite another when she lingered to solicit after John's departure and the guests took every advantage.

Fulke FitzWarin was no better than the other ignorant oafs who had raised bawdy cheers at the presentation of the bridal sheet. As she snuggled back against Theobald's chest, she felt anger, humiliation… and relief. The pedestal she had been in danger of building had tumbled. Fulke FitzWarin was nothing.

CHAPTER 12

Winchester, April 1194