Fulke swore and paced the room. He had to move. If he remained still his emotions would explode like a barrel of hot pitch. 'Do you know,' he said, 'my brother William wanted to ride straight to Whittington, lay siege to the keep and slaughter Morys FitzRoger and his sons out of hand? Ivo and Alain were all for it too. They said the only way we would ever get Whittington back was over Morys's dead body'
'What was your answer?'
'I said that to get to Morys we would have to step over my father's dead body too, and that I had at least to try a final time to obtain Whittington through the King's court.' He rubbed the back of his neck. 'Now I wonder if William was right. Perhaps I should have followed my gut and theirs and gone to Whittington with fire and sword.'
'You would have been foolish to do so,' Theobald murmured. 'Two wrongs do not make a right.'
'Then what does?' Fulke demanded bitterly. He drained his wine, if I do not succeed in wringing a notice from Geoffrey FitzPeter to take seisin of Whittington, then two wrongs or not, I swear on God's holy name that I will go to war and damn the consequences.'
Despite the bone-chilling wintry conditions, Maude had been thoroughly enjoying herself among Canterbury's merchants and traders. Wrapped in a cosy, fur-lined cloak and hood, her shoes lined with fleece, she was insulated against the cold. Shopping was not only pleasurable, it helped to fill the hollow feeling that sometimes disturbed her sense of wellbeing. Although he had not the slightest interest in trailing around the booths himself, Theobald was quite content to let her go out with her maid, two Serjeants and a purse full of silver to purchase whatever she desired. She did not know whether to be flattered by his trust in her common sense and good taste, or irritated by his lack of enthusiasm.
She had bought him a beechwood cross intricately carved with a knotwork design that the trader had assured her was Irish. It was strung on a simple leather cord and she thought that Theobald would like it. The rusticity of the wood combined with the beauty of the carving could not fail to appeal since his mind was often on Ireland and his foundations there.
For herself she had purchased several belt lengths of braid, some linen to make a chemise and fine silver needles that would not leave great stitch holes in the fabric. She had enjoyed the stalls, their colours bright and brave in the winter chill, and the haggling had roused her competitive spirit.
As she made her way back to the palace, the snow that had been threatening all day began to sprinkle down like fine ground almonds through the mesh of a hair sieve, dusting the ground, outlining the contours of the houses. Chunky wax candle flames shone golden through the thick window glass of the Archbishop's palace, drawing Maude towards their cheering warmth. She walked briskly across the courtyard, her nose and cheeks numb with the cold, her eyes sparkling.
The environs of the Archbishop's palace were always busy with couriers, supplicants, guests and clerics, so Maude paid no heed to the two horses that a groom was tending until one of the animals threw up its head and whinnied as something startled it. Maude turned instinctively to look. Cursing, the attendant dodged the sudden flail of hooves to grab the headstall and bring the horse under control. It was a striking liver-chestnut stallion with distinctive white face markings. She knew the animal well, even if she did not recognise the nondescript dun rouncey at its side. Blaze, Fulke FitzWarin's destrier. Her heart rose, plummeted, and rose again.
'What is he doing here?' she said with agitation.
'My lady?' Barbette hunched over her folded arms and looked longingly towards the palace.
Biting her lip, Maude shook her head. He did not appear to have arrived with a great retinue. Obviously, he was making a personal visit, which meant that, with Hubert absent, he would be closeted with Theobald. She drew a deep breath, steeled herself and went within.
Once in her chamber, she wondered if she should change her gown for something more becoming than the plain brown wool she was wearing and immediately berated herself for being vain and foolish. The brown wool was her warmest dress. What would be the point in shivering in her green linen gown with the gores and gold braid in order to impress a knight whom she did not even particularly like? Besides, his father had recently died and it would be tasteless to commiserate whilst robed in her court finery.
Finally, as a sop to her feminine vanity which refused to be entirely silenced, she donned her new goatskin shoes and exchanged her plain belt for one of the pretty braid ones she had bought at the booths. Then, feeling armed if not suitably girded for battle, she left the safety of her chamber for the danger of the solar.
Opening the door tentatively, she gazed around. There was no sign of Theobald. Fulke FitzWarin sat in a curule chair near the brazier, his elbows on his knees, his head braced in his hands and his entire posture one of utter weariness. He looked so vulnerable, so different from the brash tourney knight of her experience whose traits she had exaggerated in self-defence, that she had no protection.
He must have sensed the draught from the door, for he raised his head and looked round. Immediately he lowered his hands and sprang to his feet. 'Lady Walter,' he said and bowed. The weariness remained but the vulnerability retreated behind a polite mask. The smoke-hazel eyes gave nothing away, except by the dark smudges beneath them, yet his jaw was taut with the effort of appearing impassive.
'Lord FitzWarin,' she returned, using the title that was now his by right. There was a moment's uncomfortable silence. Maude considered muttering an excuse and leaving him, but that was the coward's way out and even if she and Fulke had never been at ease with each other, it would still have been unforgivably rude. Gathering her courage, she entered the room and came to him.
'I was sorry to hear of your father's death,' she murmured. 'He and your mother extended me every kindness when I was at Westminster. I have written to Lady Hawise, and I will visit her when I can.'
'That is good of you, my lady,' Fulke replied, avoiding her gaze.
'How is she?'
'Grievingas we all are.'
He was shunning her, each reply given grudgingly with scarcely a movement of his lips. She felt a niggle of irritation. 'More wine, my lord?' She picked up his empty cup.
He shook his head. 'My skull already feels as if it is stuffed with a whole fleece. Another cup and I would be on the floor.' He cleared his throat and moved away to stand before the shutters. A chessboard stood on a low table and he toyed with one of the squat ivory pieces. 'Your husband was called away by one of the stewards, but he said he would not be long. If you have duties, do not let me keep you.'
Maude flushed. 'I have the duty of seeing to your comfort,' she almost snapped.
'I doubt anything you could do would improve that,' he said, then dug his hands through his heavy black hair and flashed her a look in which she saw her own irritation mirrored. 'I am not good company at the moment, Lady Walter, and best left to my own devices. By all means, find me a sleeping space and a pallet on which to lay my head. I would be grateful even if my gratitude does not show.' He gave her the semblance of a smile, the merest curve of his lips that did not reach his eyes.
'Of course. You will excuse me.' Glad that he had given her a reason to retreat, Maude briskly left the room and did not return. Having survived one encounter, she was not going to risk a second.
Fulke slumped against the wall and put his face in his hands. Theobald arrived to find him standing by the chessboard, shuddering with dry rigors. Wrapping him in a paternal embrace, murmuring words of comfort, the older man brought him back to the warmth of the brazier.
Hubert Walter took a large bite out of his portion of chicken in verjuice and, chewing, considered Fulke's request. 'I agree the matter of Whittington should have been settled long agoone way or the other,' he said. 'But the course of justice does not often run as smoothly as we would wish.'
It was Hubert the royal official speaking and Fulke had to struggle with his patience. A raw headache pounded behind his eyes and he had barely touched his food. He had no time for all the delicate spices, the little touches and fripperies that graced the Archbishop's rich and Epicurean tablenot tonight anyway. His need was for the plain and simple, without gilding or embellishment.
'I know your family lost Whittington when the Welsh overran it and the de Powys family took possession. What was temporary became permanent because the de Powys family had their feet in both camps and restoring Whittington to your family would have upset the delicate balance at the time.' Hubert smiled without humour. 'Henry trusted the FitzWarins not to rebel more than he trusted the Welsh.' He wagged a salutary forefinger. 'You were given Alveston to compensate.'
'As a sop,' Fulke snorted, unimpressed. 'Alveston is a quarter the size of Whittington. And I am not so sure that King Richard can have the same trust in me as he had in my father and grandfather.'
'Is that a threat?' Hubert's eyebrows rose.
'A threat, a warning, call it what you will. There are two sides to the bargain when an oath of loyalty is sworn. We have kept our side, answered calls to arms and performed feudal service on demand. It seems to me that all we have received in return is a pouchful of nothing.'
Hubert dabbed his lips with a fine linen napkin. 'Those are harsh words, Fulke, and dangerous too.'
'It is a grief for me that I should have to speak them, your grace, but they are true. I do not want to spend the rest of my life fighting this dispute as my father did and die bequeathing it to sons of my own. It must be finished now.'
Hubert Walter leaned his head against the hard back of his chair and studied Fulke, as if by gazing he could draw out his character and examine its workings. 'I can promise nothing,' he said at last, 'but I will do what I can. Since Whittington was adjudged to your father, and it belonged to your family in the time of the first King Henry, I would say that you have a reasonable case. You have a death duty to pay to inherit your father's estates.'
'A hundred marks,' Fulke said on a slightly aggrieved note. It was the standard payment for the relief on a barony, but still it would absorb this year's wool clip and more besides.
Hubert nodded, ignoring Fulke's tone. 'Then let Whittington be included in the list of lands for which you pay your fine. I will ask Geoffrey FitzPeter to have a document drafted and when I go to King Richard in Normandy after the Christmas season, I will see that he lends a sympathetic ear to your case.'
Knowing the many occasions when hope had turned to disappointment for his father, Fulke's expression did not light with joy, but he was nevertheless grateful. If matters had gone the wrong way, he might have found himself an excommunicate. 'Thank you, your grace.' He bowed his head.
Hubert eased his bulk in the chair. He reminded Fulke of an overfed tawny lion. Sleepy, flabby, but still powerful enough to kill with an indolent flash of claw. 'Do not thank me,' he said with a wave of his hand. 'I know your capabilities and Richard needs men like you to take his part, not act against him. I would hate to see your playing on the tourney field become a thing of deadly earnest.'
'Indeed, your grace, so would I.'
Hubert raised his cup in toast. 'To peace then.'
'To peace,' Fulke said, and crossed himself.
'His father's death has hit him hard,' Theobald remarked to Maude as they prepared for bed that night. 'It was strange to see him like that. He reminded me of the youth he was when he first became my squire, and at the same time all trace of the youth had gone.'
Maude drew her antler-work comb through her hair. 'He has responsibility now, where he had none before,' she said.
'Mayhap.' Theobald looked up from examining the knotwork cross she had given him. 'But it is more that he loved his father dearly. I held him in my arms and he wept for him.'
'Fulke FitzWarin wept?' Maude ceased combing and turned to stare at Theobald. She thought of the moment she had opened the door and seen Fulke sitting with his head in his hands, of his attempt to be civil, her own frosty courtesy. Chagrin washed over her. She felt small and mean.
'Why do you persist in thinking of him as a mannerless boor?' Theobald demanded with exasperation. 'Fulke can be as stubborn as an ox, I admit, and once set on a course it's impossible to deflect him. He lacks diplomacy. With Fulke there are no sugared words, just the blunt truth, but that does not mean he lacks finer feelings.'
'I did not say that.' Mathilda jutted her chin at him defensively. She was in the wrong, but, as always, admitting it was hard. 'He just seems so… so impervious!'
'I think he is like that in front of you because of his pride. Few men will open themselves to a woman, even if it be their mother or their wife.'
'You do.'
'In certain matters, yes, but only God has seen the true baring of my soul.' He looked at the little cross and tucked it down inside his linen shirt so that it lay against his skin.
This was why he was so keen to found his monasteries, she thought. God, being masculine, would understand a man's soul and make allowances. It was a somewhat blasphemous notion and she kept it to herself.
Coming to the bed, Theobald took the comb out of her hand and gently began to run it through her hair, smoothing out the tangles, making the silvery waterfall sparkle with life. 'Besides,' he said gently, 'Fulke deliberately keeps you at arm's length. You are his mentor's wife and the age gap between you and me is so large that tongues will wag about the state of our marriage at the slightest opportunity.'
Maude rounded on him with flashing eyes. 'That is wicked. I have never so much as looked at another man since our wedding day!' Her face was bright with indignation. 'And certainly not at Fulke FitzWarin!'
'Hush now, be not so wroth.' Theobald drew her back to him, an indulgent smile in his eyes. 'I know that you are faithful and I know that your eyes do not strayor if they do it is only in the manner that they would to admire a fine horse or a meadow of flowers. I do the same myself. But Fulke has known the ways of the court and the tourney and therefore he is careful.'