Lords of the White Castle (3 page)

John lunged at him again. Fulke ducked the blow and lashed out with his feet. John staggered. The ball of his foot rolled on one of the chess pieces and he crashed backwards, his skull striking the plastered wall with a dull thud. His knees crumpled and he hit the floor like a poled ox.

'Christ, bloody Christ!' Fulke panted and, stanching his nose on his sleeve, staggered over to John's prone body. His first thought was that he had killed him, but then he saw the Prince's chest rise and fall and felt the hard pulse beat against the throat laces of John's shirt.

Anger and shock churned Fulke's gut, making him feel sick. 'Sir, wake up!' He shook the Prince's shoulder in growing fear. Now the fat truly was in the fire.

John groaned but did not open his eyes. Blood splashed from Fulke's nose on to the costly blue tunic and soaked in. Staggering to the sideboard, Fulke poured a measure of wine and drank it down fast, tasting blood. Then he refilled the cup and brought it to John. Raising the Prince's shoulders, he dabbed John's lips with wine.

The latch clicked and the door suddenly swung inwards. Ranulf de Glanville and his nephew Theobald Walter, who was John's tutor in arms, stopped on the threshold and stared.

'God's bones,' declared Theobald Walter, his grey gaze wide with astonishment. 'What goes forth here?'

Fulke swallowed. 'My lord Prince struck his head, and I cannot rouse him.' His voice buzzed in his ears, the intonation thick with the blood that was clotting in his nose.

'And how did he come to do that?' Lord Walter advanced into the room, his tread firm with authority. The practice gambeson of the morning had been replaced by an ankle-length court tunic of crimson wool heavily embroidered with thread of gold. He still wore his sword, but as a mark of rank, not because he expected to use it. Behind him, Ranulf de Glanville prudently closed the door.

'I… we… there was a disagreement and we had a fight,' Fulke said, feeling wretched. A massive, throbbing pain was beginning to hammer between his eyes.

Lord Walter gave him the same assessing look with which he scrutinised the squires on the practice field. 'A fight,' he repeated. His voice was quiet and pleasant. Theobald Walter never shouted. A single twitch of an eyebrow, a brightening glare was all it took to bring the squires into line. 'About what?' He knelt at Fulke's side, his knees cracking slightly as he bent them. At nine and thirty, he was wearing well, but the English winters took their toll, as they did on every man.

Fulke compressed his lips.

'Don't clam up on me, lad,' Lord Walter said sharply. 'The truth will serve you better than silence.' He turned John's head gently to one side and found the swelling bruise beneath his hair. Then he sniffed the Prince's breath and pulled back with a grimace.

Fulke met the Baron's eyes without evasion. During lessons in weapon play, Theobald had shown himself fair and patient. 'The Prince accused me of cheating at chess and when I denied it, he struck me with the board. I…' He jutted his jaw. 'I hit out to defend myself and he fell backwards and struck his head.'

'How bad is it?' Rubbing his neat grey beard, de Glanville came to stand at John's feet. His face wore an incongruous mixture of alarm and distaste.

'There's a lump the size of a baby on the back of his head, but I don't believe there's cause to send for a priest just yet. Part of the reason he's insensible is that he's as soused as a pickled herring.' Theobald glanced briefly at his uncle then back to Fulke. 'This lad's nose is never going to sit as prettily on his face as it did this morn.'

De Glanville stooped to lift the wooden chessboard from the floor. He studied the crack running through the middle. 'Where is everyone else?' His light blue eyes were glacial.

'The Prince dismissed them, sir.' Fulke faced the Justiciar, feeling like an erring soul before the throne of God on judgement day. 'I would have gone too, but he wanted more wine… and then he wanted me to play chess with him.'

John groaned and opened his eyes. They focused precariously on Fulke who was still leaning over him. 'You misbegotten son of a misbegotten whore!' he gasped, then rolled over and vomited the results of an afternoon's drinking into the rushes. 'I'll have your hide for this!'

'You are in no fit state to have anything but a split skull, Lord John,' de Glanville said coldly. He jerked his head at Theobald. 'Take FitzWarin out of here and clean him up. While you're about it, see if you can find His Highness's other attendants. We'll sort this out later.' Twenty years older than Theobald, he chose not to kneel at John's side but sat instead upon one of the padded benches and stared balefully down at the prone youth like an owl in a tree.

Theobald rose, drawing Fulke with him. 'Come,' he said in a brusque but not unkind voice.

'I want to see my father!' John was demanding with vicious petulance as Theobald ushered Fulke from the room.

Fulke shuddered as Theobald led him down the great hall attached to John's chamber. Pain beat in hot rhythm between his eyes and he had to breathe through his mouth, a metallic essence of blood cloying his palate. 'Will he really go to the King?'

Lord Theobald had no comfort for him. 'Knowing Prince John, I do not doubt it.'

Fulke pressed the back of his hand beneath his nose and gazed at the resulting red smudge. 'I suppose I will be dismissed from Prince John's household,' he said gloomily.

'Quite likely.' Theobald gave him a sidelong glance. 'But would you want to stay after this?'

'My father says that being educated at King Henry's court is an opportunity without price, and a great honour for our family' As the words left his mouth, Fulke realised that John's earlier taunt had substance. He
was
always quoting his father.

'He's right,' Theobald said grimly, 'except about the price.'

'My lord?'

'Nothing.' Theobald suddenly stopped and with a grunt of mingled satisfaction and annoyance, turned sharply to the left.

Within one of the bays formed by the pillars supporting the hall, Fulke saw that the dice game was still in progress. Girard de Malfee was winning again and some noblewoman's attiring maid was watching him with admiring doe eyes.

'That's enough.' Theobald strode among them, his hands fisted around his swordbelt. 'Go and attend your master.'

'But he sent us out, my lord,' Girard objected, his voice overloud with drink.

'Well, I'm sending you back in, and my lord Glanville awaits you there. Go on, all of you, or I'll have you polishing helmets for a sennight. And you can leave that flagon out here. There's been enough damage caused already. You, girl, about your duties.'

The maid gave him a half-frightened, half-resentful look and departed in a swish of green skirts. With bad grace, Girard began pouching his winnings. At one point he looked up to argue with Theobald and caught sight of Fulke standing behind the Baron.

'Holy Christ, Bumpkin.' His jaw dropped with shock. 'What's happened to you?'

All the squires stared.

'I tripped,' Fulke said.

Theobald jerked his thumb. 'Now,' he snapped.

The boys departed in a tipsy clutter and Theobald shook his head like a goaded bull. 'God preserve me in my dotage that I should ever have to rely on wastrels such as them,' he growled.

Attacked by a wave of dizziness, Fulke swayed. Theobald grabbed him. 'Steady, lad. Come on, buck yourself up. You're not a wench to faint on me.'

Fulke's eyes darkened at the jibe. He braced his spine. 'I'm all right, my lord.' It wasn't true, but his pride and the strength of Theobald's arm bore him up.

A glint of approval kindled in the Baron's grey eyes.' Yes,' he said. 'Amongst those worthless dolts, I think you're the only one who is.'

CHAPTER 2

As Fulke and Theobald crossed the sward, the wind from the river hit them full on with a great sleety smack and Fulke felt as if his face would explode. On reaching the sanctuary of a timber outbuilding behind the hall, he was dimly aware of Theobald being greeted by other lords, of curious looks cast his way and questions asked which the Baron fielded in a manner courteous but short. Then a heavy woollen hanging was drawn aside and Theobald ushered Fulke into a small, makeshift chamber.

A well-stoked brazier gave off welcome heat, the lumps glowing dragon's-eye red on the undersides. Perched on an oak travelling chest, Lord Theobald's squire, whom Fulke knew by sight, was tuning the strings of a Moorish lute. There was a camp bed in the room, made up with blankets and a coverlet of green Flemish cloth. Seated on it, reading a sheet of vellum by the light of a thick wax candle, was a prelate wearing the richly embroidered dalmatic of an archdeacon.

Theobald stared at the man occupying his bed. 'Hubert?' he said, as if not believing his eyes.

The priest looked up and smiled. Two deep creases appeared in his fully fleshed cheeks. 'Surely I haven't changed that much in a year.' He stood up and immediately the room and everyone in it seemed diminished by his height and girth.

'Well, no,' Theobald said, making a good recovery, 'I just wasn't expecting to see you tonight, brother.' With much hugging and shoulder-slapping the men embraced. Close up, the similarities were obvious despite the difference in build. They shared the same brow and nose and had the same way of smiling.

'I arrived in time for the service of nones at the abbey,' said Hubert Walter. 'I have a bed there for the night, but I thought first that I would come and see how you and Uncle Ranulf are faring among the devil's brood. I was about to send young Jean here to find you.'

Theobald gave a short, humourless laugh. 'Devil's brood is the sum of it!' he said. 'God knows what will happen when Richard and Geoffrey arrive.'

'Aye, well, that's why we're all here—to bear witness when Prince John's inheritance is decided.' The Archdeacon gestured to Fulke who stood shivering by the brazier. 'Who is this, Theo, and why does he look as if he has just walked off a battlefield?'

Theobald grimaced. 'In a way he has, and since I'm his tutor in arms, he's my responsibility.' He beckoned Fulke forwards. 'Make your obeisance to the Archdeacon of York,' he commanded. 'This,' he said to Hubert, 'is Fulke FitzWarin of Lambourn, son of Fulke le Brun. He's serving as an attendant to Prince John within Uncle Ranulf's household.'

'Your grace,' Fulke said thickly and knelt to kiss the Archdeacon's ring.

'And he appears to have a broken nose and two black eyes at the least,' observed Hubert. He cupped Fulke's jaw in his large hand and examined the damage. 'What were you doing to get this?'

'Playing chess, your grace.'

Hubert's eyebrows met the brown fringe of his tonsure.

'With Prince John,' Theobald qualified and snapped his fingers at his squire. 'Jean, bring water and a cloth.'

'Sir.' The squire set his lute aside and rose from the coffer.

'Indeed?' the Archdeacon said. 'And might it be politic to enquire who won?'

'Unfortunately that will be for a wider audience to decide—if the Prince has his way,' Theobald said with distaste. 'But for the nonce let us just say that young Fulke here gave as good as he got.'

'I see. 'The Archdeacon rolled up the vellum and tucked it in his sleeve. 'Delicate then.'