Morys stared and swallowed, plainly unable to believe his good fortune. He began to stammer his gratitude and John cut him off with a silencing gesture. 'Of course, the fee for a barony usually stands at a hundred marks,' he said pleasantly, knowing that in all likelihood the fool had beggared himself or gone into debt to buy the falcon and destrier.
Morys blanched. 'I would need a little time to raise such a sum, sire.'
'I think you would need more than a little, but since you please me, I am disposed to be generous. You may have Whittington in perpetuity for fifty marks, and I will make you a warden of the March.'
FitzRoger's eyes widened. 'Thank you, sire,' he said in a voice drenched with astonishment and relief.
John eyed him with scornful amusement. If the Baron had not been such a thorn in FitzWarin's side, he would have dismissed him out of hand. As it was, he would nurture him for the sheer pleasure of making Fulke FitzWarin grind his teeth.
Fulke stood by the farrier's forge attached to the lodging house at Castle Baldwin, and broke his fast on a fragrant crust of new bread smeared with honey. The smith's son held Blaze firmly by the cheek strap while his father stooped over the stallion's hind leg, fitting a new shoe. The stink of hot metal and burning horn joined the heavy waft of woodsmoke on the morning air.
'A fine beast, my lord,' said the smith, Blazes hoof clamped between his knees. He set about banging in the nails. 'Some of 'em have to be shod in a frame the way they bite and kick, but this 'un's got the manners of a prince.'
Fulke's lip curled at the comparison. The princes of his acquaintance had not been renowned for their manners -unless it be lack of them. 'He's trained to stand while being shod.' Sauntering over to the stallion, he patted the muscular liver-coloured hide before offering Blaze the remnants of his bread and honey on the flat of his palm. 'Try and mount him without permission and it's a different matter. He'll buck you off in the midden before you've even hit the saddle.'
'You got him well schooled then, my lord?'
Fulke smiled. 'You can't afford not to with a tourney mount.' The stallion whiffled up the bread and chewed it with obvious relish. 'No one's going to steal him if I'm unhorsed during a melee, because he won't let them.'
Iron nails gripped between his teeth, the smith secured the shoe and releasing Blaze's hoof, straightened up. 'Saw a fine beast through here earlier this morn,' he said. 'Going as a gift to King John I'll warrant.' He jerked his thumb in the direction of the castle brooding above the village. Fulke followed the man's gesture to the red and gold banners fluttering on the limewashed walls, the three Angevin leopards proclaiming that King John was in residence. The village was bursting with men like himself who were here to tender their homage to the new King. Fulke glowered and bit his thumbnail. As duties went it was one of the more onerous.
'A fine grey,' the smith continued, 'with a great arched crest and a rump you could dine off for a month. If I'd been his owner, I wouldn't have parted with him.'
'Neither would I,' said William FitzWarin, emerging from the lodging house to hear the end of the conversation. His brown eyes were still bleary with sleep. 'Not to a swine like John. 'Yawning and stretching, leaving a whiff of stale wine and armpit in his wake, he went to sluice himself at the trough.
Fulke glanced at the smith and his lad. 'Watch your tongue, Will.'
'Why? It's the truth. By all accounts you've said and done far worse where our beloved sovereign is concerned.' William plunged his hands into the trough and splashed his face.
'You need not fear that I or young Hal will carry tales,' the smith said. 'I know when to mind my own business.' He took the payment of a silver halfpenny and scrutinised it carefully to make sure that the rim had not been clipped.
Alain and Philip tottered out of the lodging house, squinting like moles at the bright morning light and obviously suffering the effects of last night's conviviality. Fulke shook his head with exasperation, but he was grinning too. 'Best get yourselves spruced up and break your fast if you can bear to eat,' he called. 'We've an appointment with His Grace the King. Where are Ivo and Richard?'
'Still snoring.'
'I'll kick them up,' William volunteered, sleeking back his wet hair.
'I—' Fulke spun at the thunder of hooves in the smithy yard and stared as Jean de Rampaigne drew his bay courser to a dancing halt.
'Christ in hell, Fulke, get to the castle,' he panted. 'John's just promised Whittington to Morys FitzRoger for fifty marks.'
'What?'
'I saw and heard the entire exchange. FitzRoger is to write himself a charter and for the payment of fifty marks John will put his seal to the claim.'
'The whoring son of a leprous gong farmer!' Fulke snarled, completely forgetting his reprimand to William. Snatching Blaze's bridle out of the lad's hands he vaulted into the saddle without recourse to stirrup and plunged the horse around.
'Wait!' cried William. 'I'm coming with you!' He sprinted off to saddle his own horse.
Fulke was so consumed by rage that he heard nothing but the hot pounding of blood in his ears. He slammed his heels into Blaze's flanks and with a leap of surprise the horse went from stand to flat-out gallop. Jean reined his courser around and spurred after him.
Fulke reached the keep only to find his way barred by the guards on duty who were dubious about admitting a raging madman.
'I demand to see the King, it is my right!' Fulke roared. Affected by his rider's mood, Blaze danced and circled. Fulke drew the reins in tight and gripped with his thighs, swinging the destrier to confront the crossed spears. He fought the urge to draw his sword and hew his way through, knowing that if he so much as bared a blade he would be dead. Still, his right hand twitched on the reins with the need. His chest heaved as he struggled for control.
'My name is Fulke FitzWarin,' he said, his voice shaking. 'I have come to pay homage to King John for my lands.'
Jean de Rampaigne rode up, William galloping at his heels. 'Let him through, Alaric,' Jean cried to the larger of the guards. 'I will go surety for him. He's well known to my master the Archbishop.'
The guards hesitated, exchanging looks. A crowd was beginning to gather as others waited their turn to enter the keep.
Alaric withdrew and beckoned with his spear. 'Very well then, enter,' he said. 'But leave your weapons here. You too,' he said to William.
The brothers unlaced their scabbards and handed them over. Fulke's hands were trembling so hard that he doubted he could have used a weapon anyway.
'I told you that we should have ridden straight to Whittington when Papa died and taken FitzRoger then,' William muttered as they led their horses across the ward and found a boy to tend them.
'Hindsight is a wondrous thing,' Fulke sneered. 'Likely we'd have ended our lives swinging from a gibbet.'
'Well, if you think there's going to be a happy outcome from this, you're a greater fool than you've ever taken me for!'
Fulke rounded on him with bunched fists and Jean hastily put his wiry frame between them. 'Peace!' he hissed. 'We're not clear of the guards yet, and you do yourselves no favours by this childish brangling. If you cannot handle yourselves, then what use are you going to be before John?'
Fulke clamped his jaw until the muscles showed in two rigid grooves below his cheekbones. 'You do well to remind me, Jean,' he said with a stiff nod. He looked at William. 'We need to be united by our brotherhood, not split by our differences of opinion. Are you ready to go within?'
William wriggled his shoulders within the thickly padded gambeson. 'No point in coming just to stay outside.' It was the nearest he would come to conciliation.
Fulke leading, they mounted the wooden forebuilding stairs and again were challenged by a pair of guards. This time Fulke managed to give his name in a courteous if curt fashion and the small party was allowed into the hall.
John was seated on a raised dais at the far end, on a throne cushioned and draped with embroidered purple cloth. He was chewing his index finger in a slightly bored fashion as a baron knelt to pay him homage. Fulke glanced impatiently around the rest of the hall, taking in the gathering of marcher lords, both the great and the insignificant. He saw looks and whispers cast his way. Hubert Walter detached himself from a conversation with Ranulf of Chester and William Marshal and hastened across the hall, his Archbishop's robes glittering stiffly.
Fulke knelt to kiss his ring, then immediately stood and looked Hubert Walter hard in the eye. 'Do you remember when we drank to peace?' he asked bitterly. 'It was futile from the beginning.'
Hubert met his stare without flinching. 'I said that I would do what I could, not that I would succeed. I was elsewhere when the King made a bargain with FitzRoger, otherwise I would have intervened.'
'Then what is stopping you from intervening now… your grace?'
The Archbishop's eyelids tensed at the way Fulke spoke the title. He shook his head. 'It is not too late to make your peace, and I advise you to do so. Naught but bloodshed and heartache will come of this matter.'
'So you will do nothing?'
'I did not say that. I will try my best for you, Fulke, but sometimes it is easier to go around a stone wall than butt through it with your skull.'
'Tell that to our father,' William muttered, perfunctorily kissing the air above the Archbishop's ring. 'All his life he abided by the rules and it bought him nothing but a shroud.'
The conversation had not gone unnoticed on the dais and a squire, summoning them to attend upon John, escorted the brothers up the hall.
Fulke paused at the foot of the platform and looked up at John. The royal gaze gleamed with malice and the hint of a smile curved the bearded mouth corners. The King leaned back in his chair, affecting an air of indolence but Fulke could sense his tension. John was like a spectator at a cockfight, awaiting the first flurry, the drawing of blood. The King's gaze flickered to the group of courtiers standing around his throne. Following the glance, Fulke saw Morys FitzRoger standing among them, his thin face wearing an expression of fear mingled with exultation.
With great reluctance, Fulke bent his knee and bowed his head to pay homage. Anger simmered within him, controlled but still far too close to the surface. His skin felt raw with it. Beside him, William knelt too, muttering softly beneath his breath.
'This is a sight to gladden my eyes,' John purred. 'Fulke FitzWarin on his knees at my feet.'
'I owe you my fealty now, sire. Before, I did not,' Fulke said curtly.
John merely smiled. 'So you have come to do me homage for your lands? To put your hands between mine, swear your loyalty and receive the kiss of peace?'
It was like drinking bitter poison. Fulke swallowed his gorge. 'Yes, sire. I have come today to do homage… for all my lands.'
John shifted in the chair. The curl of his smile deepened. 'You mean those to which you are entitled,' he said.
Fulke stood up. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. Do not do anything foolish, he told himself. The words were waiting to fire off his tongue like swift-loosed arrows but he made himself speak slowly, enunciating each one, so that those around could hear and not mistake. 'By the benefit of common law, the castle, the lands and appurtenances of Whittington are mine by right and reason of my inheritance from my father. In respect of this, I offer you a hundred marks as the relief on the barony, including Whittington which in the time of your great-grandfather the first King Henry was settled as the head of the FitzWarin family seat.'
John considered Fulke narrowly and fiddled with a large amethyst ring on his forefinger. Hubert Walter stepped forward, raising his arms to show the glittering goldwork on his cope, making his appearance as commanding as possible. 'May I speak?'
John waved his hand in assent, but looked irritated.
'King Richard, your brother, adjudged that the FitzWarin family had the right to hold Whittington and that another estate should be settled upon Morys FitzRoger and his heirs in compensation. The final documents were never sealed, but only because of his untimely death. I have those documents to hand in proof of the decision, which I myself approved as King Richard's Justiciar.'
John's look of irritation increased. 'Richard is dead,' he said bluntly, 'and you are no longer my Justiciar. I have already granted Whittington to my good servant Morys FitzRoger de Powys for fifty marks, and my decision stands whether men are angered or not. Fulke FitzWarin will do homage for the fiefs that were held at the time of his father's death. No more and no less.'
Fulke clenched his fists and battled against a scalding wave of fury. 'I am within the right of the law,' he said hoarsely. 'You murder justice for the sake of a petty grudge.'
'Mind your words, FitzWarin, or you will find yourself without any lands at all,' John warned, triumph glowing in his eyes.
At Fulke's side, William shot to his feet and put his hand to his non-existent scabbard. At the same time, Morys FitzRoger stepped from the group of courtiers. He was plainly delighted at John's decision and could not resist gloating.
'You are foolish to try and make a claim on my lands. If you say you have a right to Whittington you are lying through your teeth and if not for the King's presence, I would knock them down your throat and choke you.'
It was William who broke. With a howl of fury, he launched himself at Morys and punched him in the face with his bunched fist. Morys reeled with a cry, blood bursting from his nose. William went after him, intent on beating him to a pulp, but was dragged off his victim by Hubert Walter and John's half-brother Will Longsword, Earl of Salisbury. William struggled against their restraint but was held fast. Morys FitzRoger staggered to his feet and stanched his bleeding nose and cut lip on the fine woollen sleeve of his court tunic. His expression was one of dazed astonishment. 'You misbegotten whelp!' he gasped.
Fulke swung round to John who was leaning forward, the excitement of a bloodsport enthusiast gleaming in his eyes. 'Sire,' he said icily, 'you are my liege lord and I am bound by fealty to you whilst I am in your service and as long as I hold lands from you. You ought to maintain my rights, and yet you fail me both in rights and in common law. You have denied justice to your freeborn tenant in your court, and for this reason I hereby relinquish my homage.' He turned to Hubert and Salisbury. 'Let my brother go.' The molten heat of his rage had solidified and was now as cold and hard as polished granite. The command in his voice, the look in his eyes caused the men to slacken their hold and William was able to wrench free.