Lords of the White Castle (53 page)

Jean shook his head. 'He can't afford to pay them out of the revenues of Normandy, that is true, so he's paying their wages out of England's purse, milking the kingdom for all it is worth.'

Fulke acknowledged the statement with a humourless smile. 'Hubert always did make a good herdsman,' he said.

'Aye, and like a good herdsman he can see when the cow is in danger of running dry.' Jean cut a small spiced chicken and raisin pie in half with his meat knife and put one section in his mouth. He offered the other portion to Maude who sat on Fulke's other side, but she smiled and shook her head.

'It's dry salt sausage or nothing this time.' Fulke grinned at his wife. 'While she was carrying Hawise, it was garlic. I could not approach her for fumes!'

'And see what happened when you did!' Giving as good as she got, Maude patted her belly. It was still flat, but for more than a month she had known that another new life was growing within her.

'Blame me,' Fulke said in an injured voice.

'You would be unhappy if I blamed anyone else,' Maude sniffed.

'I would be more than that.' Fulke felt a tug at his chausses.

'Da,' said Hawise, and clinging to his leg with one hand, held out the other one, demanding to be picked up. The dictate, imperative and tyrannical though it was, melted his heartstrings and he plucked her into his lap. She stared up at him out of huge smoke-hazel eyes and then squirmed around so that she could play with the garnet-set cross hanging around his neck. Those who had not known his mother said that save for her hair she was made in his image, but he knew differently. Her looks were pure de Dinan. In character, she had more than a hint of Vavasour, especially when it came to wanting her own way. Maude said that she was like him, but then she would. He considered Jean's words and their implications for his own life.

'Can John win?' he asked.

'Hubert says that it is only a matter of time and that it has been so since Richard's reign at least. The Normans liked Richard—as we all did because of his luck and his daring and the way he could light up a room like a blaze of candles. John may have the ability, but he lacks Richard's glow. The Norman barons neither like nor trust him. When they see him setting mercenaries above them, the damage is irrevocable. 'Jean took a swallow of wine. 'Hubert has even heard rumours that some of the barons with lands in England and Normandy are paying homage to Louis of France for their Norman holdings to protect them from pillage.'

Fulke nodded pensively and looked at the child in his arms, her delicate curls a near match in shade for the garnets in the cross.

'I say good fortune to them,' William said from further down the board. 'And I hope John is torn to pieces in Normandy—let him lose it all and know how it feels.'

'It might avail our sense of justice, Will,' Fulke said, 'but if John loses Normandy it will not bode so well for us.'

'Why not?' William thrust out his lower lip.

'Because as he loses lands across the Narrow Sea, it leaves him more time to concentrate his resources on affairs at home—on the Scots, the Welsh and Irish… and outlaws.'

'You're not afraid of him, surely?' There was a sneer in William's voice.

'No. But only a fool would not see the implications.'

'And I am a fool?'

Fulke shrugged. 'We are all fools sometimes,' he said, determined not to enter into a sparring match with his brother. 'All I am saying is that we must watch the situation and be on our guard. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.'

'Not even you,' Ivo guffawed at William, thereby earning himself a cuff.

Maude rolled her eyes heavenwards and excused herself to visit the garderobe. Fulke smiled at her, knowing their thoughts were in mutual agreement. At least she had the justification of a temperamental bladder to avoid the banter.

Hawise tried to put the garnet cross in her mouth and Fulke gently dissuaded her.

'Hubert still hopes that you and the King can come to peace,' Jean murmured.

Fulke raised his brows. 'Likely the peace of the grave.'

'Yes, if your fight with him continues.' Jean hunched over his wine cup. 'The King needs trained fighting men more than ever now.'

'Then let him come to me and ask for them.' Fulke gave Jean a suspicious look. 'Did Hubert send you here to prepare the ground?'

'Hubert sent me nowhere. I asked his leave to celebrate Christ's mass with you and he gave it willingly. All he said was that it would be a pity if you burned your bridges instead of building them.'

'I have built them… and I am very happy to have Prince Llewelyn for an overlord.'

'Dangerous though if John turns his attention to England and decides that the Welsh are making too many inroads on his borders.'

'I'll keep an eye on the matter.' Fulke shifted Hawise in his lap and reached for his cup. 'For the nonce it is Christmas, and John is in Normandy.' There was a note of finality in his voice that warned Jean to change the subject.

Jean licked crumbs from his fingers, then folded his arms. 'You might be interested to know that Hubert has been busy in the matter of the FitzMorys brothers,' he said.

'Indeed?' Fulke's tone was wary.

'He has offered Weren FitzMorys the royal manor of Worfield in exchange for Whittington.'

'And the answer?'

Jean shrugged. 'Weren's the weaker of the two, but he's also the heir if you are speaking of English and Norman law. Of course, by Welsh law, the brothers have an equal say in the disposal of their inheritance. From what His Grace says, he thinks that Weren will accept Worfield and play by Norman rules.'

'Leaving Gwyn disaffected and dangerous.'

'And isolated,' Jean said.

'Sometimes a lone wolf is more dangerous than a pack. I—' A sudden flurry at the far end of the hall distracted Fulke's attention, and then filled him with concern. 'Take her.' Dumping Hawise in Jean's lap, he leaped from the dais and strode towards the door.

A man wearing a heavy cloak and hood was assisting an ashen-faced Maude to sit down at one of the dining benches.

'Maude?' Fulke knelt in consternation before her and took her hand in his. 'What's wrong?' All manner of thoughts flew through his head like spears, uppermost the notion that she had perhaps suffered a fall and was miscarrying.

'I'm afraid it is my fault, my lord: said the newcomer. He pushed back his hood, revealing the light hair and eyes of Fulke's informer Arfin Marnur. 'I have come from Shrewsbury. Your lady met me outside and bade me give her the news I was bearing and….' He gestured to the result. 'I am sorry'

'What news?' Fulke demanded fiercely. 'Tell me!'

'My lord, Henry Furnel and Gwyn FitzMorys have gathered a force together as you thought they might. Even as I set out to warn you, they were making their preparations. They think you will not be looking for them in the winter's cold.'

Maude had laid her free hand protectively over her belly.

Fulke saw the gesture and inwardly winced. He imagined he saw the host arriving at their gates. Whittington was strong and solid, but it was not impregnable. And both FitzMorys and Furnel were dangerous.

'You have done well, Arfin,' he murmured 'and I am grateful for the warning.' He gestured to the trestle. 'Be seated and take refreshment.'

Maude raised frightened eyes to his. 'Are we to prepare for a siege?'

'We are as prepared as we can be, but that will only happen as a last resort.' He looked at her and his mouth tightened. 'I'm going to take the fight to them. They won't be expecting that.'

If Maude had looked pale before, now she was ghostly. 'Is that supposed to comfort me?' she asked in a choked voice.

'No, to comfort myself,' he said grimly. 'I will not let them within a mile of this place.' He squeezed her cold fingers in his and stood up. 'I need to arm up,' he said.

Maude rose. 'If you make me a widow, I will not forgive you,' she said passionately.

'I will not forgive myself either. I've not come this far, fought this hard, loved this much to lose it all before the feast has even begun. 'Regardless of a hall full of onlookers, he gathered Maude in his arms and pulled her close, binding her to him, breast and hip and thigh. She buried her face in his tunic and he felt her shudder. But after a moment she lifted her head and faced him with a resolute expression.

'I will help you with your armour,' she said with a swallow.

Fulke's heart turned over at her frightened courage. He wanted to tell her that it would be all right, but he couldn't, because it might not be the truth.

Fulke's right arm felt as if it was made of molten lead. He did not know how much time had passed, minutes or hours, since he had discarded the broken stump of his lance and drawn his sword. The once smooth edge of the blade was pitted and nicked by dozens of encounters and the blue of the steel was edged with clots and drips of red.

The force from Shrewsbury was much larger than Fulke had expected. He was both flattered and dismayed. There had been no choice. Furnel's men, their numbers swelled by mercenaries belonging to the FitzMorys brothers, had to be prevented from laying siege to Whittington. Breathing harshly through his mouth, he cut at a knight who came at him, aiming for the small space between aventail and nasal bar. The man reined aside with a scream and Fulke spurred forward in time to see Philip knocked from his horse by a knight whose shield was emblazoned with the boar device of FitzMorys. Alain and Audulf de Bracy charged to Philip's defence. For an instant, the fighting was furious. Several Shrewsbury knights arrived
to
defend their companion. Alain went down. Audulf was swallowed up by the enemy. Fulke saw red. His last rational act was to sheath his sword and draw the morning star flail from his belt, a deadly bludgeon for close-in fighting, a weapon not of courtesy and chivalry like the sword, but of the common mercenary and men whose only intention was to destroy.

Maude was pacing the wooden wall walks of the battlements, taking a breath of clean air, when she saw the men returning. At first she was not sure, for it was dusk and the air was murky with a drizzle so fine that it was almost mist. She made out soldiers on horseback, heard the chink of harness and armour, but they seemed to move so slowly and they were bearing several Utters, when she knew well that Fulke's troop had none. For a heart-stopping moment she thought that it was the force from Shrewsbury, but that lasted no longer than the time it took to recognise Fulke's banner on the standard-bearer's lance. Then with horror she realised that if they were bearing Utters, there must be wounded and dead.

'God have mercy,' she whispered and, whirling round, ran along the wooden walkway to the stairs. She almost slipped on the wet wood, wrenched her ankle, grazed her hand as she clutched the stair rope for support. Pelting down to the hall, she shouted the alarm to the folk gathered around the fire and ran out into the bailey.

'Open the gates!' she shrieked like a harpy to the guards on duty.

They stared at her.

'Your lord is home, open the gates, damn you!'

They ran to do her bidding, wrestling the heavy draw bar back into its socket and swinging wide the massive, iron-studded doors.

Hand pressed to her thundering ribs, Maude watched the horses turn from the road, cross the ditch and fill the archway. Their hides steamed in the drizzle and the men's armour glittered like the scales of freshly gutted fish. Heads down, shoulders slumped with weariness, the troop rode into the bailey two abreast. Maude sought Fulke. She knew his customary place, two horses back from his lance-bearer. He wasn't there and her stomach leaped in fear.

'Where is he?' she demanded of Ralf Gras who was dismounting from the place that Fulke should have held. 'Where's my husband?'

Ralf Gras removed his helm and Maude gasped at the sight of the deep clotted cut beneath the knight's left cheekbone. 'Back with the wounded, my lady,' he said with a jerk of his head. 'Lord Alain's sore injured.'

Maude's lips silently repeated the words he had spoken and suddenly she was pushing frantically along the line, seeking, terrified of what she might find, but knowing she had to find it none the less.

The dead were thrown across spare horses, heads down, faceless and nameless for the moment. Some of the injured were able to ride and were being helped from their mounts by companions. She saw Philip leaning heavily on Ivo, his face contorted with pain. Behind them, Fulke was walking beside a litter, his features drawn with grief and concern.

Maude cried his name and ran to him. His arm swept out, engulfed and embraced her tightly, and she felt the brief shudder he permitted himself before he let her go. 'There were too many of them,' he said hoarsely. 'I could not reach him in time.'

Maude gazed at the unconscious man lying upon the litter fashioned from two spear shafts with a blanket stretched between. 'How badly is he wounded?'

'I do not know. A broken shoulder and ribs for sure. He took a blow to the head and he has been as still as death ever since. 'Maude saw the fear in his eyes. 'He is my youngest brother and he is my responsibility. I cannot lose him. 'There was anguish in his voice.

Maude could see that he was exhausted but would not yield because of his 'responsibility'. Taking his arm, she tugged him gently in the direction of the keep. 'There is nothing you can do for the nonce except see him made comfortable. Come within and I'll tend to him.'

Wordlessly he followed her and stumbled.

'You are wounded yourself?'

'It is nothing, mere bruises.' He shook his head impatiently. 'I've no broken bones or cuts to be salved.'

But still, he needed healing and care, she thought as she brought him within.

The first task was to tend to Alain—as much for Fulke's sake as the patient's. Remembering how the monk at Wotheney had examined Theobald when he collapsed, she searched Alain's eyes with a lighted torch to see if the soul still inhabited his body. Both eyes reacted to the flare, their dark centres contracting. When she spoke his name, he gave a soft little moan and his body twitched. Behind her, she was aware of Fulke watching her examination with hawklike intensity.