Hawise FitzWarin opened bleary eyes on the morningat least she assumed it was morning from the stealthy sounds filtering through the bed hangings from the chamber beyond. In winter, it was difficult to tell night from day with all the shutters barred against the weather.
The sharp ache behind her eyes and her dry mouth reproached her for celebrating Twelfth Night too deeply. They had broached a cask of their best Gascon wine and the dancing had made her very thirsty.
'The only thing more potent than that brew is me,' her husband had whispered against her ear as they swirled past each other in a wild carole. He was merry with wine himself, although nowhere near the point of incapacity.
'Prove it,' she had said recklessly, her breath suddenly short and her loins liquid as if the wine she had swallowed was pooling there.
And he had done. Hawise had not been so much in her cups that she could not remember the heat of his mouth on her breasts, the teasing lap of his tongue or the hard masculinity of his body pushing hers into glorious dissolution.
It had ever been thus between them, a fact for which Hawise always remembered to thank God in her prayers. Marriages were made for alliances, for land and wealth and influence, never for love. Fortunately, her father had liked Fulke le Brun sufficiently to welcome his approach, recognising a kindred spirit in the ambitious, black-haired young knight who came courting his daughter.
He was lying on her hair. Underlip caught in her teeth, Hawise gently tugged its masses from beneath his shoulder. He grunted and rolled over, trapping her again. In sleep, he was as warm as a brazier and his heat contrasted pleasantly with the cold air on her exposed shoulder.
'Aren't they awake yet?' demanded an impatient child's voice.
'Ssshhh, no, Master Ivo. You know you cannot disturb your mama and papa when the bed curtains are closed.'
That was the warning voice of Peronelle, Hawise's senior maid.
'But I have to. I've got something important to tell them.'
'Later,' said the maid firmly.
Hawise compressed her lips on a smile. Closed bed curtains were a sacrosanct privacy across which no one in the household was permitted to trespass. It had been a rule instigated on the day after their wedding night when the bloody bedsheet had been displayed to the guests as proof of her virginity and le Brun's ability to take it. Since then, le Brun had insisted that what went forth behind the bed curtains, be it sleeping, talking or coupling, were matters between husband and wife and not for public consumption, even if that public was their own offspring.
'But they're awake, I just heard Papa's voice.'
'God,' muttered le Brun against her throat. He rolled on to his back.
Hawise sat up, her head gently pounding. She fumbled about on the coverlet until she found her shift, heedlessly discarded the night before, and fought her way into it. Then she parted the curtains.
Candlelight illuminated the chamber with a dull, golden flicker and the room was warm. From the ashy glow of the charcoal lumps in the two braziers, Hawise could tell they had been alight for at least an hour. So it must be full morning and she had missed mass.
Ivo and Peronelle were squaring up to each other near the clothing pole, both with hands on their hips and stubborn looks.
'There!' cried Ivo, pointing in triumph. 'They are awake, I told you!'
Peronelle turned to the bed. 'Only because you have disturbed them,' she said irritably and dipped a curtsey. 'Good morrow, my lady.'
Hawise murmured to the maid and pushed her hair out of her eyes. The candlelight shone on the curly strands, burnishing them a wine-auburn. Behind the bed curtains, she heard the muffled rustling of le Brun turning over.
'What is so important that it cannot decently wait?' she demanded of her fourth-born son as she gratefully took the cup of watered wine that Peronelle presented.
Ivo hopped from foot to foot. It was no coincidence that his father had nicknamed him 'flea'. 'Fulke's here,' he announced, a broad grin spreading over his freckled face.
Hawise almost choked on her drink. 'What?'
'I went out to the stables to tend Comet and he was just riding in. He's brought a friend with him called Jean and he's got a lute. They're in the hall, breaking their fast.'
Hawise stared at her son while various thoughts galloped through her aching head. She knew that the court was spending Christmas at Windsor, which was less than 2 days journey, but she had no particular expectation that Fulke would manage a visit. King Henry was notorious for not staying in one place above a few nights and a squire's duties were many. Indeed, she had sent him a new cloak and a box of honey comfits against the likelihood that she would not see him this side of Candlemas. 'What's he doing here?' she wondered aloud.
'Why don't you ask him?' Her husband emerged from the bed curtains and, scratching his beard, ambled over to the latrine shaft.
'He says he's got some news.' Ivo did a handstand and fell over in the rushes.
'I'm sure he has,' le Brun said. He looked down at his stream of urine. 'The question is what.'
'That's why I came to fetch you.' Ivo stood on his hands again. 'He won't say until you come down.'
'Careful of the brazier,' Hawise snapped as Ivo's feet landed perilously close to the wrought-iron stand. She drank the rest of the watered wine and turned to her clothing pole. 'He's like you,' she said to le Brun. 'Never writes a letter and springs surprises like coneys popping out of a warren.' She selected a gown of pine-green wool hemmed with tawny braid.
Le Brun turned round, sharp humour in his eyes. 'And I suppose that your contrary nature is not part of the melting pot?'
Hawise sniffed and raised her arm so that Peronelle could tighten the side lacing of her gown. 'Does not the Church say that it is a man who plants the seed and that woman is just the vessel?'
'Aye, well, wine takes on the taste of the oak in which it's matured,' he retorted.
Hawise pulled a face at him and Ivo giggled. She sent him out to herald their arrival, bundled her hair into a silk net and covered it with a veil and circlet.
Le Brun in the meantime had donned his own clothes. Latching his belt, he went to the door and opened it, ushering Hawise before him. 'Let's find out what that wretched boy has done,' he said.
'You gave him a man's shield for his year day,' Hawise reminded him and laid a cautionary hand on his sleeve. 'Just remember that he is almost an adult. He has been away from us for ten months and the court will have wrought changes.'
Le Brun snorted. 'He's still my son, is he not?'
'Exactly,' Hawise said and led him from their chamber into the hall.
Fulke was sitting on a bench drawn up to the fire, his long legs extended to the warmth and his new cloak still pinned across his shoulders. Seated beside him was a handsome youth whose dark hair, brown eyes and tanned complexion could have made him a family member. As Ivo had said, he carried a lute. However, after one brief glance, it was not at the guest she looked, but at her eldest son, and in shock.
The malleable features of childhood had been pared to the bone and remoulded to leave a hawkish visage, so reminiscent of her father that she almost gasped. All that he possessed of the FitzWarin line was the heavy, crow-black hair and quick brows. The rest was pure de Dinaneven down to the nose where thin, straight symmetry had been replaced by a version that held echoes of his grandfather's war-battered visage.
'Mama.' He drew in his legs and stood up.
'Jesu, what have you been doing!' Hawise cried and threw her arms around him. He had grown again. She was tall for a woman, but the top of her head only reached his collarbone. Pulling his head down, she kissed him heartily on either cheek and then ran her finger down the dent in his nose. 'How came you by this?'
'That's what I've come to tell you, or at least part of it.'
He broke from her grasp to embrace his father. 'We have leave from court to sojourn two days here.'
The word 'we' reminded Hawise of her obligation as hostess and
she
turned to Fulke's companion who had also risen to his feet. He was somewhat older than her son was, she judged, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Not as tall, and wirily slender of build.
'Jean de Rampaigne, squire to Lord Theobald Walter,' he said before she could ask, and bowed over her hand with impeccable manners.
'You are welcome,' Hawise responded warmly.' 'Tis a pity that both of you could not have been here for the Christmas celebrations.' She gestured around the hall where servants were dismantling the evergreen trimmings and a laundry maid was bundling up the linen tablecloths and napery for washing.
'Why should they want to come here to celebrate when they could roister at court?' her husband asked, only half in jest. 'I know at their age I took my chances.' He greeted Jean de Rampaigne with a brisk handclasp.
'We didn't gain leave until last night, Papa.' Fulke sat down on the bench, then, like a restless dog, stood up again and turned in a circle. One hand rose to push his heavy hair off his brow in a gesture so reminiscent of his father that it sent a pang through Hawise. 'I have so much to tell you that I do not know where to start.'
'The beginning might be a good place,' said le Brun. 'And if it's going to be a long story, we might as well break our fast at the same time.' He gestured to the dais where bread, cheese and ale were being set out on a fresh linen cloth.
The youth nodded. 'It might be for the best,' he said pensively.
Fulke watched his father's expression harden as he told him about the incident with the chessboard. Nervously he crumbled a small wastel loaf between his fingers. 'I could not have done anything else,' he said.
'Yes, you could,' le Bran said grimly. 'You could have made sure he stayed down.'
'But I thought you wanted a place in the royal household for me above all else because of Whittington?'
'What do you take me for?' His father pushed his own platter away with a glower and replenished his cup. 'Of course I want Whittington, but in justice and honour. I won't grovel for it and neither will any of my sons.' His gaze swept along the trestle to the five younger boys, all listening agog. 'I would be more angry if you had let
him
get away with it.'
Fulke looked uncertain. 'I was not sure how you would take the news.'
Le Brun sighed. 'Perhaps I placed too great a burden on your shoulders. Whittington is my responsibility. It won't be yours until I die and, God willing, that will not be until you are a man full seasoned and it is in our hands again.' He raised his cup and drank.
Fulke smiled dutifully. He did not want to think of his father dying. Unlike King Henry's sons, he had no desire to wrench the reins of government from the control of the previous generation. His time would come when it was ripe.
Le Brun set his cup down and wiped his lips. 'You are still at court, so I take it the storm has blown over?'
'After a fashion.' Fulke made a seesawing motion with his hand. 'I'm no longer one of Prince John's close personal attendants, but I still receive lessons with him.' He looked at Jean who had been quietly attending to his meal without taking part in the conversation. 'I'm serving as a squire to Lord Theobald Walter at the moment. He's nephew to Ranulf de Glanville and Prince John's personal tutor in arms.'
'I know Theobald Walter and his lineage,' his father said, 'although I was unaware he had become a royal tutor. I suppose that's Ranulf's influence. He's in a position to do his relatives great favours. Not that I'm saying Theobald Walter is unworthy of the post,' he added as Jean looked up from his food. 'He's a skilled swordsman with a good brain, but advancement is often a matter of the right connections and fortunate opportunities.' He turned to Fulke. 'At whose instigation did you change your post?'
'Lord Theobald thought it would be a good idea,' Fulke said. 'So did everyone else.' He tensed his jaw, sensing that a storm was brewing.
His father grunted. 'Although no one saw fit to inform me or ask my opinion about my son's future.'
'It is only a few weeks since it happened. I would have written but the opportunity arose to come and tell you myself.' Fulke held his father's gaze. 'I made the decision to join Lord Walter of my own free will.'
'Did you now?' Le Brun's eyes narrowed. 'And what does a stripling of fifteen know about the world?'
'More than he did a month ago,' Fulke replied, refusing to look away although there was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew that he risked a whipping. His father's word had always been the law and he had never challenged it because that was the way the river ran. Honour and obey. 'And,' he continued, 'enough to realise that I have more to gain by serving as Lord Walter's squire than in remaining a companion to Prince John.'
His mother touched le Brun's sleeve and leaned to murmur something against his ear. Fulke thought he heard the words 'shield' and 'manhood'.
For a moment his father's expression remained harsh, but gradually the lines between nose and mouth grew less pronounced and a glint of humour lit in the peat-brown eyes. 'If Lord Walter has chosen you and you have agreed to let him be your mentor, then I suppose I must yield to your judgement, since mine was wrong in securing you a place in John's chamber.'
'Lord Walter is a good master, sir,' Jean spoke up. 'He is strict but he is fair. The King chose him above several others to be Prince John's tutor in arms and he is the Justiciar's nephew.'
'I am not in my dotage or a dullard to be unaware of those points,' said le Brun, the humour still in his eyes, but his voice sharp with warning.
'No, sir.' Jean looked down. 'It is just that I want you to be assured that Fulke will have no reason to regret his change of household.'
The older man nodded. 'That remains to be seen.' He folded his arms. 'Tell me this: would you die for your lord?'
'No, sir,' said Jean without hesitation.
'No?' Le Brun's brows disappeared into his thick fall of hair.
'He wouldn't let me. He would put himself in the way first.'