Clarice sat at her embroidery frame, industriously stitching a border of floral scrolls on to a linen cloth intended for the high table. Her manner was calm, her movements precise but containing an almost water-like fluidity. Press the needle into the linen, pass it through, pull away, creating an image of intricate beauty through a simple act of repetition. Sometimes she imagined herself as one of the goddesses of pagan times, weaving the life stories of mortals with her enchanted silks. There was even a certain dark thrill in taking her small sharp sewing shears and snipping a thread. King John had already died several times that way in the depths of her imagination.
Fulke and Maude had been arguing again. Although the walls were thick, their voices still carried. Clarice had never understood how two people could love so deeply and yet quarrel fit to bring down the rafters. Of late, their disputes had been of a pattern. Maude would call him a fool for staying with the rebels; he would call her a shrew. She would retort with growing impatience, so would he, until Clarice was sure they could be heard at the other end of the village. Bursting with rage, they would tumble into bed and fight each other to exhaustion. A couple of days of besotted, heavy-eyed peace ensued and then it would begin again until finally he would ride away to join his fellow barons, leaving Maude to stamp and fume. They were currently at the midway stage in the latest bout of conflict. Fulke had been home for four days and the second argument had erupted with some spectacular blasphemies a short while since. Now there was silence.
Clarice snipped the end of her thread and, unconsciously pursing her lips, began another lifeline in blood-red silk. The pattern was one of green scrolls, curling into small red flowers reminiscent of tiny scarlet pimpernels. Outside it was a raw March day, full of gusting clouds with the occasional spatter of rain. Seated by the window to gain the benefit of the light, her left side was cold but her right was warmed by the heat of a brazier.
The door opened on a gust of air then banged heavily shut. Fulke strode into the room, the hem of his tunic flaring with each vigorous step. Muttering beneath his breath, he paused, dug his hands through his heavy black hair and sat down moodily at the small gaming table occupying the other embrasure. He abandoned his hair-raking and thrust his head between his open palms.
They had not taken each other to bed then, Clarice thought. Matters must have degenerated and tempers were still likely to be white-hot.
'Would you like some wine, my lord?' She rose quietly from her sewing and went to the flagon standing on the oak sideboard.
He looked up, his expression slightly startled as if he had only just registered her presence in the room. 'Do you see that as your reason in life, to be a cup-bearer?' His tone was savage.
The jibe hit Clarice in the soft space beneath her ribs, but she kept herself from flinching. 'No, my lord. I was offering comfort.'
'I doubt I'll find it in the bottom of a cup beyond a few hours.'
With a steady hand, she poured a small measure for herself and returned to her embroidery frame. Taking her needle, she began to sew, letting the flow of the motion restore her balance. She had entered the FitzWarin household as a child of eight, was now a young adult and by the rights of custom should have been married with at least one child in the cradle. But custom did not take the heart into account. She loved this household deeply and to think of leaving it was so painful that she avoided the subject. The FitzWarins were not her familyexcept vicariously through Theobald Walter, but she felt as if they were.
Fulke sighed and rose from the seat to pace the room again. He stopped at the sideboard and poured his own wine, then came to look at the embroidery.
'That is a very fine piece of work,' he said by way of apology.
Clarice flushed slightly at the compliment. 'Thank you, my lord.'
'You make it look so simple.'
'The stitches are not difficult.'
'But the pattern is.' He was standing behind her. She could not see his expression but she heard the wry note in his voice. 'Rather like life,' he said. 'Ah Clarice, I have woven a design I am not sure that I like, but it has its fine points so I do not want to unravel it and leave the linen blank as it was before.'
'It would not be as before; it would be full of needle holes,' she said practically, and was rewarded with a snort of humourless amusement. He wandered away, but only to fetch a three-legged stool so that he could sit by her and watch.
Clarice took a steadying drink of her wine and tried to concentrate on her work.
After a moment, he said, 'Do you think I am wrong? Do you side with the other women in my household by calling me a lack-wit?'
'I side with no one, my lord,' Clarice murmured tactfully.
'So you have no opinion?'
'I did not say that.' She bit her lip and decided that she had better turn the tables of interrogation before it was too late. 'Why should you want to unravel what you have sewn? What disappoints you?'
He shook his head. 'You know about this charter of liberties that many of us want King John to acknowledge as the law of the land?'
'Of course I do.' She could not avoid knowing about it when it was the reason for Fulke and Maude's quarrelling.
'The demands are sound; indeed, they were first proposed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, not the barons. But they will limit John's powers and his ability to raise revenues for the Crown. Instead of extorting silver, he will have to abide by a set of fixed fines and codes. He will not be able to force his barons to pay for his foreign wars; he will not be able to play the tyrant with a man just because he dislikes him.' His tone had grown vehement and Clarice could both hear and see that he passionately believed in the rights encoded in this charter. So would anyone, she thought. That was the part which he was reluctant to abandon.
He drank his wine, rose to replenish his cup and returned to the stool. His eyes were quartz-bright with fervour. 'The King sees our demands in a different light. He views them as a curb to his power, an infringement on his royal authority to govern. He says that the men proposing these curbs are mischief-makers who want to bring him down.'
Clarice snipped off the crimson thread and, to rest her eyes from the colour, selected a twist of green. 'And is that true?'
'In part.' He rubbed the back of his neck and looked slightly uncomfortable. 'I know that you only came to live in this household at the end of my quarrel with John, but you must know about it. And certainly there is no love lost between John and our two spokesmen, Robert FitzWalter and Eustace de Vesci.'
Clarice poked the thread through the eye of her silver needle and frowned. 'Didn't de Vesci's wife…'
'Bed with King John,' he finished for her. 'And not voluntarily. She was forced, so it is said, in order to keep her husband in favour at courtor at least to stop him from being persecuted by John's officials. John being the lecher that he is, I do not doubt that the rumour is true. So, yes, de Vesci does have an axe to grind, and FitzWalterI would not give him house room.' He spread his hands. 'The difficulty is that the charter has the backing of many malcontents and troublemakers. John has the support of some very decent men who have turned a blind eye to his excesses and abided by their feudal oaths. If only those men could be persuaded to stand for the charter, then all would be well… but it isn't.'
He sighed as he watched her set the needle in the fabric and expertly weave the new thread into the background. 'So now Maude is angry with me because I am risking all that I have fought to gain and keeping the company of dubious men.'
'It is true that you could lose your lands?'
'Oh yes,' Fulke said. 'Especially now.'
'Why?'
He looked down into his cup and grimaced. 'Just before I came home, John announced that he intended to take the Cross.'
Clarice raised her head from her embroidery. She had grown up on tales of John's cruelty, cunning and perfidy, had lived through the papal interdict a few years ago during John's dispute with Rome over the appointment of a new Archbishop of Canterbury. Despite John's reconciliation with the Pope, taking the Cross seemed excessive for a man who gave little more than lip service to his faith. 'He is going on crusade?' she asked.
Fulke laughed and shook his head. 'If only!' he declared with vehemence. 'No, I doubt that Constantinople need worry that he'll follow in his brother's illustrious footsteps. It is all done in the name of politics. He thinks that he can weasel his way out of this charter by taking the Cross. The Church protects a crusader's lands for a period of four years. Any man making war on another who has taken a crusader's vow is at once excommunicated. Once John was at war with the Pope. Now they are allies.'
Clarice nodded and continued to sew. 'So, what will you do?'
He sprang to his feet, almost tipping over the stool. 'I am caught in a cleft stick,' he said in frustration. 'I can withdraw and see my principles damned, or I can stay and my soul be damned and my lands declared forfeit.' He fixed her with a fierce stare. 'What would you do, Clarice? And do not say that you side with no one, or it is not your place to offer advice. I am asking, and I want you to answer.'
She swallowed and stopped sewing. What would his wife do? Likely snap at him that wanting did not mean that he was going to get. But she wasn't Maude, did not have her appetite for battle. It didn't mean, however, that she was a weakling.
'I would have to decide which was more important,' she said slowly, 'and probably it would be my principles. After all, I would have suspected when I first set out that there would be obstacles put in my way and they might involve forfeiture of land.'
'And the excommunication?'
She pursed her lips. 'I would hope that God would still be merciful. It seems to me that the Pope often uses excommunication as a weapon of policy, hot true religious concern, and if that is blasphemy, then
mea culpa
.'
The fierceness had left his expression. Instead, it was charged with amusement and surprise. 'You look,' he said, 'like a little brown mouse. You move around the place as quietly and unobtrusively as a well-trained maid, with seemingly no thought but for the comfort of others. Getting you to express an opinion beyond the fact that rushes need changing or there's not enough salt in the food is like drawing a tooth.'
She flushed and gave him a reproachful look.
'But worth it,' he added with a sudden smile. 'You're not a mouse at all, Clarice d'Auberville. You're a lioness in disguise.' He brushed her cheek in salute and left the room.
Clarice stared at the pattern of her sewing as if it had become a meaningless jumble. Her stomach churned with queasy pleasure. She pressed her cheek where his fingers had touched. Suddenly she was glad that she was alone, to savour the moment, to recover herself, to make a memory and lock it in a secret, gilded box at the back of her mind where no one would ever find it.
The sun was setting over the Thames, spreading a copper patina across the surface of the water. Boatmen in small craft and clinker-built barges plied their trade between the businesses and dwellings lining the river bank, or rowed across the river to the suburbs of Southwark where the city's brothels and bathhouses were concentrated.
Despite having visited London many times, Fulke had never been to the Southwark side. Now he looked around with interest as he was ushered from the boat and up some wooden steps to a limewashed cruck-frame house facing the river. The buildings standing either side were similar and of prosperous appearance with spacious garths. At the end of the street, a cookshop was doing a roaring trade in meat pies and hot fritters. The smells wafted towards him in appetising, greasy waves, reminding him that he had not eaten since a noon repast of bread and cheese, consumed as he went about his business.
The door was opened by a cheerful maidservant who ushered him into a well-appointed downstairs room. The floor rushes were new, thick, and scattered with dried thyme and rose petals. There was glass in the windows, secured within a removable lead fretwork. Enamelled coffers and solid oak benches lined the sides of the room; the walls were decorated with bright, woollen embroideries; and there was even a mirror in an ornate ivory frame. Fulke stared, his jaw dropping slightly. Another woman came forward to take his cloak and offer him the obligatory cup of wine. She was of about Maude's age, with two braids of dark-brown hair framing an attractive, heart-shaped face.
'Ah, Fulke, welcome.' William Salisbury emerged from a curtained off chamber beyond. His receding hair, damp from bathing, was brushed sleekly back from his forehead. He wore a tunic of red wool, loosely belted, and looked more at ease than Fulke had ever seen him. 'This is Richenda.'
'My lady,' Fulke said tactfully, not sure that this was the right form of address. William was married to Ella of Salisburya match of convenience that was kept within civilised bounds by the expedience of separate households. Fulke knew that Salisbury had a mistress, but this was the first time he had met her, or been to the house that Salisbury had bought for her, the Earl being more than discreet on the matter.
She inclined her head and smiled, murmuring that she was pleased to meet him, then retired to the chamber that William had just vacated.
'You do not know how that woman has saved my sanity these past few months,' the Earl said, his expression heartfelt. 'I swear, if I did not have this retreat, I would have thrown myself in the river long ago.' He gestured to the trestle table in the corner of the room. A heavy wax candle illuminated a cold repast of spiced chicken breasts, a mushroom frumenty and small wastel loaves made with good white flour.
'It is a difficult time,' Fulke agreed as he took his seat and looked at the food. 'What I would give to be at home now, and at peace, with myself and my family'
'You know the answer to that.'
Fulke smiled bleakly. 'So do you,' he said.
Salisbury gestured to the meal. 'Let us not spoil our appetites with our differences,' he said. 'You are the guest, will you say grace?'