Elizabeth Chadwick (18 page)

Blood was running down William’s chin from a split lip. “They rode out intending to kill us.” He spat out a mouthful of red saliva and his eyes burned. “Do we just let them go unscathed?”

“Hardly unscathed.” Philip gestured at the bruises, swellings, and cuts sported by the soldiers. Some, like those sustained by the FitzWarin troop, were superficial; others would take more healing and leave permanent scars and disfigurement. And four of their pursuers were dead.

“Don’t worry, they’ll pay a price,” Fulke growled. He ordered the surrendered men to dismount. “Take their horses,” he said curtly, “and their weapons.” He pointed with his sword. “Your mail, gentlemen. We’ll have that too. I would hate you to have the discomfort of walking all the way back to Castle Baldwin in this heat wearing those heavy hauberks. Your spurs also, so you don’t trip.” He rotated the blade in his hand, causing the steel to flash with sunbursts. “Make haste before I change my mind, or my brother loses his patience.”

Clearly reluctant, but driven by fear of death, the mercenaries did as they were bid. Soon two of their former mounts were laden with an assortment of hauberks and weaponry.

Fulke saluted them, an ironic grin, devoid of humor, curling his lips. “Now you are free to go,” he said, “and I trust we’ll not meet again.”

Without waiting to see the soldiers start on their walk, he kicked Blaze to a trot. His brothers and the rest of the troop followed, the captured horses on lead reins, the sound of their booty making soft clinking sounds with each stride of the packhorses. His first deed as an outlaw leader. Fulke did not know whether to laugh or weep.

***

“Well,” John addressed the quivering soldier kneeling at his feet, “where is Fulke FitzWarin?”

“I know not, sire.” The mercenary wiped away a persistent trickle of blood from a cut across his eyebrow. “When Pierre d’Avignon fell, I was forced to ride for my life.”

“Pierre d’Avignon is dead?” John stared in furious disbelief.

“Yes, sire, and Amys le Marquis.”

John swore and clenched his fists. Every encounter with Fulke FitzWarin brought him back to the humiliation of that adolescent chess game where he had lost on all counts. And he was still losing. Morys FitzRoger looked shocked and disbelieving too. He was sitting in the window embrasure, head tilted while the blood clotted in his nose.

“I could have told you the outcome.” Hubert Walter spoke quietly so that the words would not carry, but they were heavy with emphasis. “Fulke possesses warrior skills almost the equal of my lord Pembroke’s and you have ground his family pride in the dust. I know you have quarreled with him in the past, but perhaps you should have been more conciliatory. Your brother Richard acknowledged his family’s rights in the matter of Whittington. For the price of setting aside your grievance, you could have yoked a very useful man to your side.”

“There is truth in what His Grace says,” agreed Ranulf of Chester, and received a nod of approbation from William Longsword.

“It’s not too late to revoke your decision, sire.” Hubert opened his hand in a gesture of appeal. “Return the gyrfalcon and the horse and give FitzRoger alternative lands.”

John glared at his magnates, feeling a suffocating sense of betrayal. “Are you telling me how to rule?” he spat, glaring at his half brother and then the Archbishop.

“No, sire.” Leaning on his staff, Hubert bowed. “Merely offering sound advice.”

John ground his teeth. “I do not need your advice to deal with a traitor.” He pointed toward the embrasure. “Morys FitzRoger is my sworn vassal for Whittington and that is my last word.”

“And my last word is that you are making a mistake,” Hubert said.

There was a sudden commotion at the far end of the hall as the remnants of John’s posse made their entrance: limping, staggering, beaten, their armor stripped, their bravado in rags. His expression thunderous, John flung from the dais to meet them.

“FitzWarin took our horses and our armor, sire,” their spokesman gasped. A torn strip of his surcoat was wrapped around a bloody wound on his hand. “He said to tell you he would wage war against you until you gave him the justice of common law in the matter of Whittington.”

John’s incensed bellow echoed around the hall, bringing immediate, shocked silence. “By God on the Cross and the Devil in the pit of hell, I will give Fulke FitzWarin and his brothers the justice of common law,” he choked. “I will have them strung from a gibbet on Whittington’s battlements and they can gaze on their land from there!” Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. The urge to cast himself down amidst the rushes and drum his heels was almost overwhelming. In lieu, he flung to the nearest trestle and, in a single swipe, sent cups and trenchers crashing to the floor. With a tremendous heave that tore the muscles in his arms, he upended the trestle itself. Panting, he staggered away from his handiwork and looked around, but none would meet his gaze. He felt their shock and contempt.

“Satan’s piss on the lot of you!” he roared and stormed from the hall, leaving Hubert Walter and the Earl of Salisbury to the task of succoring the wounded knights.

***

“You cannot stay here, you know that,” Hawise said as she bathed a superficial cut on Fulke’s hand with lotion of woundwort. “They will pursue you in force after this.”

“Yes, Mama, I know.” Fulke’s weary gaze fell on the window where the open shutters revealed the rising of a fine summer dawn. They had ridden through the night to reach Alberbury on drovers’ paths, their ears cocked for the sound of pursuit.

By candlelight a chirugeon leaned over William, attempting to extract the broken remnants of two teeth from his gum. William, half-drunk on mead, was making a determined effort to remain still and not leap out of his skin at each probe. Now he turned his head. “We’ll not run away,” he declared in a voice blurred by blood and drink. “Whittington is ours and we’ll fight for it to the death!”

“And your death it would indeed be, you fool!” Hawise snapped. “John will send out every baron, knight, and sergeant along the March to hunt you down.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I can see that,” Hawise retorted, “but I do. You would die for no more purpose than to increase the burden of my grief. Sometimes I think you have no wit beyond the desire to lift a sword.”

“Mama.” Fulke laid a restraining hand on her arm and felt how much she was trembling. He could see by the set of her jaw that she was striving not to weep.

William’s expression was both hurt and incredulous. “I am fighting for our family’s honor! I won’t just crawl under a stone and hide like a louse.”

She shook her head. “Did I say that was what I wanted you to do? By all means fight back, my son, but not now. You have to wait for the right moment.”

“Mama’s right,” Fulke said as William prepared to continue the argument. “John will raise the hue and cry throughout the borders. If we stay, we’ll sell our lives dearly, but it will be small recompense for letting John win.”

“Then what?” William said sulkily.

“We cross the Narrow Sea until the furor has died down. John can’t afford to keep men in the field just to lie in wait for us. There will come a time when vigilance relaxes and the soldiers are sent to other tasks. It is then that we return and make him pay.” He looked at his mother, speaking to her as much as his brother. “I intend to make myself so much of a thorn in John’s side that in the end he will be glad to give me Whittington in order to have peace.”

William grunted, declaring acceptance if not outright approval. “And what of Morys FitzRoger?”

Fulke shrugged. “Let him enjoy the fruits of his treachery while he is still able. It won’t be for long.”

Alberbury, Shropshire, Spring 1200

Maude was shocked at the change in Hawise FitzWarin. Gone was the vivacious red-haired woman who had caused heads to turn as she passed. Now if heads turned it was in pity, or unease. In her drab widow’s garments, her face framed by the severity of a full wimple, Hawise could have been a nun—except that there was no sustaining spiritual glow. Maude thought that it was like looking through a window into an empty room; she wondered if she had done the right thing in coming to Alberbury.

“I will not trouble you above one night,” she said awkwardly as she exchanged a kiss of greeting with Hawise. A groom arrived to take her mare and show her escort where to stable their mounts.

“One night?” Hawise’s face fell with disappointment. “Can you not stay longer?

“I do not want to impose on your hospitality.”

“Tush!” Hawise waved her hand. “It will do me good to have young company. This place is too full of silence. Where are you bound?” She gestured and her maid came to take Maude’s traveling cloak.

“To visit my father. Theo’s in Normandy with King John, seeking his permission to go to Ireland. If he receives it I will go with him, but for now I am performing my duty as a daughter.” She placed heavy emphasis on the word
duty
. “If it will not burden you, I will be glad to remain for a few more days.”

Hawise gave her a smile of mingled pleasure and sadness. “Of course it will not burden me, although perhaps I will burden you.” She linked her arm through Maude’s and drew her within the keep. “Ireland, you say?”

Hawise’s touch was birdlike and Maude noticed how loose the rings were on her fingers. “Theo wants to inspect his religious foundations,” she said with a sigh. “He says he wants to be buried at the monastery at Wotheney.”

“He’s not ailing?” Hawise said quickly.

Again that strange, almost desperate note. “Not that I can tell,” Maude said, “but he doesn’t smile much these days. You know that John confiscated the rights of Amounderness, took away his shrievalty, and threatened to deprive him of his Irish lands?”

“No, but nothing that monster does would surprise me,” Hawise said, sudden fire in her eyes. “I had to pay a fine of thirty marks when my husband died in order not to have another man forced upon me by our beloved King!”

Maude made a shocked sound in her throat, but she was not surprised. To raise revenue both John and Richard had sold lands, offices, and people as if they were hot cakes off a cookstall.

“I suppose you heard about the matter of my sons,” Hawise added. “Not only has John deprived them of their inheritance, he has deprived me of their comfort and support…” Her voice wavered. “At least while our overlord for this place is Robert Corbet, I am assured the tenancy. He and my husband were good friends. John cannot touch the lands that I hold in dower, or which are held of others.”

Maude patted her arm in sympathy, unsure what else to do. “Hubert Walter told us what happened at Castle Baldwin,” she said. “Have you heard from your sons since they…left?” She had been about to say fled but caught herself in time.

Hawise nodded and swallowed back tears. “A messenger travels between us regularly. They are sheltering in Brittany with distant de Dinan kin—earning their keep as castle guards and household knights—biding their time.” Her mouth tightened “But for John’s ill temper and grudge-bearing, my sons would be here now. Fulke would have taken seisin of Whittington and likely a wife as well. I know that mothers are notorious for clinging to their sons, but I would welcome another woman into the household, and the opportunity to dandle a grandchild in my lap.”

She led Maude into the solar, to the warmth of a brazier and an oak bench padded with cushions. “It is too late now. That time has been squandered.” With the slow effort of an old woman, she sat on the bench, one hand pressed to her left side.

When Maude murmured in concern, Hawise shook her head. “I will be all right presently.” She signaled a maid to bring wine and, when it arrived, drank with shaking hands. Her color improved as if the redness of the wine had gone straight to her cheeks, but her face remained drawn. With a visible effort she gathered herself and patted Maude’s knee. “Divert me a little. Tell me how you and Theobald are faring.”

Maude searched her mind for matters that Hawise might find amusing or interesting. To tell her that Hubert was using his influence to have Theobald’s lands restored would not be tactful, and to talk of Theobald’s obsession with his monasteries was enough to put even a dedicated cleric to sleep.

“Well,” she said dubiously, “Theobald and I have been kept apart recently because he has followed John into Normandy, but I hope to go with him to Ireland.” She sighed. “You are not the only one who desires grandchildren to dandle in their lap. My father is constantly reminding me that it is my duty to provide Theo with an heir and that I should encourage him to play his part at every opportunity.”

“And you do not welcome these reminders?”

“I do not need them.” Maude toyed with her wedding ring. “I know my duty and I love Theo dearly. When we are together, we live as man and wife in every sense of the word—except it be a holy day.” It was not entirely true but there was righteous comfort in the delusion. Their relationship was comfortable and loving, but it was more father and daughter than husband and wife. She had to think hard to remember the last time that they had lain together in the carnal sense. “What will be, will be.” She gave a dismissive shake of her head, reached for her wine, and smiled. “In Theobald’s absence I have been honing other skills.”

“Indeed?” Hawise raised her brows.

Maude giggled. “Do you remember how I was forever running off and playing tomboy games to my grandmother’s despair?”

Hawise smiled. “Only too well,” she said wryly.

“Well”—and a slow smile spread across her face—“I have taken to archery. It’s a sport permitted to women, so my grandmother cannot complain, and I have discovered a certain degree of skill.”

“Archery!” Hawise repeated, her expression intrigued. “I would not have thought you had the strength to pull a bow.”

“A great deal lies in the technique,” Maude said, “and I’m stronger than I look.” Her eyes brightened. “It gives me pleasure to see the men’s astonishment when I match them at the target. Every time I hit the center, I’m striking a blow for the girl-child who wasn’t allowed to run about with the same freedom as a boy.”

“What does Theobald say?”

“He encourages me.” She laughed. “He says that if ever the day comes when we have to withstand a siege, he will put me up on the battlements with his other archers. I told him I would hold him to it.”

“I could imagine you doing so,” Hawise said. “And having skill in embroidery, you could stitch wounds as well as inflict them.” She had been smiling as she spoke, but the curve suddenly left her lips as if she had been slapped.

“My lady?” Maude gently touched her hand.

The older woman’s eyes had filled with tears. “My sons,” she said with a painful swallow. “Who is going to bind their injuries and watch out for them from the battlements?”

Maude bit back the reply that they were grown men who could fend for themselves. She thought of how protective she felt toward Theobald and imagined him wounded and in need. “Surely they will be cared for by their kin in Brittany?”

Hawise shook her head and did not answer. She fumbled a linen kerchief from her sleeve, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose. “I am being foolish,” she sniffed, “and all the tears in the world will make no difference.” Pink-nosed with emotion, she straightened her shoulders. “Enough. Do you have this bow of yours with you? I would like to see it.”

***

Maude spent the next hour out on the sward, demonstrating her new skill to Hawise at the large, straw-stuffed butt. Time after time the goose-fletched arrow flew to the center. Maude was rapt with concentration. She moistened her lips; her eyes shone with the pleasure of accomplishment. One of the household guards who reckoned himself a good archer came to match shots with her, and was beaten.

“You do indeed have a skill,” Hawise said.

“It is like any discipline; you have to practice.” Maude held out the bow, offering Hawise a shot. “You could learn.”

Hawise refused with a sad shake of her head. “It is too late.”

“It’s never too late.”

“For me it is.”

They went within shortly after that for the sun had lost its warmth and a cold breeze had sprung up. Hawise shivered and huddled inside her cloak, her face gray and drawn.

In the hall, they dined on almond pottage and saffron squab pie. Maude ate with the ravenous appetite of active youth. She had been hungry when she went out to shoot and now her stomach felt like an empty cavern. While she devoured the pottage, the pie, and the bread that accompanied the dishes, Hawise just poked at her own food and scarcely touched a morsel.

“Are you not hungry?” Maude asked, thinking it small wonder that Hawise was so thin.

“I have no appetite these days,” Hawise confessed, looking at the few scraps on her trencher with distaste. “Sometimes even the smell of food makes me feel sick.”

“Have you consulted a physician or a wise woman?”

Hawise shook her head. “For thirty years I have tended to the ills of all within my household. I do not need a physician to tell me what is wrong.” She did not elaborate, merely toyed with her goblet. The set of her face discouraged Maude from inquiring further.

Later that evening, however, as they sat over a game of merels by the hearth, Hawise pushed one of her pieces with her forefinger and said softly, “Maude, I cannot keep it to myself any longer. I have to tell you that I believe I am dying.”

The fire spat and crackled on a knot in the wood. Maude looked at Hawise, lost for words.

“I feel as though I am being eaten alive and it grows daily worse.” Hawise bit her lip. “When my sons left, I thought it was the grief of seeing them go following so hard on the heels of their father’s death.”

“Mayhap that is so,” Maude said quickly, clutching at a straw of comfort.

Hawise shook her head and laid her palm to her belly. “I have a lump here and it grows with the pain. When I am being fanciful, I tell myself that it is my broken heart pushing against my skin. But I have seen such growths before, and I know that they foretell death.”

“I am sorry,” Maude whispered, knowing that it sounded inadequate.

The corners of Hawise’s eyes crinkled with bleak humor. “There is no need to be, although I will be glad if you pray for my soul. Death, when it comes, will be a welcome release…and at least I have time to prepare. It is the waiting that is the hardest part—and the daily grind of the pain.”

“But it’s not fair!” cried the rebellious child in Maude’s nature, the violence of her own emotion taking her by surprise. Her eyes filled with tears of frustration and anger and she dashed the merels pieces from the pegged wooden board with a swipe of her hand.

Hawise rose and hastened around the board to take Maude in her arms. “If life was fair,” she said, “my husband would still be alive, my sons would be here, not exiled in Brittany, and Whittington would be ours.” She stroked Maude’s cheek tenderly. “If life was fair, I would have borne at least one daughter and she would have been like you.”

Her words made Maude want to cry even harder and rage against her helplessness. There was nothing she could do to make things right—no matter how many times her arrows hit the center of the target.