Elizabeth Chadwick (2 page)

Fulke moved a bishop. “Check,” he said. And it would be mate in two moves, neither of which his opponent could circumvent.

John gaped in disbelieving fury. His eyes flickered, calculating the moves just as Fulke had done. “I suppose your father taught you to cheat too,” he sneered.

Fulke clenched his fists and struggled for the control not to knock John’s teeth down his throat. “I have won fairly. You have no right to missay my family’s honor as an excuse for losing.”

John sprang to his feet. A wild swipe of his fist scattered the chess pieces far and wide. “I have the right to do anything I want!”

“Not to me and mine!” Fulke jumped up too, his eyes dark with fury. “You’re a king’s son by birth, but just now I would accord a gutter sweeping more respect than you!”

John roared. Grabbing the chessboard in both hands, he slammed it with all his strength into Fulke’s face.

Fulke’s nose crunched. He reeled from the sudden violence of the blow, a white numbness spreading from the impact and overlaid by the heat of gushing blood. Raising his hand to his face, he brought it away and looked at his red fingers in astonishment.

John lunged at him again. Fulke ducked the blow and lashed out with his feet. John staggered. The ball of his foot rolled on one of the chess pieces and he crashed backward, his skull striking the plastered wall with a dull thud. His knees crumpled and he hit the floor like a poled ox.

“Christ, bloody Christ!” Fulke panted and, stanching his nose on his sleeve, staggered over to John’s prone body. His first thought was that he had killed him, but then he saw the Prince’s chest rise and fall and felt the hard pulse beat against the throat laces of John’s shirt.

Anger and shock churned Fulke’s stomach. “Sir, wake up!” He shook the Prince’s shoulder in growing fear.

John groaned but did not open his eyes. Blood splashed from Fulke’s nose on to the costly blue tunic and soaked in. Fulke staggered to the sideboard, poured a measure of wine, and brought it to John. Raising him by the shoulders, he dabbed John’s lips.

The latch clicked and the door suddenly opened. Ranulf de Glanville and his nephew Theobald Walter, who was John’s tutor in arms, stopped on the threshold and stared.

“God’s bones!” Theobald Walter’s gray gaze widened with astonishment. “What goes forth here?”

Fulke swallowed. “My lord John struck his head, and I cannot rouse him.” His voice buzzed in his ears, the intonation thick with the blood that was clotting in his nose.

“And how did he come to do that?” Lord Walter advanced into the room, his tread firm with authority. The practice gambeson of the morning had been replaced by an ankle-length court tunic of crimson wool. He still wore his sword, but as a mark of rank, not because he expected to use it. Behind him, Ranulf de Glanville prudently closed the door.

“I…we…there was a disagreement and we had a fight,” Fulke said, feeling wretched. A massive pain had begun to hammer between his eyes.

Lord Walter gave him the same assessing look with which he scrutinized the squires on the practice field. “A fight,” he repeated. His voice was quiet and pleasant. Theobald Walter never shouted. A single twitch of an eyebrow, a brightening glare was all it took to bring the squires into line. “About what?” He knelt at Fulke’s side, his knees cracking slightly as he bent them. At nine and thirty, he was wearing well, but the English winters took their toll, as they did on every man.

Fulke compressed his lips.

“Don’t clam up on me, lad,” Lord Walter said sharply. “The truth will serve you better than silence.” He turned John’s head gently to one side and found the swelling bruise beneath his hair. Then he sniffed the Prince’s breath and pulled back with a grimace.

Fulke met the Baron’s eyes without evasion. During lessons in weapon play, Theobald had shown himself fair and patient. “The Prince accused me of cheating at chess and when I denied it, he struck me with the board. I…” He clenched his jaw. “I hit out to defend myself and he fell backward and struck his head.”

“How bad is it?” Rubbing his neat gray beard, de Glanville came to stand at John’s feet. His face wore an incongruous mixture of alarm and distaste.

“There’s a lump the size of a baby on the back of his head, but I don’t believe there’s cause to send for a priest just yet. Part of the reason he’s insensible is that he’s as soused as a pickled herring.” Theobald glanced briefly at his uncle then back to Fulke. “This lad’s nose is never going to sit as prettily on his face as it did this morning.”

De Glanville stooped to pick up the chessboard and studied the crack running through the middle. “Where is everyone else?” he demanded.

“The Prince dismissed them, sir.” Fulke faced the Justiciar, feeling like an erring soul before the throne of God on judgment day. “I would have gone too, but he wanted more wine…and then he wanted me to play chess with him.”

John groaned and opened his eyes. They focused precariously on Fulke who was still leaning over him. “You misbegotten son of a misbegotten whore!” he gasped, then rolled over and vomited the results of an afternoon’s drinking into the rushes. “I’ll have your hide for this!”

“You are in no fit state to have anything but a split skull, sire,” de Glanville said coldly. He jerked his head at Theobald. “Take FitzWarin out of here and clean him up. While you’re about it, see if you can find His Highness’s other attendants. We’ll sort this out later.”

Theobald rose, drawing Fulke with him. “Come,” he said in a brusque but not unkind voice.

“I want to see my father!” John was demanding with vicious petulance as Theobald ushered Fulke from the room and led him down the great hall attached to John’s chamber. Pain beat in hot rhythm between his eyes and he had to breathe through his mouth, a metallic essence of blood cloying his palate. “Will he really go to the King?”

Theobald had no comfort for him. “Knowing Prince John, I do not doubt it.”

Fulke pressed the back of his hand beneath his nose and gazed at the resulting red smudge. “I suppose I will be dismissed from Prince John’s household,” he said.

“Quite likely.” Theobald gave him a sidelong glance. “But would you want to stay after this?”

“My father says that being educated at King Henry’s court is an opportunity without price, and a great honor for our family.” As the words left his mouth, Fulke realized that John’s earlier taunt had substance. He was always quoting his father.

“He’s right,” Theobald said grimly, “except about the price.”

“Sire?”

“Nothing.” Theobald suddenly stopped and with a grunt of mingled satisfaction and annoyance, turned sharply to the left.

Within one of the bays formed by the pillars supporting the hall, Fulke saw that the dice game was still in progress. Girard de Malfee was winning again.

“That’s enough.” Theobald stepped among them, his hands gripping his sword belt. “Go and attend your master.”

“But he sent us out, my lord,” Girard objected, his voice overloud with drink.

“Well, I’m sending you back in, and my lord Glanville awaits you there. Go on, all of you, or I’ll have you polishing helmets for a sennight. And you can leave that flagon out here. There’s been enough damage caused already.

With bad grace, Girard began pouching his winnings. At one point he looked up to argue with Theobald and belatedly caught sight of Fulke.

“Holy Christ, Bumpkin, what’s happened to you?”

All the squires stared.

“I tripped,” Fulke said.

Theobald jerked his thumb. “Now,” he snapped.

The boys departed in a tipsy clutter and Theobald shook his head like a goaded bull. “God preserve me in my dotage that I should ever have to rely on wastrels such as them,” he growled.

Fulke swayed. Theobald grabbed him. “Steady, lad. Come on, buck yourself up. You’re not a wench to faint on me.”

Fulke’s eyes darkened at the jibe. He braced his spine. “I’m all right, my lord.” It wasn’t true, but his pride and the strength of Theobald’s arm bore him up.

A glint of approval kindled in the Baron’s gray eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Amongst those worthless dolts, I think you’re the only one who is.”

As Fulke and Theobald crossed the sward, the wind from the river hit them full on with a sleety smack and Fulke felt as if his face would explode. On reaching the sanctuary of a timber outbuilding behind the hall, he was dimly aware of Theobald being greeted by other lords, of curious looks cast his way and questions asked which the Baron fielded in a manner courteous but short. Then a heavy woolen hanging was drawn aside and Theobald ushered Fulke into a small, makeshift chamber.

A well-stoked brazier gave off welcome heat, the lumps glowing dragon’s-eye red on the undersides. Perched on an oak traveling chest, Lord Theobald’s squire, whom Fulke knew by sight, was tuning the strings of a Moorish lute. There was a camp bed in the room, made up with blankets and a coverlet of green Flemish cloth. Seated on it, reading a sheet of vellum by the light of a large candle, was a prelate wearing the embroidered dalmatic of an archdeacon.

Theobald stared at the man occupying his bed. “Hubert?” he said, as if not believing his eyes.

The priest looked up and smiled. Two deep creases appeared in his fleshy cheeks. “Surely I haven’t changed that much in a year.” He stood up and immediately the room and everyone in it seemed diminished by his height and girth.

“Well, no,” Theobald said, making a good recovery, “I just wasn’t expecting to see you tonight, brother.” With much hugging and shoulder-slapping the men embraced. Close up, the similarities were obvious despite the difference in build. They shared the same brow and nose and had the same way of smiling.

“I arrived in time for the service of nones at the abbey,” said Hubert Walter. “I have a bed there for the night, but I thought first that I would come and see how you and Uncle Ranulf are faring among the devil’s brood. I was about to send young Jean here to find you.”

Theobald gave a terse laugh. “Devil’s brood is the sum of it!” he said. “God knows what will happen when Richard and Geoffrey arrive.”

“Aye, well, that’s why we’re all here—to bear witness when Prince John’s inheritance is decided.” The Archdeacon gestured to Fulke who stood shivering by the brazier. “Who is this, Theo, and why does he look as if he has just walked off a battlefield?”

Theobald grimaced. “In a way he has, and since I’m his tutor in arms, he’s my responsibility.” He beckoned Fulke forward. “Make your obeisance to the Archdeacon of York,” he commanded. “This,” he said to Hubert, “is Fulke FitzWarin of Lambourn, son of Fulke le Brun. He’s serving as an attendant to Prince John within Uncle Ranulf’s household.”

“Sire,” Fulke said thickly and knelt to kiss the Archdeacon’s ring.

“And he appears to have a broken nose and two black eyes at the least,” observed Hubert. He cupped Fulke’s jaw in his large hand and examined the damage. “What were you doing to get this?”

“Playing chess, Sire.”

Hubert’s eyebrows met the brown fringe of his tonsure.

“With Prince John,” Theobald qualified and snapped his fingers at his squire. “Jean, bring water and a cloth.”

“Indeed?” the Archdeacon said. “And might it be politic to inquire who won?”

“Unfortunately that will be for a wider audience to decide—if the Prince has his way,” Theobald said with distaste. “But for now let us just say that young Fulke here gave as good as he got.”

“I see.” The Archdeacon rolled up the vellum and tucked it in his sleeve. “Delicate then.”

“Not particularly, but unlikely to advance the Prince’s plea that he’s sufficiently mature to be let loose on lands of his own—especially following the escapades of the eldest one, and we know how that ended.” Eighteen months ago, King Henry’s heir and namesake, a feckless, shallow young man, had died in the Limousin of dysentery during a petty war with his family over land and influence. Theobald made an irritated sound. “John has no one to blame but himself.”

“Which is something he never does. It is men like us, Theo, who are the checks and balances to the excesses in the Angevin nature.” He plucked his mantle from the bed and donned it. “Walk with me back to the abbey,” he requested. “Your squire can tend the lad, and my lodgings are better than this.”

Theobald considered, then nodded. “Jean, make up another pallet,” he instructed. “Let Fulke bed down here for the night.”

“Sir.” The squire turned from rummaging among the baggage, his hands occupied by a brass ewer and a linen cloth. “What about dinner?”

“I will eat with the Archdeacon. You had best bring food to the chamber for yourself and Fulke.”

The squire’s mobile features fell.

“That’s an order, Jean,” Theobald said sternly. “God knows there have been enough waves made already today to cause a tempest. Best if you don’t dine in the great hall.”

“Sir.” Jean’s voice and manner were resigned. Theobald wagged a forefinger in final warning and stepped out of the room with his brother.

Jean swore as the door hanging quivered and was still.

Fulke cleared his throat. “You go. I’ll be all right on my own.”

The other youth snorted down his fine, thin nose. “Have you ever seen a flayed corpse? It’s not a pretty sight.” He tilted his head to one side and his dark eyes gleamed. “Mind you, neither are you just now.” He approached with the ewer and cloth. “I take it from what I heard that you’ve been brawling with Prince John?”

“We had a disagreement,” Fulke said cautiously. Since arriving at court, the generosity of trust in his nature had taken as much of a battering as his body.

“Looks more than that to me.”

Fulke tensed to resist pain, but Jean’s touch was surprisingly deft and gentle as he wiped away the caked blood and made an examination.

“You’re going to have a rare old kink straight across the bridge,” he pronounced. “I wouldn’t like to play your sort of chess.”

Fulke gingerly raised his hand to feel the damage. The area was swollen and pulpy, more than tender to the touch. “It wasn’t my sort of chess,” he said wearily. “It was John’s.”

The squire grimaced knowingly. “I’ve seen his tactics on the practice field. Lord Theobald says that he has neither discipline nor honor.”

Fulke agreed entirely, but still his brows drew together. “Is it wise to unbridle your tongue to someone you do not know? What if I go to John and tell him what you have said?”

“Jesu, I wouldn’t be Lord Theobald’s squire for more than a candle notch if I didn’t know when to speak and when to draw rein. I’ve seen you on the practice field too, remember. You have what John lacks. Here.” He thrust a cup into Fulke’s hand. “Drink this. It might not dull your pain, but it’ll certainly pickle it.”

Fulke almost smiled. He took a swallow and heat burned in his gullet while sweetness lingered on his tongue.

“Galwegian heather mead,” said Jean. “It’ll kick you all the way into tomorrow.” He poured a measure for himself and toasted Fulke before downing the drink in a single swallow of his strong young throat. Then, lowering the cup and resting it on his thigh, he extended his other hand.

“I am Jean de Rampaigne, squire and attendant to Lord Theobald Walter. If you think my French strange, it is because I speak with the accent of Aquitaine, my mother’s tongue. She was from those parts but married an English knight—like Queen Eleanor married King Henry.” His smile flashed. “Fortunately I don’t have any brothers to dispute my inheritance.” He left a moment’s pause for effect before adding, “Unfortunately, I don’t have an inheritance either.”

Fulke shook the proffered hand, a little bemused at the squire’s garrulousness of which there had never been a sign on the practice ground. He took another swallow of the mead and felt its warmth spread through his body like liquid gold. Either Jean was right and it was dulling his pain or he was growing accustomed to the persistent throb of his damaged flesh.

“I have brothers,” he said, “but none like John…Well, I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell with Alain, he’s only four years old.”

“Perhaps there’s a similarity because John acts like a four-year-old,” Jean said.

Fulke spluttered, his amusement rapidly cut short by the agony from his nose. “Don’t,” he said.

“But it’s true. Lord Theobald’s always saying it.”

My
father
says
. Fulke grimaced. It seemed that everyone needed a higher authority to quote, all the way up to the highest authority of all. He drank again and was surprised to find his cup almost down to the lees.

“I did not know that Lord Theobald’s brother was the Archdeacon of York,” he said to change the subject.

Jean retreated to the coffer and picked up his lute. “He’ll be more than that one day,” he said as he straightened the red and blue silk ribbons around the neck of the instrument. “I know for a fact that their uncle Ranulf hopes to bequeath the Justiciar’s post to Hubert in the fullness of time.”

“I thought it wasn’t hereditary?”

“It isn’t, but the one before trains the one to come, and like as not it’s usually a relative. Mark me, it will be Hubert. He’s had the education for it and he’s got the brains.” Jean tapped his head. “And he’ll need them, dealing with King Henry and his sons.”

Fulke nodded agreement. “He won’t need to be an archdeacon but a saint,” he said. His tongue stumbled on the words. A loud gurgle from the proximity of his belt reminded him that whatever the traumas of the day, he had not eaten since before noon. The strong mead had set his stomach juices churning as well as his head.

Leaping off the coffer, Jean took Fulke’s empty cup. “Food,” he said, “or never mind the morrow, you’ll be kicked well into the middle of next week. Come on.”

Fulke gazed at him owlishly. “But Lord Theobald said that we weren’t to leave and you said you would be flayed alive if you disobeyed him.”

Jean widened his arms. “My lord meant he didn’t want us making an appearance in the great hall. Unless you have well and truly laid him up, John’s likely to be there. It will be all right if we keep out of the way.”

Fulke had doubts, but his hunger and Jean’s enthusiasm silenced them. Bruised though he was, Fulke was still capable of rising to meet the occasion. “Well, where do we go?”

“The kitchens,” Jean said, “where else?”

***

Jean was clearly well known in Westminster’s kitchens, to judge from the welcome that he and Fulke received. The flustered head cook told the youths to keep out of the way of the preparations for the court banquet in the great hall, but they were found a place in a corner by a more amenable, red-faced woman. Despite their noble rank, she presented them with a bowl of boiled eggs to shell—a delicacy for the high table, eggs being in short supply this time of year.

“If you want your supper you can work for it like the rest of us,” she said good-humoredly, her French bearing a strong English twang. She tilted Fulke’s jaw on her fleshy, onion-scented fist. “Saints on earth, boy, what have you been doing?”

Before Fulke could give a suitably innocuous reply or tell the woman to mind her own business, a youth who was assembling the dishes ready to be taken to the high table spoke out. “He’s the one I told you about, Marjorie, the one who nearly knocked Prince John’s wits from his skull.”

“I didn’t,” Fulke protested, wondering with dismay and curiosity how it was possible for news to spread so quickly.

“More’s the pity,” Marjorie said acidly. “And looks like you took a drubbing yourself.”

“I…

“The Prince smashed him in the face with a chessboard,” announced the youth with the relish of one with a tale to tell.

Jean grinned and tapped an egg on the side of the bowl. “There’s no need to listen at doors to hear gossip. You just come and sit here for an hour. They’ll tell you everything: whose wife is bedding whom, who’s in favor, who’s out—even the color of the King’s piss in the morning.” He ducked the playful swipe of Marjorie’s hand. “And they’ll feed you better than the royal table, even if you do have to shell eggs for it.”

“Might do Prince John good to shell eggs,” Marjorie said, nodding approval at Fulke. “I’m sorry for your injuries, but right glad that you’ve had the courage to answer him back. Someone should have shaken some decency into him long before he left the nursery. If you ask me, Queen Eleanor bore one child too many.”

“Rumor says that Queen Eleanor thinks so too,” Jean remarked. “She was middle-aged when she bore him and King Henry was sporting with a young mistress.”

“Oh aye, small wonder the boy’s turned out a rotten apple,” Marjorie sniffed. “The parents at war, the brothers at war. It’s easy to believe that tale about them coming from the devil.” She crossed herself.

“What tale?” Fulke asked.

Marjorie set a trencher before the youths and ladled out two generous helpings of roast boar in a spicy sauce from one of the cauldrons, adding a small wheaten loaf each. Feeling almost nauseous with hunger, Fulke needed no encouragement to take up knife and spoon and set to, the only difficulty being that he could not breathe and chew at the same time.

Marjorie brought a second bowl of eggs to the table and sat down to shell them. “A long time ago, one of their ancestors, a Count of Anjou, fell in love with a beautiful woman called Melusine.” She pitched her voice so that those around could hear. Songs and storytelling were an integral part of work in the kitchens. They helped to pass the time and made the work more pleasurable. “She had the palest silver hair as if spun of moonlight and eyes so green and clear that a man could swim in them—or drown. The Count married her and they had two children, a boy and a girl, both as comely as their mother. All was well except that the lady was reluctant to attend church. If she did, she would never stay for the mass, but always slip out of a side door before the raising of the host. Some of the Count’s companions became afraid that her beauty and her hold upon their lord was unnatural—that the lovely Countess was using the black arts.” Marjorie paused for dramatic effect. Fulke belched softly into the silence and licked his fingers. Marjorie cracked an egg against the side of the bowl.

“Then what happened?” he prompted.

“They decided to test her by forcing her to stay in chapel throughout the mass. All the doors were barred and armed guards set before them. When the time came for the raising of the host, sure enough, the lady made to depart, but of course, she could not escape. The priest sprinkled her with holy water, whereupon she uttered an unearthly scream. Her cloak became the wings of a huge bat and she flew out of the window, never to be seen again. But she left her children behind and they carried her demon blood in their veins. The boy grew up and became Count of Anjou after his father, and he was our King Henry’s great-great-grandsire.” She nodded her head in confirmation.