Elizabeth Chadwick (22 page)

“What?”

“Hanild. Was that her name?” She nocked an arrow and let fly into the heart of the target. Thud.

He stared in astonishment. “And that has rankled with you all this time?”

“Should it not? I was a new bride, and you humiliated me!”

“I didn’t do it to humiliate you,” Fulke said on a rising note, “I did it because I—” He dug his fingers through his hair and bit back the rest of the sentence.

“Because what?”

He shook his head.

“No, tell me, I want to know.” A new arrow sat between the leather guards on her fingers.

Fulke swallowed. “Because, as you say, you were a new bride—Theobald’s wife. And, God help me, I wanted you.”

She lowered her eyes and studied the goose-feather fletching as if it were of vast importance.

“Every man present was imagining himself in Theobald’s place—claiming your virginity, creating that bloody sheet, and I was no different.” He smiled, although the gesture did not reach his eyes. “I had no intention of insulting you when I took Hanild to my bed. She was there; I was in need; and at the time it seemed like a reasonable idea to a man who had almost lost his reason.”

It was her turn to swallow. He saw the ripple of her throat, the way she drew a sharp, small breath, and he realized that the incident must have meant far more to her than a brief moment of chagrin. Why else would she remember so small a detail as Hanild’s name? Why else hold it against him for so long? Perhaps the attraction was mutual. Perhaps that was why she was so hostile.

“The wanting has not gone away,” he said softly. “If anything, it is worse now than it was before because it has grown as we have done. But whatever you think of my manners, I honor you and I honor Theobald.” He drew a dark line in the moist grass with the haft of the lance, bisecting the yard of ground between him and Maude. “I will not step beyond the line, and neither will you,” he said. “But we both know it exists…don’t we?”

Trembling, she lifted her chin, her eyes as clear and hard as green glass. He saw the denial, the preparation of an angry rebuff.

“Or am I more honest than you?” he asked.

She put the arrow to the string and raised the bow. “I love Theobald dearly, and my loyalty to him is firm as a rock,” she said in a quivering voice. “How dare you!”

“Because you wanted to know.” He spread his hands. “I love Theobald too, and I would not do anything to betray his trust in me.”

“Is lusting after his wife not a betrayal of his trust?”

“Not while neither of us crosses this line.” He smiled again, still without humor. “Call it courtly love. The giving of a token for the breaking of a tourney lance in the season. If you are going to shoot me, do it now. Pierce my heart a second time.”

“Go away!” Maude hissed, tears glittering in her eyes.

Fulke regarded her somberly. “I came to make my peace,” he said. “I did not intend this to happen, I swear it.”

“Please…just go!”

He did as she asked, but slowly. His leg was throbbing with the strain of standing for so long, and although the burden of confession had been taken off his mind, the weight of its consequence had just been added. Behind him, blind of all but instinct, Maude sent arrow after arrow into the heart of the straw butt.

***

Later that evening she came to his chamber. This time there was no bowl of broth in her hand for he had taken his evening meal of salt fish in the hall with his aunt, amid the constraints of propriety. It was Maude who had eaten in her own tiny chamber, pleading a headache.

He was briefly surprised to see her now, but then realized he should have known. Running away was not in her nature. Right or wrong, she would rather stand and fight.

She approached the bench in the embrasure where he was sitting, and he saw that she was carrying an ointment pot and fresh swaddling bands.

“Is your headache improved, my lady?” he inquired politely, casting a glance to the curtain, which she had left open for propriety’s sake, nipping in the bud any gossip that might arise from her being alone with him.

“A little. Your leg needs tending, and my head will bear up to the task better than your aunt’s stomach.”

She hooked up a footstool with her ankle and, sitting down beside him, unfastened the pin securing his bandage. Obviously she was not going to ask him to lie down on the bed. Too dangerous, he thought with a bleak and private smile. Who was to say she was not right?

With brisk competence, she tended the wound, remarking that it was healing well. Fulke had cautioned himself against reacting to her touch but there was no need. Her cold tone and practicality were so powerful a barrier that there was not the slightest reaction from his groin, lest it be a slight tightening and shrinking away. God knew what she might do with those sewing shears at her belt.

She refastened the bandage and sat back, folding her hands in her lap like a staid matron. Then she drew a deep breath and looked at him, her expression a heart-rending mingling of fear and courage.

“I have come to make my peace with you,” she said. “And to be as truthful with you as you have been with me.”

He wondered how long she had sat alone with her “headache,” wrestling with what she was going to say. Suddenly he was almost afraid to hear it, but he had to know.

“I do love Theo,” she said. “He is kind and generous and honorable, and I never think of the years between us, except to hope that he remains in good health.” Her tone grew vehement. “He is my friend, my companion, and I would give my life for him. I would not hurt or harm him in any way.”

“Neither would I.” But he could scarcely imagine Theobald being delighted at this conversation, or the one that had taken place at the archery butts. It was dangerous ground, thin, thin ice, offering no retreat.

“You are right about the line, though,” she said, her voice now scarcely above a whisper. “And I am so afraid that one of us will step across and destroy everything. Theobald knows that something is wrong between you and me. He cannot understand why we avoid each other’s company, but one day I fear that he will see and know.” She folded her arms tightly across her breasts, protecting her body. “Is it love or lust? I do not know, because I do not know you. Perhaps it is no more than wishing after what you cannot have.”

He eyed her somberly. Mayhap that was the way she felt; until today he had been good at keeping her out, but he had seen facets of Maude since her late childhood that made him certain of his own commitment. “Since the only way to find out is to cross the line and neither of us will do so, there is no remedy save to keep apart,” he said.

“Well, that is simple enough,” she said with false brightness. “I am to join Theo at court and then we’re going to Ireland.”

He smiled grimly. “And I am going back into the forests, seeking thorns to put in King John’s side.”

They looked at each other, the unspoken knowledge between them that he was treading a hazardous path, possibly toward his own death. The keeping apart might be as final as eternity.

There was sudden noise in the courtyard, a groom shouting for torches and the clattering of many shod hooves. In the chamber doorway, Emmeline called excitedly to Fulke and Maude that the troop was home from its foray.

“I have to go.” She rose so quickly that she stumbled on the full hem of her gown. He grasped her hand to steady her, the force pulling her momentarily toward him, and now her touch streaked through him like fire. Teetering on the line. Another tug and she would be in his lap.

He snatched his hand away. “Go!” His voice was ragged. “You’ll be safe. I can’t run after you, can I?”

With a gasp, she fled.

Leaning back, Fulke closed his eyes and tried to summon the will necessary to greet and question his brothers.

Marlborough, Wiltshire, Autumn 1200

“I am going to ask John for an outright answer.” Theobald’s voice was firm with determination as he changed from the day’s practical hunting gear into a sumptuous court robe of blue wool embroidered with thread of gold. Despite his new-found piety he still enjoyed clothes and could gild the lily with the best of them. “He cannot keep dangling me like this.” He thrust one leg forward so that his squire could wind decorative bindings from ankle to knee. “What does he think I am going to do—foment a wild rebellion?”

“Perhaps he does,” Maude said as Barbette floated a light silk veil over her hair and secured it with a circlet of silver wire. “How many of the barons truly serve him out of love and respect?” Outside the rain was drumming on the roof of their tent. Now and then, the striped canvas rippled alarmingly as it was buffeted by a gust of wind. She would be glad to cross the wet sward and enter the warmth of the palace for the afternoon’s feasting and entertainment. At least she would be warm and dry.

“Very few,” Theobald said bleakly, “but the majority give him their loyalty. He is our rightful King.” He sighed. “I just wish he trusted me enough to let me go, but that is one of his flaws. He trusts no one. He keeps us within his sights not out of love or need, but out of a fear that we are going to stab him in the back.” He scowled with frustration. “I want to see my monasteries in Ireland again before I die. Is it so much to ask?”

Finished, Barbette stepped back and Maude came over to Theobald. Waving the squire aside she continued with the task of securing his leg bindings. “You speak as if you are a doddering ancient,” she said as she knelt. “You’re not going to widow me for a long time yet, I hope.” It was a hope bolstered by fervent and guilty prayer. At the back of her mind, sealed away in shame that it existed at all, was the vision of a line drawn by a lance point in dew-wet grass.

Her head was bent to her efforts and she felt his hand descend lightly to her shoulder. “I am five and fifty years old,” he said. “At that age a man’s mind turns easily to thoughts of his own mortality. When I look around, I do not see many who are more than ten years older than me. I must think to the future of my soul. No man wants to die, but it is best if he is prepared.”

Maude’s movements grew abrupt. “And what of the future of your wife?” she demanded. Selfish though it might be, she felt that her fleshly life was currently of more interest to her than the good of the soul. “Have you prepared for that?”

“I have left you well provided for,” he said, his voice slightly puzzled and slightly hurt. “Why are you angry?”

Breathless from the constriction of kneeling, Maude stood up and glared at him. “Well enough to make me a valuable marriage prize for one of John’s cronies?” she snapped.

Theobald blinked and shook his head. “Of course not. You will have Hubert to guide and protect you. No one will dare to harm you if you are under the wing of the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Who is younger than you by what, two or three years? He has already been sick. I will be sold to the highest bidder.”

Theobald looked perplexed, like a small boy who expected to be praised and was receiving a scolding instead. “I have taken what precautions I can,” he said. “I promise to do my best to live to be as old as Methuselah. Come, sweetheart, don’t frown.” He set his hand to her brow and smoothed it gently with the pad of his thumb. “I’ve seen too many glum looks on your face since you arrived at court.”

For his sake, Maude forced a smile. “I am pleased to be at your side, but you know I hate these great gatherings.”

“There is nothing else troubling your spirit?”

She shook her head and hoped God would forgive her for the lie. “Nothing,” she said. “Indeed, if you think upon it, I did not begin to frown until you spoke of dying.”

“Ah, so it’s my fault.”

“Don’t be foolish.” The words emerged more sharply than she had intended and he raised his brows. “Oh, pay me no heed, Theo.” She gave him a hug of contrition. “If I’m in a crotchet it is of my own making. Come, are you ready?” She linked her arm through his.

He was as eager to dismiss the moment as she and gestured his squire to draw back the tent flap on the rain-laden dusk. As they moved to the entrance, he looked down at her and smiled. “You will be the most beautiful woman there, Maude, and whatever John metes out to me, I will still be the most fortunate of men.”

“Flatterer.” She nudged him, her throat suddenly tight with tears.

***

The food was rich and elaborate as befitted a royal banquet to honor John’s new Queen. There was roast boar and venison from the royal forests, attended by numerous colorful and piquant sauces; there were small pies, their crusts shaped like castle turrets; and there were sugared plums and marchpane sweetmeats for the child bride’s delight.

Isobel of Angoulême had to sit on a large cushion to make her the right height for the arched marble table. She was fey and dainty with a cloud of pale blond hair and eyes the deep, true blue of cornflowers. Twelve years old, her breasts scarcely beginning to bud, the bones of her face still tender and malleable, she was already a rare beauty. Rumors abounded. John was infatuated by her, it was said. Apparently he had broken her betrothal to another man in order to have her. The more prosaic explanation was that the original betrothal had been between two powerful families opposed to John. By marrying the girl, he had neatly kept the factions divided and gained an excellent dowry as well as a beautiful, biddable wife.

Remembering her anxiety at the time of her own marriage, Maude sought to befriend the girl and offer her a shoulder to lean on. It quickly became apparent, however, that despite the similarity of circumstance, Isobel was a creature cut from a very different cloth. Whereas Maude had worn her childhood scrapes and escapades like badges of honor, Isobel’s pride was in her possessions, in her clothes and jewels, in dressing exquisitely and receiving the adulation of the smitten. John had ordered some bolts of fabric to make winter gowns for his child bride. A merchant train was expected to arrive before the court left for Gloucester and Isobel was petulant because dark had fallen and the cloth had not arrived.

The many courses of the meal were separated by entertainments: jugglers, tumblers, musicians. Jean de Rampaigne dazzled them all with his skill at the lute and the soaring range of his voice. And there was dancing. Isobel loved to dance. She was light on her feet with grace and natural ability. She partnered John and she partnered his barons, her movements quicksilver, her face sparkling and animated.

Theobald went to speak with John about Ireland and Maude sought the privy as Falco de Breauté, one of John’s mercenary bodyguards, approached her with the clear intention of asking her to partner him. She could not abide him, although he seemed to think that he was God’s gift to women.

Having seen to her business, she lingered, giving de Breauté time to fix his attentions elsewhere, and then made her way slowly back. Perhaps if Theo had finished talking to John, they could retire to their pavilion for the night. As she entered a walkway lit by a guttering torch, a figure walked from the opposite direction, blocking her path, and made no move to step aside.

“Lady Walter,” said John with a feline smile. “You should not be lingering out here, you’ll catch a chill.”

Maude mangled a curtsey. “I was returning to the hall, sire.”

“That is as may be, but I am glad to find you here, for I wish to speak to you.”

“About what, sire?” She wondered how easy it would be to duck around him and run for the safety of the hall.

John’s eyes were darker than darkness. He parted his lips and she saw the gleam of his teeth. “I thought you would be pleased to know that I have granted your husband’s request. He is free to go and dwell in his Irish bog with his monks if that be his desire.”

“That is indeed generous of you, sire,” Maude murmured. She wondered what he wanted in return. Something for nothing was not within John’s nature. Theobald’s gratitude might suffice, but she doubted it unless the King was in an exceptionally expansive mood.

“And trusting, after the way he behaved over Lancaster,” John remarked nastily, revealing that Theobald’s yielding to Richard six years ago still rankled.

“He has always served you well, sire,” she defended him.

“While serving himself at the same time. I know his ilk, my lady. Honorable, upright, devout.” Each word was spoken like an insult. “If I am letting him go, it is to prevent that brother of his from carping at me on the matter. Besides, I doubt Theobald has the vitality to foment rebellion these days!”

Maude compressed her lips to contain the hot words that filled her mouth, reminding herself that tomorrow she and Theobald could leave the court and breathe clean air.

“A young and lovely woman like you must find it a trial dwelling with a man whose sap has ceased to rise,” John said provocatively and moved closer. “Surely you cannot be pleased at the thought of dwelling in the midst of nowhere while your husband practices his religious chants with a group of celibate monks?”

“There are many worse ways to fill my days.” Maude tried to step back and sideways.

“And many better.” John stepped with her. She felt the heat emanating from his body, and even as she was being repulsed, was aware of a treacherous undercurrent of attraction. His masculinity was a hot, raw thread, drawing her flesh toward his. John had often been accused of pursuing the wives and daughters of his barons, of seducing them and causing great scandal and dishonor, but he had never once been accused of rape. “You could remain here as one of the Queen’s attendants, or you could amuse yourself and travel with the court.”

“You are generous, sire,” she said icily, “but my place is with my husband.”

John’s expression twisted and the customary cruelty showed through. “Honorable, upright, devout,” he sneered. “How well you suit each other. But it’s superficial, isn’t it, Lady Walter? What you hide beneath your self-righteousness is what every woman hides beneath her skirts, and I should know. I’ve pleasured enough of your kind.” His hand shot out, grasped her wrist, and dragged her against him. His mouth plunged at her throat like a striking snake and his other hand rammed down between their bodies, fingers seeking and probing through the fabric of her gown.

There was terror and a betraying thrill of sensation; there was heat and shame. For an instant Maude was immobilized by the shock of the assault. Then her free hand came up. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, at the same time bringing her knee viciously forward and up.

John uttered a choked wheeze and folded over. He staggered a few steps and clutched the wall, his hands cupping his abused genitals. Maude fled. Bile rose in her throat, and when she came to the garderobe pit serving the great hall, she turned aside to be wretchedly sick over and above anything that she had eaten.

One of the other women discovered her crouched there. At first she thought Maude was drunk, but when she realized that her condition was caused by distress, she fetched Theobald from the hall where he was in conversation with Hubert.

Maude felt strong arms folding around her and heard Theobald’s voice warm and reassuring, asking her what was wrong. She weakly gulped out what had happened and clung to him, hiding her face against his breast.

Theobald’s expression set like stone. “I will renounce my fealty,” he said through his teeth.

“No!” Maude jerked her head from the safety of his chest. “Why should you be punished for what is his doing? Do you want him to make of you an outlaw as he did to Fulke FitzWarin? No, let us leave now—dismantle and pack. Ride out and never return.”

He hesitated, frowning.

She clutched his tunic, her eyes glistening with tears. “You will gain nothing from confronting him and it will only make a public scandal.”

“I am not such a weak reed that I am swayed by the hot air of scandalmongers,” he said with a curl of his lip.

“He is not worth it. Theo…please.”

He looked at her and after a long pause, sighed heavily. “You are right,” he capitulated. “He is not worth it and I have wasted too much of my life already.” He turned to the hall. “I will say my farewell to Hubert and we will leave.”

She came with him, holding on to him like a child afraid of the dark, but also to make sure that he did not act foolishly in his anger. He was not a man to stamp or rage, but his calm attitude was deceptive. She knew he was furious.

When they entered the hall, however, Hubert was with John at the high table. The music had ceased, the dancing had stopped, and everyone was staring at the bedraggled party of men kneeling before the royal chair. John was sitting at a peculiar angle that spoke of deep pain. He was patently irate, but clearly in too much discomfort to vent his rage in bellowing. Maude felt a rush of satisfaction and fiercely hoped that she had damaged him for life.

A terse question by Theobald to a baron standing nearby yielded the reply that the awaited merchant train had just arrived.

“Half their mounts gone and all the King’s goods,” said the noble with a hint of relish that spoke of a yen for a good tale, no matter that it was someone else’s misfortune. “Robbed in Braydon Forest by outlaws.”

Theobald frowned in dismay, wondering if such news boded ill for his imminent journey. “Fortunate that they kept their lives.”

One of the merchants mumbled a response to a question shot at him. John suddenly bolted to his feet. “Fulke FitzWarin?” he roared, then paid for it as he hunched over with a gasp. “Are you telling me this is the work of Fulke FitzWarin?”

The man nodded. “He told us to greet you on his behalf, sire, and thank you for your generous gift of fine robes.”

John’s eyes bulged and the sounds that emerged through his clenched teeth were incoherent. Theobald grabbed a squire, gave him a message for Hubert, and hurried Maude away. “Best that we go now,” he said. “If they were robbed by Fulke, then we have nothing to fear.”

Maude hurried along at his side. “He is a fool. He will be killed!” She could not keep the anguish out of her voice.