Elizabeth Chadwick (24 page)

Limerick, Ireland, Spring 1201

The rain whispered down, soft as the touch of cobwebs, shrouding the land in swathes of clinging gray. Maude had grown accustomed to the damp climate, to the clouds that constantly swept in, heavy and moist, off the Irish Sea. She had become used to hearing the soft, guttural tongue of the native Gaels in place of French and the stretched vowels of the English; to feeling as if she was living on the edge of the world, where the seasons moved, but time stood still. And always it rained.

Rising from her bed, Maude glanced to the window embrasure where the soft patter of rain was like a song on the shutters. She found herself longing for just a moment’s kindness of sunshine, a warm sparkle to light a pattern on the floor rushes and banish the smell of must from the wooden walls of the keep. In the cold, wet winter, she had kept to the hearth, sewing by the light of candles and rush dips, weaving braid, listening to the harps of bards and the long tales they sung of the history of their land. She had practiced with her bow, rain notwithstanding, until she could almost hit the center of a target with her eyes closed.

The occasional times when there was a gap in the weather, she and Theobald had gone riding together in the wild and beautiful country, green as Eden. With pride and humility, he had shown her his religious foundations: the monasteries at Wotheney, Arklow, and Nenagh. And he had voiced his intention of taking the cowl before he died. Not, he said, that he intended to die yet. But when the time came, as it must come to all men…

Last night in the hall, the bard had sung a new ballad that had crossed the sea from England and traveled with peddlers and entertainers to Limerick on the Shannon. A song of the outlaw Fulke FitzWarin, who had robbed King John of a treasure in rich cloth and jewels, and then outwitted his pursuers by disguising himself as a monk and tying them up in the porter’s lodge of a nearby abbey.

Theobald had dismissed the latter part of the story as disreputable embroidery, but Maude wondered. Fulke was living on a knife edge and mayhap that made a difference to what he would and would not do.

Barbette appeared to help her dress in an undertunic of bleached linen topped by a gown of warm green wool and a mantle of the checked fabric such as the Gaels wore.

“There are visitors below, my lady,” Barbette murmured as she positioned a circular silver brooch high on the mantle. “An Irish lady, but she speaks passable French, and she seems to know your lord husband.”

“Her name?”

Barbette shrugged. “I do not know, my lady. It sounded like the kind of noise men make when they’re practicing with swords.”

Maude’s lips twitched. “That is not very kind.”

“I cannot help it, my lady. Perhaps I am not very kind because she is very beautiful and, when I left, all the men were hanging on her every word. Do they not say that St. Patrick banished all the snakes from Ireland? Well, I do wonder if he left one behind.”

Maude was intrigued and the ennui of another soft gray day receded as it was overtaken by curiosity and anticipation. Any woman who could make Theobald sit up and take notice was bound to be interesting, especially if she had a name that sounded like the noise men made in battle practice…which was also the sort of noise they made in bed.

Maude arrived in the hall to find Theobald still seated at the high table, lingering over the breaking of fast as he very seldom did these days. He was wearing his customary long robe, bereft of embellishment, charcoal-dark in color so that it appeared little different from a monastic habit, save that there was a gilded leather belt at his waist and a fine hunting dagger slung from it.

He was listening intently to a woman seated at his left-hand side. She was elegantly clad in the Norman fashion, her gown of rose-colored wool laced to show the curve of breast and hip, and her veil worn in a style that exposed her white throat and her glossy black braids. The woman’s hand rested on Theobald’s sleeve and her manner, even from a distance, seemed distinctly flirtatious.

As Maude came closer, she realized that their guest was older than she first appeared. Fine lines radiated from her eye corners and two small creases tracked between her nose and mouth.

“My lord.” Maude curtseyed formally to her husband, a question in her eyes.

Clearing his throat, Theobald rose to his feet, kissed her hand, and sat her on his other side. “My lady. This is Oonagh O’Donnel who is here to bring her son as an oblate to Wotheney.”

Maude murmured a courteous greeting. So that was why Theobald had stayed to listen to her. Her son was to take the cowl.

“I knew your husband many years ago when he came with Prince John to try and tame the Irish,” said the woman in a husky purr. “Indeed, it was even possible that we might have wed.”

Maude made a sound of polite interest and accepted the bread, cheese, and wine that the squire on duty served at her place. Oonagh. It did sound like a name that men shouted in battle or in bed. Theobald, she could see, was at a loss. “Then why did you not?”

Oonagh laughed. “He wasn’t the sort to be wrapped around my little finger,” she said. “Even though I tried. Do you remember?” Playfully she tapped Theobald’s arm.

Mute, a little dusky of color, Theobald shook his head.

“Ah, but you were a good dancer in those days.”

“He still is,” Maude said with a glance at her discomfited husband.

“Indeed, so am I.” Oonagh raised her cup. “But I don’t dance as often as I used to, and with far fewer partners. I suppose it comes to us all.”

Maude decided it was time to change the subject. “Your son is to enter the novitiate?”

The woman smiled, although the gesture did not reach her eyes. “Ruadri, my middle child.” She gestured to two handsome boys sitting at the trestle just below the high table. They were large, fair-haired adolescents. “Adam has come to bear me company. Collum, the youngest, is at home.” She smiled at Theobald. “Sadly my second husband died almost seven years ago, but he had been in poor health for some time before that.”

Maude wondered why the woman was smiling as she spoke, then decided she did not want to know.

“Yes, we heard,” Theobald said without inflection.

Oonagh finished her wine and dabbed her lips with the napkin, leaving a faint pink stain. “Tell me, my lord Walter, what happened to that strapping young squire of yours? What kind of man has he made?”

“A fine one,” Theobald said tersely.

“I’m sure he has. Even without his antlers, he was a handsome young stag. I was very tempted to go after him and bring him down—and I could have done, you know.” She leaned back in the chair and ran a finger sensuously up and down the stem of the goblet. “Sometimes I still call myself a fool for letting him go.”

“I scarcely think that this is talk worthy of the mother of a postulant,” Theobald snapped, openly agitated now. He rubbed his forehead and frowned.

“Ruadri’s the one entering your monastery, not me,” Oonagh replied without heat. “Save your sermons for him and let me live my life as I choose.”

A muscle ticked in Theobald’s cheek, but he held grimly to composure.

Oonagh eyed him sidelong, a smile curling her mouth corners. “Very well, I admit I spoke out of turn. I hope that Fulke fares well, and that he remembers me with as much affection as I remember him.” She set the cup down and rose to her feet in a swish of expensive cloth and musky perfume. “Now, my lord Walter, are you going to sit there all day, or are you going to show me this monastery of yours?”

Maude was effectively pushed aside, Lady O’Donnel treating her as if she were of no consequence. A chit of a girl, Maude read in the other woman’s eyes, a minor threat to be summarily dismissed. Silently she fumed.

Theobald, who was never clumsy, almost lurched to his feet at her question. “I can show you the guesthouse, my lady,” he said. “Women are not permitted further, but your son is welcome to see everything.”

“Then that will have to suffice.”

Maude watched them leave with the two boys. She could have been awkward and declared that she was coming too, but saw no point. Oonagh O’Donnel clearly did not desire her presence. Beckoning a squire, she told him to fetch her bow and quiver, and hoped that Oonagh’s stay was not going to be a protracted one.

***

Theobald rubbed his thumb knuckle across his forehead, his expression tight with pain.

Maude eyed him with concern. Lately he had become susceptible to debilitating headaches and their frequency had been increasing. After a day like today, it was no surprise that he was suffering. She told Barbette to fetch some willow bark in wine and went to lay her palm against his brow.

“I am glad she’s gone,” she murmured. Oonagh O’Donnel had departed shortly after noon, leaving her son in the care of Wotheney’s Abbot.

Theobald closed his eyes. “She always liked to cause trouble,” he said. “Today she wanted to prove that despite having sons on the verge of manhood, she could still outdo any woman in the vicinity.” He found a smile. “I suppose it would be true if the contest was for harlotry. There is a rumor that she had her second husband mutilated so that she could have her freedom.”

Maude gazed at him in shock. “Mutilated?”

“Aye.” He gave her a wry look. “She didn’t have him killed outright, because that would only have brought her another Norman husband to govern her land. He was ‘injured’ in a hunting accident, so we heard—a knock on the skull that rendered him witless. Obviously she kept him alive until interest waned and when he died, she married Niall O’Donnel, the man of her choice—and there is no doubt those lads are of his siring, not Guy de Chaumont’s.”

Theobald was not one to indulge in idle gossip. What he had told her was sordid enough, but it was the implications lurking behind the words that made Maude shiver and cross herself.

Theobald noticed her gesture. “Yes,” he said, “Oonagh O’Donnel is ruthless and self-seeking. She bedded John when I was here last and, if I had not prevented her, she would have sunk her talons into Fulke too.”

“And how did you do that?” Maude’s hand remained at her breast. She felt like crossing herself again.

“Told her I would kill her if she did. He was no more than a green lad at the time.”

“And she obeyed you?”

Theobald rose and went to lie on the bed. “Not from fear. I think she had a genuine liking for Fulke and thus chose to spare him. You’ve seen those great dogs of his?”

Maude nodded.

“They’re bred from a bitch she gave him as a leaving gift. That is why I think her regard for him went beyond lust.”

“And his regard for her?” Maude’s voice was neutral.

“He was a squire with a youth’s interest in women made all the more intense by lack of experience. She was about your age but a hundredfold less innocent. You saw how she was in the hall, the way she talked and touched. Imagine the effect she would have on a young lad.”

Maude said nothing. She could imagine the effect all too well. Silently she agreed with Barbette that St. Patrick had not rid Ireland of all its vipers. She was glad that Fulke was in England and had no cause to cross the sea and renew old acquaintances.

***

In the morning, despite liberal doses of willow bark in wine, Theobald’s headache was worse and he complained that his vision was strange and blurred. Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear the difficulty only exacerbated the symptoms. Maude wanted him to spend the day abed but Theobald insisted he would rise. Finally they compromised, and those who had business with him came to his bedchamber. Despite the pain, he was busy. Messengers came and went throughout the day and he dictated a plethora of letters and writs.

“You should slow down,” Maude said with troubled eyes.

“Some matters will not wait,” he answered. She could not argue or send those around his bedside away, because he had specifically requested their company.

Again, she went outside with her bow to practice at the targets and ease her worry. Theobald was past his prime, she knew that, but he was not yet in his dotage. He was her buffer from the world, her safe enclosure, and the sight of him ill made her feel vulnerable.

Two hours later, she was in the hall talking to one of the knight’s wives when a panicking squire summoned her to the bedchamber. Theobald had complained that the pain was intolerable, had vomited several times, and then collapsed. He was still breathing and his eyes were open, but no one could rouse him.

With a terrible foreboding, Maude sped to the chamber and went straight to the bed. It and Theobald had been tidied and cleaned while the squire went to fetch her. The tight, crisp sheets, the man flat upon it, his chest barely moving, put her in mind of a corpse on a bier.

“Theo?” She leaned over him and took his hand. It was cold in her grasp and limp. The pupil of one eye was wide and dark. The other expanded as her shadow took away the light from the embrasure. “Theo, can you hear me?”

Nothing. She looked round at the somber audience and fought a wave of panic.

The Abbot arrived and with him the infirmarian, Brother Cormac, a rotund monk of cheerful disposition. Hands over her mouth, Maude watched him examine Theobald with gentle competence. The Abbot stood gravely to one side, his own hands tucked within his habit sleeves.

“I am afraid that he has suffered a seizure.” Brother Cormac spoke in French with a strong Gaelic accent. His brown eyes were sorrowful. “I would be holding out false hope if I said he would recover, although sometimes it does happen. But I think you should be prepared for the fact that God might take him to his bosom tonight.”

“There must be something you can do for him!” Maude cried.

“Daughter, his life is in God’s hands,” the monk said gently.

“But he can’t die. I need him!” Suddenly she was no longer the archer, loosing flight after flight, but the target, struck and struck again. Barbette set a comforting arm around her shoulders. A cup of uisge beatha was pressed into her hands, but she thrust it aside. Tearing from her maid, she rushed into the garderobe and leaned over the pit, retching violently.

The first shock receded, but the pain remained, as if an iron fist was squeezing her core. She braced herself against the wall and breathed deeply. There would be time and too much of it to wallow in her fears. For now, Theobald’s needs were uppermost.