Elizabeth Chadwick (36 page)

“I was in two minds whether or not to invite you to my nuptials,” said le Vavasour as the huntsmen paused between trails to dine on bread, spiced ham, and small chicken pasties washed down with watered wine. The dogs milled around the kennel-keepers, the alaunts and wolfhounds standing as tall as ponies, the terriers, wiry and red of coat, snuffing at shin height.

Fulke shrugged and bit into a pasty. “In truth I was in two minds whether or not to attend. With King John back in England, it would have been safer to remain at Whittington.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“For Maude’s sake,” Fulke said. “Because you are her father.” He chewed and swallowed. “And sometimes you have to take risks.” He glanced across the clearing toward two men who had just arrived and were dismounting from their horses: Ranulf of Chester, slim, dark-haired, and Fulke’s own age; de Vesci, a little older, florid-faced with a petulant crease between his brows. Men with whom he had much in common. John had seduced and slept with de Vesci’s wife, to the Baron’s fury and chagrin. Chester was a neighbor; his sister had once been betrothed to Llewelyn and Fulke had set about courting his friendship.

“You will not conduct rebellious talk under my roof,” le Vavasour warned sharply.

Fulke reached for another pasty. The hunt had made him ravenous, and they were very good, just the right blend of spices to meat. “Weddings are traditional places to discuss politics and cement alliances, as well you know,” he said. “If you invited me here, it is because you desire a foot in either camp. Don’t worry. I won’t talk treason behind your back. It would not be good manners and, whatever your opinion of me, I do have a certain sense of decorum.” He helped himself to a third pie.

“If you had a sense of decorum, FitzWarin,” Chester said, joining them, “then you’d leave some of those pasties for others.”

“All’s fair in love and war where these are concerned, my lord.”

Chester grinned and seated himself at Fulke’s side, resting his spine against the rough bark of an ancient oak. “Do you say the same about our King?” He took two pasties, tossing one to de Vesci who remained standing.

Fulke shrugged. “I say nothing beyond what has already been said. I hold Whittington of Prince Llewelyn now.”

De Vesci looked at Fulke. “Are you not afraid that someone here will hand you over to John for a mess of silver? You are outside your own territory and there is a price on your head.”

“Of course I am afraid, but more for my family than myself Fulke took a gulp of watered wine. “But if I paid heed to that fear, it would stifle me. I watch my back; I heed my instincts.” He raised an eyebrow at the three men. “I make alliances with those I trust or whose interests run with mine.” He knew that Chester had a pact with Llewelyn. He also knew, however, that Chester was loyal to John, and the Earl’s dealings were concerned with securing his own borders rather than striking out in rebellion against the King. De Vesci had a grudge against John, was unlikely to do the King any favors, but he was not yet an open rebel. His father-in-law Fulke trusted after a fashion. Le Vavasour was forthright, arrogant, bigoted, and frequently insufferable, but he did have his own peculiar code of scruples. If he intended giving Fulke to John for a payment of silver, he would announce it loudly and do it openly, not through the postern door of his own wedding feast.

“But still, it is dangerous for you to be abroad with John back in the country,” said de Vesci. He put Fulke in mind of a terrier, snapping and dodging, looking for an area into which he could sink his teeth.

“I agree, but I have gone too far down the road to turn back.”

Chester rubbed his neat black beard thoughtfully. “If you were willing, I could speak to John on your behalf—broker a truce between you. You need the security of the King’s peace. He needs experienced fighting men.”

Fulke grimaced. “You would be treading old ground. Hubert Walter has tried before and been refused in the shortest of terms. Besides, I hold Whittington for Llewelyn and I would rather serve him as a liege lord than John.” When Chester said nothing Fulke gave him a look through narrowed lids. “What makes you think that I would be willing to negotiate?”

Chester arched one eyebrow. “Common sense,” he said. “Self-preservation. At some point, the King must either negotiate or fight with Llewelyn. Welsh dominance is always at its height when a ruler is occupied elsewhere in his kingdom. Once John turns his gaze on Wales, Llewelyn will be wise to retreat behind his mountains.” He gestured between himself and Fulke. “We both know that Llewelyn is the better man, just as we both know that John has superior resources. If you are caught in a border war, then God help you. All that will be left of Whittington is a smoking ruin.”

Fulke reddened beneath the Earl’s scrutiny and jumped abruptly to his feet.

“I am sorry, but it is true,” Chester continued relentlessly. “And I would be no kind of friend or neighbor if I did not point it out.”

“Then why did you agree a pact with Llewelyn?” Fulke challenged.

Chester sighed. “Because it was sound policy to do so. Because keeping a Welsh dragon from my door is just as important as serving an Angevin leopard.”

Frustrated, Fulke dug his fingers through his hair. “John is in the throes of losing Normandy and Anjou to France,” he said. “It may be that he will lose England too.”

Chester quietly shook his head, underlining the fact that he thought Fulke was clutching at straws. “John may be many things, but a fool is not one of them.”

Le Vavasour had been watching the exchange in shrewd silence. Now he rose to his feet and dusted crumbs from his hunting tunic. “I would think seriously on what my lord Chester says,” he told Fulke. “At least let him speak to the King on your behalf. John cannot afford to ignore the word of one of his greatest earls, especially if it is added to the opinion of Hubert Walter.”

Fulke gazed at his father-by-marriage. Robert le Vavasour did not speak out of concern for either him or Maude, but out of anxiety for his own lands and privileges. This right of free warren, for example. And who could blame him? A man with the ability to tread the thin line between the factions and not put a foot wrong would reap a fruitful harvest.

“I need to think on what you have said.” Fulke went to untether his courser’s reins from the branch around which they were wrapped. The horse champed on the bit and butted at him, seeking a tidbit. Fulke rubbed its soft nose. “Once I played a game of chess with John.” He looked round at the others. “Doubtless you all know the tale, it’s common knowledge. We were boys and he was angry drunk, wanted a scapegoat, someone to trample. I wouldn’t let him trample me. He and I, we are still playing that game of chess. He wants the satisfaction of winning and I will never give it to him while there is breath in my body. He knows it; so do I.”

The hunt resumed, the men chasing their prey through dappled sun shadow, the horn blowing its trespass into the deepest, most secret parts of the forest. Usually Fulke enjoyed the exhilaration of the chase, the powerful feel of the horse beneath him, the twist and turn of maneuvering between trees and through bramble-clad undergrowth. But as they hounded their quarry, a fine, eight-tined stag, through the forest, he found that his heart was bursting with the deer’s, rather than singing a hunter’s paean to the joy of the kill.

***

A week after the wedding, Fulke and Maude set out for Whittington and, at the Earl’s invitation, broke their journey at Chester. Ranulf still wanted to persuade Fulke to make his peace with John.

“Let him grant me my hereditary due and I will do him homage,” Fulke said with the grim determination of oft-repeated rote. “But not until then.”

Maude enjoyed the sojourn at Chester. The wedding and the celebrations afterward had been an ordeal that she wanted to forget. She was glad she had attended her father’s nuptials, but relieved that the duty was over. Juliana might be able to see the good in le Vavasour’s nature, but Maude’s view of her father was tainted by the past and she could not regard him with any sense of empathy. Certainly she had been surprised by the way he seemed to warm and relax when Juliana was near, the expression of a well-fed cat settling on his features. Smiling and solicitous, Juliana was swift to attend to his comfort, hanging on his words as if they were pearls of the utmost wisdom and doing his bidding as if it were a genuine pleasure. Maude had felt slightly nauseated, but she had recognized how well they suited each other. A pair of comfortable shoes, as Juliana said.

Fulke laughed aloud when she told him of the comparison her stepmother had made. “I would not like to wear either one,” he chuckled as they lay in bed on their first night in Chester’s great keep. “I’m sure that one or the other will find a pebble at the end of their toes.” Outside it was snowing heavily, but they had the heat of their bodies to keep them warm, and coverlets of lined fur.

“You would rather play with fire?” Maude flicked back her hair and rose on her elbows to look at him. The dim glow of the night candle emphasized the declivity between her breasts.

“What?”

“She said that some marriages burned like fire—but that old shoes were better.”

Fulke grinned. “Not from where I’m looking,” he said.

By the morning the snow was piled as high as Fulke’s waist and any thoughts of journeying on were curtailed. He and Maude indulged in a silly snowball fight which became a free-for-all with half the castle joining in. Indoors they played merels and fox and geese, hoodman blind and hot cockles, sporting with abandon like children, knowing this was a rare and magical respite from the knife edge on which they lived.

Fulke took Maude around Chester’s thriving booths and stalls. She waited patiently for him, feet slowly freezing as he enthused over swords and helms, spurs and horse harness, and he tucked his hands beneath his arms, made vapor patterns with his breath and tried not to let his eyes glaze over as she chose hair ribbons and small feminine fripperies for the bower.

The morning after their expedition around the town, the weather began to thaw and, on rising, Maude was sick. Fulke eyed her as she staggered back from the garderobe, heavy-eyed and wan. He knew the signs by now and was filled with a mingling of anxiety and pleasure. Anxiety because he feared for Maude’s well-being, pleasure at a masculine sense of virility and the hope that this time she might bear a son for Whittington.

Maude grimaced at his scrutiny. “I ate too many honey comfits yesterday at that sweetmeat stall by the west wall.” She clambered back into bed and, swallowing, closed her eyes.

“Liar.” He ran his hand over the slight curve of her belly. “When will the new child be born?”

She shrugged. “Likely it was conceived under my father’s roof, so the autumn I would hazard.” Her voice took on an aggrieved note. “If it is a boy, he will claim all the credit for urging me to my duty, and if it is a girl, I will be to blame.”

“If he opens his mouth, I swear I will cut out his tongue and tack it to my whetstone. The credit or blame is mine. I own responsibility full measure.”

A smile softened her lips and her eyes opened, green and clear, drawing him in. “I will hold you to that,” she said. “But still, you cannot start a fire without striking a spark on a steel.”

They kissed tenderly for a moment, and then Maude drew away. Her nose wrinkled mischievously. “Since you acknowledge your blame, you had best find Barbette and send her for dry oatcakes and mead, else I shall be abed and puking until compline.”

***

Earl Ranulf’s wife, Clemence, proved to be convivial company, and she and Maude spent many hours in the bower gossiping over their embroidery and weaving while the men took themselves off to look at horses and livestock, or hunt game with hawks and hounds.

In Clemence of Chester, Maude found a kindred spirit, bright, eager, and strong-willed. They shared similar tastes and opinions, and although there was a gulf of power between Fulke and Ranulf, their husbands were men cast in the same mold. Indeed, the women had so much in common that their friendship developed a depth far beyond the short span of its existence.

A new style of gown was becoming popular: a sleeveless, full tunic with loose armholes that was worn over a tight-sleeved underdress. It was a boon for women in pregnancy. Maude expressed interest and Clemence immediately had her seamstresses fashion one for her in soft, blue linen trimmed with matching braid.

“I do not believe I will ever use one of these gowns for such a purpose,” Clemence sighed as Maude tried on the finished garment and declared that it was ideal. “You are more fortunate than you know to have the joy of children.”

Turning, Maude saw Clemence gazing wistfully at the two small girls, the baby robed in a smock, Hawise in a green tunic that was a miniature replica of adult garb. The child’s auburn curls were caught back in a braid ribbon, exposing the delicate nape of neck, rounded cheek, and sweeping eyelashes.

“Surely such a gift may yet be granted to you,” Maude said. “You have not been married to your lord for long.”

Clemence shrugged. “Almost four years. How long were you wedded to yours before you conceived?”

The answer being a week, Maude said nothing.

“Ranulf was married to Constance of Brittany before me and there was no issue from their marriage either. I doubt in my heart that it will ever fall my lot to mother a child, although daily I pray.”

“I am sorry,” Maude said softly, “that must be a grief to you and your lord.” She ran her hand over the folds of blue linen and felt the slight swell of her fertile womb. “I would be honored to have you and Ranulf as godparents to my next child.”

“And I would be happy to oblige.” Clemence’s soft gray eyes misted with tears. The women embraced. Not wanting to be left out, Hawise came to join in and Jonetta let out a protesting squeal. Laughing, tears running down her cheeks, Clemence swept the smaller infant into her arms and gave her a longing cuddle. And Maude realized how fortunate she was that, whatever the obstacles of daily life, she still had everything she wanted.

In the summer, Fulke and Maude attended another wedding, but this time unalloyed pleasure shared their sense of obligation. Barbette was to marry a young Welsh nobleman, the son of Madoc ap Rhys who had halted Fulke and his brothers on their first foray into Wales in search of Llewelyn.

Despite her advancing pregnancy, Maude insisted on escorting Barbette to the nuptials at Dolwyddelan Castle. After all, she declared, it was only mid-July and the child was not due until late September.

They took three days over the fifty-mile journey, so that Maude was able to rest along the way. There was time to gaze at the grandeur of the Welsh scenery, the purple darkness of shadowed hills, and the narrow cascades of white water cutting paths down the precipitous slopes of the mountains. It was not a gentle land, but it was beautiful and filled the mind with awe at God’s creation.

Maude’s new maid Gracia stared open-mouthed at the sight of the slopes of Moel Siabod lowering over the keep at Dolwyddelan. She had been born and raised on one of Hubert Walter’s East Anglian manors and this was the first time that she had seen mountains.

Fulke was amused at her awe. “The further you go, the higher they get,” he told her. “The Welsh have a mountain called Yr Wyddfa that stands with its head in the clouds. Eryri they call it. The place of eagles.”

“I prefer Whittington,” Gracia said in her flat, forthright accent and scowled at the mountain as if she expected it to come tumbling down on her.

“I am glad to hear it,” Maude said. “You won’t be tempted to go off and leave me for a Welshman like Barbette then.” She gave her senior maid a smile to show that she was teasing.

***

The wedding was celebrated with joy and laughter, feasting and revelry. Three days later, Maude and Fulke set out again on the homeward journey to Whittington. It was an emotional farewell. Maude embraced Barbette and Barbette wept on Maude’s neck. They had been close companions for eleven years, had grown together from girls into women, and parting was a wrench.

“I will send word when the child is born,” Maude promised.

Barbette nodded and smiled through her tears. “Godspeed you, my lady…my lord.” She reached up for Fulke to kiss her cheek.

The weather was kind and the roads firm. Fulke and Maude made good progress and it was only a little after midday when they stopped at Corwen to seek refreshment and rest the horses. Indeed, Maude was glad of the respite. For the last mile, she had been in discomfort with nagging backache and a heavy feeling in her loins, but when Fulke asked her if she was all right, she nodded and forced a smile.

There was a hostelry in the settlement and they were served mead and yeasty golden ale with barley bread and ewes’ milk cheese. They dined outside beneath the low-spreading branches of an apple tree in the garth. Maude was not particularly hungry but she made a token show of eating. Hawise, as usual, devoured her portion with almost masculine gusto and Jonetta nibbled daintily as if she had been receiving lessons in etiquette from the women of the court.

Fulke watched them with amusement. The princess and the peasant, he called them. Hawise left her father and clambered determinedly into her Uncle Philip’s lap. The match of hair color and the family resemblance had led more than one person to think that she and her uncle were in fact father and daughter. “Her appetite puts me in mind of Richard.” Philip grinned.

“Let us hope she never attains his girth,” Fulke said wryly. His two youngest brothers and Ivo were at Whittington, guarding its walls. Only Philip and William had accompanied him and Maude to the wedding. Given his bulk, Richard was a better custodian than he was a traveler and Ivo and Alain rubbed along well together.

Maude pressed her hands to her abdomen, tautly swollen beneath the concealing sweep of her blue surcoat. At least Richard’s girth was spread around his body, she thought, and caught the landlord’s eye on her again. He and his wife had been watching them covertly throughout the meal. At first Maude had thought that it was the natural reaction to having noble guests descend on them, but now she was beginning to wonder. Even if their clothes were fine and the men made a show with their mail and weapons, the scrutiny was a little too close for comfort.

The wife murmured to her husband. He shook his head and abruptly returned to the alehouse. Arms folded ready for a fight, she followed him.

“Whoever says that men rule the roost is not a married man.” Fulke grinned.

“I would not wager on the poor soul’s chances.”

Whatever the altercation taking place, there were no raised voices. Moments later, the wife emerged clutching a besom and proceeded to vigorously sweep the area before the alehouse door. There was no sign of the husband.

“Likely she’s belabored him to death,” Fulke commented.

“If she has, then he must have deserved it,” Maude snapped, feeling irritated.

“Men always do,” Fulke said ruefully.

The alewife ceased brooming, glanced over her shoulder into the dwelling, then walked briskly over to Fulke and his troop.

“My lord, you should know that there were armed men here earlier,” she said quickly, her Welsh accent running the words together. “From their talk as I served them, they intended laying an ambush across the road about a mile from here. It might be better if you were to take another path.” Her gaze went from the two infants to Maude and her expression made Maude lay her hand protectively across her womb.

Fulke sat up, all trace of humor leaving his face. “How many?” he demanded. “How long ago?”

“More than an hour and at least a dozen of them,” the woman said. “They were speaking of a party of travelers with small children amongst them whom they were expecting to come this way from Dolwyddelan. My husband says it is none of our business.” She darted a look toward the hostelry and then back to Fulke. “Mayhap it isn’t, but it would be forever on my conscience if I let you ride on without warning you—for the babies’ sake. I got two young grandchildren of my own, see, and my daughter’s carrying again.”

“Thank you, mistress.” Fulke gave her a silver penny from his pouch. At first she refused it, saying she had not told him for a price, but he insisted. “For your grandchildren if not for you.” At last she accepted the coin and returned to sweeping her spotless threshold over-vigorously, her lips compressed.

“Doubtless one has been tracking us and the others lying in wait,” Fulke said grimly. “They’ll put themselves between us and Whittington and spring an ambush at some likely place.”

“We can take them,” William said with a fierce gesture. “There are fifteen of us.”

“Fifteen fighting men,” Fulke nodded, “two laden packhorses, two women, one of them great with child, and two infants.”

“They could stay behind.” William jerked his chin at the hostelry.

“With men to guard them, of course,” Fulke said, “which would bring our numbers down. And do not say there is no need for a guard. It would be worth any man’s while to take my wife and daughters captive.”

William scowled and gnawed his thumbnail.

“Take Stephen and Ralf and ride scout for me,” Fulke said. “I need to know their whereabouts and movements…and who they are.”

Maude watched William and his companions mount up and ride off. Suddenly she felt very close to tears. Her back was hurting abominably and all she wanted was a quiet haven where she could lie down and rest without worrying about danger or pursuit.

Fulke laid his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers. Then he rose and went to fetch their horses. She watched him, her heart aching with love and fear.

***

Instead of taking the road to Llangollen and an evening’s rest, Fulke led them northeast along the Afon Morwynion. Maude gritted her teeth as her mount bumped along the narrow track. The dull ache in her back had become a sawing pain. She told herself that it would go away if she ignored it. She sang songs to the girls and rocked Jonetta in her arms to stop her from grizzling. Her womb tightened like a drum, and the pains grew steadily worse, causing her to bite her lower lip and grip the reins with whitening knuckles.

A horseman came galloping up fast from behind. Fulke’s hand tensed on his sword hilt as the sound of hooves came closer, then relaxed as he recognized Ralf Gras.

“What news?” he demanded, drawing his horse round.

“They’ve gone to ground in a thicket off the Llangollen road, my lord,” Ralf announced, his eyes gleaming. “They’re being led by Henry Furnel and Gwyn FitzMorys.”

Fulke swore softly, although it was no less than he had expected. Any opportunity they got, they would try and bring him down. He looked narrowly at Ralf. “Where’s William?”

The knight’s gaze shifted from Fulke’s. He cleared his throat. “He thought that a few spare horses would not go astray, so to speak, my lord. He says he will join you with them at Whittington on the morrow.”

Fulke groaned. “He will never change,” he said to Maude. “He doesn’t just spy on them and come away; he steals their horses.”

Maude had small interest in William just now. “How much farther must we travel before we’re safe?” she asked distractedly.

His eyes sharpened. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just saddle-weary and the child is pressing against my spine.”

He continued to look at her and she wished she had not spoken, as she saw his anxiety deepen. “We’ll head for the grange at Carreg-y-nant,” he said. “Then on the morrow we can double back to Whittington. It isn’t far.” He took Jonetta from her, bounced her a couple of times to make her laugh, and then handed her to Gracia.

The name of the grange meant nothing to Maude, and she knew that “not far” to Fulke, who was accustomed to riding at a pace twice as fast as this, could be an interminable distance to her.

The party set off again, but within a quarter of a mile, Maude knew that she could not go on. The pain in her belly was becoming deep and unbearable. As her mount picked its way along the riverbank, it stumbled slightly on a hidden mouse hole and Maude was unable to catch her cry in time.

Fulke swung around from the head of the troop and was immediately at her side. “What is it?”

The contraction tore through her and, for a moment, she could do nothing but cling to the reins, blind of anything but the pain. “The baby,” she gasped as her womb relaxed, briefly releasing her. “I am in travail!”

Fulke looked at her in horror. She saw him struggle with panic and, even through her predicament, felt a moment of bleak humor. He could fight his way out of anything, but a woman in childbirth was enough to turn him as pale as whey.

“Carreg-y-nant is less than five miles,” he said.

“You might as well say five thousand miles; it is too far.” She set her teeth as her belly tightened again.

“But the girls took more than half a day to be born. Can you not wait?”

Maude would have laughed had she not been in such extremity. “I can wait,” she gasped with a last thread of reason before the pain tore into her, “but the baby will not.” As if in confirmation, at the height of the contraction, she felt a strange rending within her body and suddenly her gown, her saddle, and the horse were soaked in birthing fluid as her waters broke.

Cursing, Fulke dismounted and thrust the reins at one of the other knights. “Take the men aside,” he said. “Make a fire and boil some water from the river.” Turning to Maude, he lifted her gently from the saddle.

She heard him speaking to Gracia, was dimly aware of being carried to the waterside and laid down on a blanket.

“No,” she panted, “save the blanket. You’ll need it later.”

Fulke removed it. Gracia pushed up Maude’s soaked skirts and looked at Fulke. “Kneel behind her and hold her, my lord. She has no birthing stool, so you must suffice. It is not seemly, but there is no help for it.”

Through the redness of pain, Maude was aware of him doing as Gracia instructed him. She felt the support of his arms, the power of his body bracing hers. She put her hands behind her, sought him and gripped for dear life.

Gracia was no midwife, but at least as the eldest of ten siblings, she had attended at a birth before and knew what had to be done. However, both of Maude’s girls had been born at their allotted time in a warm chamber with many attendants. This one was coming two months early into a rough wilderness and, if not stillborn, would likely die within hours of birth.

The urge to push was overwhelming. Pain squeezed her loins and she screamed through her teeth. Behind her, Fulke was rigid as she gripped him.

“Jesu,” he said shakily, trying for humor and failing. “It’s worse than a battle.”

“It is a battle!” Maude groaned. A woman’s battle that men rarely got to see, with no ransoms taken, no mercy for the weak.

She cried out as another contraction surged over her.

“Push!” cried Gracia, peering between Maude’s parted knees. “I can see the head!”

Maude swore, her shriek rising like a vixen’s and her nails digging into Fulke’s flesh, branding his forearms with deep half-moons. Tears of effort, anger, and pain ran down her face.

“Why is Mama screaming?” demanded Hawise’s high, frightened little voice from the place where the men were making camp. Someone gave a soothing murmur.

Maude bit down on her lower lip. Now she was not even permitted the relief of a scream. The next contraction rose and surged with the violence of a wave at high tide.

“Push!” urge Fulke and Gracia. She imprisoned her voice in her throat and concentrated on releasing the child from her womb. It came in a sudden, hot, slippery gush and a thin wail filled her hearing. Alive then, she thought, as she slumped against Fulke, gasping with effort.

“A boy,” Gracia declared tremulously as she uncurled the cord from between the baby’s legs. “You have a son.”

Compared to the state of her daughters at birth, Maude was shocked at how scrawny and small this new addition was. His wail was weak and querulous with a slight hiccup between breaths.

“He looks like a skinned coney,” Fulke said, and taking the blanket Maude had bidden him save, wrapped the baby in one of its corners. The wails quieted to snuffles. Father and son considered each other.