Elizabeth Chadwick (4 page)

“Indeed?”

Fulke cleared his throat. “As soon as the winter storms abate, we’re going to Ireland.”

“Ireland!” His mother stared at him in consternation. “Why? What for?”

“King Henry has given John its lordship,” Fulke said. “He’s to go there and take oaths of fealty from the Irish clansmen and the Norman settlers.” He knew what everyone thought of Ireland: a back-of-beyond place across a dangerous expanse of cold, dark water. It always rained and it was infested with bogs and quarrelsome barelegged warriors who were less civilized than beasts. They were half ruled by a group of Norman colonists whose reputation was little better than the savages they were supposed to be governing.

“It was either that or the Holy Land,” said Jean. “King Henry has been offered the throne of Jerusalem since their King is rotting to death from leprosy and may soon die. He didn’t accept it, but Prince John was like a dog who spots a marrow bone just out of reach on a butcher’s block.”

“John, King of Jerusalem!” Brunin choked on his wine and Hawise had to thump his back.

“Henry said that he was too young and inexperienced for the responsibility, but that if he wanted a taste of ruling, he could have Ireland,” Fulke said, “so he’s going to be King there instead, and they’re making him a crown of peacock feathers and gold. Lord Walter is to go with him as part of his household.”

Brunin wiped his watering eyes. “I doubt that Prince John is fit to be King of anywhere,” he croaked, “but it will be good experience for you.”

“You approve then?”

“I do. The Welsh and Irish have many similarities. Their lands are impenetrable to vast armies; their wealth is all on the hoof, and their allegiance is to small and petty chieftains. If you are to inherit and exploit our border fiefs when you are grown, Ireland will do you nothing but good.”

“Why does he have to go to Ireland to learn about the Welsh?” Hawise demanded.

Brunin covered her hand with his. “Because, as you said to me, all hawks fly the nest. If they cannot test and strengthen their wings first, then how will they manage to soar and hunt?”

“Don’t you want Fulke to go to Ireland, Mama?” demanded William, their second-born son. He was thirteen years old and eager to stretch his own wings.

Hawise was silent for a moment. Then, raising her head, she gazed directly at Fulke and gave him the blind semblance of a smile. “Of course he must go,” she said. “Your father is right.”

Fulke eyed his mother curiously. Her reply had been an evasion. Clearly, she did not wish him to go to Ireland. “Mama?”

“You’ll need some more warm tunics before you leave.” Her voice was breathless. “I’ll measure you later today. You’ve grown at least a finger length since I made the one you’re wearing.” The catch in her breathing verged on tears. Excusing herself, she left the trestle.

Fulke looked to his father for explanation, but Brunin spread his hands and shook his head. “Do not ask me to unravel the mind of a woman,” he said. “She warns me to tread lightly on your pride for you are almost a man grown, and yet she weeps at the notion of you joining that world.”

“She didn’t weep when I went to court,” Fulke pointed out.

“Not in front of you, no, but she shed a few tears in private.” Brunin frowned thoughtfully. “I think the firstborn and the youngest are the most difficult to send out from the nest. Besides, the royal court might be a dangerous place, but it is ten times safer than an untamed country across the sea.”

“Should I go to her?” Fulke asked, prepared to do so, but not particularly relishing the notion. He had always viewed his mother as stronger than steel, had never thought of her as being prey to fear. She had instilled in him the confidence not to be afraid of new challenges and situations, so he had always assumed she was invulnerable herself. Apart from assuring her that he would come to no harm, he had no idea what to say. Given the chessboard incident with Prince John, he doubted his line of argument would be very convincing.

“No, leave her awhile to gather her composure,” his father said. “Time enough to speak when she measures you for a new tunic.”

“I’m to have a new tunic too,” William announced loudly. “And I’m going away to be a squire as well.”

Glad of the diversion, Fulke turned to his brother. “Where?” he asked. As far back as Fulke could remember William had wanted to be a knight, to wear mail and carry a sword at his hip. Not just with a boy’s longing, but with a single-minded passion that transcended age.

“To Caus, to Robert Corbet,” William said, his chin jutting with pride. “And I’m to have a new pony too.”

Fulke made an interested sound. Robert Corbet was a neighboring lord and a man of some influence in the Marches. Indeed, he was their overlord in respect of several manors including one of their major residences at Alberbury, and the Corbets had strong ties with the royal line of Gwynedd. While not acquiring the polish of Henry’s court, William would obtain a sound grounding.

“I’m going too,” announced eleven-year-old Philip, not to be outdone. He was somewhat quieter than William and Ivo, more thoughtful and less likely to act upon the goad of the moment. He was also the only one of the brothers to possess the copper-auburn hair of the de Dinan line, everyone else being raven-black.

“Are you indeed?” Fulke raised his brows and smiled.

“Me too, me too!” cried little Alain, plainly not sure what was being discussed but making sure that he was not left out.

“Don’t be silly, you’re only four,” Ivo scoffed. “You have to stay in the bower with Mama and her ladies. So does Richard.” He jerked his head at another little boy, who had eaten a gargantuan breakfast and was still quietly stuffing his face.

Adroitly averting the storm, Fulke rose to his feet and plucked young Alain into his arms. “But he doesn’t today,” he said. “Who wants to practice with swords on the tilt ground?”

The yell was unanimous.

Brunin gave a broad grin. “I’ll go and get mine,” he said.

***

“Your father says your swordplay has improved beyond all recognition,” Hawise said. She turned Fulke to face the window embrasure and measured him from the back of his neck to mid-knee with a length of twine in which she tied knots to mark the length.

“Lord Theobald’s a good tutor.” He looked out of the open shutters on the raw January afternoon. William was leading his brothers in a pretend raid across the bailey and berating the youngest two for not keeping up. A midden heap defended by their father’s squires, Baldwin and Stephen, was their target.

Weapons practice that morning had fired William’s enthusiasm to a state of near frenzy. It was as if he believed that the harder he battled, the sooner he would become a knight.

“Stretch your arm.”

Obediently he complied and she measured him from armpit to wrist.

“I won’t come to any harm in Ireland,” he said. “Lord Theobald will not put his squires at risk.”

Hawise knotted the cord. “If you trust him, then so do I.”

“Then what is wrong, Mama? Why don’t you want me to go?”

Hawise took another measure from armpit to knee. Then, stepping back, she sighed. “I have striven never to hold you or your brothers back, by word or by deed. With my heart in my mouth I have encouraged you to gallop your pony bareback, to climb to the top of a wall, to fly a falcon that could gouge out your eyes with one tear of its beak.” She turned away to place the lengths of knotted cord in her sewing basket. “I have hidden my fear because it is mine, not yours, and I never wanted you to become infected by it.”

“And you fear Ireland?” Fulke looked puzzled.

“No.” She shook her head. “I have heard it is a wild place where it constantly rains and the people are untamed half-heathens, but in that respect it is little different to certain parts of Wales.”

“Then what?”

His mother bit her lip. “When I was a small child, we had reason to make a river crossing on a ferry, but in midstream the boat capsized and I was almost drowned. It was winter, the water was icy, and my clothes dragged me under. By the time my father pulled me out, I was more than half dead.” Her voice wobbled. “Since that time I have dreaded crossing water. I think of the river that almost claimed me, how I was dying even though I could see dry land on the other side.” She compressed her lips, fighting for control. “When I think of the ocean you must cross, my heart dies inside me.”

“I do not fear crossing water, Mama,” Fulke said. “I have traveled on the great River Thames often enough these past months without mishap and I can swim.” He did not add that on more than one occasion he had played at water jousting, where opposing boats would come at each other and a pole bearer at the prow would try to knock his counterpart into the water. What she did not know could do her no harm.

Hawise unfastened a small reliquary cross from around her neck and gave it to him. “Will you wear this for me when you go? It contains a lock of St. Elmo’s hair and it is proof against drowning.”

“Of course I will, Mama.” Fulke kissed the cross and placed it around his own neck, tucking it down inside his tunic.

She forced a smile. “I might sleep a little easier now. I only wish I had something for Jean too.”

“Oh, he wears a token of St. Christopher in his cap, and I’ve yet to see him not land on his feet whatever the situation,” Fulke said lightly in an attempt to ease the atmosphere. He was more than relieved as footsteps hammered outside and a panting William burst into the room.

“Are you still being measured or do you want to come and join us at ambushes?” He was pink with exertion and the joy of play. “Jean says he’ll take the part of Roger de Powys. We’re using the midden as Whittington keep.”

“I’ve finished for now,” Hawise said and gave Fulke a gentle push. “The tunic won’t be ready for trying until this evening.”

Fulke did not require a second bidding. The boy in him clamored to be out with his brothers; the man did too, eager to release the tensions raised with a bout of vigorous activity.

Hawise drifted to the window and watched him as he emerged into the winter afternoon. The wind ruffled his dark hair. She saw how the other boys clamored around him, William foremost and clearly full of worship; she watched the way he organized them, including the little ones. He had always possessed those abilities, but life at court was honing and polishing the skills, taking and changing him. If Whittington was to be theirs again one day, then he was their brightest hope. She touched her throat, feeling for a cord that was no longer there. With a sigh of self-irritation, she turned from the window and approached the bolt of fabric waiting on her sewing trestle. Worry only bred more worry as, with six sons, she had cause enough to know.

The Irish Sea was a deep, cold green, topped with crests of white foam that broke and marbled in the steep troughs. A hard east wind strained the canvas sails of the ships that climbed and fell the mountain range of waves, their prows pointed toward the Irish coast and the port of Waterford.

Fulke’s belly quietly churned as their vessel plunged down the small hillside and surged up the slope of the next. He was one of the fortunate ones, his nausea being mild. Lord Theobald, Jean de Rampaigne, and other members of John’s entourage were incapacitated in the deck shelter, all of them as green as new cheese and puking like pregnant women. Apart from the crew and a Welsh archdeacon, Fulke was the only one still upright, and he much preferred the wildness of the open deck to the groaning stench of the shelter.

The size of the waves made Fulke slightly apprehensive; it would only take one slip of the helm or one swoop of water larger than the rest to send their vessel to the bottom of the Irish Sea. He could well understand his mother’s terror. In his arrogance, he had thought that playing games on the River Thames was sufficient preparation, but rough water on the Thames was like a caress compared to the hammering fists of the Hibernian Sea. He touched the cross on his breast and invoked St. Elmo, seeking reassurance.

The Welsh Archdeacon staggered over to him, fists tightly clutching his cloak to his body. He was a small man in early middle age with sandy, tonsured hair and a round face with genial features marred by an air of petulance. “If they have no stomach for it now, they might as well turn around and head home,” he said scornfully. “It will get no better.”

While at Milford Haven before they embarked, Fulke had served the Archdeacon at Lord Theobald’s table. He was Gerald de Barry of Manorbier and he was accompanying this venture because he was acquainted with the Irish and their customs. Wherever he went, he carried a wooden tablet containing pages of waxed boards on which he wrote notes with a stylus. The only reason he was not writing his tart and gossipy observances just now was that the sea was too rough.

“You mean the weather will grow worse?” Fulke glanced anxiously at the scudding fleece of dirty clouds and then at the glass wall of sea menacing their bows.

“Only God can say. Their sea is as contrary as the Irish themselves.” Malicious amusement filled Archdeacon Gerald’s sloe-berry eyes. “Why, lad, are you afraid?”

Fulke clutched his little cross. “I have faith in God,” he said stoutly.

“Very proper too, and you will need it. King Henry is sending a spoiled child to do a man’s task. I have no doubt that blood will flow in direct proportion to the amount of wine consumed.”

Fulke said nothing. In all likelihood, Gerald was right—if the inebriated state of John and his immediate companions when they boarded ship at Milford was any indicator.

“Nor,” continued Gerald, wagging his forefinger like an Old Testament prophet, “do I think that those barrels of silver we loaded will ever reach the troops he’s supposed to buy. Mark my words; we’re in for a stormy passage.” The Archdeacon staggered across the deck to look out over the side.

From his precarious position on the cross spar, the lookout bellowed warning of land. Fulke joined the Archdeacon and squinted through spray-stung eyes. As they crested a wave, he saw the hazy outline of gray-green hummocks that did not move.

“The Wicklow Mountains,” said Gerald. “We’ll be in Waterford before nightfall.”

***

A trifle battered, but unharmed beyond the odd torn sail and leaky caulking, Prince John’s fleet sailed into Waterford to be greeted by a handful of Norman—Irish settler barons who had put down conquering roots a generation before. Groggy, reeling from the effects of seasickness and wine, John and his entourage were escorted to the stronghold of Waterford, known as Reginald’s Tower after the Norse leader who had originally built it.

Lord Theobald had been violently ill throughout the crossing and only a tremendous effort of will kept him upright as a groom led forward a bay gelding. He grasped the reins and swayed.

“Boost me up,” he commanded Fulke, the last word ending on a retch.

Fulke hastened to fit Theobald’s foot in the stirrup and push as the baron hauled himself across his mount’s saddle. A muffled oath escaped between Theobald’s clenched teeth and he gave a dry heave into the horse’s mane. Jean grasped the reins as the gelding sidled. His own warm complexion was sallow and his feet unsteady, but he was in far better case than their master.

“Sire?” Jean gave a concerned look at his lord.

“Just keep the beast quiet,” Theobald gulped.

“Yes, sire.” Jean exchanged a wry glance with Fulke and clicked his tongue, urging the horse to a gentle walk. Theobald gave a suffering moan. Fulke paced at Theobald’s stirrup and carried his banner. The moist sea breeze rippled through the embroidered silks and caused a pleasant snapping sound. Ahead of them the Angevin leopards blazed gold on their blood-red background. John’s dark head bobbed in and out of view, crowned by a golden circlet and surrounded by a protective forest of spears and banners. Fulke ignored him. There were more interesting sights to see.

The Irish of the town looked little different to the ordinary folk of England and Wales. They wore the same simple tunics in muted shades of brown, tawny, and green. Here and there, an occasional blue garment or a richer dye marked out someone of wealth. The older men cultivated long hair and wore full, heavy beards that put Fulke in mind of a hermit he had once encountered living wild in the forest beyond Alberbury. The sound of Gaelic filled his ears with its strange, musical harshness. He had a smattering of the Welsh tongue, garnered from Alain’s nurse Ceridwen. Irish had a difference cadence, less lilting but haunting in its own way.

He noticed that neither the native Gaels nor the Norman settlers were smiling. People bowed in deference to the spectacle of royalty, but their faces were wary, and in some eyes Fulke was sure he detected a glimmer of scorn. He had an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades, a sensation of vulnerability that only diminished when they reached the safety of Reginald’s Tower.

“Are you able to dismount, my lord?” Grasping the stirrup strap, he looked anxiously at Theobald, whose knuckles were white on the reins.

Theobald nodded wordlessly, lips tightly compressed. Leaning forward, he swung his right leg over the saddle and slid down the bay’s side. For an instant, Fulke took Theobald’s full weight.

Swaying, Theobald pushed himself upright. “Why do I feel as if I’m still on board a ship?” he demanded, then, uttering a groan, staggered to a corner of the bailey where he doubled up.

“You have the same effect on me, FitzWarin.” Prince John paused to taunt him on his way into the tower. “You make me sick as a dog.” His companions sniggered.

Fulke faced John in polite but stony silence. Since the incident with the chessboard, John had taken every opportunity to bait him, although never when Ranulf de Glanville or Theobald Walter were within earshot. Now, with power to wield and Theobald incapacitated, he obviously felt safe to do so. The best remedy was to ignore him and hope he would tire of bouncing insults off a blank wall.

“Sire, will you come within? Everything is prepared for you,” said Philip of Worcester with an ushering gesture. He had been sent ahead of the main party to make ready for John’s arrival.

John inclined his head. “I certainly have no desire to remain out here with dolts and bumpkins,” he said. “Perhaps you will see to it that my lord Walter receives adequate attention for his purging. I doubt his squires will be of much assistance.” He moved on and Fulke let out the breath he had been holding.

“Pay no heed,” Jean muttered.

Fulke glowered. “There is a tally in my mind, and each time he goads me, I add another notch.” He went to Theobald who was leaning against the wall, his complexion the hue of lime mortar. “Can you walk, my lord?”

Clutching his stomach, Theobald slowly straightened. “I’ll be damned if I’ll be carried,” he said hoarsely, and took Fulke’s banner to use as a crutch. A squire on either side, he made his way slowly into the tower.

Philip of Worcester had managed to find a wall chamber where Theobald could lie down and nurse his churning stomach. Jean went in search of a hot tisane for his lord to sip, leaving Fulke to unpack their baggage. Theobald lay like an effigy on his pallet. Fulke suspected that not only was his master suffering from the effects of mal de mer, but that he had eaten something that had disagreed with his gut.

He went to the narrow window splay and peered out on a rainy April dusk. His constricted view yielded him the sight of a handful of the bailey buildings. He could have been anywhere from Westminster to Lambourn. The smell of woodsmoke drifted to his nose, along with the appetizing aroma of roasting meat. On the bed, Theobald caught the scent too and moaned.

The heavy curtain screening the chamber from the stairs rattled on its pole. Fulke turned, expecting to see Jean with the tisane. Instead, he was greeted by the astonishing sight of a beautiful woman, accompanied by the hugest dog he had ever seen, bigger even than his father’s deerhound, Griff. It had paws the size of trenchers, a shaggy, silver-gray coat, and his youngest brother could have ridden it as a pony. The woman wore a gown of rose-colored wool in the Norman style and a white veil bound in position with a woven band. Two heavy braids, glossy black as Fulke’s own hair, hung to her waist.

“My lady?” His voice rose and cracked as it had not done in over half a year.

A swift word in Gaelic, a pointed finger, and the dog lay down across the threshold like a giant rug. She entered the room, her step sure and confident. “I was told that one of Prince John’s lords was sick and in need of tending?” She spoke the Norman French of the court with a lilting cadence that curled around the words and made them seductive. Her eyes were a clear, sharp blue and the color of her lips matched the deep rose of her gown. Advancing to the pallet, she looked down at the supine Theobald.

Fulke swallowed. “He has the seasickness but it won’t abate. Who are you?” The question blurted out of him like a splash of ink on a clean vellum page. All the blood in his body seemed to have left his head and traveled rapidly south.

As if aware of his discomfort, she gave him a knowing smile: a little scornful, gently amused. “My name is Oonagh FitzGerald, widow of Robert FitzGerald of Docionell in Limerick. Since my husband died in the winter, my home has been here, and since I also have some small knowledge of healing, it has become my duty to tend the unwell.” She wrapped one of her braids around her forefinger and considered him. “And who are you?”

Fulke managed a clumsy bow. “Fulke FitzWarin of Lambourn and Whittington, squire to Lord Walter.” She looked far too young to be a widow. Her skin bore the flawless bloom and rounded outline that suggested she was not much older than he was. He wondered if he should offer condolences on her husband’s death, then decided it was better not to say anything.

“And you did not suffer the seasickness yourself, Fulke FitzWarin?” Approaching the bed, she laid her hand across Theobald’s brow and gave him a reassuring murmur.

“No, my lady, or only a little at the beginning.”

“You are one of the fortunate ones then, like your liege lord the Prince.”

“You have met him, my lady?” Fulke spoke without inflection.

“Indeed I have.” Her own voice was neutral. “He was in the hall when I was asked to attend your master.” Reaching into the satchel at her shoulder, she withdrew a small linen pouch. “Give him as much as will cover your thumbnail dissolved in hot wine. One cup now, another at compline, and a third in the morning.”

Theobald weakly lifted his head. “How soon can I rise from my bed?”

“As soon as the room ceases to sway and you stop vomiting,” she said. “Although I think you could have answered that for yourself,” she added as Theobald laid back, his color ashen and his throat working as he swallowed a retch.

“I feel like a puling infant,” he groaned.

“Aye, well, that is the state of man from cradle to grave.” Her smile took the sting from the words. “You must eat only dry bread and light broth for two days after you rise, lest the purging begins again.”

Fulke opened the pouch, sniffed the contents, and turned aside to sneeze.

“Mint and ginger, not suitable for inhaling,” she laughed and went to the door. Another word in Gaelic brought the massive dog to its feet.

“How much does it eat?” Fulke asked.

Oonagh gave him a teasing look. “That depends on how hungry she is, and if anyone has been foolhardy enough to take liberties.” She gestured. “Stroke her if you wish. She won’t bite unless I say.”

Fulke was fond of dogs. Indeed, he was more afraid that Oonagh would bite him than the bitch. He went forward confidently, let the dog sniff his hand and swipe it with a long, pink tongue. He scratched her beneath the chin and braced his knees as she leaned on him, an expression of canine bliss in her eyes.

Oonagh watched him thoughtfully. “You have gentle hands,” she said.

Fulke felt his ears begin to burn. “I don’t know about that, my lady.”

“I do. There are not many men thus gifted.” Another command in Gaelic brought the dog from her ecstatic trance to instant obedience and she followed her mistress.

“Doubtless I will see you again, Fulke FitzWarin,” Oonagh FitzGerald said and, with a brief nod, went on her way.

Moments later there was a warning snarl and the sound of her voice sharply raised as she called the bitch to heel. Fulke ran out and met Jean on his way up the stairs, a steaming jug in his hand and an expression of recovering shock on his face.

“Jesu, did you seen the size of that brute? It’s bigger than a pack pony and it’s got teeth like palings!” He looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see the wolfhound padding up the stairs after him.

“Yes, we’ve met.” Fulke’s grin was smug. “Its mistress came to tend Lord Theobald.”

Jean cocked a curious eyebrow. “You look highly pleased about something. It can’t be that dreadful dog. What’s her name?”