Elizabeth Chadwick (5 page)

“The dog or the woman?”

“You know what I mean.”

“The lady’s name is Oonagh FitzGerald and she’s a widow.”

“Do you think her loneliness needs comforting, perchance?”

The notion of comforting Oonagh FitzGerald was one that made Fulke feel lustfully unsettled. The remark about his gentle hands still scorched his blood. “I think that is why she keeps the dog so close,” he said. “To afford her comfort and protect her from unwelcome approaches.”

“Ah, but your approach obviously wasn’t unwelcome or your eyes wouldn’t be gleaming like that and your ears wouldn’t be so red!”

“God on the Cross!” groaned Theobald from his pallet. “Will both of you put your pricks back in your braies and be about your duties. I could die of thirst or purging while you prate nonsense!”

Fulke and Jean exchanged wry glances. “Yes, sire,” both said in unison and strove not to set each other off laughing.

***

Theobald’s sickness gradually abated, but he had purged so much that he was as weak as a kitten and unable to attend the state sessions in the great hall until the end of the week. By that time, much of the damage had been done. Taking the bit between his teeth, John ruled as he chose. He had not wanted to come to Ireland. It was a mere crumb thrown from the largesse of his father’s table, a sop to keep him quiet, and he had neither the will nor the experience to do the task he had been set.

While Theobald slept his way back to strength, Jean and Fulke had long periods when they were free of obligation. As always, Jean eased his way into the community of kitchen and stables, slaughter shed and dairy. His ear for language quickly rewarded him with a smattering of Gaelic and access to the groundswell of general opinion, none of it good where John was concerned. To the Gaels, he was just another booted foot to crush them. To the Norman colonists, he was an interfering boy who was already bearing out his odious reputation for ill manners and petulance.

Other information was forthcoming too, and of particular interest to Fulke.

“Lady Oonagh FitzGerald,” said the castle butcher as he scraped the last shreds of meat from a beef leg and slapped the marrowbone into Fulke’s hand with a wet smack. “Now there’s a name to conjure with.” He nodded at the bone. “Going courting are you? It’s always a good idea to sweeten the chaperone.”

Fulke laughed. “It would take more than this, I think.” He looked curiously at the butcher. “Why is it a name to conjure with?”

“You’re pitting yourself against fifty others, all with the same notion. The lady Oonagh’s an heiress and a rare beauty. Not often you find both together. Mind you, perhaps you’ll get further than the rest. You’re the first who’s come to ask me for a bone. Of course,” he added, “you’d best play while the sun shines. Prince John will sell her off to the highest bidder.”

Fulke stared. The marrowbone in his hand felt slimy and wet. The powerful smell of butchered steer coiled in the air. It was the law that a widow could not be remarried unless she chose, but it was a law frequently ignored and vastly open to abuse.

“Not a pretty thought, is it?” The butcher turned away to his block and picked up his cleaver. “But it’s the way of the world. You can’t give a dog a bone without killing a cow.”

Fulke winced at the comparison and walked off across the ward. A sudden shout and the close thunder of hooves caused him to spin round and leap aside just in time to avoid being ridden down by a group of horsemen. They drew to a chaotic halt in the center of the bailey, their mounts barging each other, plunging, circling. The short, bright tunics and plaid cloaks would have marked them as Gaelic lords even if their beards had not. Each man sported a magnificent set of whiskers. Some let their facial hair flow loose to the waist. Others wore plaits, and one or two had divided their beards and waxed the ends heavily so that they were as stiff as spindles.

Fulke gaped at them in astonishment.

“A fine sight, do you not think so, Fulke FitzWarin?” said Oonagh, who had walked quietly up beside him, her dog at her heels.

He gave a slight start and his pulse quickened. “Who are they?”

“The first Irish lords coming to pay their respects to Prince John and claim his support for their cause.”

“What cause?” He felt sufficiently emboldened this time to fondle the bitch’s silky ears. The hound raised her nose and snuffled the air, but had the manners not to snatch at the marrowbone in his other hand.

“Their fight against other Irish lords who will also come and try to win your Prince’s influence. It has always been the same in this land. No single man is strong enough to hold the rest, and because they all have a similar power, they spend their time waging futile war.” She looked up at him. “Your Prince has mercenaries; your Prince has barrels of silver pennies to buy weapons and men; therefore, he is to be courted.”

Fulke thought about what Archdeacon Gerald had said on the crossing about those barrels of pennies. “I do not believe he will make much of a bridegroom,” he said, then reddened because that last word set his mind on other paths.

“Does any man?” she replied with the flicker of a smile. “Are you betrothed?”

Fulke swallowed. “Not as yet, my lady.”

“No.” Her expression hardened. “It is the girls who are bargained away before they are scarce out of childhood. How old are you, Fulke?”

“Fifteen summers,” he said, wishing that the answer were more.

“I had been wed for two years by the time I turned fifteen, but then girls grow up faster than boys. They have to.”

Fulke asked if he could give the marrowbone to the dog. Oonagh nodded and spoke in Gaelic. The bitch wagged her tail and, opening her formidable jaws, took the offering from Fulke’s hand with a ladylike dignity. “Someone told me that Prince John would sell you in marriage to the highest bidder.”

Oonagh laughed and the sound sent a chill down Fulke’s spine. “He can try,” she said, and laid her hand on his sleeve. “Would you offer for me?”

Fulke knew very well she was playing with him. “If I did, he would refuse it. Prince John does not look kindly on me.”

“The kindness would be in his refusal, I promise you. You would not want me for a wife.”

“I—”

“Fulke, we’re needed in the hall!” Jean came running across the ward. “William de Burgh wants attendants for the Irish lords and we’re to do duty.” Arriving, he bowed breathlessly to Oonagh and eyed with interest the way that her hand rested on Fulke’s sleeve.

“And do your duty you must.” Oonagh released Fulke’s arm. “Thank you for the bone.”

As the youths hurried toward the hall, Jean said enviously, “I do not know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Make a woman like that take notice of you. God knows half the squires in camp would give their eye teeth to have her touch them and gaze at them the way she gazes at you.”

Fulke looked embarrassed. “She was just teasing.”

“Aye, well, you’re fortunate to be so teased.”

On reaching the hall they were immediately directed to the high table and commanded to bring wine. The Gael lords were clustered around the hearth, muttering among themselves and fingering their impressive beards. A couple of Norman colonist barons had joined them, their own facial hair clipped within orderly bounds and their dress less flamboyant. Of John and his retinue, there was no sign, although de Burgh was doing his best to play the welcoming host. There was a grim expression on his face and he kept casting expectant glances in the direction of the stairs to the private apartments.

“He’ll be lucky,” Jean said from the side of his mouth. “The Prince swallowed enough wine last night to sink a cog. Even if he does appear, he’ll be in no fit state to greet important guests.”

Jean’s words were borne out. As he and Fulke presented wine to the guests, there was a fanfare of trumpets from the far end of the room and two guards emerged from the stair entrance to flank the arrival of the royal retinue.

Fulke almost overflowed the cup, but the chieftain did not notice for his own attention was fixed on the group emerging from the darkness of the stairway into the daylit great hall.

John was plainly still suffering from the excesses of the previous evening. His tread was unsteady and if he had been to bed, it was in his clothes, which were rumpled and stained. His dark hair stood up in spikes around the gold circlet binding his brow. He resembled a beggar in borrowed robes, or a boy masquerading as a man, trying to hide his inexperience behind a keg of wine. His companions were in no better case, all of them lurching and red-eyed.

Ignoring the group by the hearth, John tottered over to the dais and slumped down in the high-backed chair that stood behind a napery-covered trestle. His retinue arranged themselves around him like a throng of half-dead butterflies.

“Wine,” John snarled and clicked his fingers.

Fulke watched a hapless junior squire scurry to the Prince’s bidding and felt great sympathy for the youth and contempt for John. To avoid the royal eye and with it the royal malice, he busied himself among the guests where John’s blatant bad manners and ignorance had caused the muttering to grow more vociferous.

“I’ll not bow the knee in homage to a conceited little arsewipe like that,” growled one of the Gael lords in labored French to a Norman settler. “I’d rather give King Dermot the kiss of peace first.”

The Norman lord looked uneasy. “The Prince is in his cups,” he excused. “I do not imagine he was expecting our arrival.”

“That’s pigswill, man.” The Irish chief made an angry gesture and Fulke had to step smartly backward before the flagon was knocked from his hand. “He knows that the lords of Ireland are riding to Waterford to greet his landing—to see for themselves what manner of man has been sent to rule over us.” He jutted his beard contemptuously in the direction of the dais. “I don’t see a man; I see a spoiled and useless child. How will he exert control when he cannot control himself?”

Striving to soothe ruffled feathers, William de Burgh brought the Irish and Norman lords to the dais to present them to the Prince.

One elbow resting on the board, jaw propped on his hand, John watched them approach and gave a theatrical yawn behind his other hand. Then he looked around to meet grinning approbation from his companions.

“Can this charade not wait?” he demanded over loudly of de Burgh. “My brains are fit to split from my skull and I’ll never remember their names. They all sound like someone being punched in the gut anyway, and God knows what’s nesting in those beards.”

One of John’s companions choked on a guffaw. Fulke winced. In private, the remark would have been amusing, but ridiculing allies and vassals in public was stupid, dangerous, and shameful.

“What’s nesting will be a serious rebellion unless you mend your attitude,” de Burgh muttered. “Sire, you cannot afford to antagonize these men.”

“I can afford anything I want,” John slurred.

“Including a bloody war when you could have peace?” de Burgh hissed. “Many of them speak French. You have already caused untold damage.”

“Christ’s cods! You prate like an old woman!” John drew himself upright and affected an air of regal dignity. “Kneel and do your homage to me,” he commanded in a raised voice. “Then you can go.”

After a long hesitation, Robert FitzAlan, one of the settler Normans, came forward to bend the knee and take his oath of allegiance. He spoke as if he had a constriction in his throat but somehow managed the declaration. But he was alone. To a man, the Irish lords turned around and walked out, their acknowledgment of John’s right to rule ungiven. They collected their weapons from the steward at the door, and they were gone.

A cursing William de Burgh ran after them to try to persuade them to stay, but returned empty-handed. Expression thunderous, he strode toward the dais.

John lurched to his feet. “Whatever you are going to say, you can keep it behind your teeth,” he said. “You forced me to attend on them. You take the consequences.” He swayed down the dais steps. “I’m retiring to my chamber and you will not disturb me again.”

De Burgh stopped as if he had been struck with a poleaxe. The Norman lord who had sworn allegiance looked sick. Fulke eyed the flagon in his hand and thought of the one in Westminster, and how John had blamed him and ordered him to pay. And in the end he thought, everyone
would
pay for John’s willful conceit, perhaps with their lives. He was no longer playing petty games of chess and dice. The board was larger, the stakes higher, and the only way to win was by ruthless commitment.

Theobald came down to the hall on the third evening following their arrival in Waterford. His stomach was still tender, but had settled sufficiently to allow him to rise from his bed, and he could consume bread and watered wine without being sick.

The evening meal and festivities were marked by a significant absence of Gael lords, although there were a reasonable number of colonist Normans and their families. Theobald had been horrified when his squires had told him of John’s behavior toward the chieftains who had come to pay him homage. One of the barons, John de Courcy, had written to King Henry, informing him of the Prince’s conduct and other senior lords, worried at the behavior of the younger element, had signed the letter.

Theobald was not so optimistic as to believe that a single letter would bring a solution. Henry was notoriously blind to the antics of his youngest son and unlikely to act until the situation became so damning that it could not be ignored.

Breaking a morsel from a loaf, Theobald dipped it in the bowl of chicken broth at his right hand and, mindful of the lady Oonagh’s advice, ate slowly. John had invited her to dine at the high table and she sat not far from Theobald, her eyes modestly downcast.

He had enjoyed her sickroom visits for she was as intelligent as she was alluring. Theobald was not married, but, looking at her, he thought he might like to be. So did every other male present. He cast an amused glance at his younger squire. The lad couldn’t take his eyes off her.

It did no harm to dream. Fulke must know that she was not for him. Her wealth was here in Ireland and her next husband would be a man who intended to settle here, not a raw squire with a future rooted firmly on the Welsh borders.

Below the dais, the trestles were being dismantled to make space for dancing and entertainment. Even as the musicians changed the tempo and cadence of their playing from soft accompaniment to toe-tapping jig, men were on their feet and seeking partners. Oonagh was immediately surrounded, but not for long as there was a sudden flurry of snaps and snarls from the protective dog. Oonagh sharply bade the hound lie down.

John was laughing as he waved her admirers away. He murmured in Oonagh’s ear and, linking her hand in his, claimed her for himself. As he drew her to the cleared space in the main part of the hall, she gave him a coquettish look and said something in reply that brought a flush of lust to his face. When they began to dance, it was with a symmetry that was hypnotic to watch.

Leaning to replenish Theobald’s cup, Fulke almost knocked it over. The older man could sense the agitation coming off his squire in waves.

“You’re better off out of it, lad,” Theobald said. “I am not saying her character is like his, but they share similar traits. When it comes to matters of the heart, or should I say lusts of the body, they are both predators.”

“She doesn’t know what he is like,” Fulke muttered.

“Oh, I think she does, and she is very clever,” Theobald contradicted. “If she had agreed to dance with one of the others, they would have taken it as preferment to their suit. By going with John, she has put herself above them. If I am right, the next man she partners will be an older one and firmly wed.” He lifted his gaze to his squire. “Long for her if you want, Fulke, but curb your jealousy. She is not for you.”

Fulke flushed. “John’s a lecher,” he said.

“John’s an opportunist, and he exerts an attraction for women, but Lady FitzGerald can take care of herself. She is no innocent. If she was, do you think she would be flirting with the Prince as she is? Open your eyes, lad.”

Fulke’s color darkened and, for a moment, Theobald thought that he was going to face a rebellion. To his credit, however, the boy contained his anger. “Yes, sir,” he said stiffly.

“Ah, God, you’re so young. What can I tell you? We use our bodies to shoulder aside whatever lies in our way. Women use theirs to bribe and persuade, but it has the same result—they get where they want to go.” Theobald wondered if he should arrange for one of the more decent women among the camp followers to provide Fulke with a little education and in the same thought decided against it. The lad was proud, and it would only cause awkwardness where there should be trust and camaraderie. He would not dream of sending Fulke or Jean to procure a woman for his own use, so it behooved him to uphold moral standards, even if they were crumbling all around him.

The dance ended and, as Theobald had predicted, Oonagh partnered an older man and then a settler lord who was known to be devoted to his wife. Then, to Theobald’s dismay, as another lively tune struck up and the men began to cluster, she approached Fulke and asked him to be her partner.

“My lady?” Fulke looked as if he could believe neither his ears nor his luck.

“Unless you would rather decline?” She dazzled him with a look and laid her hand on his sleeve. Theobald could understand her reason: Fulke would never be a contender for her hand in marriage.

“Perhaps you would honor me instead.” Rising from the bench, Theobald extended his hand. “I have yet to thank you for your care while I was sick.”

Oonagh looked briefly surprised, then she smiled. “Of course, my lord.” She transferred her hand from Fulke’s sleeve to Theobald’s. As he led her to dance, she looked over her shoulder to the stricken Fulke. “Will you take Tara outside for me?” she asked.

“My lady.” Fulke gave Theobald an aggrieved look, bowed, and turned on his heel.

Theobald led her among the dancers. The heady smell of attar of roses wafted from her wrists and throat. “Leave the boy alone,” he said. “He’s too young.”

She arched her brows. “Implying that you are not, my lord?”

They completed a half circle and turned. “Implying nothing of the kind. I suspect that you would be too much of a handful for me,” Theobald said wryly. “I am asking you as a favor not to play games with Fulke, especially if you are going to involve Prince John in them.”

“May I know why?” She looked half annoyed and half amused.

“The details are unimportant. Suffice to say that the Prince and my squire are already enemies. Adding you to the brew will only make the pot boil over again.”

They changed partners and returned to each other again. “I like Fulke,” she said, a capricious set to her lips.

“Then in pity’s name let him be.”

“Have you never played the game of courtly love, my lord?”

“I always had more sense,” Theobald said curtly. Queen Eleanor had brought the convention with her from Aquitaine: a fashionable ideal of unrequited love where a man would worship an unattainable woman and strive to win the favor of her glance by composing songs and performing heroic deeds in her honor. Even if the lover did attain the possession of his lady’s body, he was not permitted the satisfaction of spilling his seed, but must hold himself back for her honor. “Play where you will,” he said softly, “but do no damage to Fulke, because if you do, I will kill you.”

“You speak plainly, my lord.”

“I know of no other way. You may not like what you hear from me, but you will never have to sift my words for hidden meanings.”

The dance ended and he swept her a bow. Oonagh returned it with a curtsey. “Not because you threaten me, but for Fulke’s sake, I will do as you say,” she replied. “But first I must find him and my dog. You will grant me that moment at least?”

Not overjoyed at the thought, but relieved she had been reasonable, Theobald nodded and returned to his seat.

***

Fulke took the bitch on a circuit of the ward, pacing with her in the gray wash of the moonlight. He kicked at the ground. He knew that Lord Theobald had partnered Oonagh to warn her to keep her distance. As if Fulke could not make up his own mind, as if he were a child. A dance, he thought angrily, would have cost and meant nothing. It would have salved his smarting masculine pride and redressed the balance of watching her flirt with John. He kicked the ground again.

Suddenly the bitch abandoned him and loped across the ward, her tail wagging furiously. The greeting could only be for one person and Fulke swallowed as he saw Oonagh emerge from the hall. She was wearing her cloak over her gown and the moonlight caught glints of the silver braid woven down its edge. He followed more slowly in the dog’s wake, feeling resentful.

She gave a small sigh and shook her head. “You should not be angry,” she said. “Your lord has your interests at heart and in truth he is right. If I had known of your quarrel with Prince John, I would not have asked you to partner me in the dance at all.”

“It would not have mattered, my lady,” Fulke answered woodenly.

“I do not believe that, and neither do you.” She looked at him sidelong. “He thinks I am toying with you…perhaps I am, a little. I like to flirt. But I meant what I said about your hands—they are gentle.” She moved closer, the moonlight drenching her in shades of silver, blue, and gray. Her fingers meshed through his and she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

Fulke would have gasped except that she had stolen his breath. The tightness of apprehension in his belly descended to his groin. His other hand swept around her waist. For an instant she resisted, and he was just about to drop his hand when she melted against him. He closed his eyes. If this was toying, she could play with him forever.

And then she broke the kiss and her lips were at his ear. “I have to go. Think of me when you stand thus with another woman, and remember what I said about gentle hands. A man has need of them to be a good lover.”

Fulke swallowed. “Stay with me,” he pleaded.

“God keep you.” She turned away. The bitch growled, her hackles bristling in a ridge down her spine. Stiff-legged, she began to advance on a figure concealed in the shadows of the tower wall.

“Call your dog off, madam,” said Prince John, stepping forward.

Fulke went rigid. So did Oonagh, but the reaction was brief. A swift command brought the bitch circling to heel. Leaving Fulke without a backward glance, she went to John, the hand that had so recently been meshed in Fulke’s now outstretched in greeting. John said something to her and scowled at Fulke. She answered with a dismissive laugh and together they went inside.

Fulke swore and took himself on another circuit of the ward while his anger, if not his agitation, diminished. He was still too pent up to enter company, however, and finally went to bed down with his roan gelding in the stables. The most a horse could do was kick him in the teeth, which was eminently better than the backhand blow dealt by the pleasure of “toying.”

***

Excusing himself from his dining companions, Theobald eased to his feet and quietly left the hall. There was no sign of Fulke in the ward, or in any of the garderobes. The kitchens and dairy yielded only servants. He found Jean in the guardhouse with some mercenaries, entertaining them with a bawdy drinking song, but Fulke was not with him. Theobald doggedly continued to search, finally coming to the stables where he found the lad asleep beside his horse. The roan cob swung its head and snorted at Theobald with sweet, hay-scented breath. Fulke muttered and turned over, his sword hand curling as vulnerably as an infant’s. Theobald deliberated, turned around, and quietly walked away.

***

“Did you hear that Oonagh FitzGerald shared the Prince’s bed last night?” Jean asked.

Fulke shook his head and concentrated on harnessing Lord Theobald’s chestnut stallion. The court was going hunting and the bailey was filled with the excited yelping of dogs. Their owners stood in groups waiting for their mounts and discussing the likelihood of good sport.

“Well, everyone else did. They said it sounded like a cat being skinned.”

“Do you think I’m interested?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No,” Fulke snapped.

“God knows what’s got into you this morn. I could understand if you’d been drinking with me in the guardroom—I’ve got a head like a thundercloud—but you’ve no excuse.”

“Do I need one?”

“Suit yourself. I suppose you won’t be interested either in the news that she’s to wed Guy de Chaumont. It was announced this morning in the hall. That’s quick work even for John. Beds her one night and sells her off by dawn.”

Fulke cinched the girth and dropped his hands. De Chaumont was one of John’s drinking cronies. He was slightly older than the Prince with a minor career on the French tourney circuit to boast of as experience. Loudmouthed and brash, but with a grounding of education and a glimmer of intelligence. Fulke disliked him, but not as much as he disliked John. “Did she agree to it?”

“She went very pale, but she curtseyed to John and thanked him in a loud, clear voice for the honor he had bestowed on her.” Jean pursed his lips consideringly. “I suppose it was a shock, but not too terrible. De Chaumont’s an arrogant swine, but handsome with it. Of course, there was a disturbance,” Jean added as Fulke led the courser in a circle to prevent its muscles from stiffening. “One of the Irish lords, Niall O’Donnel, had already offered John fifty marks as a marriage relief to take the lady to wife. So when John gave her to one of his favorites instead, there was uproar.”

“What did John do?” Despite his intention to sulk, Fulke’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Threatened to imprison O’Donnel if he didn’t hold his tongue. O’Donnel did, but you could slice meat with the looks he’s been casting at John ever since. His lands march with hers, and the rumor is that he and Oonagh FitzGerald know each other well.” His words were heavy with meaning.

“I’ve never seen her with anyone,” Fulke muttered sullenly.

“Well, that’s because O’Donnel only rode in today. He’s been fighting rebels in the field. He’s as big and blond as a lion with muscles to match.”

Fulke scowled. Salt was being well and truly rubbed into a smarting wound. Before he could decide whether to retaliate or ignore it, Lord Theobald arrived, his short hunting cloak pinned at his shoulder and his fist curled around the haft of a boar spear.

Taking the courser’s reins from Fulke, he made no comment on Fulke’s absence of the previous night, except to inquire if he had eaten.

“Yes, sire,” Fulke said with lowered eyes.