Elizabeth Chadwick (55 page)

Although the snow held off, there was frost that winter, hard as the iron edge of a war sword, and the Welsh raids continued through the chiming cold. Fulke moved his herds from the byres and winter grazing surrounding Whittington and pastured them on the royal lands at Lyth. He took out his troops on constant patrols, riding through the frozen silver landscape, feeling as if he were trapped inside a sorcerer’s mirror. Ellesmere Water was a sheet of ice the thick gray-white of loafsugar. Swans huddled among the sedges, breast feathers resembling the fronded delicacy of snowflakes, necks curved round and bills tucked into the warmth of their folded pinions. Everything not dormant endured or died.

Torn between enduring and dying himself, Fulke was in perfect tune with the season. Losing Maude had left him frozen. He could not grieve, because somewhere the connection between feeling and expression had been severed. He lived without enjoyment of life, each day dragging into the next with a dreadful inevitability. His mind functioned on a practical, perfunctory level, but inside there was a void.

The Welsh were elusive. They raided; they slipped back over the border and melted into the hills. The only way to bring them to heel, Chester opined when he and Fulke met to discuss the situation, was to take an expedition into Wales, building castles as they went, in the manner that their ancestors had done to the English after the great Battle of Hastings. But for such an undertaking, royal troops would have to be mustered and the young King had matters more pressing on his trencher. For the moment, his marcher barons could fend for themselves.

In a way, Fulke was glad of that fending. It occupied his time, gave him a purpose to rise in the morning and see each day through to its close. If he pushed himself to physical exhaustion, he knew that he would fall into a fathomless slumber and not awaken until the morning. What he dreaded were the nights when he dreamed that Maude was sleeping beside him. He would feel the warmth of her body, the tickle of her hair, smell her perfume, and would awaken in pleasure only to find himself embracing the bolster. They were the bleakest times, the ones where he thought he would rather die than endure.

His children provided small islands of consolation and warmth in an otherwise barren landscape. Swift to show emotion, Hawise had wept a river of tears at the news of her mother’s death. The tragedy had been made more poignant by the news that Hawise was to bear a baby. Now Maude would never know her first grandchild, or the grandchild know her save in memories planted by others.

Jonetta had grieved quietly with fewer outward signs of emotion, but much prayer in the chapel. The boys had wept, but they had not remained long—a few days for the funeral and mourning and then they had returned to the households in which they were squiring. Clarice had taken Mabile under her wing, mitigating the worst of the child’s bewilderment and finding her own comfort therein. His brothers had visited him too, riding in from the scattered FitzWarin estates to grieve with him and keep him company, but Fulke could only bear so much of their concern and had not encouraged them to remain. Richard was the only one who stayed, and that was because he had always been with Fulke, had never evinced an interest in dwelling as other than a hearth knight in his brother’s employ.

Drawing rein in the biting cold of a late January morning, Fulke dismounted at the gates of Alberbury Priory. It was still only half built, but the walls continued to rise and there was a small chapel to house the FitzWarin family tombs. One day, he would lie here himself with Maude on one side and his parents on the other. For the moment, they awaited him. He removed his sheepskin mitts and blew on his hands, which despite their covering still felt like blocks of ice. Father Lawrence, the Augustinian Prior, came out to greet him and offered him hot wine in his private solar—at the moment a timber hut in the precincts. The masons had downed tools for the winter and the scaffolded buildings had a deserted air, albeit made beautiful and crystalline by the heavy frost.

“You are welcome, my lord,” said the Prior. His tonsure fitted the surroundings, for it was silver too, thick and heavy. “You take out the patrols, I see?”

“For what good it does.” Fulke looked around the solar. A charcoal brazier glowed in the center of the room. There was a large trestle on which stood two heavy candlesticks and a devotional book was open in front of the Prior’s oak chair. “The Welsh will still come and there is no sign of a truce as yet between Marshal and Llewelyn.”

“You cannot make one of your own?”

“Not without breaking my friendship with Marshal and destroying any bridges I have begun to build with the King.” He took the wine that the Prior offered, his hands beginning to tingle and burn as feeling returned. “The herds at Whittington have gone to Lyth.”

“And the herds at Alberbury?”

Fulke swallowed the wine. “I am here to remove them, and to take my daughter and my ward to Lambourn,” he said, adding quickly, “You need have no fear for the priory. Llewelyn would not burn down a church or harm monks. What he wants to destroy is my authority along the March—the keeps that house the men who stand in his way.”

The Prior eyed him. “Aye, well, there is not so much to burn down here as yet,” he said, “but it may be different in the future.”

Fulke shrugged. “Other things may be different too. I live in hope that in the spring the King will give me leave to strengthen my keeps. He must see the necessity by now.” Live in hope. The words mocked him. He socialized with the Prior a while longer, then left him to visit Maude’s tomb. There was no effigy as yet, and even when one had been chiseled out of cold, Chellaston alabaster, it would be a winter thing, white and stiff, reflecting none of the living beauty that had been his wife. Then again, it was only her mortal remains that lay in the church. Her soul, like her namesake, had flown from the window and was long gone. She rested in peace. It was the living who were in turmoil.

He rode on to the keep at Alberbury. Like Whittington, all movable objects of value had been taken to manors that were not under threat from the Welsh; herds and livestock too. The stables were empty of all save the immediate mounts of the garrison and the patrol.

It was Gracia who came to greet him with the welcoming cup.

“Where is Clarice?” He looked around, seeking her familiar figure, but finding only servants.

“She’s gone to see a wise woman over Knockin way, my lord,” Gracia said with disapproval. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Fulke looked at the maid in dismay. It was totally out of character for Clarice to take off anywhere, and to go in search of a wise woman on the day before a long journey was beyond comprehension. “The borders are too dangerous for such a jaunt,” he growled. “Why in God’s name does she want to see a wise woman?”

“She says that we have run out of many herbs and simples and that she won’t be able to obtain the same in Lambourn. Old Mother Ranild always has them to sell.” Gracia shook her head to show what she thought of the notion. “I told her she shouldn’t go, but she bade me mind Mabile and keep my counsel to myself.” Her voice took on a slightly aggrieved note.

“I doubt we are in such dire need of any supplies that she must take herself off across country when the Welsh—” He broke off, knowing that he should not pile his own anxieties on to the maid. Sighing, he dismounted. “Doubtless she will return soon enough. Is there any pottage in that cauldron? I’m as hungry as a bear.”

He was too late and Gracia was shrewd. “And if she doesn’t?”

“When I’ve eaten, I’ll take some troops and ride out to find her.”

***

Despite the bone-chilling cold, Clarice had enjoyed the ride to Knockin. A groom and a serjeant accompanied her for protection. She did not really believe that she would be robbed on the road, or that the Welsh would attack, but her rank made it impossible for her to travel anywhere without an escort. The sergeant rode ahead, the groom behind. Between them, Clarice rode aloof, her dappled gray pony clopping along the frozen earth track. She knew she was being contrary in visiting old Ranild on the day before they left for Lambourn, but since Maude’s death, she had felt restless. There was a need in her to kick against the walls of her ordered existence. Mostly the impulse was contained, but today it had burst forth, fueled by a huge red sunrise over a glittering world of hoar and rime. It was too strange and wonderful a day to spend at the hearth. Owing to her diligence, the traveling chests were already packed. Besides, they did need the herbs. Syrup of white poppy for one. There was scarcely any left in the flask after what had happened in November and it was an essential part of the medicinal supplies. She could have begged some from the infirmarian at the priory, but she wanted more than just simples and potions. The maids said that Mother Ranild had cures for every malady, including afflictions of the heart and sickness of the soul.

Arriving in Knockin, Clarice was directed to Mother Ranild’s house by the village alewife. From the woman’s avid expression, Clarice knew that the gossip was about to spread like wildfire.

Mother Ranild lived in a substantial cot on the edge of the settlement, a little apart but not entirely separate. Leaving the track, Clarice rode past a pen of hissing geese, the male white as a snowdrift, his wives the drab brown of trampled straw, and dismounted with her escort outside the hut’s door. A bunch of rowan was tied over the entrance, and several horseshoes had been nailed to the oak of the door itself. Smoke eddied from gaps in the thatch and Clarice’s sharp nose detected the fragrant scent of burning pear wood.

She knocked and was bidden enter by a firm voice. Signaling her escort to wait, she lifted the hammered iron latch and, suppressing the urge to cross herself, entered the domain of Mother Ranild.

A fire crackled in the central hearth, sending smoke to join soot-blackened rafters. Bundles of herbs were tied to the beams with hemp twine, as were several lengths of dried sausages. The walls were lined with clay jars and even a couple of phials of expensive glass. The beaten earth floor contained baskets of wool and more sheaves of dried herbs. At the far end of the room was a small trestle on which several wooden bowls were stacked. A tall, slender woman was grinding a mixture, using a pestle and mortar of shiny green stone. Looking up, she ceased her work and, wiping her hands on her linen apron, came around the trestle to Clarice.

“What can I be doing for you, mistress?” she inquired pleasantly, and gestured Clarice to a bench near the hearth. There was no curtsey, no acknowledgment of Clarice’s rank. Indeed, Clarice felt as if she should pay deference to the woman, who had the air of being queen of her domain.

“I came to buy nostrums from you.” Clarice perched on the edge of the bench. “You are well spoken of by the women at Alberbury.”

The light blue eyes sparkled shrewdly. “Am I indeed?” Going to the shelves, she took down a jug and poured a bright golden liquid into two cups. “And you are, mistress?”

“Lady Clarice d’Auberville.”

“Ah, Lord FitzWarin’s ward.” The woman nodded as if some puzzle had fallen into place, and handed Clarice the cup. “Mead,” she said, “brewed from my own hives.”

Clarice thanked her and took a tentative sip. The taste of summer flowed over her tongue and spread through her in a warm glow. “Wonderful,” she murmured, wondering how and what the wise woman knew of her. Doubtless the maids’ gossip traveled both ways.

“I have a flask to spare if you want to add it to your list.”

“Thank you. It would be most welcome.”

Mother Ranild tilted her head and considered Clarice thoroughly. “I wonder, though, why you have chosen to come to me rather than the apothecary in Shrewsbury, or the monks of your lord’s new priory.”

“Because I have heard of your reputation,” Clarice answered. “They say you are indeed a ‘wise’ woman.”

“A poor show if you reach my age and you are not,” Ranild said with waspish amusement. “Tell me the things that you want.”

Clarice reeled off her list. Gall-oak ointment and powder, honeysuckle syrup for coughs and agues, southernwood to remove internal parasites, figwort ointment for blemishes. Mother Ranild’s eyebrows rose at the request for white poppy syrup, but she made no comment and added it to the collection on the trestle, together with the flask of mead.

Clarice folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “I am told that you are also skilled in potions to cure ills not of the body,” she murmured.

“Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter, I think,” the woman said with a knowing smile. “Is it a love philter you want? A spell to bind some man in thrall to you?”

Clarice’s gaze flashed indignantly to Mother Ranild’s. “Indeed I do not!”

Mother Ranild chuckled. “Calm yourself, mistress, I did but inquire since it is the most common reason for young women to visit my cottage—that and procuring a remedy for their growing bellies.”

Clarice tightened her lips. “I do not need that kind of potion either,” she said curtly.

“Then what do you wish?”

She swallowed, feeling vulnerable beneath the wise woman’s candid stare. “My…my guardian Lord FitzWarin lost his wife two months ago,” she said. “I want something to ease his grieving.”

Mother Ranild folded her arms and the twinkle in her eyes grew serious. “I do not bottle time, child,” she said softly.

“Perhaps I said the wrong thing. I want something to help him grieve. It is as if he has become frozen within himself. Not a tear has he shed since she died, and yet I know they gather within him until it is a burden he can scarcely bear.”

Ranild looked at her long and hard. “Something to make a grown man cry,” she murmured. “I have no such remedy on my shelves. What you need cannot be crushed in a mortar and scattered in a drink.”

“Then what do I need?”

“You must discover that for yourself. Give me your hand.”

Clarice hesitated, then did as she was asked. The maids said that Mother Ranild could read a person’s future by studying the lines on the palm of their hand. Clarice was not sure that she wanted to know, but her curiosity was as strong as her fear.