Lords of the White Castle (11 page)

Fulke did not follow them. Had there been a flagon to hand he would have drained it to the lees; had there been another squire he would have picked a fight; and had there been a woman… He swore aloud 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 took himself off to the stables to bed down with his roan gelding. 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 the youth had not seen Fulke. Theobald dissuaded him from joining the search, saying it was of no matter, and continued doggedly. Finally he came to the stables and found the lad asleep beside his horse. The roan cob swung its head and snorted at Theobald with sweet, hay-scented breath, then lowered its head to snuffle at the lad. 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 grimly 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.' Jean poked at a front tooth with his thumbnail. 'I suppose you won't be interested either in the news that she's to wed Guy de Chaumont. It was announced this morn at the breaking of fast. 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?'

'Well, she went very pale, but she curtseyed to John and thanked him in a loud, clear voice for the honour 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 favourites 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 a roast with the looks he's been casting at John ever since. His lands march with hers and the rumour 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 enquire if he had broken his fast.

'Yes, my lord.' Fulke eyed the ground which was suddenly of great interest.

Theobald swung into the saddle. 'A good gallop in the fresh air,' he said, his gaze both sharp and sympathetic, 'that will cleanse your blood. Make haste and mount up, lad. You too, Jean.'

Fulke went to his roan cob. He had saddled the gelding earlier and left it tethered to a bridle ring in the wall. Girard de Malfee stood nearby, adjusting the girth of his own mount. He darted Fulke a sly glance from beneath his brown curls, then looked to the right where a smiling Prince John had just gained the saddle of a handsome dappled courser with tasselled harness.

Fulke untied the roan' and, ignoring the stirrup, leaped for the saddle and swung his leg over. As his weight came down, the horse flung upwards in a spectacular rear. Fulke clawed for the reins, squeezed with his knees and brought his mount jolting down to all fours. The roan squealed and bucked, arching its back, bunching its quarters, lashing out. It careered into two other horses and sent them skittering and bucking too. The dogs yammered and snapped and men dived for cover. Whinnying in pain and fear, the roan fought from one end of the bailey to the other, eyes rolling, bloody foam flecking the bit rings. Fulke clung like a limpet to its back. Then, in mid-plunge, the horse staggered and its back legs began to buckle.

'Fulke, in Christ's name, let go!' Jean roared, his voice cracking at full bellow.

Fulke heard the warning as if from a distance. He had bitten his tongue and the taste
of
blood filled his mouth. He felt as if the flesh was being jarred from his bones. It was instinct that saved him as the horse lurched and crumpled. Lashing his feet from the stirrups, he flung from the roan's back and hit the bailey floor with a jarring thud. Pain shot through his rib cage like a massive kick. The roan struck the ground in a threshing tangle of legs and tail, shuddered violently and was still.

Curled up, clutching himself, Fulke's eyes met the glazing stare of his mount's. The world swam, sparkled and went out of focus. He was vaguely aware of Lord Theobald asking him if he was all right, of someone forcing him to drink strong wine laced with mead, of the roan being dragged to one side, the curious dogs being whipped off the corpse, and the hunt spurring out of the gates to the halloo of the hunting horn.

When Fulke returned fully to his senses, he was lying on a pallet in Lord Theobald's chamber. Oonagh was leaning over him, her satchel of nostrums at her shoulder and the wolfhound bitch at her side. He tried to sit up, but a searing pain prevented him. Oonagh hastened to his aid, plumping the pillows and bolsters at his back. 'I saw what happened from a chamber window,' she said. 'You have some cracked ribs for certain.'

'Is that why you're here, to tend my cracked ribs?' Fulke glowered, wishing that she would leave him alone.

'Yes, in part.' Rummaging in her satchel she produced several lengths of linen bandage. 'Raise your arms.'

Fulke did so and in seconds she had whisked off his tunic and shirt without him quite knowing what had happened. He looked obdurately at the wall. Last night he had slept in the stable beside his horse and now it was dead. Moreover, she had slept with Prince John, thus slaughtering his fragile dream. 'And the other part?'

She leaned in close and began wrapping the bandage around his chest. 'To ask a boon of you.'

'A boon?' His glance flickered. 'I fail to see what I can do for you, my lady, that Prince John cannot,' he said rudely.

'Then you must be blind, for Prince John does very little for me.' She wrapped and pulled. 'Is that too tight?'

Fulke shook his head in bewilderment. 'But I thought… I was told that you went to his bed last night.'

Oonagh smiled acidly. 'That was pleasurable enough,' she said,' but what I received in exchange was hardly worth the bargain. I suppose you were also told that I am to wed one of his drinking cronies?'

'Yes, my lady.'

'I asked John to promise me my choice of husband. He said he would think about it.' She sucked a breath through her teeth and secured the end of the bandage with a small circular pin. 'Obviously he came to a swift decision. Not that it matters to me. I will be a most loving and dutiful wife to Guy de Chaumont.'

Fulke blinked at her in bafflement.

'Or what remains of him in six months' time.'

The purr in her voice sent a ripple of apprehension down Fulke's spine. 'You mean you'll kill him?'

Oonagh laughed and shook her head. 'What would that gain for me except another husband of John's choosing? But if my lord de Chaumont was to meet with an accident—perhaps take a knock on the head whilst hunting and be rendered witless, the rule of the lands would fall to me, and whoever I appointed as administrator in my poor husband's stead.'

Fulke swallowed. She was ruthless. Theobald, with his greater experience, had been quicker than he to see it, but now his own eyes were wide open. 'So what do you want of me?' There was a nasty, prickling sensation between his shoulder blades. What if she asked him to arrange the 'accident' to de Chaumont?

'I want you to take Tara.' She gestured over her shoulder at the dog. 'As I said, a dead husband is of no use to me. Either Tara would rip out de Chaumont's throat, or he would have her killed for her aggression. She does not growl at you. Take her back to England. She will serve you well.'

Fulke eyed the dog. As if sensing his stare, the bitch raised her head and thumped her tail on the floor. He wondered what Lord Theobald would say about the presence of a pony-sized hound snoring on his chamber floor. 'Gladly, my lady,' he said, relieved to have escaped so lightly. Then he frowned. She had said 'back to England' as if the journey was imminent. 'What makes you think I will not be remaining in Ireland for some time yet?'

'Your Prince.' Her blue eyes were suddenly as hard as glass. 'When the silver is spent and the wine all drunk, then the game will end. There are good men in his retinue. Your own lord is one of them, William de Burgh another, but they can do nothing when they are fettered by the Prince's command over them. I give you until the winds of autumn.' Leaning over him, she brushed her lips against his cheek, then stepped back.

'A pity you are not ten years older,' she murmured. 'Or perhaps a blessing?' Going to the door, she stooped to the dog, put her arms around her and murmured soft love words in Gaelic. Then, bidding the bitch stay, she left briskly and did not turn round.

Fulke let out the breath he had been holding on a gasp of relief and regret, then clutched his ribs at the pain. After a moment the dog padded over to him and licked his hand.

'This was under your saddle cloth.' Seating himself on the end of Fulke's pallet, Jean presented him with a shard of glass that had come from a broken goblet. Only the nobles who sat at the high table drank out of glass because it was expensive and difficult to carry between households without being broken. 'The moment you set your weight in the saddle, it would have pressed into Russet's flesh like a sharp spur.'

Fulke took the piece of glass and turned it in his fingers. Green light smudged his skin. A thick line of opaque red with roan hairs adhered to the vicious point at one end. It was not long enough to kill on its own, but sufficient to drive an animal mad with pain and make it burst its heart. He remembered de Malfee's sly glance and Prince John's smirk of pleasure. Doubtless they had thought it a fine jest.

'I know where to lay the blame for this,' he said grimly. 'My father was right.'

Jean raised his brows in question.

'I should have made sure that the whoreson stayed down.'

In September a galley arrived from England, bearing letters and emissaries from King Henry; and Oonagh's words were borne out.

'We're sailing for England,' said Theobald as he dressed in his wall chamber for the evening meal after attending a private discussion in John's solar. 'The travelling chests must be packed by dawn.'

Fulke had known that it was coming. Even without Oonagh's prophecy the signs had been present in the steady trickle of deserting mercenaries and the arguments of the townspeople over lack of payment for their produce.

'King Henry did not send more silver then?' He helped Theobald don his long court tunic of crimson wool edged with gold braid.

Theobald shook his head. 'If silver has arrived, lad, it is not for John. He might be Henry's favourite son, but even favouritism has its limits. More silver would just buy more wine and Henry's coffers are not bottomless. I suspect that John will go home to a scolding and then be treated like a prodigal son.'

Fulke knew what Theobald meant. The Prince had been chastised over the incident with the chessboard, but the whipping had somehow never been administered.

Theobald latched his belt and checked that his scabbard was securely attached. 'It is not all John's fault,' he said as he ran a comb through his cropped tawny curls. 'You cannot expect a spoiled stripling to do a man's work. Still,' he added as he set the comb down on the coffer, i suppose that lessons have been learned.' Reaching for his cloak, he smiled at Fulke. 'You are not disappointed to leave, I warrant?'

'No, my lord.' Fulke lifted his shoulders, it is not mat I have hated my time here, and I have learned much, but….' He flushed slightly beneath his lord's quiet grey gaze. 'But I want to see my family again and my home.'

'It is always good to wander,' Theobald said, and his eyes left Fulke and swept towards the window embrasure and an arch of wintry grey light. 'And always good to return.'

They sailed from Waterford on the morning's tide. There was a bitter wind to blow them home and a choppy grey sea that Theobald eyed with alarm and Fulke with resignation.

As the last coffers were being loaded on to the ships, Jean returned from one of his kitchen forays with a mutton pudding, a flask of mead, and the news for Fulke that Oonagh FitzGerald's new husband, Guy de Chaumont, had been severely injured in a hunting accident.