Lords of the White Castle (18 page)

Theobald stood for a moment, opening and closing his fists. So too did Fulke, until he had composed himself sufficiently to go forward and offer his own congratulations.

Theobald accepted them with a preoccupied expression. 'Have I done the right thing?' he asked.

Fulke did not reply. It was not his place, and besides, he was not sure that Theobald would like the answer.

CHAPTER 9

Normandy, May 1193

Under a flawless azure sky, the array of brightly coloured pavilions glowed like a field of exotic flowers: red and yellow, blue and green and white. Tournaments in early summer always attracted hordes of young men, drawn by the lure of sport and the prospect of achieving fame and fortune. Already the field was full of activity as jousters sparred with one another or took practice runs at the quintain.

It was the fourth season that Fulke and his brothers had crossed the Narrow Sea to follow the tourney circuit. For four months they could hone their warrior skills, practise their horsemanship and keep their bodies tough and lean. King Richard had vanished during his return from the crusade. Rumour, abetted by Prince John, said that Richard was dead, likely murdered by brigands, but without hard fact, no one was going to yield John the power he so craved. There had been spats and small skirmishes, but neither side was yet prepared for all-out war. Fulke le Brun had kept his head down and minded his own business, prudently sending his sons of fighting age away from the bickering factions.

Mounting his horse and gathering the reins, Fulke smiled to think that his father had viewed sporting at tourneys as a safer occupation than becoming embroiled in the dispute at home. Already this season, William had suffered two broken fingers and lost a front tooth. And Philip was using his second string destrier because his best horse had been kicked in a fight and was lame. Still, they had won several useful ransoms and their reputation had grown over the seasons to the point where they were spoken of with respect in most quarters and awe in some. Raw novices were warned not to go up against the FitzWarin brothers unless they wanted to lose all save the modesty of their shirts.

Their success was due in part to their individual fighting abilities, but what made them so formidable was Fulke's leadership. They were a cohesive team, not individuals fighting for their own glory. Fulke positioned each man to make the best of his skills. Thus William was always at the forefront of the attack because it would have been impossible to ask him to bide his time and keep a calm head. Baldwin de Hodnet, who was strong and large-boned, usually joined him, leaving Stephen de Hodnet and Philip, lighter but steadier, to follow through. Fulke's role was to lend his aid wherever it was needed and keep a weather eye on the overall position.

Slinging his shield on its long strap behind his back Fulke touched his heels to his destrier's flanks. Ivo joined him, the FitzWarin wolf banner fluttering on the haft of his spear. Still a squire, but on the verge of knighthood, he always rode at Fulke's left shoulder where he could both protect and be protected.

Together the brothers trotted out to warm up their horses and were joined by the other members of the group, William looking slightly the worse for wear after a night's carousing.

'Sure you're fit to fight?' Fulke asked.

'Course I am!' William snapped. 'Have I ever failed you on the field?'

'No, but I wouldn't want you to do so now for wine-fuddled wits.'

'Don't lecture me. I won't let you down.'

'It's not wine that's ruddled his wits,' grinned Baldwin de Hodnet, pointing at a telltale red bruise on William's throat.

Fulke fought to keep a straight face and act the stern commander. 'Well, he shouldn't keep his wits in his braies,' he said acidly. 'Any of a dozen women could find them there and addle them beyond repair.'

'Lead me to them this instant!' Stephen guffawed.

Fulke could see that the conversation was likely to degenerate. 'You need money first,' he said, 'and to earn the sort of money to attract that kind of attention, you have to capture at least two ransoms. Besides,' he added, 'the only thing that's getting stiff between my legs just now is my horse.'

The remark had the required effect. Amid good-natured jeers and whistles, Fulke's small band rode off to warm up.

There were five Flemish knights on the field, intent on making a name for themselves with their heavy horses and equally heavy mail—mercenaries looking for an enterprising Norman lord to employ them. There were many such soldiers on the circuit since the return of the crusaders.

William, as usual, was all for surging into the fray, but although Fulke allowed him to cry a challenge, he restrained him from wading in. 'They're heavier and stronger,' he warned. 'Don't engage for all you're worth or else I'll be ransoming you. Draw their blows, lead them on until they tire.'

William fretted his horse. 'I know what to do; you don't need to lecture.'

Fulke swallowed his irritation. 'Go,' he said tersely. 'And mind yourself.'

William spurred his mount. Fulke directed Baldwin to follow William and peeled off to the right taking Ivo. To the left came Philip and Stephen.

The five Flemings drew up in battle formation and, stirrup to stirrup, levelled their lances. Unhurriedly Fulke slipped his shield on to his left shoulder and threaded forearm and fist through the short straps. Blaze sidled and the bridle rubbed lines of foam on the slick liver-chestnut hide. 'Steady,' Fulke murmured, 'steady.'

The Flemish commander yelled a battle cry, the sound emerging somewhat indistinctly through his full-face helm. His men spurred their destriers and William shot forward like a bolt from a crossbow, roaring his own response.

'FitzWarin!'

Clods of soil flew from pounding stallion hooves and the ground shuddered beneath the force of the charge. Judging his moment, Fulke echoed his brother's shout and spurred forwards.

The sport was rough and hard, but no worse than Fulke had expected. William took the Fleming on the far right, neatly inserting the blunted point of his spear between the mans fashionable crusader surcoat and mail hauberk. It was a speciality of William's, a move he had practised to perfection and the unfortunate Fleming was tipped neatly out of the saddle. William could not sustain the weight and had to relinquish his spear, but since the latter was no good for close fighting anyway, it didn't matter. As the mercenary hit the ground on a winded grunt, William laughed and drew his sword.

What the Flemish knights possessed in weight and power, they lacked in speed and manoeuvrability. By the time the fallen man's companion had turned to deal with William, it was too late. A single clash of blade on shield was all he managed before he was jabbed in the ribs by the blunt spear of another knight sporting a close-cropped auburn beard.

'Your life is mine, yield,' declared Philip cheerfully before ducking under the blow of an incoming mace and galloping out of reach. When Philip's victim chose to ignore the rules of combat and continue to fight, Philip repeated the move. And this time he did not have to duck and retreat because Fulke had neatly unhorsed the third man and confiscated the mace.

The rest was sheer pleasure. Fulke stood back and let his brothers play until the Flemings had all yielded with varying degrees of grudging reluctance.

In high spirits Fulke and his companions returned to their camp, discussing each blow and countermove as they rode. William was more than full of himself, but Fulke allowed him to prattle, recognising his brother's need to release his tension. Besides, he had done well and worked as part of a team instead of tearing off on his own, as was his weakness.

William joined Fulke, his eyes gleaming. 'I told you.'

'Yes, you did,' Fulke acknowledged generously. 'Next time, you can decide the tactics in order to gain some experience.'

William's look of pleasure became tempered with apprehension, making Fulke smile. He suspected that William enjoyed playing wild because he knew his excesses would be regulated by others more responsible. However, being accountable for himself was an entirely different prospect.

Dismounting at their horse line, Fulke handed Blaze to Ivo and headed towards their pavilion.

'Tell your fortune for a penny, m'lord.' A swarthy, black-bearded figure stepped across Fulke's path. He was strangely clad in a loose-fitting tunic and even baggier chausses. There was a sickle-shaped knife in his belt, and an embroidered cloak was fastened across his shoulders by a loop of gold braid. A turban of bright red silk was wrapped round his head as a hat.

'I have no need of fortune tellers,' Fulke said gruffly, and gestured the stranger aside. 'I'll carve my own future.' He was used to being accosted by all manner of hucksters, peddlers, chirugeons and whores, determined to make a living out of the knights who frequented the tourney route.

'That you will, sir, but be not too hasty to dismiss me out of hand. I can be of great use to you.'

'Indeed?' Fulke raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'For how much?'

'A short while of your time; a meal at your fire.'

Fulke studied the man, tempted to kick him out of the way, but stayed by a puzzling sense of familiarity. 'Tell me something then,' he challenged. 'Prove yourself.'

The fortune teller rubbed his black beard with a lean, brown hand. A gold ring flashed, proclaiming that his trade, whatever its vagaries, was a profitable one. 'That scar on the bridge of your nose was caused in a fight with Prince John
of
England over a game of chess.'

Fulke refused to be impressed. 'That is a tale known to many,' he said loftily.

'It was a night in December and it was sleeting. You dined on roast boar in the castle kitchens in the company of Theobald Walters squire, Jean de Rampaigne.'

Fulke's gaze narrowed. 'How did you… you rogue!' he cried, and pouncing upon the 'fortune teller', embraced him ferociously. 'Christ, you had me convinced for a moment!'

'Then I have failed.' The white teeth flashed. 'I was hoping to keep you convinced all night!'

Fulke thrust Jean away and looked him up and down. His face was thinner and the rich black beard and moustache disguised its contours. 'And so you would if you had not made mention of your own name! What are you doing here and dressed in such garb? No. Be seated and have some wine.' He gestured to one of the wooden stools set around the banked cooking fire. 'Never mind fortunes, you can sing for your dinner once I've shed the weight of this hauberk. There'll be no more bouts until the heat goes out of the sky.'

'You wouldn't call this hot if you had fried in your mail on the road to Arsuf under Muslim attack,' Jean said.

'Likely not,' Fulke agreed wryly. 'And for small mercies I am glad.'

Jean turned to greet Fulke's brothers and the de Hodnets as they too arrived in camp and set about stripping off their accoutrements. Curiosity and suspicion quickly turned to delight as they realised their guest's identity.

William wanted to know everything about the crusade, each blow and tactic, each moment of heroic suffering.

'It was not a game like this tourney is a game,' Jean said with a contemptuous gesture at the field beyond. 'When I set out I was a boy like you and I thought it was. Then I watched Ranulf de Glanville die of a bloody flux at the siege of Acre. Never before have I seen living flesh melt down to the bones of mortality in so short and foul a time. He was a man who set great store by his dignity and yet he died with none. 'Jean cupped his hands around the horn of wine he had been given, cradling it to his breast as if for comfort. 'I watched our soldiers kill three thousand hostages when Saladin broke his pledge. Three thousand.' He stared round the circle of listeners, holding each man's gaze for an uncomfortable moment before moving on. 'Can you imagine what that kind of butchery looks or smells like in the burning heat? Can you feel the tragedy and the waste of it all in no matter whose name?'