Elizabeth Chadwick (10 page)

“Name it and it is yours,” Fulke said, his voice full of pleasure and high spirit.

Theobald gave a pained smile. “You had best hear what it is first: I want you to stand witness to my betrothal to Maude le Vavasour.”

Fulke’s eyed widened and his lips silently repeated the name.

“It is not what is seems,” Theobald said hastily, hot color flushing his face and throat. “I am not an old goat suddenly taken with lust for a lass not yet into womanhood.”

“I know that, sir.” Fulke continued to stare in disbelief. “When I served as your squire, I sometimes wondered if you were human, all the temptations you resisted. Indeed, behind your back, we used to call you ‘the monk.’”

“I know you did, and it amused me. Youths are easily led by their loins. Twenty years on it grows easier to resist the tug—so to speak.”

Fulke rubbed his palm over his freshly barbered jaw. “So, does Maude le Vavasour have vast lands or important family connections?” He was thoroughly curious to know what would drive a confirmed bachelor into a match with a girl who was almost young enough to be his granddaughter. Although he had quickly agreed with Theobald that lust was not the motive, he could not help remembering how Theobald had offered to return the lass to the women’s hall last night.

“Not vast lands, but large enough, and they march next to mine. Her father and I have interests in common.”

Fulke nodded expressionlessly, but something of what he was thinking must have percolated through, for Theobald bared his teeth.

“Taking a wife has always been something I said I would do one day when I found the right woman and the right lands. Well, I’m four and forty now and still waiting. The girl’s dowry is more than acceptable, as are her connections. If I ignore le Vavasour’s offer he will sell her elsewhere and I might not approve of the man who becomes my neighbor by right of her dowry.” He looked at Fulke, his gaze hard and clear. “I am not the kind of man who enjoys unripe fruit,” he said. “I can give the lass the time she needs to grow into a woman and I will treat her well. You have seen how it is with some men, Fulke. They stroke their hunting dogs and beat their wives. The lass touched a tenderness in me last night, and I want to protect her.”

Fulke said nothing, feeling intensely uncomfortable.

“It matters to me that you give your consent to be a witness without a shred of doubt in my honor.” Theobald laid his hand on Fulke’s sleeve to emphasize the point. “You are a new-fledged knight and you have promised to protect the weak and stand firm for justice. I want that integrity at my betrothal.”

Fulke was embarrassed at the turn his thoughts had taken and the way that Theobald had seen straight through them. He was also ashamed that he should harbor such doubts about his former mentor, a man whose honor and moral code had always been impeccable.

“I am not worthy.” He clasped Theobald’s hand. “But I will stand witness, gladly.”

Hubert Walter, Bishop of Salisbury, was waiting in a side chapel with Maude le Vavasour, her grandmother, her father, and a small knot of witnesses. Fulke almost turned around and walked out again when he saw that one of the witnesses was a smiling Prince John, but Theobald propelled him forward, the flat of his hand firmly pressed into Fulke’s twitching shoulder blade.

“For better or worse, he is my liege lord for Amounderness and my Irish lands,” Theobald muttered. “It would be a grave discourtesy not to ask him to stand witness.”

Fulke continued to walk, but his spine was rigid, and if he had been a dog, his hackles would have stood on end.

John smiled, his eyes meeting Fulke’s in open malice. “You
are
making an auspicious occasion of your betrothal, Theo,” he drawled. “A prince, a bishop, a bastard, a child, and Parsifal the fool who became a knight—all gathered in one holy place.”

Fulke curbed the urge to retort. They were, as John said, in a holy place and present to witness a betrothal. Beginning a verbal brawl would not be auspicious in the least. “I am pleased to be of service,” he said lightly, “and flattered at your reference, Sire, since Parsifal was the foremost of Arthur’s knights in purity.”

John gave Fulke a narrow-eyed scowl, then ignored him as if he was of no consequence.

Bishop Hubert raised his arms, spread them, exposing the gorgeous embroidery in his cope, and bade Maude and Theobald stand before him.

Feigning indifference to John, Fulke fixed his gaze on the couple. Theobald was a tall man, active and powerfully built. Maude came up to his armpit, and his size and vigor made her seem by contrast as delicate as a faery child. Against the deep blue wool of her best gown, her little face was bleached of color. White skin, pale hair braided as tight as a stay rope, eyes wide and glassy with fear.

She gave her responses in a faint but clear voice, repeating the words that Hubert Walter put in her mouth, holding out her small hand so that Theobald could engulf it in his tough, swordsman’s grip while Hubert wound his stole over and around the link. Now they were bound together almost as closely as a husband and wife. The union could not be put asunder except by appeal to the Church.

Theobald sealed the promise by the bestowal of a ring set with a large amethyst. Since the betrothal had been agreed in a hurry, there had not been time to have one made and although the ring had been a snug fit on Theobald’s little finger, it was still too large for Maude.

Everything was too big for her, Fulke thought, watching her leave the chapel with her grandmother, her head modestly lowered in contemplation of the loose gleaming gold.

“Congratulations, Theo,” John declared, giving Theobald a hearty slap on the back. “You’ll enjoy teaching her to be a wife.”

Theobald’s smile was strained. “I am not intending to wed until she is ready,” he said.

“Sometimes women don’t know when they’re ready. You have to show them.” John gave him another slap and went on his way.

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.

Normandy, May 1193

Under a flawless azure sky, the array of brightly colored 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, practice their horsemanship, and keep their bodies tough and lean.

King Richard had vanished during his return from the crusade. Rumor, 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 craved. There had been spats and small skirmishes, but neither side was yet prepared for all-out war. Fulke’s father 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 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 fuddled his wits.” Baldwin de Hodnet grinned, pointing at a telltale red mark 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. Any of a dozen women could find them there and addle them beyond repair.”

“Lead me to them this instant!” Stephen guffawed.

“You need money first,” Fulke 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, leveled their lances. Unhurriedly Fulke slipped his shield onto 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 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 brothers’ shout and spurred forward.

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 man’s fashionable crusader surcoat and mail hauberk. It was a specialty of William’s, a move he had practiced 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 maneuverability. 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, recognizing 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 toward 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 skeptical 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 Walter’s 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 mustache 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 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 realized 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 cradled his hands around his wine cup. “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?”

There was an uneasy silence, no one sure how to respond, and all disturbed by the notions and images that Jean had loosed upon them.

“Mayhap someday I will compose rousing songs to honor the dead, both ours and theirs,” Jean said with a grimace. “I will sing the praises of Coeur de Lion as the greatest general since Alexander. I will tell stories of glory and heroism to quicken the blood and fill the eyes, but not now. I could not bear it.”

Fulke refilled Jean’s cup. The young man drank and a humorless smile twisted his lips. “Jesu, I’m sorry. I was the one lusting to go with King Richard after all, and you are forbearing not to remind me of the fact.”

Fulke shrugged. “And you are the one who has gained in wisdom and experience,” he said tactfully. “I can see it is hard for you to speak of that time but will you not tell us what you are doing here disguised as a foreign fortune-teller?”

“I’m acting as a messenger for Hubert Walter. I’m on my way to him now from the court of the German Emperor. As to the disguise…” Jean plucked at his oversized tunic. “There are certain factions who would give their eyeteeth to intercept any messages between Richard and Lord Hubert. But they won’t be watching for a tourney huckster.”

“No, but you look outlandish enough for a local baron to cast you in his prison or punish you for a heretic,” Fulke pointed out dubiously.

Jean flashed a true grin. “I admit I am a little overdressed, but that was for your benefit. Usually I travel as a charcoal burner or peasant.” Unwinding the turban, he raked his hands through his flattened hair and gave his scalp a thorough scratch. “I heard about this tourney and I had a notion that some of you might be here. Seems I’m in luck.” He looked around the circle. “If any of you have a mind, I would be grateful for an armed escort for the last part of my journey.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Fulke replied. He glanced to the side. “Will, I said I would give you the responsibility of leadership. Now you can have it while I accompany Jean to England.”

William inhaled to protest, then obviously thought the better of it and closed his mouth. Riding escort was a dull duty when compared to the hurly burly of the tourney, and even if he did go, he would be subordinate to Fulke.

Fulke turned to Jean. “Now, or the morrow?”

“The sooner the better.”

Fulke rose from his stool. “I’ll put my mail back on then,” he said. “You can borrow my spare gambeson.” Gesturing Stephen to arm up, he told Ivo to ready the horses.

Jean followed Fulke into the tent. “Aren’t you going to ask what the message is?”

“It’s none of my business.” Fulke rummaged in a chest and produced a quilted tunic. The unbleached linen was marked with black streaks from being worn beneath a greased hauberk and there was a tear under one arm, allowing some of the wool stuffing to poke out, but it was still in serviceable condition.