Elizabeth Chadwick (25 page)

Drawing herself upright, she returned to the chamber and advanced to the bed. Theobald had not moved and they had closed his eyes to prevent them from drying.

“Can he hear what we say?” she asked.

Brother Cormac shrugged. “Who can tell? It is as likely as not, my lady.”

Maude bit her lip. Kneeling at the bedside, she took Theobald’s hand in hers. His flesh was cold. There was no answering squeeze of strength and reassurance. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and raised her eyes to the Abbot. “My husband wished to end his days as a member of your order. I beg that you ordain him as a monk—and if he is to die, then bury him here among your brethren.”

The Abbot inclined his head. “It shall be done, daughter.”

She pressed her cheek to Theobald’s unresponding hand. “Let it be now,” she said, managing to speak firmly, although inside she was crying an ocean. Tucking her husband’s chilled hand beneath the covers, she kissed his cheek. “Godspeed,” she whispered. “Know that I love you and that your love has meant everything to me.”

She could not tell if he had heard her, or if his soul was already beyond such mortal concerns. Biting back tears, she rose and stood aside to let the monks take her place.

***

Theobald died as a watery sun set over the Shannon, his passing marked by the soft chanting of monks and the mournful cry of gulls in the estuary channel. Candles flickered on the holy oil anointing his forehead and his hands clasped a silver reliquary cross.

Maude found that her tears had dried and she could not weep. The mantle of security that had protected her was gone, replaced by a threadbare uncertainty. Theobald had been granted his peace. She did not begrudge him that. What she did begrudge him was the fact that he had left her naked to the world, to the greed of men who would devour Theobald Walter’s widow in a single voracious gulp.

Higford, Shropshire, May 1201

Fulke was seated on a bench in Higford’s sunlit courtyard, smoothing a nick from his sword on a whetstone when Jean de Rampaigne rode in.

“Christ, you’re harder to find than a virgin in a brothel!” Jean declared as he dismounted and led his horse to the stone trough outside the stable block. The sun had reddened his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His gambeson bore dark patches of sweat beneath the arms and around the upper chest. His hair was gently dripping.

Fulke sheathed his sword and crossed the courtyard to greet his friend, whom he had not seen since the late autumn when Jean had returned to Hubert Walter. “That is intentional,” he said with a smile. “Let John and his minions chase me up hill and down dale. They’ll only waste their breath and resources.”

“Yes, well, it’s my breath and resources that have been wasted this time, and in your cause,” Jean replied a trifle irritably. As his horse ruffled the water with its muzzle, he stooped to the trough, cupped his hands, and splashed his face. “I’ve been through every forest between Canterbury and Carlisle hunting for you. Came here twelve days ago and your aunt had no idea where you were apart from she thought you had gone north.”

“I am sorry for your trouble, but glad that even you have found me so elusive.” Fulke slapped Jean across his damp shoulders. “Come. A pitcher of ale and one of Emmeline’s chicken pasties will improve your temper.”

“God, and still the optimist after all this time,” Jean said acidly. “Don’t you want my news?”

“Indeed I do, but since it’s been simmering in your pack for at least a twelve-night, I daresay it can hold a moment longer.” He snapped his fingers at a stable lad who was trundling a barrow of soiled straw to the midden heap, and told him to take care of Jean’s courser.

“Simmering is the word,” Jean said darkly as he followed Fulke within the cool of the manor.

Jean greeted Fulke’s brothers, kissed Emmeline, and sat down at the dais table to eat and drink. Delving inside his tunic, he presented Fulke with a packet bearing the seal of Canterbury. “To add to your troubles,” he said, then attacked the pasty.

Fulke broke the red sealing wax and unrolled the sheet of scraped vellum. The scribe’s writing was neat, brown, and legible, every word clear as daylight, stringing together into phrases as sharp as the point of a bodkin arrow. His lips moved silently and his scalp began to crawl.

“Theobald is dead,” he said.

Jean nodded. “I was present when the news reached His Grace and also when he dictated that letter. Apparently when Lord Theobald was ailing, he wrote to his brother with explicit wishes that you be informed in the event of his death.”

Fulke swallowed. “She is being fought over like a bone between a pack of dogs.” He stared at the letter again. Hubert of Canterbury had set out the facts with stark simplicity. Maude had returned to England and gone to Canterbury for protection only for her father to arrive claiming that, as her closest kin, he was responsible for her. “Le Vavasour will sell her to the highest bidder,” Fulke said with loathing.

“I think he will trade her for royal favor too,” Jean said between rotations of his jaw. “It is no bad thing to have your daughter in the King of England’s bed. Go through the King’s cock to get at his ear, so to speak, and then marry her off once lust has been sated and rewards reaped.”

Fulke lunged to his feet and paced to the far end of the dais. The words presented him with a vision that was all too vivid. John and Maude in bed together. Sheets rumpled in the struggle for supremacy. Her spirit broken on the wheel of John’s lust.

He swung around. “Is she still in Canterbury?”

Jean washed down the remnants of his pasty with a swallow of ale. “She was when I left, but, as I said, I’ve been on the road for more than two weeks trying to find you, and it’s a full four days’ ride back to Canterbury. Doubtless my lord Hubert will do his utmost to keep her with him, but he can only procrastinate for so long.”

“There’s enough of the day remaining to make a start. We can be on the road in an hour and if we take torches we can ride into the night.”

“No feather mattress then,” Jean said flippantly, but he was already on his feet. “I knew the moment you set eyes on that letter you’d be like a scalded cat. I’ll need a fresh horse. Mine’s footsore and unfit for anything but a meadow for at least a week.”

“You can use one of my remounts.” Fulke left the dais and prepared to issue commands.

Jean stayed him with a hand to the elbow. “Lord Theobald knew about you and Maude.”

“Knew what?” Fulke was suddenly wary.

“That you were both faithful to him.”

“Then I hope by the same token that he never knew how close we came to breaking that faith,” Fulke said and, just in case Jean had the answer, strode down the hall and out of earshot.

***

Maude stared at her father. “I do not wish to dwell in your household,” she said. Dressed in a gown of somber charcoal wool, wearing a wimple of plain, bleached linen, she both looked and felt like a nun. A severe nun who would hold to her faith come martyrdom or the fires of hell.

“I did not ask what your wishes were,” snapped Robert le Vavasour. “It is your duty to do as you are bid. I know that he is but recently in his grave and I am sorry to say it, but your husband was far too lenient with you. Indeed, he has made a rod for the backs of others.”

“His Grace the Archbishop is content for me to remain here beneath his protection.” Maude was determined not to lose her temper. If she did, it would only add credence to her father’s belief that she was a hysterical female, incapable of running her own affairs.

“His Grace the Archbishop has a vested interest in your dower lands,” her father sneered. “He wants to keep them under his control.”

“And your own interest is only that of a concerned father for his grieving daughter?” she retorted bitterly.

He thrust his hands into his belt. “It is because of that concern that I must ensure your wealth is properly administered.”

Maude compressed her lips. “I can take care of my own wealth and, I say again, I will not be governed by you.”

“Your dower lands are in my custody until you should marry again, and so are you.” His bald patch gleamed red. “You will do as I say.”

Father and daughter glared at each other. They were standing in a small side chamber of the Archbishop’s palace, the curtain drawn across, but although the heavy fabric served to muffle conversation, it could not conceal an outright argument from the clerics, officials, and monks going about their business in the corridors of power outside.

The knowledge that she was cornered made Maude all the more defiant. “I will claim the right of sanctuary,” she threatened.

Robert spluttered. “You will do no such thing.”

Maude started toward the curtain, but her father seized her arm in a bruising grip and spun her to face him.

“I will have respect from you, daughter,” he hissed, “even if I have to beat it into you!” He raised his fist.

“You cannot have what does not exist,” she spat. “You ground my mother beneath your heel until she died. I might have been a child, but I was never blind. My only mistake was in thinking it was the way of the world, but Theobald showed me that not all men abuse those who cannot fight for themselves. He opened the door of the cage and I am not about to step back inside it.” With a sharp movement, she wrenched herself free, and tearing aside the curtain almost ran into the main room, surrounding herself with the protection of others. There were curious looks, sidelong flickers of disapproval. Even if this was the secular part of the Archbishop’s palace, many of its officials were clerics and monks who saw women as a disruptive influence.

Maude choked down a sob that was half anger, half self-pity. Despite having Hubert Walter as a bulwark, she was reluctant to lean on him. True, he was her husband’s brother and had been close to Theobald, but he was ambitious too and had motives of his own that did not necessarily march well with loyalty to the deceased. She could not be sure what lurked beyond the bland, flesh-lapped features. He was John’s man to a degree, but above all served his own ambitions. Probably her father was right and Hubert Walter wanted the control of her lands for himself. She was like a grain of corn trapped between two huge millstones.

Her father emerged from the small chamber, his expression still thunderous. Maude walked briskly away, setting more distance between them. He would not dare strike her in the open, she told herself, but still felt afraid and intimidated. There was a guest chamber for women attached to the hall and she hurried toward it.

“Maude, come here,” her father summoned her as if she were a dog, his voice choked with suppressed fury. She ignored him and continued forward.

A fanfare echoed through the room and a herald cried that all were to kneel for the King and Queen of England. As everyone dropped to their knees, Maude sped the last few yards to the women’s guest chamber and gained its sanctuary. Closing the door, she leaned against it, panting. The iron studs in the oak pressed into her spine. She felt as if she were surrounded by wolves. Everyone wanted to devour her. She found herself hating Theobald for dying, and herself for feeling that hatred.

***

Having discussed matters of state with Hubert Walter, chief among them the pressing need to return to Anjou where rebellion was brewing, John decided to pursue another issue for a moment of light relief.

“I was sorry to hear of your brother’s death,” he said. “He served me well, and I was fond of him.”

“It is indeed a great grief to me,” Hubert said. “Theobald and I were very close. It still seems not a moment since we were boys together in Norfolk, and then attendants in Ranulf de Glanville’s household.”

John nodded. He was sitting on a cushioned bench in Hubert’s private apartment, the thick gray glass in the windows giving a distorted view of the building work going forth at a rapid pace. A new aisled hall of grandiose proportions was being built to house the Archbishop’s household, and no expense was being spared. John had arrived at the same time as a cartload of Purbeck marble columns: black and pink like a blood pudding. Sometimes he wondered who was the King of England, himself or Hubert Walter.

“I understand that his widow has sought succor beneath your roof,” he said silkily as he reached for the silver goblet of wine that had been poured for him. The taste and pale gold color said Rhenish and expensive.

“That is true. Lady Maude is currently a guest here at Canterbury.” Hubert’s voice made a calm statement, giving nothing away.

“She must be worth enough to make a tempting marriage prize.” John rolled the wine around his mouth, enjoying the mingling of tart and smooth.

“Indeed, sire. But it is less than two months since my brother’s death and she is still in deep mourning.”

“Deep mourning?” John snorted in disparagement. “Christ, he was almost old enough to be her grandsire!”

“Would you not hope that your own wife would mourn you decently if that unhappy time ever arose?” Hubert asked gently.

John scowled, for his own wife was only thirteen to his thirty-three. Indeed, she had yet to begin her fluxes and he frequently used other women to ease his lust. “Deep mourning or not,” he said shortly, “life goes on and your sister by marriage has need of a protector.”

“She has two of them in myself and her father. Of course, sire, it is desirable that she should remarry in the fullness of time—but to a suitable man.”

John stroked his beard and inwardly smiled at the heavy emphasis Hubert Walter had placed on the last two words. “I agree. There are several barons in my own household who would prove likely mates for Lady Walter.” He saw the flicker of apprehension in the Archbishop’s eyes and felt malicious satisfaction. Hubert Walter thought he could have his own way in everything. Taking Theobald’s widow from beneath his nose and giving her to a man of John’s own choosing would be a salutary lesson to the old lard barrel. The coin for the marriage fine would go into John’s personal coffers, not Canterbury’s. “At the appropriate time, of course,” he added with a smile.

***

The women’s quarters proved to be less of a haven than Maude had anticipated. Queen Isobel descended upon them with her entourage and effectively took them over. Her greeting to Maude was perfunctory and she made it apparent that she found her presence irksome, although she had the grace to murmur condolences on Theobald’s death.

“Still,” she added, tossing her blond braids, “he was an old man and very dull. Mayhap you will have better fortune next time.”

“I loved my husband dearly, madam,” Maude replied, striving not to strike the self-satisfied expression from the girl’s face. “If you had known him as I did, you would not have called him dull. I doubt that I will ever find better, whatever my ‘fortune.’”

Isobel gave a small shrug of her silk-clad shoulders. “I was merely trying to comfort you,” she said and turned away, dismissing Maude as offhandedly as she would flick a speck of dust from her clothes.

Fighting tears, Maude retired to a seat in the window embrasure. She leaned her head wearily against the wall and gazed out through the open shutters on the bustle of building work. The metallic chink of a stone chisel and the joyful banter of the masons and laborers rang in her ears.

Two merchants rode into the courtyard and asked directions of one of the clerics. Their tunics bore the sober, deep dyes of respectability and wealth: fir green and dark plum trimmed with braid. Both wore wide-brimmed pilgrim hats to protect them against the sun and both carried leather drinking costrels and square satchels. She watched them until they rode from sight and not for the first time in her life wished that she had been born to the freedom of being male.

***

Hubert Walter was poring over a heap of documents when the two “merchants” were shown into his private solar. He looked from one to the other and clucked his tongue.

“You took your time.”

Fulke knelt and kissed the Archbishop’s ring, then rose and stepped back. “I am here now,” he said, and beat at the gritty dust on his tunic. “Where is she?”