Elizabeth Chadwick (47 page)

Once inside the keep, le Vavasour swept his eyes around the lime-washed walls decorated with banners and shields, and repeated that it was a pity the place was constructed mainly of timber. He grimaced at the central hearth, remarking that castles these days were being built with chimneys. Maude he greeted with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Her own greeting was equally tepid.

The children were summoned with dragging feet to greet their grandsire. Robert examined Hawise like a horse coper studying the points of a brood mare at a fair and said that he hoped she would develop the hips for childbearing before her marriage. Jonetta was given a cursory glance and Mabile was ignored, le Vavasour making it plain that as far as he was concerned, she did not exist. The boys were poked and prodded and told to speak up, and when young Fulke did, asking why his grandfather was so rude, was promptly informed that he was a mannerless whelp and that a whipping would mend his tongue.

“I suppose,” Fulke said thoughtfully, as if pondering the notion, “that mannerless whelps then turn into mannerless old men, and that it runs in the bloodline.” Gently, he tousled his son’s barley-blond hair.

The children were dismissed and Maude made her escape by muttering an excuse about talking to the cook and making sure the bed linen was aired. “Do you want me to prepare a bathtub?” she asked on her way out.

“And dilute my juices?” Le Vavasour waved her away. “King John might indulge himself every fortnight like a Greek, but I’m northern bred and made of sterner stuff. Away with you, woman.”

“Yes, Father,” Maude said meekly, her green eyes filled with unspoken fury. Head high, she left the hall.

“You are staying the night?” Fulke inquired.

“No point in riding on now, is there?” Le Vavasour plumped down in a chair near one of the braziers that augmented the heat from the despised central hearth. “I suppose I could continue to Shrewsbury, but I do have family obligations after all.” He spread his knees and hitched the fabric on his chausses.

Fulke inclined his head and quietly gritted his teeth. “So, what kind of family obligation brings you to Whittington?” he asked. “Have you finally decided to hand over Edlington?”

“Edlington was only Maude’s in dower while I did not have a son. You know that. Now that Juliana has borne me an heir, it goes to him.”

“I know of no such clause,” Fulke retorted.

“Well, that’s the blame of your ignorance,” Le Vavasour said firmly and shook his head. “I didn’t come here to give you Edlington, nor did I come to argue. As it happens, I am on my way to a council of barons at St. Edmunds, and I thought you might be interested in accompanying me.”

“And why should I be interested?” Fulke knew all about the council because it had been mentioned in certain corners while he was serving John in Poitou. He had kept his head down, but that had not prevented him from hearing the talk and mulling over the details.

“Because it might be to your advantage, and although you serve King John, I know that there is no love lost between you.”

Fulke considered his father-in-law. “Would I be right in thinking that the council will be attended by such men as Eustace de Vesci and Robert FitzWalter?” They had led a group of disaffected barons who had been leveling complaints against John and fomenting rebellion for the past three years. Fulke had tremendous sympathy for them, but he distrusted de Vesci and FitzWalter almost as much as he distrusted John. Their rebellion was as much about feathering their own nests as it was about justice. His father-in-law had de Vesci for a close neighbor, but had never seemed particularly keen to join the protest.

Le Vavasour drank his wine. “Yes,” he conceded, but raised a forefinger as Fulke snorted down his nose. “It is not what you think. The Earl of Winchester, the Earls of Clare and Essex will be in attendance.” He counted the names off on his fingers. “And Bigod and Mowbray and de Stuteville. Half the noble families in England and…” Here he leaned forward for effect and fixed Fulke with a bright stare. “Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Fulke folded his arms as if rejecting the overture, but his stomach had leaped at the words and he could feel the old exhilaration rise and quiver like tiny bubbles in his blood. His had been a voice in the wilderness when he conducted his own rebellion against John. Now, more than ten years later, there was a concerted movement. “And their purpose?”

“To make the King acknowledge the rights of his vassals. To make him realize that he cannot force them to serve him in wars across the Narrow Sea or fund those wars. To bind him to the promise that no free man shall be arrested, imprisoned, or ruined except by fair judgment of his peers. And that no widow shall be forced to remarry or to pay a ruinous fine to maintain her widowhood.” He waved his hand. “And more besides. It is all to be written down in a charter of liberties.”

“And you expect John to agree to it?”

“I expect him to be brought to agree to it, or risk civil war. These taxes and scutages he continues to levy to play his games abroad are bleeding us dry. I know you owe him more money than you can hope to repay. The only reason you went with him to Poitou was to be excused the fine you would otherwise have had to pay. Look at what happened to William de Braose when he could not pay his fines and taxes. Hounded out of his power and his wife and son imprisoned in a dark hole to die of starvation.”

There was genuine indignation in his father-in-law’s tone, but not, Fulke knew, out of any sympathy for the wife and child. What did worry le Vavasour was the fact that authority could be removed at the merest snap of the royal fingers. William de Braose had been no minor lordling, but an earl of great stature and influence. “William de Braose was hounded for being too powerful and a party to John’s darkest secrets,” Fulke said.

“Do you believe John murdered his nephew?”

“I am scarcely the man to ask,” Fulke said. “I may have a truce with John, but that does not make me impartial and I have Breton relatives. Arthur was their Prince and he had a strong claim to England’s throne…until he became John’s captive and that was the last anyone heard or saw of him.”

“Then you do believe it?”

Fulke shrugged. “I believe that Arthur is dead. If not, John would have produced him to stop Philip of France from using Arthur’s disappearance as a goad to war. As to whether or not John murdered him…well, that is a matter between John and God.”

Le Vavasour grimaced. “I have no sympathy for de Braose, never liked the man, but if John can destroy him, he can do the same to any of us on a whim. He must be curbed.” He looked at Fulke. “Will you ride with me to the council?”

“I’ll think on it,” Fulke said evenly. A pity the voices were only challenging now instead of fifteen years ago. But then fifteen years ago, John had been new king and the barons had been courting his favor as much as he courted theirs. Now the goodwill was threadbare on both sides.

Although Fulke had answered his father-in-law in a tepid fashion, his gut told him that his decision was already made.

***

“You are mad!” Maude cried when he told her of his intention in their bedchamber that night. “You fought tooth and nail for your inheritance and now you are risking it by jumping into a stew of rebellion!”

Fulke shook his head. “It’s not a rebellion; it’s a meeting to discuss a charter of liberties, and your father would not be attending unless he deemed it necessary and safe. You know what he is like.”

“I know exactly what he is like,” she snapped. “And that is why I am angry. Are you so filled with the desire to go playing at war that you do not see through his ploy?”

“Maude…”

“He wants you to go with him because his standing will be vastly increased when he arrives at St. Edmunds with his son-in-law, the legendary Fulke FitzWarin, who made an art of being an outlaw and finally brought the King to capitulate. That is why he wants you to join him—to bask in the reflection of your glory.”

“That is likely true, and of no consequence.”

“Of no consequence!” So great was her fury that it made her vision shimmer. “And I suppose this jaunt to St. Edmunds is of ‘no consequence’ too! You are a vainglorious fool! You see your youth slipping away and instead of bidding it gracefully farewell, you’re trying to recapture it in senseless rebellion!”

“It’s not a rebellion!” His voice began to rise and she saw that she had touched a raw nerve.

“But it soon will be!”

“If we can get John to sign a charter of liberties—a code of honor, if you will—it means that never again will he be able to withhold land from a man on royal whim. Never again will a woman be constrained to marry against her will, or an heir pay more than he should to inherit his father’s lands. It is for the good of all.”

“If this ‘charter’ is so laudable, why haven’t William Marshal, Ranulf of Chester or William Salisbury put their names to it?” she demanded.

“That’s obvious. Marshal swears allegiance then follows it unquestioningly like a dog follows a master. Chester’s waiting to see which way the wind blows, and William Salisbury is John’s own brother—another dog.” He held out his hand to her in a gesture that asked for acceptance. “I know that many of the lords who want this charter have their own axes to grind, but there is a core of truth worth fighting for.”

“Worth fighting for,” Maude repeated stonily. “There you have it.” She flounced away and began unbraiding her hair. “I sometimes wonder if all you want is the fight. Perhaps you have been warring for so long that you cannot live without it.” She tugged her fingers jerkily through the plaits, untwining the strands. “I can see it in you. You talk of John’s followers being dogs, but you are twitching like a leashed hound at the start of a hunt.” She flung round to look at him. “Even if you do bring John to agree, he will not love you for it. Why stir up old hatreds?”

“Because they have never been resolved. Mud might sink to the bottom of a pool, but it does not disappear.”

“No, but at least it cannot be seen!”

“And that makes it all right?”

Maude clenched her teeth. It was obvious that whether she raged or not his mind was set. “Do as you will,” she said stiffly. “I will not argue with you more.” She drew her comb through her hair with rapid strokes, snagging the strands, wincing slightly but receiving the snatches of pain as part of the moment. “Go and play the knight errant, just do not seek my approval for your game.”

“You could use your tongue to carve a side of beef,” he said. “I come away bloody from any encounter. I’m as sick of fighting as you are.” Striding to the door, he banged out. Moments later there was a curse as he tripped over one of the sleepers in the antechamber.

Maude bit her lip and continued to comb her hair, smoothing and slowing the motion to try and calm the hammer of her heart and the churn of her thoughts. Was she wrong to castigate him? Should she have smiled and said he was doing the right thing? John had many damning traits, and it was true that checks on his abuses of power would be of benefit to all, but surely others could carry the torch. Fulke had done more than enough. The difficulty was that Fulke felt there were still scores to be settled and a resolution to be reached. He could see himself as one of many rather than a man alone. Oh yes, she could understand the seduction, but that did not make it any better.

She removed her gown, her shoes and hose, but retained her chemise for warmth as she climbed between the sheets. The bed was cold without Fulke’s solid frame to warm her back and her icy feet. Maude curled up, drawing her knees toward her chin, and stared at the night candle, waiting. They had had arguments before—theirs was no milk-and-water marriage—but always the bed had been a source of reconciliation with passion redirected and channeled through flesh. Even if one of them stormed out in a rage, they always came back.

Her eyelids drooped. She woke with a sudden start, thinking that she had been asleep only moments, but the night candle was guttering on its pricket, the bed was cold, and it was obvious that Fulke was not returning to lie in it.

***

“Women,” said le Vavasour as he poured another generous measure of wine into Fulke’s cup—he could afford to do so, since it was Fulke’s wine, “best not to give them ideas beyond bedding and breeding. Any man who does is storing up trouble for himself.”

Fulke drank the wine and sank in its cool red poison. “She goads me beyond bearing,” he said. Somewhere in the wine fumes skulked the knowledge that he had walked out because Maude was far too perceptive. Perhaps all he did want was the fight, and because it was against John, that made it seem right and reasonable.

“The buckle end of your belt would teach her to mind her tongue.”

Fulke looked at le Vavasour with distaste. “I do not need to prove my manhood by beating my wife.”

“A man who beats his wife is master in his own household,” le Vavasour said. “She wouldn’t cavil at your decisions then.”

“No,” Fulke agreed, thinking that it must be a desolate life when it contained neither affection nor concern, merely fear and in all likelihood loathing. “She wouldn’t cavil at my going because she would be glad to see the back of me.”

“You’re in thrall, man,” Le Vavasour said contemptuously. “It isn’t healthy to be tied to a woman’s skirts.”

“I’m not.”

“Well then, stop looking toward those stairs as if you’re ready to run back up them at any moment. Let her wait. If you go back, she’ll know that she’s won.”

Le Vavasour’s words roused a spark of male belligerence in Fulke. He imagined Maude lying waiting for him. He would climb into bed, curl his arm around her body, and whisper into her neck that he was sorry they had quarreled. And she would turn into his arms and reply against his mouth that she was sorry too, but he would be the one to make the first move.

“Let her come to you,” le Vavasour said, watching him with narrowed eyes. “Be master of your own household.”

Fulke nodded. His father-in-law was right. If he went to bed now, it would be admitting that he was in the wrong, even though he still intended riding out in the morning.

He remained where he was, and when the time came to sleep, he stretched out on a pallet in le Vavasour’s chamber and let the excess of wine lure him into a deep slumber.