Elizabeth Chadwick (9 page)

“Come.” The man held out his arm to her in formal court fashion

“I don’t know who you are,” Maude said.

“It is a little late to be concerned with propriety,” he answered drily, “but I will humor you. My name is Theobald Walter, lord of Amounderness, and your father is known to me.”

After a brief hesitation, Maude laid her hand on his sleeve. He was wearing a tunic of bright blue wool and it was as soft as thistledown to the touch. His face bore lines and creases like her father’s, but they were less harsh and he seemed kindly disposed. Many of the barons in the hall would have gone straight to her father and demand that he administer a sound thrashing.

“You do not resemble your father,” he said curiously, “except that perhaps you have his way of looking.”

She wrinkled her nose. “People say I am like my mother, but I’m not.” A hint of rebellion returned to her voice.

“You are angry with that comparison?”

Maude could feel him looking at her, could feel him waiting for a reply, and she squirmed. “Mama used to keep to her chamber. Even when she wasn’t sick, she acted as if she was. Papa got so angry that he used to shout at her but that only made her worse.” She compressed her lips.

Lord Walter’s eyelids tensed. He quickened his pace. “Does he shout at you?”

“Sometimes. Not as much while my grandmother’s looking after me. She shouts instead.” She looked up at him. He was frowning now and his jaw was tight, emphasizing the hollows beneath his cheekbones. “Why are you asking me these things?”

He did not reply immediately. By the time he did speak, they had reached the women’s hall. “Because no battle captain leaps into an engagement without knowing what he is up against,” he said.

Maude stared at him. The torchlight outside the hall wavered and guttered, making him look very tall. The gold braid at the throat of his gown and his ornate belt buckle picked up the twinkles of light from the flames. He looked like a figure in a night-lit stained-glass window.

“Go on, child,” he said gently, “get you within, and make sure you stay. Heaven knows what you might surprise out of the darkness.” He made a shooing motion.

Maude stared an instant longer, then whirled and ran into the hall, almost colliding with a servant bearing a platter of fried fig pastries. She had arrived just in time for the sweetmeat course.

Her grandmother delivered her a furious scolding, but as Maude nibbled the crisp, golden pastry with its sticky sweet filling, her mind was busy with the matter of Lord Theobald Walter and their strange encounter.

***

The chapel of St. Peter held the darkness of night transformed by the illumination of hundreds of wax candles and tapers. No daylight made jewels of the stained-glass windows, but the flame light reflected on every surface like watered gold. Before the high altar, the Confessor’s tomb drew the eye to the skill and magnificence of the stone-carver’s art.

Fulke bowed his head and softly murmured the words of the
Pater
Noster
. Beside him he could hear others whispering too, attempting to stave off sleep as they knelt in vigil on the eve of being knighted. There were a dozen young men, gathered together for the same purpose, his brothers among them. William’s gaze was fixed in shining determination on the altar beyond the tomb, his fists clasped one upon the other in fervent prayer. Philip, in contrast, was murmuring quietly to himself, taking the moment in his stride.

Fulke gave a self-deprecatory smile. And he was taking the moment by observing others when he should be communing with God and praying for the grace to be worthy of knighthood. He made himself concentrate, and for a time succeeded. When he came to awareness again, he was surprised to see Theobald Walter praying among the novice knights, his head bowed and eyes closed with a tightness of concentration that gave him a pained expression.

It was against custom to speak unless in prayer, and Fulke received the distinct impression that Theobald desired to be ignored. Respecting the silence, Fulke said nothing and pretended to be unaware of Theobald’s presence. He focused on the cross gleaming upon the altar and the world narrowed down to a shining cruciform of gold. When he looked around again, Theobald had gone.

The interminable hours passed. Fulke’s eyes ached with staring and burned for want of sleep. William’s head kept sagging toward his clasped hands and he would suddenly jerk, his eyelids fluttering. At one point, Fulke could have sworn he saw Whittington keep floating in the air before the altar. A woman stood in one of the window embrasures, her silver-blond hair tugged outward by the wind like a rippling silk banner. He could not see her face, but he received the impression of an allure so strong that it pierced him to the core, melting his heart and loins. As he watched, she climbed through the embrasure, impossibly narrow though it was, and for a moment stood on the ledge, poised between air and ground. He wanted to call out, to stop her from throwing herself that last measure, but as he drew breath, she flung out her arms and he saw that her dark-colored cloak was in fact a pair of wide, leathery wings. When she leaped, they bore her easily, the light shining through the membranes. She circled the keep once, then flew away until she was naught but a small dot in the distance.

Fulke snapped to awareness, a cry locked in his throat and the hair prickling at his nape. He was not aware of having slept. His eyes were so dry with staring that they had started to water. Visions on the eve of knighthood were viewed as prophetic, but if so, what had it meant?

Fulke had little time to puzzle over the event, for daylight was finally graying the east window and attendants were arriving to take the postulants away to receive the ritual bath and donning of fresh raiment in preparation for the knighting ceremony.

Fulke stepped into a steaming barrel tub, and the last vestiges of the disturbing image were washed away as a squire deluged him with a jugful of hot water.

***

Maude screwed up her face and yelped as her grandmother yanked on her hair.

“Oh, stand still, child, it’s nothing,” Mathilda said irritably. “I’ll never be done if you don’t stop wriggling.” She gripped the half-woven braid and continued to plait it tightly. “You must look your best for today.”

“Why?” Maude clenched both fists in an effort not to flinch.

“That is for your father to tell you.” Mathilda secured the end of Maude’s hair with a silver fillet. “He has some very important news,” she said, setting about a similar torture on the left-hand side.

Maude frowned. It must be news that involved her, or why else should her neat appearance matter so much? Unless her father had been given a huge barony by the King and she was to sit at the high table.

“Is my father to be honored by the King?”

“Now why on earth should you think that, child?”

“Because you’re making me dress up like one of those marchpane subtleties at the feast last night.”

“Don’t be impertinent.” Mathilda tugged and wove, her lips tightly pursed. “Don’t you want to look like a beautiful lady?”

Maude grimaced but withheld the retort that not if it meant having the hair twisted on her scalp until it was almost torn from its roots.

Her grandmother threaded the second fillet onto the braid. “Your father will tell you everything as soon as he arrives.” She stepped back to consider the finished result. “Holy Virgin, you look just like your mother when she was your age.” The old woman’s voice wobbled with emotion and tears filled her eyes.

Maude scowled and shuffled her feet. People were always telling her that she resembled her mother and she hated it.

The tent flap parted, admitting Robert le Vavasour. A brisk September breeze had lifted the strands of hair he so carefully cultivated over the balding patch on the crown of his head. His eyes were bright with pleasure and he was smiling. Taking Maude by the shoulders, he turned her around for inspection. “You’ve arrayed her proudly, madam,” he said to Mathilda. “She looks like a princess.” He gave a stiff nod of acknowledgment to his former mother-in-law.

Mathilda de Chauz smiled tepidly. “She has taken a notion into her head that the reason she is to look her best is because you are set to be granted an earldom by the King.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a bitter edge to the sound. “To be granted that I’d need a fortune. The most I can hope to buy is a shrievalty.”

“And suitably reimburse yourself from the revenues,” Mathilda said sweetly.

Apart from a scowl, le Vavasour ignored her; still holding Maude’s shoulders, he stooped to speak to his daughter. “I have some good news for you, sweeting. Late last night I received an offer of marriage for you from none other than Theobald Walter, lord of Amounderness, and I have decided to accept. You are to exchange pledges of betrothal this morning in the chapel after the knighting ceremonies.” He gave her a smile that was supposed to reassure, but only made her want to run away. “Of course, there will be no wedding until you have grown a little more. There would be no point now, and you still have much to learn before you can run Lord Walter’s household.” He pinched her cheek encouragingly.

Maude stared at her father. She felt like a puppy, dragged from a corner and thrown in front of the wolves.

“Well, child, have you nothing to say?”

Mutely, Maude looked at her grandmother, but Mathilda’s expression was so rigidly controlled it was as if the tearful emotion of a moment since had never been.

“It is a fine match,” her father enthused. “His uncle is the great Ranulf Glanville and his brother the Bishop of Salisbury. Theobald Walter is to be granted lands, privileges, and a shrievalty. His lands march close to ours and we have interests in common. So much the better if our families are bound in marriage.” He turned her head on his palm, forcing her to look at him, and his tone grew stern. “Now, I expect you to do your best for me. No moods and tantrums. You are a Vavasour and you will bear that name with pride. I’ll not have Theobald Walter reneging on this match because you act like a sulky infant. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa,” Maude whispered, her pupils so dilated that they almost masked the clear, pale-green iris.

“Good.” Her father nodded and opened the tent flap. “Come, we do not want to be late.”

Maude felt as if her legs were made of melting lead. How could they bear her up and carry the burden of her family name without stumbling? When she did not move, her father made an impatient sound and grabbed her arm, drawing her with him. Unresisting, numb with astonishment and shock, she followed him into the bright, brisk morning.

***

The abbey was not as packed as it had been for the coronation, but still a substantial number crowded into the nave to witness the knighting ceremony. There were women present today and the atmosphere, although formal, was more relaxed.

Fulke’s sword lay across the altar beside the swords of his brothers and the other nine young men who were to receive their knighthood from King Richard. Fulke’s pattern-welded blade was a gift from Theobald Walter. The gilded belt and scabbard had been furnished from Lambourn’s wool clip. His father had laughed, saying ruefully that while he did not have any daughters to drain his wealth in dowries, furnishing his sons’ helms was an expense almost as ruinous. However, when knighthood came at the hands of Richard, Coeur de Lion, in the great abbey church of Westminster itself, it was an event worth every last fleece in family prestige.

Archbishop Baldwin blessed the swords with holy water, asking God that their owners might use them justly in defense of churches, widows, and orphans and as a scourge against all evil-doers. Royal attendants girded the sword belts around the waists of the postulants and each young man was presented with a pair of gilded spurs.

Richard, who had been standing a little to one side, now came forward. His eyes were bleary from the pageantry and feasting of the previous day, but his hair still glowed like spun gold and he wore the royal crown of England on his brow.

The postulants knelt before him, heads bowed. Fulke, first in line, gazed at the King’s shoes. They were delicately embroidered in gold thread, the workmanship sitting somewhat at odds with the enormous size of Richard’s feet.

There was a soft hiss of steel against fleece-lined scabbard as Richard drew the polished steel blade and laid it first upon Fulke’s right shoulder, then his left.

“Fulke, son of Fulke, be thou a knight,” Richard declared in a ringing baritone and, sliding the sword back into the sheath, bade him rise. Facing the King, Fulke braced himself for the accolade, the final act that would confer knighthood upon him. By tradition it was a hefty clout to the shoulder, a symbol of the last blow a postulant would ever receive without the right to answer back as a full-fledged warrior. When it came, Fulke reeled because Richard did not pull the force of the blow, and the bright blue eyes were fierce.

While Fulke recovered, Richard moved on down the line, drawing the sword, speaking the words, striking vigorously. William had planted his feet wide in anticipation and when his turn came, he swayed at the accolade, but remained firmly grounded. Richard acknowledged the bravery with a nod and a faint smile that made William flush with pleasure.

Following the ceremony and the celebration of mass, the brothers turned to receive the hugs and congratulations of their family. Hawise was sniffing into a kerchief. Ivo wanted to look at the spurs and the sword and was sternly warned not to mar the steel with sweaty fingerprints. Alain demanded to know if the accolade had hurt.

“Not much,” Fulke said, “but I would hate to face the King blade on blade in battle.”

“Wouldn’t you like to fight with him on your side though, blade by blade,” said William, the glory still shining in his deep brown eyes.

“If you could keep up with him,” Philip said, rubbing his abused shoulder.

Theobald Walter came forward to congratulate Fulke and his brothers, but after a moment took Fulke to one side. “I have a boon to ask of you.” He clasped his hands together and wiped them one over the other, plainly ill at ease.