Lords of the White Castle (2 page)

Fulke looked again at the dice players. The Prince caught his eye and glowered. 'In Christ's name, stop making love to that accursed shield and bring some more wine.' Raising his empty cup, he waggled it at Fulke. An amethyst ring flashed on his middle finger, and another of heavy gold shone on his thumb.

'Sir.' Fulke laid his shield carefully aside, fetched the flagon from the sideboard and approached the game.

'Fancy your chances, Bumpkin?' asked the curly-haired squire.

Fulke smiled, his flint-hazel eyes brightening. 'I fancy yours more, Girard.' He nodded at the new pile of coins on the trestle. 'I'll arm wrestle you for them if you like.' Pouring the wine into John's cup, he left the flagon for the others to help themselves.

Girard snorted. 'I'm not falling for that one again!'

Fulke's smile broadened into a grin and he flexed his forearm where rapidly developing muscle tightened the sleeve. 'That's a pity.'

Girard made a rude gesture and scooped up the dice. Fulke stayed to watch him throw a total of three and lose his winnings, then sauntered back to the window embrasure and his shield. Two padded benches sat either side of the latched shutters and between them was a gaming table on which John's tutor, Master Glanville, had placed a heavy wooden chessboard.

Leaning on his shield, Fulke contemplated the ivory pieces with a feeling of nostalgia bordering on homesickness. He conjured a vision of the manor at Lambourn; the faces of his brothers etched in firelight as they played knucklebones by the hearth. His mother reading by the light of a sconce, her lips silently forming the words. He and his father playing chess in an embrasure just like this one, his father's brow puckering as he toyed with a taken pawn and considered his next move. Fulke knew that he was gilding the image for his present comfort but, even without the veneer, there was still an underlying truth and solidity to the picture. Whilst not wretchedly homesick, he missed the warmth and companionship of his family. He often thought it a pity that his father's next move had been to send him here to learn the skills of knighthood among the highest in the land.

'It is a great honour that King Henry has done our family,' Fulke le Brun had said one day last spring when he returned from attendance at court. Standing in the private chamber at Lambourn, his garments still mired from the road, he had broached the news. 'Not only will Fulke be tutored by Ranulf Glanville the Justiciar, but he will mingle with men of influence who may be able to help us.' Fulke could remember the flush to his father's sallow complexion, the spark of ambition in the deep brown eyes. 'Whittington could be ours again.'

'What's Whittington?' Fulke's youngest brother Alain had piped up. He was only four years old and unlike the older boys had yet to have the FitzWarin
cause célèbre
drummed into him blood and bone.

'It's a castle and lands belonging to us,' said their mother, gathering Alain into her arms. 'Your papa's family held it in the days of the first King Henry, but then it was taken away from them during a war and never restored. Your papa has been trying to get it back for a long time.' It was a tale told in simple terms that a small child could understand and her voice was level, omitting the antagonism and bitterness that had built and festered over the years of striving.

'Too long,' said Fulke le Brun. 'It was in my grandsire's lifetime that last we held Whittington. Roger de Powys claims it as his, but he has no right.'

'If King Henry loves you enough to make me Prince John's attendant, why doesn't he give you Whittington?' Fulke had wanted to know.

'It is not as simple as the King's word,' his father had said. 'Our right has to be proven in a court of law and sometimes if a matter is awkward or seen as a mere quibble, it is pushed aside for more pressing concerns. God knows I have tried. Henry has made promises, but it is not as important a matter to him as it is to me.' He had looked intensely at Fulke and gripped his shoulder, man to man. 'Ranulf de Glanville is well positioned to hear our plea, and he will be your tutor. Do your best for him, and he will do his best for you.'

And Fulke had done his best because it was not within his nature to shirk and he had as much pride as his father. His ability to fathom accounts had increased beyond all measure beneath the Justiciar's instruction and he had picked up the broader points of Latin and law. What Master Glanville made of him, however, he did not know for his tutor was a solemn man in late middle age, not much given to open praise.

Fulke pushed his hair off his forehead and grimaced. He was not sure that being educated at court was a grand privilege at all. Being at Prince John's beck and call was a nightmare. At home, Fulke was the heir to his father's lands, cherished, sure of his status, lording it affectionately over his five brothers. Here he was of minor rank, a nobody to be used as John saw fit. More often than not, used translated into abused.

There was a sudden flurry at the dice table as Prince John shot to his feet and the flagon that Fulke had so recently replenished was sent crashing to the floor. 'You thieving sons of whores, get out, all of you!' John gestured wildly at the door. 'You're naught but leeches. There's not one of you worth a pot of piss!'

Fulke slid out of his corner and started to follow the other squires from the chamber.

'Not you, Bumpkin,' John snarled. 'Get me some more wine.'

'Sir.' Expression blank, Fulke stooped to the flagon in the rushes near John's feet. An ugly dent married its silver-gilt belly.

'You shouldn't have left it on the table,' John said petulantly. 'It's all your fault and you can pay for a new one.'

It would have been wiser to keep quiet but Fulke was unable to prevent himself from protesting. 'That is unjust, sir.'

John eyed him through narrowed lids. 'Are you arguing with me?'

Fulke stood up, the damaged flagon in his hand, 'It is true that I left the flagon here when I should have replaced it on the sideboard, but it was not I who knocked it from the table.'

John jabbed a warning forefinger. 'You'll pay and that's an end to it. Now fetch more wine and make haste.'

Scarcely bothering to bow, Fulke strode from the room. Despite the winter chill, he was scalding with fury. 'I won't pay him a single fourthing,' he muttered as he flung into the hall beyond the chamber and marched down its length to the butler's table at the far end.

'For Prince John,' he said woodenly to the attendant.

The butler eyed the damage with pursed disapproval. 'How did this happen?'

'An accident.' Even though Fulke wanted to throttle John, honour and discretion fettered his tongue in front of others. And because he could say nothing, his anger burned the hotter within him, dangerously close to white heat.

'That's the third "accident" this month then.' The butler set the flagon beneath a wine tun and turned the spigot. 'These flagons don't grow on trees, you know. Cost half a mark each, they do.'

Close on seven shillings, Fulke thought grimly: a week's wages for a mounted Serjeant and beyond his own reach unless he appealed to his father or spent an entire week arm wrestling for the funds.

Although John had bid him make haste, Fulke took his time to return to the royal apartment, giving his anger time to die down. He was partially successful. By the time he banged on the door and entered with the flagon, his resentment had banked to a smoulder.

John had unlatched the shutters by the chessboard and was leaning against the window splay, gazing into the stormy dusk. Darts of wind-driven sleet hurled past the embrasure. The courtyards and alleys were in darkness—no torch would remain lit in this weather—but there were glimmers and flickers of light from the occupied halls, and the watchmen had built a brazier in a sheltered corner of the ward. Further away, the windows of the great abbey were darkly bejewelled from within.

John turned, one fist curled around his belt, the other resting on the shutter. 'You took your time.'

'There were others waiting the butler's service, sir,' Fulke lied and poured wine into John's cup. 'Do you want me to leave now?' He tried to keep the hopeful note from his voice but knew he hadn't succeeded when he saw John's expression grow narrow and mean.

'No, you can stay and keep me company. You do little enough to earn your supper.' The Prince gestured to the flagon. 'Pour yourself a measure. I don't like to drink alone.'

Fulke reluctantly tilted a couple of swallows into one of the squires' empty cups. The wind whipped the wall hangings and the candles guttered in the sconces, threatening to blow out and leave them in darkness.

'How many brothers do you have?'

Fulke blinked, unsure what to make of the Prince's mood except to know that it was ugly. 'Five, sir.'

'And what do they inherit?'

'I do not know. That is for my father to say,' Fulke answered cautiously.

'Oh come now. You are his heir. Everything will go to you.'

Fulke shrugged. 'That may be true, but none of my brothers will go wanting.'

'And you think there will be no resentment that you receive the lion's share?' John reached a casual hand to the shield that Fulke had left propped on the bench and ran his fingers over the rawhide edging.

'Not enough to cause a lasting rift between us,' Fulke said 'Even if I quarrel with my brothers on occasion, blood is still thicker than water.'

John snorted with sour amusement. 'Is it indeed?'

'In my family it is.' Fulke took a mouthful of wine and knew that he was standing on perilous ground. John was the youngest of Henry's children, born after the family inheritance had been apportioned among the other sons, none of whom was willing to give up one iota of what was theirs. John Lackland he was called, often to his face. Glancing at the wild, dark night, feeling the sting of wind-borne sleet against his skin, Fulke began to understand. And that he, in his favoured position of eldest son, his inheritance secure, was being made a scapegoat. 'My father says that we are one body. The head cannot function without a torso or limbs. What you do to one, you do to all.'

'My father says,' John mimicked. 'Christ, do you know how often you trot that out?'

Fulke flushed. 'If I do it is because he speaks sense.'

'Or perhaps because you are a child who has not learned to think for himself.' John cast him a scornful look and closed the shutters on the wildness outside. The candles ceased to gutter and a sudden silence settled over the room, permeated with the smoky scent of burning wax. The Prince sat down moodily at the chessboard and fingered one of the bishops.

Fulke wondered rather desperately how long it would be before the dinner horn sounded. Judging by the advanced state of the dusk, it must be soon.

'What do you say to a wager, Bumpkin?' John gestured to the chessboard.

'A wager?' Fulke's heart sank. Reclaiming his shield, he laid his hand on the leather-covered lime-wood, exorcising John's touch.

'Defeat me at chess and I'll let you off the price of the flagon.'

Fulke did not miss the taunting note in John's voice. The Prince was an accomplished chess player and his skills had been honed by their tutor Master Glanville, whose incisive intelligence had led to him being appointed Justiciar. Fulke's own skills were erratic, developed not so much from logic and instruction as enjoyment of the game and the ability to think fast on his feet.

'If you wish it, sir,' he said with resignation and sat down.

John gave
him
a denigrating smile and swivelled the chequered board so that the white pieces were his. 'My move first,' he said.

Fulke touched his shield again for luck. He knew that whatever he did he could not win. If he lost to John then he would have to find the price of the flagon. If he were victorious, John would find other, subtle, malicious ways of punishing him. The safest ploy was to lose as quickly as possible and then lather the Prince in flattery. It was what any of the other squires would do.

Fulke reached to a knight, fully intending to give John the conquest, but against the main tide of his will, a perverse cross-current altered the move, and it became an open challenge.

John narrowed his eyes. 'Where did you learn that one?' he demanded tersely.

'From my father,' Fulke said to be irritating. It was strange. Now that battle was joined, he could feel the certainty and arrogance of that cross-current growing within him, becoming his true self. He was as good as John, but in a different way, that was all. If he played by John's tactics, he would be defeated whatever the outcome. But if he played to his own rules, then he was free and damn the consequences.

John tried to manoeuvre him into a corner but Fulke kept his distance, making little sallies that constantly ruined John's strategy. The Prince grew increasingly frustrated, as much by Fulke's audacious baiting as by the fact that he was unable to pin him down. He downed two more cups of wine; he fiddled with his rings and tugged at the sparse growth of black beard on his chin, his expression growing stormier by the moment.

Fulke moved a bishop. 'Check,' he said. And it would be mate in two moves, neither of which his opponent could circumvent.

John gaped in disbelieving fury. His eyes flickered, calculating the moves just as Fulke had done. A muscle bunched in his jaw. i suppose your father taught you to cheat too,' he said in a voice congested with loathing.

Fulke clenched his fists and struggled for the control not to knock John's teeth down his throat. 'I have won fairly. You have no right to missay my family's honour as an excuse for losing.'

John sprang to his feet. A wild swipe of his fist scattered the chess pieces far and wide. 'I have the right to do anything I want!'

'Not to me and mine!' Fulke jumped up too, his eyes dark with fury. 'You're a king's son by birth, but just now I would accord a gutter sweeping more respect than you!'

John roared. Grabbing the chessboard in both hands, he slammed it with all his strength into Fulke's face.

Fulke's nose crunched. He reeled from the sudden violence of the blow, a white numbness spreading from the impact and overlaid by the heat of gushing blood. Raising his hand to his face, he brought it away and looked at his red fingers in astonishment.