Lords of the White Castle (62 page)

William of Salisbury, who had been witnessing the cases with John, cleared his throat. 'I understood from the Archbishop and Ranulf of Chester that you were going to negotiate an honourable agreement with FitzWarin,' he muttered. 'I thought it was understood that you were going to restore his lands in return for his expertise as a battle commander.'

John eyed his half-brother. 'I never said that I would, only that it was a possibility.' He looked at his fingernails. 'Now it is less of one because I have better means to bring FitzWarin to heel; I have a hostage.'

Salisbury frowned and looked discomforted. 'But men will not see the fine shade of meaning,' he protested. 'They will only believe that you have gone back on your word.'

'It is the difference between justice and mercy' John shrugged. 'Men should know the boundaries and what they are truly asking for before they open their mouths.'

Salisbury beckoned a squire to bring him wine. 'Why can you not give FitzWarin the land he asks for? It is not as if it is the size of an earldom, and if he swears his loyalty, I know that he will abide by it.'

John said nothing. He rubbed his forefinger back and forth across the smooth cabochon sapphire in one of his rings.

'It's about that chess game when you were youths, isn't it? You still haven't forgiven him for that.'

'Why should I forgive him? He never apologised,' John said, and then, as he saw the look on Salisbury's face, waved an impatient arm. 'God's bones, of course it isn't just about that chess game. It's about everything that has happened since.'

'But there has to be an end somewhere. John, give him the land.'

'As a favour to you?'

'If you like, but to yourself also.'

John scowled. He was aware of a griping sensation in the pit of his belly that had nothing to do with his digestion. It was a feeling that had often been present in his young manhood as he watched the way men reacted to his brother Richard. Coeur de Lion. That said everything. Richard's courage; Richard's rugged golden beauty; the way his charisma alone could light up a room and inspire its occupants with hero worship. Fulke FitzWarin did not have a golden blaze about him, his magnetism was more subdued, like the gleam of steel, but it existed and men were drawn. John hated Fulke FitzWarin, but few others shared his sentiment. They hated him instead, calling him Softsword for the loss of Normandy, as before, as an adolescent, they had scathingly called him Lackland because he did not have an inheritance. Making laws, hearing common pleas, strengthening the administration meant nothing to barons who wanted a magnificent warlord on a destrier.

Fulke FitzWarin had the glamour of the tourneys about him, but what galled John most was knowing that if set to the task, Fulke could administer and account with thorough competence. John's gut was seething because he knew that Salisbury was right. He would be doing himself a favour by making peace, but he did not know if he could bring himself to do so.

'John?' Salisbury was leaning round to look at him, his indignant features, so much like their father's, screwed up in concern.

'The matter of FitzWarin is not open to negotiation,' John said tersely. 'Bring forward the next plea.'

'But—'

John glared. 'Not another word, Will, I'm warning you.'

Salisbury subsided, but John could tell from the tension in his half-brother's jaw that he was far from happy. He was fond of Will, would do more for him than most, but he was angered by Salisbury's determination to champion FitzWarin's cause.

'I am the King,' he said, the words emerging with force and containing a hint of petulance.

The presenting of the next prisoner did not quite drown out Salisbury's mutter, but John chose to ignore it. 'And a king is accountable for his deeds.'

The charcoal burner's coarse woollen robes chafed Fulke's skin and he suspected that he had picked up lice from the greasy cap. Charcoal dust smeared his face and hands and he carried a large iron fork—a weapon masquerading as the tool of his trade. The charcoal burner had been delighted to exchange his own garments for a fine linen shirt and woollen tunic edged with blue braid, not to mention a payment of a shilling for his load of charcoal and the hire of his donkey and cart.

Fulke clicked his tongue and led the cart towards the hunting lodge. Outside, a group was gathering for a day's sport. Greyhounds, lymes, brachs and alaunts milled in the courtyard, some held on leashes by kennel-keepers, others roaming free, their noses eagerly snuffling the ground. The bright rich garments of the riders proclaimed their nobility. Fulke's borrowed robe had once been leaf-green, but weathering and charcoal tending had reduced it to a murky shade of sludge.

Fulke saw John among the company, wearing royal purple on sapphire blue. His horse was a spirited dappled gelding and John was smiling as he wheeled the horse and spoke to William of Salisbury. The latter shook his head, fumbled in his pouch and handed something over. Salisbury had been gaming and losing again, Fulke thought, narrowing his eyes the better to focus. But then Salisbury had always allowed John to get away with cheating.

John signalled to the senior huntsman. Decked in forest hues of brown and green, a longbow and quiver at his shoulder, the man unslung a decorated horn to blow the advance. The dogs began to bell with excitement and the courtiers urged their mounts forwards. Fulke drew his cart to the side of the road and leaned on his fork as the King and his retainers set out to hunt.

Fortunately, the donkey was so old and placid that it was almost dead, and scarcely paid any heed to the tumult of dogs as they loped past. A wire-haired terrier investigated the delightful smell of Fulke's chausses and cocked its leg. Fulke restrained the urge to kick the little shitbag into the following week and maintained a patient expression on his charcoal-blackened features.

The nobles rode past. Doffing his cap, Fulke knelt, hiding his features by gazing at the ground. 'God save you, my lord King!' he cried, thinking that no one else would.

John was diverted by the shout, and pleased. 'And God save you!' he responded, reaching to his cloak.

There was a glitter and a gentle thud. The grey trotted on. Fulke stared at the ring brooch that had landed in the soft earth at his knees. It was made of silver, with the names of the three kings who had visited Jesus's birth engraved around its perimeter, a sure protection against the falling sickness. Fulke knew that John always had a couple of spare brooches pinned to his cloak for such occasions. Whatever his faults, no one could accuse the King of personal parsimony towards his lower subjects.

William of Salisbury had lingered behind to adjust his stirrup and as Fulke stood up, the brooch in his hand, their eyes met and recognition dawned in Salisbury's. The Earl shook his head in warning.

'You fool, what are you doing here?' he hissed. 'Do you not know how dangerous it is?'

'Would you not do the same for your brother?'

Salisbury glanced towards the hunting party. 'I am not sure that I would,' he said.

'Where's Will? How closely is he guarded?'

'You expect me to tell you?'

Fulke shrugged. 'I'll find out anyway'

Salisbury grimaced and looked up the road to the riders as if by thought alone he could will himself back among their number. 'They're guarding him in one of the bailey stores near the kitchens,' he said. 'I cannot help you more.' Jerking on the reins, he spurred his mount to catch up with the others.

Fulke pinned the brooch on his ragged tunic where it shone with rich incongruity. 'You heard that?' he said.

The mound of charcoal moved slightly as if a mole was at work beneath. 'I heard,' came Philip's muffled voice. 'What was all that noise?'

'The King is going hunting.' Fulke went to the head of the cart and clicked his tongue to the reluctant donkey. 'There's never going to be a better moment.'

Fulke brought his cart of charcoal into the courtyard and, beneath the bored eyes of a couple of guards, took it round to the kitchen buildings. Charcoal was used to heat the braziers of the private rooms, but it also had its place in the kitchens where a steady heat was required within the fireboxes to cook sauces and more delicate dishes.

The servants were busy preparing food for the return of the hunting party. A huge picnic had been taken, but appetites were always made voracious by a day's sport. The guards sat down to watch the road and play a desultory game of dice. A woman brought them a jug of cider and a wooden platter of bread and cheese. One of the kitchen attendants gave Fulke a hot cheese fritter and filled his horn cup with ale.

'Where's Osbert today?' she asked. She folded her arms, obviously preparing to settle down and gossip.

Fulke mentally grimaced. 'Business elsewhere,' he said gruffly. 'I offered to take his place.' He took a large bite of the cheese fritter.

'What's your name then?'

'Warin,' he said around the mouthful and changed the subject, 'Saw the King a moment ago, riding out to hunt. He gave me this brooch. 'As he showed her the trinket, his gaze flickered towards a low, thatched shed a little to one side of the kitchen buildings. A guard dozed on a bench outside the door, leaning on his spear. 'Got something important to protect in there—the royal treasure?' He grinned to show that he was jesting and finishing the fritter, wiped his greasy hands on his tunic.

She shook her head. 'No, only a poacher. The foresters caught him yester morn south of here.'

'There'll be a hanging then?'

She shrugged. 'They say he's important.'

'Oh?' Fulke took a drink of ale.

She shrugged. 'Supposed to be a dangerous outlaw, but he didn't look very dangerous to me after the way the foresters had beaten him.'

Someone called from inside the kitchens and she went back inside. Fulke breathed out on a soft oath of relief at her going and anxiety for William. He hoped his brother was not so badly beaten that he would be a hindrance. He gazed past the door through which she had disappeared and down the muddy track leading past the pig pens and midden to a wattle-gated back entrance.

The guards on the main entrance were still facing outwards and absorbed in their game. He heard their good-natured laughter and prayed that he would not have to kill them.

'You can come out,' he said, returning to the cart, 'but keep your heads low. There's a guard to disarm outside the prison, and two on the gate whose lives will be sweeter for not seeing us.'

The mountain of charcoal moved again, revealing a layer of horse blankets and, beneath them, half a dozen of Fulke's men, armed to the teeth.

Fulke rapidly outlined his plans to the men crouched in the cart. 'There's a back entrance down by the midden pit and the pig pens. We'll use that to leave.' Instructions given, he strolled over to the dozing guard.

'I hear you've got a prisoner, friend,' he said conversationally.

'What's it to you?' The soldier raised his head and Fulke's black, dusty hand clamped down across his nose and mouth, shutting off air. There was a brief struggle. Philip arrived, whipped the keys from the guard's belt and unlocked the prison door. Then, as Fulke dragged the guard inside, Philip snatched the man's helm off his head, jammed it on his own, and sat down on the three-legged stool, leaned on his spear and pretended to snooze. It would not fool the other guards if they came close, but as long as they did not look too hard, the deception would hold.

Fulke kicked the door shut and dragged the struggling guards eating knife from his belt. 'I will kill you if I must,' he warned, laying the edge against the man's unprotected throat. 'And that would be a shame for your wife and children when you do not have to die.'

The man continued to struggle but with less conviction. Fulke nicked him with the dagger. 'A last warning,' he said. The door opened again and Alain slipped inside. With speed and silence, he unlatched the guard's belt and bound his arms with it. A gag was made of the man's rolled-up leg bindings and tied securely in place.

William, who had been sitting on the bed bench and staring in astonishment as wide as his blackened eyes would permit, rose to his feet and extended his shackled wrists. 'Get me out of these damned things!' he said hoarsely.

While Alain sat on the guard, Fulke took the keys from the floor where they had fallen in the scuffle and unlocked the wrist shackles. These he secured around the guard's ankles.

'I knew you would come,' William cried. 'I knew you would.'

'I wouldn't have had to if you had shown more sense in the first place,' Fulke snapped. 'Are you fit to travel?' The sight of his brother's bruised and battered visage rilled him with fury at the perpetrators and worry at William's physical condition.

'Fit or not, I'll endure,' William nodded. A fierce grin split his injured lip so that it began to trickle with blood. 'Can you imagine John's face when he finds out that you've broken me from his clutches?'

'Is that all it is to you? Another daring escapade?' Fulke glared at William. 'Another deed to show that I can run rings around John if I choose?'

William reddened 'I—'

'Christ, Will, you speak like a child, not a grown man. It is time that you discovered responsibility.'

'I don't need lectures from you,' William snarled.

'God alone knows what you do need then. You said you knew I would come. Perhaps I should have left you to stew!'

'Go on then!' William made a vigorous throwing gesture, exposing a chafed ring of skin on his wrist. 'Leave me. Let John hang me and then you won't have to bother!'

'This isn't the time to quarrel,' Alain pleaded urgently. 'We shouldn't delay.'

With an effort, Fulke swallowed the anger, frustration and relief that were roiling within him -and nodded brusquely. 'You're right, of course,' he said. He looked at William, at the swimming glitter in the other man's eyes, at the red banners of pride and chagrin on either high cheekbone. 'Come here.' He set his arm around William's shoulders and engulfed him in a hard hug. William hesitated briefly and then responded, his hands gripping Fulke's grimy tunic until the knuckles showed white. A stifled sob wrenched in his throat.