Lords of the White Castle (85 page)

'Yes, my lord. 'A glint of vicious pleasure flashed in the soldier's eyes. 'They were Fulke FitzWarin's men, and the lady is his ward, Clarice d'Auberville.'

Gwyn looked at her through the sooty ripple of smoke from the brand. 'Indeed?' He stroked the sides of his moustache. 'Welcome, Lady Clarice,- he said, switching to Norman French. 'Your guardian is foolish to let you ride abroad in these troubled times.'

She bared her teeth at him. 'Your men killed my escort for no other reason than they served Fulke FitzWarin. I thought that the Welsh were civilised, but I was wrong!'

'We are more civilised in the matter of war than your own countrymen,' Gwyn retorted. 'Be glad that you have not been raped, and that you still have your life.'

'What are you going to do with me?' She regained a degree of control, breathing hard but rapidly retreating into an icy dignity.

'Take you to Prince Llewelyn. You will be welcomed at his court until your ransom can be agreed.' Gwyn smiled wolfishly and looked her up and down. 'Who knows, you might even find a Welsh husband to your taste.'

She stared at him with loathing. 'Not on present recommendation,' she said and rubbed her hands together, shuddering as if at some deeply unpleasant notion.

Gwyn smiled. 'A woman with claws is always more interesting between the sheets.'

She did not rise to the bait.

'Since you are Fulke's ward,' Gwyn said, 'you can be his proxy and witness to the burning of Whittington.'

She clasped her cloak at her throat and looked at him like a queen. 'It will avail you nothing.'

'On the contrary, it will give me great pleasure and satisfaction.' He strode from her side to a heap of dry straw and kindling that his men had piled up inside the doorway of the hall. Thrusting the torch into its heart, he watched the fire blossom from its core like a hatching egg. Other piles lay at strategic points within the compound and soon Whittington was ablaze, ragged turrets of fire crenellating the dusk, staining the falling snow with red shadow-light. It was beautiful, eerie, tragic.

Clarice watched the FitzWarin pride blaze heavenwards in surges of fierce heat and energy, as if the stored conflict of the years were fuelling the flames. It was a release too, she thought, and tilted her head to gaze upon the highest flames leaping from the timber wall projections. Snowflakes landed on her lashes with cold delicacy, making her blink, and despite the wafts of intense heat gusting off the burning timber, she shivered. Behind her, she heard Welsh shouts of approbation and pleasure.

The man beside her studied the destruction with a strange smile playing about his lips. At last, a sigh rippled through him. Turning, he commanded their horses to be brought. Clarice's grey mare balked and snorted in alarm at the roar of the flames. It took two men to hold her while Clarice gained the saddle. She drew the reins in tight and tried to soothe her mount, but it was not until they were clear of the burning keep and heading for the road that the mare ceased to prance. A notion to gallop off in the direction of Babbin's Wood and lose herself amongst the trees was swiftly dispelled by Gwyn FitzMorys, who attached a leading rein to the grey's bridle and wrapped it firmly around his saddle horn.

'It would be foolish to run, my lady'

She shrugged. 'I do not think so.'

He smiled bleakly and kicked his mount. 'Tonight we sleep at Ellesmere. You will find a bed there more comfortable than one in the snow.' Digging his heels into his horse's flanks, he urged the animal forwards. Clarice glanced back at the keep. Through the falling snow it burned and spat like a beast consuming itself… or mayhap it was a phoenix, beating its great wings, fanning the flames of its death pyre and preparing to rise from the ashes of its own destruction.

The snow was falling swiftly now, the flakes still soft as a caress, but more of them, whirling and dancing, settling now to the depth of the horses' hooves. Through the screen of white, riders appeared like wraiths on the road before them, blocking their path in a jingle of harness and mail.

'Fulke!' Clarice's lips formed the name without uttering a sound. Exultation and fear coursed through her.

Gwyn FitzMorys drew his sword. 'You are too late, FitzWarin,' he snarled. 'Whittington is burning to the ground and by my hand.'

Clarice could not tell what expression Fulke wore behind his helm. All she could see was the grim line of his mouth, the taut jaw, but she could imagine the look in his eyes and she could feel his tension like a wall of heat. Surreptitiously she freed her feet from the stirrups.

'It is you who has misjudged your timing,' Fulke said harshly. 'I care not if Whittington burns, and for all that the Welsh army is across the border in force, your troop cannot withstand mine.'

'You say you care not for Whittington,' Gwyn sneered, 'but that's a lie.'

'I said I care not if it burns,' Fulke said bluntly. 'Like a tide, Llewelyn will retreat, and when he does, I will build in stone. You have cleared the ground. Indeed, perhaps I should thank you.' He inclined his head in a mocking gesture.

'And your ward, do you care for her in a similar wise?' Gwyn gestured to Clarice. 'Would you see her destroyed too?'

'Do what you will; her lands are still in my keeping.' Fulke's stallion plunged and sidled, until he was forced to draw in the reins' full measure.

In a flash of motion Clarice kicked her feet from the stirrups, flung down from the saddle and ran across the space between Gwyn's troop and Fulke's. The startled mare bucked and kicked out at Gwyn's horse, which reared and skittered. She heard Gwyn's curse, followed by the thud of hooves hard in pursuit. Fulke spurred forward and his sword cut across the downward stroke of Gwyn's. Clarice tripped over her skirts and sprawled in the snow, winding herself, losing her wimple. Strong arms scooped her up and she was hauled across Ralf Gras's saddle.

'You're safe my lady,' he said, but she barely heeded him, her eyes wide and wild on the struggling, fighting men. In the gathering murk of dusk, it was difficult to pick out detail. Everything was a blur of snow and steel, whiteness and darkness blending to create spangled shadow shapes that broke and re-formed. The battle cries, the screams of the wounded, the thud of destrier hooves. Blood staining the snow. The name, '
FitzWarin
!' howling out like the cry of a wolf. She clenched her fists and prayed. Fulke's shield flashed. He was fighting like a demon hot from hell with no care or thought to his own safety. A horse galloped past, dragging its unseated rider whose spur was caught in the stirrup. He had lost his helm and as a shod hindhoof caught his skull, she heard the sickening crack of breaking bone. Awkwardly, Ralf caught the beast's trailing reins. A long smear of blood stained the churned new snow, leading to a black, shining puddle in Gwyn FitzMorys's hair. His arms were spread wide, his sword lay several feet away, and his dark stare was fixed in death.

When the Welsh realised their leader was dead, they beat a hasty retreat, melting away in the direction of the woods beyond the village. Clarice bade Ralf set her down and walked the skirmish site, seeking out the wounded. Dusk was fully upon them and the wind was bitter. If any man was seriously injured, Clarice knew he would not live the night. At least, she thought grimly, she had syrup of white poppy to ease the passing of any bound from the world.

'I've given the order to make camp in the castle courtyard,' Fulke said as she comforted a soldier who had taken a spear through the shoulder. 'The fires will last until the morning at least.' His voice was flat and hard, the battle tension still
shinin
g in his eyes.

She nodded and swallowed. 'There are two dead, but none mortally injured.'

'There would be none dead at all if you had not been taken with the folly of going to visit a wise woman,' he growled. 'What in God's name possessed you?'

'We needed things that I could not be sure of obtaining at Lambourn.'

'Things that were worth dying for?' he demanded icily, then cast his gaze around the battle site. 'Yes, I suppose they were.'

'I was not to know the Welsh would come over the border,' she snapped, stung at his tone, but knowing he was right.

The soldier with the shoulder wound quietly rose to his feet and made himself scarce.

'You knew there was a likelihood. Christ, Clarice… I thought you more responsible!'

'Then you thought wrong. And it was for your sake that I went to see Mother Ranild at all.'

'For my sake?' His voice rose. 'You think that going to see a cracked old hag will do something for me?'

'She's not a cracked old hag! She's a wise woman and I wanted her advice.'

'About me?'

Clarice avoided his gaze. 'I wanted her to tell me how to help you through your grief.'

'God on the Cross, do you have to meddle in every part of my life!' he exploded. 'First it was wine and a clean robe. Now it's nursemaiding my head!' He pointed to his skull. 'And your desperation to coddle me almost got us both killed, you foolish wench!'

'It was caring that sent me, not coddling, but you are right. I should not have gone!' Clarice blazed. It was not just the reflection of the flames that suffused her face with colour. 'And I'm not a wench!'

He swore through his teeth and stormed off towards the burning keep. She stood alone in the road. At the first sign of trouble, everyone had made themselves industrious elsewhere. Snow whirled down, the flakes as large as swan feathers now and falling rapidly. Clarice thought about mounting her mare and riding off, but it was no more than a thought. The heat of rage and chagrin might be sustaining her now, but she would need more than that to last the deep winter's night. Besides, there were wounded to be cared for, and whatever Fulke thought about her nature, her sense of responsibility held her impulse in check.

Drawing her cloak tightly around her body, pulling up the fleece-lined hood, she turned through the snow-laden dusk to the red pyre that was Whittington.

The Welsh had been beaten back but they had accomplished their objective. There was no saving Whittington from being razed. Fulke narrowed his eyes against smoke and snow and kept vigil. He could not roll himself in his cloak like the other men and let the heat of destruction warm him through the night like a common bonfire.

He walked between the burning buildings and thought of the fight to gain this place. The struggle, the sacrifice, the determination and pride. Sparks showered as part of the hall caved in upon itself. He watched the golden specks dazzle away into the night, taking the opposite path to the falling snow. Here his younger children had been born. Here he had slept with Maude on a bare wooden floor and talked of the future. It was as if each spark was a memory fleeing into the night, never to be seen again, and suddenly he felt utterly bereft. All that would be left by morning were the charred black remnants of the structures, smoking gently, and nothing of his former life.

Suddenly he could not bear it. Everything was gone; he ought to be part of the fire too. Like a drunkard, he staggered towards the remnants of the great hall, drawing his sword as if to challenge an enemy in its red depths.

There was a movement to one side; he spun, the weapon raised and streaming with firelight. Then he lowered it. 'Go away,' he said raggedly, and felt a pressure growing within him. 'I do not want or need your company. Damn you, woman, leave me alone!'

Clarice ignored his command, putting herself between him and the fire. Her eyes were wide and dark, and her fists were clenched in the fabric of her mantle. 'You want Maude,' she said gently. 'You need Maude, I know that. I wish she were here too. I wish she could bolster my courage and tell me what to do because I am lost on my own. I wish she was at your side to comfort you, but she isn't. She's dead and in Gods keeping. Let her go.'

He saw his own hand swing the sword, saw the fear blaze in her eyes, but she stood her ground. The steel glittered an inch from her throat before he reversed his grip on the hilt and with a roar of anguish, hurled the weapon into the heart of the fire where he had been going to leap. And the storm broke, driving him to his knees in the snow as he wept for Maude, for himself, for all the wasted years, both past and future.

Clarice knelt with him and encircled him with her arms. Through the wrenching, tearing shudders of his grief, he felt the softer tremors of her crying, and on a distant level heard her whispering that it would be all right. Not the same, not unchanged, but all right.

CHAPTER 44

Whittington Castle,

Summer 1224