Lords of the White Castle by Elizabeth Chadwick
Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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round.
Fulke let out the breath he had been holding on a gasp of relief and regret, then clutched his ribs at the pain. After a moment the dog padded over to him and licked his hand.
'This was under your saddle cloth.' Seating himself on the end of Fulke's pallet, Jean presented him with a shard of glass that had come from a broken goblet. Only the nobles who sat at the high table drank out of glass because it was expensive and difficult to carry between households without being broken. 'The moment you set your weight in the saddle, it would have pressed into Russet's flesh like a sharp spur.'
Fulke took the piece of glass and turned it in his fingers. Green light smudged his skin. A thick line of opaque red with roan hairs adhered to the vicious point at one end. It was not long enough to kill on its own, but sufficient to drive an animal mad with pain and make it burst its heart. He remembered de Malfee's sly glance and Prince John's smirk of pleasure. Doubtless they had thought it a fine jest.
'I know where to lay the blame for this,' he said grimly. 'My father was right.'
Jean raised his brows in question.
'I should have made sure that the whoreson stayed down.'
In September a galley arrived from England, bearing letters and emissaries from King Henry; and Oonagh's words were borne out.
'We're sailing for England,' said Theobald as he dressed in his wall chamber for the evening meal after attending a private discussion in John's solar. 'The travelling chests must be packed by dawn.'
Fulke had known that it was coming. Even without Oonagh's prophecy the signs had been present in the steady trickle of deserting mercenaries and the arguments of the townspeople over lack of payment for their produce.
'King Henry did not send more silver then?' He helped Theobald don his long court tunic of crimson wool edged with gold braid.
Theobald shook his head. 'If silver has arrived, lad, it is not for John. He might be Henry's favourite son, but even favouritism has its limits. More silver would just buy more wine and Henry's coffers are not bottomless. I suspect that John will go home to a scolding and then be treated like a prodigal son.'
Fulke knew what Theobald meant. The Prince had been chastised over the incident with the chessboard, but the whipping had somehow never been administered.
Theobald latched his belt and checked that his scabbard was securely attached. 'It is not all John's fault,' he said as he ran a comb through his cropped tawny curls. 'You cannot expect a spoiled stripling to do a man's work. Still,' he added as he set the comb down on the coffer, i suppose that lessons have been learned.' Reaching for his cloak, he smiled at Fulke. 'You are not disappointed to leave, I warrant?'
'No, my lord.' Fulke lifted his shoulders, it is not mat I have hated my time here, and I have learned much, but….' He flushed slightly beneath his lord's quiet grey gaze. 'But I want to see my family again and my home.'
'It is always good to wander,' Theobald said, and his eyes left Fulke and swept towards the window embrasure and an arch of wintry grey light. 'And always good to return.'
They sailed from Waterford on the morning's tide. There was a bitter wind to blow them home and a choppy grey sea that Theobald eyed with alarm and Fulke with resignation.
As the last coffers were being loaded on to the ships, Jean returned from one of his kitchen forays with a mutton pudding, a flask of mead, and the news for Fulke that Oonagh FitzGerald's new husband, Guy de Chaumont, had been severely injured in a hunting accident.
----
CHAPTER 6
The Welsh Borders,
Summer 1189
The older FitzWarin boys and the de Hodnet brothers, Baldwin and Stephen, had spent the morning at the booths in Oswestry, examining the wares of the harness-maker, horse-coper and swordsmith. Fulke had a mended bridle to collect, William was looking for a new mount, and all the young men were passionate about the sleek blades displayed on
Fulke let out the breath he had been holding on a gasp of relief and regret, then clutched his ribs at the pain. After a moment the dog padded over to him and licked his hand.
'This was under your saddle cloth.' Seating himself on the end of Fulke's pallet, Jean presented him with a shard of glass that had come from a broken goblet. Only the nobles who sat at the high table drank out of glass because it was expensive and difficult to carry between households without being broken. 'The moment you set your weight in the saddle, it would have pressed into Russet's flesh like a sharp spur.'
Fulke took the piece of glass and turned it in his fingers. Green light smudged his skin. A thick line of opaque red with roan hairs adhered to the vicious point at one end. It was not long enough to kill on its own, but sufficient to drive an animal mad with pain and make it burst its heart. He remembered de Malfee's sly glance and Prince John's smirk of pleasure. Doubtless they had thought it a fine jest.
'I know where to lay the blame for this,' he said grimly. 'My father was right.'
Jean raised his brows in question.
'I should have made sure that the whoreson stayed down.'
In September a galley arrived from England, bearing letters and emissaries from King Henry; and Oonagh's words were borne out.
'We're sailing for England,' said Theobald as he dressed in his wall chamber for the evening meal after attending a private discussion in John's solar. 'The travelling chests must be packed by dawn.'
Fulke had known that it was coming. Even without Oonagh's prophecy the signs had been present in the steady trickle of deserting mercenaries and the arguments of the townspeople over lack of payment for their produce.
'King Henry did not send more silver then?' He helped Theobald don his long court tunic of crimson wool edged with gold braid.
Theobald shook his head. 'If silver has arrived, lad, it is not for John. He might be Henry's favourite son, but even favouritism has its limits. More silver would just buy more wine and Henry's coffers are not bottomless. I suspect that John will go home to a scolding and then be treated like a prodigal son.'
Fulke knew what Theobald meant. The Prince had been chastised over the incident with the chessboard, but the whipping had somehow never been administered.
Theobald latched his belt and checked that his scabbard was securely attached. 'It is not all John's fault,' he said as he ran a comb through his cropped tawny curls. 'You cannot expect a spoiled stripling to do a man's work. Still,' he added as he set the comb down on the coffer, i suppose that lessons have been learned.' Reaching for his cloak, he smiled at Fulke. 'You are not disappointed to leave, I warrant?'
'No, my lord.' Fulke lifted his shoulders, it is not mat I have hated my time here, and I have learned much, but….' He flushed slightly beneath his lord's quiet grey gaze. 'But I want to see my family again and my home.'
'It is always good to wander,' Theobald said, and his eyes left Fulke and swept towards the window embrasure and an arch of wintry grey light. 'And always good to return.'
They sailed from Waterford on the morning's tide. There was a bitter wind to blow them home and a choppy grey sea that Theobald eyed with alarm and Fulke with resignation.
As the last coffers were being loaded on to the ships, Jean returned from one of his kitchen forays with a mutton pudding, a flask of mead, and the news for Fulke that Oonagh FitzGerald's new husband, Guy de Chaumont, had been severely injured in a hunting accident.
----
CHAPTER 6
The Welsh Borders,
Summer 1189
The older FitzWarin boys and the de Hodnet brothers, Baldwin and Stephen, had spent the morning at the booths in Oswestry, examining the wares of the harness-maker, horse-coper and swordsmith. Fulke had a mended bridle to collect, William was looking for a new mount, and all the young men were passionate about the sleek blades displayed on
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