Lords of the White Castle by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

the cloth outside the swordsmith's booth.
    Some were fashioned from a single bar of steel; others were made in the old way, from several layers of iron, beaten and hammered until they formed intricate ripple designs on the surface of the weapon. It was said that these pattern-welded blades possessed less strength than the plain ones, but for visual beauty, they were unsurpassed.
    'I'm going to have one of these when I'm knighted.' William's brown eyes gleamed covetously. He was eighteen now; slender, fiery and desperate for the ceremony that would confer on him the badge of warrior manhood.
    Fulke admired William's choice. It would have been his own selection too, except that when it came his time to be knighted, the gift of his sword had been promised by Lord Theobald. The ceremony was likely to take place when Lord Theobald returned to England. For the nonce, he was fighting across the Narrow Sea in Anjou. King Henry and Prince Richard were at each other's throats again. Prince John was with his father, opposing Richard, and from what news came to them here in the Marches, the situation was ugly and acrimonious.
    Fulke was glad not to be attending Theobald. Instead of crossing the Narrow Sea, he had been summoned home when his father had fallen dangerously sick. Although le Brun had recovered from the high fever that had briefly threatened his life, Fulke had not returned to court. His father had deemed it better for him to learn the obligations of governance at home for a while rather than become involved in the vicissitudes of Angevin family warfare.
    Today, however, Fulke had his freedom to enjoy the perfect Lammastide weather and the booths in Oswestry. English and Welsh folk mingled, intent on barter and purchase. Their languages blended, mixed with more than a seasoning of Norman French. Fulke watched the trading with pleasure, knowing that it was not always this peaceful. Frequently the Welsh and English were at war with each other and Oswestry was a battleground, claimed by both sides and sacked by both too as a result.
    Last time they had been in the town was the Whitsuntide of the previous year. Granted leave by Lord Theobald to visit his family, Fulke had been in Oswestry to hear the Bishop of St David and his deacon, the irrepressible Gerald de Barry, preach the need for a new crusade to restore the Holy Land to Christian rule. Gerald had been so eloquent and passionate that several folk had joined the crusade on the spot and been handed red crosses to sew on to their cloaks. Fulke had felt the tug of the sermon but abjured, knowing that his own family's Jerusalem was Whittington and his future already mapped out. William had stepped forward like a speeding arrow and been hauled back by le Brun's hand on the scruff of his neck.
    'Too young and so hot-headed you'll burn yourself up,' their father had snapped with a jaundiced glare at Gerald and the Bishop. 'You were ever one to hear tales of a dragon at your nurse's knee and straight away run off in pursuit of one.'
    Prince Richard had sworn to take the Cross and ride for Jerusalem as soon as the matter of his inheritance was resolved. Lord Theobald's brother Hubert had sworn too, and their uncle, Ranulf de Glanville. Theobald himself was to remain behind in John's retinue. It was a sensible move and made the best of both worlds for the Walter family. If and when the crusade departed, they would have influence both in the field and at home.
    'I like this one.' Philip lifted one of the plain steel swords. It suited his nature, which was sturdy and cautious despite his unruly cloud of auburn curls.
    Both de Hodnet boys opted for pattern-welded blades. Finally growing tired of their penniless enthusiasm the swordsmith waved them away, grumbling that sweaty fingerprints would damage the steel.
    The young men repaired to the alehouse where at least their purses could afford the price of two jugs between them. They sat at a trestle under the shade of an oak tree and