Lords of the White Castle by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

took it in turns to drink. Tara, Fulke's wolfhound, flopped nose on paws at his side and watched the world from beneath her brows. He combed his fingers through her harsh pelt, stiff as fine silver wire.
    'It don't bite, do it?' One of the alehouse girls paused warily to admire the massive dog. Moistening her lips, she darted her gaze over the assembled young men in similar wise.
    William grinned broadly and raised the jug in toast. 'No, but I do, sweetheart, if you want to sit on my lap and try me.'
    'No, she doesn't bite.' Fulke gave his brother a nudge and removed the jug from his hands. William was always boasting about the conquests he had made, but Fulke suspected that most were imagined in order to increase William's standing among his peers.
    Fulke's own experience of women had considerably expanded since his return from Ireland. Hanild, one of the court whores, had taken a fancy to broaden his education beyond the arts of weapon play and ciphering—teaching him 'the differences between a knight and an oaf as she had put it. Her instruction had been vastly pleasurable and more than a little enlightening, not to say a welcome release from the frustrations that now seemed to be plaguing William.
    'Can I stroke her?'
    'Of course.' Fulke spoke gently to the dog and studied the girl through his lashes as she tentatively patted Tara's head. Small, curvaceous, with a winsome, kissable smile. When William began talking about his own willingness to be stroked, Fulke bade him somewhat curtly to hold his peace.
    William reddened with indignation. 'I saw her first!' he cried. 'Find your own wench!'
    'If you desire to be a knight, then act like one,' Fulke said tersely.
    'What's that supposed to mean?'
    'It means holding your tongue until you have something worthwhile to say… either to me or the girl.'
    She was looking fearfully at the young men, clearly not following the rapid French, but understanding enough from the tone to realise a quarrel was brewing.
    William jerked to his feet. 'You think that because you've been to court, you can lord it over us all, play the master. Well, you're not mine, and I'll do as I please.'
    'Go on then' Fulke said with a sweep of his arm. 'Make a fool of yourself.'
    The brothers stared at each other, William breathing jerkily, Fulke maintaining an air of superior calm, although the shudder of his tunic neckline against his throat revealed how hard and swiftly his heart was beating.
    'Will, sit down, you're making a mountain from an ant mound.' Ever the peace-maker, Philip tugged at his brother's sleeve.
    William shook him off. 'I don't want to sit down. I'm sick of being told what to do.' He stalked away in the direction of their tethered horses.
    Fulke stared after him, bemused at the speed with which the quarrel had hit. He had always thought himself fond of William, and the feelings of irritation and anger were unsettling. So too was the notion that William was clearly resentful of him.
    'You have trampled on his pride,' Philip murmured. 'And you have taken his place as king of the castle. While you were at court, Will was the oldest and strongest, the one who led. Now you are home and it is clear to all that he cannot hope to compete.'
    'I don't want to compete.' Fulke watched William swing into the saddle and tug on the reins. 'God's bones, I've seen enough fraternal squabbling at court to last me a lifetime. Heaven forbid that we should ever come to be like King Henry's sons.'
    'He'll come round,' said Baldwin de Hodnet stoutly as William rode away. 'His temper's all blaze and no substance.'
    Philip pulled a face. 'But heaven help those who get in its way while it's burning.'
    The girl had retreated as the quarrel sparked, but only as far as the alehouse door, and it was her cry that slewed Fulke and his companions on the bench to see that William's path was blocked by a belligerent group of horsemen.
    Fulke's gaze narrowed on the banners fluttering from their spears. 'Morys FitzRoger,' he