Read Online Elizabeth Chadwick by The Outlaw Knight - Free Book Online Page A

way up the stairs, a steaming jug in his hand and an expression of recovering shock on his face.
    “Jesu, did you seen the size of that brute? It’s bigger than a pack pony and it’s got teeth like palings!” He looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see the wolfhound padding up the stairs after him.
    “Yes, we’ve met.” Fulke’s grin was smug. “Its mistress came to tend Lord Theobald.”
    Jean cocked a curious eyebrow. “You look highly pleased about something. It can’t be that dreadful dog. What’s her name?”
    “The dog or the woman?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “The lady’s name is Oonagh FitzGerald and she’s a widow.”
    “Do you think her loneliness needs comforting, perchance?”
    The notion of comforting Oonagh FitzGerald was one that made Fulke feel lustfully unsettled. The remark about his gentle hands still scorched his blood. “I think that is why she keeps the dog so close,” he said. “To afford her comfort and protect her from unwelcome approaches.”
    “Ah, but your approach obviously wasn’t unwelcome or your eyes wouldn’t be gleaming like that and your ears wouldn’t be so red!”
    “God on the Cross!” groaned Theobald from his pallet. “Will both of you put your pricks back in your braies and be about your duties. I could die of thirst or purging while you prate nonsense!”
    Fulke and Jean exchanged wry glances. “Yes, sire,” both said in unison and strove not to set each other off laughing.
    ***
    Theobald’s sickness gradually abated, but he had purged so much that he was as weak as a kitten and unable to attend the state sessions in the great hall until the end of the week. By that time, much of the damage had been done. Taking the bit between his teeth, John ruled as he chose. He had not wanted to come to Ireland. It was a mere crumb thrown from the largesse of his father’s table, a sop to keep him quiet, and he had neither the will nor the experience to do the task he had been set.
    While Theobald slept his way back to strength, Jean and Fulke had long periods when they were free of obligation. As always, Jean eased his way into the community of kitchen and stables, slaughter shed and dairy. His ear for language quickly rewarded him with a smattering of Gaelic and access to the groundswell of general opinion, none of it good where John was concerned. To the Gaels, he was just another booted foot to crush them. To the Norman colonists, he was an interfering boy who was already bearing out his odious reputation for ill manners and petulance.
    Other information was forthcoming too, and of particular interest to Fulke.
    “Lady Oonagh FitzGerald,” said the castle butcher as he scraped the last shreds of meat from a beef leg and slapped the marrowbone into Fulke’s hand with a wet smack. “Now there’s a name to conjure with.” He nodded at the bone. “Going courting are you? It’s always a good idea to sweeten the chaperone.”
    Fulke laughed. “It would take more than this, I think.” He looked curiously at the butcher. “Why is it a name to conjure with?”
    “You’re pitting yourself against fifty others, all with the same notion. The lady Oonagh’s an heiress and a rare beauty. Not often you find both together. Mind you, perhaps you’ll get further than the rest. You’re the first who’s come to ask me for a bone. Of course,” he added, “you’d best play while the sun shines. Prince John will sell her off to the highest bidder.”
    Fulke stared. The marrowbone in his hand felt slimy and wet. The powerful smell of butchered steer coiled in the air. It was the law that a widow could not be remarried unless she chose, but it was a law frequently ignored and vastly open to abuse.
    “Not a pretty thought, is it?” The butcher turned away to his block and picked up his cleaver. “But it’s the way of the world. You can’t give a dog a bone without killing a cow.”
    Fulke winced at the comparison and walked off across the ward. A