Read Online Lords of the White Castle by Elizabeth Chadwick - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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as the one about stones that could speak prophecy if a corpse was passed over them; but beneath the extravagance and fabrication, there was occasionally a kernel of truthno reassurance to Fulke.
From his precarious position on the cross spar, the lookout bellowed warning of land. Fulke joined the Archdeacon at the side and squinted through spray-stung eyes. As they crested a wave, he saw the hazy outline of grey-green hummocks that did not move.
'The Wicklow Mountains,' said Gerald. 'We'll be in Waterford before nightfall.'
A trifle battered, but unharmed beyond the odd torn sail and leaky caulking, Prince John's fleet sailed into Waterford to be greeted by a handful of Norman—Irish settler barons who had put down conquering roots a generation before. Groggy, reeling from the effects of seasickness and wine, John and his entourage were escorted to the stronghold of Waterford, known as Reginald's Tower after the Norse leader who had originally built it.
Lord Theobald had been violently ill throughout the crossing and only a tremendous effort of will kept him upright as a groom led forward a bay gelding. He grasped the reins and swayed, his forehead clammy with sweat.
'Boost me up,' he commanded Fulke, the last word ending on a swallowed gag.
Fulke hastened to comply, fitting Theobald's foot in the stirrup and thrusting up as the Baron pressed down and heaved himself across his mount's saddle. A muffled oath escaped between Theobald's clenched teeth and he retched dryly into the horse's mane. Jean grasped the reins as the gelding sidled. His own normally golden complexion was sallow and his feet unsteady, but he was in far better case than their master.
'My lord?' He gave a concerned look upwards.
'Just keep the beast quiet,' Theobald gulped.
'Yes, lord. 'Jean exchanged a wry glance with Fulke and clicked his tongue, urging the horse to a gentle walk. From the direction of the saddle, there came a suffering moan. Fulke paced at Lord Theobald's stirrup and carried his banner. The moist sea breeze rippled through the embroidered silks and caused a pleasant snapping sound. Ahead of them the Angevin leopards blazed in thread of gold on their blood-red background. John's dark head bobbed in and out of view, crowned by a golden circlet and surrounded by a protective forest of spears and banners. Naturally, he rode on a white horse. After a single, sour glance, Fulke ignored him. There were more interesting sights to see.
The Irish of the town looked little different to the ordinary folk of England and Wales. They wore the same simple tunics in muted shades of brown, tawny and green. Here and there, an occasional blue garment or a richer dye marked out someone of wealth. The older men cultivated long hair and wore full, heavy beards that put Fulke in mind of a hermit he had once encountered living wild in the forest beyond Alberbury. The sound of Gaelic filled his ears with its strange, musical harshness. He had a smattering of the Welsh tongue, garnered from Alain's nurse Ceridwen. Irish had a difference cadence, less Kiting but strangely hypnotic.
He noticed that neither the native Gaels nor the Norman settlers were smiling. People bowed in deference to the spectacle of royalty, but their faces were wary and in some eyes Fulke was sure he detected a glimmer of scorn. He had an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades, a sensation of vulnerability that only diminished when they reached the safety of Reginald's Tower.
'Are you able to dismount, my lord?' Grasping the stirrup strap, he looked anxiously at Theobald whose hands were white-knuckled on the reins.
Theobald nodded wordlessly, lips tightly compressed. Leaning forward, he swung his right leg over the saddle and slid down the bay's side. For an instant, Fulke bore Theobald's full weight. He braced his shoulder and locked his thighs.
Swaying, Theobald pushed himself upright. 'Why do I feel as if I'm still on board a ship?' he demanded, then, uttering a
From his precarious position on the cross spar, the lookout bellowed warning of land. Fulke joined the Archdeacon at the side and squinted through spray-stung eyes. As they crested a wave, he saw the hazy outline of grey-green hummocks that did not move.
'The Wicklow Mountains,' said Gerald. 'We'll be in Waterford before nightfall.'
A trifle battered, but unharmed beyond the odd torn sail and leaky caulking, Prince John's fleet sailed into Waterford to be greeted by a handful of Norman—Irish settler barons who had put down conquering roots a generation before. Groggy, reeling from the effects of seasickness and wine, John and his entourage were escorted to the stronghold of Waterford, known as Reginald's Tower after the Norse leader who had originally built it.
Lord Theobald had been violently ill throughout the crossing and only a tremendous effort of will kept him upright as a groom led forward a bay gelding. He grasped the reins and swayed, his forehead clammy with sweat.
'Boost me up,' he commanded Fulke, the last word ending on a swallowed gag.
Fulke hastened to comply, fitting Theobald's foot in the stirrup and thrusting up as the Baron pressed down and heaved himself across his mount's saddle. A muffled oath escaped between Theobald's clenched teeth and he retched dryly into the horse's mane. Jean grasped the reins as the gelding sidled. His own normally golden complexion was sallow and his feet unsteady, but he was in far better case than their master.
'My lord?' He gave a concerned look upwards.
'Just keep the beast quiet,' Theobald gulped.
'Yes, lord. 'Jean exchanged a wry glance with Fulke and clicked his tongue, urging the horse to a gentle walk. From the direction of the saddle, there came a suffering moan. Fulke paced at Lord Theobald's stirrup and carried his banner. The moist sea breeze rippled through the embroidered silks and caused a pleasant snapping sound. Ahead of them the Angevin leopards blazed in thread of gold on their blood-red background. John's dark head bobbed in and out of view, crowned by a golden circlet and surrounded by a protective forest of spears and banners. Naturally, he rode on a white horse. After a single, sour glance, Fulke ignored him. There were more interesting sights to see.
The Irish of the town looked little different to the ordinary folk of England and Wales. They wore the same simple tunics in muted shades of brown, tawny and green. Here and there, an occasional blue garment or a richer dye marked out someone of wealth. The older men cultivated long hair and wore full, heavy beards that put Fulke in mind of a hermit he had once encountered living wild in the forest beyond Alberbury. The sound of Gaelic filled his ears with its strange, musical harshness. He had a smattering of the Welsh tongue, garnered from Alain's nurse Ceridwen. Irish had a difference cadence, less Kiting but strangely hypnotic.
He noticed that neither the native Gaels nor the Norman settlers were smiling. People bowed in deference to the spectacle of royalty, but their faces were wary and in some eyes Fulke was sure he detected a glimmer of scorn. He had an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades, a sensation of vulnerability that only diminished when they reached the safety of Reginald's Tower.
'Are you able to dismount, my lord?' Grasping the stirrup strap, he looked anxiously at Theobald whose hands were white-knuckled on the reins.
Theobald nodded wordlessly, lips tightly compressed. Leaning forward, he swung his right leg over the saddle and slid down the bay's side. For an instant, Fulke bore Theobald's full weight. He braced his shoulder and locked his thighs.
Swaying, Theobald pushed himself upright. 'Why do I feel as if I'm still on board a ship?' he demanded, then, uttering a
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