Read Online Lords of the White Castle by Elizabeth Chadwick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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groan, staggered to a corner of the bailey where he doubled up, retching once more.
'You have the same effect on me, FitzWarin,' Prince John paused to taunt him on his way into the tower. 'You make me sick as a dog.' His companions sniggered. At the back of their party, Archdeacon Gerald frowned with disapproval.
Fulke faced the Prince in polite but stony silence. Since the incident with the chessboard, John had taken every opportunity to bait him, although never when Ranulf de Glanville or Theobald Walter were within earshot. Now, with power to wield and Theobald incapacitated, he obviously felt safe to do so. The best remedy was to ignore him and hope that he would quickly grow bored with bouncing insults off a blank wall.
'Your Highness, will you come within? Everything is prepared for you,' said Philip of Worcester with an ushering gesture. He had been sent ahead of the main party to make ready for John's arrival.
John inclined his head. 'I certainly have no desire to remain out here with dolts and bumpkins,' he said. 'Perhaps you will see to it that my lord Walter receives adequate attention for his purging. I doubt his squires will be of much assistance.' He moved on and Fulke carefully let out the breath he had been holding.
'Pay no heed,' Jean muttered.
Fulke glowered. 'There is a tally in my mind and each time he goads me, I add another notch.' He went to Theobald who was leaning against the wall, his complexion the unhealthy hue of lime mortar. 'Can you walk, my lord?'
Clutching his stomach, Theobald slowly straightened. 'I'll be damned if I'll be carried,' he said hoarsely, and took the banner Fulke was holding to use as a crutch. A squire on either side, he made his slow way into the tower.
Philip of Worcester had managed to find a wall chamber where Theobald was able to He down and nurse his churning stomach. Jean went in search of a hot tisane for his lord to sip, leaving Fulke to see to the arrangement and unpacking of the travelling chests. Lord Theobald lay like an effigy on his travelling pallet. Fulke suspected that not only was his master suffering from the effects of mal de mer , but that he had eaten something that had disagreed with his gut. On board a ship, it was not difficult.
He went to the narrow window splay and peered out on a rainy April dusk. His constricted view yielded him the sight of a handful of the bailey buildings. He could have been anywhere from Westminster to Lambourn. The smell of woodsmoke drifted to his nose, and on it, the appetising aroma of roasting meat. On the bed, Theobald caught the scent too, and moaned.
The heavy curtain screening the chamber from the stairs rattled on its pole. Fulke turned, expecting to see Jean with the tisane. Instead, his eyes met the astonishing sight of a beautiful woman, accompanied by the hugest dog he had ever seen, bigger even than his father's deerhound, Griff. It had paws the size of trenchers, a shaggy, silver-grey coat, and his youngest brother could have ridden it as a pony. The woman wore a gown of rose-coloured wool in the Norman style, and a white veil bound in position with a woven band. Two heavy braids, glossy black as Fulke's own hair, hung to her waist.
'My lady?' His voice rose and cracked as it had not done in over half a year.
A swift word in Gaelic, a pointed finger, and the dog lay down across the threshold like a giant rug. She came forward, her step sure and confident. 'I was told that one of Prince John's lords was sick and in need of tending?' She spoke the Norman French of the court, but with a lilting cadence that curled around the words and made them seductive. Her eyes were a stunning hyssop-flower blue and the colour of her lips matched the deep rose of her gown. Advancing to the pallet, she looked down at the supine Theobald.
Fulke swallowed. 'He has the seasickness but it won't abate. Who are you?' The question blurted out of him like a splash of ink on a clean vellum page. All the blood in his body
'You have the same effect on me, FitzWarin,' Prince John paused to taunt him on his way into the tower. 'You make me sick as a dog.' His companions sniggered. At the back of their party, Archdeacon Gerald frowned with disapproval.
Fulke faced the Prince in polite but stony silence. Since the incident with the chessboard, John had taken every opportunity to bait him, although never when Ranulf de Glanville or Theobald Walter were within earshot. Now, with power to wield and Theobald incapacitated, he obviously felt safe to do so. The best remedy was to ignore him and hope that he would quickly grow bored with bouncing insults off a blank wall.
'Your Highness, will you come within? Everything is prepared for you,' said Philip of Worcester with an ushering gesture. He had been sent ahead of the main party to make ready for John's arrival.
John inclined his head. 'I certainly have no desire to remain out here with dolts and bumpkins,' he said. 'Perhaps you will see to it that my lord Walter receives adequate attention for his purging. I doubt his squires will be of much assistance.' He moved on and Fulke carefully let out the breath he had been holding.
'Pay no heed,' Jean muttered.
Fulke glowered. 'There is a tally in my mind and each time he goads me, I add another notch.' He went to Theobald who was leaning against the wall, his complexion the unhealthy hue of lime mortar. 'Can you walk, my lord?'
Clutching his stomach, Theobald slowly straightened. 'I'll be damned if I'll be carried,' he said hoarsely, and took the banner Fulke was holding to use as a crutch. A squire on either side, he made his slow way into the tower.
Philip of Worcester had managed to find a wall chamber where Theobald was able to He down and nurse his churning stomach. Jean went in search of a hot tisane for his lord to sip, leaving Fulke to see to the arrangement and unpacking of the travelling chests. Lord Theobald lay like an effigy on his travelling pallet. Fulke suspected that not only was his master suffering from the effects of mal de mer , but that he had eaten something that had disagreed with his gut. On board a ship, it was not difficult.
He went to the narrow window splay and peered out on a rainy April dusk. His constricted view yielded him the sight of a handful of the bailey buildings. He could have been anywhere from Westminster to Lambourn. The smell of woodsmoke drifted to his nose, and on it, the appetising aroma of roasting meat. On the bed, Theobald caught the scent too, and moaned.
The heavy curtain screening the chamber from the stairs rattled on its pole. Fulke turned, expecting to see Jean with the tisane. Instead, his eyes met the astonishing sight of a beautiful woman, accompanied by the hugest dog he had ever seen, bigger even than his father's deerhound, Griff. It had paws the size of trenchers, a shaggy, silver-grey coat, and his youngest brother could have ridden it as a pony. The woman wore a gown of rose-coloured wool in the Norman style, and a white veil bound in position with a woven band. Two heavy braids, glossy black as Fulke's own hair, hung to her waist.
'My lady?' His voice rose and cracked as it had not done in over half a year.
A swift word in Gaelic, a pointed finger, and the dog lay down across the threshold like a giant rug. She came forward, her step sure and confident. 'I was told that one of Prince John's lords was sick and in need of tending?' She spoke the Norman French of the court, but with a lilting cadence that curled around the words and made them seductive. Her eyes were a stunning hyssop-flower blue and the colour of her lips matched the deep rose of her gown. Advancing to the pallet, she looked down at the supine Theobald.
Fulke swallowed. 'He has the seasickness but it won't abate. Who are you?' The question blurted out of him like a splash of ink on a clean vellum page. All the blood in his body
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