against drowning.”
“Of course I will, Mama.” Fulke kissed the cross and placed it around his own neck, tucking it down inside his tunic.
She forced a smile. “I might sleep a little easier now. I only wish I had something for Jean too.”
“Oh, he wears a token of St. Christopher in his cap, and I’ve yet to see him not land on his feet whatever the situation,” Fulke said lightly in an attempt to ease the atmosphere. He was more than relieved as footsteps hammered outside and a panting William burst into the room.
“Are you still being measured or do you want to come and join us at ambushes?” He was pink with exertion and the joy of play. “Jean says he’ll take the part of Roger de Powys. We’re using the midden as Whittington keep.”
“I’ve finished for now,” Hawise said and gave Fulke a gentle push. “The tunic won’t be ready for trying until this evening.”
Fulke did not require a second bidding. The boy in him clamored to be out with his brothers; the man did too, eager to release the tensions raised with a bout of vigorous activity.
Hawise drifted to the window and watched him as he emerged into the winter afternoon. The wind ruffled his dark hair. She saw how the other boys clamored around him, William foremost and clearly full of worship; she watched the way he organized them, including the little ones. He had always possessed those abilities, but life at court was honing and polishing the skills, taking and changing him. If Whittington was to be theirs again one day, then he was their brightest hope. She touched her throat, feeling for a cord that was no longer there. With a sigh of self-irritation, she turned from the window and approached the bolt of fabric waiting on her sewing trestle. Worry only bred more worry as, with six sons, she had cause enough to know.
4
The Irish Sea was a deep, cold green, topped with crests of white foam that broke and marbled in the steep troughs. A hard east wind strained the canvas sails of the ships that climbed and fell the mountain range of waves, their prows pointed toward the Irish coast and the port of Waterford.
Fulke’s belly quietly churned as their vessel plunged down the small hillside and surged up the slope of the next. He was one of the fortunate ones, his nausea being mild. Lord Theobald, Jean de Rampaigne, and other members of John’s entourage were incapacitated in the deck shelter, all of them as green as new cheese and puking like pregnant women. Apart from the crew and a Welsh archdeacon, Fulke was the only one still upright, and he much preferred the wildness of the open deck to the groaning stench of the shelter.
The size of the waves made Fulke slightly apprehensive; it would only take one slip of the helm or one swoop of water larger than the rest to send their vessel to the bottom of the Irish Sea. He could well understand his mother’s terror. In his arrogance, he had thought that playing games on the River Thames was sufficient preparation, but rough water on the Thames was like a caress compared to the hammering fists of the Hibernian Sea. He touched the cross on his breast and invoked St. Elmo, seeking reassurance.
The Welsh Archdeacon staggered over to him, fists tightly clutching his cloak to his body. He was a small man in early middle age with sandy, tonsured hair and a round face with genial features marred by an air of petulance. “If they have no stomach for it now, they might as well turn around and head home,” he said scornfully. “It will get no better.”
While at Milford Haven before they embarked, Fulke had served the Archdeacon at Lord Theobald’s table. He was Gerald de Barry of Manorbier and he was accompanying this venture because he was acquainted with the Irish and their customs. Wherever he went, he carried a wooden tablet containing pages of waxed boards on which he wrote notes with a stylus. The only reason he was not writing his tart and gossipy observances just now was that the sea
“Of course I will, Mama.” Fulke kissed the cross and placed it around his own neck, tucking it down inside his tunic.
She forced a smile. “I might sleep a little easier now. I only wish I had something for Jean too.”
“Oh, he wears a token of St. Christopher in his cap, and I’ve yet to see him not land on his feet whatever the situation,” Fulke said lightly in an attempt to ease the atmosphere. He was more than relieved as footsteps hammered outside and a panting William burst into the room.
“Are you still being measured or do you want to come and join us at ambushes?” He was pink with exertion and the joy of play. “Jean says he’ll take the part of Roger de Powys. We’re using the midden as Whittington keep.”
“I’ve finished for now,” Hawise said and gave Fulke a gentle push. “The tunic won’t be ready for trying until this evening.”
Fulke did not require a second bidding. The boy in him clamored to be out with his brothers; the man did too, eager to release the tensions raised with a bout of vigorous activity.
Hawise drifted to the window and watched him as he emerged into the winter afternoon. The wind ruffled his dark hair. She saw how the other boys clamored around him, William foremost and clearly full of worship; she watched the way he organized them, including the little ones. He had always possessed those abilities, but life at court was honing and polishing the skills, taking and changing him. If Whittington was to be theirs again one day, then he was their brightest hope. She touched her throat, feeling for a cord that was no longer there. With a sigh of self-irritation, she turned from the window and approached the bolt of fabric waiting on her sewing trestle. Worry only bred more worry as, with six sons, she had cause enough to know.
4
The Irish Sea was a deep, cold green, topped with crests of white foam that broke and marbled in the steep troughs. A hard east wind strained the canvas sails of the ships that climbed and fell the mountain range of waves, their prows pointed toward the Irish coast and the port of Waterford.
Fulke’s belly quietly churned as their vessel plunged down the small hillside and surged up the slope of the next. He was one of the fortunate ones, his nausea being mild. Lord Theobald, Jean de Rampaigne, and other members of John’s entourage were incapacitated in the deck shelter, all of them as green as new cheese and puking like pregnant women. Apart from the crew and a Welsh archdeacon, Fulke was the only one still upright, and he much preferred the wildness of the open deck to the groaning stench of the shelter.
The size of the waves made Fulke slightly apprehensive; it would only take one slip of the helm or one swoop of water larger than the rest to send their vessel to the bottom of the Irish Sea. He could well understand his mother’s terror. In his arrogance, he had thought that playing games on the River Thames was sufficient preparation, but rough water on the Thames was like a caress compared to the hammering fists of the Hibernian Sea. He touched the cross on his breast and invoked St. Elmo, seeking reassurance.
The Welsh Archdeacon staggered over to him, fists tightly clutching his cloak to his body. He was a small man in early middle age with sandy, tonsured hair and a round face with genial features marred by an air of petulance. “If they have no stomach for it now, they might as well turn around and head home,” he said scornfully. “It will get no better.”
While at Milford Haven before they embarked, Fulke had served the Archdeacon at Lord Theobald’s table. He was Gerald de Barry of Manorbier and he was accompanying this venture because he was acquainted with the Irish and their customs. Wherever he went, he carried a wooden tablet containing pages of waxed boards on which he wrote notes with a stylus. The only reason he was not writing his tart and gossipy observances just now was that the sea
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