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 knuckles were white 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 took Theobald’s full weight.
Swaying, Theobald pushed himself upright. “Why do I feel as if I’m still on board a ship?” he demanded, then, uttering a groan, staggered to a corner of the bailey where he doubled up.
“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.
Fulke faced John 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 he would tire of bouncing insults off a blank wall.
“Sire, 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 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 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 Fulke’s banner to use as a crutch. A squire on either side, he made his way slowly into the tower.
Philip of Worcester had managed to find a wall chamber where Theobald could lie down and nurse his churning stomach. Jean went in search of a hot tisane for his lord to sip, leaving Fulke to unpack their baggage. Theobald lay like an effigy on his 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.
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, along with the appetizing 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, he was greeted by 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-gray coat, and his youngest brother could have ridden it as a pony. The woman wore a gown of rose-colored 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 entered the room, her step sure and confident. “I was told that one of Prince John’s lords
“Are you able to dismount, my lord?” Grasping the stirrup strap, he looked anxiously at Theobald, whose knuckles were white 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 took Theobald’s full weight.
Swaying, Theobald pushed himself upright. “Why do I feel as if I’m still on board a ship?” he demanded, then, uttering a groan, staggered to a corner of the bailey where he doubled up.
“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.
Fulke faced John 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 he would tire of bouncing insults off a blank wall.
“Sire, 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 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 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 Fulke’s banner to use as a crutch. A squire on either side, he made his way slowly into the tower.
Philip of Worcester had managed to find a wall chamber where Theobald could lie down and nurse his churning stomach. Jean went in search of a hot tisane for his lord to sip, leaving Fulke to unpack their baggage. Theobald lay like an effigy on his 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.
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, along with the appetizing 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, he was greeted by 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-gray coat, and his youngest brother could have ridden it as a pony. The woman wore a gown of rose-colored 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 entered the room, her step sure and confident. “I was told that one of Prince John’s lords
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