Lords of the White Castle by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

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 abruptly from the window and approached the bolt of fabric waiting on her sewing trestle. Worry only bred more worry. With six sons, she had cause enough to know.
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    CHAPTER 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 towards 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. He had only been sick once at the outset of their journey. 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 and even feel an echo of it in the churn of his belly. 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 murmured a prayer to St Elmo, seeking reassurance.
    The Welsh Achdeacon 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 whose genial features were marred by an air of petulance. 'If they have no stomach for it now, they might as well turn round and head home,' he said scornfully. 'It will get no better.'
    While on attendance duty 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 one of the few people acquainted with the Irish and their customs. Wherever he went, he carried a wooden book containing pages of waxed tablets. The only reason he was not writing his tart and gossipy observances just now was that the sea was too rough for him to control his stylo.
    'You mean the weather will grow worse?' Fulke glanced anxiously at the scudding fleece of grey and white clouds and then at the next glass wall of sea menacing their bows.
    'It might at that; only God can say. Their sea is as contrary as the Irish themselves.' Malicious amusement filled Archdeacon Gerald's sloe-berry eyes. 'Why, lad, are you afraid?'
    Fulke clutched his little cross. 'I have faith in God,' he said, reluctant to admit his doubts to the small, acerbic churchman.
    'Very proper too, and you will need it. King Henry is sending a spoiled child to do a man's task. I have no doubt that blood will flow in direct proportion to the amount of wine consumed.'
    Fulke said nothing. In all likelihood, Gerald was right—if the inebriated state of John and his immediate companions when they boarded ship at Milford was any indicator.
    'Nor,' continued Gerald, wagging his forefinger like an Old Testament prophet,' do I think that those barrels of silver we loaded will ever reach the troops he's supposed to buy. Mark my words, we're in for a stormy passage.' The Archdeacon staggered across the deck to look out over the side.
    In the short time he had known him, Fulke had quickly realised that Gerald had a tendency to exaggerate. Some of his tales about the Irish were clearly preposterous, such