Lords of the White Castle Read Free Page A

fury. 'You're a king's son by birth, but just now I would accord a gutter sweeping more respect than you!'
    John roared. Grabbing the chessboard in both hands, he slammed it with all his strength into Fulke's face.
    Fulke's nose crunched. He reeled from the sudden violence of the blow, a white numbness spreading from the impact and overlaid by the heat of gushing blood. Raising his hand to his face, he brought it away and looked at his red fingers in astonishment.
    John lunged at him again. Fulke ducked the blow and lashed out with his feet. John staggered. The ball of his foot rolled on one of the chess pieces and he crashed backwards, his skull striking the plastered wall with a dull thud. His knees crumpled and he hit the floor like a poled ox.
    'Christ, bloody Christ!' Fulke panted and, stanching his nose on his sleeve, staggered over to John's prone body. His first thought was that he had killed him, but then he saw the Prince's chest rise and fall and felt the hard pulse beat against the throat laces of John's shirt.
    Anger and shock churned Fulke's gut, making him feel sick. 'Sir, wake up!' He shook the Prince's shoulder in growing fear. Now the fat truly was in the fire.
    John groaned but did not open his eyes. Blood splashed from Fulke's nose on to the costly blue tunic and soaked in. Staggering to the sideboard, Fulke poured a measure of wine and drank it down fast, tasting blood. Then he refilled the cup and brought it to John. Raising the Prince's shoulders, he dabbed John's lips with wine.
    The latch clicked and the door suddenly swung inwards. Ranulf de Glanville and his nephew Theobald Walter, who was John's tutor in arms, stopped on the threshold and stared.
    'God's bones,' declared Theobald Walter, his grey gaze wide with astonishment. 'What goes forth here?'
    Fulke swallowed. 'My lord Prince struck his head, and I cannot rouse him.' His voice buzzed in his ears, the intonation thick with the blood that was clotting in his nose.
    'And how did he come to do that?' Lord Walter advanced into the room, his tread firm with authority. The practice gambeson of the morning had been replaced by an ankle-length court tunic of crimson wool heavily embroidered with thread of gold. He still wore his sword, but as a mark of rank, not because he expected to use it. Behind him, Ranulf de Glanville prudently closed the door.
    'I… we… there was a disagreement and we had a fight,' Fulke said, feeling wretched. A massive, throbbing pain was beginning to hammer between his eyes.
    Lord Walter gave him the same assessing look with which he scrutinised the squires on the practice field. 'A fight,' he repeated. His voice was quiet and pleasant. Theobald Walter never shouted. A single twitch of an eyebrow, a brightening glare was all it took to bring the squires into line. 'About what?' He knelt at Fulke's side, his knees cracking slightly as he bent them. At nine and thirty, he was wearing well, but the English winters took their toll, as they did on every man.
    Fulke compressed his lips.
    'Don't clam up on me, lad,' Lord Walter said sharply. 'The truth will serve you better than silence.' He turned John's head gently to one side and found the swelling bruise beneath his hair. Then he sniffed the Prince's breath and pulled back with a grimace.
    Fulke met the Baron's eyes without evasion. During lessons in weapon play, Theobald had shown himself fair and patient. 'The Prince accused me of cheating at chess and when I denied it, he struck me with the board. I…' He jutted his jaw. 'I hit out to defend myself and he fell backwards and struck his head.'
    'How bad is it?' Rubbing his neat grey beard, de Glanville came to stand at John's feet. His face wore an incongruous mixture of alarm and distaste.
    'There's a lump the size of a baby on the back of his head, but I don't believe there's cause to send for a priest just yet. Part of the reason he's insensible is that he's as soused as a pickled herring.' Theobald glanced briefly at