Lords of the White Castle Read Online Free PDF

amuse my father when he was a child.'
    'Aye, well, you'll not convince me, young man. You only have to look at them to know they're different. If there's not a demon in Prince John, I'll eat my apron, eggshells and all.'
    She went to the midden bucket. Fulke scooped the last morsel of boar and sauce on to the heel of his loaf and demolished it.
    Jean took his lute and ran experimental fingers over the strings. 'It would make a good ballad set to music,' he said. '"Fair Melusine".' A silvery cascade of notes like strands of moonlight rippled from the soundbox.
    Fulke watched with replete fascination. Although he enjoyed music, particularly rousing battle songs and bardic Welsh sagas, his own skills were negligible. Playing a lute was beyond him. His voice had but recently broken and while it held promise of being deep and resonant when he attained full manhood, his notion of pitch was such that he knew his singing would sound like a dog in a dungeon.
    'A lute will open doors that are locked to the booted foot and the sword,' Jean said. 'Men will welcome you for the cheer and entertainment it brings to their hearths. Folk will pay you with your supper; strangers will more readily accept you. And sometimes women will let you enter their sanctuaries.' His eyebrows flashed with innuendo.
    Fulke reddened slightly. Women and their sanctuaries were of tremendous interest to his rapidly developing body, but they were a mystery too. The high-born ones were guarded by chaperones and kept at home until they married. Girls of lower degree kept their distance if they were decent. Those who weren't had designs on a royal bed, not the lowly pallet of a squire. The court whores preferred clients with a ready source of income. Other than what fitted where, Fulke had little notion of what to do, and no intention of exposing his ignorance.
    Jean leaned over the lute, his fingers plucking a melody to pay for the supper they had just enjoyed. His voice was clear and true, pitched high, but strong as a bell and it chimed above the melange of kitchen sounds, telling the story of Melusine. Fulke listened in rapt and slightly jealous admiration. It was truly a gift and he found himself wishing that he had it. As his mind absorbed the notes and the words, he studied the reverence with which Jean treated his lute. The sight of the squire's lean fingers on the strings brought to mind another image: his own hands working with an equal reverence to smooth the scars from the surface of his shield.
    Suddenly all pleasure and gathering lassitude were gone. As Jean's voice lingered to accompany the lute on the final note of the song, Fulke jerked to his feet and headed for the doorway.
    Ignoring the loud applause and demands for more, Jean swept a hasty bow and ran after his charge. 'Where are you going?' He snatched Fulke's sleeve.
    'My shield. I left it in John's chamber.'
    'You can't go there now.' Jean's voice rose in disbelief.
    'The kitchens are one matter, but my lord would certainly have us flayed for going anywhere near John's chamber.'
    'It's new,' Fulke said stubbornly. 'My father sent it as a gift to mark my year day'
    'Christ's wounds, are you a little child that you must have it now?' For the first time irritation flashed across Jean's amiable features. 'Leave it until the morrow.'
    'You don't understand. It's a matter of honour.'
    'Don't be such a fool. I—'
    'Come or go as you please,' Fulke interrupted passionlessly, 'you will not stop me.' He stepped out into the wild night. The sleet had turned to snow as the temperature dropped and they were surrounded in a living, whirling whiteness.
    Jean hesitated, then, with an oath, hastened after Fulke. 'John is likely to be at meat in the Rufus Hall, but that's still no reason to tempt fate to the hilt.'
    'I'm not tempting fate,' Fulke replied in the same, impassive tone. 'I only desire what is mine to me.' He strode powerfully on, leaving slushy wet footprints on the whitening sward.
    Muttering