“They confronted each other at Malmesbury and all we did was freeze. Has he agreed yet to give you Lancaster?”
“Of course.” Chester loosed a peal of his harsh laughter. “He knows whom he needs.”
Fulk drank ale and greeted more guests. With half the earls in England supporting him, Henry needed Chester less and less. Rannulf was coming toward him. Fulk looked up at Chester’s face.
“Let us hope Prince Henry remembers his friends, my lord.”
He bowed and moved off, so that Rannulf could talk to him alone. Rannulf glanced at Chester and put his back to him. “Father, Thierry is here.”
“I know.”
“He’s upstairs, he asks if you will meet him.”
Fulk looked around for a page, and seeing him look, one rushed up and took his cup and went to the table at the end of the room to fill it. Fulk said, “I’m going to Tutbury to rejoin the price, and so is he. We will undoubtedly meet there.”
“My lord—”
“You’re going with me, if it please you.”
Rannulf nodded. “Mother said that I should.”
“Did she?” A twinge of uneasiness ran through him; even when she lay under the altar in the chapel Margaret went on. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Will you see Thierry?”
Fulk shook his head. Near the banquet table, Derby was talking to some of his tenants, and sudden laughter boomed out. Fulk took a step toward them. “I can’t, Rannulf. I don’t want to.” He went over toward Derby, wanting some reason to laugh.
FOUR
Leicester said, "That engineer of yours, Parin, was very useful. He explained it all in great detail to the prince, too, which kept him entertained. God’s wounds, you did get knocked around, didn’t you?”
“I understand it took them a while to put it all back together.” Fulk patted his splints. “I don’t remember the operation. Parin’s a good man.” He sat down on his bed—they were quartered in Tutbury Castle, five men to a room—and stretched his legs out. “Where’s Chester?”
“In the hall.” Leicester made a quick turn around the little room. He was tall and lean, with grizzled hair cropped close to his head and a steep upper lip; until his twin brother Worcester had gone on Crusade, no one in England had been able to tell them apart. “Stephen can’t resist us now. There’s no way. Derby’s come over, Warwick and Northampton are out of the way—everybody who hasn’t joined the prince is hanging back to see what happens.”
Fulk lay back and folded his left arm behind his head. They had ridden all day to get here and his broken arm hurt. “There is Eustace. The king will certainly try to keep the throne for him, in spite of the Pope.” Eustace was King Stephen’s elder son. “London supports him, and the Earl of York and Richard Camville and Richard de Luci. And there’s William d’Ypres. I doubt—”
Somebody knocked on the door, and the squire Leicester had brought with him went to answer it. Leicester said swiftly, “Something must be done about Eustace.” He stood back and looked at the door, and Fulk thought, Something foul, or he wouldn’t care who hears him. Rannulf came in, with Roger behind him. Roger stood to one side.
Throwing off his cloak, Rannulf dumped it on the bed. His face was flushed and his eyes shone with excitement. “Everyone’s here, Father, it’s like Christmas. Good evening, my lord.”
Leicester smiled. “Good evening to you, my lord. Where did you find Christmas in Tutbury in June?”
“All the people he grew up with are here,” Fulk said. “Where have you been?”
“In the town. A lot of people are staying there.” Rannulf gestured broadly.
“My lord,” Roger said, “our camp is orderly, but there’s a question over booty.”
Leicester muttered something under his breath. Roger glanced at him.
“There’s always a problem over booty,” Fulk said. “Who got our share?”
“They just say they didn’t get enough—they were kept out of the looting.”
Leicester cleared his throat. “Someone had to stay and guard the baggage train, Fulk. I’m sure the prince will make amends.”
“I’m sure he will.”
There was another knock on the door, and Roger went to open it. Leicester avoided Fulk’s eye. Obviously with Fulk gone they had thought it safe to rob his men.
“My lord Stafford?” A young man Fulk didn’t know pushed forward between Rannulf and Roger. His eyes leaped from Leicester to Fulk.
“I’m Stafford.”
“Sir, my lord the Duke of Normandy, Prince Henry, requests that you attend him at your pleasure in the great hall.” He had a crisp, clipped voice and a strong Angevin accent; his clothes were marvelous. Clearly he was surprised to find Fulk half undressed. Fulk sprawled on the bed.
“You may inform the prince that I’m coming.”
“If it please you, my lord, I shall wait and escort you.”
“Damn it, “ Leicester said, “he’s been wounded and he’s ridden all day. Fulk, see him tomorrow.”
“I’ll see him tonight. I doubt he goes to bed early. You can wait if you wish, sir, but I’m slow in dressing. Rannulf, entertain this gentleman.”
The Angevin drew himself up, splendid in his parti-colored coat and hose. Before he could say anything, Rannulf was pulling him toward the door, introducing himself and offering wine. Going out, the Angevin said in a sulky voice, “I should return at once to—” The door cut off his voice and the splendor of his presence. Fulk laughed.
“He’s packed around with popinjays, isn’t he?”
“Stinking Angevins all think they’re better than we are,” Leicester said. He sat down heavily; mimicking the Angevin’s accent, he said, “‘Oh, England? Rather an uncivilized place, isn’t it? Don’t they still wear uncured hides there?’ Turns my stomach to listen to them.”
“Roger, get Morgan. They’re French, that’s all. I understand Thierry is sleeping in the prince’s armpit these days.”
Morgan, Fulk’s squire, came in and in silence began to lay out fresh clothes. Leicester picked his nose. “His charm is irresistible at first. I think the prince wants him more for use against you than as a boon companion, although Thierry has a collection of excellent stories.”
“I’ve heard them all.”
“My lord,” Morgan said, in his soft Welsh voice, and Fulk stood up. The young man went about dressing him. Fulk looked up at the trim black head.
“How was it while I was gone, Morgan?”
“Oh—” The young man helped him into his shirt. “There wasn’t much to do. I practiced a lot.” And smiled his beautiful, peaceful smile.
Old Gruffyd’s son, my hostage. Grown up entirely in a foreign land. Fulk said, “I’ll have to hear you. You can play for me tonight.”
The door swung open, and Rannulf put his head in. “Who is this fellow, anyway?” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder; he meant the Angevin. “He’s mad.” His head pulled back out of sight like a turtle’s, and the door closed.
Leicester gave a soft laugh. “I wonder what he’s telling him. Morgan played for the prince, Fulk, you have a useful ally there.”
Morgan was bent over, fixing points. Fulk laced up the front of his shirt. “I didn’t know he liked music. Literature and philosophy, I thought he favored.”
“Well,” Leicester day, “he’s a young man.”
"Music is for old men?" Fulk sat down; Morgan put on his shoes. “I prefer love songs. Especially during long wars.” His arm itched under the bandages. He thought of the booty stolen from his men and grimaced, impatient. It was such a small thing, and yet it was like Leicester to be dishonest in small ways.
“By the by, bringing your son with you, that was a good idea,” Leicester said. He stood up, and Fulk stood, and their squires brought their coats. “I like Rannulf, what I’ve seen of him.”
“Thank you. He’s pleasant company.” Fulk waited until Morgan had arranged his coat over his right shoulder and hooked it and then sent the Welsh boy afte
r Rannulf and the Angevin. “Are you coming with us, my lord?”
Leicester raised both long hands, palms up, and laughed. “I spent the day with Prince Henry. Take your drinking elbow with you. We’re supposed to discuss the match south tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”
“Good night.”
Fulk went to the door with him, and Leicester and he talked about the weather a moment. Rannulf with his cloak and the Angevin strode toward them—the Angevin was rattling on about the intricacies of continental policy. Rannulf made a face at Fulk and shook his head slightly.
“Don’t you agree, my lord,” the Angevin said to Fulk, “that the natural direction of my lord the prince’s interests is to push his eastern boundary to coincide with the western boundary of the empire?”
Fulk and Leicester both stared at him; the Angevin looked expectantly from one to the other. Fulk said, faintly, “Well, there is the matter of the king of France, don’t you think?”
“Of little moment.” The Angevin disposed of the French king with a gesture. They started down the steps toward the outer door, and in their midst the Angevin crisply detailed his plan of Henry’s future.
“Already my lord rules lands greater than those of the king of France. We see in nature how as one essence grows another shrinks, and our prince’s natural growth must coincide with the decline of the French Crown. But I forget that from this far corner of the world the view might be different. My lord, you should spend some time on the continent. The facts of policy have changed; it will take some while before the repercussions are felt in England.”
Fulk tried to put on his cloak, and Rannulf helped him spread it over his shoulders. He caught a whiff of the stench from the midden below Tutbury’s rock. “I spend a good deal of time on the continent. I am vicomte and bailiff of Bruyère in Normandy.”
“Then, sir, you understand.”
“More and more.”
“England’s a barbaric place,” Leicester said. They had reached the door into the courtyard. “You must excuse us if we haven’t read the same commentaries on Aristotle that you have.” They went out into the open. “Fulk, I’m off. It was a pleasure to see you again, Rannulf. I hope to see you more. Good night.”
“Good night.”
“A charming man,” the Angevin said, “but rather provincial, don’t you think?”
Rannulf said, “I must ask you—”
Fulk stepped on his foot. “You’ll have to make allowances for us Normans, sir, we’ve all grown long in the tooth dealing with small practicalities, and you know how that snuffs out one’s vision of the abstract. May I ask your name and family?”
“An honor, my lord. Maurice de Marsai, at your service.”
“I know your brother.”
Rannulf said, “How long have you been in England, anyway?”
“Roughly a month. I’m very interested in it; this kingdom seems an excellent place for the study of primitive governance.”
Rannulf choked. Fulk looked up into the sky, flecked with stars, and suppressed his laughter.
De Marsai said, “I don’t know if you’ve had any experience with governance—”
“I have ruled the manor of Ledgefield for three years,” Rannulf said coldly.
“Well. I shall have to talk to you about certain things that interest me here.”
Fulk went around Rannulf, took him by the elbow, and steered him toward the gate into the far courtyard. De Marsai was only saying what all the Angevins around the prince believed—probably what the prince himself believed.
Anjou and Normandy were ancient enemies. Part of the reluctance of the English barons to make the empress their queen, after her father King Henry’s death, had been her second marriage to the Count of Anjou. They walked up the steps and faced the sentries before the door into the great hall.
“If you please,” de Marsai began, “I and the—”
“My lord Stafford,” one of the sentries said, and stepped back and opened the door. “I’m very glad to see you, my lord.”
“Thank you, Sir Richard.” Fulk went through the door ahead of de Marsai and Rannulf. Immediately a servant came up to him to take his cloak. This tower was overheated and stank of wine and sweat. Through a half open door to his right, Fulk could hear Derby’s voice, laden with good humor; although he couldn’t hear the words, he recognized a joke in the tone of Derby’s voice, and an explosion of laughter followed. De Marsai strutted toward the door.
“Just listen to him and keep your own counsel,” Fulk said to Rannulf. “Nothing he says can hurt you, but things you might say can.”
“Oh, he doesn’t bother me,” Rannulf said in a thin voice. “I’m perfectly capable of him.”
Fulk shook his head slightly and went after de Marsai toward the door. Just before he reached it, Thierry’s deep voice rang out in the room beyond: “Are you sure it was a male deer, my lord?”
De Marsai flung the door wide, and Fulk followed him through it. It had been long since he had last heard Thierry’s voice. Remember that nothing he can say will hurt you. They were all gathered around a table before the hearth, sprawled in their chairs, leaning on their elbows, their coats thrown off and their shirts open, and they had clearly been drinking for hours. On the left Derby sat, with Chester and two or three other barons, and on the right Thierry, and in their midst the young prince, smiling gently and very drunk.
He saw Fulk at once, and his eyes moved unsteadily toward Rannulf. Above him, on the wall, hung a tapestry of King Arthur and his knights.
“Thierry,” Derby shouted, “only males wear horns, isn’t that so?”
More laughter. De Marsai waited for it to subside and called, “My lord, I have two more of your glum Normans here.”
The last of the laughter cut off abruptly. Fulk crossed the rush-covered floor to an empty chair across the table and down from Thierry. Behind him, Rannulf said, “Good evening, my lords.”
The prince lifted his hand slightly in answer. “My lord Stafford, you seem well recovered. I’m pleased to see you here.” His eyes turned toward Rannulf again.
“Thank you, my lord. May I present my son, Rannulf, the lord of Ledgefield.”
His scarred hands spread on the table, Thierry stared at Fulk and said nothing. Fulk watched him from the corner of his eye. While a page brought him a cup, he drew back the empty chair in front of him and sat down. Thierry looked tense, as if this meeting had come too suddenly for him.
Four years had gone since Fulk had seen him clearly; Thierry’s thick, curling russet hair was slightly gray, but otherwise there seemed no difference—his massive chest, his arms strapped with muscle, and his yellow eyes. Thierry seemed like a young man still, and yet he was in his forties, seven years older than Fulk.
Derby got up and come over to sit beside Fulk, and de Marsai took the chair Derby had left. After a moment's hesitation Rannulf sat down beside him, only an Angevin between him and Thierry, and Thierry smiled at him and they spoke in low voices.
Derby whispered, “There’s been no mention of Thierry’s outlawry since he came here. Try the wine, it’s superb.”
Prince Henry and Thierry were discussing the siege of Tutbury, very pointedly, as if the prince were making something clear to Fulk. Fulk sipped the strong red wine. “God’s bones, he’s drunk.” Henry was talking only half as fast as usual, and when he reached for his cup he nearly dropped it.
“He holds it very well. They’ve been drinking all day.”
“Castles,” Thierry said, his voice no longer soft, “keep a man from fighting well, they keep him penned behind walls. I say, get out and fight on the flat plain, start even, and you’ll see who’s better.”
“There speaks a man who’s made the rounds of the tournaments,” Derby said.
Fulk nodded. Thierry’s yellow eyes grazed him, looking around the room. The wine rushed to Fulk’s head. I am not ready for this.
“My lord Ledgefield,” the prince said. “What do you think of this opinion of Thierry Ir
onhand’s?”
“I agree with him most heartily, my lord,” Rannulf said. “That’s the only honorable way to fight, and without honor a man is not a Christian.”
Derby said, “I hear Margaret talking.”
“No,” Fulk said. Margaret was never so unwise.”
“And yet,” the prince said, “at the battle of Lincoln King Stephen came down from high ground to fight honorably and was most honorably beaten. Isn’t that so? Excuse me for pursuing what may seem an obvious line of inquiry to you, my lords, but I am young and require education in these matters. My lord Chester, you were at Lincoln.”
Chester swallowed a throatfull of wine. “Take what you can, and worry about honor when you’ve won.” He slouched down over his arms, folded on the tab le, and stared at Thierry.
“Now,” the prince said softly, “we have a cunning man, imbued with understanding. Somebody give me more wine.” He held out his cup at random, and a page took it, gave him another, and went off. His head tilted back, the prince surveyed the men around him, and his eyes came slowly to Fulk.
“Fulk de Bruyère.”
“I fought at Lincoln, my lord.”
“Did you?” Henry’s eyes opened innocently wide. “I was unaware of that.”
“He was not,” Derby whispered.
“What was the question?” Henry thumped his hand on the table. “We have a question to argue. What was it? Oh. Which is more important, honor or winning?”
“The object of war is to win,” Chester said.
“Ledgefield,” Henry said. “Is that true?”
Rannulf said, “My lord, I have little experience with war.”
“Oh, but surely you have some opinion on it. Such a basic thing, war. Tell us. Don’t be afraid.”
Thierry lifted his head. “He is young, my lord, but he is not afraid. I can vouch for his spirit.”
Fulk clenched his teeth.
THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) Page 7