THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES)

by Cecelia Holland

  The wine was the rich red wine from southern France. Fulk looked around quickly. “I haven’t seen my son yet, can you see if he’s here?”

  “Oh, yes.” Derby looked at him owlishly. “With Chester. He and Chester are the finest of friends. Rannulf hung on his sleeve all the way south. He’s over in that corner now, with Thierry.”

  “Wonderful. This is good wine.”

  “Robin,” Derby said to his page, “go bring the lord of Ledgefield—”

  “No,” Fulk said. “Let him talk to Thierry if he wishes it.”

  Derby’s eyes sparkled. “Are you quarreling? Let me mediate.”

  “Not at all.” Leicester’s grizzled close-cropped head appeared above the ring of bodies, and Fulk caught his eye and bowed. Leicester waved to him but went on across the room.

  “When do you get rid of all this?” Derby asked. He fingered the linen sling.

  “Very soon. It was a damned nuisance all the way from Tutbury, I swear to you.”

  “One imagines. Tell me how it went. You took Sulwick, I hear.”

  “Easily. But we had a day’s march and a night’s fighting to get there that I don’t want to see again. God is my witness, my men were magnificent.”

  “Thierry set a proper example, I suppose.”

  Fulk drank wine, judging the necessary tone of voice. Not too eager to reveal Thierry’s failures. “This is very fine wine.”

  “Aha,” Derby cried, and pummeled him on the shoulder. “Tell me. I’ve heard such stories of his greatness in war, I want to know from your lips.”

  “He’s a good fighter, he wants nothing for courage and skill at arms, but he has no head to command.” Fulk shrugged his good shoulder. “It was my fault, I should have guessed and not asked so much of him.”

  “The way they talk of him, who could blame you? The way he talks of himself. So Thierry is not--”

  A horn blew two notes inside the tent, piercing and loud enough to hurt Fulk’s ears, and a herald bawled, “Way. Way for Henry Fitz-Empress, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, rightful lord of England.”

  The mob quieted and pressed itself even tighter together, opening a corridor for the prince. Fulk muttered, “He announces himself so that one could scarcely miss him.”

  Derby laughed. His arm hooked under Fulk’s good elbow, and he dragged Fulk up through the crowd toward the front rank, where Leicester and the other earls stood. The prince went up to stand before them, between two torch-standards. The fur and velvet and silk he wore made him seem taller than he was, and less stocky. His red hair stood on end.

  “My lords,” he said, in a high clear voice, “I welcome you to Wallingford.”

  Chester was standing just beyond Leicester, but Rannulf was not with him. Fulk clenched his fist behind his back. For all I do, he still prefers Thierry. He cleared his throat, staring at the prince.

  “Fulk de Bruyère of Stafford,” Henry said. “I have not seen you since you left Tutbury. Did you do as we commanded you, during your march in the east?”

  “My lord,” Fulk said, “if I had not, I would now be on the far side of the river, with the king’s men,” and the barons broke out laughing. Henry, smiling, waited for that to subside.

  “I should know from long dealings with you that it is an insult to ask if you accomplished what you said you would, my lord.”

  Fulk bowed. Behind Henry a silk curtain divided off the rear of the tent, and he caught a glimpse of a small hand drawing it slightly aside. Roger had said that the prince had a girl with him now.

  “I first came to England,” Henry said, “to answer the pleas of the people of Wallingford, whom Stephen of Blois has closely besieged.” He would never call Stephen the king; Fulk had already marked it. “now I have come to that duty, and you with me. We have invested this castle of Crowmarsh, which is held by men of Stephen of Blois, and when we have taken it we shall drive away all those who would imprison Wallingford and free the people therein.”

  Above the small hand on the silk curtains, black curls and a soft blue eye appeared. Derby slammed his elbow into Fulk’s ribs with a force that nearly lifted him off the ground.

  “I know you all well enough to trust your courage and your skill,” Henry said. “I know you well enough to believe that when I tell you that Stephen of Blois himself, with an army, marches to face us here, you will strain like hounds at the leash to be commanded to attack him.”

  Everybody yelled.

  “Tonight,” Henry said, “I shall hear your advice upon what must be done to accomplish our goals; to free Wallingford from its burden of slavery, and to drive Stephen of Blois forever from this kingdom.”

  Everybody yelled again, but when silence fell no one spoke. Men began to cough, and there was shuffling of feet. Henry beckoned to a page, who brought him a stool to sit on. “First we must keep the—keep Stephen from supplying Crowmarsh from the river.”

  With a specific problem before them, a dozen men began to shout advice. Chester outroared them, stepped forward, and began to talk. Before Fulk could catch the drift of what he was saying, someone tugged at his sleeve, and he looked over his shoulder and saw Leicester there.

  “Just for a moment,” Leicester said apologetically, and bowed to Derby. He drew Fulk off to one side, clear of the crowd.

  “I meant to talk to you before but Derby was there,” Leicester said softly. “I have spoken this same day with men of the Bishop of Winchester, and had a letter from the Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury.”

  Fulk blinked stupidly. Henry of Winchester was the brother of the king, but the archbishop hated the king and had always worked against him; he could not understand why either would approach the Earl of Leicester. Abruptly he did understand, and he stiffened, excited.

  “Robert. Are we to spoil the great confrontation?” He looked around to see who might be listening, but all the men around them were following the exchange between Chester and the prince. “What did they say? Winchester—what does he want?”

  “What do you think? A truce between Prince Henry and Stephen, to give them a chance to negotiate and settle the kingdom without fighting. Theobald offers his uttermost help. Will you help me?”

  Fulk shuffled his feet—he could not stand still. “All the wayward hens are coming home to roost at last. Yes. I will.” He smiled up at Leicester’s long, startled face.

  “Good. I mean to meet secretly with Winchester tomorrow. You come with me.”

  Fulk nodded. He had been tuned to the long, boring rhythm of the proposed siege, and the prospect of something more interesting filled him with anticipation. “It was Winchester who gave Stephen the treasury and made him king. How fitting it should be Winchester who takes it all away from him.” Winchester had also arranged the lie that freed Stephen of his oath to the old king’s daughter the empress. “The prince will not like it.”

  “No,” Leicester said. “But King Stephen will have with him all the Flemish mercenaries, York’s men, Peverel’s men, and his own besides, and if this army meets that one I should prefer it to be peaceful.”

  Fulk nodded. “When, tomorrow? Where is Winchester now?”

  “He is camped down the river. We meet him at dawn. I’ll send for you when I leave camp. We must be secretive, at least for the moment. Let’s get back to the council.”

  Leicester held out his hand, and Fulk shook it with his left. They forced their way separately through the crowd to the front rank.

  Two barons of the west were arguing about the procedure for patrolling the ford. Prince Henry had his chin in his hand and was listening. His eyes moved to meet Fulk’s, and one eyebrow rose inquisitively. Fulk patted his crotch. The prince laughed.

  The girl behind the curtain had withdrawn out of sight. On either side, men argued points of war. Fulk sent Morgan to get him more wine. Massive and ugly, Chester lounged in the midst of his followers, over near the wall of the tent. Among them was Rannulf, with Thierry just behind him. Fulk jerked his eyes away. />
  Leicester with the help of the bishops thought they could force this truce on Henry and the king. Stephen would never treat with the prince of his own will. There would be arguments and insults and threats. Henry’s temper was quick enough under the calmest circumstances. Fulk imagined a summer storm—the thunder, the lightning, the violent wind that blew down trees and carried off houses. In all that turmoil, he would have plenty of chances to do some overturning of his own. He settled down to think over his interests.

  "Thierry said--"

  “I don’t care what Thierry said.”

  “That you tried to have him killed in the fighting,” Rannulf shouted. “That you put him in the front of the fighting, like Uriah, to die.”

  “He didn’t die.”

  “Do you admit it? How dare you admit it?”

  Fulk knocked over a table. Wine spilled across the dirt floor of the tent, and the jug rolled on its base toward the wall. “Did he tell you that—”

  “I have prayed for help from God for you, Father.”

  Fulk picked up the jug and put it carefully upright on the ground. The air inside the tent was still and close; he wished he could open the door to let in the night cool. “Thierry persuaded one of my own vassals to—”

  “Sometimes I think you are possessed,” Rannulf said.

  “Will you be quiet and listen to me, you little prig? Thierry set one of my own men—Simon d’Ivry, your friend, he set to poison me. Ask Roger.”

  Rannulf turned his gaze toward the back of the tent. The long march had brought out dozens of freckles all over his face. “Sir Roger would say whatever you wished him to.”

  “Ask Simon, then, if you see him again.” Fulk put the table back on its feet.

  “Simon is Thierry’s friend. He would never lie against him.”

  Their eyes met. Fulk’s mouth was full of a bitter taste. “No longer. Simon learned enough about Thierry to know better than to be his friend. Did Thierry tell you what—”

  “No one believes it. You may spread that rumor all over the camp, but none who knows Thierry believes it.”

  "Aaaah.”

  “It’s a vicious lie,” Rannulf cried. “Thierry is no coward.”

  “I never claimed he was a coward—only that he has no skill to command. Ask any of my knights, none of them will follow him.” Fulk straightened up; his face was hot. “You have the most curious loyalty—where is your loyalty to me? Why are you so loyal to Thierry and not to me?”

  Rannulf’s hands rose toward his face, paused, and fell back into his lap. “I’m loyal to you, my lord. I pray for you.”

  Fulk sat down heavily on his stool. “Well, thank you for that, at least.”

  “I’m loyal to you—I promised Mother I would be, at Stafford. Does that mean I must love what you do that is hateful?”

  “No,” Fulk said. “I’m sorry I said it, I should not have. Tell me about the march to Bedford.”

  Rannulf was silent a moment, his eyes on Fulk. Morgan came out of the back of the tent and mopped up the wine spilled on the floor.

  “It was interesting,” Rannulf said finally. “I had no idea how complicated such a thing is. The prince and I spoke together once—he’s very learned, he astonishes me. Don’t you think he’s learned?”

  “Yes.” Fulk’s shoulders drooped. “He’s interesting to talk to. What did you talk about?”

  “The laws,” Rannulf said, in a wondering voice. “He wanted to talk of philosophy and things like that, but I know so little, I had read none of the books he mentioned. But he was interested in the customs of Ledgefield and what I know of Stafford and Bruyère-le-Forêt and our other manors. It was fun. I didn’t know how much I knew about all that.”

  “Did you realize how much he knows?”

  Rannulf laughed. “Of course. He never misses a chance to tell you that.”

  Fulk smiled, pleased. “Did you see much of Leicester?”

  “Not really. I find him rather cold—impatient, perhaps.”

  “Hurried. Yes, he’s impatient, but not with you, he’s rather fond of you. I hear you were much in Chester’s company.”

  “Yes.” Rannulf’s head rose. “Nearly every day—he explained to me what was going on, why certain men commanded certain parts of the army, and other things. He seems so—he’s overwhelming, isn’t he?”

  “There’s a great deal of him, and he never stops talking.”

  “Oh, Father, even you—But you know he has a high regard for you. Even admiration. Thank you, Morgan.”

  Morgan brought wine to Fulk and withdrew into the back of the tent; a moment later his harp began to sing.

  “He’s strange, Chester is. The things that happen seem different for him, he can find strange meanings in everything, as if—I don’t understand him. Does he hate everyone?”

  “God, no. Why, what did he say?”

  “Nothing. But he has such contempt for everyone. You must know.”

  “I know.”

  “Once, when we were riding—”

  Rannulf paused. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and looked at his clasped hands. “For no reason, he started to talk, all rushed—he said that there is no reason to life. It was heresy, I ought not to have listened, but I—he says there is no use trying to create anything, no use in trying to do anything at all, because the more you do and the more you know the more terrible le everything becomes, because knowledge is death.”

  “I told you he is innocent.”

  “It seemed sensible to me. No, not that, but the way he said it, I was haunted by it. I still am.”

  Fulk studied him, imagining Chester’s urgent voice declaiming into Rannulf’s ear, and a twinge of anger stirred in him. Stupid, insolent man—He thought of what Chester had said and his rage cooled; only Chester would think something that made further thinking impossible.

  “Well?” Rannulf said. “Was he right?”

  Fulk did not move. Once he had thought of long speeches to give to Rannulf, little packets of wisdom, like slabs of meat, that he could feed him. He scratched his ear, wondering where he had left them all.

  “I’m not a particularly knowledgeable man, so I don’t know. Not does Chester. But I don’t think it’s important.”

  “Not important?” Rannulf stared at him, his mouth open.

  Fulk shook his head, embarrassed. “Did you fight, at Bedford?”

  “Holy God,” Rannulf said, and snatched his cup and gulped down the wine. “I was terrified. You know I have not fought very much, and not since last autumn. I never stormed a castle. All I remember is that my ears rang for days.”

  “You must have done well enough or someone would have told me.”

  “Oh, I fought honorably. But I was so afraid. Are you afraid?”

  “Everybody is, some of the time,” Fulk said. “I’m very good at forgetting that I was.”

  “Thierry says you’re afraid of nothing. Like a ferret, he says.”

  “Isn’t that kind of Thierry.”

  “That’s why I like him, you know. He admits that he’s frightened—he prays all though battle, he says, that his courage will not fail him.”

  “I refuse to discuss Thierry with you.”

  Rannulf looked from side to side. “I should go, it’s late.”

  “If you wish. I have to get up early.”

  “I hope you have prayed for God’s guidance,” Rannulf said stubbornly. He stood by the door, looking back. “Please.”

  “I do, daily. Good night.”

  "Good night.”

  Leicester said, "It's piercing cold," and walked forward under the trees. The coming dawn had turned the air a deep, clear blue. In the trees above their heads, birds fluttered and sang in short bursts. Fulk let his reins trail and moved away from the horses to look back down the river; he could just see the tip of the tower of Crowmarsh, over the trees and the mist. Someone was galloping toward them, on the far bank.

  “Here he comes.”

  The galloping
horsemen and the men and horses already under the trees suddenly frightened the birds. In a rushing cloud, they rose piping out of the trees and into the pale air. Their cries grew dim. Fulk and Leicester walked down to the riverbank. Fulk's hands were cold, and he pulled the ends of his fur-lined sleeves over them.

  There were five riders. They came straight through the mist to the bank opposite and paused. The sun was sliding up above the horizon; the mist grew swiftly transparent. With a muffled yell, one of the riders put his horse at the smoother surface of the river. The horse yawed a moment and plunged down the bank into the water and galloped across, throwing up a spray of water on either side. The other horsemen followed; they climbed up the bank near Fulk and Leicester, their horses snorting and shaking their heads, and all the men laughing.

  “My lord Leicester,” one of the men called, and he rode forward, throwing back his hood. It was Henry of Winchester. Like his brother the king, he was tall and stocky, but his muscles were going all to fat now, and in his fine long hair streaks of gray showed. He reined up and dismounted, smiling.

  “I brought Stafford,” Leicester said, shaking the bishop’s hand. “Him of them all we can trust.”

  “I know Fulk de Bruyère,” Winchester said. He had a fine smooth smile, proper to a papal legate. “Have you told him everything?”

  Fulk kissed the bishop’s ring. “He has told me nothing, my lord, that I would not hear again from you. We spoke quickly and there were other men around us.”

  “It is simply thus,” Winchester said. “The Archbishop of Canterbury and I have watched the progress of Prince Henry with both admiration and dismay. Clearly he is the only possible heir to our King Stephen; neither of the king’s sons is satisfactory. We have no wish to see two such armies as the one at Wallingford and the one now approachin0g meet in battle. The moment is for healing wounds, not inflicting them.”

  He smiled, and Fulk smiled, applause for the turn of the phrase.

  “Since the solution is so obvious, His Grace the archbishop and I wonder why it cannot be got without bloody battle. To this end—”