THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES)

by Cecelia Holland

  Giles Constable walked over from the next tree. Behind him, his men had laid out his armor in a row on the ground; his horses were tethered to a rope stretched between two trees. Giles was naked to the waist, his square chest covered with old scars, and his nose had been broken so often it was shapeless.

  “Fulk,” he said. “You aren’t going to fight? I saw you last covered with bandages.”

  “How often do we have a tournament?” Fulk pulled off his coat and threw it on the ground. Morgan was setting out his lances, his swords and his mail and helmets, on a piece of white cloth on the ground. Fulk flexed his arm. “It’s stiff, but I’ll account for it. How’s the field?”

  "Soft. It won’t be bad for the first few melees, but I won’t like to ride over it this afternoon. Earn your ransoms this morning. That’s your son, isn’t it?”

  Fulk introduced them. “Who is the herald?”

  “De Tiernée. Are you fighting, sir?” To Rannulf.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “First tournament?” Giles looked from Rannulf to Fulk and back again.

  “We had one when I was knighted, my lord. None since.”

  “Ah. Easy picking.” Giles clouted Fulk across the shoulders. “You’ll need extra ransoms to pay his off.” With a guffaw, he tramped back to his camp; Fulk made an obscene gesture at his back.

  “Watch out, now, he’ll be after you. He’s too damned old and fat to fight experienced men.” Fulk swung around to watch his groom check his horse’s legs. “I hate to dwell on it, but I do like that horse.”

  “You paid well enough for him.” Rannulf stripped off his coat and shirt. “When does it start?” His voice sounded unnaturally high.

  “As soon as we’re ready we’ll go up and put ourselves into the first melee.”

  The field was ringing solidly with little camps, and more groups of men rode up while he watched. A dozen men were walking over the field, staring at the ground and squinting to see the sun. Morgan held out the quilted yellow linen jacket Fulk wore under his mail. Rannulf was talking to his groom. His boy’s body seemed soft and white, too slender for strength, too flexible. Fulk looked down at his own chest, seamed, like Giles’, with old white scars; he was as thin as Rannulf, just as hairless. Hastily he put on his jacket.

  “Let’s walk the field.”

  Rannulf followed him out into the long meadow. Several other men strode past them; already there were paths worn into the thick, high grass. Fulk kicked at the earth.

  “It’s soft, as he said. The sun will dry it and they’ll fight in the dust this afternoon.” He looked at the sun, wondering if they all did this for any reason or simply to look intelligent and experienced. Rannulf called out to someone and waved.

  “Rocks here,” a knight shouted, in the middle of the field. He waved gaily to everybody else. “Rocks.” Fulk snorted.

  The sun was brightening and growing hotter, and there was no breeze. Fulk walked down to the far end of the field, smiling and waving to the men he knew. The field was perfectly level, large enough to fight twenty to a side, and the trees around it gave them shade to rest in and watch from. He was going to enjoy this. He turned and laughed at Rannulf, who was frowning at a tuft of grass at his feet.

  “Hummocky,” Rannulf said. “It could trip up the horses.”

  “Never. Let’s go, there’s more than enough here now.”

  They walked back across the ground toward their camp. Two knights, mounted and armed, loped past them toward the end of the field, where the fighters were gathering.

  “You are a fool to do this, you know,” Rannulf said. “In your condition.”

  “My condition is one of intense anticipation. Don’t talk to me as if I were the son and you the father. There’s Thierry.”

  Thierry was in their camp, talking to Morgan; he stooped over the young man, and his winning smile flashed. All the great men in Henry’s army knew of the proposed settlement with the king except Thierry, because he might tell the prince, and therefore Rannulf did not know, because Fulk was afraid he would tell Thierry. He thrust that out of his mind. Stepping across a neat pile of lances, he went up to Thierry.

  “Good morning, uncle.”

  “Good morning, Fulk. Hello, Rannulf, are you excited?”

  “I only hope I fight with honor,” Rannulf said piously.

  “Well,” Thierry said, “no man could say more of you than that.” He and Rannulf shook hands.

  Fulk withdrew to the foot of the tree. Morgan dragged over his hauberk and helmet. Thierry and Rannulf stood talking—Thierry’s wide gestures milled the air around Rannulf’s head, and Rannulf stepped back one stride, pretending to duck. They spoke a moment longer and Thierry embraced him. Fulk pulled on his hauberk, and Morgan laced up the sides. The weight of the mail on his shoulders and arms always took a moment to get used to; he walked around, swinging his arms, straining his right arm to limber up the muscles.

  “Remember your honor,” he said to Rannulf, when Thierry had gone. “Remember you’re worth a high ransom, too, and you have to pay it, not I. Hurry and we can fight in the first melee. It’s always the best.”

  Edwyr, his groom, led up the chestnut stallion. Fulk looked quickly for Roger and saw that he had already gone, with one of his squires. “Hurry up, Rannulf!” He was bursting with energy and excitement, like a young man; he vaulted into his saddle, and Morgan held up his helmet.

  Rannulf had been kneeling in prayer. He rose, crossing himself and stood while his squire put on his mail. Morgan brought Fulk a lance. Red and white ribbons streamed from the tip.

  “Keep your back to the east, my lord,” Morgan said.

  Fulk tucked the lance under his arm and made the chestnut curvet. The stallion began to dance, its heavy neck arched, and he leaned forward and scratched it quickly along the base of the mane. Rannulf climbed up onto his rangy black and took his helmet and lance, and they started at a trot across the field.

  The chestnut was rank, and pulled so hard that Fulk nearly lost his seat; it tried to kick Rannulf’s horse, squealed, bucked, and lunged against the bit. Fulk jerked it hard in the mouth. Derby on his giant bay cantered by, his horse’s chin tucked in against its chest and spume streaming from its jaws.

  Fulk said, “Remember to keep moving, and try and stay in front of the first charge. That thing you ride will sprawl if you don’t keep him together, too. Damn you, I wish you’d take that bay of mine, he’d be good for you.”

  “I’m very well used to this horse, and he knows me. Your horses all have bad manners.”

  “That’s because you can’t ride. They don’t have bad manners for me.” The chestnut leaped violently to one side, and Fulk kicked off his stirrup and spurred it hard in the ribs. Rannulf trotted along with a smug look on his face, his helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, neat as a grandmother.

  De Tiernée had raised a banner at the head of the field and stood under it, leaning on a staff to ease his bad leg. “Fulk,” he said, when they rode up. “I knew that was you, my lord, stuck like a burr up on that huge horse. My lord Ledgefield.”

  “Fulk,” Chester roared, from a group of men milling around not far away. “I’ll have Stafford of you today, with you just out of splints.”

  “Did you drink last night, Chester?” Fulk shouted.

  Half the men listening laughed. One called, “Drank all night and didn’t sleep, my lord. Mark the temper he’s in. De Tiernée, when may we go?”

  “Now,” de Tiernée said, “if Stafford stays here and Ledgefield gets himself over to the other side. Twenty-two knights each.”

  Chester howled and clapped his hands together. “Now we’ll make up for this sham of Wallingford. Go on!”

  Rannulf said, “God be with you, Father,” in a voice that squeaked, and galloped off toward the far end of the field. Fulk reined over to join the line next to Chester. The knights swore and horses kicked in a sudden tangle of moving bodies; abruptly the line straightened into an even rank of horsemen, their lances
raised at salute.

  “Damn you,” Fulk said to Chester. “Learn to hold secrets, will you?”

  Chester put on his helmet. His broad red face disappeared behind the iron nosepiece, and his voice sounded hollow. “Haven’t you told him? Everybody else knows. Both your uncle and the prince are fighting on the far side.”

  “Prince Henry,” Fulk said, surprised. “With none of the usual ceremony? How un-French of him.”

  “But romantic, of course.” Chester’s laughter boomed inside his helmet. “I’ll take him my prisoner if I can.”

  Fulk grimaced. The chestnut was chewing on the bit, grinding it between its teeth so that Fulk’s hair stood on end. He looked at de Tiernée, who was watching the far side of the field.

  The knights there stretched from one side of the meadow to the other—it was much narrower at that end; their line had not filled in yet, but while Fulk watched, horses moved up into the gaps, shifting and dancing. The field ran north and south, so that the sun shone across it, glinting on the polished chain mail and the harness of the horses, and from each raised lance scarves and ribbons fluttered. A few of them had painted their shields, and patches of color showed in the line, but mostly it was the gray of armor. Fulk looked back at de Tiernée, holding his breath, and when de Tiernée raised the horn to his lips he backed the chestnut up in a rush, like cocking a crossbow, and let him go.

  The chestnut bolted, and an instant later the horn blasted, so that the red horse was already reaching stride while the others stood flat-footed. Half a dozen other knights had used the same trick, up and down the line, so that when Fulk shot forward into the open, he was galloping head to head with a horse four spaces away from him on either side.

  Across the green meadow, a front rank of eight knights and a rearguard of fourteen charged toward them. Their shadows flew over the tall grass, and their lances fluttered with ribbons like wings. Fulk picked out a man on a brown horse, smaller than the chestnut, and veered to meet him, The space of green grass between them shrank to a ribbon.

  Fulk lowered his lance, set his shield, and put the red horse straight at the brown. They ran together, and all up and down the line lances cracked and shattered and men roared.

  Fulk had misjudged the angle. His lance struck off center, and he braced himself to meet the other man’s good strike. The lance smashed into the center of his shield and slammed him back into the cantle of his saddle, knocking the breath out of him. At the same time he felt the shock of his own lance splintering. He dropped it, the brown horse swept by him, and he hauled his chestnut around after him.

  The brown horse was turning slowly. The knight whirled a mace over his head, but the brown horse, leaning into its turn, was still off balance. Fulk hurled the red horse into it, and the brown stumbled to its knees.

  The knight swung his mace, and Fulk ducked behind his shield and struck out awkwardly over his horse’s neck. The man’s shield broke in half under his blade. Lurching to its feet, the brown horse spun to put its rider into position to strike back, and he and Fulk hacked at each other, their horses circling shoulder to shoulder, while the fighting surged on around them.

  Each terrific blow of the mace jarred Fulk’s shield-arm to the shoulder, and his right arm, so long unused, was aching with fatigue before he’d struck four blows. But the other knight had only a tiny piece of his shield left and had to work to defend himself. Twice he nearly hit Fulk on in the head with his mace. At the second one, he gave a hoarse, wordless shout, and Fulk cried, “Slow, slow,” and warded off the mace with his sword blade and spurred the chestnut, which was forcing the brown horse back on its hocks.

  “Ware, ware,” the knight on the brown horse shouted, and Fulk hauled on his reins—a rider less horse charged down on them, and they whirled their horses out of the way to let it pass. The knight on the brown horse shouted to him, and Fulk shouted back, but two fighting knights swept into the gap between them. Fulk galloped off to find someone else.

  The field was packed with fighting men. Loose horses raced aimlessly around. Some men were fighting on foot, and others were riding off and on the field. Fulk passed Chester clubbing away at a man on a wounded horse, but he saw nothing of Rannulf. He reined his horse at a hard gallop down the field, looking for him.

  Abruptly, kicking up dust with every stride, Thierry on his tall gray horse charged down on him, sword drawn. Fulk gathered his reins and wheeled to meet his charge. Thierry raised his sword a little in salute, and Fulk thrust his feet into his stirrups and took a deep seat. Thierry was a veteran of this. He set the chestnut to ram the tall gray.

  With a twitch of his reins, Thierry turned his horse aside, and they swept past each other. Fulk’s sword struck Thierry’s shield with a crack that numbed his arm to the shoulder, but Thierry’s sword he turned off with one of the best parries of his life. He whirled the red horse around.

  They charged together again, and this time Thierry set himself to ram Fulk. Fulk pressed his leg against the chestnut’s side, and the big horse changed leads smoothly and brought him alongside Thierry. He swung early, giving Thierry plenty of room to carry off his blade on his shield, and he took Thierry’s sword on his shield and held it there and hit Thierry backhand across the shoulders.

  Thierry reeled in his saddle. Fulk let out a yell. He yanked the chestnut around and spurred him; the red horse charged into Thierry’s gray and lifted it off its feet. Thierry bounded away into the grass and landed rolling. Fulk sent the chestnut down on him, and when Thierry staggered to his feet reined the horse down in front of him and laid the edge of his sword on Thierry’s shoulder. Triumph filled him so that he could barely see.

  “Well, uncle.”

  “Uncle,” the man behind the helmet said. “I’m unsure whether it’s a compliment, my lord.” Prince Henry took off his helmet and smiled up at Fulk.

  For a moment, Fulk could not speak. He had been certain that it was Thierry; the price and he were much of the same build, although the prince was shorter, and the gray horse—he looked over at the horse and shook his head. Dismounting, he pulled off his helmet.

  “A compliment, my lord. You know well my uncle is a master of the tournaments. You fight very well.”

  “High praise from you, my lord. That last feint taught me more than all my other fights combined.” The prince smiled. “I won Thierry’s horse from his last night at dice. Had I not seen your bandages, I should never have known you were recently wounded. Ask your ransom.”

  Fulk said, “Your horse and armor, my lord. The arms for me, but you may give the horse back to Thierry.”

  “I will, and buy him back again. He suits me well.” Henry walked over to the gray horse and picked up his reins. “I wonder if we—no, there’s the horn.”

  Fulk looked around. De Tiernée had sounded the horn, and everybody was riding or walking off the field. He shook his head. “In my youth, we fought one melee all day long. I’m pleased to have fought with you, my lord.”

  “I’ll give you a token of it, my lord.” Henry jerked off his gauntlet and took a garnet ring from his finger. “My compliments. You fight like a glum Norman, sir.” And smiled.

  Fulk laughed and went to his horse. Already they were organizing another melee. He mounted the chestnut, tucked the prince’s ring into the palm of his glove, and cantered toward his camp. The grass of the field was torn and trampled into pulp, and dust sifted through and clouded the air. He handed his helmet to Morgan and slid down from his saddle.

  “Well, Roger—Where’s Rannulf?”

  “Chester took him prisoner. He’ll be back. What’s that?” Roger took the ring from his hand. “Very nice, my lord.”

  “Prince Henry.” Fulk took a cup from Morgan, frosted with dew, and sipped cold water.

  “Did you beat him? He brought down Derby in the first rush.”

  “Oh. I fought someone on a brown horse, I wonder who that was?”

  “Stocky little stallion with a white blaze?”

  “I don’t re
member the blaze.”

  “Leicester’s son,” Morgan said. “Was he good?”

  “Very.” Fulk spun on his heel to shout gleefully at Derby riding past. “My lord! My lord! You paid your scutage early.”

  Derby leaned out of his saddle. His face was smeared with dust and blood. “I softened him for you, Fulk, consider that.”

  In the nearby campus, heads turned. Fulk tried the garnet ring on his fingers until he found one it fit. Giles Constable was strutting toward him. “Did you fight the prince?”

  “Yes, and he nearly told over me.” Morgan was unlacing his hauberk, and he lifted his arms. “How did you do?”

  “Oh, well enough.” Giles rubbed his shapeless nose. “One only does it for the fun, after all.” He sauntered back toward his camp.”

  Morgan pulled the hauberk off over Fulk’s head. “You’ll be fighting again, my lord?”

  “Yes. Is Edwyr walking the—good.” He watched the chestnut stallion move, with the little English groom at its head talking constantly to it. The sweat had dried in patches on the red horse’s shoulders and flanks, and it stopped while he watched and scratched its head vigorously against the Englishman’s side, nearly lifting Edwyr off the ground.

  “Was he controllable?” Morgan said, watching.

  “God’s bones.” Fulk stretched his right arm and shoulder. “Don’t insult me.”

  A horn sounded, and he turned to watch the start of the next melee. From the men watching, a shout went up; the branches of the trees around the field were studded with people, and they cheered too.

  Twenty men to a side, the knights galloped together. Their lances slanted down across the dusty air, their shields rose to cover their chests, and with a crash the two lines slammed together. Right in front of Fulk, a knight in French armor took a lance dead center and shot backwards out of his saddle, hung an instant over the ground on the end of the lance, and fell head over heels. The knight who had toppled him rode him down, whooping.

  All across the field, hand-to-hand fighting broke out. Metal rang like bells, and the dust rose under the horses’ thrashing hoofs. A loose horse galloped out of the melee and charged neighing through a line of tethered horses.