Finally, Fulk stopped, at the edge of a meadow full of late flowers. Alys reined down her horse angrily and cried, “You need not pause for me—can’t we catch up with them?”
Fulk said, “Lady, I said there was no need to race. Leicester will handle everything.”
She gave him a strange look. “Thierry will—he has never outridden me, damn him, he shall not now.”
Fulk laughed. Simon was waiting nearby, looking off toward the meadow, obviously listening. Fulk leaned down from his saddle and wiped his hand across the gelding’s shoulder, slick with sweat. “He won’t outride you, he’ll outride this jade. Come along, if you’re so eager, but save your horse or we won’t reach Stamford at all.”
They rode on, through the edge of the forest into fields of the manor of Highfield. All through the afternoon, they moved across the narrow strips of the serfs’ corn and barley. The sun fell until it shone straight in Fulk’s eyes. He saw the color gleaming on Alys face; she had been sunburned on her nose and cheeks and chin. They followed a wide, deep trail to a village, and Fulk sent Simon to get them water and something to eat from the villagers. Alys let her reins slide through her fingers, so that her horse could graze.
“Stafford,” she said. “Henry must not know of me and Thierry.”
Fulk said nothing. He dismounted. The village lay in a curve of trees: a dozen two-room huts, their roofs thatched with straw. An old man had come out of one of the houses and was watching Simon approach. He seemed to be the only serf there—the others would be in the fields, of course, while the sun was up.
“Did you hear me?” Alys said.
“Lady, I think he probably knows already.”
“No,” she said sharply. “No. I am certain of it.”
Simon spoke to the old man, who went back into his house. Chickens clucked and scratched in the dust around the huts. Through the corner of his eye, Fulk saw the door of the hut nearest him move a little, and he looked hard at it and laughed. The village was filled with people, all hidden indoors. Now that he looked he saw how each door stood a little ajar.
“What are you laughing at?” Alys said. “How can you laugh? This place is damned—how lonely it is. Where are all the people?”
Fulk shook his head, smiling down at his boots. Simon was coming back with two loaves under one arm, half a wheel of cheese under the other, and jugs in both hands. Fulk turned to Alys.
“Come down, we’ll eat here.”
“God in Heaven, why must we stop any longer? We can eat in the saddle.”
“Lady, that style may have suited Thierry, but you’ll find the prince’s life a little different. Come down. Your horse can rest, too.
They ate sitting on the grass at the edge of the village, throwing crumbs to the chickens and geese that swarmed around them. It amused Fulk to watch the doors of the huts open, one by one, and empty each half a dozen people into the village. Alys ate so fast her cheeks bulged out. Simon watched her with a steady, unsmiling look. Fulk brushed the crumbs from his hands; the sun was setting.
The prince would not reach Stamford before the middle of the night. Nothing could be done until the next day, anyway. He looked at Alys, sitting crosslegged in her page’s costume, with her hair coming down. She was aware of Simon’s constant, adoring gaze, but she ignored it. She pulled her coat straight and pressed her hands to her cheeks.
“I am burning hot. Stafford, my skin.”
“You look lovely.” He got up, leaned down, and pulled her hair. “Come on, we have the whole night to ride away.”
They reached Stamford just before dawn; the cocks in the city’s gardens were crowing when Fulk left Alys in the prince’s house and rode across the city to Leicester’s. The sky was pale as silver but in the streets it was still dark. In front of Leicester’s house, a torch burned, and when Fulk rode up to the gate, a page came out with a porter and took him straight to Leicester.
Prince Henry had called his council to meet at noon of the coming day, in the great hall of his house. None of the men who had gone to the hunt had slept more than a few hours; Fulk had not slept at all. He and Leicester had talked from the moment Fulk came into his house until they reached the prince’s door. Before they were two steps into the sunlit hall, a page came to Leicester to take him to the prince. Fulk walked across the hall to the window and looked out; he and Leicester had come before anyone else.
Chester rode into the courtyard below the window, with Thierry and Wiltshire and two or three other lords of their party, dismounted, and came into the house. Talking, they strode through the door into the wide, empty hall and ranged themselves against the wall opposite Fulk. Except for the benches along the walls, there was no furniture in the room, and the fire on the hearth made it stifling hot. Derby rode in, alone, and gave his horse to a groom.
By twos and threes, the barons of the prince’s council came in, and those who followed Chester and Pembroke went to Chester’s side, those who followed Leicester came to Fulk’s side. Derby walked up to him through the gathering crowd.
“So God has finally made His choice,” Derby said, and sighed. “And how was your hunt? What happened to your hand?”
“I cut myself. We hadn’t been out more than half the morning when this news came. Here comes Hereford, now, watch.”
Derby gave him a puzzled look and turned. Hereford walked into the room, with William de Clare beside him, glanced at Chester, and came over to Fulk’s side. Derby swore, excited. “What happened?” he asked Fulk.
“Ssssh,” Fulk said. He laid his bandaged hand on the windowsill.
He did not feel fired; strange energy filled him, but he knew that for the exhilaration of sleeplessness. Leicester had explained everything to him in loving detail—Leicester, hearing the news before anyone else, and in Stamford all the day before with the leisure to think it all out, had organized the king’s terms into a bargain the prince might accept. Fulk wondered how much of his confidence was false, a sign of weariness.
Pembroke came in, and before he had come two steps into the hall a page came up to him and led him away. Chester was sitting on the bench opposite Fulk and a little more into the middle of the room, with his head back. The men around him were talking in low voices. Three Beaumonts walked in and went immediately to Fulk’s side.
Hereford and William de Clare greeted them coldly. Fulk thought, It is the blood tie, because they killed Rannulf, and Rannulf was Pembroke’s nephew. Margaret’s son. The heat of the sunlight on his wounded hand made it throb.
Through a little door at Fulk’s end of the hall, Leicester came into the room, and a startled murmur sprang up.
Behind him came Prince Henry and Pembroke. Henry went forward, into the middle of the room. Most of the younger men rushed toward him, but the older men hung back, out of the heat of the crowd. Fulk stayed by the window, where there was a breeze. Leicester was looking of him, and when he saw him, nodded and smiled. Pembroke stood beside Leicester, his great height stooped.
“My lords,” the prince said, “Eustace, the son of Stephen of Blois, is dead, and in his bereavement the king has offered me certain terms for the settlement of the kingdom between us."
“He’s excited,” Fulk said to Derby. “He called him the king.”
“The terms are these. Stephen shall remain as England’s crowned king until he dies. He will proclaim me as his heir, and I shall succeed him.”
The younger men all cheered. Henry lifted his hand to silence them. In spite of the hear, he wore a coat of white satin sewn with gold and silver thread, and his face dripped sweat.
“To Stephen’s remaining son, William, we are to give cognizance of his claim through his wife to the Honor of the Earl of Surrey, William de Warenne, and also the estates that his father held before he took the throne. That is, Boulogne and the county of Mortain, and the English honors of Eye and Lancaster.”
Fulk had been watching Chester, lounging comfortably on the far side of the room, sometimes chatting to Thierry, who lean
ed up against the wall beside him, one knee bent. When the prince spoke of Lancaster, Chester started up.
Thierry reached out to hold him and Chester flung off his hand and walked into the middle of the room. “My lord, Lancaster is mine, by your own assurance.”
“I am giving you the terms which Stephen has offered, my lord, no one has—”
“Give him something else, not Lancaster. Give him—”
Chester’s eyes swept the opposite side of the room. “Give him Stafford’s rewards, or—”
“My lord,” Henry said smoothly, “I have not yet agreed to this. Be silent, I require advice, not a tantrum.”
Chester stepped back; his eyes darted around the room. All around him, the men were drawing back, pulling away from him, pushing over to the other side of the room, and through them the low talk ran, uneasy.
“We have no leisure to consider this in,” Henry said. “The terms are as reasonable as we may expect, and the king might think it too reasonable, when his mind steadies. Therefore let me put them before you without interruption, that we might come to a decision soon.”
Pembroke said, “After all, the king’s son has the best claim to Lancaster.”
Chester turned and walked out of the hall. The prince in his even and excited voice recited the rest of the king’s terms, glancing now and then at the paper that Leicester held out before him. Fulk looked out the window into the courtyard. Chester marched across it, toward his horse, and rode straight out the gate. Fulk trned back into the room, smiling.
The bear rose up onto its hind legs and began to pace heavily in time to the music of the pipe. All the children screamed with pleasure. The bear-keeper’s boys ran around collecting money; with a look like a leer on its face, the bear pranced in a little circle. Fulk took a half penny from his wallet and leaned down from his horse to give it to the nearest boy.
“My lord,” Morgan said. “The Lady Rohese is here.”
Fulk looked where he was pointing, and saw Rohese riding toward him. He backed his horse out of the crowd of children and called to her, and she waved her hand.
“My lady,” he said, when she reached him. “I didn’t know you had come to Stamford.”
“Stafford,” she said, “I have been looking everywhere for you. You must help me with Alys. You know she is living in the prince’s own house. She’s mad, she won’t come home, she says she’s staying here. I must talk to the prince.”
Fulk looked around; they were in the middle of the marketplace. “We can’t talk here. Will you come back to my house?”
“I knew she ran away with him to go to the hunt,” Rohese said. “But I thought she would come back. She’s a disgrace, she should be whipped. What can I tell her husband?”
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes. I told you, she said she won’t come home.”
Fulk stopped to let a wagon full of barrels roll by. “Most people would not be so upset. This prince’s grandfather made his mistresses great, and their families gained by it, too.”
“It makes no difference.”
Fulk led her down an alleyway, stinking of garbage, into a quieter street. She had two men with her, but no women, and he asked, “Where are you staying?”
At my house in the city. We should go there, of course. Will you—”
A horse burst out of the alley and lunged between them. On its back, Alys looked from Rohese to Fulk and back again. “I told you not to bother him. He had nothing to do with it. If he did, I would love him for it. Go home.”
Rohese said, “You are mad. You are.” She wrenched her horse around and trotted off, her two men behind her. Halfway down the street, she turned and shouted, “Never come back, Alys. Never come back.” Her whip rose and fell, and she bolted away.
Alys spat into the street. Fulk said, “The alewife again.”
“Prince Henry’s alewife, if it please you, my lord.” She studied him, her hands crossed on the pommel of her saddle. “I have a message for you that will be welcome.”
“What is it?”
“Tomorrow, our soon-to-be-king will announce certain charters to the people of Stamford, for which, I understand, they have given him a good deal of money. After it, he will have read a list of outlaws. Thierry Ironhand will be one of them.”
She lifted her reins, watching him, and lowered them again. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I told you?”
Fulk shook his head.
“Are you glad, at least?” she cried. “Are you glad at what I have done for you?”
“Oh, yes,” Fulk said. “But you didn’t do it for me.”
She laughed, which amazed him, and sent her horse at a gallop away down the street, her braids flying. The racket of hoofs on the cobblestones followed her.
Thierry's house was at the end of a blind street, against the wall, a three-room house with a garden. In the street outside it, no noise stirred; there had been children playing with their hoops in the street but Fulk had sent them away. In the last heat of the summer, there was no wind. Fulk’s shirt was stuck to his back with sweat. Beside him, Roger was drawing circles in the dust with his heel.
A horse turned into the street; it was one of Thierry’s men. He galloped up to the gate of the house and started to dismount, but he saw the men waiting in the shade across from him and stopped. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Thierry, Thierry!”
Simon and Hugh were standing down the street from Fulk. They started across toward Thierry’s house. Neither of them had drawn his sword yet. Roger moved, and Fulk put out his hand and stopped him.
Thierry looked out the window. The man on the horse called, “It’s done. You are outlawed. It’s finished.” He looked around him and saw Simon and Hugh coming toward him, spurred his horse, and galloped away.
Hugh broke into a run, headed for the gate. Thierry’s head at the window disappeared. Roger took a step forward and Fulk put his hand on his arm.
“My lord,” Roger said, pleading.
“Get his horse, and go around behind the house.” He pushed himself away from the fence he had been leaning on and walked across the street to the gate.
The front door opened, and Thierry stepped out, carrying his sword in his hand. Hugh and Simon leaped forward like hunting dogs, straight for him. Fulk shouted, “Hugh—strike—” and ran after them. Thierry dodged back behind the door and slammed it shut. Simon and Hugh flung themselves on the door, struggling to open it. Fulk pulled Simon away.
“Go around back—Roger’s there, go help him. Chase him out. Go on!”
Simon raced away. Fulk went up to the door. Hugh was pulling at it, but Thierry was holding it shut. Fulk said, “Thierry, come out.” He tapped Hugh on the shoulder, and Hugh stood back, panting.
Thierry said nothing, but behind the door he breathed so loud Fulk heard it. He drew his sword. Horses were coming; he looked quickly at the street and saw Pembroke and some of his men riding down it. “Thierry, come out,” Fulk said, and slapped Hugh’s shoulder.
Hugh grabbed the door and pulled, and it flew out of Thierry’s hands. Fulk thrust his sword inside before the door was fully open. The blade nicked the doorjamb and glanced off Thierry’s shoulder.
Thierry staggered back into the hall of the house. Fulk leaped after him. Before he could strike again, Hugh flew past him, screaming, “For my brother, for my brother.” His sword took Thierry in the side and spun him around, into Fulk’s stroke. Roger and Simon rushed up behind Thierry; Fulk wrenched his sword out of Thierry’s falling body and chopped down and felt the flesh give and the bone break under the blade. Roger and Simon were clubbing at him, standing over him. Fulk stepped back. Thierry lay twisted on the floor, a great pool of blood under him. One by one, the others drew back, staring at the body.
Pembroke crashed in the door. “Is he dead?”
Hugh kicked Thierry in the side. “He’s dead, my lord.” He put his foot back to kick again.
“Don’t,” Fulk said. He pushed Hugh away. “Ro
ger, take this and bury it.” His sword was fouled with blood and brain matter, and he wiped the blade on his thigh. Turning, he saw that, at the far end of the room, there was a girl standing in the corner behind the pallet bed, her fists pressed to her breast, her head bowed as if she prayed.
EPILOGUE
Out in the churchyard, in the bright November sun, groups of horses stood with their grooms, waiting; a little crowd of local people had gathered along the edge of the road. Behind him, in the darkness of the cathedral, Fulk could hear voices mumbling, winding solemn oaths and promises around the agreement between the king and the prince. Fulk folded his arms over his chest. In the shade, it was cold, a clammy cold that roughened his skin even through the layers of thick clothing.
Chester came out, looking around, gave Fulk a short nod, and went to the edge of the sunshine. Fulk straightened, lowering his arms to his sides.
Footsteps sounded in the interior dark—they were all coming out, moving up the aisle, Leicester and de Luci and Richard Camville, the king’s knights, the prince’s lawyers.
“God, this is tedious,” Leicester said, coming up beside Fulk. “I’ve a thought to go home and let them work it out themselves.”
Fulk said nothing. Beside Leicester, he walked down the steps into the sunlight and the gusty wind of the churchyard. None of them would dare not be here, with the king and Henry deciding each small claim and tenement and benefice in England. Passing Chester, Fulk looked covertly at him, struck again by the man’s face, gray and seized with pain; it frightened him, and he jerked his eyes away.
They went to their horses and mounted. The king came from the cathedral, surrounded by his men, and rode away.
The people cheered him but their voices were only a whisper compared to the shout they gave Prince Henry. The king rode slumped in his saddle, his head down.
THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) Page 28