THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES)

by Cecelia Holland

  “You still haven’t told me how you knew I was coming here,” he said to Margaret. “Surely my comings and goings aren’t gossiped about all the way up in Yorkshire?”

  Margaret gave him a long, vacant stare. Turning to Derby, she said, “I’m sure the rain will keep up all day long, aren’t you, my lord?”

  “Oh, probably, yes.”

  “Not at all,” Fulk said. “In this season, it will clear before noon.”

  “Well,” Derby said, perhaps it will.”

  Fulk sat back and pushed his plate aside. He was full; he tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. Margaret studied him. “See how eager he is. Poor Thierry.”

  “Poor Thierry,” Fulk said. “Poor Thierry is a murdering, whoring, swinish, worthless outlaw. God’s bones. You’re always so worried about our honor—after Thierry, we have none. It humiliates me that you defend him.” He looked toward the door, wondering where Roger was.

  “He is of your own blood,” she said.

  “Precisely why I am responsible for him. I’m pleased you take my point so readily, my lady.”

  Margaret sneezed, put her hand over her face, and sneezed again. Fulk tapped his fingertips on the table.

  “I wish you’d wait until the rain stops,” Derby said.

  “No.”

  “If he waited,” Margaret said, and sneezed. Her watering eyes glared at Fulk, but before she could finish speaking, another sneeze took her, and Roger came up out of the darkness toward Fulk.

  “Are they all ready, finally?” Fulk said.

  "We can leave whenever you wish, my lord.” Roger bowed to Margaret, who muttered something at him. A nervous smile on his face, Derby got up, and Fulk took his cloak from the page who had wakened him.

  “Allow me to attend you, Fulk,” Derby said.

  “Thank you, Robert. My lady, I shall expect you at Stafford Castle directly the rain ends. See that you care for your health.” He jammed his hands into his gloves.

  “And you, my lord, Margaret said. “I shouldn’t wish a humor like mine on you.”

  Fulk grunted. He stamped toward the door; a page led the way with a candle, but now the dawn was coming, and he could see the door, pale in the dark wall. He stopped before it to put his cloak on. Outside, he could see the courtyard streaming like a river in the rain, the knights waiting in their saddles, everything gray.

  “Take the high road, at least,” Derby said, clutching Fulk by the arm. “There are outlaws thick as cream in the forest, and what if Thierry has heard you’re coming? If he tried to ambush you—oh, well.” He smiled apologetically. “Your lady is upset that you’re going to Stafford.”

  “She’s in love with my uncle, like all the other women in the world.” That was not why she was upset. He hated to talk about Margaret to anyone else, and he started toward the door.

  “Well. Whatever. I have taken to heart what you told me, Fulk. You do well in the service of your prince.”

  Fulk make a noncommittal sound in his throat. The boom of the rain on the wooden roof distracted him; he had to think to remember what Derby had said. “The kingdom is a ruin, and I believe he can mend it.” He put up his hood, the soft fur packed around his ears. Catching Derby’s eye, he smiled. “You don’t really want Tutbury, do you? With that midden stench around it?”

  Startled, Derby laughed, and Fulk headed for the door. Derby came after him to the edge of the rain.

  “I shall see you soon. Have no fears for your lady, we shall care for her lovingly.”

  “Thank you.” Fulk went out into the rain.

  Knights filled this courtyard, swathed in their cloaks, their lances at rest. A groom led forward Fulk’s big bay horse, and Roger whisked the cloth from the saddle and in the same motion boosted Fulk up onto the horse’s back, before the rain could wet it. Fulk stabbed his feet into the stirrups.

  “We’ll take the forest road.”

  Roger mounted. The knights were working their way out the gate in a double file. With Roger just behind him, Fulk pushed through the crowd to the gate and fell into the moving column just behind the leaders.

  The meadows around Derby’s hunting lodge were misty and dim in the rain, and the mud of the road sucked at the horses’ hoofs. At Roger’s shouted order, the column trotted into the left fork in the road, straight into the forest. Mud splashed up from the horses in front, and Fulk reined back a little. The bay horse snorted and shook its head, protesting, but it slowed obediently.

  One thing that heeded him. Margaret had been spending the spring with their daughter and her children, far north of here, but as soon as she’d heard Fulk was going to Stafford she’d ridden to deflect him, catching cold on the way. All to save Thierry from him?

  “We’ll be there before dark,” Roger said.

  “We had damn well better be.”

  The column moved at a quick trot down the edge of the road, less muddy than the center. Fulk shifted his weight more comfortably in the saddle. Margaret wasn’t concerned for his sake, certainly, and she wasn’t much concerned for Thierry’s sake. The only person who could have dragged her away from their daughter was Rannulf, their elder son. She had never mentioned his name, but she thought that Rannulf was with Thierry at Stafford, or she would not care if Fulk went there or not.

  “Did you send a messenger to Ledgefield?” he said to Roger.

  Roger looked around, surprised. Mud had splattered his long-nosed, fair face. “Of course, my lord. Yesterday, when you told me.”

  “Remember. I may need witnesses to my innocence.”

  “My lord,” Roger said, blankly.

  They rode deeper into the forest. The road wound downhill, slippery with mud and full of stones. Birch trees and the thick pines gave way to oaks, taller, muffling the sound of the rain. Ahead, the road pinched down to a trail, littered with half-buried boulders like uneven steps, and Roger formed the column into a single file. They slowed to a walk down a steep hillside. On either side of them, the forest, stretched out into darkness.

  “What did you think of Derby’s hunting lodge?”

  Roger looked at him and smiled. Fulk laughed. “Did you see much of it?”

  “As much as I could, my lord. He builds more for comfort than for safety, I think.”

  “My lord Derby’s always had a use for comfort.” Derby was ready to join Price Henry, one more necessary step toward a settlement of the long wars. Fulk stared into the forest to his right. The idea of peace seemed alien and exotic, like a word in another language. Dark green and pale green and brown, the forest resounded under the rain in a vast surrounding roar. Outlaws, poachers, stray English, the forest was tenanted with strange, dangerous people. No more dangerous and strange than your common Norman earl.

  If he caught Thierry at Stafford, he meant to kill him. If Rannulf was there it would be difficult, perhaps impossible.

  Fulk could understand Margaret’s protecting Thierry but that Rannulf might angered him. It made no sense.

  “Are you thirsty, my lord?”

  He looked around and saw the wineskin Roger held out toward him, swaying with the strides of the horses.

  “God’s bones. From your brother’s vineyard?” He snatched it, wrapped his rein around his wrist, and pulled out the stopper. The de Nef vineyards were superb. Roger smiled at him, and he took a long drink from the skin; strong, tart wine flowed warmly through him, until his head whirled.

  “Thank you.”

  If Rannulf were silly enough to go to Stafford for Thierry’s sake, he deserved to be caught. Fulk gave the wineskin back to Roger, and they picked up a fast trot.

  Long before they reached the river, they could hear it, overflowing its banks in the late, unseasonable rain, rumbling stones and tree branches along in its course. They crossed it shortly before noon and rode on deeper into the forest. The rain lessened. Twice Roger stopped the column to let the horses rest, and the men sat talking in their saddles, passing wineskins back and forth, the steam rising from the flanks and backs of
their horses.

  Fulk dismounted the second time they stopped and walked around to stretch his legs. The idea that Rannulf was at Stafford gnawed at him. He kicked up the mulch under his feet and watched white insects burrow away from the open air. There was still the mystery of how Thierry had gotten into Stafford in the first place. Roger was calling orders to the knights. Tearing up the floor of the forest with his heels, Fulk walked back to his horse and mounted.

  They rode on. Fulk told Roger to move the men riding behind them up to the front, where they wouldn’t have mud kicked up in their faces. They were all from his army at Tutbury, and after the boredom of the siege this was pleasant for them; he heard them talking to each other about it. Thierry had only a few men with him besides the garrison of Stafford Castle, who were Fulk’s and would not support an outlaw against their lord. He remembered the adage about outlaws—the wolf’s head, that any man might cut down.

  They rode into a crossroads, and Roger called orders in a crisp voice. The column slowed to a jog trot. In the middle of the junction stood an old stone cross covered with climbing blue flowers. Smoothly, without changing pace, the horsemen swung into the right branch of the road. Each of the men passing made the sign of the Cross, but Fulk merely bowed his head.

  Just before sundown, they rode up the steep path to Stafford Castle. Occasionally, through gaps in the pine trees that covered the hill, Fulk could see the town at its foot, surrounded by its wooden wall. The air smelled richly of pine. Above them, the castle, built of dark red stone, rose beyond the pines—on the road it was already darkening, but the last sunlight shone on the walls and roofs of the castle.

  From the tower and the gatehouse, Fulk’s banners flew, and his garrison with their lances at salute stood all along the rampart on either side of the gate, which was open wide to welcome him. At a smart trot, the knights moved up the last stretch of the slope toward the castle. Across the cloudy sky beyond, the red and orange of the sunset grew bright, mounting steadily into the peak of the sky. They rode into the shadow of the castle wall and Fulk reined to a stop.

  “They knew we were coming,” Roger said, frowning.

  “Apparently.”

  The column of knights trotted briskly through the gate and into the wide outer court of the castle. On the inner wall and from every indow facing them, people leaned, and when they saw Fulk they cheered. The knights lined up against the wall, their horses turned head in, and dipped their lances, and the people of the castle cheered again. Fulk rode into the middle of the courtyard. Gilbert, his bailiff, came forward to greet him.

  “My lord, we had no word of your coming until your messenger arrived, or we would have—”

  Roger dismounted and walked up to hold Fulk’s horse. Fulk swung down from his saddle, and immediately a flock of pages and grooms surrounded them.

  “I understand my uncle is here, Gilbert.” He gave his cloak to a page.

  “He was,” Rannulf said. Fulk's son came up quietly through the crowd of servants. His face wore no expression at all, but he’d clasped his hands behind him, like a small boy waiting to be scolded.

  “I never sent a messenger,” Fulk said to Gilbert. His face burned; his voice seemed tight and harsh. He had never really thought that Rannulf would be here—for all his thinking, he was not ready for it. He met Rannulf’s eyes, and Rannulf squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  “Roger.” Fulk swung away from his son. “See that these men are cared for, fed, and quartered. I trust that we have food enough for them, Gilbert?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Good. I thought perhaps Thierry has looted the pantry as well.” He looked back at Rannulf, and his son’s set, polite face brought his anger up again, sharp as pain.

  “Come into the hall, my lord,” Rannulf said. “You must be tired.”

  “How long have you been here?” Fulk said softly. “What are you doing here?” He took a step forward, and Rannulf moved hastily out of his way. Gilbert hung by his side.

  "I’ll eat and drink in my room. Ale. I’ll talk to you there. Send someone to Sir Roger to tell him where I am.” He strode toward the side door into the gatehouse; he didn’t want to look around and see if Rannulf was coming after him.

  “Gilbert, send the lord of Ledgefield to me.”

  “My lord,” Gilbert said. His voice quivered with curiosity.

  A servant threw the door open, and Fulk went up the narrow stone stairs.

  “Thierry Ironhand was here,” Gilbert said. He followed close behind Fulk up the winding stairway. “I would not have let him in, my lord, but he had orders with your seals on them.”

  “My seals?” Fulk looked over his shoulder at him.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  A page opened the door into Fulk’s antechamber, smoky and warm from the fire burning on the hearth. Fulk went into the center of the room and shed his cloak. The page went around lighting candles.

  “How long was he here?”

  “Eight days,” Gilbert said, at his side. “He left when the messenger came. My lord Ledgefield can tell you more than I, my lord. He spent much time with him.”

  Fulk grunted. Gilbert, in saying Rannulf’s title, had gestured behind him, which meant Rannulf was right there, following. Gilbert rushed forward to help a page drag over a table for Fulk to eat at. Kitchen servants came in with covered trays and an ewer of ale. Fulk glanced around the room: there were clean rushes on the floor, and fresh candles set into their iron holders, everything looked newly polished. Thierry had probably slept and eaten here, in Fulk’s own chambers. He went to the fire and hold out his hands toward it, so that he would not have to acknowledge Rannulf’s presence. The room was crowded with people.

  “My lord,” Gilbert said, and Fulk turned and sat down before the table, covered with platters and cups. Rannulf stood near the door, watching him.

  “Sit down,” Fulk said, and pointed to the far side of the table. There was no chair, but a page brought one, and Rannulf came over and sat.

  “How did you know that Thierry was here?” Rannulf said.

  “Innumerable ways. It’s all over England. I thought he was in Spain contentedly fighting Moors. How is Eleanor?”

  “Very well. And the baby.”

  “Excellent. Now we come to difficult questions. How did Thierry get into my castle?”

  Rannulf said nothing; his face tightened. A page was slipping fur-lined shoes onto Fulk’s feet. Fulk leaned back, enjoying the dry warmth of the fire, and drank ale. “The ale is very good this year.”

  “Thank you.” Rannulf stirred. “It’s from Ledgefield.”

  “I’m glad you’re of some use. How did Thierry get into my castle, child?”

  At least Rannulf didn’t look away. Those servants with nothing to do withdrew out of hearing, up against the tapestries on the far wall. Gilbert ushered in kitchen servants with more platters, meat, and bread. Fulk wiped foam from his upper lip and put down his cup.

  “Gilbert says that Thierry brought orders sealed with my seals. My information is that he and his woman were at Ledgefield before they came here.”

  “How could I turn them away?” Rannulf said. “They are my own blood kin.”

  “Bad blood. And Peverel’s niece is no kindred of yours that I know of. The orders were of course destroyed?” Gilbert nodded. “Were they my seals, Gilbert?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Gilbert shot forward, his white hands busy with the meal being laid out. “I was very—”

  “Or were they Ledgefield’s seals?”

  In the little silence, Gilbert retreated back into a corner of the room. Fulk held out his cup again, and Rannulf mechanically got up and filled it. A page brought Fulk a dish of meat and bread, and Fulk gestured to him to leave it on the table in front of him. Rannulf sat down.

  “They must have been mine. I never saw them, but he was at Ledgefield, and . . . you know how similar they are, your seals and mine.”

  “Yes. So does Thierry. Where do
you keep your seals?”

  “In my own bedroom.” Rannulf cleared his throat. “In my personal chest, beside the bed.”

  Fulk took out his dagger and cut meat. “Reasonably inaccessible, one would think.” He watched Rannulf blush, laid his dagger down, and ate the meat with his fingers. “To Thierry, at least.”

  Rannulf looked over at the fire. His hair, brown like Fulk’s, shone with red lights. “Well, there was Alys, you know.”

  With a bit of bread, Fulk sopped up gravy. “His leman. Did she have the opportunity?”

  Rannulf nodded once.

  The pages were moving around the room, lighting more candles; they reached the high ones on the walls with an iron pole. Fulk ate more meat. Alys of Dol, William Peverel’s niece, run away from her husband to follow Thierry Ironhand: he was surprised that Thierry had brought her back with him from his foreign wanderings. He pushed his platter away.

  “What does Eleanor say about that?”

  “She doesn’t know.” Rannulf looked quickly up.

  “Don’t suppose that because she says nothing she doesn’t know. So Alys took the seals. Are they back? Have you looked?”

  “Oh, they’re where they’re supposed to be. I never missed them. I guessed, when Gilbert told me, but—” He bit off the words.

  Fulk studied him a moment. Everyone said that Rannulf looked like him, but he could always see the traces of his mother on him, in his wide eyes, his soft small mouth. He thought, Now is the moment for a homily on the sins of the flesh. He drank more ale.

  “Where did Thierry go?”

  Rannulf shrugged. “I don’t know. He spoke of leaving England.”

  “He’s in and out of England like a bird with a new nest.”

  “He says he’s tired of fighting you.”

  Rannulf was watching him intently. Fulk picked around the meat on his platter. “He’d be far more tired if he ever actually did fight me. What did you talk about, you and he?”

  “Oh—” Rannulf shrugged. “The places he’s been. Wars. You.” He looked swiftly at Fulk. “He asked about you often. How you were, if you’d softened toward him.”