THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES)

by Cecelia Holland

Rannulf blinked at him. “Whose?”

  “Our friends the untamed Welsh.” Leaning forward, Fulk poured pale wine into his cup. “Old Gruffyd gave me two of his sons at Bryn Crug and went on raiding. They weren’t really his sons, as it turned out. I got them later. You’ll notice he doesn’t raid any more, the old pirate.”

  “I can’t believe you would kill innocent children.”

  "Gruffyd was killing innocent children and their families every day. There are things I have to—”

  “Morgan is Gruffyd’s son—would you kill Morgan?” Rannulf cried, triumphant.

  “Don’t interrupt me. I want to talk—”

  “Answer me,” Rannulf said.

  “Gruffyd isn’t a problem any more. Are you going to listen to me?”

  Rannulf looked disgusted; he gulped his wine and set the cup down with a thunk. “On what subject?”

  “The condition of the kingdom of England. In particular, the recent career of Henry Plantagenet.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Fulk shrugged. “I’ve been with him months now in England and I have attended him at his court in Normandy for years, but I know him no better than I know the king of Araby. The point is, we are going to make him king of England.”

  “Who is we? You and Leicester?”

  “He has all the old support for his mother in the west, and he’ll take Tutbury. Since he came to England last winter he has won every siege and battle he has fought, and he’s been energetic. I met with Derby on my way here and talked to him, and he will join us. Chester, Pembroke, Leicester, and I all follow him. The Pope has refused to let the Archbishop of Canterbury crown Stephen’s son, either now or after Stephen has died. Henry is our only choice.”

  “What do you intend to gain by this?”

  The stony, yellow wine reminded Fulk of Bruyère, in Normandy, where it was made. “Henry has confirmed all the lands I hold now on me and my heirs, he has restored Beck to us, he has romised to make me sheriff of Stafford, and he has recognized you as my heir.”

  Rannulf thrust his head forward. “I don’t want Beck. Beck is Thierry’s manor.”

  “It was Thierry’s manor. If he had not contrived to be outlawed by both the king and the empress, he might still have it. Now it’s part of the Honor of Bruyère again. You should be pleased.”

  “Are you trying to pretend that you do all this for my sake?”

  “Pretend? Everything I do, I do for your sake, for Hugh’s sake, and Madelaine’s—what else should I work for except my family?”

  Rannulf looked at the floor and said nothing. Confused, Fulk gestured with his left hand. “Why, what did your mother say?”

  “You were working.” Rannulf stood up. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  He started toward the door, moving stiffly.

  “Wait.” Fulk thrust the conversation back into his memory, to think about later, and hunted for something to soften what he had said. “Will you take Alys to Radlow?”

  “I? Of course. If you think it’s a good idea.”

  “Yes. I’ll write a letter saying I believe she was taken away by force—you might convince her that’s the only way she’ll stay out of a nunnery.” Relieved, he drew a deep breath. “Peverel’s in Nottingham, but you can give her to the bailiff at Radlow. No sense taking her any farther. Do you have any of your own men here?”

  “Just my bodyguard. I’ll take them.”

  “Take ten or fifteen of mine, too. You’ll have to cross part of Cheshire.” He picked up the letter he had written, folded it, and thrust it into a drawer. Rannulf and the dog on the hearth were watching him curiously.

  “If you think it’s best,” Rannulf said. “I’ll take her.”

  Fulk nodded. “She might heed you, she won’t me.”

  All the high color had receded from Rannulf’s face, but he did not smile. “Yes, probably. Good night, Father.”

  “Good night.”

  Rannulf went off into the dark and opened the door, and Fulk heard him speak to the sentry on the stair landing. He found fresh parchment for his letter to William Peverel and dipped the pen into the ink, but he wrote nothing. Outside the window, clear light shone; the dog slept growling on the hearth. A log broke, and the dog leaped to its feet—it had been burned once by an ember when a log broke.

  Margaret would explain everything to Rannulf. He listened to her, and she understood statecraft and the machinations of princes, a prince trapped in her woman’s body, holding me at Derby’s lodge while she sent off a message to Rannulf, outflanking me. But Rannulf had no sense to act on what she did. He believed Thierry—Thierry also spoke well on large, empty questions.

  Fulk laughed. Thierry had fled away at the first word that Fulk was coming—it exhilarated him that Thierry was afraid of him. Inking the pen, he began to write.

  TWO

  Margaret came to Stafford two days later, borne on a litter hung with rosettes of ribbon, surrounded by her knights and waiting women and pages. As soon as she was through the gate the courtyard filled up with people leading off horses and greeting friends among her party and waiting to help. Fulk wound his way through the crowd to the side of the litter. The sun had faded the ribbon flowers, and the streamers were studded with burrs and thorns. He bent to look inside.

  "My lady. Welcome to Stafford.”

  The inside of the litter stank of dogs and sickness. She had worsened—her lips were crusted with sores, and her eyes leaked, she seemed bloated. Her companion Hawisse was busy helping her get herself together enough to climb out of the litter.

  “Good day, my lord.” She held out her hand, and Fulk took it.

  “You should have stayed where you were until you got better, damn you.”

  She snorted. Fulk gripped her arm and with Hawisse disentangling her clothes and Margaret herself pushing managed to drag her out of the close confines of the litter. One of her tiny dogs yapped at him from the pillow. Hawisse scooped it up and ducked agilely out the other side.

  “Derby left to go back to Tutbury, and it was boring past belief.” Margaret leaned heavily on him. Even through the thick stuff of her gown he could feel her fevered skin. “Is Rannulf here?”

  “Off on an errand of mine. He’ll be back.” He half carried her toward the door. Gilbert and his wife bustled forward, babbling greetings, and Margaret acknowledged them absent-mindedly. The porter rushed over to open the door. Hawisse carrying dogs and a bundle wrapped in a green scarf hurried on before them into the dark.

  “It’s your own fault that you’re sick,” Fulk said. “I should whip you for sending that messenger.”

  “What messenger?”

  In her voice he heard her smile. He heaved her up the stairs, her great bulk pressed against him from shoulder to hip. Pages darted about, and a pair of serving girls rushed past, their arms full of spring flowers. Margaret said, “He wasn’t here, was he? Thierry, I mean.”

  “No. He wasn’t.”

  “What a shame. No choice familial meat for poor Fulk to dine on.”

  They crossed the antechamber; she was breathing hard, but she straightened, looking around, a hand taller than he was.

  “You take advantage,” Fulk said. “You know I can’t beat you when you’re sick.”

  She laughed her warm, deep laugh. He helped her through the door and onto the bed; she was breathing too hard for the short distance she had walked, and while he watched she shut her eyes and lay still a moment. Finally, she looked up and began to arrange herself on the pillows, pulling a fur coverlet over her.

  "Who taught me to use advantages? Hawisse, where is—there he is.” She dissolved into a torrent of baby talk, and Hawisse deposited a small dog on the bed. Fulk went to the window and sat down on the sill. Maids and waiting women rushed back and forth across his shadow on the floor. Clusters of flowers appeared on every available surface, and bundles and boxes sprang open and were emptied of their contents. Chattering women filled the room. The door flew open, and the cook, beaming, mar
ched in with a tray of fresh pastries. Hawisse snatched it away and took it to the bed. Three maids began to air out clothes near the cupboards.

  "Stafford again,” Hawisse said, looking down her bony nose. “Oh, my lady, don’t you wish we had never left Arby?”

  “But Stafford’s so much nicer,” one of the three maids piped, off by the cupboards, and Hawisse gave her a poisonous look. Fulk laughed. Hawisse glanced at him through the corner of her eye and sniffed; her sour mouth thinned to a wrinkle. Fulk grunted at her.

  More baggage appeared, and Hawisse, arms raised, ordered it about. “Bring them here—Gilbert, isn’t it? Yes. Thank you. We shall require another tall cabinet for my lady’s things. Kindly remove this chest. My lady will—oh! oh!”

  The lapdog on the bed charged across the covers, yapping, and Merry, who had just come through the door, snarled and broke into deep-throated barks. The women rushed toward him, shooing him out in high voices, but the big dog set himself. He looked mildly surprised--after the first barks he ignored the lapdog. All along his spine, brindle hair stood up in a roach. Margaret grabbed the lapdog and was soothing it. From the safety of her enormous arms it squealed and yipped and made small lunges.

  “Merry,” Fulk said, and the dog dodged around the women to him. “Lie down. Good dog.”

  The lapdog raced up and down Margaret’s body, screaming. Hawisse glared at Merry, who had lain down at Fulk’s feet. “My lord, that dog.”

  “He’s doing nothing at all.” Fulk crooked a finger at a page and sent him for one of the pastries Margaret was eating. “Get rid of the troublemaker.”

  Margaret said coolly, “Take him, Hawisse, he scratches.”

  She gathered up the lapdog like a ball and gave it to one of her women. “Leave me, all of you. The noise tires me. Hawisse, send up more honey for these cakes. Go on, leave me.”

  The room emptied out immediately. Across a litter of boxes and furniture, Margaret met Fulk’s eyes and smiled.

  “As usual I’ve disrupted your life, my lord. Forgive me.” She sounded amused and tired.

  Fulk brushed crumbs off his palms. “I see being sick hasn’t spoiled your appetite.”

  “I wish you had kept Rannulf here until I came. Move this cushion for me.”

  “The errand was pressing.” He slid off the window sill and went to the bed. The cushion lay half under her back, and he pulled it free and stuck it in behind her head. She sighed. Crumbs and bits of dried jam littered the front of her gown and the fur robe. This close to her, he saw again how sick she was, and he sat down on the bed, worried.

  “I am so weak,” she said. “I can barely lift my head.” She turned her head and coughed, deep out of her lungs, tearing and wet.

  “The air is better here than at Arby,” Fulk said.

  “It will do me no good. Where is Thierry?”

  “Gone to Prince Henry.”

  “What a fool he is, he always puts himself at your mercy. Have you been busy? Isn’t that a silly question? You are never idle. Here’s the honey.”

  A page with Hawisse like a drover just behind him set down a tray with a pot of honey and another pile of cakes on it. Fulk stared at Hawisse until she left. It was unlike Margaret to make so much of being sick.

  “I got from Derby what you talked about, you two,” she said, when the door had shut. “You think a lot of this little prince, don’t you.”

  “Damn you, you always have to know everything, don’t you.”

  “Put honey on that bread for me. It’s boring being a woman. Of course I meddle. I think you’re making a mistake, Fulk.”

  “I don’t.”

  “King Stephen is an easy man. The empress was not, and I can’t suppose her son is much finer, particularly when I consider his sire. You have always had a weakness for treacherous men.”

  Fulk stabbed the bread at her. “We came through this reign well enough, didn’t we? For all my weaknesses and—”

  “Don’t be angry, you betray yourself too much. As for coming through well, other families came through far better.”

  “If you admire the chimerical successes of, say, the Earl of Chester, my lady, I shall go out and murder and rampage and fight for cities I can’t hold and gain enemies in high places.”

  Margaret grimaced. She was a Clare and had all their arrogant ambition—her brother was Earl of Pembroke. Fulk thrust the honey knife into the pot and lay down crosswise on the bed, his bead propped up on his crooked arm.

  “Suppose we enjoy a moment’s truce. How do you feel sick?”

  “Look at me,” she said stonily. “Do I look well?”

  “Not at all. You’ll be better in a few days.”

  “You may believe so if you wish. I knew I should get no sympathy from you.”

  “That’s what Hawisse is for. Myself, I am wondering how you mean to use what you found out from Derby. If you’ve done anything, Margaret, I’ll be angry.”

  “If you think your temper frightens me you’re very wrong.” She stared at him a moment. “I think you are nourishing a viper in this prince of yours.”

  Fulk shrugged. “I doubt that.”

  “If he is all you told Derby, then certainly when he is king his first action will be to weaken all the powerful men around him.”

  “Not if he owes his throne to us.”

  Margaret chewed on bread and honey, her cheeks stuffed, and swallowed with difficulty. “I am beginning to fear that you will make just as base a bargain with this prince in England and you did with his father in Normandy.”

  “Come now. That’s talk I would expect from Rannulf. Henry and his father ruined nearly every great house in Normandy but ours. I thought I did well in Normandy.”

  “You made a merchants bargain with the conquerors.”

  Fulk picked dog hairs out of the fur coverlet. This was an old argument, rehearsed a dozen times before. “When I was vicomte we were powerless. Now I am bailiff, and we control the whole region. Power isn’t base.”

  “There’s no sense in arguing with you, clearly. Only see: the prince is Duke of Normandy, and he has overthrown his own brother to make himself Count of Anjou, and with this new wife he holds Aquitaine—more and richer lands than England. Will he let his English barons rule him?”

  “Your dog is shedding. I don’t know what he will do. I don’t know if we can control him. But these wars are destroying the kingdom.”

  She laid her limp hands in her lap. “No one listening to you would imagine you are such a great knight.”

  The back of Fulk’s neck and ears grew hot, and he plucked furiously at the coverlet. “I will take that as praise.”

  “It was intended so.”

  In the little silence that followed, he heard men calling to each other on the walls; he smelled the fragrance of the flowers crowding the room. He was reluctant to break the good will between them, but there was something he had to get her to do.

  “I want Rannulf to come with me when I go back to the prince’s army.”

  “He never will. He is King Stephen’s man.”

  “He will if you tell him to.

  “I won’t.”

  “You have to. He goes if I must drag him. I’d prefer him to come willingly. Wouldn’t you?”

  She said nothing; she blew her nose and lay still, her eyes elsewhere.

  “You must see the reason in it.”

  “The king may yet deal with this prince. He has done so before. You make too little of the king.”

  “I doubt anybody could make too little of that king.”

  She coughed, and the harsh, ripping sound developed into a spasm. Fulk lay still, waiting for her to subside. Finally she lay back, her faced blotched with red, and gasped for breath, and her eyes moved toward him.

  “You have met Stephen only at court,” Fulk said. “I’ve talked to him in councils, fought against him, and been his prisoner.”

  “I’m not going to argue.”

  “Good. Tell Rannulf to come with me.”


  She closed her eyes and lay still, inert on the bed, her graying brown hair scattered on the pillows. Fulk sat up; the rasp of her breath alarmed him.

  “I have to see Rannulf,” she said. “Could no one else have run this errand?”

  A shock passed through him. This was no simple cold, when talking exhausted her so much. He picked up her fevered hand.

  “He’ll be back in a day at the most. You’ll be better by then.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Margaret, I’m sorry. I’ll let you rest.”

  She looked at him without moving her head, and her mouth twitched upward into a smile. “Without finding out what I mean to tell him?”

  “I’ll send for a physician.”

  “Hawisse is capable. We have to talk later, I have some things to settle with you.”

  “When you’re well,” he said stubbornly.

  “I’m not going to get well.”

  He said nothing; their eyes met, and he saw that she read on his face what he was thinking. She touched her lips with her tongue. He had never seen her frightened before. He realized he was gripping her hand and relaxed his fingers.

  “I’ll go.”

  “Stay until I fall asleep.”

  “I will.”

  She turned her head a little and closed her eyes. Sliding off the bed, Fulk moved over near the window, into the sunlight’s warmth. I have seen enough people die to . . .

  Through the window, beyond the yew thickets that the wind combed back, he saw the thatched roofs of the town at the foot of the hill.

  “Where is Hawisse?”

  “I’ll get her,” he said, turning.

  “No. Stay.”

  She could be long in dying or she could die now. In her sleep. Before Rannulf came. She would live until Rannulf came, if she could. He’d seen men fight off death for days. What made her die? No wound, no gush of blood, nothing but a cold. That pierced into her body and attacked the organs, heart, spleen, lungs, belly, all those things I have laid open to the air with a sword. He remembered saying she took advantage of being sick, and heat washed over him. I am so clever, I deserve whipping. He heard her rough breathing and turned to see her lying there, her mouth gaping, her eyes shut. Get a physician. She should be bled.