THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES)

by Cecelia Holland

  “The object of a war, my lord,” Thierry said, “is to punish wrongdoers. God alone decides who wins and who loses, according to the merits of each, God alone.”

  Chester laughed. “Clearly in England's case God has had difficulty making up His mind, these past eighteen years or so.”

  “He had the company of most of the English baronage,” Fulk said.

  The Angevins all laughed, and the prince smiled sleekly.

  Chester grumbled a moment and burst out, “Are you accusing anyone, Stafford?”

  “My lord, is placing you in the company of God Almighty an accusation?”

  Derby twisted in his chair, looking for a page with wine. “Of course, Fulk rests secure in the knowledge that he supported the empress from the days of good King Henry.”

  “I’m just a glum Norman, my lord. Complexity bewilders me. I like to keep things simple.”

  “What’s this?” Henry said, lisping. “Am I to believe that de Marsai’s careless remark stung the Earl of Stafford?”

  “My lord, a moment’s reflection on the speaker assured me of the value of what he said. It was a manner of speaking.”

  Thierry said, “He was recently injured, my lord, and sorely bereaved. You must—”

  “I don’t need your apologies for me, Thierry,” Fulk said.

  Thierry stared at him and turned his eyes to Rannulf. “As you wish.” He and Rannulf were looking at each other, and Thierry smiled a little and shrugged.

  Fulk clenched his good hand into a fist. Henry was watching them avidly. When no one spoke, he gulped wine and looked around him.

  "We were talking of war. My lord Derby, what is the object of war?”

  Direct questions always flustered Derby; he pulled his coat sleeves down over his wrists. “Unh—I fight to protect myself, my lord—I think wars are fought to protect oneself and one’s holdings.”

  Henry wrinkled his nose. “That’s unattractive. Stafford, why do you fight?”

  “Because I am a knight, my lord. My overlord commands me to fight, so I do.”

  “Would my vassals kept that clearly in mind. Ledgefield, we still have not had your opinion.”

  “My lord,” Thierry said, “you have; he spoke of honor and—”

  “Damn you,” Fulk shouted. “Let him speak out of his own mouth.”

  Thierry lunged to his feet. “By God, will you shout at me?”

  “If it offends you,” Fulk said, and took his dagger from his belt, “You know the answer to it.”

  Derby was on his feet; Henry had leaned forward, smooth-faced, delighted. Chester said, “He’s wounded, for God’s love.”

  “Is that a challenge, Fulk?” Thierry cried.

  “Yes, but nothing will come of it,” Fulk said. “You’ve never yet faced me, why should you now?”

  “My lord,” Thierry said, and wheeled toward the prince. “You witness what provocation, all undeserved, he heaps on me.”

  Fulk lifted his arm in its sling and put it on the table. “You may call them provocations, I call them simple observations.”

  “My lord, give me your leave to—”

  Henry said mildly, “Sit down, Thierry.”

  “I cannot stay in the company of a man who insults me without apology, my lord.”

  “Then go,” Fulk said. “There’s good wine elsewhere, and people to laugh at your jokes.”

  Rannulf was standing up, staring at Fulk, but Fulk gave him one look and turned his eyes back to the prince and Thierry. He could see that Henry was enjoying this; he was curious how long he’d let it continue.

  “Do you give me orders?” Thierry said; he was weaving a little from drink, but his voice was properly full and outraged. “In your own lord’s presence, you give me orders?”

  “Suggestions,” Fulk said. “Or an invitation. At any time, Thierry, I will face you over a lance, whether my right arm is broken or no.”

  Henry said, “Thierry, you needn’t take his orders, but you should take mine. Sit.”

  Fulk sheathed his dagger. Thierry stood a moment, glancing around at the other men, before he slowly lowered himself into his chair. Derby sighed, and Chester, his head sunk into his shoulders like a toad’s gave a high, harsh laugh.

  “You led us off the question, my lord,” Henry said to Fulk. “Now I can’t remember it.” He smiled and knocked over his wine cup. Pages rushed to clean up the spill, but the prince ignored it, and set his elbow down in the puddle. “What was the question?”

  “Honor and its place in warfare,” Derby said.

  “Fulk, you have dodged around this long enough. Tell us.”

  “My lord, in war as in everything else, I do what I think will serve me best, and honor has nothing to do with it.”

  “Obviously,” Thierry said.

  “An honest answer,’ Henry said. “How can you tell what will serve you best, though? Eventually, the cleverest act can prove not so clever.”

  “I’m not a clever man, my lord. Certainly not clever enough to outwit myself. As I said, in a manner of speaking, I’m a glum Norman.”

  “And a liar,” Thierry said.

  Henry’s head struck forward like a snake’s. “By God, sir, leave off. If you must interrupt me, go elsewhere. I don’t need you. I don’t need your comments. Get out, go, get out now.”

  Thierry flinched—the prince’s voice had risen to a scream; the last words rolled around the room's stone walls, and Thierry turned pale as birch. Fulk sat back. Obviously Thierry had not met the prince’s temper before. He glanced at Chester and saw him laughing.

  Silent, Thierry got up and walked through silence toward the door, his shoulders rigid. No one watched him go; their eyes were fixed on the walls, they sat and waited until the door shut.

  “Now,” Henry said in a normal voice. “Let us proceed.”

  For a moment, everyone stared at him. Finally, one of the Angevins got up and took Henry’s cup and went off to fill it; another of them said, “We were discussing war, my lord, if it please you.”

  “It does,” the prince said. Specifically, we were discussing right and wrong in war. My lord Rannulf, tell us what you think of that.”

  Rannulf cleared his throat. His fingers tapped nervously on the table top. “My lord, a man’s first concern is the wellbeing of his soul, and he must judge everything he does according to that, in war as in other times.” Warming to it, he leaned forward. “Aren’t we always at war, my Lord? With the Devil and his works?”

  “God, it’s a priest,” Henry said, and around the table a few men laughed. Rannulf sank back again, blushing. The prince suddenly sat up straight. “Chester, my lord of Chester, my other Rannulf, start with the first premise. Is there right or wrong in war?”

  Chester heaved his bulk forward and braced it up on his elbows on the table. “Is there right or wrong in anything, my lord? Those are words to command obedience, fictions, inventions to suit convenience. Are they not?”

  “Splendid,” the prince said, and bounced in his chair. “De Marsai, I see you bursting with the wish to speak. Answer him.”

  “Sir,” de Marsai said, “God is certainly everywhere, we see His workings everywhere, and if God is omnipresent, so must the Devil be. My lord, if God worked not in the world, how does one explain the favor with which you, my lord, have been attended since your earliest years? Clearly, here is God bestowing gifts on His chosen.”

  To Derby, Fulk murmured, “I think I’d liefer hear Chester’s heresies.” Derby giggled. The Angevins were all murmuring agreement with de Marsai. Henry beamed; his unsteady eyes looked from face to face and saw nothing but admiration and worship. Fulk began to think of leaving. “Remember, if you will,” Henry said, “the words of Saint Augustine, that without evil there is no good. Without honor, there is no dishonor. Without law, no outlaws, like our friend Thierry Ironhand, however unjustly accused.” He smiled at Fulk. “Without justice, no injustice. Fulk, you said you do what serves you. Without regard for right and wrong?”

&nbs
p; “My lord,” Fulk said, “if evil is necessary to good, and good is necessary to evil, then it behooves a man to do a little wickedness now and again, for the good of his soul. Where better than in a war, when wickedness is everywhere and good almost impossible?”

  The prince cheered and clapped his hands. “Marvelous. Splendid.”

  “And so, my lord, I shall leave you, if you please. I rode all day, and my broken bones ache.” Fulk stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen, all of you, for your pleasant conversation.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Rannulf said. He rose and bowed to the prince. “I am most honored, my lord.”

  “An empty phrase, if one does not believe in honor. But you do. Thank you, my lord. Stafford, you know of the council tomorrow.”

  “Yes, my lord. Good night.” Fulk bowed and turned toward the door. Behind him, Rannulf spoke to Derby and Chester, polite and friendly, and they replied. Fulk went out into the little hall and sent one of the pages waiting there for his cloak.

  “My lord,” Rannulf said. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Not really.”

  “The way you spoke to Thierry, I’ve never heard you speak to any man,” Rannulf said. He took the cloak from the page and draped it around Fulk’s shoulders, and Fulk clasped it awkwardly with his left hand and started toward the door. A porter came forward to open it.

  Outside, in the dark, the midden stench filled his nose and made him sick to his stomach. Rannulf said, “Thierry tried to be generous to you—at first. He meant no harm to you. I was ashamed for you, the way you spoke to him.”

  “If my right arm were good, I would have killed him,” Fulk said. He stretched his legs, walking as fast as he could to keep Rannulf quiet. On the ramparts, torches fluttered in the wind like flags; he could still hear the voices of the men in the hall behind him.

  “All he wants is your friendship, and yet you hate him so much,” Rannulf said. “I don’t understand.”

  “I see in him the same wicked man I see in me.”

  They had come to the door in the courtyard wall. Fulk took hold of the iron ring and pulled it open.

  “How do you know he means you any harm?” Rannulf said.

  “Would he be here if he did not?” Fulk shook his head. “I’m tired, Rannulf. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

  Rannulf frowned. “Good night, my lord.”

  Fulk went across the courtyard toward the door into the tower. A man was waiting just beyond the threshold, a candle in his hand, sheltering it from the wind with his other palm. It was Morgan; when Fulk reached him, he turned and without speaking went up the narrow stair, lighting his way.

  FIVE

  Rannulf said rapidly, “Did you arrange it? I wish I could go with you, I feel my duty is with you.”

  “Never mind your duty, you’ll learn more with the prince.” Fulk shifted up one step, out of the way of the men loading his gear into a wagon in the courtyard. The sun had already climbed above the castle wall; they were late. He looked for Thierry in the flocks of people inside the wall, but could not see him. “Remember that you need not answer every question put to you.”

  “Why is Thierry coming with you?”

  “I requested it.” There he came, walking toward them across the courtyard, with one of his men behind him leading two horses. One was packed with gear. Fulk said, “Anyway, the main army will be more interesting for you. The attack on Bedford especially.”

  “You have to take a castle, too,” Rannulf said. “There is my lord Chester. What do you think of him?”

  “Treacherous, and infinitely capable of cosmic explanation for it.”

  “Infinitely cynical, you mean.”

  “No.” The wagon was loaded, and horses drew it rattling away. Morgan went back into the tower. “He isn’t cynical at all. He’s innocent. Sometimes they look the same. We’re going, do you want to ride down to the camp with us?”

  “Yes.” Rannulf’s face was bright with excitement. He rushed down the steps into the courtyard and called to his squire to bring his horse; Roger rode up from the stables, with Fulk’s bay horse trailing behind him. Chester came over.

  “Leaving, are you? But you’ve always been hasty.” He laughed. “And there’s my namesake. Good morning, Rannulf.”

  Fulk stopped on the bottom step to talk to him; the height of the step brought them nearly eye to eye. “I named him Rannulf for my grandfather, Chester. I can promise that it was in spite of you.”

  Chester laughed again. His eyes veered toward Rannulf. "Nonetheless I feel a kinship."

  Fulk hoped that was an illusion. Chester was wearing a belt of gold links that caught the sun. “That’s a very fine belt, my lord.”

  “I got it here, in Tutbury,” Chester said. “Maybe you can find one on your way south. I’ll watch over your heir while you’re gone.” He bowed elaborately to Rannulf. “Good luck, Fulk. Watch that spider of an uncle of yours.” He swaggered off across the courtyard, surrounded by his hangers-on.

  “He agrees with you about Thierry,” Rannulf said.

  Fulk’s head bobbed. “Roger, we should get down to the camp.”

  “I don’t think you want to, really,” Roger said. He held Fulk’s horse by the bridle while Fulk mounted. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Hello, Roger,” Rannulf said.

  Fulk slung his leg forward over his horse’s shoulder and bent down to check his girth. “Rannulf, there’s your squire.”

  “I see him.” Rannulf plunged off across the courtyard to get his horse. Roger mounted and stretched his arms over his head.

  “What’s wrong in the camp?” Fulk asked.

  “We were gone too long—they’re lazy bastards, they go around telling each other what to do and do nothing themselves.”

  “We’ll have a good hard march to get them in shape again.”

  Talking, they rode down toward the castle gate; they passed a group of men, standing and talking, and Fulk raised his hand to them. One of them called his name and stepped backward out of the group, turning toward him. Fulk stopped his horse. At first he didn’t recognize the man, but when he came up to him he saw that it was William Louvel, a Norman knight.

  “My lord,” Louvel said. “God be with you—are you going now?”

  “As soon as I can. You’re with the prince, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you?” Louvel scratched Fulk’s horse under the jaw, and it rubbed its head against his arm.

  “In a manner of speaking. He’s sent me off to ride his flank, and, by the way, take Sulwick Castle. Have you ever been there?”

  Louvel shook his head positively. “I have never heard of it. Where is it?”

  “Southeast of my castle of Bruyère-le-Forêt, in Hertford.” Through the tail of his eye he saw Rannulf coming on his chestnut horse. “Well. I’ll see you again in Wallingford. Don’t take it all before I get there.”

  With a laugh, Louvel stood back. “God support you. Good marching.” He went back toward his friends, and Fulk, Rannulf, and Roger went out the gate, into the steep narrow streets of Tutbury.

  “How far east of us will you be riding?” Rannulf said.

  Fulk reined his horse around a hole in the road. On either side, rows of thatched roofs descended the hill like steps. “Not far. A few days away. If the king tries to cut Henry off from Wallingford, we’ll screen your flank and warn you.” All the houses they had passed were empty. Fulk looked curiously in through their gaping doors. The siege had driven out all the people. He heard a muffled clanking inside one hut and bent to see through the door: a lean yellow dog was trying to turn over a broken pot. A wagon rumbled up the street, and Fulk straightened and eased his horse into line behind Roger so that it could pass them. They had to wait while another wagon worked its way around a corner. A brisk wind was blowing the midden smell out of the town.

  Prince Henry intended to march straight on Bedford and seize it before he turned at last to Wallingford. It was Wallingford tha
t had called him into England in January; King Stephen was besieging it steadily and the people had begged Prince Henry to their aid.

  Wallingford stood like gate into the upper valley of the Thames, where most of the fighting of the war had gone on. Stephen had spent much of his reign trying to gain possession of it, although typically he had never pressed a siege to its conclusion. Fulk had been there only once. The heavy splints on his arm hurt him, and he tried to shift the weight.

  “God’s bones. They haven’t even loaded the wagons.” He kicked his horse into a jog down the last street to the plain. The camps of the other lords in Tutbury stretched out on either side, all boiling with action; in the center of Fulk’s camp the train of wagons stood empty and waiting. Some of the men still sat around their dead fires eating bread and drinking watered wine. Fulk rode through the camp to the wagons.

  “Here,” Roger shouted, and rode into the middle of a circle of men not far away. “You and you, go bring those barrels here and load them on. You, go fetch the oxen. You and you—”

  To Rannulf, Fulk said, “How long were we gone? They knew better before we left for Stafford.” But his pleasure at the thought of leaving would not fade. The sun was already hot; he shaded his eyes to look across the camp. Roger like a high wind swept through it, and in his wake men leaped up and ran around, gathering their gear, picking up, and bringing barrels and chests and bundles up to the wagons.

  Rannulf said, “If I were you, my lord—look, is that Simon d’Ivry?”

  “Yes.” Simon was one of a pack of young knights surrounding Thierry, who stood head and shoulders above them all, his head bowed like a kindly tutor listening to his charges. Rannulf pulled his horse up behind Fulk’s.

  “I haven’t seen Simon—I’ll go talk to him, if you don’t mind. Hello, Morgan. Father, mark you don’t go before I see you again.” He raced off across the camp toward Thierry, dodging the men working in his way.

  Fulk grunted. The men around him were finally loading the wagons, swearing at the weights of the chests and barrels. There was little enough—salted meat, flour, kegs for water; they would have only half a dozen wagons in all. Morgan was making himself busy.