“My Lady Rohese of Highfield, my lord,” Robert said.
“Thank you. I am pleased, my lady, to give you the hospitality of Bruyère, and to be here myself to extend it.”
“We are very charmed to accept it, my lord.” She sat down next to him; she was bony as an old hound, but her eyes were a fresh deep blue and full of lively interest. Fulk met the knights quickly and sat down opposite her.
“I believe I knew your husband, my lady. Sir Giles Buin of Highfield.”
“My second husband,” she said. “Yes. I may say, my lord, that I have heard a great deal about you, none of it good, from my kinswoman Alys of Dol. I am pleased to find her judgment wrong as usual.”
“Alys of Dol is your cousin?”
“Yes. I hear she spent a few days at Stafford.” Her mouth drew up into a smile. “Under strange circumstances. None of us thanks you for sending her home.”
“Would you have thanked me had I kept her? Where is she?”
“Now, at Collingwood Castle with her husband. I am going to take her to my home of Highfield. They refuse to send her to a convent—he says it’s scarcely the place for a lady already inclined to lechery.”
Fulk laughed, and the Lady Rohese clapped her hands together. “It is not an amusing subject, my lord. The condition of the convents is a shame upon us all.”
“Oh, I agree, I agree.” He thought that Alys would long for a convent after a while with this woman. “Shall we go to dinner, my lady?” He stood and offered her his arm, and she put her hand on it, rising.
“Yes. You have an excellent kitchen here, we had the finest saddle of lamb last night, and some very good venison and gamebirds. I approve of the way you keep your castle, my lord.”
“Thank you.” He refused to be irritated at her tone of voice; she was a Peverel, after all, and it was a compliment. “I’m afraid we didn’t feed your cousin very well at Stafford.”
“Oh, no. You did precisely right, shutting her up—thank you, Sir Joscelyn.” She smiled at the knight on her left and turned back to Fulk. “She is unendurable. We are all quite ashamed of her. Oh.” She picked up a strip of flesh from a carved roast on the table in front of her and popped it into her mouth.
“My lord,” a page murmured, and took Fulk’s cup away to fill it. All around the table, the pages and squires were serving their masters; those with nothing to do stood behind their lords’ chairs. A low hum of conversation struck up.
Two kitchen knaves came in, bearing enormous roasts before them, and laid them on the table to grunts of approval from the men. Another knave brought up a dish covered with a cloth.
“My lord,” Robert called, from the far end of the table. “The cook made a venison stew for you, in honor of your visit.”
“Did he?” Fulk took off the cloth and looked into the dish. “It smells delicious. Damn it, he must know by now that I hate mushrooms. Morgan. Take this around to the Lady Rohese and offer her some.”
Roger stood up suddenly and went out the door. Morgan took the dish and carried it the short distance to the Lady Rohese, who was sitting at Fulk’s right. She put her long nose down to the dish and sniffed.
“How marvelous. And I, my lord, adore mushrooms.”
Morgan ladled out meat and sauce onto her plate. Another page cut slices of beef for Fulk and put a whole roast bird on his plate. Fulk drank his wine. “Sir Joscelyn, will you—”
Roger came back in, striding long, and came straight to Fulk. Bending, he said into Fulk’s ear, “My lord, don’t eat the stew, the cook put no mushrooms in it.”
Fulk looked quickly to see if anyone else had heard. The Lady Rohese had; she stared at him, suddenly pale, and lowered her eyes to her plate. Morgan quietly took it from her and sent another page for a clean one. Fulk raised his eyebrows.
“Someone’s joke. Everyone knows I detest mushrooms. Take it away, Roger. My lady, let me offer you some lamb instead. Morgan, serve my lady. The mint sauce, too, Morgan.”
Roger covered the dish of stew, took it, and went out the door. Fulk smiled at Rohese; his face felt stiff as old leather.
“How exciting,” she said. “Direct from a chanson. Who would want to poison you, my lord?”
“Poison?” Sir Joscelyn said; his cheeks were stuffed with meat.
“It was a joke,” Fulk said, furious. He took a huge bite of his meat, smiling at all his guests. Roger would talk to the cook, to the servants. But he knew who had done it.
“Very strange,” Rohese said.
“Morgan,” Fulk said, “serve those knights some of the lamb.” He remembered Thierry bolting out the door. God, he thought, you see my reasons. He drank his wine with a gulp and sent the page for ale—the good wine they could serve guests was undoubtedly nearly gone.
“You have been with Prince Henry, haven’t you, my lord,” one of the knights on his left said. “We heard Tutbury has fallen. Is it true that Derby has joined the prince?”
Fulk swallowed a wad of gristle. “Derby was riding with the prince when I left him.”
“King Stephen will attend to them,” another knight said. He was older, and he hardly looked up from the chunk of meat in his hands. “Mark me, my lords, the king will make nothing of this little prince.”
The others around the table craned their necks to look at him. In unison, they swiveled their eyes back toward Fulk. A page put his cup on the table.
“You’ll pardon me, sir, I don’t recall your name,” Fulk said.
“William of Mar,” the knight said, without lifting his head. He packed food into his mouth between words. “My lord is William D’Amage, Earl of York.”
Fulk sat back, and Morgan cut up the gamebird in front of him. “In my castle you may say what you please—what you believe, Sir William. I may say I believe you slight the prince.”
“All of us wonder about the prince, one way or another,” the third knight said. “One wonders how much of his success is due to wise counselors.”
“All the empress’s success came from her brother,” Rohese said suddenly. “Robert of Gloucester should have been the king.”
For the first time, William of Mar lifted his head. “My lady, you don’t know what you speak of.”
Fulk leaned forward, angry, but cold as snow Rohese answered, without pause. “Sir William, I knew Gloucester, the empress, and the king. Gloucester was a bastard, but he was still as much the Great King’s grandson as Stephen, or as Matilda was his granddaughter, for that matter. He had more of the Great King in him. Bastard or no, we should not be riding in packs for safety if Robert were the king.”
“Robert is dead,” the third knight said. “It’s Prince Henry who concerns me. I think he’s a straw knight, guided by his counselors.”
“My lord,” Fulk said, and spat out a mouthful of small bones. “His counselors are such as Chester, Leicester, Pembroke, and myself, with a bunch of Angevins I would say nothing of, not knowing them. Chester never gave himself good advice, and Leicester when he was King Stephen’s greatest adviser lost him Normandy. I—”
“Spare yourself,” Rohese said, and laughed.
“Thank you, I will. What Henry has done in this campaign is all his own, my lords, I assure you. He’s hardly a stripling, without experience or learning. He may be very young, but he has fought the king of France and rebels all through his lands. He is at least as capable as his father was.”
“He’s an Angevin,” Sir Joscelyn said. “That family is cursed. Look at the men of the House of Anjou—Fulk le Réchin, Fulk Nerra, Geoffrey Martel—all of them living devils. Murderers, blasphemers, tyrants—”
“Well said,” William of Mar cried. “Well said.”
Robert Molin leaned forward. “We all have murderers and blasphemers within our own kindred, Sir William. Don’t you think?”
“I take offense at that,” Rohese said. “I have none.”
Fulk had been chewing meat off the carcass of his gamebird; he looked up. In an undertone he said, “You’re fortunate. I ha
ve a murderer, a tyrant, and a blasphemer, all in me.”
Her eyes glistened. “How difficult for you.”
He laughed. Sir Joscelyn was waiting for him to look up, and when he did, the knight said, “Could you support a man with such a family, my lord?”
“I am supporting him,” Fulk said. “Do you support King Stephen?”
“With all my heart and soul.”
Two months of the year, Fulk thought; Sir Joscelyn was obviously going home after his term of service in the king’s army. “I would rather support a man whose father was Geoffrey of Anjou than the son of Stephen of Blois.”
The other men stared at him, wordless. Rohese snorted.
"My lord, that isn’t just. King Stephen has well proven he is not a coward."
A page transferred thick slices of lamb to Fulk’s plate. Morgan moved in to cut them up. Fulk leaned sideways to let him work and said, “The Count of Blois’ most famous weakness was cowardice, my lady, but it was not his only one.”
Sir Joscelyn leaned back, his eyes directed toward the ceiling. “Ah, sir, but the supposed cowardice—the king’s father was misinformed when he fled the Crusade, was he not? He was no coward—he went back to the Holy Land and died most bravely fighting there. I remember my father telling me of it.”
Fulk ate lamb boiled in mint. The other men began comparing their own families’ crusading stories to Sir Joselyn’s. Rohese turned to him. “Aren’t you interested in the Crusade, my lord?”
“My father died on Crusade when I was four years old,” Fulk said. “He never came back to tell me stories of Jerusalem.”
“My first husband, Waleran, died in Spain,” she said, approvingly.
Fulk sat back. William of Mar was gorging himself again, but Sir Joscelyn had straightened up and was reporting some great deed of his father’s in the Holy Land. Across the room Fulk met the eyes of Robert Molin and nodded. "You'll excuse me, my lady, I have some business to attend to."
She nodded, smiling. "You are a diligent man. Go to, then, and thank you." He went off, relieved to get away from her.
"Are you going to marry again?” Robert Molin said. He shut the door behind the last of the guests.
“God’s bones. Allow me to recover from the last. Yes, Roger, come in.”
“I thought from the attentions you paid the Lady of Highfield, my lord—”
Fulk spun around. “And she is the last I would marry, that shrew, bony as a horse, making me welcome in my own hall, she was.”
Roger was laughing; Robert dragged his bad foot over to a chair and turned it toward the fire. The dogs were growling over the bones in the corner, and he shouted at them. “I was only considering your interests, my lord. The Lady of Highfield is well endowed, and her lands align with yours—she holds Aimerie. Don’t you think she’s an apt choice, Sir Roger?”
“I don’t know this lady,” Roger said. He was trying to smother laughter. “From what I have seen, she would make an excellent wife.”
“Apparently she has been, twice,” Fulk said. He put his arm on the chair’s. “What did you find out, Roger?”
“The mushrooms were poisonous. We fed some to an old cat, and it’s dead. The cook did not put them in. He was furious, he knows you won’t eat mushrooms. But the young knights had been in and out of the kitchens since we came, chasing the maids and stealing food.”
“Thierry?”
“Thierry was never there. The cook knows him and says he never saw him, and I questioned some of the scullions and knaves. No. May I sit?”
“Yes, of course.”
Roger sat down on a stool. “I think it must have been Simon d’Ivry. He was in the kitchen several times—one of the scullions knows him. One of the grooms saw him ride into the wood.”
Fulk exhaled. “Yes. I shouldn’t have hit him. I should have, actually, I’m glad I did.”
“What shall we do?”
“Nothing. It didn’t work.” Thierry must have known it wouldn’t work. Thierry had suggested it, he was sure of it.
Robert stretched his legs out. From the knee down, his left leg twisted outward. “Watch out what you eat, then, my lord.”
Fulk shook his head. “I have a better idea. Morgan, go to bed, I’ll get there by myself. Robert, you said you had matters to discuss with me.”
“Yes, certainly.” Robert hitched himself up in his chair, obviously reluctant to leave the subject of Simon’s poison mushrooms. He fumbled a moment, getting his mind onto the new topic. “First of all, we are clearing the land by the river, to bring it under the plow, which is going very well.”
“Good.” This manor was half-covered with forest and marsh. “How much have you cleared?”
“Almost a hide. We’ll plant it next year. I’m going to move serfs onto it from the south. They are sokemen there, and I trust them to work on new land so far from the castle.”
Fulk nodded. The taxes of Bruyère-le-Forêt were still based on Domesday Book but the revenues had fallen steadily since Stephen took the crown; they had to bring new fields under plow every year.
“There was a writ from King Stephen’s court to restore the jurisdiction over poachers in the land by the river to the abbot of Saint Mark. Shall I do it?”
“God, no. Is he after that again?”
“Oh, of course, every case I have that was once tried in his court he claims belongs to him still, but I try them anyway and he can do nothing. He has collected old men who will swear that such-and-such a case was always pleaded in the abbot’s court, and I have old men around who swear the opposite.”
“Justice is profitable. I can deal with this at Prince Henry’s court when things are more settled.”
“William Malmain has an accounting of the taxes, but I can find my tally sticks if you wish.”
William Malmain was Fulk’s steward; he traveled from manor to manor overseeing their affairs. Fulk shook his head. “I’ll catch up with William sometime.”
Roger got up and went toward the back of the room. “I am having ale. May I bring you some, my lord?”
“Please.” Fulk drew his feet away from the heat of the fire. “I want you to do something about the outlaws in the forest, Robert.”
“I tried, all winter, my lord, but when the spring came we had so much—with the planting and the clearing of the—I’ll get to it,” he said hastily.
“Get to it soon.”
“thank you, Sir Roger.” Robert took his ale and drank deeply. With his forefinger he wiped off the foam on his upper lip. “Now. The widow of William Eras, Constance, wishes to marry. Again. This one is a nithing knight-errant named Thomas Couctes. She is constantly at the gate beseeching me to get your permission.”
“God’s bones. We turned down a husband for her in the fall. What does this one offer?”
“Nothing.” Robert slapped his hand down on the arm of his chair. “No land, no rank, and no way to come by either. He’s worse than the last. And she has three villages and four knight’s fees.”
“Find her a husband. She’s too young to be without one.” Constance, he remembered, was Rannulf’s age. “There must be poor but worthy young men around somewhere."
“Off fighting,” Robert said glumly. “And making new widows, while the old ones go around with their tongues hanging down to their waists. It’s a kingdom of widows.”
Roger was laughing; Robert gave him a stern look, and said, “You could have the best of them all, my lord, if you—”
“No. Don’t speak to me of it again.” Fulk glanced at Roger, who had his hand across his long face to mask his laughter. “Either of you.”
“Ah, you need a wife,” Roger said. “Someone to keep your bed warm.”
“I am so seldom near my own bed, having a wife in it would hardly matter. Robert, tell Constance she may not marry her wandering knight. I’ll find her a husband. I’ll marry her to one of my Normans, she’d like that. I’m still looking for a husband for my wife’s favorite waiting woman. What else?”
&
nbsp; “A boy of the village here wishes your permission to go into the novitiate. This I recommend most heartily. He is the son of villeins, but a hermit in the marsh took him under his tutelage somewhat, and the boy is very quick and good-hearted.”
“Where does he want to go?”
“They will accept him at Saint Trinity, with your permission. He’ll do well.”
“Send him. If he does well enough to find the monastery limiting, I can find a use for him in my chancery.”
Roger said, “It sounds as if you’ve had a peaceful spring, Sir Robert.”
“Except for Prince Eustace’s raids and the outlaws. I’ll deal with the outlaws, my lord.”
“Nothing unusual in your courts?”
“Almost one unusual case. A man who raped and murdered a little girl.”
Fulk sat up straight. “When does it—you said almost.”
“The bishop said he was a clerk,” Robert said.
“Ah.”
“Some of the men from the village killed him. They did it in secret and hid the body. We could not discover who killed him.”
Robert Molin’s face was smooth as a hild’s; he met Fulk’s eyes evenly, without blinking. Fulk lifted his ale cup.
“What has the bishop to say about that?”
“He was very angry, he has excommunicated the murderers. I told him that since a court Christian would have done nothing more than degrade that man, that murderer, I found our justice superior.”
“What about the excommunication?”
“After ninety days he lifted it.”
“What happened—the bishop gave his verdict and you let him go and the villagers found out?”
“Not in that order, but that.”
“You should have held him. I don’t blame you. I think you made a mistake, but the case was difficult. I wish you had notified me. I would have tried him if I had to come all the way from Bruyère in Normandy and try him on Christmas Day.”
Robert said, “The bishop would have excommunicated you.”
THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) Page 12
