“Your pardon, my lord,” Fulk said. “The solution—is it so obvious?”
“Why—” Winchester eyed him. “Clearly, King Stephen reached the throne in an ungodly fashion. Yet he is the anointed king, he cannot be uncrowned. To make things right, the lawful heir must be Stephen’s successor, and thus it will all be mended.”
“You mean to let Stephen live out his life as king,” Fulk said. “Prince Henry will never agree.”
Leicester had been kicking at the ground; now he looked up. “Stafford, are you slow today? It is ours to see that he does agree.”
“Well,” Fulk said, “who is going to make the king agree?”
“The king is tired of the wars,” Winchester said. “He will never disinherit Prince Eustace. I know the younger son, William, has taken no interest in anything touching the throne, but Eustace obviously wants to rule.”
“I shall deal with the king,” Winchester said. The growing light of the sun shone on the Bishop's face. With each passing moment Fulk saw his features more distinctly, and he seemed to age ten years while the sun rose. Their eyes met. Fulk wasn’t really looking; he was thinking of the strength and weakness of each baron and the prince, trying to judge what they would have to do to overturn the will of the prince.
“Why, yes,” he said. “We can do it.”
Winchester smiled broadly. “Canterbury and I will arrange the thing. You and my lord Leicester we shall leave to the prince’s part of it. You shall not go unrewarded.”
“I had no intention of it,” Fulk said, and kept his face straight. “But that we can talk about later.”
Leicester said, “The important thing now is to gain control. Nothing muse be done to throw the situation out of our power. Can you keep the king away from Wallingford for a few more days?”
“Yes. He is three days distant now, he and his army, and moving slowly.”
“Good.” Leicester tugged at a ring on his forefinger. “I pledge you my support, my lord bishop. Here is my token on it.”
The bishop took the ring. With his teeth, Fulk twisted a gold ring from his little finger, slipped it onto the top of the forefinger of his good hand, and held it out. The bishop’s fingers nipped it delicately off.
“God be with you,” the bishop said. “We shall speak again very shortly. Good day.”
“My lord.” They bowed.
Winchester strode back to his horse and mounted. The gold flashed on his saddle, his stirrups and his reins. With a shout to his men, he rode back across the river, sitting erect as a lance in his saddle, his head thrown back. They galloped away to the west. “The prince has grown too great, anyway,” Leicester said. “We should teach him that we can overrule him, if we must.”
They went back to their horses. The sun was standing just above the distant trees, and its long rays were drying up the grass and the cold, damp air. Fulk mounted; his sling got tangled, and he swore.
"Today they take this thing off me. I should lay it on the altar of the nearest church.”
Leicester swung up into his saddle. “It might perform miracles. Can you talk to Chester and Derby? I shall see the others.”
Fulk nodded. They started back toward the camp; in the crisp morning air both horses kicked up, shied snorting across the short, crisp grass. All around them lay the empty, untended fields of Wallingford, seared and blackened in spots from the many battles fought here. Fulk thought of King Stephen. If he agreed to such a settlement it would be the same as admitting that he had usurped the throne, and Fulk began to wonder how Winchester could force him to accept it. He knew already what he would say to Chester and Derby.
Prince Henry said, "Before the summer ends, by God’s Passion, I shall have my vengeance for everything that Stephen of Blois has done to me and my mother.”
The hot muffled air inside the tent was hard to breathe. Fulk went to the table in the back, where the cups and jugs of wine were set out. “Allow me to serve you, my lord.”
“Thank you. The red wine for me.” Henry twisted around to watch Fulk, who was behind him. “How long will it take him to bring an army from London? How many men can he have? Surely most of his support is gone, the archbishop refusing to crown his son must have . . . What can he offer them to keep them with him?”
He turned slowly forward again, following Fulk’s progress from the table to the stool before him, and took one cup of wine. He drank from it and put the cup down.
“I know nothing more than I’ve told you, my lord,” Fulk said. He was to see Chester at sundown, but that left the whole of the late afternoon before him; he sipped his wine. “Most of the lords who followed him in the beginning of his reign have left him or are dead, but William of Ypres and his Flemings will be with him, and his own knights from Blois.”
“He’ll be stripped of them soon enough. What a blessing this past season has been. It must be God’s will. Have you inspected Crowmarsh?”
“This morning. Derby and I rode around it.”
“Good.” Henry leaned forward. “Tell me what you think. I have my own opinions, of course.”
“May I sit?”
“Yes. Martin, bring another stool.”
The page trotted forward with a three-legged stool and set it down in front of the prince. Two other pages burst out of the back of the tent, screened off with several silk curtains, and ran giggling out the door. Henry glanced at them and turned to look back at the curtains.
“I noticed two weak points where we might be able to break the wall,” Fulk said, and stopped, because the prince was not listening. He drank his wine. Henry’s jaw line, lightly fuzzed with red beard, tightened and relaxed, and he jerked himself straight again.
“Your pardon, my lord. What did you say?”
"That I saw two places where we might break the wall. The south gate is awkwardly placed because of the way the ground falls off there and the defenders could not easily keep it under covering fire. That is a double gate. On the river side of the castle the wall was built too close to the bank on a poor foundation and the wall is showing cracks. We could sap under it and drop the whole wall into the river very easily.”
Henry’s eyes never blinked; in their center, the light from the door shone reflected. “The river side? I never thought of it. How can we attack from the middle of a river?”
“My lord, breaching a wall isn’t necessarily a means of attacking through it. They would have to place so many of their men there to make certain we didn’t enter through the breach that we might be able to force our way in somewhere else.”
The two pages rushed in again, still giggling, and bolted into the rear of the tent, and the prince’s eyes followed them. “What are they doing in there?” he said softly. The curtain was trembling all its length; streamers of sunlight colored by the red and green silk shifted across the floor.
“God’s eyes,” the prince said. He looked back at Fulk. “Do you think I’m mad?”
Fulk met his eyes and said nothing, but only smiled; he remembered the black-haired girl he had seen the night before.
“I am mad,” the prince said. “I am. What did you say about Crowmarsh, my lord?”
“That we might sap the river wall and attack the south gate when the wall is breached. If we can place men on the wall of Wallingford opposite Crowmarsh.”
“I’ll have to think about that. I’m sorry if I seem—not myself. Would you bring me more wine?”
Fulk took his cup and walked around him to the table, and the prince swiveled to face him, but his eyes were on the curtain. “I thought of sending Sir Thierry your uncle to make reconnaissance to Crowmarsh, but I doubt he has the craft. What do you think?”
“My uncle is an excellent fighting man, my lord, but to my knowledge he has never laid siege to a castle.”
“You laid siege to Sulwick, didn’t you?”
The red wine streamed into the cup. Fulk listened to the rising musical note it made. “We stormed Sulwick, my lord.” He heard a girl laugh, an arm’s lengt
h away, behind the curtain.
“Someday you must tell me of that, it must have been interesting.”
What does he want me to say? Fulk poured his own cup full. He could feel the prince’s eyes on his back, but he knew if he looked the young man would be watching the curtain. He knows I hate Thierry. Why did he mention him? He went around the prince with the cups and sat down again. As if he had been told, he knew that Thierry had already given the prince his own version of the march to Sulwick.
“I see you’ve rid yourself of your slings, though, my lord. How does your arm feel?”
“Uncertain.”
“Then you won’t fight in the tournament?”
Confused, Fulk set his cup on the ground between his feet. The pages came out and began to set the tent straight. “I didn’t know if you had agreed to it, my lord. If it’s held, I’ll fight.”
“Just for the few of us. I doubt there will be any danger. King—Stephen of Blois is a chivalrous man, that I know. He wouldn’t arrack men in their sport. It will be good exercise for us, we are all very sour from the sieges.”
He seemed to talk to convince himself, and yet a moment before Fulk knew that the prince had laid some deep and subtle trap for him, talking about Thierry, His confusion rose. He said something about Stephen’s known chivalry and picked up his wine.
“But you shouldn’t fight is you don’t feel strong.”
“By then I’ll be hale, my lord. It’s not so weak even now.”
“The tournament is in three days,” Henry said. “They say they can’t face another siege—before they settle down to the siege, they say, they want the tournament. I think it’s mad.”
“Everybody hates sieges.” It was impossible to discover what Henry wanted him to say; he was floundering in a morass.
“Certainly. It’s long and hard and the rewards are slight. Thierry will win the tournament. He’s had so much experience. Don’t you think?”
“Probably.”
“Of course, nobody but you has ever actually seen him fight.”
“He’s a good fighter, my lord.”
“Yet there are certain rumors around the camp. I—”
The curtains parted, and a black-haired girl came out, dressed in bright green, with a gold belt and gold embroidery on her sleeves and skirt and bodice. In her hair was a garland of flowers in place of a coif. The two pages trailed her. Fulk stood up; the prince stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“Good day, Madame," he said, finally.
The girl came forward, smiling; her skin was white and pink like apple blossoms, and her bright blue eyes shone. She made a deep bow before the prince, who caught her hand and bent to kiss it. Fulk backed rapidly toward the door. Over the curly red head of the prince, her brilliant blue eyes met his, bold and hard and old.
“My lord,” Fulk said, and went out into the late sunshine. The memory of Red Alys of Dol rushed into his mind. It was the eyes, he thought. But now he had an idea, a way to counter Thierry with the prince. He could not soften the hammering of his heart, and he took his horse from the groom that brought it and rode hard toward Chester’s part of the camp.
Chester was just sitting down to eat a dish of meat when Fulk came to see him. At his shouted orders, his servants cleared a space on the table and laid out another trencher and a cup. The table was heaped with clothes, armor, weapons, and papers; other piles of goods crowded the rest of the tent and hid every piece of furniture in it. Fulk found a stool under a beautiful, filthy brocaded coat and sat down on it.
“Well,” Chester said, his mouth full. “What have you done today for the cause?” He was eating as fast as he could put food in his mouth. Two deerhounds prowled around him, waiting for scraps.
“I saw Prince Henry’s prettiest spoil of war.”
“Did you. You’re very fortunate. Very fortunate indeed. He won’t allow her into the presence of any other men. I saw her, just briefly. She’s charming, isn’t she? Empty-headed, of course. Damn you, villein, put it where I can reach it.”
The servant placed a roast on the table close to Chester and went away. Fulk cut himself slabs of meat. It felt odd to use his right arm, and he remembered once again that it had healed properly and once again exhilaration filled him. He cut up the bloody meat.
“And I rode around Crowmarsh,” he said. “Not all the way, of course. I had to take a boat part of the way.”
“South gate,” Chester said. “It’s the only way.”
“I agree. I did that before I saw Henry. And before I did my reconnaissance, I and Leicester met the Bishop of Winchester.”
Chester turned his eyes on him; his jaw champed steadily. “What?”
“Did you know the tournament is in three days?”
“What is this about Winchester? What did he say? Why wasn’t I there?”
Fulk ate a bite. “Where is Rannulf?”
“Out. Tell me, you little swine, before I break your neck. You know I will.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t.” The meat was tough, and he spat out a pad of gristle. The deerhounds lunged for it.
“Was it about the king? Of course. Is he going to treat? No. The prince will never do it. Is that it—is it about a settlement between them?”
“I think we can make the prince agree,” Fulk said.
“You may think so. I don’t. Prince Henry has come so far without it, he will go to the end without it. He’s that sort.”
“My sweet lord, if you can explain to me what sort Prince Henry is, I shall listen to you for once. We are to convince him that he has to treat.”
“Why should he? Why wasn’t I consulted in this? I was first to join him.”
“You were among the first.”
Chester tossed a bone down to the dogs and kicked them away. “But Leicester. Why did Winchester talk to Leicester rather than me?”
“Leicester is a Beaumont. Don’t be a fool, sir.”
“If I had been born a Beaumont, I—”
“Either of us would have done far better than Leicester has. The settlement is that Stephen remain King until he dies and Prince Henry can succeed him.”
“He’ll never agree.” Chester thrust the remains of the roast into a heap of silk drawers and pulled a meat pie toward him “Ah.” He broke the crust, absorbed, and stuck his nose close to it to catch the escaping aroma.
“He has to,” Fulk said mildly. “He doesn’t have enough men of his own to face King Stephen, without us and our armies.”
“I should have been consulted.”
“I know.”
“Did you come to me first. Did you?”
“Of course. Without you, nothing succeeds.” Derby had agreed to it during their boat ride that morning.
“Yes,” Chester said, pleased. “Without me, you know, you could never sway the prince.”
“With you, however, it is only a matter of bringing it up before him.”
"You’ve undoubtedly messed this all up already. You and Leicester.” The meat pie was hacked to pieces and devoured; vegetables swam in the last juices, and Chester speared them with his dagger and lifted the dish to his lips to drink the gravy. The dogs leaned heavily across his thigh, sniffing.
“If we have, you can tell us.”
“I will,” Chester said.
“Where is Rannulf?”
“Your miserable son is with your miserable uncle, and I would you consigned them both to perdition. Byzantines.”
“Thierry, perhaps.”
“He’s back in the prince’s confidence, did you know that? You’re a fool, you’ve mishandled the entire business, letting him make himself out to be a hero, when the whole army knows he isn’t.”
`”If the whole army knows he isn’t, I haven’t mishandled it.”
“The prince doesn’t know. Or doesn’t care. You aren’t eating. Here.” He whacked a capon in half and gave one piece to Fulk. “I used to scare my own son into eating by telling him he’d be as small as you when he grew up—did you k
now that?”
“I think you’ve told me before.”
“Your father was a small man.” Chester’s dagger actually paused; he stared into the dusty air. “What a man that was. You never knew him, did you?”
“He left for the Holy Land when I was a baby.”
“Your grandfather loved him above his own salvation, never left off talking of him—Thierry hated him. Your father. One Christmas, I remember the old man talking of William, how brave, how noble, on and on, and Thierry—it's difficult to believe they were brothers.”
“I think I’ll go find Rannulf.”
“Oh, aye, find Rannulf. I’ll talk to Leicester tomorrow. You two will bungle this if I don’t tell you how to approach it. Neither of you knows the prince.”
“No,” Fulk said. “Not at all.” He thought of his meeting with Henry earlier that day.
“And I shall have to see Winchester, You arrange that, Fulk.”
“I shall. Thank you for the share of your dinner. I hope you don’t starve for want of it.”
“Ah.” Chester waved him violently away, and Fulk went out the door.
The sun was burning off the dawn haze, but patches of mist still clung to the ground beneath the trees, and on the river fog trailed along the quiet water. A dozen knights had already reached the field, with their squires and grooms and friends. Each of them had set himself up in a miniature camp under one of the trees that lined the field, and they were working up their horses, sorting out gear, and walking around visiting when Fulk and Rannulf and their men rode up. Roger was going to fight too, and he had brought two of his younger cousins to squire him.
“God’s bones,” Rannulf said. “There’s none but old men here.”
Fulk laughed. He steered them toward one of the few trees left unchained at the edge of the field. “We all know how to get good camps. Mark, we’ll have enough knights out here for melees all day long, and the younger ones will wear themselves out coming in from camps back in the woods.” He dismounted, stretching his right arm. “Giles. How have you been, my lord?”
THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) Page 17
