“There are those who say King Stephen is afraid of nothing more than his own son, he will do nothing that would impel the prince to rage at him.”
“Eustace is a savage man,” Fulk said, wondering where this abbot came by all his knowledge.
“He is young,” the abbot said. “There is something cold and harsh is all our young men. These wars have taught them nothing worthy of them, mark you, my lord.”
With Roger and Moran, Fulk lay under a featherbed in the guest house and listened to the sounds of the other lords in the other beds. They were all crowded together; Morgan lay pressed against Fulk’s chest and Roger against his back.
The moonlight fell through a crack in the shutter on the window and slanted in a thin shaft to the floor. The noise faded away. Fulk dozed. Only half-asleep, he though he saw the window opened, and the hillside and the fields bluesilver under the moon’s light, many stars in the sky, and over all a soft wind. There was a man walking up the hill toward him, hooded so that he could not see his face, but Fulk knew that the stranger was coming for him and no other.
Like a waking voice in his ear, he heard his name called.
He jerked all over, as if he had stumbled, and his eyes popped open. On either side of him, the sleeping men stirred and went back asleep. The shutters were closed, and only that one thin ray of moonlight lay on the floor. Fulk put his head down again, trembling. When he tried to remember the dream, he could recall nothing but the moonlight and the calling of his name.
He thought, It’s because I was wounded that time in the monastery of Saint Jude, and now I am frightened of monasteries. Suddenly he remembered that in the dream, a man had been coming for him.
“Morgan.”
“Ummm?” Morgan rolled onto his stomach and lifted his head.
Fulk was ashamed to tell him why he had awakened him. “Bring me a cup of water. Be quiet, Roger’s asleep.”
Morgan crawled out of bed and skipped over the cold floor to the ewer on the table beside the door. While he poured it, he lifted one bare foot at a time off the floor, as in a peasants dance, and he rushed back into bed. Fulk drank the sweet cold water and reached over the head of the bed to put the cup down on the floor. Morgan lay with his cheek on his arm, watching him.
“Go to sleep.”
Morgan closed his eyes obediently. Fulk put his head down and squirmed deeper under the featherbed. The dream still lingered on the edges of his mind, and he was afraid to sleep, but his eyes grew heavy and he shut them and slept.
All the next day, he could not keep his temper; the slightest thing irritated him almost beyond bearing, and he spent the day throttling his rage. They were riding over low, rolling ground, through open forest and pasturage where sheep and cattle grazed. In the later afternoon, they reached the Roman road, camped for the night alongside it, and followed it north all the next day. Deep in the ground as a stone river, the road ran straight across the countryside, and fur-leaved weeds sprouted in the cracks on its surface.
Other travelers were out, in groups of five and six and many larger: wagons painted with scenes from legends, peddlers and trained bears and wandering monks, troubadours in bright, ragged clothes, beggars and rich merchants and flocks of sheep and goats. The sight of an army riding north made them stop and stare and shout questions in broken French. Fulk stopped and talked to a merchant in an ox-drawn cart, who in spite of the heat wore a fur-lined cloak, and the man said that another army had passed them earlier that day.
Fulk asked enough questions to be sure that he meant William of Clare and his men, and not Fulk’s own vanguard. The merchant was English, but he spoke French, very proud and careful of it, stumbling now and again in his pronunciation. Fulk thanked him and galloped up to his place in line. A woman in a litter traveling in the merchant’s party drew back the curtain to watch him pass.
Late the next day, they reached Stamford; low stone-colored clouds rolled across the sky, and the banners and pennons on the wall of the castle, the walls of the town, snapped in the raw wind. Pembroke, with too few men to besiege both the town and the castle, had camped on the river near the castle gate, where he could at least prevent caravans of supplied from reaching either. William of Clare, who was his nephew, was setting up his camp opposite the town’s west gate. Fulk left Roger with his army and rode down into Pembroke’s camp.
Three sentries hailed him before he reached the edge of the camp, and the word of his coming went on before him, so that when he rode up to the cluster of tents in the middle, Pembroke was outside waiting for him. Pembroke was one of the tallest men in England, lean as a fish, with iron-gray hair. Margaret had been his sister. He and Fulk had never been friends.
“Good day, my lord,” Pembroke said. He stood at the door to his tent, stooped, as usual. “Will you come in? The weather’s foul.”
Fulk dismounted, and a man took his horse. “Thank you, my lord.” He went past Pembroke into the tent. Pembroke came around him, under the highest part of the ceiling, where he could stand erect. He and Fulk shook hands. Fulk had to work hard to keep from smiling at the difference in their heights—with his eyes level, he saw the second hook on Pembroke’s coat front.
“I have not seen you since my sister died,” Pembroke said. “It was a sorrowful loss, for me as for you.”
“Thank you. I know you shall miss her sorely.”
“Tell me of this truce. My nephew didn’t see fit to make anything clear to me.” Pembroke sat down and put his feet up on the table in front of him.
“Why, they have agreed to—”
Pembroke flapped his hand impatiently. “I know that. I don’t know why the prince accepted it. I see you and Robin de Beaumont everywhere in this—brother-in-law. What happened?”
Servants brought Fulk a canvas chair, took his cloak, and offered him a tray of honeyed fruit. “You see rather too meanly, Gilbert. Leicester and I had little to do with it—all the barons together told the prince that if he did not accept the truce we would be much upset.” He bit into an apple, and the honey taste filled up his mouth with juice.
“I thought as much. Had I been there it would not have happened—we should have ended it all rightly, there at Wallingford.”
Pembroke was married to a sister of Leicester’s. Fulk shrugged one shoulder. “It’s all done, now. I don’t really think the kingdom needs another bleeding. I have three hundred men, where shall I camp them?”
Pembroke tapped his fingers on his knee. “Do you know Stamford?”
“Somewhat.”
“There are three gates into the city and one into the castle, which is on the river at this end of the city wall. From here I can guard the castle gate, and William is watching the west gate. Unfortunately most of the supplies enter the town through the east gate, but none of us has men enough to guard it, so far from the other camps—one charge would open the road again. That’s my thinking—am I wrong?”
“I doubt it.”
“Kindly Fulk. You may camp with William’s men—he wouldn’t be able to withstand a sudden attack if I were distracted and could not help him. Or take the north gate, only stay far back from it so you have space to maneuver.”
“Kindly Gilbert. I’m not a squire any more.” That reminded him of Hugh, his younger son.
“Have you eaten?” Pembroke said.
“Not since this morning.”
“Then you’ll have supper with me and William. Roger de Nef is with you, isn’t he? Send a message to him to camp your men. He can do it as well as you.” Pembroke raised his head and his voice. “Mahel?”
From behind a curtain, a red-headed man came, and Pembroke said, “Bear a message to Roger de Nef, whom you will find with a large band of men over beyond Lord William’s camp, south of it.”
Fulk considered having Roger camp his men where they were until he could attend to it himself, decided he was only angry at Pembroke, and nodded to Mahel. “Tell him to camp the army opposite the north gate of the city and report to me here afterwa
rd. Thank you.”
Mahel bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He went out; Pembroke was talking to his servants, who listened and bowed and murmured and lit candles and left. Fulk looked around for Hugh. He had not seen any sign of him, although he was Pembroke’s squire.
“What else is of interest?” Pembroke said. “Besides that you caught the prince out and taught him what sort of men you are.”
“Gilbert,” Fulk said. “The prince knew what we were doing with a full day to counteract it and did nothing. We hardly forced the truce on him. Nothing else is of interest.”
“Oh? How is Thierry?”
“He is coming here with Chester. Where is my son?”
“I sent him to escort William here, they’ll be back before dark. He’s a fine boy, he reminds me of my father.”
“He should have been born a Clare.”
“He should be knighted soon. He’s a fine lad, and a devil of a fighter.” Pembroke roared at his servants, who scurried around with ale and wine and more honeyed fruit. “How is Rannulf? Did you hear that young Hervey’s dead? That makes Rannulf’s wife the heiress, doesn’t it?”
“She has a sister. I hadn’t heard. What happened?”
“No one knows. His men say he fell dead in the forest, hunting. They brought his back across his horse, not a mark of violence on him. Here is William.”
He stood, and Fulk stood. Through the door came William de Clare with Fulk’s son Hugh behind him. William stopped and let out a laugh.
“What a pair you make, a broomstick and a broomstraw.”
“Keep your improper thoughts in your head,” Pembroke said.
Hugh came forward, bowed to Fulk, and kissed his hand. “Lord William said you were coming—I’m very glad to see you, Father, and your arm better and not twisted. My lord says I may be knighted soon. May I?"
Fulk laughed. “We’ll talk about it.” He put his hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “If you don’t stop growing you’ll overtop me like Pembroke. He says good things of you. That pleases me.”
“Oh, let me be knighted soon, before the wars are over.”
“Perhaps, at Christmas.”
Hugh let out a screech. Pembroke sat down again. “The lungs of him would make a fine bellows.”
“When will the prince be here?” William asked. “Stamford’s fat and much too confident—we need him to seal off all the gates and let them starve a little.”
Pembroke put his feet up. “The prince will get here when he gets here. Wait upon my lord Stafford, you lout, since he brought no squire with him.”
William jumped up and took Fulk’s cup to be filled. Hugh brought Pembroke a drink and set a candle down on the table near him. “How is Morgan, my lord? Didn’t you bring him north?”
“He has to set up my tent. He’s very well—when you’re knighted, I’ll knight him, too, he’s old enough.”
“Slight, though,” Pembroke said. “If he’s the Welsh boy? Yes. Not enough bone or meat for a good fighter.”
“Did William tell you of our tournament? It went on all day long, there were twelve melees. William Louvel broke his arm and one of the Angevins was almost killed.”
“Strange foreign amusements. Fake wars.”
“Did you fight?” Hugh said. “When did you lose your splints?”
“Four days before it. I fought—I have a new warhorse, a beauty, too. I got him from de Brise.”
“Did you win? Whom did you fight? Did you beat anybody?”
“The prince. I only fought in one melee—King Stephen was on his way to Wallingford.”
Pembroke was picking through a platter of tarts. “You have bone and meat in plenty, no need for all this boasting.”
Fulk laughed. Hugh threw questions at him and William about the tournament, asked about Rannulf, dismissed his showing with a shrug and a careless word, and told them of a skirmish with the defenders of Stamford. The servants brought in flesh and bread; somewhere in his camp, Pembroke had ovens. Fulk spread butter from a crock onto the warm bread.
“Hugh told me that you’d broken your arm,” Pembroke said suddenly. “You’re fortunate it healed straight. My brother broke his twice and he looked like a man with six elbows. It’s a pity how it weakens a man’s sword stroke.” He cuffed William. “Carve the meat.”
“Gilbert, you are so courtly. Isn’t he, William? All courtesy.”
“God’s Rood,” Pembroke said. “I begin to see that Chester is right, damn him—a few less of those he calls Byzantines would serve England well.” He dipped bread into the juice of the meat. “I’ve a thought of going to Ireland.”
“Excellent,” Fulk said. “When?”
“You mock,” Pembroke said. “Yet I tell you that there is as much to be won in Ireland as our forefathers won in England when the Great King led them here. More. You might have lost that spirit, but I have not. Nor has Hugh.”
“You have no lands in Normandy. It takes me the whole year just to make the circuit of my Honor. Have you made arrangements to supply the army when it gets here?”
Pembroke shook his head. He put meat in his mouth, wiped his fingers on his sleeve, and leaned back to let the servants pile up his plate again. “Since you mention it, I’ll let you deal with it.”
“Good. I will.”
“When will the prince be here?” Hugh said.
“I don’t know. He can’t be more than a few days behind us, but some of the barons may not leave Wallingford for weeks.”
“When he comes, will we storm the town?”
Pembroke laughed harshly. Fulk said, “I don’t think so. There are easier was to take it.”
“You and Robin Leicester will find one. Hugh. The wine.”
Hugh leaped up and took their cups away to fill them. Pembroke ate the rest of his meat and when a servant moved to give him more waved him away. "No. Sieges incline a man toward corpulence.”
“Gilbert, your austerity humbles me.”
“I hope so.”
The sentry outside the tent door stuck his head in. “Sir Roger de Nef, my lord.”
“Send him in.” Gilbert snapped his fingers at a page, who leaped to put another plate on the table. Hugh was standing behind Pembroke, his arms folded across his chest; the boy’s respect and courtesy and Pembroke’s affection for him pleased Fulk deeply. He rolled a sip of wine around his mouth and spat it out.
“Disgusting French habit,” Pembroke said. Roger came in, and they all stood. In between greetings, Roger told Fulk where the army was camped, and they sat down; Pembroke said, “You’ll be hungry, Sir Roger—Hugh, serve him.”
Hugh went promptly over to carve meat, pour wine, and even butter slices of bread. Roger said, “You’ve grown again, my lord, where do you mean to stop?”
“When I overtop Pembroke,” Hugh said. “Will you have some of this gravy, Sir Roger? It’s very salty.”
Pembroke snorted. “He speaks his mind. Who is with the prince? Beside Chester and Leicester and all those.”
“Giffards, Beauchamps de Laceys, Tosnys, and Montforts.”
“Will there be a tournament here?” Hugh asked.
“Pfft.” Pembroke made a face. “That’s nothing for such men as you and me.”
Hugh’s face fell, and Fulk laughed at him. “Gilbert, I shall go tomorrow to arrange for supplies. Have you made enemies of anyone in the neighborhood?”
“Practically all of them.”
“I’ll go with you, my lord,” William said. “If I may. My men need horses.”
“You won’t find them here,” Pembroke said. “They breed only plough stock here.”
“Come along,” Fulk said. “I know my vassal Jordan de Grace breeds warhorses at Aurège, north of here. I’ll go there first. But I’m leaving at daybreak, and I should go to my camp and get some sleep. Roger, follow me when you’re eaten.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Good night.” Fulk looked at Hugh. “Good night, Hugh. See you keep your lord’s trust.”
“I shall,
my lord.”
Fulk went out into the night. Fog drifted through the camp. Occasionally, the lights of the town showed, but the rolling mist swallowed them up. He sent for his horse and stood looking toward the town. Twice he had come to Stamford to lay siege to it and both times he had failed.
There was luck in threes. He refused to think of the work that lay before him; he was tired, and he knew it would daunt him to think of it. He pulled himself into his saddle and, with two of Pembroke’s men lighting his way with torches, rode toward his camp.
The next day, he traveled up TO Aurège Castle, the fief that Jordan held of him, and Jordan talked to his bailiff about their herds and harvests. In between arranging for two herds of cattle, one flock of sheep, and twenty swine to be sent to Stamford, Jordan sold William de Clare six horses, and Fulk talked to the bailiff about the herds and supplies of the other manors in the area. They spent the night at Aurège and rode back the next morning, with William’s horses neck-roped together; when they reached Stamford, they saw that another army was camped midway between Fulk’s men and the east gate of the city. From the pennants and the tents, they knew it was Leicester’s.
The walls of the city were crowded with people. Fulk left Jordan and William and their knights and rode with Roger down to Leicester’s camp. The sky was still overcast, and the harsh wind had strengthened. He passes a dozen men trying to put up a tent against the wind, heard their curses, and watched the tent blow down before they could stake it up. The men stood motionless a moment, staring at the heap of canvas, their shoulders bowed. But Leicester’s tent was raised.
Leicester was sitting before it, staring glumly at the city. Fulk rode up; Leicester lifted his head, and his expression turned a shade brighter, be he still looked grim. Fulk dismounted.
“You’re so merry, Robert. What is it—the brightly shining sun?”
“Chester is here.”
“Oh.”
Leicester held a straw between his fingers, and he split it lengthwise with his thumbnail and cast aside the two pieces.
THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) Page 21
