THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (23 page)

Fulk sat down heavily on his stool. “Well, thank you for that, at least.”

“I’m loyal to you—I promised Mother I would be, at
Stafford
. Does that mean I must love what you do that is hateful?”

“No,” Fulk said. “I’m sorry I said it, I should not have. Tell me about the march to
Bedford
.”

Rannulf was silent a moment, his eyes on Fulk. Morgan came out of the back of the tent and mopped up the wine spilled on the floor.

“It was interesting,” Rannulf said finally. “I had no idea how complicated such a thing is. The prince and I spoke together once—he’s very learned, he astonishes me. Don’t you think he’s learned?”

“Yes.” Fulk’s shoulders drooped. “He’s interesting to talk to. What did you talk about?”

“The laws,” Rannulf said, in a wondering voice. “He wanted to talk of philosophy and things like that, but I know so little, I had read none of the books he mentioned. But he was interested in the customs of Ledgefield and what I know of
Stafford
and Bruyère-le-Forêt and our other manors. It was fun. I didn’t know how much I knew about all that.”

“Did you realize how much he knows?”

Rannulf laughed. “Of course. He never misses a chance to tell you that.”

Fulk smiled, pleased. “Did you see much of
Leicester
?”

“Not really. I find him rather cold—impatient, perhaps.”

“Hurried. Yes, he’s impatient, but not with you, he’s rather fond of you. I hear you were much in
Chester
’s company.”

“Yes.” Rannulf’s head rose. “Nearly every day—he explained to me what was going on, why certain men commanded certain parts of the army, and other things. He seems so—he’s overwhelming, isn’t he?”

“There’s a great deal of him, and he never stops talking.”

“Oh, Father, even you—But you know he has a high regard for you. Even admiration. Thank you, Morgan.”

Morgan brought wine to Fulk and withdrew into the back of the tent; a moment later his harp began to sing.

“He’s strange,
Chester
is. The things that happen seem different for him, he can find strange meanings in everything, as if—I don’t understand him. Does he hate everyone?”

“God, no. Why, what did he say?”

“Nothing. But he has such contempt for everyone. You must know.”

“I know.”

“Once, when we were riding—”

Rannulf paused. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and looked at his clasped hands. “For no reason, he started to talk, all rushed—he said that there is no reason to life. It was heresy, I ought not to have listened, but I—he says there is no use trying to create anything, no use in trying to do anything at all, because the more you do and the more you know the more terrible le everything becomes, because knowledge is death.”

“I told you he is innocent.”

“It seemed sensible to me. No, not that, but the way he said it, I was haunted by it. I still am.”

Fulk studied him, imagining
Chester
’s urgent voice declaiming into Rannulf’s ear, and a twinge of anger stirred in him. Stupid, insolent man—He thought of what
Chester
had said and his rage cooled; only
Chester
would think something that made further thinking impossible.

“Well?” Rannulf said. “Was he right?”

Fulk did not move. Once he had thought of long speeches to give to Rannulf, little packets of wisdom, like slabs of meat, that he could feed him. He scratched his ear, wondering where he had left them all.

“I’m not a particularly knowledgeable man, so I don’t know. Not does
Chester
. But I don’t think it’s important.”

“Not important?” Rannulf stared at him, his mouth open.

Fulk shook his head, embarrassed. “Did you fight, at
Bedford
?”

“Holy God,” Rannulf said, and snatched his cup and gulped down the wine. “I was terrified. You know I have not fought very much, and not since last autumn. I never stormed a castle. All I remember is that my ears rang for days.”

“You must have done well enough or someone would have told me.”

“Oh, I fought honorably. But I was so afraid. Are you afraid?”

“Everybody is, some of the time,” Fulk said. “I’m very good at forgetting that I was.”

“Thierry says you’re afraid of nothing. Like a ferret, he says.”

“Isn’t that kind of Thierry.”

“That’s why I like him, you know. He admits that he’s frightened—he prays all though battle, he says, that his courage will not fail him.”

“I refuse to discuss Thierry with you.”

Rannulf looked from side to side. “I should go, it’s late.”

“If you wish. I have to get up early.”

“I hope you have prayed for God’s guidance,” Rannulf said stubbornly. He stood by the door, looking back. “Please.”

“I do, daily. Good night.”

"Good night.”

Leicester
said, "It's piercing cold," and  walked forward under the trees. The coming dawn had turned the air a deep, clear blue. In the trees above their heads, birds fluttered and sang in short bursts. Fulk let his reins trail and moved away from the horses to look back down the river; he could just see the tip of the
tower
of
Crowmarsh
, over the trees and the mist. Someone was galloping toward them, on the far bank.

“Here he comes.”

The galloping horsemen and the men and horses already under the trees suddenly frightened the birds. In a rushing cloud, they rose piping out of the trees and into the pale air. Their cries grew dim. Fulk and Leicester walked down to the riverbank. Fulk's hands were cold, and he pulled the ends of his fur-lined sleeves over them.

There were five riders. They came straight through the mist to the bank opposite and paused. The sun was sliding up above the horizon; the mist grew swiftly transparent. With a muffled yell, one of the riders put his horse at the smoother surface of the river. The horse yawed a moment and plunged down the bank into the water and galloped across, throwing up a spray of water on either side. The other horsemen followed; they climbed up the bank near Fulk and Leicester, their horses snorting and shaking their heads, and all the men laughing.

“My lord Leicester,” one of the men called, and he rode forward, throwing back his hood. It was Henry of Winchester. Like his brother the king, he was tall and stocky, but his muscles were going all to fat now, and in his fine long hair streaks of gray showed. He reined up and dismounted, smiling.

“I brought Stafford,”
Leicester
said, shaking the bishop’s hand. “Him of them all we can trust.”

“I know Fulk de Bruyère,”
Winchester
said. He had a fine smooth smile, proper to a papal legate. “Have you told him everything?”

Fulk kissed the bishop’s ring. “He has told me nothing, my lord, that I would not hear again from you. We spoke quickly and there were other men around us.”

“It is simply thus,”
Winchester
said. “The Archbishop of Canterbury and I have watched the progress of Prince Henry with both admiration and dismay. Clearly he is the only possible heir to our King Stephen; neither of the king’s sons is satisfactory. We have no wish to see two such armies as the one at
Wallingford
and the one now approachin0g meet in battle. The moment is for healing wounds, not inflicting them.”

He smiled, and Fulk smiled, applause for the turn of the phrase.

“Since the solution is so obvious, His Grace the archbishop and I wonder why it cannot be got without bloody battle. To this end—”

“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?”