THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (29 page)

Rannulf said, “No, my lord. I’m not a spy.”

Fulk clenched his teeth. It was hot, and the flies were buzzing around his horse’s neck and ears—he carried a leafy branch to brush them away with. “Roger, when we stop tonight, send a messenger to Simon d’Ivry at Bruyère-le-Forêt and have him meet us at
Stamford
.”

“Yes, my lord,” Roger said, and between them, Rannulf, unconcerned, waved to someone in the camp.

“When we get out of the camp, send ten men to ride vanguard.
Jordan
de Grace can command them. No, I want to talk to him. Someone else, you decide.”

“Yes, my lord,” Roger said patiently. They had reached the edge of the camp; before them lay empty meadows.

Rannulf turned toward Fulk. “Is Hugh with my uncle Pembroke at
Stamford
?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Tell him I think of him much, and pray for him. I’m going back my lord. Travel well.”

Fulk pulled off his glove and held his hand out, and Rannulf shook it. “I’ll see you there,” Fulk said. “Don’t listen to that damned
Chester
. Or Thierry.”

“That’s impossible,” Rannulf said, smiling. “They both talk too much. Don’t worry about me, Father.” He swung his horse out of the line and rode off. Fulk watched him; he began to wish Rannulf had decided to come north with him, he was better company than Roger and Morgan. Rannulf trned once and waved, and moved toward a band of younger knights riding off in another direction.

“Do you want to talk to
Jordan
de Grace now, my lord?” Roger said.

“Yes.”

Roger turned his horse and rode back along the column. They trotted up the easy slope ahead of them and through the fringe of trees into the fields, toward the road. Most of these fields had lain fallow since the beginning of the wars, but now that the truce was declared the haycutters  were moving through them. Fulk caught a whiff of honeysuckle and sniffed harder, and the elusive scent disappeared. He thought of
Chester
and Thierry together and wrinkled up his nose.

“Is something wrong, my lord?” Morgan asked. He had rolled up the banner around its staff.

“Naturally.”

The haymakers in the fields on either side of them raised their heads and shaded their eyes from the sun to watch the knights pass. They carried their scythes like lances over their shoulders.
Jordan
de Grace galloped up and drew his horse down to a walk beside Morgan, even with Fulk. Morgan held back to get out from between them.

“My lord,”
Jordan
said.

“Sir
Jordan
, when were you last at Aurège?”

“Just at Easter, my lord.”

Aurège
Castle
was the seat of the manor
Jordan
held of Fulk, and it stood not far from
Stamford
. Fulk swiped a fly off his horse’s ear with his branch. “We’ll probably have to resupply the army at
Stamford
. Where can we find provisions?”

Jordan
shrugged. “easily enough, my lord. I’ll have to talk to my bailiff, but I think we can give you herds for slaughter from Aurège, and you know that there are four other manors within a day’s ride of Stamford, Worchester’s castle of Hautbois, and Highfield is there, and some others.”

“Highfield,” Fulk said. “The Lady of Highfield’s manor?”

“Yes, my lord. They can supply you with meat and grain.”

“Good. I’ll need your help.”

“You have it, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

Rohese’s face came back into his mind. She had said she was going there, after she got Alys of Dol from her husband’s home.
Jordan
rode along beside him, and when Roger came back they started talking, leaning forward to see around Fulk.

The thought of Alys of Dol so close to
Stamford
simmered in Fulk’s mind. He already knew how to use this. The knights behind him were singing of Alexander; in the brown fields, the scythes of the haymakers flashed in the sun.

That night, Fulk's men camped near the monastery of Saint Swithin, and Fulk slept in the monks’ guest house, with the rest of his lords. The monks gave them an excellent dinner of fresh vegetables and fish, soft white bread spread thick with butter, and ale of the monks’ own brewing. The abbot himself seemed interested in the truce of Wallingford, asking quick, shrewd questions about how it had been arranged, and how long Fulk thought it would be kept, and whether a settlement could be made that Prince Eustace would abide by.

“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 afterward. 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.”