THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (16 page)

Robert gestured to a page to get them ale. “A blight killed the grapes.”

“Damn this kingdom . . . unh.” He wiggled his toes, freed from the narrow boots. “There’s nowhere to grow good wine grapes.”

“You’ll like the ale.”

A page brought a cup to him, and Fulk tasted it. “I do.”

He sipped the ale, which was thinner than
Stafford
’s, but brighter. Morgan, with a page at his right side with a candle, was moving around the hall lighting tapers. Fulk leaned back. This hall, with the three painted shields over the hearth, the blackened oak furniture, comforted him. He finished the ale and rose.

“If you will ask my guests to dinner, Robert, “I’ll go to the chapel.”

“I will, my lord.”

“Morgan, send for me when the others get here. We’ll talk later, Robert, when I am spiritually uplifted.” He went out the door Morgan had come through and down the stairs to the courtyard.

Through the grille on the little window in the wooden door, he could see the twilit courtyard; the serving women were shooing the chickens down into the lower courtyard, and some of the knights who had come with Fulk were washing down their horses near the wall. They splashed each other and threw wet rags across the horses’ slick backs, laughing. Fulk opened the door and went out into the late evening warmth.

Thierry and his young men were carrying buckets of water up from the well in the lower courtyard. Fulk crossed their path, and they quickly turned aside. Fulk lengthened his stride. This could not go on much longer, something would happen to break it apart. He went to the old wall and let himself through the low door into the other courtyard.

Here it was quiet; the angle of the old wall nearly cut this courtyard in half, and all the noise of the stables and the chicken coops, cow pens and pigsties lay at the far end. The chapel, a small round building, stood just before the junction of the new wall and the old. They had left the rowan trees and holly thickets standing all around it, to keep it cool in the summer. When Fulk went in, the chapel was empty, and he shut the door behind him and walked up toward the altar.

Except for the altar cloths, the necessary gold vessels, and the gilt altar itself, he had never given anything to this chapel. Every time he came here he decided to find statues for it and commission a painter to decorate the inside wall, but nothing ever came of it. He knelt down at the alter, fixing his gaze on the Crucifix.

My Lord God, he thought, and smiled, remembering how as a child he had prayed solemnly, My Lord, this is me, Fulk. He crossed himself. Accept my prayers although I am full of wickedness, cleanse me in Your mercy.

Prayers for Margaret. He said them to the Virgin and to Margaret’s favorite, Saint Anne. If she were alive she would be telling me how fine Thierry is and how much I should not hate him. He prayed for her soul and wondered all the while where it was. She had been a godly woman and was in Heaven, doubtless, singing with the angels. He could not imagine Christmas or Easter without Margaret nagging at him over policy. At the end of his prayers, he added a short prayer addressed to her, telling her that he missed her.

He confessed his sins, thinking about each and trying to feel repentant for striking Simon, trying to ride Thierry down, and plotting to kill Thierry. For that he asked no absolution because he was still contemplating it. He prayed for Rannulf, in Prince Henry’s army, and for his other son, Hugh, and his daughter, Madeline, and his grandchildren; he had to struggle to remember the names of the two new babies. Rannulf’s son was Gregory, but Madelaine’s daughter he could not recall. He had not been there for the christening, because they had been attacking
Warwick
Castle
. Cecelia. He prayed for Cecelia and crossed himself. He liked to pray for his children and grandchildren; it gave him a feeling of confidence to think of them.

Morgan still had not come. He sat back on his heels, meditating on Christ’s Passion. He preferred to think about the Last Supper rather than the Crucifixion—the example of Christ faced with betrayal was, he thought, more valuable to him. Thierry was giving him provocation to annoy a saint, and he had to make sure that what he did was not for vengeance but simply to protect himself and his family. He thought about Christ’s mildness toward Judas and Judas’s suicide. Too little place was made for Judas in the Church’s order of things. He was absolutely necessary and in a way his repentance had been noble. And to betray God in the flesh was a fascinating crime. Somewhere in the Holy Testament someone accused Judas of thievery and of hot temper. Perhaps in some way Christ had slighted Judas, and the betrayal had been vengeance. To repay injury in the face of the most horrible punishment was certainly noble.

To think that was clearly a sin. He onfessed it and prayed more, contemplating how much each of his sins betrayed Christ as much as Judas had. He should go on Crusade, once the wars were over. The Earl of Worcester, Leicester’s twin brother, had died in the
Holy Land
. I shall make a pilgrimage. If only to
Rome
. He wondered if Thierry had made a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint James while he was in
Spain
.

“My lord,” Morgan said, behind him. “Are you ready?”

“I’m coming.” He crossed himself again, prayed for forgiveness for letting his mind stray during prayers, and went out after the boy.

De Brise said, "Whatever the order, we have to tighten up the column. Especially in the forest.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Fulk sipped ale and put his cup down. “Sir Roger and I have discussed this somewhat, but I will do nothing without hearing your advice first, of course. We spoke of putting you, my lord, in the rearguard, with the archers and wagons immediately after you, the bulk of the knights in front of them, and Sir Thierry and his followers in the vanguard.”

Thierry was lounging decoratively against the wall near the door. He smiled and bowed his head. “We are honored.”

“But if you’re attacked you are not to go chasing anybody into the forest. You’d be ambushed within yards of the road.
Jordan
?”

“My lord, could we not divide the archers and put them half in the rear and half in the front?” Fulk looked over at Roger, who nodded.

“I think we could,” Fulk said. “Godric, what do you say?”

“We’ll march where you put us, my lord.”

“Good. Are there more questions?”

“When shall we reach Sulwick, my lord?” de Brise said.

“In three days at the most.” Fulk drank more ale. His stomach was groaning with hunger, and at the far end of the hall he could see the pages laying out trenchers and setting up tables for dinner. “Sulwick is a wooden tower surrounded by either a wall or an earthworks, lightly garrisoned, that controls the road from
Suffolk
to middle
England
. For those of you who were not present at my first council, we are ordered to take Sulwick and hold it to prevent any surprise attacks on Prince Henry while he is at
Bedford
. Since we have no siege equipment, we have to storm it. Otherwise we’ll be held up for days or even weeks. We’ll talk about that before we do it, of course, however briefly."

De Brise said, “How long will we be in the forest?”

“Another day and a half. Keep your lines tight, Guy.”

Everyone laughed. De Brise joined in after he had decided that it wasn’t an insult. Thierry wandered over toward Fulk. The others were talking or moving over to the table.

“Thank you for giving us the vanguard,” Thierry said. “You surprise me.”

“Not at all,” Fulk said. “You’ll have more latitude for making mistakes. Don’t make any, uncle. I’ll give you one warning.”

Thierry laughed. He went to the door, called and waved to
Jordan
de Grace, and left. Immediately, the visitors came in—two or three knights and their squires, and a tall gaunt woman with three pages and two waiting women. Fulk  settled back in his chair.

Smiling, Robert Molin led the lady toward him. Fulk stood up. She towered over him; she wore her hair in the new fashion, tucked under a coif, and her gown was richly embroidered all around the hem. Her sleeves, snug at the wrist, spread out like wings back to enormous armholes. Fulk bowed over her hand.

“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?”