THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (2 page)

While Stephen went about straightening up his kingdom, the decisive action of the civil war was taking place neither on a battlefield not in
England
. The empress had put her case before the Pope as early as 1138. Under the direction of his brother the Bishop of Winchester, Stephen’s envoys were responding to her charges. The Bishop of Winchester was a Clunaic—a monk of
Cluny
. That alone made him the enemy of the influential and fanatic monk Saint Bernard of Clairveux. Saint Bernard considered
Winchester
a compromising, worldly, unreformed, and wicked monk and his brother a usurper.

When a protogee of Bernard was elected Pope in 1144, the tide began to turn toward the Empress. Her case was heard more sympathetically, and, in 1148, King Stephen was excommunicated. Two years later, the Pope refused to allow the Archbishop of Canterbury to anoint Stephen’s son Eustace as heir to
England
.

In that same year, 1151, the Empress' husband the Count of Anjou died. He left a will that gave
Normandy
to his elder son, Henry, heir also to his mother’s claim to
England
.

Henry was not yet twenty, but he had ruled
Normandy
since his sixteenth birthday and his father had trained him carefully. Only a few months later he doubled his territories by marrying Eleanor, the heiress to
Aquitaine
, former queen of
France
. In January of the following year, 1153, Henry invaded
England
to answer the appeal of the city of
Wallingford
for aid against King Stephen.

The Earl of Chester came to his support, and the Earl of Leicester quickly joined them. Henry with their help consolidated his position in the west, moved through the Midlands gathering supporters and bringing towns and castles under his control, and laid siege to Tutbury, the seat of the House of Ferrers, earls of
Derby
. It is here that the story begins.

With the exception of the family of the Earl of Stafford, his attendants, and some minor figures, the characters are drawn from history. The castle, borough, and earldom of
Stafford
actually belonged to the Earl of Chester. The Earl of Pembroke, Gilbert Fitz Richard de Clare, died in 1148, and there are doubtless other such errors. Readers interested in the period will find A.L. Poole’s From Domesday Book to Magna Carta (
Oxford
) a good overview of the century and H.A. Cronne’s The Reign of Stephen (
London
) an interesting closer look at the Anarchy itself. People who like old chronicles will find the Gesta Stephani, now complete, among Nelson’s Medieval Texts. The ballad herein called The Song of the White Ship is, of course, a free version of Sir Patrick Spens.

Preface to a New Edition

This text has been slightly re-edited.

“Oh, where are you going?”

Said the Knight on the road.

“I go to meet my God,”

Said the Child as he stood.

THE EARL

ONE

“Are you awake, my lord?"”

“Yes,” Fulk said. “Light a candle, will you?” He could not remember the name of the page, who was one of
Derby
’s household. Sitting up in his bed, he put his feet on the floor and stood. In the darkness, a candle began to gleam, shielded by the page’s body. The rustling sound of the rain filled the whole room.

“Send Sir Roger to me,” Fulk said. He took the candle and put it on the table. “Thank you, I’ll dress myself, get Sir Roger.”

The page stepped back and cleared his throat. “Sir Roger— is he the—”

“The tall blond knight who commands my escort.”

“Yes, my lord.” The page dashed off.

Fulk had been sleeping in his shirt. He sat down on the bed and groped for his clothes. The candle lit only a small circle of the floor, showing him his boots and coat; his hose lay half under the bed. He put them on, fumbling in the dark.

“My lord,” Roger said, and came in the door. The page had brought another candle to light his way, and he put it down and came over to help Fulk dress. Roger said, “Are we going to
Stafford
?”

“Yes,” Fulk said. “At last. Get the men ready. I want to go before my lady wakes up.” Margaret was sick, his excuse for not sleeping with her, and would probably sleep until long after he had gone.

“My lord,” the page said nervously, “my lady Countess is already awake. She says you must eat before you go, and she is waiting for you in the hall.”

“God—” Fulk sat down, and the page bent to put on his boots. Over the boy’s head Fulk and Roger stared at each other. Fulk shook his head. “Damned woman.”

“Shall I order the men to get ready?” Roger said, expressionless.

“Yes.”

Roger went out. Fulk stood, and the page brought him his coat and helped him into it. It was still completely dark outside. He buckled his belt, took his dagger from the floor by the bed and sheathed it, and, with the page and his candle before him, went into the next room.

People still lay sleeping here. The candlelight showed them bundled together in the beds, their feet toward him and their heads lost in the dark. The page held open the door, and Fulk went into the hall.

Except for a table near the hearth, a few benches, and one candle standard, the hall was bare of furnishing, and like a cave it echoed. The rain thundered on the roof overhead and roared along the eaves. Fulk’s wife and the Earl of Derby were sitting at the table, eating by the light of the fire and six candles. Fulk crossed the hall toward them and sat down on the bench opposite Margaret.

“Good morning,”
Derby
said, beside Margaret. “Did you sleep well?”

“Morning,” Fulk said. “It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing out of bed, my lady? I thought you were sick.”

A page set a dish of cold meat down in front of him, and he drew his dagger to cut it.

“I am,” Margaret said placidly. She was tall for a woman, shapeless with fat, her wide, clear gray eyes almost lost in her round face. She had a cold; her nose shone red as a holly berry, and her voice was hoarse. “I would be a poor wife, would I not, if I let you go away without a farewell?”

Derby
said, “Surely you don’t want to go now anyway, Fulk. Not in the rain.”

Fulk gave him a sideways look, and
Derby
went quickly back to his cold roast chicken. Margaret said, “I cannot see the need to go to
Stafford
at all, my lord.”

“A dangerous outlaw has seized my castle, the seat of my family,” Fulk said. “I suppose you wish me to—”

“You choose to interpret it that way,” she said. A servant brought up a plate laden with warm bread; Fulk took a loaf the size of his hand and split it lengthwise. Margaret said, “I am sure you are needed more at Tutbury than at
Stafford
, my lord. You neglect your prince, going to
Stafford
.”

Fulk chewed a mouthful of bread, swallowed it, and reached for the wine. If she could, she would keep him here arguing all day long. He had intended to go the morning before, but suddenly she had arrived, started a fight, and kept it up until he had to stay another day. “I’m not going to argue with you,” he said.

Derby
said uneasily, “I have to be back in Tutbury, anyway, of course. My lady, let me offer you a cake.” He gave the page a bit of simnel cake spread with red jam, and the boy carried it the three steps to Margaret.

She accepted it absently, her eyes on Fulk. He made himself busy with his food. Servants moved around the table, on the edge of the light, taking away plates and bringing others. Fulk knew that Margaret was wondering why he and
Derby
were meeting here, a day’s ride from
Derby
’s own
castle
of
Tutbury
, when Tutbury lay under siege by the army which Fulk in part commanded. He took a sip of light wine, rolled it around his mouth, and spat it onto the floor.

“You still haven’t told me how you knew I was coming here,” he said to Margaret. “Surely my comings and goings aren’t gossiped about all the way up in
Yorkshire
?”

Margaret gave him a long, vacant stare. Turning to
Derby
, she said, “I’m sure the rain will keep up all day long, aren’t you, my lord?”

“Oh, probably, yes.”

“Not at all,” Fulk said. “In this season, it will clear before noon.”

“Well,”
Derby
said, perhaps it will.”

Fulk sat back and pushed his plate aside. He was full; he tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. Margaret studied him. “See how eager he is. Poor Thierry.”

“Poor Thierry,” Fulk said. “Poor Thierry is a murdering, whoring, swinish, worthless outlaw. God’s bones. You’re always so worried about our honor—after Thierry, we have none. It humiliates me that you defend him.” He looked toward the door, wondering where Roger was.

“He is of your own blood,” she said.

“Precisely why I am responsible for him. I’m pleased you take my point so readily, my lady.”

Margaret sneezed, put her hand over her face, and sneezed again. Fulk tapped his fingertips on the table.

“I wish you’d wait until the rain stops,”
Derby
said.

“No.”

“If he waited,” Margaret said, and sneezed. Her watering eyes glared at Fulk, but before she could finish speaking, another sneeze took her, and Roger came up out of the darkness toward Fulk.

“Are they all ready, finally?” Fulk said.

"We can leave whenever you wish, my lord.” Roger bowed to Margaret, who muttered something at him. A nervous smile on his face,
Derby
got up, and Fulk took his cloak from the page who had wakened him.

“Allow me to attend you, Fulk,”
Derby
said.

“Thank you, Robert. My lady, I shall expect you at
Stafford
Castle
directly the rain ends. See that you care for your health.” He jammed his hands into his gloves.

“And you, my lord, Margaret said. “I shouldn’t wish a humor like mine on you.”

Fulk grunted. He stamped toward the door; a page led the way with a candle, but now the dawn was coming, and he could see the door, pale in the dark wall. He stopped before it to put his cloak on. Outside, he could see the courtyard streaming like a river in the rain, the knights waiting in their saddles, everything gray.

“Take the high road, at least,”
Derby
said, clutching Fulk by the arm. “There are outlaws thick as cream in the forest, and what if Thierry has heard you’re coming? If he tried to ambush you—oh, well.” He smiled apologetically. “Your lady is upset that you’re going to
Stafford
.”

“She’s in love with my uncle, like all the other women in the world.” That was not why she was upset. He hated to talk about Margaret to anyone else, and he started toward the door.

“Well. Whatever. I have taken to heart what you told me, Fulk. You do well in the service of your prince.”

Fulk make a noncommittal sound in his throat. The boom of the rain on the wooden roof distracted him; he had to think to remember what
Derby
had said. “The kingdom is a ruin, and I believe he can mend it.” He put up his hood, the soft fur packed around his ears. Catching
Derby
’s eye, he smiled. “You don’t really want Tutbury, do you? With that midden stench around it?”

Startled,
Derby
laughed, and Fulk headed for the door.
Derby
came after him to the edge of the rain.

“I shall see you soon. Have no fears for your lady, we shall care for her lovingly.”

“Thank you.” Fulk went out into the rain.

Knights filled this courtyard, swathed in their cloaks, their lances at rest. A groom led forward Fulk’s big bay horse, and Roger whisked the cloth from the saddle and in the same motion boosted Fulk up onto the horse’s back, before the rain could wet it. Fulk stabbed his feet into the stirrups.

“We’ll take the forest road.”

Roger mounted. The knights were working their way out the gate in a double file. With Roger just behind him, Fulk pushed through the crowd to the gate and fell into the moving column just behind the leaders.

The meadows around
Derby
’s hunting lodge were misty and dim in the rain, and the mud of the road sucked at the horses’ hoofs. At Roger’s shouted order, the column trotted into the left fork in the road, straight into the forest. Mud splashed up from the horses in front, and Fulk reined back a little. The bay horse snorted and shook its head, protesting, but it slowed obediently.