THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (22 page)

“While I am there, go find Rannulf for me,” Fulk said. Roger nodded.

They stopped before the door, and Morgan jumped down and ran to hold the head of Fulk’s horse. Before Fulk could dismount, the tent flap opened and a tall, thin man with a sour mouth came out—one of the prince’s Angevins.

“Good evening, Sir Richard,” Fulk said, and dismounted.

“My lord.” The Angevin stood aside. Fulk went past him into the crowded, candle-lit tent.

Flanked by their pages and squires, the great barons stood or sat, rubbing up against one another. The noise reminded Fulk of the buzzing of marsh insects. With Morgan at his elbow, he crowded into the mass of bodies, nodding, smiling, saying the proper words. It was stinking hot.

“Fulk,”
Derby
called, bulling his way through the crowd, and heads turned. “By God, sir, I’m pleased to see you. Still in the surgeon’s debt, are you? Robin, lad, wine for my lord of
Stafford
. Good wine, from
Bordeaux
, Fulk. With our prince the master of
Aquitaine
, we can take advantage, can’t we?” He rammed an elbow into Fulk’s ribs and giggled. Softer, he said, “Thierry and the prince greeted each other like Mary and the Angel.”

Fulk laughed. “My lord, I hear some good report of you at
Bedford
.”

“Oh, well. I’m no soldier, Fulk. No soldier, even, in my youth. Here.” He took the cup from his page’s hands and gave it to Fulk. “The king is coming to
Wallingford
. I should like to see his face when he sees who rides against him now.”

The wine was the rich red wine from southern
France
. Fulk looked around quickly. “I haven’t seen my son yet, can you see if he’s here?”

“Oh, yes.”
Derby
looked at him owlishly. “With
Chester
. He and
Chester
are the finest of friends. Rannulf hung on his sleeve all the way south. He’s over in that corner now, with Thierry.”

“Wonderful. This is good wine.”

“Robin,”
Derby
said to his page, “go bring the lord of Ledgefield—”

“No,” Fulk said. “Let him talk to Thierry if he wishes it.”

Derby
’s eyes sparkled. “Are you quarreling? Let me mediate.”

“Not at all.”
Leicester
’s grizzled close-cropped head appeared above the ring of bodies, and Fulk caught his eye and bowed.
Leicester
waved to him but went on across the room.

“When do you get rid of all this?”
Derby
asked. He fingered the linen sling.

“Very soon. It was a damned nuisance all the way from Tutbury, I swear to you.”

“One imagines. Tell me how it went. You took Sulwick, I hear.”

“Easily. But we had a day’s march and a night’s fighting to get there that I don’t want to see again. God is my witness, my men were magnificent.”

“Thierry set a proper example, I suppose.”

Fulk drank wine, judging the necessary tone of voice. Not too eager to reveal Thierry’s failures. “This is very fine wine.”

“Aha,”
Derby
cried, and pummeled him on the shoulder. “Tell me. I’ve heard such stories of his greatness in war, I want to know from your lips.”

“He’s a good fighter, he wants nothing for courage and skill at arms, but he has no head to command.” Fulk shrugged his good shoulder. “It was my fault, I should have guessed and not asked so much of him.”

“The way they talk of him, who could blame you? The way he talks of himself. So Thierry is not--”

A horn blew two notes inside the tent, piercing and loud enough to hurt Fulk’s ears, and a herald bawled, “Way. Way for Henry Fitz-Empress, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, rightful lord of
England
.”

The mob quieted and pressed itself even tighter together, opening a corridor for the prince. Fulk muttered, “He announces himself so that one could scarcely miss him.”

Derby
laughed. His arm hooked under Fulk’s good elbow, and he dragged Fulk up through the crowd toward the front rank, where Leicester and the other earls stood. The prince went up to stand before them, between two torch-standards. The fur and velvet and silk he wore made him seem taller than he was, and less stocky. His red hair stood on end.

“My lords,” he said, in a high clear voice, “I welcome you to
Wallingford
.”

Chester
was standing just beyond
Leicester
, but Rannulf was not with him. Fulk clenched his fist behind his back. For all I do, he still prefers Thierry. He cleared his throat, staring at the prince.

“Fulk de Bruyère of
Stafford
,” Henry said. “I have not seen you since you left Tutbury. Did you do as we commanded you, during your march in the east?”

“My lord,” Fulk said, “if I had not, I would now be on the far side of the river, with the king’s men,” and the barons broke out laughing. Henry, smiling, waited for that to subside.

“I should know from long dealings with you that it is an insult to ask if you accomplished what you said you would, my lord.”

Fulk bowed. Behind Henry a silk curtain divided off the rear of the tent, and he caught a glimpse of a small hand drawing it slightly aside. Roger had said that the prince had a girl with him now.

“I first came to
England
,” Henry said, “to answer the pleas of the people of
Wallingford
, whom Stephen of Blois has closely besieged.” He would never call Stephen the king; Fulk had already marked it. “now I have come to that duty, and you with me. We have invested this
castle
of
Crowmarsh
, which is held by men of Stephen of Blois, and when we have taken it we shall drive away all those who would imprison
Wallingford
and free the people therein.”

Above the small hand on the silk curtains, black curls and a soft blue eye appeared.
Derby
slammed his elbow into Fulk’s ribs with a force that nearly lifted him off the ground.

“I know you all well enough to trust your courage and your skill,” Henry said. “I know you well enough to believe that when I tell you that Stephen of Blois himself, with an army, marches to face us here, you will strain like hounds at the leash to be commanded to attack him.”

Everybody yelled.

“Tonight,” Henry said, “I shall hear your advice upon what must be done to accomplish our goals; to free
Wallingford
from its burden of slavery, and to drive Stephen of Blois forever from this kingdom.”

Everybody yelled again, but when silence fell no one spoke. Men began to cough, and there was shuffling of feet. Henry beckoned to a page, who brought him a stool to sit on. “First we must keep the—keep Stephen from supplying Crowmarsh from the river.”

With a specific problem before them, a dozen men began to shout advice.
Chester
outroared them, stepped forward, and began to talk. Before Fulk could catch the drift of what he was saying, someone tugged at his sleeve, and he looked over his shoulder and saw
Leicester
there.

“Just for a moment,” Leicester said apologetically, and bowed to
Derby
. He drew Fulk off to one side, clear of the crowd.

“I meant to talk to you before but
Derby
was there,”
Leicester
said softly. “I have spoken this same day with men of the Bishop of Winchester, and had a letter from the Archbishop Theobald of
Canterbury
.”

Fulk blinked stupidly. Henry of Winchester was the brother of the king, but the archbishop hated the king and had always worked against him; he could not understand why either would approach the Earl of Leicester. Abruptly he did understand, and he stiffened, excited.

“Robert. Are we to spoil the great confrontation?” He looked around to see who might be listening, but all the men around them were following the exchange between
Chester
and the prince. “What did they say?
Winchester
—what does he want?”

“What do you think? A truce between Prince Henry and Stephen, to give them a chance to negotiate and settle the kingdom without fighting. Theobald offers his uttermost help. Will you help me?”

Fulk shuffled his feet—he could not stand still. “All the wayward hens are coming home to roost at last. Yes. I will.” He smiled up at
Leicester
’s long, startled face.

“Good. I mean to meet secretly with
Winchester
tomorrow. You come with me.”

Fulk nodded. He had been tuned to the long, boring rhythm of the proposed siege, and the prospect of something more interesting filled him with anticipation. “It was
Winchester
who gave Stephen the treasury and made him king. How fitting it should be
Winchester
who takes it all away from him.”
Winchester
had also arranged the lie that freed Stephen of his oath to the old king’s daughter the empress. “The prince will not like it.”

“No,”
Leicester
said. “But King Stephen will have with him all the Flemish mercenaries,
York
’s men, Peverel’s men, and his own besides, and if this army meets that one I should prefer it to be peaceful.”

Fulk nodded. “When, tomorrow? Where is
Winchester
now?”

“He is camped down the river. We meet him at dawn. I’ll send for you when I leave camp. We must be secretive, at least for the moment. Let’s get back to the council.”

Leicester
held out his hand, and Fulk shook it with his left. They forced their way separately through the crowd to the front rank.

Two barons of the west were arguing about the procedure for patrolling the ford. Prince Henry had his chin in his hand and was listening. His eyes moved to meet Fulk’s, and one eyebrow rose inquisitively. Fulk patted his crotch. The prince laughed.

The girl behind the curtain had withdrawn out of sight. On either side, men argued points of war. Fulk sent Morgan to get him more wine. Massive and ugly,
Chester
lounged in the midst of his followers, over near the wall of the tent. Among them was Rannulf, with Thierry just behind him. Fulk jerked his eyes away.

Leicester
with the help of the bishops thought they could force this truce on Henry and the king. Stephen would never treat with the prince of his own will. There would be arguments and insults and threats. Henry’s temper was quick enough under the calmest circumstances. Fulk imagined a summer storm—the thunder, the lightning, the violent wind that blew down trees and carried off houses. In all that turmoil, he would have plenty of chances to do some overturning of his own. He settled down to think over his interests.

"Thierry said--"

“I don’t care what Thierry said.”

“That you tried to have him killed in the fighting,” Rannulf shouted. “That you put him in the front of the fighting, like Uriah, to die.”

“He didn’t die.”

“Do you admit it? How dare you admit it?”

Fulk knocked over a table. Wine spilled across the dirt floor of the tent, and the jug rolled on its base toward the wall. “Did he tell you that—”

“I have prayed for help from God for you, Father.”

Fulk picked up the jug and put it carefully upright on the ground. The air inside the tent was still and close; he wished he could open the door to let in the night cool. “Thierry persuaded one of my own vassals to—”

“Sometimes I think you are possessed,” Rannulf said.

“Will you be quiet and listen to me, you little prig? Thierry set one of my own men—Simon d’Ivry, your friend, he set to poison me. Ask Roger.”

Rannulf turned his gaze toward the back of the tent. The long march had brought out dozens of freckles all over his face. “Sir Roger would say whatever you wished him to.”

“Ask Simon, then, if you see him again.” Fulk put the table back on its feet.

“Simon is Thierry’s friend. He would never lie against him.”

Their eyes met. Fulk’s mouth was full of a bitter taste. “No longer. Simon learned enough about Thierry to know better than to be his friend. Did Thierry tell you what—”

“No one believes it. You may spread that rumor all over the camp, but none who knows Thierry believes it.”

"Aaaah.”

“It’s a vicious lie,” Rannulf cried. “Thierry is no coward.”

“I never claimed he was a coward—only that he has no skill to command. Ask any of my knights, none of them will follow him.” Fulk straightened up; his face was hot. “You have the most curious loyalty—where is your loyalty to me? Why are you so loyal to Thierry and not to me?”

Rannulf’s hands rose toward his face, paused, and fell back into his lap. “I’m loyal to you, my lord. I pray for you.”