THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (30 page)

“Gilbert,” Fulk said. “The prince knew what we were doing with a full day to counteract it and did nothing. We hardly forced the truce on him. Nothing else is of interest.”

“Oh? How is Thierry?”

“He is coming here with
Chester
. Where is my son?”

“I sent him to escort William here, they’ll be back before dark. He’s a fine boy, he reminds me of my father.”

“He should have been born a Clare.”

“He should be knighted soon. He’s a fine lad, and a devil of a fighter.” Pembroke roared at his servants, who scurried around with ale and wine and more honeyed fruit. “How is Rannulf? Did you hear that young Hervey’s dead? That makes Rannulf’s wife the heiress, doesn’t it?”

“She has a sister. I hadn’t heard. What happened?”

“No one knows. His men say he fell dead in the forest, hunting. They brought his back across his horse, not a mark of violence on him. Here is William.”

He stood, and Fulk stood. Through the door came William de Clare with Fulk’s son Hugh behind him. William stopped and let out a laugh.

“What a pair you make, a broomstick and a broomstraw.”

“Keep your improper thoughts in your head,” Pembroke said.

Hugh came forward, bowed to Fulk, and kissed his hand. “Lord William said you were coming—I’m very glad to see you, Father, and your arm better and not twisted. My lord says I may be knighted soon. May I?"

Fulk laughed. “We’ll talk about it.” He put his hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “If you don’t stop growing you’ll overtop me like Pembroke. He says good things of you. That pleases me.”

“Oh, let me be knighted soon, before the wars are over.”

“Perhaps, at Christmas.”

Hugh let out a screech. Pembroke sat down again. “The lungs of him would make a fine bellows.”

“When will the prince be here?” William asked. “
Stamford
’s fat and much too confident—we need him to seal off all the gates and let them starve a little.”

Pembroke put his feet up. “The prince will get here when he gets here. Wait upon my lord
Stafford
, you lout, since he brought no squire with him.”

William jumped up and took Fulk’s cup to be filled. Hugh brought Pembroke a drink and set a candle down on the table near him. “How is Morgan, my lord? Didn’t you bring him north?”

“He has to set up my tent. He’s very well—when you’re knighted, I’ll knight him, too, he’s old enough.”

“Slight, though,” Pembroke said. “If he’s the Welsh boy? Yes. Not enough bone or meat for a good fighter.”

“Did William tell you of our tournament? It went on all day long, there were twelve melees. William Louvel broke his arm and one of the Angevins was almost killed.”

“Strange foreign amusements. Fake wars.”

“Did you fight?” Hugh said. “When did you lose your splints?”

“Four days before it. I fought—I have a new warhorse, a beauty, too. I got him from de Brise.”

“Did you win? Whom did you fight? Did you beat anybody?”

“The prince. I only fought in one melee—King Stephen was on his way to
Wallingford
.”

Pembroke was picking through a platter of tarts. “You have bone and meat in plenty, no need for all this boasting.”

Fulk laughed. Hugh threw questions at him and William about the tournament, asked about Rannulf, dismissed his showing with a shrug and a careless word, and told them of a skirmish with the defenders of
Stamford
. The servants brought in flesh and bread; somewhere in his camp, Pembroke had ovens. Fulk spread butter from a crock onto the warm bread.

“Hugh told me that you’d broken your arm,” Pembroke said suddenly. “You’re fortunate it healed straight. My brother broke his twice and he looked like a man with six elbows. It’s a pity how it weakens a man’s sword stroke.” He cuffed William. “Carve the meat.”

“Gilbert, you are so courtly. Isn’t he, William? All courtesy.”

“God’s Rood,” Pembroke said. “I begin to see that
Chester
is right, damn him—a few less of those he calls Byzantines would serve
England
well.” He dipped bread into the juice of the meat. “I’ve a thought of going to
Ireland
.”

“Excellent,” Fulk said. “When?”

“You mock,” Pembroke said. “Yet I tell you that there is as much to be won in
Ireland
as our forefathers won in
England
when the Great King led them here. More. You might have lost that spirit, but I have not. Nor has Hugh.”

“You have no lands in
Normandy
. It takes me the whole year just to make the circuit of my Honor. Have you made arrangements to supply the army when it gets here?”

Pembroke shook his head. He put meat in his mouth, wiped his fingers on his sleeve, and leaned back to let the servants pile up his plate again. “Since you mention it, I’ll let you deal with it.”

“Good. I will.”

“When will the prince be here?” Hugh said.

“I don’t know. He can’t be more than a few days behind us, but some of the barons may not leave
Wallingford
for weeks.”

“When he comes, will we storm the town?”

Pembroke laughed harshly. Fulk said, “I don’t think so. There are easier was to take it.”

“You and Robin Leicester will find one. Hugh. The wine.”

Hugh leaped up and took their cups away to fill them. Pembroke ate the rest of his meat and when a servant moved to give him more waved him away. "No. Sieges incline a man toward corpulence.”

“Gilbert, your austerity humbles me.”

“I hope so.”

The sentry outside the tent door stuck his head in. “Sir Roger de Nef, my lord.”

“Send him in.” Gilbert snapped his fingers at a page, who leaped to put another plate on the table. Hugh was standing behind Pembroke, his arms folded across his chest; the boy’s respect and courtesy and Pembroke’s affection for him pleased Fulk deeply. He rolled a sip of wine around his mouth and spat it out.

“Disgusting French habit,” Pembroke said. Roger came in, and they all stood. In between greetings, Roger told Fulk where the army was camped, and they sat down; Pembroke said, “You’ll be hungry, Sir Roger—Hugh, serve him.”

Hugh went promptly over to carve meat, pour wine, and even butter slices of bread. Roger said, “You’ve grown again, my lord, where do you mean to stop?”

“When I overtop Pembroke,” Hugh said. “Will you have some of this gravy, Sir Roger? It’s very salty.”

Pembroke snorted. “He speaks his mind. Who is with the prince? Beside
Chester
and
Leicester
and all those.”

“Giffards, Beauchamps de Laceys, Tosnys, and Montforts.”

“Will there be a tournament here?” Hugh asked.

“Pfft.” Pembroke made a face. “That’s nothing for such men as you and me.”

Hugh’s face fell, and Fulk laughed at him. “Gilbert, I shall go tomorrow to arrange for supplies. Have you made enemies of anyone in the neighborhood?”

“Practically all of them.”

“I’ll go with you, my lord,” William said. “If I may. My men need horses.”

“You won’t find them here,” Pembroke said. “They breed only plough stock here.”

“Come along,” Fulk said. “I know my vassal
Jordan
de Grace breeds warhorses at Aurège, north of here. I’ll go there first. But I’m leaving at daybreak, and I should go to my camp and get some sleep. Roger, follow me when you’re eaten.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Good night.” Fulk looked at Hugh. “Good night, Hugh. See you keep your lord’s trust.”

“I shall, my lord.”

Fulk went out into the night. Fog drifted through the camp. Occasionally, the lights of the town showed, but the rolling mist swallowed them up. He sent for his horse and stood looking toward the town. Twice he had come to
Stamford
to lay siege to it and both times he had failed.

There was luck in threes. He refused to think of the work that lay before him; he was tired, and he knew it would daunt him to think of it. He pulled himself into his saddle and, with two of Pembroke’s men lighting his way with torches, rode toward his camp.

The next day, he traveled up TO
Aurège
Castle
, the fief that
Jordan
held of him, and
Jordan
talked to his bailiff about their herds and harvests. In between arranging for two herds of cattle, one flock of sheep, and twenty swine to be sent to
Stamford
,
Jordan
sold William de Clare six horses, and Fulk talked to the bailiff about the herds and supplies of the other manors in the area. They spent the night at Aurège and rode back the next morning, with William’s horses neck-roped together; when they reached
Stamford
, they saw that another army was camped midway between Fulk’s men and the east gate of the city. From the pennants and the tents, they knew it was
Leicester
’s.

The walls of the city were crowded with people. Fulk left Jordan and William and their knights and rode with Roger down to
Leicester
’s camp. The sky was still overcast, and the harsh wind had strengthened. He passes a dozen men trying to put up a tent against the wind, heard their curses, and watched the tent blow down before they could stake it up. The men stood motionless a moment, staring at the heap of canvas, their shoulders bowed. But Leicester’s tent was raised.

Leicester was sitting before it, staring glumly at the city. Fulk rode up; Leicester lifted his head, and his expression turned a shade brighter, be he still looked grim. Fulk dismounted.

“You’re so merry, Robert. What is it—the brightly shining sun?”

“Chester is here.”

“Oh.”

Leicester held a straw between his fingers, and he split it lengthwise with his thumbnail and cast aside the two pieces.

“He gave the prince a bad report of me—I would not have heard about it, save one of the Angevins told me.”

“What has the prince said?”

“Nothing.”

“And done nothing?”

“No—I know what you’re thinking. The Angevin gave me to believe that Chester spoke ill of you, too.”

Fulk sat down, his reins in his hands, and watched his horse crop the grass around Leicester’s tent. “Untrue words in a foul mouth.”

“The prince doesn’t know him as we do.”

Fulk was wondering why an Angevin would come bearing tales to Leicester. He dug his heel into the turf. “When will the prince be here?”

“Chester was the vanguard. The prince will arrive tomorrow.”

“What exactly did Chester tell him, do you know?”

“Something about a secret treaty between us and Winchester.”

“Well—I have to go to my camp. Don’t worry about it until the prince gives some sign he believes it.”

He stood up and put the reins over his horse’s head. Leicester sat sullenly on the ground watching him. Fulk put his foot into the stirrup.

“Don’t worry, Robert. Have you seen Pembroke?”

“Aaaah—” Leicester looked away.

Fulk rode through the camp toward his own. All around him, the men were building fires, taking their horses to pasture, and setting up their tents. Devil damn me, he thought. We should not have slighted Chester, that day at Wallingford. The raw wind lashed his hair across his cheek; the first rain drops struck his hands like ice.

With a great clamoring of cheers and
 hunting horns and and a neighing of many horses,  Prince Henry led his army up to Stamford in the middle of the day, pitched his tents, and rode around the walls of the city, with his bright banner going before and all his barons following him. The townspeople hung over the walls and occasionally let out a cheer themselves. After the rain of the night before, the sky was a clear fresh blue and the brisk wind smelled sweet.

Fulk riding between Rannulf and Derby, could not keep from smiling.

“What are you so merry about?” Rannulf said, when they stopped so that the prince could inspect one of the gates at leisure. “See how you are left out.”

“What? Oh.” Fulk stood in his stirrups to see over the heads of the men before him. Prince Henry was talking to Chester and Pembroke, discussing the fortifications. The three men rode as close as a long bowshot from the gate, while the rest of the barons waited behind them. Fulk shook his head. “Are you upset? I thought Thierry was your most respected relative.”

“Thierry?” Rannulf gave him a sharp look.

Prince Henry started off again, and the barons pushed and jostled, crowding after him. Leicester and Derby rode on the left, well behind the prince, surrounded by the lesser men who were their vassals. Pembroke and Chester, just behind Henry, talked together, all smiles, and Thierry rode up to them and they greeted him with exaggerated enthusiasm. Before they all had gone a dozen strides, the train behind the prince became two trains, with most of the younger men on Chester and Pembroke’s side, and Leicester, Derby, Fulk, and Rannulf and their men on the other. Fulk squinted to see what the prince was doing and saw him smiling and calling to Pembroke, pointing to the walls, his back almost constantly toward Leicester.