THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (40 page)

Simon and Hugh were standing down the street from Fulk. They started across toward Thierry’s house. Neither of them had drawn his sword yet. Roger moved, and Fulk put out his hand and stopped him.

Thierry looked out the window. The man on the horse called, “It’s done. You are outlawed. It’s finished.” He looked around him and saw Simon and Hugh coming toward him, spurred his horse, and galloped away.

Hugh broke into a run, headed for the gate. Thierry’s head at the window disappeared. Roger took a step forward and Fulk put his hand on his arm.

“My lord,” Roger said, pleading.

“Get his horse, and go around behind the house.” He pushed himself away from the fence he had been leaning on and walked across the street to the gate.

The front door opened, and Thierry stepped out, carrying his sword in his hand. Hugh and Simon leaped forward like hunting dogs, straight for him. Fulk shouted, “Hugh—strike—” and ran after them. Thierry dodged back behind the door and slammed it shut. Simon and Hugh flung themselves on the door, struggling to open it. Fulk pulled Simon away.

“Go around back—Roger’s there, go help him. Chase him out. Go on!”

Simon raced away. Fulk went up to the door. Hugh was pulling at it, but Thierry was holding it shut. Fulk said, “Thierry, come out.” He tapped Hugh on the shoulder, and Hugh stood back, panting.

Thierry said nothing, but behind the door he breathed so loud Fulk heard it. He drew his sword. Horses were coming; he looked quickly at the street and saw Pembroke and some of his men riding down it. “Thierry, come out,” Fulk said, and slapped Hugh’s shoulder.

Hugh grabbed the door and pulled, and it flew out of Thierry’s hands. Fulk thrust his sword inside before the door was fully open. The blade nicked the doorjamb and glanced off Thierry’s shoulder.

Thierry staggered back into the hall of the house. Fulk leaped after him. Before he could strike again, Hugh flew past him, screaming, “For my brother, for my brother.” His sword took Thierry in the side and spun him around, into Fulk’s stroke. Roger and Simon rushed up behind Thierry; Fulk wrenched his sword out of Thierry’s falling body and chopped down and felt the flesh give and the bone break under the blade. Roger and Simon were clubbing at him, standing over him. Fulk stepped back. Thierry lay twisted on the floor, a great pool of blood under him. One by one, the others drew back, staring at the body.

Pembroke crashed in the door. “Is he dead?”

Hugh kicked Thierry in the side. “He’s dead, my lord.” He put his foot back to kick again.

“Don’t,” Fulk said. He pushed Hugh away. “Roger, take this and bury it.” His sword was fouled with blood and brain matter, and he wiped the blade on his thigh. Turning, he saw that, at the far end of the room, there was a girl standing in the corner behind the pallet bed, her fists pressed to her breast, her head bowed as if she prayed.

EPILOGUE

Out in the churchyard, in the bright November sun, groups of horses stood with their grooms, waiting; a little crowd of local people had gathered along the edge of the road. Behind him, in the darkness of the cathedral, Fulk could hear voices mumbling, winding solemn oaths and promises around the agreement between the king and the prince. Fulk folded his arms over his chest. In the shade, it was cold, a clammy cold that roughened his skin even through the layers of thick clothing.

Chester came out, looking around, gave Fulk a short nod, and went to the edge of the sunshine. Fulk straightened, lowering his arms to his sides.  

Footsteps sounded in the interior dark—they were all coming out, moving up the aisle, Leicester and de Luci and Richard Camville, the king’s knights, the prince’s lawyers.

“God, this is tedious,” Leicester said, coming up beside Fulk. “I’ve a thought to go home and let them work it out themselves.”

Fulk said nothing. Beside Leicester, he walked down the steps into the sunlight and the gusty wind of the churchyard. None of them would dare not be here, with the king and Henry deciding each small claim and tenement and benefice in England. Passing Chester, Fulk looked covertly at him, struck again by the man’s face, gray and seized with pain; it frightened him, and he jerked his eyes away.

They went to their horses and mounted. The king came from the cathedral, surrounded by his men, and rode away.

The people cheered him but their voices were only a whisper compared to the shout they gave Prince Henry. The king rode slumped in his saddle, his head down.

“He is dying,” Leicester said. “Prince Henry will have his throne within the year.”

“Yes,” Fulk said.

Of them all, only Prince Henry seemed full of energy, his red hair bristling, his face flushed. Fulk lifted his reins. A familiar sluggishness dragged at him; he had often felt so, since Rannulf had died, dull and uncaring. The keen wind stung his face. Winter was coming.