THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (10 page)

“You may inform the prince that I’m coming.”

“If it please you, my lord, I shall wait and escort you.”

“Damn it, “
Leicester
said, “he’s been wounded and he’s ridden all day. Fulk, see him tomorrow.”

“I’ll see him tonight. I doubt he goes to bed early. You can wait if you wish, sir, but I’m slow in dressing. Rannulf, entertain this gentleman.”

The Angevin drew himself up, splendid in his parti-colored coat and hose. Before he could say anything, Rannulf was pulling him toward the door, introducing himself and offering wine. Going out, the Angevin said in a sulky voice, “I should return at once to—” The door cut off his voice and the splendor of his presence. Fulk laughed.

“He’s packed around with popinjays, isn’t he?”

“Stinking Angevins all think they’re better than we are,”
Leicester
said. He sat down heavily; mimicking the Angevin’s accent, he said, “‘Oh,
England
? Rather an uncivilized place, isn’t it? Don’t they still wear uncured hides there?’ Turns my stomach to listen to them.”

“Roger, get Morgan. They’re French, that’s all. I understand Thierry is sleeping in the prince’s armpit these days.”

Morgan, Fulk’s squire, came in and in silence began to lay out fresh clothes.
Leicester
picked his nose. “His charm is irresistible at first. I think the prince wants him more for use against you than as a boon companion, although Thierry has a collection of excellent stories.”

“I’ve heard them all.”

“My lord,” Morgan said, in his soft Welsh voice, and Fulk stood up. The young man went about dressing him. Fulk looked up at the trim black head.

“How was it while I was gone, Morgan?”

“Oh—” The young man helped him into his shirt. “There wasn’t much to do. I practiced a lot.” And smiled his beautiful, peaceful smile.

Old Gruffyd’s son, my hostage. Grown up entirely in a foreign land. Fulk said, “I’ll have to hear you. You can play for me tonight.”

The door swung open, and Rannulf put his head in. “Who is this fellow, anyway?” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder; he meant the Angevin. “He’s mad.” His head pulled back out of sight like a turtle’s, and the door closed.

Leicester
gave a soft laugh. “I wonder what he’s telling him. Morgan played for the prince, Fulk, you have a useful ally there.”

Morgan was bent over, fixing points. Fulk laced up the front of his shirt. “I didn’t know he liked music. Literature and philosophy, I thought he favored.”

“Well,”
Leicester
day, “he’s a young man.”

"Music is for old men?" Fulk sat down; Morgan put on his shoes. “I prefer love songs. Especially during long wars.” His arm itched under the bandages. He thought of the booty stolen from his men and grimaced, impatient. It was such a small thing, and yet it was like
Leicester
to be dishonest in small ways.

“By the by, bringing your son with you, that was a good idea,”
Leicester
said. He stood up, and Fulk stood, and their squires brought their coats. “I like Rannulf, what I’ve seen of him.”

“Thank you. He’s pleasant company.” Fulk waited until Morgan had arranged his coat over his right shoulder and hooked it and then sent the Welsh boy after Rannulf and the Angevin. “Are you coming with us, my lord?”

Leicester
raised both long hands, palms up, and laughed. “I spent the day with Prince Henry. Take your drinking elbow with you. We’re supposed to discuss the match south tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

“Good night.”

Fulk went to the door with him, and Leicester and he talked about the weather a moment. Rannulf with his cloak and the Angevin strode toward them—the Angevin was rattling on about the intricacies of continental policy. Rannulf made a face at Fulk and shook his head slightly.

“Don’t you agree, my lord,” the Angevin said to Fulk, “that the natural direction of my lord the prince’s interests is to push his eastern boundary to coincide with the western boundary of the empire?”

Fulk and Leicester both stared at him; the Angevin looked expectantly from one to the other. Fulk said, faintly, “Well, there is the matter of the king of
France
, don’t you think?”

“Of little moment.” The Angevin disposed of the French king with a gesture. They started down the steps toward the outer door, and in their midst the Angevin crisply detailed his plan of Henry’s future.

“Already my lord rules lands greater than those of the king of
France
. We see in nature how as one essence grows another shrinks, and our prince’s natural growth must coincide with the decline of the French Crown. But I forget that from this far corner of the world the view might be different. My lord, you should spend some time on the continent. The facts of policy have changed; it will take some while before the repercussions are felt in
England
.”

Fulk tried to put on his cloak, and Rannulf helped him spread it over his shoulders. He caught a whiff of the stench from the midden below Tutbury’s rock. “I spend a good deal of time on the continent. I am vicomte and bailiff of Bruyère in
Normandy
.”

“Then, sir, you understand.”

“More and more.”

“
England
’s a barbaric place,”
Leicester
said. They had reached the door into the courtyard. “You must excuse us if we haven’t read the same commentaries on Aristotle that you have.” They went out into the open. “Fulk, I’m off. It was a pleasure to see you again, Rannulf. I hope to see you more. Good night.”

“Good night.”

“A charming man,” the Angevin said, “but rather provincial, don’t you think?”

Rannulf said, “I must ask you—”

Fulk stepped on his foot. “You’ll have to make allowances for us Normans, sir, we’ve all grown long in the tooth dealing with small practicalities, and you know how that snuffs out one’s vision of the abstract. May I ask your name and family?”

“An honor, my lord. Maurice de Marsai, at your service.”

“I know your brother.”

Rannulf said, “How long have you been in
England
, anyway?”

“Roughly a month. I’m very interested in it; this kingdom seems an excellent place for the study of primitive governance.”

Rannulf choked. Fulk looked up into the sky, flecked with stars, and suppressed his laughter.

De Marsai said, “I don’t know if you’ve had any experience with governance—”

“I have ruled the manor of Ledgefield for three years,” Rannulf said coldly.

“Well. I shall have to talk to you about certain things that interest me here.”

Fulk went around Rannulf, took him by the elbow, and steered him toward the gate into the far courtyard. De Marsai was only saying what all the Angevins around the prince believed—probably what the prince himself believed.

Anjou
and
Normandy
were ancient enemies. Part of the reluctance of the English barons to make the empress their queen, after her father King Henry’s death, had been her second marriage to the Count of Anjou. They walked up the steps and faced the sentries before the door into the great hall.

“If you please,” de Marsai began, “I and the—”

“My lord
Stafford
,” one of the sentries said, and stepped back and opened the door. “I’m very glad to see you, my lord.”

“Thank you, Sir Richard.” Fulk went through the door ahead of de Marsai and Rannulf. Immediately a servant came up to him to take his cloak. This tower was overheated and stank of wine and sweat. Through a half open door to his right, Fulk could hear
Derby
’s voice, laden with good humor; although he couldn’t hear the words, he recognized a joke in the tone of
Derby
’s voice, and an explosion of laughter followed. De Marsai strutted toward the door.

“Just listen to him and keep your own counsel,” Fulk said to Rannulf. “Nothing he says can hurt you, but things you might say can.”

“Oh, he doesn’t bother me,” Rannulf said in a thin voice. “I’m perfectly capable of him.”

Fulk shook his head slightly and went after de Marsai toward the door. Just before he reached it, Thierry’s deep voice rang out in the room beyond: “Are you sure it was a male deer, my lord?”

De Marsai flung the door wide, and Fulk followed him through it. It had been long since he had last heard Thierry’s voice. Remember that nothing he can say will hurt you. They were all gathered around a table before the hearth, sprawled in their chairs, leaning on their elbows, their coats thrown off and their shirts open, and they had clearly been drinking for hours. On the left
Derby
sat, with
Chester
and two or three other barons, and on the right Thierry, and in their midst the young prince, smiling gently and very drunk.

He saw Fulk at once, and his eyes moved unsteadily toward Rannulf. Above him, on the wall, hung a tapestry of King Arthur and his knights.

“Thierry,”
Derby
shouted, “only males wear horns, isn’t that so?”

More laughter. De Marsai waited for it to subside and called, “My lord, I have two more of your glum
Normans
here.”

The last of the laughter cut off abruptly. Fulk crossed the rush-covered floor to an empty chair across the table and down from Thierry. Behind him, Rannulf said, “Good evening, my lords.”

The prince lifted his hand slightly in answer. “My lord
Stafford
, you seem well recovered. I’m pleased to see you here.” His eyes turned toward Rannulf again.

“Thank you, my lord. May I present my son, Rannulf, the lord of Ledgefield.”

His scarred hands spread on the table, Thierry stared at Fulk and said nothing. Fulk watched him from the corner of his eye. While a page brought him a cup, he drew back the empty chair in front of him and sat down. Thierry looked tense, as if this meeting had come too suddenly for him.

Four years had gone since Fulk had seen him clearly; Thierry’s thick, curling russet hair was slightly gray, but otherwise there seemed no difference—his massive chest, his arms strapped with muscle, and his yellow eyes. Thierry seemed like a young man still, and yet he was in his forties, seven years older than Fulk.

Derby
got up and come over to sit beside Fulk, and de Marsai took the chair
Derby
had left. After a moment's hesitation Rannulf sat down beside him, only an Angevin between him and Thierry, and Thierry smiled at him and they spoke in low voices.

Derby
whispered, “There’s been no mention of Thierry’s outlawry since he came here. Try the wine, it’s superb.”

Prince Henry and Thierry were discussing the siege of Tutbury, very pointedly, as if the prince were making something clear to Fulk. Fulk sipped the strong red wine. “God’s bones, he’s drunk.” Henry was talking only half as fast as usual, and when he reached for his cup he nearly dropped it.

“He holds it very well. They’ve been drinking all day.”

“Castles,” Thierry said, his voice no longer soft, “keep a man from fighting well, they keep him penned behind walls. I say, get out and fight on the flat plain, start even, and you’ll see who’s better.”

“There speaks a man who’s made the rounds of the tournaments,”
Derby
said.

Fulk nodded. Thierry’s yellow eyes grazed him, looking around the room. The wine rushed to Fulk’s head. I am not ready for this.

“My lord Ledgefield,” the prince said. “What do you think of this opinion of Thierry Ironhand’s?”

“I agree with him most heartily, my lord,” Rannulf said. “That’s the only honorable way to fight, and without honor a man is not a Christian.”

Derby
said, “I hear Margaret talking.”

“No,” Fulk said. Margaret was never so unwise.”

“And yet,” the prince said, “at the battle of Lincoln King Stephen came down from high ground to fight honorably and was most honorably beaten. Isn’t that so? Excuse me for pursuing what may seem an obvious line of inquiry to you, my lords, but I am young and require education in these matters. My lord
Chester
, you were at
Lincoln
.”

Chester
swallowed a throatfull of wine. “Take what you can, and worry about honor when you’ve won.” He slouched down over his arms, folded on the tab le, and stared at Thierry.

“Now,” the prince said softly, “we have a cunning man, imbued with understanding. Somebody give me more wine.” He held out his cup at random, and a page took it, gave him another, and went off. His head tilted back, the prince surveyed the men around him, and his eyes came slowly to Fulk.

“Fulk de Bruyère.”

“I fought at
Lincoln
, my lord.”

“Did you?” Henry’s eyes opened innocently wide. “I was unaware of that.”

“He was not,”
Derby
whispered.

“What was the question?” Henry thumped his hand on the table. “We have a question to argue. What was it? Oh. Which is more important, honor or winning?”