THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (11 page)

“The object of war is to win,”
Chester
said.

“Ledgefield,” Henry said. “Is that true?”

Rannulf said, “My lord, I have little experience with war.”

“Oh, but surely you have some opinion on it. Such a basic thing, war. Tell us. Don’t be afraid.”

Thierry lifted his head. “He is young, my lord, but he is not afraid. I can vouch for his spirit.”

Fulk clenched his teeth.

“The object of a war, my lord,” Thierry said, “is to punish wrongdoers. God alone decides who wins and who loses, according to the merits of each, God alone.”

Chester
laughed. “Clearly in
England
's case God has had difficulty making up His mind, these past eighteen years or so.”

“He had the company of most of the English baronage,” Fulk said.

The Angevins all laughed, and the prince smiled sleekly.

Chester
grumbled a moment and burst out, “Are you accusing anyone,
Stafford
?”

“My lord, is placing you in the company of God Almighty an accusation?”

Derby
twisted in his chair, looking for a page with wine. “Of course, Fulk rests secure in the knowledge that he supported the empress from the days of good King Henry.”

“I’m just a glum Norman, my lord. Complexity bewilders me. I like to keep things simple.”

“What’s this?” Henry said, lisping. “Am I to believe that de Marsai’s careless remark stung the Earl of Stafford?”

“My lord, a moment’s reflection on the speaker assured me of the value of what he said. It was a manner of speaking.”

Thierry said, “He was recently injured, my lord, and sorely bereaved. You must—”

“I don’t need your apologies for me, Thierry,” Fulk said.

Thierry stared at him and turned his eyes to Rannulf. “As you wish.” He and Rannulf were looking at each other, and Thierry smiled a little and shrugged.

Fulk clenched his good hand into a fist. Henry was watching them avidly. When no one spoke, he gulped wine and looked around him.

"We were talking of war. My lord
Derby
, what is the object of war?”

Direct questions always flustered
Derby
; he pulled his coat sleeves down over his wrists. “Unh—I fight to protect myself, my lord—I think wars are fought to protect oneself and one’s holdings.”

Henry wrinkled his nose. “That’s unattractive.
Stafford
, why do you fight?”

“Because I am a knight, my lord. My overlord commands me to fight, so I do.”

“Would my vassals kept that clearly in mind. Ledgefield, we still have not had your opinion.”

“My lord,” Thierry said, “you have; he spoke of honor and—”

“Damn you,” Fulk shouted. “Let him speak out of his own mouth.”

Thierry lunged to his feet. “By God, will you shout at me?”

“If it offends you,” Fulk said, and took his dagger from his belt, “You know the answer to it.”

Derby
was on his feet; Henry had leaned forward, smooth-faced, delighted.
Chester
said, “He’s wounded, for God’s love.”

“Is that a challenge, Fulk?” Thierry cried.

“Yes, but nothing will come of it,” Fulk said. “You’ve never yet faced me, why should you now?”

“My lord,” Thierry said, and wheeled toward the prince. “You witness what provocation, all undeserved, he heaps on me.”

Fulk lifted his arm in its sling and put it on the table. “You may call them provocations, I call them simple observations.”

“My lord, give me your leave to—”

Henry said mildly, “Sit down, Thierry.”

“I cannot stay in the company of a man who insults me without apology, my lord.”

“Then go,” Fulk said. “There’s good wine elsewhere, and people to laugh at your jokes.”

Rannulf was standing up, staring at Fulk, but Fulk gave him one look and turned his eyes back to the prince and Thierry. He could see that Henry was enjoying this; he was curious how long he’d let it continue.

“Do you give me orders?” Thierry said; he was weaving a little from drink, but his voice was properly full and outraged. “In your own lord’s presence, you give me orders?”

“Suggestions,” Fulk said. “Or an invitation. At any time, Thierry, I will face you over a lance, whether my right arm is broken or no.”

Henry said, “Thierry, you needn’t take his orders, but you should take mine. Sit.”

Fulk sheathed his dagger. Thierry stood a moment, glancing around at the other men, before he slowly lowered himself into his chair.
Derby
sighed, and
Chester
, his head sunk into his shoulders like a toad’s gave a high, harsh laugh.

“You led us off the question, my lord,” Henry said to Fulk. “Now I can’t remember it.” He smiled and knocked over his wine cup. Pages rushed to clean up the spill, but the prince ignored it, and set his elbow down in the puddle. “What was the question?”

“Honor and its place in warfare,”
Derby
said.

“Fulk, you have dodged around this long enough. Tell us.”

“My lord, in war as in everything else, I do what I think will serve me best, and honor has nothing to do with it.”

“Obviously,” Thierry said.

“An honest answer,’ Henry said. “How can you tell what will serve you best, though? Eventually, the cleverest act can prove not so clever.”

“I’m not a clever man, my lord. Certainly not clever enough to outwit myself. As I said, in a manner of speaking, I’m a glum
Norman
.”

“And a liar,” Thierry said.

Henry’s head struck forward like a snake’s. “By God, sir, leave off. If you must interrupt me, go elsewhere. I don’t need you. I don’t need your comments. Get out, go, get out now.”

Thierry flinched—the prince’s voice had risen to a scream; the last words rolled around the room's stone walls, and Thierry turned pale as birch. Fulk sat back. Obviously Thierry had not met the prince’s temper before. He glanced at
Chester
and saw him laughing.

Silent, Thierry got up and walked through silence toward the door, his shoulders rigid. No one watched him go; their eyes were fixed on the walls, they sat and waited until the door shut.

“Now,” Henry said in a normal voice. “Let us proceed.”

For a moment, everyone stared at him. Finally, one of the Angevins got up and took Henry’s cup and went off to fill it; another of them said, “We were discussing war, my lord, if it please you.”

“It does,” the prince said. Specifically, we were discussing right and wrong in war. My lord Rannulf, tell us what you think of that.”

Rannulf cleared his throat. His fingers tapped nervously on the table top. “My lord, a man’s first concern is the wellbeing of his soul, and he must judge everything he does according to that, in war as in other times.” Warming to it, he leaned forward. “Aren’t we always at war, my Lord? With the Devil and his works?”

“God, it’s a priest,” Henry said, and around the table a few men laughed. Rannulf sank back again, blushing. The prince suddenly sat up straight. “
Chester
, my lord of
Chester
, my other Rannulf, start with the first premise. Is there right or wrong in war?”

Chester
heaved his bulk forward and braced it up on his elbows on the table. “Is there right or wrong in anything, my lord? Those are words to command obedience, fictions, inventions to suit convenience. Are they not?”

“Splendid,” the prince said, and bounced in his chair. “De Marsai, I see you bursting with the wish to speak. Answer him.”

“Sir,” de Marsai said, “God is certainly everywhere, we see His workings everywhere, and if God is omnipresent, so must the Devil be. My lord, if God worked not in the world, how does one explain the favor with which you, my lord, have been attended since your earliest years? Clearly, here is God bestowing gifts on His chosen.”

To
Derby
, Fulk murmured, “I think I’d liefer hear
Chester
’s heresies.”
Derby
giggled. The Angevins were all murmuring agreement with de Marsai. Henry beamed; his unsteady eyes looked from face to face and saw nothing but admiration and worship. Fulk began to think of leaving.    “Remember, if you will,” Henry said, “the words of
Saint Augustine
, that without evil there is no good. Without honor, there is no dishonor. Without law, no outlaws, like our friend Thierry Ironhand, however unjustly accused.” He smiled at Fulk. “Without justice, no injustice. Fulk, you said you do what serves you. Without regard for right and wrong?”

“My lord,” Fulk said, “if evil is necessary to good, and good is necessary to evil, then it behooves a man to do a little wickedness now and again, for the good of his soul. Where better than in a war, when wickedness is everywhere and good almost impossible?”

The prince cheered and clapped his hands. “Marvelous. Splendid.”

“And so, my lord, I shall leave you, if you please. I rode all day, and my broken bones ache.” Fulk stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen, all of you, for your pleasant conversation.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rannulf said. He rose and bowed to the prince. “I am most honored, my lord.”

“An empty phrase, if one does not believe in honor. But you do. Thank you, my lord.
Stafford
, you know of the council tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord. Good night.” Fulk bowed and turned toward the door. Behind him, Rannulf spoke to
Derby
and
Chester
, polite and friendly, and they replied. Fulk went out into the little hall and sent one of the pages waiting there for his cloak.

“My lord,” Rannulf said. “Are you feeling well?”

“Not really.”

“The way you spoke to Thierry, I’ve never heard you speak to any man,” Rannulf said. He took the cloak from the page and draped it around Fulk’s shoulders, and Fulk clasped it awkwardly with his left hand and started toward the door. A porter came forward to open it.

Outside, in the dark, the midden stench filled his nose and made him sick to his stomach. Rannulf said, “Thierry tried to be generous to you—at first. He meant no harm to you. I was ashamed for you, the way you spoke to him.”

“If my right arm were good, I would have killed him,” Fulk said. He stretched his legs, walking as fast as he could to keep Rannulf quiet. On the ramparts, torches fluttered in the wind like flags; he could still hear the voices of the men in the hall behind him.

“All he wants is your friendship, and yet you hate him so much,” Rannulf said. “I don’t understand.”

“I see in him the same wicked man I see in me.”

They had come to the door in the courtyard wall. Fulk took hold of the iron ring and pulled it open.

“How do you know he means you any harm?” Rannulf said.

“Would he be here if he did not?” Fulk shook his head. “I’m tired, Rannulf. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

Rannulf frowned. “Good night, my lord.”

Fulk went across the courtyard toward the door into the tower. A man was waiting just beyond the threshold, a candle in his hand, sheltering it from the wind with his other palm. It was Morgan; when Fulk reached him, he turned and without speaking went up the narrow stair, lighting his way.

FIVE

Rannulf said rapidly, “Did you arrange it? I wish I could go with you, I feel my duty is with you.”

“Never mind your duty, you’ll learn more with the prince.” Fulk shifted up one step, out of the way of the men loading his gear into a wagon in the courtyard. The sun had already climbed above the castle wall; they were late. He looked for Thierry in the flocks of people inside the wall, but could not see him. “Remember that you need not answer every question put to you.”

“Why is Thierry coming with you?”

“I requested it.” There he came, walking toward them across the courtyard, with one of his men behind him leading two horses. One was packed with gear. Fulk said, “Anyway, the main army will be more interesting for you. The attack on
Bedford
especially.”

“You have to take a castle, too,” Rannulf said. “There is my lord
Chester
. What do you think of him?”

“Treacherous, and infinitely capable of cosmic explanation for it.”

“Infinitely cynical, you mean.”

“No.” The wagon was loaded, and horses drew it rattling away. Morgan went back into the tower. “He isn’t cynical at all. He’s innocent. Sometimes they look the same. We’re going, do you want to ride down to the camp with us?”

“Yes.” Rannulf’s face was bright with excitement. He rushed down the steps into the courtyard and called to his squire to bring his horse; Roger rode up from the stables, with Fulk’s bay horse trailing behind him.
Chester
came over.