THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (26 page)

With a twitch of his reins, Thierry turned his horse aside, and they swept past each other. Fulk’s sword struck Thierry’s shield with a crack that numbed his arm to the shoulder, but Thierry’s sword he turned off with one of the best parries of his life. He whirled the red horse around.

They charged together again, and this time Thierry set himself to ram Fulk. Fulk pressed his leg against the chestnut’s side, and the big horse changed leads smoothly and brought him alongside Thierry. He swung early, giving Thierry plenty of room to carry off his blade on his shield, and he took Thierry’s sword on his shield and held it there and hit Thierry backhand across the shoulders.

Thierry reeled in his saddle. Fulk let out a yell. He yanked the chestnut around and spurred him; the red horse charged into Thierry’s gray and lifted it off its feet. Thierry bounded away into the grass and landed rolling. Fulk sent the chestnut down on him, and when Thierry staggered to his feet reined the horse down in front of him and laid the edge of his sword on Thierry’s shoulder. Triumph filled him so that he could barely see.

“Well, uncle.”

“Uncle,” the man behind the helmet said. “I’m unsure whether it’s a compliment, my lord.” Prince Henry took off his helmet and smiled up at Fulk.

For a moment, Fulk could not speak. He had been certain that it was Thierry; the price and he were much of the same build, although the prince was shorter, and the gray horse—he looked over at the horse and shook his head. Dismounting, he pulled off his helmet.

“A compliment, my lord. You know well my uncle is a master of the tournaments. You fight very well.”

“High praise from you, my lord. That last feint taught me more than all my other fights combined.” The prince smiled. “I won Thierry’s horse from his last night at dice. Had I not seen your bandages, I should never have known you were recently wounded. Ask your ransom.”

Fulk said, “Your horse and armor, my lord. The arms for me, but you may give the horse back to Thierry.”

“I will, and buy him back again. He suits me well.” Henry walked over to the gray horse and picked up his reins. “I wonder if we—no, there’s the horn.”

Fulk looked around. De Tiernée had sounded the horn, and everybody was riding or walking off the field. He shook his head. “In my youth, we fought one melee all day long. I’m pleased to have fought with you, my lord.”

“I’ll give you a token of it, my lord.” Henry jerked off his gauntlet and took a garnet ring from his finger. “My compliments. You fight like a glum Norman, sir.” And smiled.

Fulk laughed and went to his horse. Already they were organizing another melee. He mounted the chestnut, tucked the prince’s ring into the palm of his glove, and cantered toward his camp. The grass of the field was torn and trampled into pulp, and dust sifted through and clouded the air. He handed his helmet to Morgan and slid down from his saddle.

“Well, Roger—Where’s Rannulf?”

“
Chester
took him prisoner. He’ll be back. What’s that?” Roger took the ring from his hand. “Very nice, my lord.”

“Prince Henry.” Fulk took a cup from Morgan, frosted with dew, and sipped cold water.

“Did you beat him? He brought down
Derby
in the first rush.”

“Oh. I fought someone on a brown horse, I wonder who that was?”

“Stocky little stallion with a white blaze?”

“I don’t remember the blaze.”

“
Leicester
’s son,” Morgan said. “Was he good?”

“Very.” Fulk spun on his heel to shout gleefully at
Derby
riding past. “My lord! My lord! You paid your scutage early.”

Derby
leaned out of his saddle. His face was smeared with dust and blood. “I softened him for you, Fulk, consider that.”

In the nearby campus, heads turned. Fulk tried the garnet ring on his fingers until he found one it fit. Giles Constable was strutting toward him. “Did you fight the prince?”

“Yes, and he nearly told over me.” Morgan was unlacing his hauberk, and he lifted his arms. “How did you do?”

“Oh, well enough.” Giles rubbed his shapeless nose. “One only does it for the fun, after all.” He sauntered back toward his camp.”

Morgan pulled the hauberk off over Fulk’s head. “You’ll be fighting again, my lord?”

“Yes. Is Edwyr walking the—good.” He watched the chestnut stallion move, with the little English groom at its head talking constantly to it. The sweat had dried in patches on the red horse’s shoulders and flanks, and it stopped while he watched and scratched its head vigorously against the Englishman’s side, nearly lifting Edwyr off the ground.

“Was he controllable?” Morgan said, watching.

“God’s bones.” Fulk stretched his right arm and shoulder. “Don’t insult me.”

A horn sounded, and he turned to watch the start of the next melee. From the men watching, a shout went up; the branches of the trees around the field were studded with people, and they cheered too.

Twenty men to a side, the knights galloped together. Their lances slanted down across the dusty air, their shields rose to cover their chests, and with a crash the two lines slammed together. Right in front of Fulk, a knight in French armor took a lance dead center and shot backwards out of his saddle, hung an instant over the ground on the end of the lance, and fell head over heels. The knight who had toppled him rode him down, whooping.

All across the field, hand-to-hand fighting broke out. Metal rang like bells, and the dust rose under the horses’ thrashing hoofs. A loose horse galloped out of the melee and charged neighing through a line of tethered horses.

“Morgan, I’m going to find Rannulf.”

Morgan waved to him. Fulk walked along the edge of the meadow toward
Chester
’s camp, watching the melee. The dust hung over everything in a thick cloud; from it came shouts and the crack of swords and the neighing of horses, but he could see only dim shapes twisting and lunging back and forth. A knight burst out of the cloud, grabbed a lance from his squire, and turned to fling himself back again. From the trees over Fulk’s head came the cheers of women.

Rannulf was drinking a cup of
Chester
’s ale and watching the squires pack away his armor and unsaddle his horse. He saw Fulk and looked quickly down at his feet and his ears turned pink. “Hello, my lord.”

“Fulk,”
Chester
said. “Come to reclaim your heir?”

“I’m assuming he has reclaimed himself, my lord.”

A splintering crash behind him whirled him around to face the melee.
Chester
shouted wordlessly. Two horses were down, thrashing, only a few yards from Fulk. One of the knights had jumped clear, but the other lay half under his horse. Its wide pale belly heaved and bounced across the knight’s body. Through its left foreleg the cannon bone showed, ragged-edged. The horse struggled to stand up and fell back and the knight screamed.
Chester
began to swear. Two squires rushed out and with one at the horse’s head and the other at its rump helped the horse to stand. On three legs, it stood trembling violently, above its rider, its whole body coated with dust and sweat and blood. Several other squires raced over to help the fallen man.

"Our Lady,” Rannulf said softly.

The squires got the hurt man’s arms over their shoulders and carried him away. Fulk did not recognize him and when he looked inquiringly at
Chester
he shrugged and turned away. The horse stood spraddle-legged, holding the broken foreleg carefully off the ground.

“A shame,” Fulk said. “That’s a fine horse.”

Another squire came up to the horse, patted it, talked to it, and bent over the bad leg. A little pool of blood was forming under the upraised hoof. Beyond the horse the fighting surged back and forth through the screams and the dust cloud.

“Come back to camp,” Fulk said to Rannulf.

“Remember you must pay me twenty marks,”
Chester
shouted.

Fulk started back around the fighting. Rannulf walked beside him, his shoulders hunched. “You weren’t hurt, were you?” Fulk said.

“No.”

“What’s wrong? You can still fight. I’ll lend you the bay horse. What happened?”

Rannulf turned away. “He drew me out of line and knocked me down. I hardly even struck a blow. Thierry took two ransoms. Did you hear?”

“No. That’s his art, he should excel at it.”

“I wish I’d struck him one good blow.”

“Wait until the next fight. Did you learn anything?” He pulled Rannulf out of the way of a galloping horse.

“Yes,” Rannulf said. “Not what I would have wanted to know.” He gave Fulk a sharp look and walked off ahead of him.

Fulk grunted, irritated; he had thought that Rannulf was outgrowing his love of poses. He followed him into the camp.

Leicester
was there. He came forward and took Fulk by the arm and drew him aside. “The king’s army is approaching. He’ll reach
Wallingford
tonight. The prince wants us to go back to Crowmarsh.”

“Is he going?”

“Yes. He says the tournament may go on, but some of us must go back.”
Leicester
glanced around him. In a lower voice, he said, “The bishop will meet with
Chester
tomorrow morning. He says the king will agree. What do you think of it? Have we done it?”

Rannulf was watching them. Fulk moved to one side, so that
Leicester
’s body screened him from his son. “Yes. They are all behind it, and unless someone betrays us to the prince I don’t think he can deny us—we will give him the solution and force him to accept it before he can divide us up.”

Leicester
had not been fighting; he wore leather breeches and a linen shirt and in all the dust and noise looked like a stranger. He said, “But if he should learn of it, you think he could—”

“He won’t find out.” Rannulf was staring at them. “I fought your son, my lord. God is my witness, whoever trained him should be proud.”

Leicester
smiled. “I did. He’s cool-headed enough, isn’t he? And the arm on him amazes me.”

“If he had a better horse—”

“Oh, he likes that horse, he says it may be slow in turning but it’s stout enough to withstand any charge. You didn’t beat him, did you?”

“We were separated. Tell him I enjoyed it and hoe to meet him again. We should go.”

“Yes. Meet me at the crossroads.”
Leicester
waved his hand north and went off.

“What did he want?” Rannulf said. Morgan had given him cheese and bread and a cup of wine.

“The king’s army is coming. He and I and the prince are going back to
Wallingford
. You can stay—use my chestnut to fight, if you want, but be careful with him.”

Rannulf was staring at him, his brows lowered so that they nearly met over his nose. Fulk shook his head and went off to get into his clothes, calling to Morgan to saddle up a riding horse for him.

Prince Henry had ordered some of his men to camp on the far side of the river from Crowmarsh, near the gates of
Wallingford
, and Fulk and Leicester sent out scouts in pairs to patrol the road to the west. At sundown, the scouts came galloping back, shouting that they had seen the vanguard of the king’s army, and Prince Henry sent to his men across the river to withdraw back into the main camp.

The tournament had ended. With the scouts still calling their news, every man in the prince’s army with nothing else to do rushed to the bank of the river to watch the king ride up. They lined the north side of the river from Crowmarsh and the burned fields opposite it to the clump of trees where Fulk had met the Bishop of Winchester. Many of them stood to their hips in the water, and all of them were shouting with excitement. Fulk and the other lords rode up and down behind the long, thick mass of men, and like them watched the fields on the far side of the river.

The twilight deepened. A cool evening breeze rose out of the east. The broad plain across the river stretched empty to the trees at the horizon. On the walls of
Wallingford
, hundreds of people stood in the growing dark, and from the battlement of
Crowmarsh
Castle
the king’s banners stretched out on the ripening wind. The army massed along the riverbank had quieted down, enough that Fulk could hear the crickets in the fields. He turned his horse and rode east, behind the lines of his men.

“There! There!”

The hoarse shout rose and broadened, and all along the river the army strained forward. In the dim light, the plain seemed empty as before. But all along its western and southern edge, banners and lances moved, hard to see at first among the trees, but quickly separate; horns blew, and toward them over the flat ground rode the vanguard of the king’s army.

“It’s too late to fight them now,” Thierry said, behind Fulk. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

Fulk looked over his shoulder at him. He had not heard Thierry ride up. He was wearing a collar of filthy scarves and ribbons, prizes taken from the lances of the men he had beaten in the tournament. Fulk turned straight again.