THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (5 page)

“I reached
Stafford
today and the castle is again in my hands. However, my uncle escaped and has gone off with his outlaws, and I suspect that he may come next to Prince Henry’s camp. For our old friendship, cousin, if he should, watch over my interests.” It did no harm to remind a
Beaumont
of a blood kinship. “Sealed at
Stafford
, by my own hand.”

The heat of the fire was scalding his right side, and he got up and moved his chair. Pentecost was coming; they would have to celebrate it, and of course the town would have its fair. In a shire of small villages and herders’ cottages and wide forests, the occasional fair at
Stafford
was a great event, and even he enjoyed them. They would have to mend the bridge—that was the responsibility of the monks of Saint Jude, who, Gilbert had said, had run away from the monastery because of the outlaws and the Earl of Chester’s raids. I should go there and see what condition it’s in. If the buildings were fit to be lived in he could ask the White Monks to set up a chapter at Saint Jude. He put sand on the parchment and shook it back and forth.

“Father?” Rannulf slid through the door and shut it quietly. “What are you doing awake so late?”

Fulk put down the letter. “I couldn’t sleep. Sit down—why are you up?”

Rannulf sank obediently into a chair too far from the fire, got up, moved it closer, and sat down again. The dog on the hearth whacked its tail on the floor a few times and groaned.

“I saw your light. Are you working?” Rannulf picked up one of the tally sticks on the table. “Did you put a guard over Alys?”

Fulk pulled the skirt of his gown over his bare calves. “Yes. I told Roger to.”

“Why?”

“Because my knights are in the tower with her. And I don’t trust her. She said she would run away.”

“When are you sending her back?”

“Tomorrow.”

Rannulf took a splinter from the wood piled beside the hearth and cleaned his nails. “Do you think there’s hope for her?”

Alys’s desperate, shining eyes came into Fulk’s mind. “Hope. What do you mean? Either they will say she was taken against her will, in which case her husband will have her back, or they will put her in a nunnery.”

Rannulf tossed the splinter into the fire. “What do you think of her?”

“Nothing. I want nothing to do with her, she’s had enough to do with men of my family.”

“Yes.” Rannulf looked toward the window. “I suppose so. I feel sorry for her.”

Fulk said nothing. Rannulf in a lofty mood always made him angry.

“Don’t you?” Rannulf said.

“Feel sorry for her? No. I don’t know her well enough.”

Rannulf leaned his elbows on his knees, and his eyes glowed: he loved to argue moral questions. “Must you know someone well to pity him? Pity is most Christian—in no other way does a man come so near to Christ.”

"Go see if there’s anything to drink up here,” Fulk said. “Why can’t we ever talk about the things men usually talk about?”

Rannulf took a candle from the iron holder on the wall, fished a twig out of the fire, and lit it. “What should men talk about, except high issues of the Christian life?”

“Oh, well. Women, getting drunk—” Fulk slid down in his chair and put his head against the back. “War, and tournaments, tenants, enemies, and friends.”

“Saccage, soccage, tillage, dotage.” Rannulf with the candle in his hand walked out of the firelight and into the dark of the room; he held the light before him, and it shone golden over his shoulders and his head. “I’ve had enough of war.”

Rannulf had never gotten involved in the wars—Margaret’s influence; she had always favored King Stephen over the empress and now the empress’s son. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember
Lincoln
? I was in the tower with the other hostages, we could see most of the fighting. I saw how you attacked the king, and how you rode straight through his army.”

Fulk nodded. Rannulf came back, cups gathered into one hand, the candle in the other. “I prepared myself for death—I was certain King Stephen would have me killed for your treachery. But he didn’t kill me. Out of Christian love and pity he treated all us hostages well.”

“He had no chance to kill you—we captured him in the battle.”

“Before then. He knew you were in the army attacking him, he told me so. He was bitter—he added several words about you that I’ve never forgotten.”

“Don’t bother repeating them, I think he told me them himself.”

“Does it mean nothing to you that he treated you honorably and you betrayed him?”

“Why did you bring cups and nothing to put in them?”

“Oh.” Rannulf went back into the dark to the cupboard. Fulk raised his voice to reach him.

“I did not betray King Stephen. While King Henry was alive I swore an oath to support the empress, and I never broke it, not when everybody else was betraying her to make Stephen king. Is that treachery? The king caught me once in a tight place and required a hostage of me, and I gave him you. I knew he’d kill no children. He’s a soft man.”

“Soft? I call him chivalrous, my lord.” Rannulf came back with an ewer half full of wine.

“You might also call him a man who held
England
and
Normandy
in his hands and spread his fingers and let them trickle away. I have no interest in this conversation. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Would you kill hostages?”

“I have killed hostages.”

Rannulf blinked at him. “Whose?”

“Our friends the untamed Welsh.” Leaning forward, Fulk poured pale wine into his cup. “Old Gruffyd gave me two of his sons at Bryn Crug and went on raiding. They weren’t really his sons, as it turned out. I got them later. You’ll notice he doesn’t raid any more, the old pirate.”

“I can’t believe you would kill innocent children.”

"Gruffyd was killing innocent children and their families every day. There are things I have to—”

“Morgan is Gruffyd’s son—would you kill Morgan?” Rannulf cried, triumphant.

“Don’t interrupt me. I want to talk—”

“Answer me,” Rannulf said.

“Gruffyd isn’t a problem any more. Are you going to listen to me?”

Rannulf looked disgusted; he gulped his wine and set the cup down with a thunk. “On what subject?”

“The condition of the
kingdom
of
England
. In particular, the recent career of Henry Plantagenet.”

“Tell me about him.”

Fulk shrugged. “I’ve been with him months now in
England
and I have attended him at his court in
Normandy
for years, but I know him no better than I know the king of Araby. The point is, we are going to make him king of
England
.”

“Who is we? You and Leicester?”

“He has all the old support for his mother in the west, and he’ll take Tutbury. Since he came to
England
last winter he has won every siege and battle he has fought, and he’s been energetic. I met with
Derby
on my way here and talked to him, and he will join us.
Chester
, Pembroke,
Leicester
, and I all follow him. The Pope has refused to let the Archbishop of Canterbury crown Stephen’s son, either now or after Stephen has died. Henry is our only choice.”

“What do you intend to gain by this?”

The stony, yellow wine reminded Fulk of Bruyère, in
Normandy
, where it was made. “Henry has confirmed all the lands I hold now on me and my heirs, he has restored Beck to us, he has romised to make me sheriff of
Stafford
, and he has recognized you as my heir.”

Rannulf thrust his head forward. “I don’t want Beck. Beck is Thierry’s manor.”

“It was Thierry’s manor. If he had not contrived to be outlawed by both the king and the empress, he might still have it. Now it’s part of the Honor of Bruyère again. You should be pleased.”

“Are you trying to pretend that you do all this for my sake?”

“Pretend? Everything I do, I do for your sake, for Hugh’s sake, and Madelaine’s—what else should I work for except my family?”

Rannulf looked at the floor and said nothing. Confused, Fulk gestured with his left hand. “Why, what did your mother say?”

“You were working.” Rannulf stood up. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

He started toward the door, moving stiffly.

“Wait.” Fulk thrust the conversation back into his memory, to think about later, and hunted for something to soften what he had said. “Will you take Alys to Radlow?”

“I? Of course. If you think it’s a good idea.”

 “Yes. I’ll write a letter saying I believe she was taken away by force—you might convince her that’s the only way she’ll stay out of a nunnery.” Relieved, he drew a deep breath. “Peverel’s in
Nottingham
, but you can give her to the bailiff at Radlow. No sense taking her any farther. Do you have any of your own men here?”

“Just my bodyguard. I’ll take them.”

“Take ten or fifteen of mine, too. You’ll have to cross part of
Cheshire
.” He picked up the letter he had written, folded it, and thrust it into a drawer. Rannulf and the dog on the hearth were watching him curiously.

“If you think it’s best,” Rannulf said. “I’ll take her.”

Fulk nodded. “She might heed you, she won’t me.”

All the high color had receded from Rannulf’s face, but he did not smile. “Yes, probably. Good night, Father.”

“Good night.”

Rannulf went off into the dark and opened the door, and Fulk heard him speak to the sentry on the stair landing. He found fresh parchment for his letter to William Peverel and dipped the pen into the ink, but he wrote nothing. Outside the window, clear light shone; the dog slept growling on the hearth. A log broke, and the dog leaped to its feet—it had been burned once by an ember when a log broke.

Margaret would explain everything to Rannulf. He listened to her, and she understood statecraft and the machinations of princes, a prince trapped in her woman’s body, holding me at
Derby
’s lodge while she sent off a message to Rannulf, outflanking me. But Rannulf had no sense to act on what she did. He believed Thierry—Thierry also spoke well on large, empty questions.

Fulk laughed. Thierry had fled away at the first word that Fulk was coming—it exhilarated him that Thierry was afraid of him. Inking the pen, he began to write.

TWO

Margaret came to
Stafford
two days later, borne on a litter hung with rosettes of ribbon, surrounded by her knights and waiting women and pages. As soon as she was through the gate the courtyard filled up with people leading off horses and greeting friends among her party and waiting to help. Fulk wound his way through the crowd to the side of the litter. The sun had faded the ribbon flowers, and the streamers were studded with burrs and thorns. He bent to look inside.

"My lady. Welcome to
Stafford
.”

The inside of the litter stank of dogs and sickness. She had worsened—her lips were crusted with sores, and her eyes leaked, she seemed bloated. Her companion Hawisse was busy helping her get herself together enough to climb out of the litter.

“Good day, my lord.” She held out her hand, and Fulk took it.

“You should have stayed where you were until you got better, damn you.”

She snorted. Fulk gripped her arm and with Hawisse disentangling her clothes and Margaret herself pushing managed to drag her out of the close confines of the litter. One of her tiny dogs yapped at him from the pillow. Hawisse scooped it up and ducked agilely out the other side.

“
Derby
left to go back to Tutbury, and it was boring past belief.” Margaret leaned heavily on him. Even through the thick stuff of her gown he could feel her fevered skin. “Is Rannulf here?”

“Off on an errand of mine. He’ll be back.” He half carried her toward the door. Gilbert and his wife bustled forward, babbling greetings, and Margaret acknowledged them absent-mindedly. The porter rushed over to open the door. Hawisse carrying dogs and a bundle wrapped in a green scarf hurried on before them into the dark.

“It’s your own fault that you’re sick,” Fulk said. “I should whip you for sending that messenger.”

“What messenger?”

In her voice he heard her smile. He heaved her up the stairs, her great bulk pressed against him from shoulder to hip. Pages darted about, and a pair of serving girls rushed past, their arms full of spring flowers. Margaret said, “He wasn’t here, was he? Thierry, I mean.”

“No. He wasn’t.”

“What a shame. No choice familial meat for poor Fulk to dine on.”

They crossed the antechamber; she was breathing hard, but she straightened, looking around, a hand taller than he was.

“You take advantage,” Fulk said. “You know I can’t beat you when you’re sick.”