THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (9 page)

Margaret had devoted much attention to this chapel of Saint Anne, endowing it every year of their marriage with rich gifts, and when she was dying she had told Rannulf she wanted to be buried here and was pleased she died at
Stafford
. Dying, she told much to Rannulf, including that Fulk should find a husband for Hawisse. Hawisse was standing near the door, grim-faced as ever. Fulk went past her and into the chapel.

It was too small to hold all the guests. Margaret lay behind the altar rail, her hands folded on her wide breast. Painted statues of the Holy Family, crowned with gold, stood in niches on either side of the altar. Through the gap in the curtain over the door to his right, Fulk could see Father Michael standing, talking to the monk and the two boys who assisted him. Fulk could not bear to look at Margaret and finally looked down at the floor. He went to stand before the altar, opposite her head, his heart beating unevenly. The shuffle of feet filing into the church went on for a long while, the only sound.

He began to wonder if he could stand all through the funeral
Mass.
He wished that he had seen her before she died. Probably she had felt the same as he did now, full of vain regret. Remorse. He listened to the sound of the guests filling up the church. With one of her children sick, Madelaine had not come, but her husband had, and
Derby
, and
Leicester
’s son, monks from the Bishop of Lincoln and the Bishop of Winchester, whole pack of Clares, and even a knight of the Earl of York’s. Tutbury had fallen the week before, and people had the leisure to go to funerals.

The doors swung shut, and the shuffling of feet stopped. All around the chapel people coughed and shifted their weight and talked. Fulk turned to look over his left shoulder into the back of the chapel.
Chester
stood almost directly behind him, his feet widespread and his great belly drooping over his belt, but his knights were lined up in tow ranks at the back of the church. Fulk squinted to see in the dim light. The third man from the end in the second rank was Thierry. Fulk turned front again.

Chanting, the priest and his censers went around the chapel, and the sting of incense came into the air. Thierry was here. Everybody would think it so chivalric and noble that he came to Margaret’s funeral in secret. Margaret herself would have known better. Fulk could take him prisoner. The priest turned and made the sign of the Cross and blessed them, and they all muttered and crossed themselves. The priest’s vestments, stiff with gold and pearls, flashed in the light from the candles. If Thierry was with
Chester
he was in Prince Henry’s favor. He could not take him prisoner. Rannulf’s voice in his ear droned prayers, earnestly intoned.

The priest had a deep voice, good with the Latin, but he was slow. Fulk’s knees began to quiver. Just before he would have had to sit, they all knelt, and he relaxed as much as he could. They said King Henry had chosen Roger of Salisbury because of the speed with which he said Mass, and there was something to be said for that after all. He spoke the prayers with the others, the words coming up from long memory, from long usage familiar to his lips.

They stood. Rannulf’s voice wavered, and tears shone on his cheeks. Hugh prayed with his usual gusto. How different they were. Hugh had been raised in Pembroke’s household, and Fulk rarely saw him. More a Clare than one of Fulk’s blood. He fought down the desire to look at Thierry again—he could always say he hadn’t seen him. The priest spoke of the justice and mercy of God and of the loneliness of each soul apart from Him.

Even death had its uses for
Holy
Church
. He had told her that power was not base. His head swam. Stay on my feet. Just to his left Rannulf was praying softly, in a quaking voice. He could lean on Rannulf. He gripped his hands together in an attitude of prayer and watched the altar dissolve into one long blur. A tremendous buzz sounded in his ears.

Kneel. He collapsed to his knees, and his head cleared; a rush of cool air filled his lungs. All through the chapel, voices rose in the Credo. He should think about her. He should be sorrowful. She was happier dead. Certainly hope so, he thought, since she is.

Unbidden the memory leaped into his mind of their wedding in the cathedral at Caen, and how then they had mouthed the things their elders had taught them to say, understanding almost nothing. Bewildered little boy and unhappy bewildered little girl. She’d wanted to become a nun. All girls did at her age. He did not remember what he had wanted. Certainly not Margaret; she had been fat as the Martinmas hog even then.

Twenty years since, he mouthed the things his elders had taught him to say and understood almost nothing. They had never come closer together than that day. They were strangers when she died. But he thought of times they’d been together, always fighting—on the day Rannulf was born they had fought over names and godparents and nurses; and regret and loneliness filled him, and tears burned in his eyes.

His hands rammed into his belt,
Chester
said, “Your lady’s death is a sorrow to us all, Fulk. You have my grief attending yours.”

“Thank you.” Fulk waved off a page with a platter of cut fruit. “She was a great-hearted woman, you know. She kept faith with me, in her own way. I wish I’d listened to her more. You brought a strange guest to me.”

Chester
’s bushy brows rose. His fleshy face was pocked with small deep scars, and he never blinked, so that his bulging pale eyes had a stony stare. “It was
Leicester
’s idea. Thierry is a good drinking companion for the prince. Would you prefer I’d left him there?”

“Not at all.” Two of the Clares came up, and Fulk took a step to one side to greet them. “Excuse me.”

“My lord,” the taller of the two said, clutching Fulk’s good hand. “God be with you in your bereavement.”

“And with you, sir, to have lost your kinswoman. I’m very pleased you came.” The other was mumbling condolences and striving fiercely to catch hold of Fulk’s right hand, buried in the sling, and Fulk pulled his fingers away with his left. “I beg your pardon.”

“Philip.” The taller one smiled and drew the other away.

“God bless you, my lord.”

“And you.” Bowing, they left him.

“Byzantines,”
Chester
said, drinking. Red wine dribbled down his chin. He stood with his feet widespread and his stomach thrown forward, like a woman with child. “They’re all Byzantines.” It was his word for anyone he didn’t like. “Look at their clothes.”

Fulk was tucking the end of the sling around his hand. “It’s the present style, very French. Like the women covering their hair. So Thierry is doing well for himself.” He could see Rannulf and Hugh, greeting guests—Hugh vivid and dark and Rannulf pale as ice. “I’ll have to go back to the army and protect my interests.”

“He makes friends easily, Thierry does.”
Chester
smiled. “People are so easily fooled. The prince sends his sympathies. He wants you back at once.”

“I’m flattered. Alain, thank you for coming.”

Alain de Redvers, one of his tenants, took his good arm and bowed. “A jewel is gone from your treasure that you can never replace, my lord. What a splendid company to gather in these difficult times. You must be pleased.”

Fulk bowed and said something appropriate. Alain exchanged words with
Chester
and rushed off—the leather of his shoes was dyed three different colors, and the turned-up toes shimmered with bells.

“Byzantine.”

“What is the prince doing now?”

Chester
reached out to take a jug of wine from a passing page. “Gathering everybody to go to
Wallingford
, having secured the west. He fights like a chess player. The confrontation should be interesting. The aging king, with the weight of years and experience, and the ambitious youth in all his glory.”

“They confronted each other at Malmesbury and all we did was freeze. Has he agreed yet to give you
Lancaster
?”

“Of course.”
Chester
loosed a peal of his harsh laughter. “He knows whom he needs.”

Fulk drank ale and greeted more guests. With half the earls in
England
supporting him, Henry needed
Chester
less and less. Rannulf was coming toward him. Fulk looked up at
Chester
’s face.

“Let us hope Prince Henry remembers his friends, my lord.”

He bowed and moved off, so that Rannulf could talk to him alone. Rannulf glanced at
Chester
and put his back to him. “Father, Thierry is here.”

“I know.”

“He’s upstairs, he asks if you will meet him.”

Fulk looked around for a page, and seeing him look, one rushed up and took his cup and went to the table at the end of the room to fill it. Fulk said, “I’m going to Tutbury to rejoin the price, and so is he. We will undoubtedly meet there.”

“My lord—”

“You’re going with me, if it please you.”

Rannulf nodded. “Mother said that I should.”

“Did she?” A twinge of uneasiness ran through him; even when she lay under the altar in the chapel Margaret went on. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Will you see Thierry?”

Fulk shook his head. Near the banquet table,
Derby
was talking to some of his tenants, and sudden laughter boomed out. Fulk took a step toward them. “I can’t, Rannulf. I don’t want to.” He went over toward
Derby
, wanting some reason to laugh.

FOUR

Leicester
said, "That engineer of yours, Parin, was very useful. He explained it all in great detail to the prince, too, which kept him entertained. God’s wounds, you did get knocked around, didn’t you?”

“I understand it took them a while to put it all back together.” Fulk patted his splints. “I don’t remember the operation. Parin’s a good man.” He sat down on his bed—they were quartered in
Tutbury
Castle
, five men to a room—and stretched his legs out. “Where’s
Chester
?”

“In the hall.”
Leicester
made a quick turn around the little room. He was tall and lean, with grizzled hair cropped close to his head and a steep upper lip; until his twin brother Worcester had gone on Crusade, no one in
England
had been able to tell them apart. “Stephen can’t resist us now. There’s no way.
Derby
’s come over,
Warwick
and
Northampton
are out of the way—everybody who hasn’t joined the prince is hanging back to see what happens.”

Fulk lay back and folded his left arm behind his head. They had ridden all day to get here and his broken arm hurt. “There is Eustace. The king will certainly try to keep the throne for him, in spite of the Pope.” Eustace was King Stephen’s elder son. “
London
supports him, and the Earl of York and Richard Camville and Richard de Luci. And there’s William d’Ypres. I doubt—”

Somebody knocked on the door, and the squire
Leicester
had brought with him went to answer it.
Leicester
said swiftly, “Something must be done about Eustace.” He stood back and looked at the door, and Fulk thought, Something foul, or he wouldn’t care who hears him. Rannulf came in, with Roger behind him. Roger stood to one side.

Throwing off his cloak, Rannulf dumped it on the bed. His face was flushed and his eyes shone with excitement. “Everyone’s here, Father, it’s like Christmas. Good evening, my lord.”

Leicester
smiled. “Good evening to you, my lord. Where did you find Christmas in Tutbury in June?”

“All the people he grew up with are here,” Fulk said. “Where have you been?”

“In the town. A lot of people are staying there.” Rannulf gestured broadly.

“My lord,” Roger said, “our camp is orderly, but there’s a question over booty.”

Leicester
muttered something under his breath. Roger glanced at him.

“There’s always a problem over booty,” Fulk said. “Who got our share?”

“They just say they didn’t get enough—they were kept out of the looting.”

Leicester
cleared his throat. “Someone had to stay and guard the baggage train, Fulk. I’m sure the prince will make amends.”

“I’m sure he will.”

There was another knock on the door, and Roger went to open it.
Leicester
avoided Fulk’s eye. Obviously with Fulk gone they had thought it safe to rob his men.

“My lord
Stafford
?” A young man Fulk didn’t know pushed forward between Rannulf and Roger. His eyes leaped from
Leicester
to Fulk.

“I’m
Stafford
.”

“Sir, my lord the Duke of Normandy, Prince Henry, requests that you attend him at your pleasure in the great hall.” He had a crisp, clipped voice and a strong Angevin accent; his clothes were marvelous. Clearly he was surprised to find Fulk half undressed. Fulk sprawled on the bed.