THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) Read online

  “What did you say?”

  “That people are always harshest with the people they’ve wronged.”

  “Thank you. Why did he go?”

  “He knew he couldn’t hold Stafford against you. It isn’t Stafford he wants, anyway. He—”

  “He has no right to Stafford,” Fulk said. “He has no right to anything of the Honor of Bruyère.”

  “I’m not going to argue that. He left her here as surety.”

  Fulk jerked his head around. “Her? Alys? She’s here?”

  “Yes. I think he was tired of her. She wanted to go with him.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the tower.”

  Rannulf’s brown eyes were all but closed; clearly he was pleased with Fulk’s reaction. Fulk frowned at him a moment, ate another slab of meat, and slowly spread honey on the crusty, golden bread.

  “Isn’t it kind of Thierry to leave his problems to me. Gilbert, send a page to the Lady Alys and ask her to attend me.”

  “My lord.”

  Rannulf smiled. “She won’t be a problem to you, my lord. Everybody knows you’re cold to women.”

  Fulk cocked his eyebrows at him. “She’s a Peverel, and I’m on very bad terms with William Peverel. A tender problem.”

  “Have you seen Hugh?”

  “He’s with Pembroke’s army at Stamford, I think.” Hugh was his younger son, a squire with the Earl of Pembroke. “Madelaine’s baby is doing well, your mother says.”

  “You’ve seen Mother? Where?”

  “She met me on the way here. She’ll be at Stafford in a few days.”

  “She’s coming here?” Rannulf got up and moved around the table to another chair, where he could see the door and Fulk in the same glance. “She met you on the way? Whatever for?”

  “For love of me, of course. I never sent a messenger saying I was coming here. I imagine she did. Is the messenger still here?”

  Rannulf shook his head. “He left mmediately. Have you captured Tutbury yet?”

  “It’s only a question of will, of which Prince Henry has a superabundance.”

  “What is he like? This prince.”

  “You’ll find out soon, I hope.”

  “I’ve heard—”

  The door opened, and Rannulf shot to his feet. Skirts rustled. A gaunt woman in middle years came through the door and withdrew to one side of the room. Behind her, Gilbert held the door wide, and the Lady Alys came in.

  Fulk stood up. She was taller than he was, as tall as Rannulf; she wore her dark red hair uncovered, plaited in long braids down her back and woven with extra hair, a style that reminded Fulk of his mother. He thought she had probably been more beautiful when she was more innocent—her eyes, when they met his, shone feverishly, and her mouth was harsh—but he could see why Thierry had taken her beyond the sea and why Rannulf had let her seduce him with his young wife scarcely out of childbed. She looked from him to Rannulf and back to him and sat down.

  “My lady,” Rannulf said. “May I present my lord the Earl of Stafford.”

  She sat in the chair as if she might be attacked, her hands clenched in her lap. “The Earl of Stafford is Thierry Ironhand.”

  Fulk sat down again. “As you wish, my lady. Do you know where he is now?”

  “No.”

  She did know; her answer was too quick to be true. Fulk looked at the waiting woman hovering in the corner. “Did she come with you?”

  “Lady Maud has attended Lady Alys since childhood,” Rannulf said.

  “My, my.” Fulk put his elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin on his fist. “I didn’t ask you. If you want to talk, go somewhere else.”

  Rannulf flushed dark red. Alys gave him a scornful look that made her seem much younger—Fulk tried to remember how old she was and could not. But she was younger than Rannulf.

  “I’m sending you back to your husband, lady.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “No. You can’t do that.”

  “You can’t stay here. I won’t send you to Thierry. Where else can you go?”

  “My husband won’t take me back.”

  “We’ll see what can be done.”

  Rannulf stood up, still ruddy-cheeked. “May I go, my lord?”

  “You have my leave. I’d be pleased if you’d help Roger settle those knights.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Rannulf bowed, exaggerating the courtesy, and strode out. Fulk stared after him. He hated his children to treat him formally, and they knew it. The door slammed.

  “Thierry said you were full of small cruelties,” Alys said. “Now I understand.”

  “You don’t. If you had any understanding you wouldn’t be here.”

  Hot color rushed into her face. A page in Rannulf’s livery brought over a jug and a cup and poured wine for her, and she wrenched her gaze from Fulk and stared at the bright stream.

  “I’ll help you with your husband,” Fulk said, “if you help me with my uncle.”

  Her head flew up; she gave him the same scornful look she’d given Rannulf. The flush had left her face, and her skin was white and fine as flax. “I assure you, my lord, that very shortly you’ll need far more help than I could give you against Thierry—more than you’ll find in this kingdom.”

  Fulk leaned back, stretching his legs, and stared at her. That was curious—there was only one reason why she would say that, with Thierry an outlaw and Fulk an earl. He put his head to one side. “So Thierry has gone to make friends with Prince Henry.”

  Her shoulders hunched. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You did indeed.”

  “Henry will be king, and when he is, Thierry will have back everything you stole from him. Thierry will be Earl of Stafford."

  “That I never took from him. Prince Henry’s mother the empress appointed me earl long after Thierry was outlawed. The only land Thierry ever held by right was Beck. Unfortunately for Thierry’s pretensions, Prince Henry has already found me to be of more use than Thierry ever could. Do you think you’ll be a countess?”

  She said nothing; her mouth screwed up into a sullen pout, and he sat upright, irritated with her. “You should pack up what you brought here. I’ll send you to Peverel tomorrow. Lady Maud, attend your mistress.” He stood up.

  Alys stayed in her chair. One of the braids hung over her shoulder into her lap, and she wound its end furiously around her forefinger. Her face was inscrutable. Abruptly, she said, her eyes on his face, “You can’t send me back. I won’t go. I’ll run away again.”

  “Like Thierry.”

  “Thierry didn’t run from you. Don’t delude yourself that Thierry ran away from you.”

  Fulk poured himself ale. “Go away, or you’ll tempt me to more of my small cruelties.”

  “Swine.” Her maid was pulling at her sleeve, trying to draw her off. Alys rose. “I hope I am there when Thierry catches you.”

  Roger came in through the open door. Alys marched out past him, Maud at her heels, and Roger turned to watch her go. “Is that Red Alys?” he said.

  Fulk stood in front of the fire warming his hands; he nodded and gestured toward the ale on the table. “Indeed. Thierry’s loving cup, drunk to the lees.”

  Roger picked up the ewer. “She looks as if there’s something sweet left in her.”

  Fulk got a poker and jabbed the fire with it. “Don’t talk of her like that. Her grandfather was an earl.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Roger said, surprised. “I’m sorry.”

  Fulk stabbed the fire; a log burst with a shower of sparks.

  He opened his eyes into the pitch dark; the nightlight on the table beside his bed had gone out. Lying still under the weight of the covers, he tried to remember where he was and could not. He heard the breathing of the two pages sleeping at the foot of his bed; his ears strained, trying to hear the sound that had wakened him.

  I am in Stafford. With the realization, the room settled itself around him, no longer alien, and he knew what he was listening for. Obligingly
, it came almost at once: a low wail, like a sick animal or the wind, just beyond the window. He did not think it was the wind. He squirmed deeper into the close warmth of the covers. Nearly every night he’d slept here, he’d heard that cry.

  The first time he’d been sleeping in this bed with his grandparents, and it had wakened him then, too. His grandfather had told him to comfort him that no one but a lord of Stafford ever heard the cry.

  It sounded again, seeming farther away, soft and lonely. It no longer frightened him, it only made him sad.

  “Thierry will not have Stafford,” his grandfather had said.

  Thierry from his early youth had gone out wandering and fighting. Back in the days of King Henry before the long wars started, Thierry like a stormy petrel had broken the peace and defied the law as if he knew that with the old king’s death peace and law would both be gone, while Fulk tamely served the old lord. So when the old man died, he gave Fulk the Honor of Bruyère and Thierry only the manor of Beck, in Yorkshire. I was fifteen, I never meant to take his inheritance, and what should I have done, outmurdered him? He swung his legs over the side of the bed, into the chilly air. A dog was sleeping on the floor, and he nuzzled his toes into the coarse fur until in the dark a wet tongue came stroking his feet.

  “Merry,” he whispered. In the dark something thumped on the floor. “Merry, up. Up.”

  The dog moved, brushing against his legs, and a weight landed heavily on the bed beside him. Fulk put his arms around it. The dog squirmed, licking his face, and patted him with its forepaw. My grandfather whipped me once for having dogs in the bed. “Good boy. Good dog.” The dog licked his ear, breathing with a roar.

  “My lord?” a sleepy page’s voice called.

  “Go stir up the fire in the antechamber and bring me a gown.” He rubbed his face into the dog’s shaggy coat.

  A candle came through the air toward him, a page barely lit behind it, and lowered to the wick of the nightlight. The flame was reflected in the dog’s eyes. The page saw the dog on the bed and opened his mouth to order it down, and the dog pressed its shoulder against Fulk. The page went off briskly.

  “Get down, Merry.” The other page had come up with a gown. Fulk pushed the dog off the bed and stood up, and the pages hurried him into the gown and put shoes on his feet.

  "Are you thirsty, my lord?”

  “No. Go back to sleep.” He cinched a belt around his waist and took the candle. “Is the fire going?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He went into the antechamber; the dog followed, its nails clicking on the floor. Before he shut the door, he heard the pages talking softly, over near their bed. They were talking about him, they had nothing else to talk about. He shut the door and went over to the fire, where Gilbert had left the records of the estates. This room was warmer than his bedroom, facing the courtyard, away from the wind; the firelight glowed along the wood of the chairs, the table. He sat down, pushed aside the rolls of revenues and tenants’ dues, and found parchment and got out a pen and ink.

  While he was trimming the pen, the dog wandered around the room, sniffing at corners.

  “Merry. Lie down.”

  The dog came over to the hearth and flopped on its stomach, its head on its great paws, and sighed. Fulk unstopped the jar of ink and dipped in the pen.

  “To the Earl of Leicester, from Fulk de Bruyère of Stafford, greeting.”

  The neat words moving across the page settled him, and the strangeness of waking up in the middle of the night left him.

  “I have spoken to Earl Robert, as we agreed, and he listened with an eager ear. I believe that he will join the prince if the siege of Tutbury is pressed and if we approach him properly. He is concerned for the protection of his lands that lie close to those of the Earl of Chester and it is my opinion that he can be won through that concern.”

  He dipped the pen into the ink again, thinking; Derby had gone into revolt because the prince had granted certain Peverel lands to Chester, and Derby was a cousin of William Peverel. Derby seemed willing to overloook that now, but it had to be settled. “You should see that he agrees to the prince’s grants of land to Chester when you treat with him, or he may use that later as an excuse to break the agreement.”

  Lifting his head, he listened for the cry that had wakened him, but in this room he had never heard it. Once when he’d been very young he had crawled out the bedroom window looking for its source and had nearly fallen forty feet to the ground. Leicester knew why he had come to Stafford and would want to know about Thierry. Fulk leaned back in the chair, shifting so that the fire warmed his other side. He wondered if Thierry had ever heard the cry.

  “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.”