THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (25 page)

“God’s bones,” Rannulf said. “There’s none but old men here.”

Fulk laughed. He steered them toward one of the few trees left unchained at the edge of the field. “We all know how to get good camps. Mark, we’ll have enough knights out here for melees all day long, and the younger ones will wear themselves out coming in from camps back in the woods.” He dismounted, stretching his right arm. “Giles. How have you been, my lord?”

Giles Constable walked over from the next tree. Behind him, his men had laid out his armor in a row on the ground; his horses were tethered to a rope stretched between two trees. Giles was naked to the waist, his square chest covered with old scars, and his nose had been broken so often it was shapeless.

“Fulk,” he said. “You aren’t going to fight? I saw you last covered with bandages.”

“How often do we have a tournament?” Fulk pulled off his coat and threw it on the ground. Morgan was setting out his lances, his swords and his mail and helmets, on a piece of white cloth on the ground. Fulk flexed his arm. “It’s stiff, but I’ll account for it. How’s the field?”

"Soft. It won’t be bad for the first few melees, but I won’t like to ride over it this afternoon. Earn your ransoms this morning. That’s your son, isn’t it?”

Fulk introduced them. “Who is the herald?”

“De Tiernée. Are you fighting, sir?” To Rannulf.

“Yes, my lord.”

“First tournament?” Giles looked from Rannulf to Fulk and back again.

“We had one when I was knighted, my lord. None since.”

“Ah. Easy picking.” Giles clouted Fulk across the shoulders. “You’ll need extra ransoms to pay his off.” With a guffaw, he tramped back to his camp; Fulk made an obscene gesture at his back.

“Watch out, now, he’ll be after you. He’s too damned old and fat to fight experienced men.” Fulk swung around to watch his groom check his horse’s legs. “I hate to dwell on it, but I do like that horse.”

“You paid well enough for him.” Rannulf stripped off his coat and shirt. “When does it start?” His voice sounded unnaturally high.

“As soon as we’re ready we’ll go up and put ourselves into the first melee.”

The field was ringing solidly with little camps, and more groups of men rode up while he watched. A dozen men were walking over the field, staring at the ground and squinting to see the sun. Morgan held out the quilted yellow linen jacket Fulk wore under his mail. Rannulf was talking to his groom. His boy’s body seemed soft and white, too slender for strength, too flexible. Fulk looked down at his own chest, seamed, like Giles’, with old white scars; he was as thin as Rannulf, just as hairless. Hastily he put on his jacket.

“Let’s walk the field.”

Rannulf followed him out into the long meadow. Several other men strode past them; already there were paths worn into the thick, high grass. Fulk kicked at the earth.

“It’s soft, as he said. The sun will dry it and they’ll fight in the dust this afternoon.” He looked at the sun, wondering if they all did this for any reason or simply to look intelligent and experienced. Rannulf called out to someone and waved.

“Rocks here,” a knight shouted, in the middle of the field. He waved gaily to everybody else. “Rocks.” Fulk snorted.

The sun was brightening and growing hotter, and there was no breeze. Fulk walked down to the far end of the field, smiling and waving to the men he knew. The field was perfectly level, large enough to fight twenty to a side, and the trees around it gave them shade to rest in and watch from. He was going to enjoy this. He turned and laughed at Rannulf, who was frowning at a tuft of grass at his feet.

“Hummocky,” Rannulf said. “It could trip up the horses.”

“Never. Let’s go, there’s more than enough here now.”

They walked back across the ground toward their camp. Two knights, mounted and armed, loped past them toward the end of the field, where the fighters were gathering.

“You are a fool to do this, you know,” Rannulf said. “In your condition.”

“My condition is one of intense anticipation. Don’t talk to me as if I were the son and you the father. There’s Thierry.”

Thierry was in their camp, talking to Morgan; he stooped over the young man, and his winning smile flashed. All the great men in Henry’s army knew of the proposed settlement with the king except Thierry, because he might tell the prince, and therefore Rannulf did not know, because Fulk was afraid he would tell Thierry. He thrust that out of his mind. Stepping across a neat pile of lances, he went up to Thierry.

“Good morning, uncle.”

“Good morning, Fulk. Hello, Rannulf, are you excited?”

“I only hope I fight with honor,” Rannulf said piously.

“Well,” Thierry said, “no man could say more of you than that.” He and Rannulf shook hands.

Fulk withdrew to the foot of the tree. Morgan dragged over his hauberk and helmet. Thierry and Rannulf stood talking—Thierry’s wide gestures milled the air around Rannulf’s head, and Rannulf stepped back one stride, pretending to duck. They spoke a moment longer and Thierry embraced him. Fulk pulled on his hauberk, and Morgan laced up the sides. The weight of the mail on his shoulders and arms always took a moment to get used to; he walked around, swinging his arms, straining his right arm to limber up the muscles.

“Remember your honor,” he said to Rannulf, when Thierry had gone. “Remember you’re worth a high ransom, too, and you have to pay it,
notI.
Hurry and we can fight in the first melee. It’s always the best.”

Edwyr, his groom, led up the chestnut stallion. Fulk looked quickly for Roger and saw that he had already gone, with one of his squires. “Hurry up, Rannulf!” He was bursting with energy and excitement, like a young man; he vaulted into his saddle, and Morgan held up his helmet.

Rannulf had been kneeling in prayer. He rose, crossing himself and stood while his squire put on his mail. Morgan brought Fulk a lance. Red and white ribbons streamed from the tip.

“Keep your back to the east, my lord,” Morgan said.

Fulk tucked the lance under his arm and made the chestnut curvet. The stallion began to dance, its heavy neck arched, and he leaned forward and scratched it quickly along the base of the mane. Rannulf climbed up onto his rangy black and took his helmet and lance, and they started at a trot across the field.

The chestnut was rank, and pulled so hard that Fulk nearly lost his seat; it tried to kick Rannulf’s horse, squealed, bucked, and lunged against the bit. Fulk jerked it hard in the mouth.
Derby
on his giant bay cantered by, his horse’s chin tucked in against its chest and spume streaming from its jaws.

Fulk said, “Remember to keep moving, and try and stay in front of the first charge. That thing you ride will sprawl if you don’t keep him together, too. Damn you, I wish you’d take that bay of mine, he’d be good for you.”

“I’m very well used to this horse, and he knows me. Your horses all have bad manners.”

“That’s because you can’t ride. They don’t have bad manners for me.” The chestnut leaped violently to one side, and Fulk kicked off his stirrup and spurred it hard in the ribs. Rannulf trotted along with a smug look on his face, his helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, neat as a grandmother.

De Tiernée had raised a banner at the head of the field and stood under it, leaning on a staff to ease his bad leg. “Fulk,” he said, when they rode up. “I knew that was you, my lord, stuck like a burr up on that huge horse. My lord Ledgefield.”

“Fulk,”
Chester
roared, from a group of men milling around not far away. “I’ll have
Stafford
of you today, with you just out of splints.”

“Did you drink last night,
Chester
?” Fulk shouted.

Half the men listening laughed. One called, “Drank all night and didn’t sleep, my lord. Mark the temper he’s in. De Tiernée, when may we go?”

“Now,” de Tiernée said, “if
Stafford
stays here and Ledgefield gets himself over to the other side. Twenty-two knights each.”

Chester
howled and clapped his hands together. “Now we’ll make up for this sham of
Wallingford
. Go on!”

Rannulf said, “God be with you, Father,” in a voice that squeaked, and galloped off toward the far end of the field. Fulk reined over to join the line next to
Chester
. The knights swore and horses kicked in a sudden tangle of moving bodies; abruptly the line straightened into an even rank of horsemen, their lances raised at salute.

“Damn you,” Fulk said to
Chester
. “Learn to hold secrets, will you?”

Chester
put on his helmet. His broad red face disappeared behind the iron nosepiece, and his voice sounded hollow. “Haven’t you told him? Everybody else knows. Both your uncle and the prince are fighting on the far side.”

“Prince Henry,” Fulk said, surprised. “With none of the usual ceremony? How un-French of him.”

“But romantic, of course.”
Chester
’s laughter boomed inside his helmet. “I’ll take him my prisoner if I can.”

Fulk grimaced. The chestnut was chewing on the bit, grinding it between its teeth so that Fulk’s hair stood on end. He looked at de Tiernée, who was watching the far side of the field.

The knights there stretched from one side of the meadow to the other—it was much narrower at that end; their line had not filled in yet, but while Fulk watched, horses moved up into the gaps, shifting and dancing. The field ran north and south, so that the sun shone across it, glinting on the polished chain mail and the harness of the horses, and from each raised lance scarves and ribbons fluttered. A few of them had painted their shields, and patches of color showed in the line, but mostly it was the gray of armor. Fulk looked back at de Tiernée, holding his breath, and when de Tiernée raised the horn to his lips he backed the chestnut up in a rush, like cocking a crossbow, and let him go.

The chestnut bolted, and an instant later the horn blasted, so that the red horse was already reaching stride while the others stood flat-footed. Half a dozen other knights had used the same trick, up and down the line, so that when Fulk shot forward into the open, he was galloping head to head with a horse four spaces away from him on either side.

Across the green meadow, a front rank of eight knights and a rearguard of fourteen charged toward them. Their shadows flew over the tall grass, and their lances fluttered with ribbons like wings. Fulk picked out a man on a brown horse, smaller than the chestnut, and veered to meet him, The space of green grass between them shrank to a ribbon.

Fulk lowered his lance, set his shield, and put the red horse straight at the brown. They ran together, and all up and down the line lances cracked and shattered and men roared.

Fulk had misjudged the angle. His lance struck off center, and he braced himself to meet the other man’s good strike. The lance smashed into the center of his shield and slammed him back into the cantle of his saddle, knocking the breath out of him. At the same time he felt the shock of his own lance splintering. He dropped it, the brown horse swept by him, and he hauled his chestnut around after him.

The brown horse was turning slowly. The knight whirled a mace over his head, but the brown horse, leaning into its turn, was still off balance. Fulk hurled the red horse into it, and the brown stumbled to its knees.

The knight swung his mace, and Fulk ducked behind his shield and struck out awkwardly over his horse’s neck. The man’s shield broke in half under his blade. Lurching to its feet, the brown horse spun to put its rider into position to strike back, and he and Fulk hacked at each other, their horses circling shoulder to shoulder, while the fighting surged on around them.

Each terrific blow of the mace jarred Fulk’s shield-arm to the shoulder, and his right arm, so long unused, was aching with fatigue before he’d struck four blows. But the other knight had only a tiny piece of his shield left and had to work to defend himself. Twice he nearly hit Fulk on in the head with his mace. At the second one, he gave a hoarse, wordless shout, and Fulk cried, “Slow, slow,” and warded off the mace with his sword blade and spurred the chestnut, which was forcing the brown horse back on its hocks.

“Ware, ware,” the knight on the brown horse shouted, and Fulk hauled on his reins—a rider less horse charged down on them, and they whirled their horses out of the way to let it pass. The knight on the brown horse shouted to him, and Fulk shouted back, but two fighting knights swept into the gap between them. Fulk galloped off to find someone else.

The field was packed with fighting men. Loose horses raced aimlessly around. Some men were fighting on foot, and others were riding off and on the field. Fulk passed
Chester
clubbing away at a man on a wounded horse, but he saw nothing of Rannulf. He reined his horse at a hard gallop down the field, looking for him.

Abruptly, kicking up dust with every stride, Thierry on his tall gray horse charged down on him, sword drawn. Fulk gathered his reins and wheeled to meet his charge. Thierry raised his sword a little in salute, and Fulk thrust his feet into his stirrups and took a deep seat. Thierry was a veteran of this. He set the chestnut to ram the tall gray.