THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) by Cecelia Holland Page A

"Nonetheless I feel a kinship."
    Fulk hoped that was an illusion. Chester was wearing a belt of gold links that caught the sun. “That’s a very fine belt, my lord.”
    “I got it here, in Tutbury,” Chester said. “Maybe you can find one on your way south. I’ll watch over your heir while you’re gone.” He bowed elaborately to Rannulf. “Good luck, Fulk. Watch that spider of an uncle of yours.” He swaggered off across the courtyard, surrounded by his hangers-on.
    “He agrees with you about Thierry,” Rannulf said.
    Fulk’s head bobbed. “Roger, we should get down to the camp.”
    “I don’t think you want to, really,” Roger said. He held Fulk’s horse by the bridle while Fulk mounted. “Good morning, my lord.”
    “Hello, Roger,” Rannulf said.
    Fulk slung his leg forward over his horse’s shoulder and bent down to check his girth. “Rannulf, there’s your squire.”
    “I see him.” Rannulf plunged off across the courtyard to get his horse. Roger mounted and stretched his arms over his head.
    “What’s wrong in the camp?” Fulk asked.
    “We were gone too long—they’re lazy bastards, they go around telling each other what to do and do nothing themselves.”
    “We’ll have a good hard march to get them in shape again.”
    Talking, they rode down toward the castle gate; they passed a group of men, standing and talking, and Fulk raised his hand to them. One of them called his name and stepped backward out of the group, turning toward him. Fulk stopped his horse. At first he didn’t recognize the man, but when he came up to him he saw that it was William Louvel, a Norman knight.
    “My lord,” Louvel said. “God be with you—are you going now?”
    “As soon as I can. You’re with the prince, aren’t you?”
    “Yes. Aren’t you?” Louvel scratched Fulk’s horse under the jaw, and it rubbed its head against his arm.
    “In a manner of speaking. He’s sent me off to ride his flank, and, by the way, take Sulwick Castle . Have you ever been there?”
    Louvel shook his head positively. “I have never heard of it. Where is it?”
    “Southeast of my castle of Bruyère-le-Forêt , in Hertford.” Through the tail of his eye he saw Rannulf coming on his chestnut horse. “Well. I’ll see you again in Wallingford . Don’t take it all before I get there.”
    With a laugh, Louvel stood back. “God support you. Good marching.” He went back toward his friends, and Fulk, Rannulf, and Roger went out the gate, into the steep narrow streets of Tutbury.
    “How far east of us will you be riding?” Rannulf said.
    Fulk reined his horse around a hole in the road. On either side, rows of thatched roofs descended the hill like steps. “Not far. A few days away. If the king tries to cut Henry off from Wallingford , we’ll screen your flank and warn you.” All the houses they had passed were empty. Fulk looked curiously in through their gaping doors. The siege had driven out all the people. He heard a muffled clanking inside one hut and bent to see through the door: a lean yellow dog was trying to turn over a broken pot. A wagon rumbled up the street, and Fulk straightened and eased his horse into line behind Roger so that it could pass them. They had to wait while another wagon worked its way around a corner. A brisk wind was blowing the midden smell out of the town.
    Prince Henry intended to march straight on Bedford and seize it before he turned at last to Wallingford . It was Wallingford that had called him into England in January; King Stephen was besieging it steadily and the people had begged Prince Henry to their aid.
    Wallingford stood like gate into the upper valley of the Thames , where most of the fighting of the war had gone on. Stephen had spent much of his reign trying to gain possession of it, although typically he had never pressed a siege to its conclusion. Fulk had been there only once. The heavy splints on his arm hurt him, and he tried to shift the weight.
    “God’s bones.