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

They haven’t even loaded the wagons.” He kicked his horse into a jog down the last street to the plain. The camps of the other lords in Tutbury stretched out on either side, all boiling with action; in the center of Fulk’s camp the train of wagons stood empty and waiting. Some of the men still sat around their dead fires eating bread and drinking watered wine. Fulk rode through the camp to the wagons.
    “Here,” Roger shouted, and rode into the middle of a circle of men not far away. “You and you, go bring those barrels here and load them on. You, go fetch the oxen. You and you—”
    To Rannulf, Fulk said, “How long were we gone? They knew better before we left for Stafford .” But his pleasure at the thought of leaving would not fade. The sun was already hot; he shaded his eyes to look across the camp. Roger like a high wind swept through it, and in his wake men leaped up and ran around, gathering their gear, picking up, and bringing barrels and chests and bundles up to the wagons.
    Rannulf said, “If I were you, my lord—look, is that Simon d’Ivry?”
    “Yes.” Simon was one of a pack of young knights surrounding Thierry, who stood head and shoulders above them all, his head bowed like a kindly tutor listening to his charges. Rannulf pulled his horse up behind Fulk’s.
    “I haven’t seen Simon—I’ll go talk to him, if you don’t mind. Hello, Morgan. Father, mark you don’t go before I see you again.” He raced off across the camp toward Thierry, dodging the men working in his way.
    Fulk grunted. The men around him were finally loading the wagons, swearing at the weights of the chests and barrels. There was little enough—salted meat, flour, kegs for water; they would have only half a dozen wagons in all. Morgan was making himself busy.
    “Morgan. Find me a piece of sheepskin. Not too large.”
    Roger was coming back. Two teams of oxen, dragging their traces, trudged up to the first of the wagons. Fulk had always admired their way of going, never fast but never really slow, their short thick legs stamping down firmly in the dust, decisive. He rode up to watch the carters hitch them to the wagon.
    “We’ll make no pace with those,” a knight said, and snorted.
    Fulk did not reply. Prince Henry would move relatively slowly and Fulk had no wish to outride him. He was pleased that he had been commanded to ride flank. Farther to the east the forage was not so wasted, and everything he did relied on him alone. Morgan came back with a flap of sheepskin.
    “My lord,’ Roger called. He trotted his horse up to Fulk’s; the gray’s neck was blue-black with sweat. “We should be ready to leave at noon.”
    Morgan had climbed up onto the nearest wagon, and Fulk rode closer to him. “I wanted to leave this morning.”
    Morgan was rolling the hide into a fat bundle; he thrust it into Fulk’s armpit to cushion the weight of the splints.
    “If we leave at noon we should reach a good campground before dark.” Roger slapped a mosquito on his neck. “I know we left this camp in good order.”
    “Thank you, Morgan. I should have left you commanding them,” Fulk said to Roger. “They obey you, and they don’t obey de Brise.”
    “Sieges are bad for discipline.”
    Fulk nodded. “Let de Brise and his men ride forward, when we march. Who can ride rearguard?”
    “The men of Bruyère in Normandy , they’re the most orderly.”
    Rannulf rode up, with Simon d’Ivry behind him. “Father, when are you going?”
    “By noon, I think. Good morning, Sir Simon.”
    Simon bowed. “My lord.” He was all Norman , red-faced and red-headed, already massive in the chest and shoulders; Rannulf looked like a reed beside him, although they were the same age. “My lord,” Simon said, “we have a request of you—Sir Thierry Ironhand and I and my men and Sir William and Sir Rabel wish to be vanguard.”
    Fulk glanced at Roger. “We were just discussing that, and we had decided to put the lord of Brise in