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

to stop and let his head settle.
    His household was waiting in the courtyard just outside the door, all in mourning, and when he came out their faces turned toward him in unison. It was a bright, windy day, a vivid English summer day; he looked up at the brilliant blue sky, and his uncertain spirits lifted.
    “Lean on me, Father,” Hugh said, in a muffled voice. Fulk glared at him.
    Rannulf, on his right, peered around Fulk at his brother and whispered, “Leave him alone. He’s well enough.”
    Fulk made his strides longer. Hugh said, “He isn’t. You saw—”
    “Be quiet,” Fulk said, between his teeth. With the household massed around them, they crossed this courtyard to the gate into the churchyard. Roger was standing beside the gate—like Fulk he wore all black.
    “You look well, my lord,” he said quietly.
    “Not as well as I will.”
    “Look among Chester ’s knights.” Roger stood to one side to let him pass.
    With Hugh and Rannulf behind him, he walked into the churchyard where a mass of Margaret’s friends and relatives waited in their fine, somber clothes. Margaret had died while he was still unconscious, and the things left unfinished between them dragged at him like the weight of his bandages. Walking toward the chapel door, he wondered about what Roger had said and decided he knew what it meant.
    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