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

Prince Henry’s favor. He could not take him prisoner. Rannulf’s voice in his ear droned prayers, earnestly intoned.
    The priest had a deep voice, good with the Latin, but he was slow. Fulk’s knees began to quiver. Just before he would have had to sit, they all knelt, and he relaxed as much as he could. They said King Henry had chosen Roger of Salisbury because of the speed with which he said Mass, and there was something to be said for that after all. He spoke the prayers with the others, the words coming up from long memory, from long usage familiar to his lips.
    They stood. Rannulf’s voice wavered, and tears shone on his cheeks. Hugh prayed with his usual gusto. How different they were. Hugh had been raised in Pembroke’s household, and Fulk rarely saw him. More a Clare than one of Fulk’s blood. He fought down the desire to look at Thierry again—he could always say he hadn’t seen him. The priest spoke of the justice and mercy of God and of the loneliness of each soul apart from Him.
    Even death had its uses for Holy Church . He had told her that power was not base. His head swam. Stay on my feet. Just to his left Rannulf was praying softly, in a quaking voice. He could lean on Rannulf. He gripped his hands together in an attitude of prayer and watched the altar dissolve into one long blur. A tremendous buzz sounded in his ears.
    Kneel. He collapsed to his knees, and his head cleared; a rush of cool air filled his lungs. All through the chapel, voices rose in the Credo. He should think about her. He should be sorrowful. She was happier dead. Certainly hope so, he thought, since she is.
    Unbidden the memory leaped into his mind of their wedding in the cathedral at Caen, and how then they had mouthed the things their elders had taught them to say, understanding almost nothing. Bewildered little boy and unhappy bewildered little girl. She’d wanted to become a nun. All girls did at her age. He did not remember what he had wanted. Certainly not Margaret; she had been fat as the Martinmas hog even then.
    Twenty years since, he mouthed the things his elders had taught him to say and understood almost nothing. They had never come closer together than that day. They were strangers when she died. But he thought of times they’d been together, always fighting—on the day Rannulf was born they had fought over names and godparents and nurses; and regret and loneliness filled him, and tears burned in his eyes.

 
     
    His hands rammed into his belt, Chester said, “Your lady’s death is a sorrow to us all, Fulk. You have my grief attending yours.”
    “Thank you.” Fulk waved off a page with a platter of cut fruit. “She was a great-hearted woman, you know. She kept faith with me, in her own way. I wish I’d listened to her more. You brought a strange guest to me.”
    Chester ’s bushy brows rose. His fleshy face was pocked with small deep scars, and he never blinked, so that his bulging pale eyes had a stony stare. “It was Leicester ’s idea. Thierry is a good drinking companion for the prince. Would you prefer I’d left him there?”
    “Not at all.” Two of the Clares came up, and Fulk took a step to one side to greet them. “Excuse me.”
    “My lord,” the taller of the two said, clutching Fulk’s good hand. “God be with you in your bereavement.”
    “And with you, sir, to have lost your kinswoman. I’m very pleased you came.” The other was mumbling condolences and striving fiercely to catch hold of Fulk’s right hand, buried in the sling, and Fulk pulled his fingers away with his left. “I beg your pardon.”
    “Philip.” The taller one smiled and drew the other away.
    “God bless you, my lord.”
    “And you.” Bowing, they left him.
    “Byzantines,” Chester said, drinking. Red wine dribbled down his chin. He stood with his feet widespread and his stomach thrown forward, like a woman with child. “They’re all Byzantines.” It was his word for anyone he didn’t like. “Look at