Priscilla Royal - Valley of Dry Bones

In the spirit of that greeting, Ralf scowled back.

“The whore is comely enough for a Saxon, brother, but I had hoped you’d choose a creature of better birth for your leman.”

Flint could not have sparked fire quicker than the time it took for Ralf to wrap his hands around his brother’s throat.

Fulke’s eyes bulged with the need for air, and he impotently swung his fists in defense.

“You bawd!” Ralf roared. “She is Tostig’s sister!”

“Remember Cain and Abel, Master Crowner,” Gytha cried out from the doorway. “Might you not regret killing your brother-someday?”

He shoved Fulke onto the dirt floor, and then wiped his boots on the man as he lay gasping. “Aye, you have the right of it, Mistress Gytha. Were I to murder the badling, I would spend eternity with him in Hell instead of having some hope of Purgatory and a more peaceful torment.”

“You show wisdom in that logic, good sir,” she replied.

“He insulted you. I shall not tolerate it.” Ralf folded his arms and watched his brother’s cheeks fade from a shade much like that of ripe plums.

“For defending my honor, my lord, I am grateful to you. Remember that God does teach that truth will vanquish all of Satan’s lies in time.” Gytha smiled. “I have stayed overlong in visiting your daughter’s maid and must return to Prioress Eleanor’s service.” With a mischievous wink, Gytha gave the crowner obeisance proper to their difference in rank and disappeared out the door.

Ralf knew he was grinning like a boy.

Fulke had pulled himself back onto the bench and was reaching for a mazer. “Assault on king’s man. Arrest you,” he croaked, rubbing uselessly at the muck on his robe left by his brother’s foot. “Filth. Costly.”

“Honest dirt. More honest than the night soil you roll in at court. As for arresting me, think again about the consequences. You claim that no rational man would ever live in this land. If you did not have me as your crowner, King Edward might insist you take up residence in Tyndal village in my stead.” He looked into the jug and poured his brother some cider. “This is better drink than you deserve.”

With a grimace, Fulke swallowed it and held out the mazer for more.

Ralf drew the jug back. “What did you say or do to Tostig’s sister before I arrived?”

“Little enough.”

“She is Prioress Eleanor’s maid, you pocky boor. If you so much as brushed her robe…”

“A lay sister?” To his credit, Fulke paled.

“Nay, but she was a virgin before you came here.”

“And remains so.”

Ralf poured more into the cup and set the jug down. “Why did you come to trouble me?”

Fulke swallowed with a wince. “Your daughter needs a proper mother. I have a wife for you.”

“To be more precise, you have hatched another plot involving land.”

“Richer ground for farming and located in a place better suited to the raising of sheep. Even your befuddled wits must understand that wool is profitable.”

“What advantage comes to you from this?”

He shrugged. “Did you care the last time I found a suitable wife for you?”

“You do naught unless you benefit. I later learned my wife’s brother sided with you on a scheme that brought you both increased wealth.”

“And did your marriage bring you nothing you value?” Fulke replied, brushing aside his brother’s accusation with a sweep of his hand.

Ralf nodded readily enough as he gestured toward the sound of his daughter’s voice outside.

“Your child, of course,” Fulke said, “and this lovely bit of muck as well, near the village you so adore. All of which, I must remind you, reverts to your daughter and her husband when she comes of an age to marry. I hope you are making use of the income now to buy land for yourself.”

“Any profit is used to improve my daughter’s birthright from her mother. As for me, I earned enough spoils from my days as a mercenary to live on.”

“Live like a wild boar, you mean. You need another wife with land who can bear sons, Ralf, or are your wits so addled that you have forgotten how a man is best served by seeding boys in fertile women?”

“Then do your duty, brother, and leave me alone.”

“My wife has birthed many dead babes and now seems no longer able to bear. Odo has either truly chosen chastity or else hides his bastards. It seems God has cursed our family. Whatever I might prefer in this matter, our very survival lies in your loins. If it makes you happier, I would have chosen the matter to be otherwise.”

Ralf looked away.

“I promise you she is a good woman. You and I may be ill-matched as brothers, but I have never abused you.”

“Not since I grew tall enough to abuse you back.” The crowner gazed at his hands. “Nay, the woman you had me wed was a better creature than I deserved. I do not doubt that this current one is much the same.”

“Then you agree?” Fulke’s eyes widened with delight.

“I refuse.” Ralf stood up and walked to the door, closing it firmly.

“Surely you have not become besotted, once again, with Anne, the physician’s daughter…”

“…who married John and took vows with him at Tyndal Priory? Nay.” He leaned his back against the door.

“Then what objection could you possibly have for rejecting a profitable alliance which also brings your child a mother?”

“My reason is simple enough. When I agreed to your first marriage arrangement, I was indebted to you for finding me a place at court when I needed refuge. That debt has been repaid, and now I have no reason to agree to another of your schemes. Should I choose to marry again, I shall do as I please. If God wishes our family to thrive and grants sons of my body, they will come from a wife of my choosing.”

“Not from here!” With a look of horror, Fulke gestured at the ground as if he expected a barely human creature to spring from the dust. “Surely you jest? You must have met someone suitable in Norwich,” he added hopefully. “If so, let me speak with her family.”

Ralf shook his head.

“You cannot wed beneath your rank. Third son though you may be, you are still my brother. Since I am head of this family, you are obligated to obey me, and I will not allow you to wed without my approval!”

“Think again, sweet brother. The little I inherited at our father’s death, I gave over to you when I left England. What I own in my name alone, I earned from the sharpness of my sword, if not my wits. As for obligation, I wed once at your behest and you did profit well enough methinks. If there is anything owed between us, you are the debtor, not I.”

Fulke fell silent and stared warily at the crowner. “What do you think I owe you, brother?”

“My silence,” Ralf replied, his lips twisting into a thin smile.

“Sir Hugh saw our party off and sends his greetings, my lady.”

With a gracious smile, Eleanor conveyed her appreciation of the baron’s message, although she was surprised to hear her eldest brother had returned to court so quickly. Their father had included nothing about this when he last sent news, saying only that Hugh had safely arrived in England not long after the king.

The ruddy-faced Otes now turned his attention to the sub-prioress, honoring her with a flash of his widely spaced teeth. “And I had the pleasure of a brief word with your brother before I left the king’s side.”

Sister Ruth blushed.

Seeing her adversary turn bashful over a common civility amused Eleanor, although she acknowledged that this response was mildly sinful, unquestionably uncharitable, and ought to be dismissed with stern resolve. Her effort was not as swift as virtue required.