THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) by Cecelia Holland Read Free Book Online Page B

Madeline. The bed in there had been his grandfather’s deathbed, too.
    He still had to go inspect the abandoned monastery. He and Roger could go today, it was still only mid-morning, and the monastery was not so far away. The thought of spending the rest of the day away from the castle and its air of dying lightened his spirits, and he went down the stairs into the courtyard, looking for Roger.
     
    "They say the forest is packed with outlaws,” Roger said. He reined his horse around a small tree in their path. “None of the garrison has actually seen any, of course.” He smiled.
    Fulk grunted. Looking back, he could see the red stone mass of the castle on the hill behind them, the highest hill, the steepest. Sheep were grazing on the slope below the wall.
    “The rumor’s always worse. It does more damage, at least.” The air smelled of the wet ground and the yew woods. “Let’s go down past the river.”
    They rode along the foot of a low hill and around it, single file where the trees grew thickly, and came to the river. Here, it ran swiftly between low banks, not very wide, but difficult to cross without a bridge. They followed it a while, looking for a ford. Once or twice they crossed footpaths leading down to the water—a few herders had their cottages nearby; once Fulk smelled the pine smoke from a hearth. The trees grew thickly down to the river, so that they had to smash their way through thickets of thorny brush.
    The river veered off around a hill, and when they rounded the bend, Fulk saw that a flat barge was tied up to the far bank, near a hut with a brush fence.
     
    “Wulfric the Fisher,” Roger said. “He’s made a wall around his house.”
    “Not all he’s made.” Someone had tied ropes across the river, between two trees, to draw the barge back and forth. “It seems that Wulfric the Fisher is now Wulfric the Ferryman. Come on, let’s see if he’ll take us across.” He kicked his horse into a trot and rode down toward the bank.
    Whoever had built the ferry had used craft; the rope ran through a block and tackle hitched to the trunk of a tree. While Roger shouted across the river, Fulk investigated the workmanship. There was a similar arrangement on the drawbridge at Stafford Castle . Wulfric often brought river fish to the castle kitchens and he might have gotten the idea there.
    A man had come out of the hut across the way and was unmooring the barge, shouting all the while. Roger turned to Fulk. “What is he saying?”
    Fulk listened—Wulfric was speaking English. “Something about the horses. We can’t take both across at once. We’ll leave mine here and come back for it, but I’ll go with you. I want to see what his toll is.”
    The barge swam empty across the river toward them. In Fulk’s ear the rope groaned and shrilled through the pulleys. Roger stepped down the bank to haul the barge up against it, and Fulk called, “Don’t—leave it out a little, we can take the horse into the water.” The weight of the horse might ground the boat. He led Roger’s horse into the knee deep water. Pebbles crunched under his boots. The horse threw up its head and snorted, rolling its eyes at the barge, but when Roger took its bridle it followed him docilely onto the flat bottom. Fulk pushed the stern away from the bank and threw one leg across the gunwale, and Roger grabbed his arm and pulled him in. The barge wallowed slowly back toward the other side.
    Wulfric was hauling with all his strength on the ropes. Fulk sat in the stern, watching him, impressed by the man’s skill. When they were nearly to him, Wulfric looked up; apparently he recognized Fulk, because for a moment he stopped pulling and glanced around wildly. Roger reached up and took hold of the rope over his head and hauled them onto the bank.
    “So, Wulfric,” Fulk said. “You’ve become a ferryman in my absence.” He walked carefully up to the bow of the barge and stepped onto dry land.
    Wulfric bowed several times,