As the baron’s castle at Hereford loomed into sight, rising in the deepening blue of a twilight summer sky above the thatched rooftops of the busy town, Mérian was overcome by an apprehension so powerful she almost swooned. Her brother, Garran, saw her sway and grasped her elbow to keep her from toppling from her saddle. “Steady there, sister,” he said, grinning at her discomfort. “You don’t want to greet all those highborn Ffreinc ladies covered with muck from the road. They’ll think you a stable hand.”
“Let them think what they will,” she replied, trying to sound imperious and aloof. “I care not.”
“You do,” he asserted. “Twitching like a sparrow with salt on its tail at the mention of the baron’s name. Do you think I haven’t seen?”
“Oh? And would it do you any harm to stand a little closer to the washbasin, brother mine? I doubt highborn Ffreinc ladies look kindly on men who smell of the sty.”
“Listen to that!” Garran hooted. “Your concern is as touching as it is sincere,” he chortled, “but your counsel is misdirected, dear sister. It is yourself you should worry about.”
And worry she did. Mérian had enough anxiety for the whole travelling party, and it twisted her stomach like a wet rag. By the time they reached the foot of the drawbridge spanning the outer ditch of the Neufmarché stronghold, she could scarcely breathe. And then they were riding through the enormous timber gates and reining up in the spacious yard, where they were greeted by none other than the baron himself.
Accompanied by two servants in crimson tunics, each bearing a large silver tray, the baron—his smooth-shaven face gleaming with goodwill—strode to meet them. “Greetings, mes amis!” bellowed the baron with bluff bonhomie. “I am glad you are here. I trust your journey was uneventful.”
“Pax vobiscum,” replied King Cadwgan, climbing down from his saddle and passing the reins to one of the grooms who came running to meet them. “Yes, we have travelled well, praise God.”
“Good!” The baron summoned his servants with a wave of his hand. They stepped forward with their trays, which contained cups filled to the brim with wine. “Here, some refreshment,” he said, handing the cups around. “Drink, and may it well become you,” he said, raising his cup. He sipped his wine and announced, “The celebration begins tomorrow.”
Mérian, having dismounted with the others and accepted the welcome cup, raised the wine to her lips; it was watered and cool and went down with undignified haste. When all had finished their cups, the new arrivals were conducted into the castle. Mérian, marching with the wooden stoicism of the condemned, followed her mother to a set of chambers specially prepared for them. There were two rooms behind a single wooden door; inside each was a single large bed with a mattress of goose down; two chairs and a table with a silver candleholder graced the otherwise bare apartment.
Food was brought to them, the candles lit, and a fire set in the hearth, for though it was a warm summer night, the castle walls were thick and constructed entirely of stone, making the interior rooms autumnal. Having seen to the needs of the baron’s guests, the servants departed, leaving the women to themselves. Mérian went to the window and pushed open the shutter to look out and down upon the massive outer wall. By leaning out from the casement, she could glimpse part of the town beyond the castle.
“Come to the table and eat something,” her mother bade her.
“I’m not hungry.”
“The feast is not until tomorrow,” her mother told her wearily. “Eat something, for heaven’s sake, before you faint.”
But it was no use. Mérian refused to taste a morsel of the baron’s food. She endured a mostly sleepless night and rose early, before her mother or anyone else, and drawn by morbid curiosity, she crept out to see what she could discover of the castle and the way its inhabitants lived. She moved silently along one darkened corridor after another, passing chamber after chamber until she lost count, and came unexpectedly to a large anteroom that contained nothing more than a large stone fireplace and a hanging tapestry depicting a great hunt: fierce dogs and men on horseback chasing stags, hares, wild boars, bears, and even lions, all of which ran leaping through a woodland race. Drawn to the tapestry, she was marvelling at the prodigious size and the tremendous amount of needlework required for such a grand piece when she felt eyes on her back.
Turning quickly, she found that she herself was the object of scrutiny. “Your pardon, Lady Mérian,” said her observer, emerging from the shadowed doorway across the room.
Dressed entirely in black—tunic, breeches, boots, and belt— save for a short crimson cloak neatly folded across his shoulders and fixed with a large brooch of fine yellow gold almost the same colour as his long, flowing hair, he wore a short sword at his side, sheathed in a black leather scabbard.
“Baron Neufmarché,” she said, suddenly abashed. “Forgive me. I did not mean to trespass.”
“Nonsense,” he said, smiling, “I fear it is I who am trespassing— on your enjoyment. I do beg your pardon.” He moved to join her at the tapestry. She gazed at the wall hanging, and he gazed at her. “It is fine, is it not?”
“It is very beautiful,” she said politely. “I’ve never seen the like.”
“A mere trifle compared to you, my lady.”
Blushing at this unexpected compliment, Mérian lowered her head demurely. “Here now!” said the baron. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he raised her face so that he could look into her eyes. “I see I have made you uncomfortable. Again, I must beg your pardon.” He smiled and released her. “That is twice already today, and I have not yet broken fast. Indeed,” he said, as if just thinking of it for the first time, “I was just on my way to the table. Will you join me?”
“Pray excuse me, my lord,” said Mérian quickly, “but my mother will have risen and is no doubt looking for me.”
“Then I must content myself to wait until the feast,” said the baron. “However, before I let you go, you must promise me a dance.”
“My lord, I know nothing of Ffreinc dancing,” she blurted. “I only know the normal kind.”
Neufmarché put back his head and laughed. “Then for you, I will instruct the musicians to play only the musique normale.” Unwilling to embarrass herself further, Mérian gave a small curtsy. “My lord,” she said, backing away, “I give you good day.”
“And good day to you, my lady,” said the baron, smiling as he watched her go.
Mérian ducked her head, turned, and fled back down the corridor the way she had come, pausing at her chamber door to draw a breath and compose herself. She touched the back of her hand to her cheek to see if she could still feel the heat there, but it had gone, so she silently opened the door and entered the room. Her mother was awake and dressed in her gown. “Peace and joy to you this day, Mother,” she said, hurrying to give her mother a kiss on the cheek.
“And to you, my lovely,” replied her mother. “But you are awake early. Where have you been?”
“Oh,” she said absently, “just for a walk to see what I might learn of the castle.”
“Was your father or brother about?”
“No, but I saw the baron. He was going to break his fast.”
“Did you see his wife, the baroness?”
“She was not with him.” Mérian walked to the table and sat down. “Are they really so different from us?”
Her mother paused and considered the question. “I do not know,” she said at last. “Perhaps not. But you must be on your best behaviour, Mérian,” her mother warned, “and on your guard.”
“Mother?”
The queen made no reply but simply raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Whatever do you mean?” persisted Mérian.
“I mean,” said her mother with exaggerated patience, “these Ffreinc noblemen, Mérian. They are rapacious and grasping, ever seeking to advance themselves at the expense of the Britons by any means possible—and that includes marriage.”
“Mother!”
“It is true, Daughter. And
do not pretend the thought of such a thing has never crossed your mind.” Lady Anora gave her daughter a glance of shrewd appraisal and added, “More than one young woman has had her heart turned by a handsome nobleman—Ffreinc, English, Irish, or whatever.”
“I would kill myself first,” Mérian stated firmly. “Of that you can be certain.”
“Nevertheless,” her mother said.
Nevertheless, indeed.
And yet here they were, attending a feast-day celebration in the castle of a wealthy and powerful Ffreinc lord. Her mother was right, she knew, but she still resented such an untoward intrusion into what she considered the affairs of her own secret heart. She might not have the remotest intention of encouraging a dalliance with a loathsome Ffreincman, but she did not like having anyone, much less her mother, insinuating that she lacked the wits to govern her private affairs. And anyway, Baron Neufmarché was married and almost twice her age at least! What on earth was her mother thinking?
“Just you keep yourself to yourself, Mérian,” her mother was saying.
“Mother, please!” she complained in a pained voice.
“Some of these noblemen need little enough encouragement— that is all I will say.”
“And here was I,” fumed Mérian, “thinking you had said too much already!”
On the same day that Baron Neufmarché’s supply wagons departed, the second dispatch of Baron William de Braose’s wagons arrived. As the heavy-laden vehicles trundled out across the valley floor, the sun dimmed in the west, leaving behind a copper glow that faded to the colour of an angry bruise. Nine wagons piled high with sacks of lime, rope, rolls of lead, and other supplies brought from Normandie were met by Orval, the count’s seneschal, who instructed them to make camp below the caer. “Food will be brought to you here,” he told them. “Stay with your teams tonight, and tomorrow you will be escorted to the building works.”
The drivers passed a peaceful night at the foot of the hill beneath the fortress, moving on the next day to the three castle mounds now emerging on Elfael’s borders. The farthest, a place newly dubbed Vallon Verte, took all of a long day to reach, and it was already growing dark by the time the wag-oners began unhitching the oxen and leading them to the ox pen. Only when their animals were fed, watered, and put to rest for the night did the drivers join the masons and labourers gathered around their evening fire.
The workers camped a little distance away from the ditch beyond which rose the bailey mound where they had been working that day. Cups of ale and loaves of bread were passed from hand to hand as whole chickens, splayed on green elm branches, were turned slowly in the flames.
Men talked easily and watched the stars gather in the sky overhead as they waited for their supper. When they had eaten, they spread their bedrolls in the emptied wagon beds and lay down to pass a peaceful night amongst the heaps of stone and stockpiled timbers of the building site. It was not until one of the drivers went to yoke his team the next morning in preparation for the return journey that he noticed half of the oxen had disappeared. Of the twelve beasts to have entered the pen the night before, only six remained. Three of his own animals were missing, half of a second team, and one of a third.
He quickly called the other drivers to him, but other than standing and staring at the half-empty pen, no one had any explanation for the disappearance. They called the master, but he could offer nothing better than, “The Welsh are a thieving kind, as God knows. It’s their nature. I say, find the nearest farmer and you’ll find your oxen, like as not.”
When asked, however, the master refused to spare any of his men from the building work to search for the missing beasts. They were still arguing over who should go to the fortress to request a party to track down the purloined animals when the count himself appeared. He had come with a small force to make a circuit of the construction works. Now that the long-awaited supplies had arrived, he wanted to make certain that nothing prevented the workmen from making good and speedy progress.
“Thieves, you say?” wondered Falkes when the drivers had explained the predicament. “How many?”
“Difficult to say, my lord,” replied the driver. “No one saw them.”
“No one saw anything?”
“No, my lord. We only discovered the theft a short while ago. It must have happened during the night.”
“And the ox pens are not guarded, I suppose?”
“No, my lord.”
“Why not?”
“No one steals oxen, my lord.”
“I think,” retorted the count, “you will find that they do.
The Welsh will steal anything they can lay hands to.”
“So it would appear.”
“Indeed,” replied the count sharply. “You will find them, or go back without them.”
“We dare not go back without them,” the driver said.
“Why not? The wagons are empty,” Falkes pointed out.
“You can get more oxen in Lundein.”
“My lord,” replied the driver gravely, “matched teams are scarce as bird hair just now. You won’t find any for sale between here and Paris.”
“Be that as it may,” rejoined the count, “what do you expect me to do about it?”
“We thought—begging your pardon, sire—that his lordship might lend us some soldiers to find the thieves, my lord.”
Unwillingness tugged the edges of the count’s lips into a frown. First the missing horses, and now this. Was it really so difficult to keep animals from wandering off ? “You want my men to search for oxen?”
“Five or six men-at-arms should be enough.” Seeing the count’s hesitation, the wagoner added, “The sooner we find the missing team, the sooner we can be on our way to fetch more supplies for the masons.”When the count still failed to reply, he continued, “Now that the season is full on, the baron will not take kindly to any delays.” As a last resort, he added, “Also, the workers will be wanting their pay.”
Count Falkes regarded the empty wagons and the drivers standing idle. “Yes, yes, you have made your point,” he said at last. “Ready your wagons and prepare to leave.We will find the stolen beasts. Oxen are slow; they cannot have gone far.”
“Right you are, my lord,” said the driver, hurrying away before the count changed his mind.
Turning to the soldiers who had accompanied him to the site, de Braose called the foremost knight to him. “Guiscard!
Come here; a problem has arisen.”
The knight attended his lord and listened to his instructions carefully. “Consider it done,” he replied. “And the thieves, sire?
What shall we do with them?”
“This land is now governed by the Custom of the March.
You know what we do with thieves, do you not?”
A slow smile spread across the knight’s smooth face. “Yes, I believe I recall.”
“Then do it,” ordered the count. “Show no mercy.”
The knight bent his head in acknowledgement of his orders, then turned and started away. He had taken only a few paces when the count called after him, “On second thought, Guiscard, keep one or two alive, and bring them to me. We will draw and quarter them in the new town square and let their well-deserved deaths serve as a warning to anyone else who makes bold to steal from Baron de Braose.”
“It will be done, sire.” The knight mounted the saddle and called three men-at-arms to attend him.
“See you make some haste,” the count shouted as they rode off. “The wagons must be on their way without further delay.”
CHAPTER 32
The day could not pass quickly enough for Mérian. In her impatience, she forgot her displeasure at her mother’s meddling and her abhorrence of all things Ffreinc, and instead fell to fretting about clothes. She stood gazing with mounting chagrin at the gown spread out on her bed.Why, oh why, had she chosen that one? What had possessed her?
As much as she loathed the idea of consorting with Norman nobility, she did not want to give any
of them the satisfaction of dismissing her as an ignorant British churl.
When the time came to dress for the feast, she had worked herself into such a nervous state that she felt as if someone had opened a cage of sparrows inside her, and the poor birds were all aflutter to get out.
Trying her best to maintain her fragile composure, she forced herself to wash slowly and carefully in the small basin of cool water. She put on a fresh chemise of costly bleached linen and allowed her mother to brush her hair until it shone. Her long, dark tresses were gathered and braided into a thick and intricate plait, the end of which was adorned with a clasp of gold. Mérian then drew on her best gown of pale blue and, over it, a short, silk-embroidered mantle of fine cream-coloured linen. The gown and mantle were gathered at the waist by a wide kirtle of yellow satin, the beaded tassels of which almost brushed her toes. When she was ready, Queen Anora approved her daughter’s choices and said, “But there is something missing . . .”
Suddenly stricken, Mérian gasped, “What? What have I forgotten?”
“Calm yourself, child,” cooed her mother, bending to a small wooden casket that had travelled with them from Eiwas. Raising the lid, she produced a gossamer-thin veil of white samite hemmed with gold thread. She arranged the long rectangle of rare cloth with the point of one corner between Mérian’s dark brows and the rest trailing down her back to cover, yet reveal, the young woman’s braided hair.
“Mother, your best veil,” breathed Mérian.
“You shall wear it tonight, my lovely,” replied her mother. Bending to the casket once more, she brought out a thin silver circlet, which she placed on her daughter’s head to secure the veil, then stepped back to observe her handiwork. “Exquisite,” her mother pronounced. “A jewel to brighten any celebration. Let the Norman ladies gnaw their hearts with envy.”
Mérian thanked her mother with a kiss. “I will be happy if I can survive the evening without falling over.”
“Off with you now,” said Anora, sending her away with a pat on the cheek. “Put on your shoes. The chamberlain will be here any moment.”
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