“How much is there altogether?” wondered Bran, gazing at the treasure hoard.
“Several hundred marks at least,” suggested Siarles.
“It is more than enough to pay the workers,” observed Angharad from her stool. “Much more.” She rose and gathered a deerskin from her sleeping place. Spreading it on the floor beside the kneeling priest, she instructed, “Count it onto this.”
“And count it out loud so we can all hear,” added Siarles.
“Help me,” said the priest. “Put them into piles of twelve.”
The two fell to arranging the silver coins into little heaps to represent a shilling, and then Brother Tuck began telling out the number, shilling by shilling. Siarles, using a bit of charred wood, kept a running tally on a hearthstone, announcing the reckoning every fourth or fifth stack, and calling out the total at each mark: one hundred . . . one hundred seventy-five . . . two hundred . . .
The women of Cél Craidd brought food—a haunch of roast meat from one of the slaughtered oxen and some fresh barley cakes made from the supplies intended for Abbot Hugo. Bran and the others ate while the counting continued.
After a while, they heard voices outside the hut. “Your flock grows curious,” Angharad said. “They have been patient long enough. You should speak to them, Bran.”
Rising, Bran stepped to the door and pushed aside the ox-hide covering. Stepping out into the soft night air, he saw the entire population of the settlement—forty-three souls in all— ranged on the ground around the door of the hut.Wrapped in their cloaks, they were talking quietly amongst themselves. A fire had been lit and some of the children were running barefoot around it.
“We are still counting the money,” he told them simply. “I will bring word when we have finished.”
“It is taking a fair sweet time,” suggested one of the men.
“There is a lot to count.”
“God be praised,” said another. “How much?”
“More than we hoped,” replied Bran. “Your patience will be rewarded, never fear.”
He returned to Angharad’s hearth and the counting.
“Three hundred fifty . . . ,” droned Siarles, making another mark on the stone, “. . . four hundred . . .”
“Four hundred marks!” gasped Iwan. “Why were they carrying so much money?”
“Something is happening that we have neither heard nor foreseen,” Angharad replied, “and this is the proof.”
Tuck, still counting, gave a cough to silence them. And the total continued to grow.
When the last silver penny had been accounted, the total stood at four hundred and fifty marks. Then, turning his attention to the leather bags in the last casket, the friar began to count out the gold coins to the value of ten marks each.
The others looked on breathlessly as the friar arranged the golden byzants in neat little towers of ten.
When he finished, Tuck raised his head and, in a voice filled with quiet wonder, announced, “Seven hundred and fifty marks. That makes five hundred pounds sterling.”
“Do I believe what I am hearing?” breathed Iwan, overwhelmed by the enormity of the plunder. “Five hundred pounds . . .” He turned his eyes to Bran and then to Angharad.
“What have we done?”
“We have ransomed Elfael from the stinking Ffreinc,” declared Bran. “Using their own money, too. Rough justice, that.”
Turning on his heel, he moved to the door and stepped out to deliver the news to those waiting outside. Angharad went with him and, raising her hands, said, “Silence. Rhi Bran would speak.”
When the murmuring died down, Bran said, “Through our efforts we have won five hundred pounds—more than enough to pay the redemption price Red William has set. We have redeemed our land!”
The sudden outcry of acclamation took Bran by surprise.
Hearing the cheers and seeing the glad faces in the moonlight took him back to another place and time. For a moment, Bran was a child in the yard at Caer Cadarn, listening to the revelry of the warriors returning from a hunt. His mother was still alive, and as Queen of the Hunt, she led the women of the valley, singing and dancing in celebration of the hunters’ success, her long, dark hair streaming loose as she spun and turned in the rising glow of a full moon.
Nothing could ever bring her back or replace the warmth he had known in the presence of that loving soul. But this he could do: he could reclaim the caer and, under his rule, return the court of Elfael to something approaching its former glory.
Angharad had once asked him what it was he desired. He had suspected even then that there was more to the question than he knew. Now, suddenly, he beheld the shape of his deepest desire. More than anything in the world, he wanted the joy he had known as a child to reign in Elfael once more.
Angharad, standing at his side, felt the surge of emotion through him as a torrent through a dry streambed, and knew he had made up his mind at last. “Yes,” she whispered. “This night, whatever you desire will bend to your will. Choose well, my king.”
Raising his eyes, he saw the radiant disc of the moon as it cleared the sheltering trees, filling the forest hollow with a soft, spectral light. “My people, my Grellon,” Bran said, his voice breaking with emotion, “tonight we celebrate our victory over the Ffreinc. Tomorrow we reclaim our homeland.”
Mérian had determined to endure the baron’s council with grace and forbearance. Spared the greater evil of having to spend the summer in the baron’s castle in Hereford, she could afford to be charitable toward her enemies. Therefore, she vowed to utter no complaint and to maintain a respectful courtesy to one and all in what she had imagined would be a condition little better than captivity.
As the days went by, however, her energetic dislike for the Ffreinc began to flag; it was simply too difficult to maintain against the onslaught of courtesy and charm with which she was treated. Thus, to her own great amazement—and no little annoyance—she found herself actually enjoying the proceedings despite the fact that the one hope she had entertained for the council—that she might renew her acquaintance with Cécile and Thérese—was denied her: they were not in attendance.
Their brother, Roubert, cheerfully informed her that his sisters had been sent back to Normandie for the summer and would not return until autumn, or perhaps not even until next spring. “It is good for them to acquire some of the finer graces,” he confided, adopting a superior tone.
What these graces might be, he did not say, and Mérian did not ask, lest she prove herself a backward hill-country churl in need of those same finer graces. She welcomed Roubert’s company but felt awkward in his presence. Although he always appeared eager to see her, she sensed a natural haughtiness in him and a veiled disdain for all things foreign—which was nearly everything in fair Britain’s island realm, including herself.
Aside from Roubert, the only other person near her own age was the baron’s dour daughter, Sybil. Mérian and the young lady had been introduced on the first day by Neufmarché himself, with the implied directive that they should become friends. For her part, Mérian was willing enough—there was little to do anyway with the council in session most of the day—but so far had received scant encouragement from the young noblewoman.
Lady Sybil appeared worn down by the heat of the summer sun and the innate discomforts of camp. Her fine dark hair hung in limp hanks, and dark shadows gathered beneath her large brown eyes. She appeared so listless and unhappy that Mérian, at first annoyed by the young woman’s affected swanning, eventually came to pity her. The young Ffreinc noblewoman languished in the shade of a canopy erected outside the baron’s massive tent, cooling herself with a fan made of kidskin stretched over a willow frame.
“Mère de Dieu,” sighed the young woman wistfully when Mérian came to visit her one day, “I am not . . . um”—she paused, searching for a word she could not find—“accoutumé so much this heated air.” Mérian smiled at her broken English. “Yes,” she agreed sympathetically, “it is very
hot.”
“It is always so, non?”
“Oh no,” Mérian quickly assured her. “It is not. Usually, the weather is fine. But this summer is different.” A cloud of bafflement passed over Lady Sybil’s face. “Hotter,” Mérian finished lamely.
The two gazed at each other across the ditch of language gaping between them.
“There you are!” They turned to see Baron Neufmarché striding toward them, flanked by two severe-looking knights dressed in the long, drab tunics and trousers of Saxon nobility. “My lords,” declared the baron in English, “have you ever seen two more beautiful ladies in all of England?”
“Never, sire,” replied the two noblemen in unison.
“It is pleasant to see you again, Lady Mérian,” said the baron. Smiling into her eyes, he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. Turning quickly, he kissed his daughter on the forehead and rested his hand on her shoulder. “I see you are finding pleasure in one another’s company at last.”
“We are trying,” Mérian said. She offered Sybil a hopeful smile. Clearly, the young woman had no idea what her father was saying.
“I hope that when the council is over, you still plan to attend us in Hereford,” the baron said.
“Well, I . . . ,” Mérian faltered, unable to untangle her mixed emotions so quickly. After all, when originally mooted, the proposition had been greeted with such hostility on her part that now she hardly knew what she felt about the idea.
Neufmarché smiled and waved aside any excuse she might make. “We would make you most welcome, to be sure.” He stroked his daughter’s hair. “In fact, now that you know each other better, perhaps you might accompany Sybil to our estates in Normandie when she returns this autumn. It could be easily arranged.”
Uncertain what to say, Mérian bit her lip.
“Come, my lady,” coaxed the baron. He saw her hesitancy and offered her a subtle reminder of her place, “We have already made arrangements, and your father has consented.”
“I would be honoured, sire,” she said, “seeing my father has consented.”
“Good!” He smiled again and offered Mérian a little bow of courtesy. “You have made my daughter very happy.”
A third soldier came rushing up just then, and the baron excused himself and turned to greet the newcomer. “Ah, de Lacy! You have word?”
“Oui, mon baron de seigneur,” blurted the man, red-faced from rushing in the heat. The baron raised his hand and commanded him to speak English for the benefit of the two knights with him. The messenger gulped air and dragged a sleeve across his sweating face. Beginning again, he said, “It is true, my lord. Baron de Braose did dispatch wagons and men through your lands. They passed through Hereford on the day the council convened and returned but yesterday.” The man faltered, licking his lips.
“Yes? Speak it out, man!” Calling toward the tent, the baron shouted, “Remey! Bring water at once.” In a moment, the seneschal appeared with a jar and cup. He poured and offered the cup to the baron, who passed it to the soldier. “Drink,”
Bernard ordered, “and let us hear this from the beginning— and slowly, if you please.”
The messenger downed the water in three greedy draughts.
Taking back the cup, the baron held it out to be refilled, then drank a little himself. “See here,” he said, passing the vessel to the nobles with him, “de Braose’s men passed through my lands without permission—did you mark?” The nobles nodded grimly. “This is not the first time they have trespassed with impunity. How many this time?”
“Seven knights and fifteen men-at-arms, not counting ox herds and attendants for three wagons. As I say, they returned but yesterday, only—most were afoot, and there were no wagons.”
“Indeed?”
“There is rumour of an attack in the forest. Given that some of the men were seen to be wounded, it seems likely.”
“Do they say who perpetrated the attack?”
“Sire, there is talk . . . rumours only.” The soldier glanced at the two noblemen standing nearby and hesitated.
“Well?” demanded the baron. “If you know, say it.”
“They say the train was attacked by the phantom of the forest.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Remey, unable to stifle his surprise.
The baron glanced hastily over his shoulder to see the two young women following the conversation. “Pray excuse us, ladies. This was not for your ears.” To the men, he said, “Come; we will discuss the matter in private.” He led his party into the tent, leaving Mérian and Lady Sybil to themselves once more.
“Le fantôme!” whispered Sybil, eyes wide at what she heard.
“I have heard of this. It is a creature gigantesque ? Oui ?”
“Yes, a very great, enormous creature,” said Mérian, drawing Sybil closer to share this delicious secret. “The people call him King Raven, and he haunts the forest of the March.”
“Incroyable!” gasped Sybil. “The priests say this is very impossibility, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oh no. It is true.” Mérian gave her a nod of solemn assurance. “The Cymry believe King Raven has arisen to defend the land beyond the Marches. He protects Cymru, and nothing can defeat him—not soldiers, not armies, not even King William the Red himself.”
CHAPTER 44
Dressed as humble wool merchants, Bran, Iwan, Aethelfrith, and Siarles swiftly crossed the Marches and entered England. Strange merchants these: avoiding towns entirely, travelling only by night, they progressed through the countryside—four men mounted on sturdy Welsh horses, each leading a packhorse laden with provisions and their wares, which consisted of three overstuffed wool sacks. Laying up in sheltered groves and glades and hidden glens along the way, they slept through the day with one of their number on watch at all times.
They arrived in Lundein well before the city gates were open and waited impatiently until sleepy-eyed guards, yawning and muttering, drew the crossbeams and gave them leave to enter. They went first to the Abbey of Saint Mary the Virgin, where, after a cold-water bath, the travellers changed into clean clothes and broke fast with the monks. Then, groomed and refreshed, they led their packhorses through the narrow streets of the city to the tower fortress. At the outer wall of the tower, they inquired of the porter and begged audience with Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux, Chief Justiciar of England.
“He is not here,” the porter informed them. “He is away on king’s business.”
“If you please, friend,” said Aethelfrith, “could you tell us where we might find him? It is of utmost importance.”
“Winchester,” replied the porter. “Seek him there.”
Bran and Iwan exchanged a puzzled glance. “Where?”
“Caer Wintan—the king’s hunting lodge,” the friar explained for the benefit of the Welsh speakers. “It is not far— maybe two days’ ride.”
The four resumed their journey, pausing long enough to provision themselves from the farmers’ stalls along the river before crossing the King’s Bridge. Once out of the city, they turned onto the West Road and headed for the royal residence at Winchester. Riding until long after dark, rising early, and resting little along the way, the travellers reached the ancient Roman garrison town two days later. Upon asking at the city gate, they were directed to King William’s hunting lodge: a sprawling half-timbered edifice built by a long-forgotten local worthy, and carelessly enlarged over generations to serve the needs of various royal inhabitants. The great house was the one place in all England the Red King called home.
Unlike the White Tower of Lundein, the Royal Lodge boasted no keep or protective stone walls; two wings of the lodge enclosed a bare yard in front of the central hall. A low wooden palisade formed the fourth side of the open square, in the centre of which was a gate and a small wooden hut for the porter. As before, the travellers presented themselves to the porter and were promptly relieved of their weapons before being allowed into the beaten-earth yard, where knights, bare to the waist, practised with wood
en swords and padded lances.
They tied their horses to the ringed post at the far end of the yard and proceeded to the hall. They were made to wait in an antechamber, where they watched Norman courtiers and clerks enter and leave the hall, some clutching bundles of parchment, others bearing small wooden chests or bags of coins. Bran, unable to sit still for long, rose often and returned to the yard to see that all was well with Iwan and Siarles, who waited with the horses, keeping an eye on their precious cargo.
Brother Aethelfrith, meanwhile, occupied himself with prayers and psalms that he mumbled in a low continuous murmur as he passed the knots of his rope cincture through his pudgy hands.
The morning stretched and dwindled away. Midday came and went, and the sun began its long, slow descent. Bran had gone to see if Iwan had watered the horses when Aethelfrith called him back inside. “Bran! Hurry! The cardinal has summoned us!”
Bran rejoined Tuck, who was waiting for him at the door.
“Mind your manners now,” the friar warned, taking him by the arm. “We need not make this more difficult than it is already. Agreed?”
Bran nodded, and the two were conducted into Ranulf of Bayeux’s chamber. A whole year and more had passed, and yet the same two brown-robed clerics sat at much the same table piled high with rolled and folded parchments, still scratching away with their quill pens. Between them in a high-backed chair sat the cardinal, wearing a red satin skullcap and heavy gold chain. His red hair was cut short; it had been curled with hot irons and dressed with oil so that it glimmered in the light from the high window. Three rings adorned the fingers of his pale hands, which were folded on the table before him. Eyes closed, Cardinal Ranulf rested his head against the back of his chair, apparently asleep.
“My lord cardinal,” announced the porter, “I bring before you the Welsh lord and his priest.”
“And his English priest,” added Aethelfrith with a smile.
“Don’t you be forgetting.”
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