Remey sighed in commiseration. An aging lackey with the face of a ferret and a long, narrow head perpetually covered by a shapeless cap of thick grey felt, he had been in the service of the Neufmarche clan since he was a boy at Le Neuf-March-en-Lions in Beauvais. He knew well his master's moods and appetites and was usually able to anticipate them with ease. But today he had been caught napping, and this annoyed him almost as much as the king had annoyed the baron.
"The de Braose are unscrupulous, as we all know," Remey observed, arranging the items he had brought on the table before the baron.
"Cut me a pen," the baron ordered. Taking up a roll of parchment, he sliced off a suitable square with his dagger and smoothed the prepared skin on the table before him.
Remey, meanwhile, selected a fine long goose quill and expertly pared the tip on an angle and split it with the pen knife. "See if this will suffice," he said, offering the prepared writing instrument to his master.
Bernard pulled the stopper from the inkhorn and dipped the pen. He made a few preliminary swirls on the parchment and said, "It will do. Now bring me my dinner. None of that broth, mind. I've ridden all day, and I'm hungry. I want meat and bread-some of that pie, too. And more wine."
"At once, my lord," replied the servant, leaving his master to his work.
By the time Remey returned, accompanied this time by two kitchen servants bearing trays of food and drink, Neufmarche was leaning back in his chair studying the document he had just composed. "Listen to this," said the baron, and holding the parchment before his eyes, he began to read what he had written.
Remey held his head to one side as his master read. It was a letter to the baron's father in Beauvais requesting a transfer of men and equipment to aid in the conquest of new territories in Britain.
"… the resulting acquisitions will enlarge our holdings at least threefold," Bernard read, "with good land, much of which is valley lowlands possessing tillable soil suitable for a variety of crops, while the rest is mature forest which, besides timber, will provide excellent hunting…" Here the baron broke off. "What do you think, Remey? Is it enough?"
"I should think so. Lord Geoffrey was out here two years ago and is well aware of the desirability of the Welsh lands. I have no doubt he will send the required aid."
"I concur," decided Bernard. Bending once more to the parchment, he finished the letter and signed his name. Then, rolling the parchment quickly, he tied the bundle and sealed it, pressing his heavy gold ring into the soft puddle of brown wax dripped from the stick in Remey's hands. "There," he said, setting the bundle aside, "now bring me that tray and fill my cup. When you've done that, go find Ormand."
"Of course, sire," replied the chamberlain, gesturing for the two kitchen servants to place the trays of food before the baron while he refilled the silver cup from a flagon. "I believe I saw young Ormand in the hall only a short while ago."
"Good," said Bernard, spearing one of the hard-crusted pies from the tray with his knife. "Tell him to prepare to ride out at first light. This letter must reach Beauvais before the month is out."
The baron bit into the cold pie and chewed thoughtfully. He ate a little more and then took another long draught of wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, "Now then, go find my wife and tell her I have returned."
"I have already spoken to my lady's maidservant, sire," replied Remey, starting for the door. "I will inform Ormand that you wish to see him."
Baron Neufmarche was left alone to eat his meal in peace. As the food and wine soothed his agitated soul, he began to look more favourably on the conquest to come. Perhaps, he thought, I have been overhasty. Perhaps, in the heat of temper, he had allowed his anger to cloud his perception. He might have lost Elfael, true enough, but Buellt was the real prize, and it would be his; and beyond Buellt lay the ripe, fertile heartland of Dyfed and Ceredigion. It was all good land-wild, for the most part, and undeveloped-just waiting for a man with the boldness of vision, determination, and ambition to make it prosper and produce. Bernard de Neufinarche, Baron of the Shires of Gloucester and Hereford, imagined himself just that man.
Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he was certain he was right; despite the king's outrageous behaviour, things were working out for the best after all. Under the proper circumstances, Elfael, that small and undistinguished commot in the centre of the Welsh hill country, could ensnare the rash invaders in difficulties for years to come. In fact, with the timely application of a few simple principles of subterfuge, the baron could ensure that little Elfael would become the grasping de Braose family's downfall.
The baron was basking in the warmth of this self-congratulatory humour when he heard the latch on his door rattle. The soft cough with which his visitor announced herself indicated that his wife had joined him. His momentary feeling of pleasure dimmed and faded.
"You have returned earlier than expected, my lord," she said, her voice falling soft and low in the quiet of the room.
Bernard took his time answering. Setting aside his cup, he turned his head and looked at her. Pale and wan, she appeared even more wraithlike than when he had last seen her, only a few days ago. Her eyes were large, dark-rimmed circles in the ashen skin of her thin face, and her long lank hair hung straight, making her seem all the more frail and delicate.
"You are looking well, my lady," he lied, smiling. He rose stiffly and offered her his chair.
"Thank you, my lord," she replied. "But sit; you are at meat. I will not disturb you. I only wished to acknowledge your return." She bowed slightly from the waist and turned to leave.
"Agnes, stay," he said and noticed the tremor that coursed through her body.
"I have had my dinner and was just about to go to prayers," she informed her husband. "But very well, I will sit with you awhile. If that is what you wish."
Bernard removed his chair and placed it at the side of the table. "Only if it is no trouble," he said.
"Far from it," she insisted. "It is a very pleasure in itself."
He seated her and then pulled another chair to his place. "Wine?" he asked, lifting the flagon.
"I think not, thank you." Head erect, shoulders level, slender back straight as a lance shaft, she perched lightly on the edge of her chair-as if she feared it might suddenly take wing beneath her negligible weight.
"If you change your mind…" The baron refilled his cup and resumed his seat. His wife was suffering, to be sure, and that was real enough. Even so, he could not help feeling that she brought it on herself with her perverse unwillingness to adapt in the slightest measure to the demands of her new home and its all-too-often inhospitable climate. She refused to dress more warmly or eat more heartily-as conditions warranted. Thus, she lurched from one vague illness to another, enduring febrile distempers, agues, fluxes, and other mysterious maladies, all with the resigned patience of an expiring saint.
"Remey said you summoned Ormand."
"Yes, I am sending him to Beauvais with a letter for the duke," he replied, swirling the wine in his cup. "The conquest of Wales has begun, and I will not be left out of it. I am requesting troopsmen-at- arms and as many knights as he can spare."
"A letter? For your father?" she asked, the light leaping up in her eyes for the first time since she had entered the room. "Do not bother Ormand with such a task-I will take the letter for you."
"No," replied Bernard. "The journey is too arduous for you. It is out of the question."
"Nonsense," she countered. "The journey would do me a world of good-the sea air and warmer weather would be just the elixir to restore me.
"I need you here," said the baron. "There is going to be a campaign in the spring, and there is much to make ready." He raised the silver cup to his lips, repeating, "It is out of the question. I am sorry."
Lady Agnes sat in silence for a moment, studying her hands in her lap. "This campaign is important to you, I suppose?" she wondered.
"Important? What a question, woman! Of course, it is
of the highest importance. A successful outcome will extend our holdings into the very heart of Wales," the baron said, growing excited at the thought. "Our estates will increase threefold… fivefold-and our revenues likewise! I'd call that important, wouldn't you?" he sneered.
"Then," Agnes suggested lightly, "I would think it equally important to ensure that success by securing the necessary troops."
"Of course," answered Bernard irritably. "It goes without sayingwhich is why I wrote the letter."
His wife lifted her thin shoulders in a shrug of studied indifference. "As you say."
He let the matter rest there for a moment, but something in her tone suggested she knew more than she had said.
"Why?" he asked, his suspicion getting the better of him at last.
"Oh," she said, turning her eyes to the fire once more, "no reason."
"Come now, my dear. Let us have it out. You have a thought in this matter, I can tell, and I will hear it."
"You flatter me, I'm sure, husband," she replied. "I am content."
"But I am not!" he said, anger edging into his tone. "What is in your mind?"
"Do not raise your voice to me, sire!" she snapped. "I assure you it is not seemly."
"Very well!" he said, his voice loud in the chamber. He glared at her for a moment and then tried again. "But see here, it is folly to quarrel. Consider that I am overtired from a long journey-it is that making me sharp, nothing more. Therefore, let us be done with this foolishness." He coaxed her with a smile. "Now tell me, my dear, what is in your mind?"
"Since you ask," she said, "it occurs to me that if the campaign is as gravely important as you contend, then I would not entrust such an undertaking to a mere equerry."
"Why not? Ormand is entirely trustworthy."
"That is as may be," she allowed primly, "but if you really need the troops, then why place so much weight on a mere letter in the hand of an insignificant menial?"
"And what would you do?"
"I'd send a suitable emissary instead."
"An emissary."
"Yes," she agreed, "and what better emissary than the sole and beloved daughter-in-law of the duke himself?" She paused, allowing her words to take effect. "Duke Geoffrey can easily refuse a letter in Ormand's hand," she concluded, "as you and I know only too well. But refuse me? Never."
Bernard considered this for a moment, tapping the silver base of his cup with a finger. What she suggested was not entirely without merit. He could already see certain advantages. If she went, she might obtain not only troops, but money as well. And it was true that the old duke could never deny his daughter-in-law anything. He might fume and fret for a few days, but he would succumb to her wishes in the end.
"Very well," decided the baron abruptly, "you shall go. Ormand will accompany you-and your maidservants, of course-but you will bear the letter yourself and read it to the duke when you judge him in a favourable mood to grant our request."
Lady Agnes smiled and inclined her head in acquiescence to his desires. "As always, my husband, your counsel is impeccable."
CHAPTER
4
)Bran stirred his mount to speed. "Iwan!" he cried. At the sound of his name, the king's champion raised himself in the saddle, and Bran saw blood oozing down the warrior's padded leather tunic.
"Bran!" the warrior gasped. "Bran, thank God. Listen-"
"Iwan, what has happened? Where are the others?"
"We were attacked at Wye ford," he said. "Ffreinc-three hundred or more… sixty, maybe seventy knights, the rest footmen."
Lurching sideways, he seized the young prince by the arm. "Bran, you must ride…," he began, but his eyes rolled up into his head; he slumped and toppled from the saddle.
Bran, holding tight to his arm, tried to lower his longtime friend more gently to the ground. Iwan landed hard nonetheless and sprawled between the horses. Bran slid off the mare and eased the wounded man onto his back. "Iwan! Iwan!" he said, trying to rouse him. "My father, the warband-where are the others?"
"Dead," moaned Iwan. "All… all of them dead."
Bran quickly retrieved a waterskin from its place behind his saddle. "Here," he said, holding the skin to the warrior's mouth, "drink a little. It will restore you."
The battlechief sucked down a long, thirsty draught and then shoved the skin away. "You must raise the alarm," he said, some vigour returning to his voice. He clutched at Bran and held him fast. "You must ride and warn the people. Warn everyone. The king is dead, and the Ffreinc are coming."
"How much time do we have?" asked Bran.
"Enough, pray God," said the battlechief. "Less if you stay. Go now."
Bran hesitated, unable to decide what should be done.
"Now!" Iwan said, pushing the prince away. "There is but time to hide the women and children."
"We will go together. I will help you."
"Go!" snarled Iwan. "Leave me!"
"Not like this."
Ignoring the wounded man's curses, Bran helped him to his feet and back into the saddle. Then, taking up the reins of Iwan's horse, he led them both back the way he had come. Owing to the battlechief's wound, they travelled more slowly than Bran would have wished, eventually reaching the western edge of the forest, where he paused to allow the horses and wounded man to rest. "Is there much pain?" he asked.
"Not so much," Iwan said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Ah, a little…"
"We'll wait here awhile." Bran dismounted, walked a few paces ahead, and crouched beside the road, scanning the valley for any sign of the enemy invaders.
The broad, undulating lowlands of Elfael spread before him, shimmering gently in the blue haze of an early autumn day. Secluded, green, fertile, a region of gentle, wooded hills seamed through with clearrunning streams and brooks, it lay pleasantly between the high, bare stone crags of mountains to the north and east and the high moorland wastes to the south. Not the largest cantref beyond the Marches, in Bran's estimation it tendered in charm what it lacked in size.
In the near distance, the king's fortress on its high mound, whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight, stood sentinel at the gateway to Elfael, which seemed to drowse in the heavy, honeyed light. So quiet, so peaceful-the likelihood of anything disturbing such a deep and luxurious serenity seemed impossibly remote, a mere cloud shadow passing over a sun-bright meadow, a little dimming of the light before the sun blazed forth again. Caer Cadarn had been his family's home for eight generations, and he had never imagined anything could ever change that.
Bran satisfied himself that all was calm-at least for the momentthen returned to his mount and swung into the saddle once more.
"See anything?" asked Iwan. Hollow-eyed, his face was pale and dripping with sweat.
"No Ffreinc," Bran replied, "yet."
They started down into the valley at a trot. Bran did not stop at the hill fort but rode straight to Llanelli, the tiny monastery that occupied the heel of the valley and stood halfway between the fortress and Glascwm, the chief town of the neighbouring cantref-and the only settlement of any size in the entire region. Although merely an outpost of the larger abbey of Saint Dyfrig at Glascwm, the Llanelli monastery served the people of Elfael well. The monks, Bran had decided, not only would know best how to raise an alarm to warn the people, but also would be able to help Iwan.
The gates of the monastery were open, so they rode through and halted in the bare-earth yard outside the little timber and muddaubed church. "Brother Ffreol! Brother Ffreol!" Bran shouted; he leapt from the saddle and ran to the door of the church. A lone priest was kneeling before the altar. An elderly man, he turned as Bran burst in upon his prayers.
"Lord Bran," said the old man, rising shakily to his feet. "God be good to you."
"Where is Brother Ffreol?"
"I am sure I cannot say," replied the aging monk. "He might be anywhere. Why all this shouting?"
Without reply, Bran seized the bell rope. The bell pealed wildly in response to his frantic pulling, a
nd soon monks were hurrying to the church from every direction. First through the door was Brother Cefan, a local lad only slightly older than Bran himself. "Lord Bran, what is wrong?"
"Where is Ffreol?" demanded Bran, still tugging on the bell rope. "I need him."
"He was in the scriptorium a short while ago," replied the youth. "I don't know where he is now."
"Find him!" ordered Bran. "Hurry!"
The young brother darted back through the door, colliding with Bishop Asaph, a dour, humourless drone of advancing age and, as Bran had always considered, middling ability. "You there!" he shouted, striding into the church. "Stop that! You hear? Release that rope at once!"
Bran dropped the rope and spun around.
"Oh, it's you, Bran," said the bishop, his features arranging themselves in a frown of weary disapproval. "I might have guessed. What, pray, is the meaning of this spirited summons?"
"No time to waste, bishop," said Bran. Rushing up, he snatched the churchman by the sleeve of his robe and pulled him out of the church and into the yard, where twenty or so of the monastery's inhabitants were quickly gathering.
"Calm yourself," said Bishop Asaph, shaking himself free of Bran's grasp. "We're all here, so explain this commotion if you can."
"The Ffreinc are coming," said Bran. "Three hundred marchogi- they are on their way here now." Pointing to the battlechief sitting slumped in the saddle, he said, "Iwan fought them, and he's wounded. He needs help at once."
"Marchogi!" gasped the gathered monks, glancing fearfully at one another.
"But why tell us?" wondered the bishop. "Your father should be the one to-"
"The king is dead," Bran said. "They murdered him-and the rest of the warband with him. Everyone is dead. We have no protection."
"I do not understand," sputtered the bishop. "What do you mean? Everyone?"
Fear snaked through the gathered monks. "The warband dead! We are lost!"
Brother Ffreol appeared, pushing his way through the crowd. "Bran, I saw you ride in. There is trouble. What has happened?"
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