Jago thanked him and said, “That will not be necessary. But if you could have some food brought here, that would be a mercy.”
“It will be done,” replied the canon as he withdrew.
“That went well,” Bran observed cheerfully.
“Job’s bones, Bran,” muttered Iwan. “You are a bold one. How can you think of food at a time like this?”
“I’m hungry,” Bran said.
“I’m with Iwan,” said Siarles. “Give me a fair fight any day. This skulking around the enemy camp fair gives me the pip.”
“Steady on, boys,” said Mérian, her voice altered by her wooden teeth. “All you need do is keep your eyes open and your mouths shut. Let Bran do the rest.” Our lord smiled at her quick defence of him. “And you,” she said to him, “see you get us out of here in the same condition we came in, and I might consider marrying you after all.”
“Oh, if I thought that was possible, my love,” he answered, taking her hand and kissing it, “then you would be amazed to see what I can do.”
How this little dance might have continued we would never learn, for at that moment the door opened and three servants bearing platters of bread and sausage, and jars of watered wine entered the room, and hard on their heels none other than King William of England in the very solid flesh. We knew straightaway that it was Rufus: the fiery red hair; the high, ruddy complexion; the squat, slightly bowed legs; the spreading belly and beefy arms—all of which had been reported by anyone who’d met him. Well, who else could it be?
Attending the king were two noblemen, and our man Canon Laurent, who seemed unable to hold himself out of the proceedings.
The king of England was a younger man than I had imagined, but the life he led—the fighting and drinking and what all—was exacting a price. Still, he was formidable and with long, thick arms, heavy shoulders, and a deep chest, would have made a fearsome enemy on a battlefield. His short legs were slightly bent from a life in the saddle, as his father’s were well reputed to have been, and like his father, his hair was red, but grizzled now and thinning. He looked like one of those fighting dogs I’d seen in market squares where their owners set them on bears or bulls for the wagering of a feast-day crowd.
Oh, he’d seen a few fights, had Bloody Red William, and won his share to be sure. As he stumped into the room, the glance from his beady, bloodshot eyes sweeping quickly left and right, he seemed as if he expected to meet an enemy army. Like that marketplace bulldog, he appeared only too ready to take a bite out of whomever or whatever got in his way.
“Quel est cette intrusion impolie?” the king demanded, puffing himself up. He spoke quickly, and I had trouble understanding his somewhat pinched voice.
“Pax vobiscum, meus senior rex regis,” said Brother Alfonso, bowing nicely.
“Latin?” said the king, which even I could understand. “Latin? Mary and Joseph, someone tell him to speak French.”
“Paix, mon roi de seigneur,” offered Brother Alfonso smoothly, and went on to introduce the king to his visitor.
“When you learn why we have come,” said Bran, taking his place before the king as Jago translated his words for the French-speaking monarch, “you will forgive the intrusion.”
“Will I, by the rood?” growled the king. “Try me, then. But I warn you, I rarely forgive much, and fools who waste my time—never!”
“If it be foolish to try to save your throne,” Bran replied, his voice taking an edge the king did not mistake, “then fool I am. I have been called worse.”
“Who are you?” demanded the king. “Leicester? Warwick? Do you know this man?”
“No, my lord,” answered the younger of the two knights. “I have never seen him before.”
“Nor I,” answered the elder. “Any of them.”
“Save my throne, eh?” said the king. I could see that, despite his bluster, he was intrigued. “My throne is not in danger.”
“Is it not?” countered Bran. “I have good reason to believe otherwise. Your brother Duke Robert is raising rebellion against you.”
“Tell me something I do not know,” snorted the king. “If this is your message, you are the very fool I thought.”
“This time, Lord King,” replied Bran quickly, “he has the aid and support of Pope Clement and your brother Henry Beauclerc, and many others. It is my belief that they mean to force your abdication in favour of Duke Robert, or face excommunication.”
This stole the swagger from the English monarch’s tail, I can tell you. “I knew it!” he growled. To his knights, he said, “I told you they were scheming against me.” Then, just as quick, he turned to Bran and demanded, “You have proof of this?”
“I do, Lord King,” said Bran. “A document has come into my possession which has been signed by those making conspiracy against you.”
“You have this document, do you?” said the king.
“I do, Sire,” replied Bran.
William thrust out a broad, calloused hand. “Give it to me.”
Bran put his hand inside his robe and brought out the folded parchment which had been so painstakingly copied by the monks at Saint Dyfrig’s abbey. It was wrapped in its cloth, and Bran clutched it firmly in both hands. “Before I deliver it to you,” he said, “I ask a boon.”
“Ha!” sneered the king. “I might have guessed that was coming. You priests are always looking to your own interests. Well, what is it you want? Reward—is that what you want? Money?”
“No, Sire,” said Bran, still holding out the document. “I want—”
“Yes?” said the king, impatience making him sharp. “What! Speak, man!”
“Justice,” said Bran quietly. “I want justice.”
Jago gave our lord’s reply, to which William shouted, “You shall have it!” as he snatched the document away. Unwrapping the thick, folded square, he opened it out and stared at it long and hard. Glancing at Canon Laurent hovering nearby, he lifted a hand to the cleric and said, “This should be spoken in the presence of witnesses.”
Some have said he never learned to read—at least, he could not read French. “As it lays, pray you,” he said, thrusting the letter into the cleric’s hands. “Spare us nothing.”
The canon took a moment to study the document, collected himself, cleared his throat, and began to read it out in a clear, strong voice. “Moi Guillaume par le pardon de Dieu, de Bramber et Seigneur et Brienze, qux trés estimer et reverend Guibert et Ravenna. Salutations dans Dieu mai les tranquillité de Christ, Notré Éternelle Sauveur, rester á vous toujours.”
It was the letter Jago had read to us that day in Saint Dyfrig’s following the Christmas raid. That Laurent read it with far more authority could not be denied; still, though I could understand but little of what he read, I remembered that day we had gathered in Bran’s greenwood hut to see what we had got from the Ffreinc. The memory sent a pang of longing through me for those who waited there still. Would I ever hold Nóin in my arms again?
Canon Laurent continued, and his voice filled the room. It seemed that I heard with new ears as I listened to him read the letter again. Adding what I’d learned from Odo to my own small store, the dual purposes behind the words became plain. Yet the thing still held the mystery I had first felt when kneeling in Bran’s greenwood hut and staring in quiet wonder at that great gold ring, and the fine gloves, and that wrapped square of expensive parchment. If I failed to see the sense, I had only to look at King William’s face hardening into a ferocious scowl to know that whatever he heard in the high-flown words, he liked it not at all.
By the time Laurent reached the letter’s conclusion and began reading out the names at the end, William was fair grinding his teeth to nubbins.
“Blood and thunder!” he shouted as the cleric finished. “Do they think to cast me aside like a gnawed bone?” Turning, he glared at the two knights with him. “This is treason, mark me! I will not abide it. By the Virgin, I will not!”
Bran, who had been closely watching Red W
illiam’s reaction to the letter, glanced at Mérian, who gave him a secret smile. Straight and tall in the black robe of a priest, hands folded before him as he awaited the king’s judgement, he appeared just then more lordly than the ruddy-faced English monarch by a long walk. The king continued to fume and foam awhile, and then, as is natural to a fella like him, he swiftly fell to despatching his enemies. “How came you by this letter?” he said, retrieving the parchment from the cleric’s hands. “Where did you get it?”
Bran, calm and unruffled as a dove in a cote, simply replied, “I stole it, Sire.”
“Stole it!” cried William, when Bran’s words were translated for him. “Ha! I like that! Stole it, by the rood!”
“Who did you steal it from?” asked one of the knights, stepping forward.
“It was found among items sent by Baron de Braose to his nephew, Count Falkes in Elfael. The letter, along with a pair of gloves and a papal ring, was taken in a raid on the wagons carrying provisions.”
“You attacked the wagons and stole the provisions?” asked the knight, speaking through Jago.
“I did, yes. The other items were returned to de Braose, along with a careful copy of the letter just read. You have before you the original, and they are none the wiser.”
The knight stared at Bran, mystified. “Thievery and you a priest. Yet, you stand here and admit it?”
“I am not as you see me,” replied the dark Welshman. “I am Bran ap Brychan, rightful ruler of Elfael. I was cheated out of my lands by the deceit of Baron de Braose. On the day my father rode out to swear fealty to Your Majesty, the baron killed my father and slaughtered his entire warband. He established his nephew, Count Falkes de Braose, on our lands and continually supplies him with soldiers, money, and provisions in order to further his rule. Together they have made slaves of my people, and forced them to help build fortresses from which to further oppress them. They have driven me and my followers into the forest to live as outlaws in the land our people have owned since time beyond reckoning. All this has been possible through the collusion of Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux, who acts with the blessing and authority of the crown, and in the king’s own name.” Bran paused to let this dagger strike home, then concluded, “I have come before you this day to trade that which bears the names of the traitors”—he pointed to the letter still clutched in the king’s tight grasp—“for the return of my throne and the liberation of my people.”
Into the silence that followed this bold assertion, Bran added, “A throne for a throne—English for Welsh. A fair trade, I think. And justice is served.”
Oh, that was well done! Pride swelled in me like a rising sun, and I basked in its warmth and glory. It was that sweet to me just then.
“You shameless and impudent rogue!” snarled the elder of the two knights. “You stand in the presence of your king and insinuate—”
“Leicester!” shouted King William. “Leave off! This man has done me a service, and though the circumstances may well be questionable”—he turned again to Bran—“I will honour it in the same spirit in which it has been rendered.”
At this, Mérian, who had been able to follow most of what was said, clasped her hands and gave out a little gasp of joy. “God be praised!” she sighed.
“See here, my lord,” protested the one called Leicester. “You cannot intend—”
“Hold your peace,” cautioned William. “I do not yet know what I intend. First, I must know what my roguish friend Bran ap Brychan presumes.” To Bran, he said, “You have presumed so much already, what do you propose for these traitors?”
All eyes were on Bran as Jago conveyed the king’s words and Bran answered, his voice steady, “I leave their punishment in your hands, Sire. For myself I ask only the return of my lands and the recognition of my right to rule my people in peace.”
“You ask a very great deal, thief,” observed the second nobleman.
“And yet it is no more than my due,” Bran countered.
“How do we know this letter is even genuine?” demanded the young knight.
“Do not be an ass,” the king growled. “The thing is genuine. The imbecile de Braose affixed his seal. I know it well enough. We must think now what is to be done, and that quick. We have a day, likely less, before the others arrive in force. We must work quickly if we are to save ourselves from the trap they have laid for us.”
King William folded the parchment and tucked it under his arm, then stepped forward, extending his hand to Bran. “My thanks and my friendship. You and your men are forthwith pardoned from any wrongdoing in this matter. Come, friend, we will sit and break fast together and decide what is to be done with those who would steal my kingdom.”
CHAPTER 43
Such palaver with the high and mighty was hard on this simple forester, I can tell you. Ol’ Will has had his fill of Ffreinc enough to last him all his allotted days thrice over. If every last one of those horse-faced foreigners were to hop ship back to Normandie, this son of Britain would sing like a lark for joy till the crack o’ doom. Nevertheless, here we were up to our neck bones in Normans of every kind, and most of them with sharp steel close to hand.
It fair made me wish for the solace of the greenwood, it did.
And I wasn’t the only one with my teeth on edge. Poor Siarles was about as rattled as a tadpole in a barrel of eels. The fella could neither sit nor stand, but that he had to be jumping up every other breath to run to the door to see if any Ffreinc were lurking about ready to pounce on us. Still, though we could hear men moving about the palace, both inside and out, as more of the nobles arrived for their council, they left us to ourselves. The morning passed into midday, and the waiting began to wear on us.
For myself, the pain in my throbbing hand and the toils of the past few days rolled over me like a millstone, and I curled up in a corner and closed my eyes.
“We should go find out what is happening,” I heard Mérian say, and Iwan agreed.
“Aye,” replied the big man. “Bran might need our help.”
The two had just about worked themselves up to go and see what they could discover, Siarles was fussing and fretting, and Cinnia—too frightened to know what to do—had come to sit beside me, when the door opened and Bran and Jago strolled into the room.
You’d be forgiven for thinkin’ they’d been twice around the moon and back the way we ran to greet them. Before either one of them could speak, Iwan swooped in. “Well?” he demanded.
“What did the king say?” asked Mérian. “Will he help us?”
“Will he give back our lands?” said Siarles, joining the tight cluster around Bran. “When can we go?”
I roused myself, and Cinnia helped me to my feet and we joined the others.
“Come, tell us, Bran,” said Iwan. “What did the king say?”
“He said a great many things,” Bran replied, his voice a sigh of resignation. “Not all of them seemly, or even sensible.”
To my weary eye, our Bran and Brother Jago seemed a little frazzled and frayed from their encounter with the English monarch. “King William keeps a close counsel,” Jago added. “He gives away little and demands much. Yet I believe he has a mind to help us insofar as it helps him to do so. Beyond that, who can say?”
Who could say, indeed!
We had risked all to bring word of high treason to the king—and now that he had it, we were to be swept aside like the crumbs of yesterday’s supper.
“He didn’t give us back our lands?” whined Siarles.
“No, he did not,” Bran confirmed. “At least, not yet. We are to wait here for his answer.”
Siarles blew air through his nostrils. “To think that after all this we are beholden to that fat toad of a king!” he grumbled. “We should have supported Duke Robert instead!”
“No, we made the right choice.” Bran was firm on that point. “Listen to me, all of you, and do not forget: we made the right choice. William is king, and only William has the power to give us back our lands. Th
e king is justice for the people who must live beneath his rule. Our only hope is Red William.”
“Duke Robert would have been king and returned our lands to us,” Siarles insisted. “If we had supported him, he would have supported us in turn, and we’d have what is ours by rights.”
Mérian gave Siarles a glance that could have cut timber. The rough forester glared back at her, but mumbled, “If I have spoken above myself, I am sorry, my lord, and I do beg your pardon. It just seems that for all our trouble we are no better off than before.”
Bran clapped his hand to the back of Siarles’ neck, drew him close, and said, “Siarles, my friend, if you truly think supporting Robert would avail us anything, you might as well join those traitors who are even now gathering to work their wiles.” Bran spoke softly, but there was no mistaking his resolve. “But while you are thinking on it, remember that Baron de Braose is one of the chief rebels. It is his hand squeezing our throats and his arm supporting Robert. If Duke Robert were to become king of England, bloody de Braose would become more powerful still, and he would never surrender his grip on our lands.”
“Bran is right,” Iwan declared. “The only way to get rid of de Braose is to expose him to the king.”
“We have warned Red William in good time, and now he can move to disarm the traitors,” Bran explained, releasing Siarles. “I have put our case before the king, and we must hope he succeeds in punishing those who have conspired against him.”
“Well,” said Siarles, rubbing his neck. He was still not completely convinced. “It seems we have no other hope.”
“It has been this way from the start,” Bran said. “We have done all we can. It is in God’s hands.”
See now, Bran was right. Never doubt it. We had no other hope for redress in this world, save William and William alone. But Siarles, bless his thick head, was not wrong to raise the question. Truth to tell, it was something I wondered at first myself—and it was not until Odo told me about the two popes that I began to see my way through that tangled wood. Why would Baron de Braose write a letter like that? Who was it for? Then I remembered who had signed that letter, and although I could not recall all the names, I remembered Duke Robert right enough, and wondered why the king’s brother and one of Red William’s dearest barons should be makin’ up a letter like that.
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