Scarlet

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Thus he braced our flagging spirits, speaking words of encouragement and hope. The next day, he became tireless in urging each and every one of us to hasten our steps; and when anyone was seen to be dragging behind, he hurried to help that one. Sometimes he seemed to be everywhere at once—now at the front of the long line of travellers, now at the rear among the stragglers. He did all this with endless good humour, telling one and all to think what it would be like to be free in our own lands and secure in our own homes once more.

  The next day he did the same, and the next. He coaxed and cajoled until he grew hoarse, and then Friar Tuck took over, leading our footsore flock in songs. When we ran out of those, he started in on hymns, and little by little, all the urging and singing finally took hold. We walked easier and with lighter hearts. The miles fell behind us at a quicker pace until at last we reached the low, lumpy hills of the southlands.

  Caer Wintan was a thriving market town, helped, no doubt, by the presence of the royal residence nearby. Not wishing to risk trouble, we skirted the town and did not draw attention to ourselves beyond sending Tuck and a few men to buy fresh provisions.

  We arrived with a day to spare and camped within sight of the king’s stronghold—an old English hunting lodge that had once belonged to an earl or duke, I suppose. It was the place where Red William spent those few days he was not racing here or there to shore up his sagging kingdom in one place or another. It reminded me of Aelred’s manor, my old earl’s house, but with two long wings enclosing a bare dirt yard in front of the black-and-white half-timbered hall. The only defence for the place was a wooden palisade with a porter’s hut beside the timber gate.

  With a day to spare, we spent it washing our clothes and bathing, ridding ourselves of the road and making ourselves ready to attend the king. At sunrise on the third day after Saint Michael’s Day, we rose and broke fast; then, laundered and brushed, washed and combed, we walked to the king’s house with Bran in the lead, followed by Angharad leaning on her staff and, beside her, Iwan, holding his bow and a sheaf of arrows at his belt. Siarles and Mérian came next, and then the rest of us in a long double rank. I carried Nia and walked with Nóin; as we passed through the gate, I felt her slip her hand into mine and give it a squeeze. “I am glad to be here today,” she murmured. “I will remember it always.”

  “Me, too,” I whispered. “It is a great day, this, and right worthy to be remembered.”

  We assembled in the king’s yard, and Bran had just asked Brother Jago to inform the king’s porter that we had come in answer to the king’s summons as commanded and were awaiting his pleasure, when who should appear but Count Falkes de Braose and Abbot Hugo, accompanied by Marshal Guy de Gysburne and no fewer than fifteen knights. They swept in through the gates, heedless of our folk, who had to scatter to let them through.

  One look at our straggled lot, and the Ffreinc drew their swords. Our own men set arrows on their strings and took a mark. We all stared at one another, eyes hard, faces grim, until Count Falkes broke the silence. “Bran ap Brychan,” intoned the count in his high nasal voice, “Et tous vos compatriotes foule. Qu’une surprise désagréable!”

  Brother Jago, taking his place at Bran’s shoulder, whispered the count’s greeting in our lord’s ear. I needed no translation to know that he had insulted Bran by calling us all “filthy countrymen” and a “disagreeable surprise.”

  “Count Falkes, your arrival is as untimely as it is unwelcome,” replied Bran lightly. “What are you doing here?”

  “One could ask the same of you,” countered Falkes. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I am as you see me,” returned Bran. “But it would seem you still irk the earth with your presence. I asked why you have come.”

  Marshal Gysburne muttered an oath at this reply when Jago had delivered it, and several other knights spat at us. I saw a flicker of anger flit across the count’s face, but his reply was restrained. “We are obeying the king’s summons. I cannot think you are here by accident.”

  “We likewise have been summoned,” returned Bran. “Therefore, let us resolve to hold the peace between us for at least as long as we must stand before the king.”

  With some reluctance, it seemed to me, Count Falkes agreed, although he really had no better choice. Starting a battle in the king’s yard would have gained him little and cost him much. “Very well,” he said at last. “We will keep the peace insofar as you keep your rabble subdued.”

  I could not tell how much the count knew about our Bran and his busy doings—very little, I guessed, for his remark about Bran having been killed seemed to signify that Falkes did not recognise Bran as Father Dominic, or as King Raven, either. I thought the whole contest would be over once he recognised me, though, but after bandying words with Bran, he feigned disinterest in us and turned his face away, as if we were beneath his regard. I suppose I appeared just a married man with a child in his arms and a wife by his side.

  So now, an uneasy truce was established—but it was that thin, I can tell you, a single lance point or arrow tip could have pierced it anywhere along the line. We waited there in the yard, wary and watching one another. Nóin, bless her, stood with her head high and shoulders straight, returning the glare of the marshal and his hard-eyed knights, and little Nia found a pile of pebbles to keep her busy, moving them from one place to another and singing to them all the while.

  When it seemed that we must all snap under the strain, the great oak-and-iron door of the king’s royal residence opened and out stepped the king’s man, accompanied by two other household servants. “His Majesty the king has been informed of your arrival,” he announced in good English. “He begs the boon of your patience and will give audience as soon as may be.” Taking in the horde of Welshmen standing with Bran in the yard, he added, “It will not be possible for all of you to enter. The hall is not large enough. You must choose representatives to attend you; the rest will wait here.”

  When Jago had relayed these words to our lord, Bran replied, “With respect, as the king’s judgement will serve all my people, we will hear it together. Perhaps the king will not mind delivering his decision to us here as we wait so patiently.”

  The fella made no answer, but simply bent his head, turned on his heel, and scuttled back inside. “All stand together,” sneered Count Falkes. “How very Welsh.” The word was a slur in his mouth.

  “All hang together, too,” observed Abbot Hugo. His eye fell on me just then, and recognition came to him. His ruddy face froze. “You there!” he shouted. “Hold up your hands.”

  “Don’t do it, Will,” warned Bran, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “He may suspect, but we need not feed his suspicion.”

  I stood my ground, silently returning his gaze, but I kept my hands well out of the Black Abbot’s sight. It was then I saw Odo, sitting most uncomfortably on the back of a brown mare. He saw me, too, knew me, and—bless him—held his tongue. He would not betray me to his masters.

  “I say!” cried the abbot, growing angry. “Order your man to show me his hands.”

  “As he is my man,” said Bran, “he is mine to command. I will make no such demand.”

  “By the Virgin, it is him,” insisted the abbot.

  “What are you talking about?” wondered Count Falkes.

  “The prisoner!” cried Hugo, jabbing his finger at me. “Scatlocke—the one they called Scarlet. That is him, I tell you!”

  Count Falkes turned his gaze my way and studied me for a moment. “No,” he decided. “That is not the man.” No doubt my haircut and shave, and change of clothes and fleshing out a little on my wife’s good cooking, had changed me enough to make them just that little uncertain.

  “It is him,” put in Gysburne. He looked at Bran and concluded, “And the last time we saw that one, he gave his name as Father Dominic. I would swear to it.” He gazed at the rest of us, his eyes passing back and forth along the ranks. “By the rood, they’re all here!” He pointed at Iwan. “I know I’ve seen t
hat one before. I know it.”

  “You are imagining things,” remarked the count. “They all look alike anyway, these Welsh.”

  “Say nothing,” advised Angharad, speaking mostly to Bran, but to the rest of us as well. “Let them think what they will—it no longer matters what they say. Let them rail. We will not stoop to satisfy their accusations.”

  So Bran ignored the Ffreinc taunts and finger-pointing which continued to be cast at him and some of the rest of us; instead, he and Angharad turned their faces to the ironbound door and waited. The sun rose slowly higher, and still we waited, growing warm beneath the bright autumn rays. Some of the Ffreinc grew tired of waiting in the saddle and, sheathing their weapons, climbed down from their horses. Others led their mounts away to water them. Most, however, remained to glare and frown and mutter curses at us. But that is the worst of what they did, and we braved it in silence without giving them cause for greater anger.

  Then, as the sun climbed toward midday, the door to the royal residence opened once more and the king’s man appeared with the two servants. “Hear! Hear!” he called. “His Majesty William, King of England!”

  Out from the house came the Red King and five attendants: one of them a priest of some exalted kind, robed in red satin with a gold chain and cross around his neck, and another the young Lord Leicester we had met in Rouen; the rest were knights carrying lances. The king himself, surrounded by his bodyguard, seemed smaller than I remembered him; his stocky form was wrapped in a blue tunic that stretched tight across his bulging stomach; his short legs were stuffed into dark brown trousers and tall riding boots. His flame-coloured hair glowed with bright fire in the sunlight, but he seemed tired to me, almost haggard, and there were chapped patches on his cheeks. In his hand, he carried a rolled parchment.

  “Which one is the king? Is it the one in red?” whispered Nóin, and I realised that, like most people, she’d never set eyes to the king of England before and had no idea how William or any other king might appear when not tricked out in their regal frippery.

  “No, the fat one with orange hair,” I told her. “That’s our William Rufus.”

  This information was repeated down the ranks, along with other pungent observations. De Braose and his lot, seeking an advantage somehow, called out greetings to the king, who ran his eye quickly over them but did not respond to their bald attempt at flattery. After this had gone on for a time, the king gestured to his man, who cut short the speeches and called for silence.

  With a somewhat distracted air, the king held the parchment roll out to the priest. “Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux will read out the royal judgement proclamation at this time,” he declared. Brother Jago relayed these words to the Welsh speakers.

  The cardinal known as Flambard stepped forward and, with a short bow, received the scroll from William’s hand. He took his time untying it and unrolling it. Holding it high, he stepped forward and began to read it out. It was Latin, of course, and I could make nothing of it. Fortunately, I was standing near enough to Brother Jago to catch most of what he said as he translated the words for Bran and Angharad. Tuck was close by to offer his understanding as well.

  “I,William, by the grace of God, king of England, greets his subjects with all respect and honour according to their rank and station. Be it known that this day, the third day after the Feast of Saint Michael, this judgement was made public by the reading hereof in the presence of the same king and those persons summoned by the crown to attend him. Owing to the perfidious nature of certain noblemen known to the king, and because of dissensions and discords which have arisen between the king and the lord king’s brother, Duke Robert of Normandie, and a company of rebellious barons of the kingdom concerning William’s lawful right to occupy the throne and to rule unimpeded by the slanders and allegations of traitorous dissenters, this recognition has been made before the Chief Justiciar of England, and Henry, Earl of Warwick, and other great men of the kingdom, and has been signed and sealed in their presence.”

  Here the cardinal paused to allow the crowd to unravel the mean ing of this address. We were by no means the only ones struggling to keep up; the Ffreinc in Count de Braose’s camp were having their own difficulties with all that high-flown Latin and were being aided by Abbot Hugo, who was interpreting for the count and others.

  When Cardinal Flambard decided that all had caught up with him, he continued, “Accordingly, I,William, under authority of Heaven, do hereby set forth my disposition in the matters arising from the recent attempt by those rebellious subjects aforementioned to remove His Majesty from his throne and the rightful rule of his realm and subjects. Be it known that William de Braose, Baron of Bramber, for his part in the rebellion has forfeited his lands and title to the crown and is henceforth prohibited from returning to England under ban of condemnation for treason and the penalty thereof. Regarding his son, the Earl Philip de Braose, and his nephew the Count Falkes de Braose, being found to have no part in the wicked rebellion against their lawful king, but owing to their familial proximity to the traitors, it is deemed prudent to extend the ban to them and their households; therefore, they are to follow the baron into exile to whatever lands will receive them.”

  The Ffreinc moaned and gnashed their teeth at this, while at the same time it was all we could do to keep from cheering. Oh, it was all we’d hoped for—Baron de Braose was banished, and his noxious nephew exiled with him. The throne of Elfael was freed from the Normans, and victory was sweet in our mouths.

  But, as the Good Lord giveth with his right hand, and taketh with his left—so with kings.

  “Further,” continued the cardinal, “it pleases His Majesty to assume those lands now vacated to be placed under Forest Law as a Protectorate of Royal Privilege, to be administered for the crown by a regent chosen to serve the interests of the crown, namely Abbot Hugo de Rainault. As our regent and an officer of the crown, he will exercise all authority necessary to hold, maintain, and prosper those lands and estates, and with the aid of our sheriff, Richard de Glanville, to more firmly establish the realm in the fealty due its rightful monarch.”

  Here the cardinal broke off to allow the translators to catch up. While we were struggling to work out what had just happened, Cardinal Flambard concluded, saying, “All others professing grievance in this matter, having been rewarded according to their service, are herewith disposed. No further action in regard to this judgement shall be countenanced. Under the sign and seal of William, King of England.”

  Owing to the slight murkiness of courtly Latin, it took us a while to get to grips with the outrage that had just been revealed in our hearing. Tuck and Jago held close council with Bran and Angharad. Count Falkes de Braose, astonished beyond words, stared at the king as if at the devil’s own manservant; Abbot Hugo and Marshal Guy put their heads together, already preparing to seed more mischief. In both camps, Ffreinc and British, there were dire mutterings and grumblings. Along with many another, I pressed forward to hear what the clerics among us were saying, and caught part of the discussion. “So, it comes to this,” Tuck said, “Baron de Braose and all his kith and kin have been banished, never to return to English soil on pain of death—well and good . . .”

  “But, see here,” pointed out Jago, “Abbot Hugo is made regent and remains in possession of the lands granted to de Braose by the king.”

  “But the bloody abbot keeps Elfael!” growled Tuck dangerously.

  A dull, damp sickness descended over me. Some of those around me swore and called down curses on the head of the English king. “What does it mean?” said Nóin, pressing close beside me.

  “It means we have been used and cast aside,” I spat. “It means that red-haired rogue has gutted us like rabbits and thrown us to the dogs.”

  “That cannot be,” said Bran, already starting forth. “Heaven will not allow it!” He stepped forward three long paces and halted, calling upon the king to hear him. “My lord king,” he said, with Jago’s help, “am I to understand that you have
allowed Abbot Hugo to keep our lands in Elfael?”

  “The king has decreed that the abbot will serve as his regent,” replied Cardinal Ranulf. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at Bran. “I remember you right well,” he said, “and I warn you against trying any such foolishness as you attempted last time we met.”

  “Then pray remind the king that I was promised the return of our lands and the rule of our people,” Bran countered, speaking through Jago. “This I was promised by the king himself in recognition of our part in exposing the traitors.”

  The king heard this, of course, but glanced away, a pained expression on his face.

  “I cannot answer for any promises which might or might not have been made in the past,” responded the cardinal, making it sound as if this had all taken place untold years ago and could have no part in the judgement now. “After a suitable season of reflection, the king has determined that it does not serve the interests of the crown to return Elfael to Welsh rule at this time.”

  “What is to become of us?” cried Bran, growing visibly angry. “That is our land—our home! We were promised justice.”

  “Justice,” replied the silk-robed cardinal coolly, “you have received. Your king has decreed; his word is law.”

  Bran, holding tight to the reins of his rage, argued his case. “I would remind His Majesty that it was from within the abbot’s own stronghold that we learned of the conspiracy against him! Your regent is as guilty of treason as those you have already condemned and punished.”

  “So you say,” countered the cardinal smoothly. “There has been no proof of this, and therefore the right practice of justice decrees no guilt shall be laid at the abbot’s feet.”