Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
W
e rode hard for Glascwm and passed through the gates of Saint Dyfrig’s as a wet winter storm closed over the valleys. Rain, stinging cold, spattered into the hard-packed yard as the monks scurried to pull the horses into the stable and bundle us soggy travellers into the refectory where they could spoon hot soup into us. They did not yet know who it was they entertained—not that it would have made a difference, I reckon, for the abbey yard was already full of local folk who, having fled the Ffreinc, sought sanctuary within the walls of the abbey.
Wet and wretched, battered and beaten down, they stood slump-shouldered in the rain before the low huts they had built in the yard, watching us with the mute, dull-eyed curiosity of cattle as we trotted through the gate. Forlorn and past caring, they huddled before their hovels, shivering as the rain puddled in the mud at their bare feet. The monks had made a fire in the middle of the yard to warm them, but the damp fuel ensured that it produced more smoke than heat. Most were thin, half-starved farmers by the look of them; and more than a few bore the signs of Norman justice: here a missing hand, or chopped-off foot, there an eye burned out by a red-hot poker.
Oh, the Ffreinc love lopping bits off the poor folk. They are tireless at it. And when a Norman noble cannot find good excuse to maim some unfortunate who wanders across his path . . . why, he’ll concoct a reason out of spit and spider silk.
As soon as we dismounted, the ladies were taken to the guest lodge where they could dry their clothes, but the rest of us foreswore that comfort for a hot meal instead. The abbot, a stiff old stick with a face like a wild pig’s rump, huffed and puffed when he saw our lord and his rough companions puddling up his dining hall. “Bran ap Brychan!” he cried, bursting into the long, low-beamed room. “They told me you were killed dead a year ago or more.”
“I am as you see me, Father,” replied Bran, standing to receive Abbot Daffyd’s blessing. “I hope we find you well.”
“Well enough. If the Ffreinc would leave off harrowing the valleys and driving decent folk from their homes, we would fare that much better. I hope you do not plan on staying—we are stretched tight as a drum head with caring for those we have already.”
“We will not trouble you any longer than necessary,” Bran assured him.
“Good.” The old man did not waste words. His forthright manner made me smile. Here was a fella who would listen to reason, and give back the same. “I’m glad you’re not dead. What are you doing here?”
“And here I was thinking you would never ask,” replied Bran. Iwan and Siarles chuckled, but Bran silenced them with a stern glance. “A few days ago, a letter was brought to you by Bishop Asaph.”
“That is so,” answered the abbot, folding his hands over his chest. His frown suggested he suspected grave mischief, and he was not wrong. “What is that to you, my son—if I may be so bold?”
“Be as bold as you like,” answered Bran. “Only tell me that you have that letter.”
“I do.”
“And have you read it, Father?”
“I have not,” said Daffyd. “But another has.”
“I hope he is a trustworthy man.”
“If he was not, I would not have given him the task.”
“Come, then.” He put a hand to the abbot’s shoulder and turned him around. “We will hear it together.”
“You’re soaking wet!” remarked the abbot, shrugging off Bran’s hand. “I’ll not have you shaking water all over my abbey. Stay here and finish your soup. I will bring the letter here.”
I began to appreciate the abbot right well. He was a bluff old dog whose bark concealed the fact that he would never bite. Bran returned to his place on the bench with a rueful smile. “He knew me as a boy,” he explained, “when he was under Asaph at Llanelli.”
The abbot returned as we were finishing our soup and bread. He brought the folded square of parchment clutched tight in both hands, as if he thought it might try to wriggle free; with him was a dark-haired, slender monk of middling years with a long face, prominent nose, and skin the colour of good brown ale.
“This is Brother Jago,” announced the abbot. “He was born in Genoa and raised in Marseilles. He speaks Ffreinc far better than anyone here in the abbey. He has read the letter.”
The slender monk dipped his head in acknowledgement of his superior’s wishes. “I am happy to serve,” he said, and I discerned in his speech a lightly lisping quality I’d never heard before. He turned to the abbot, who still stood holding the parchment bundle. “Father?” he said, extending his hand.
Abbot Daffyd gazed at the letter and then at Bran. “Are you certain you wish to proceed with this?”
Bran nodded.
The abbot frowned. “I will not be a party to this. You will excuse me.”
“I understand, Abbot,” replied Bran. “No doubt, it is for the best.”
Placing the bundle in Brother Jago’s hands, the abbot turned and left the room. When the door had closed again, Bran nodded to the monk. “Begin.”
Jago untied the blue cord and carefully unfolded the prepared skin. He stood for a moment, gazing at it, then placed it on the board in front of him and, leaning stiff-armed on his hands, began to read in a slow, confident voice.
“I, William, by the grace of God, Baron of Bramber and Lord of Brienze, to the greatly esteemed and reverend Guibert of Ravenna. Greetings in God, may the peace of Christ, Our Eternal Saviour, remain with you always. Pressed—” Jago paused. “Ah, no, rather . . . urged by faith, we are obliged to believe and to maintain that the Church is one: Holy, Catholic, and also Apostolic. We believe in Her firmly and we confess with simplicity that outside of Her there is neither Salvation nor the remission of Sins, and She represents one sole mystical Body whose Head is Christ and the Head of Christ is God.”
Although we understood little enough of what he said, the musical quality of his speech drew us near; as he continued to read, we gathered around to hear him better.
“In all our Realms and whatsoever lands exist under our rule, granted by God, we venerate this Church as one. Therefore, of the one and only Church there is one Body and one Head, not two heads like a monster; that is, Christ and the Vicar of Christ, Peter and the successor of Peter, since the Lord speaking to Peter Himself said: ‘Feed my sheep,’ meaning, my sheep in general, not these, nor those in particular, whence we understand that He entrusted all to this same Peter, entrusting to him and him alone, the Keys of the Kingdom . . .”
Well, I never would have believed it—that Bloody Baron de Braose should preach so about the nature of the church and whatnot—well, it passed understanding.
“. . . Therefore, if anyone should say that they are not belonging—”Jago broke off, read to himself for a moment, then raised his head and said, “I am sorry. It has been some time since I read French like this.”
“You are doing well,” Bran said. “Pray, continue.”
“Ah . . . that they are not
under the authority
of Peter and his successors, they must confess not being the Sheep of Christ, since Our Lord says in the Gospel of John ‘there is one sheepfold and one Shepherd.’
Therefore, whoever resists this power thus ordained by God, resists the ordinance of God, unless he invent like Manicheus two beginnings, which is false and judged by us heretical, since according to the testimony of Moses, it is not ‘in the beginnings’ but ‘in the beginning’ that God created Heaven and Earth. Furthermore, we declare, we proclaim, we define that it is absolutely necessary for Salvation that every human creature be subject to the Roman Pontiff . . .”
When Jago broke off once more to collect himself, Iwan said, “What is the old rascal talking about?”
“Shh!” hissed Tuck. “Let him read on and we will see.”
Jago resumed his reading. “. . . Be it known to all sons of our Holy Church present and future that we have heard the Spirit’s admonition to seize the day of Peace, and have ordained this concord to be made between William and Guibert, formerly Archbishop of Ravenna . . .”
Mérian and Cinnia, given dry robes by the monks, entered just then. “You started without us!” Mérian said, her voice sharp with disapproval.
“Shh!” said Bran. “You have missed little enough.” He gestured to Jago. “Go on.”
“. . . attendant with very Sacred vows to uphold His Holiness, the Pope, and bind our Powers to the Throne of Saint Peter and the One Church Universal, recognizing him as Pontiff and Holy Father, forsaking all other Powers, henceforth holding only to the Authority invested in His Holiness, the Patriarch of Rome. May the Divinity preserve you for many years, most Holy and Blessed Father.
“Given at Rouen on the third day of September, before these witnesses: Roger, Bishop of Rheims; Reginald des Roches, Bishop of Cotillon; Robert, Duke of Normandy; Henry Beauclerc; Joscelin, Bishop of Véxin; Hubert de Burgh, Justiciar of King Philip; Gilbert de Clare, Count of Burgundy and Argenton; Ralph fitzNicholas, our seneschal; Henry de Capella, Baron of Aquitaine; and others in most Solemn and August Assembly.”
Jago glanced up quickly and, seeing all eyes on him, concluded. “Written by the hand of his servant Girandeau, scribe to Teobaldo, Archbishop of Milan.”
Well, I won’t say I gleaned the full meaning of that letter just then. Then again, no one did. Indeed, we all sat looking a little perplexed at what we’d heard. Iwan spoke for us all, I think, when he said, “That was worth a man’s life on Christmas day?”
“There is something in it we cannot yet see,” replied Bran.
“If we only knew where to look,” sighed Tuck. “For all its folderol, it is only a simple offer of support for the pope. I confess, I make nothing of it.”
Jago straightened and turned a thoughtful gaze to Bran. “Pray, how did you come by this, my lord?” he asked, his voice quiet in the silence.
“It was with some other items taken in a raid,” Bran said simply.
Jago nodded, accepting this without comment. “These other items—may I see them?”
Bran considered for a moment, then turned to Tuck. “Show him.”
Tuck rose and turned his back to one and all and, from a hidden pocket in his robe, produced a roll of cloth tied with a horsehair string. He untied the string and unrolled the cloth on the table to reveal the ruby-studded ring and the finely embroidered gloves.
Jago took one look at the ring and picked it up; he held it between thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that so that the light glinted on the gold and ring of tiny rubies. “Do you know whose crest this is?”
“That of a Ffreinc nobleman,” replied Iwan.
“Beyond that?” said Bran. “We know nothing.”
Jago nodded again. Replacing the ring, he picked up the gloves, lifting them to his nose to take in the scent of the fine leather. Almost reverently, he traced the heavy gold thread of the cross and the looped whorl of the Chi Rho with a respectful fingertip. “I have seen gloves like this only once in my life—but once seen, it is never forgotten.” He smiled, as if recalling the memory even then. “They were on the hands of Pope Gregory. I saw him as a boy when he passed through the village where I was born.
“But,” he said, replacing the gloves, “I fear this does little to help you. I am sorry I could not be of better service.” He placed the palm of his hand on the parchment. “I agree with the friar. There is something in the letter that the baron does not wish known to a wider world.”
Well, you could have knocked us down with a wren feather. We all looked at each other, the mystery deeper now than when we had begun.
Lady Mérian found her voice first. “Nevertheless, it goes back. Whether we discover what it means or not,” she declared, “it must be returned—all of it—as we agreed.”
W
hat do you want me to do?” asked the abbot, when, after Jago had been dismissed, he returned to see if we would like to join the monks for vespers.
Bran pressed the folded parchment into Daffyd’s hands. “Make a copy of this,” he commanded. “Letter for letter, word for word. Make it exactly the same as this one.”
“I cannot!” gasped the abbot, aghast at the very suggestion.
“You can,” Bran assured him. “You will.”
“Leave it to me,” said Tuck, stepping boldly forward. “This is an abbey, is it not?” He took the abbot by the elbow, turned him, and led him to the door. “Then let us go to your scriptorium and see what can be done.”
O
do is frowning again. He does not approve of our King Bran’s high-handed ways. My scribe has put down his quill and folded his hands across his round chest. “Copying a stolen letter—you had no right.”
This makes me laugh out loud. “Hell’s bells, Odo! That is the least of the things we have done since this whole sorry affair began, and it en’t over yet.”
“You should not have done that,” he mutters. “It is a sin against the church.”
“Well, I suppose you could hold to that if you like,” I tell him, “but your friend Abbot Hugo was willing to burn defenceless folk in their beds to get that letter. He sent men to their deaths to reclaim it, and was only too willing to send more. Seems to me that if we start totting up sins, his would still outweigh the lot.”
In his indignation, my podgy scribe has forgotten this. He makes his sour face and pokes out his lower lip. “Copying a stolen letter,” he says at last. “It’s still a sin.”
“Perhaps.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Very well,” I concede. “I suppose you have never stood on a battleground naked and alone while the enemy swarms around you like killing wasps with poison in their stings.”
“No!” he snorts. “And neither have you.”
I grant him that. “Maybe not. But we are sorely outmanned in this fight. The enemy has all the knights and weapons, and he has already seized the high ground. Whatever small advantage comes our way, we take it and thank God for it, too.”
“You stole the letter!” he complains.
Oh, Odo, my misguided friend, takes what refuge can be found in dull insistence. Well, it is better than facing the truth, I suppose. But that truth is out now, and it is working away in him. I leave it there, and we roll on . . .
T
here were but four days remaining before Twelfth Night, when the hangings would commence. At Bran’s insistence, and with Tuck’s patient cajoling, the monks of Saint Dyfrig’s abbey prepared a parchment the same size and shape as that of the baron’s letter; they then proceeded to copy the letter out exact, matching pen stroke to pen stroke. If they had been archers, I’d have said they hit the mark nine times for ten and the tenth a near miss—which is right fair, considering they didn’t know what they were scribing. True, they were not able to use the same colour brown ink as the original; the ink they made for their use at the abbey had a more ruddy appearance when it dried. Still, we reasoned that since none of the Ffreinc in Elfael had ever seen the original, they would not know the difference.
While the monks toiled away, Bran and Iwan undertook to carve a seal of sorts out of a bit of ox bone. Working with various tools gathered from around the abbey—everything from knife points to needles—they endeavoured to copy the stamp that made the seal that was affixed to the letter. And, while they laboured at this, Mérian and Cinnia made a binding cord, weaving strands of white satin which they then dyed using some of the ruddy ink and other stuff supplied by the abbey.
It took two days to finish our forgery, and a fine and handsome thing it was, too. When it was done, we placed the letters side by side and looked at them. It was that difficult to tell them apart, and I knew which was which. No one who had not seen the genuine letter would be able to tell the difference, I reckoned, and anyone who did not know, would never guess.
Abbot Daffyd held a special Mass of absolution for the monks who had worked on the parchment and for the monastery itself for its complicity in this misdeed; he sought the forgiveness of the High Judge of the world for the low crimes of his followers. I held no such qualms about any of this myself, considering it a right fair exchange for the lives of those who awaited death in the count’s hostage pit.
When the service was finished, Bran ordered everyone to make ready to ride to Castle Truan to return the stolen goods to the count. “And just how do you intend to do that?” asked Daffyd; if his voice had been a bodkin, it could not have been more pointed. I suppose he imagined he had caught Bran in a mistake that would sink the plan like a millstone in a rowboat. “If you are caught with any of this, the sheriff will hang you instead.”
“Good abbot,” replied Bran, “your concern touches me deeply. I do believe you are right. Yet, since we have no interest in providing fresh meat for the hangman, we must make other arrangements.”
Warned by the devious smile on Bran’s face, Daffyd said, “Yes? And those would be?”
“
You
shall return the treasures to the count.”
“Me!” cried the abbot, his face going crimson in the instant. “But see here! I will do no such thing.”
“Yes,” Bran assured him, “I think you will. You must.”
Well, the abbot was the only real choice. When all was said and done, he was the only one who could come and go among the Ffreinc as neatly as he pleased without rousing undue suspicion.
“This will not do at all,” the abbot fumed.
“It will,” countered Bran. “If you listen well and do exactly as I say, they will hail you as a champion and drink your health.” Bran then explained how the stolen goods would be returned. “Tomorrow you will awaken and go to the chapel for your morning prayers. And there, on the altar, you will find a bag containing a box. When you open the box you will find the letter and the ring and the gloves. You will recognize them as the very items Count de Braose is missing, and you will take them to him, telling him precisely how you found them.”
“It hardly serves the purpose if they hang me instead,” Daffyd pointed out.
“If you can contrive to have the sheriff and abbot present when you hand over the goods,” continued Bran, “that would be better still. De Glanville was there. He knows you could not have been involved in the theft; therefore you will remain above suspicion. And since you did not see who left the bundle on the altar, they cannot use you to get at us.”
The abbot nodded. “It would all be true,” he mused.
“You would not have to lie to them.”
“But it would pare the truth very narrowly, my lord,” humphed Abbot Daffyd.
“Narrow is the gate,” chuckled Tuck, “and strait is the way. Do as Rhi Bran says, and they will sing your praises.”
“And I will give you silver enough to feed the hungry in your yard.”
The abbot twisted and turned like a worm on a griddle, but even he had to admit that it was the only way. He agreed to do it.
“Stay long enough to see the prisoners released,” added Bran. “Once the abbot and count have received the goods, they should set the captives free as promised.”
“I am not an imbecile,” sniffed the abbot. “I fully appreciate why we’re going to all this trouble.”
“As you say,” replied Bran. “Please do not take offence, Abbot; I just wanted to make sure we were all working to the same end. It is the lives of those men and boys we are saving. Lest anyone forget.”
While the others worked on preparing the forged letter, I had not been idle. I had been gathering bits of this and that from the abbey’s stores and supplies. Tuck, Mérian, and the others had helped, too, when they could, and on the Eve of Twelfth Night all was nearly ready.
We slept little that night, and dawn was a mere rumour in the east when we departed the abbey. There was no one about in the yard, and I do not think we were observed. But if any of the poor asleep in their miserable hovels had looked out, they would have observed a far different group of travellers leaving than that which arrived.