Scarlet (34 page)

He regarded me curiously. “Is that you talking, Will? It was you who put us onto it, after all.”

“Yes, but, I didn’t think—”

“If you’re right, then it is well worth the risk of a kingdom,” Bran said.

“Whose kingdom, my lord?” I wondered. “William’s . . . or yours?”

We talked until Cinnia called us to our food which, following a little good-natured teasing by the sailors, we were able to get down. After we had eaten, Ruprecht gave orders to his crew for the sail to be run up. Once this was done, the ship began to run more smoothly. We had no more trouble with the ever-contrary weather and reached the French mainland that evening. We dropped anchor until morning, then proceeded up the coast until reaching the estuary of a wide inland river at a place called Honfleur. Although some of our provisions had been damaged by seawater in the storm, we did not stop to take on more provisions because Ruprecht assured us that Rouen was only a day or so upriver and we could get all we needed there at half the cost of the harbour merchants.

So, we sailed on. The storm we had endured at sea had gone before us and was now settled over the land. Through a haze of rain we watched the low hills of Normandie slowly slide by the rail. Although we could not escape the rain, the river remained calm, and it was good to see land within easy reach on either side of the ship. I confess, it did feel strange to go into the enemy’s land. And I did marvel that no one tried to apprehend us or attack us in any way. But no one did, and we spent the night anchored in the middle of the stream, resuming our slow way at sunrise the next day. As promised, we reached the city of Rouen while it was still morning and made fast at the wharf that served the city. Iwan and Siarles readied the horses, and Bran meanwhile arranged with Ruprecht to provision the boat and wait for our return.

Then, pausing only to ask directions of one of the harbour hands, we set off once more beneath clearing skies on blesséd dry land. Oh! It was that good to be on solid ground again, and it was but a short ride to the palace of the archbishop where, it was said, the English king had arrived the previous day.

“Here is the way it will be,” Bran said as we entered the palace yard. “To anyone who asks, we are still ambassadors of the pope with an urgent message for the king.”

“Aye,” agreed Iwan dryly, “but which pope?”

“Pray we do not have to explain beyond that,” Bran told him. “At all events, do not any of you speak to anyone. Let Jago, here, do the talking for us.” He put his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Brother Alfonso knows what to say.”

“What if someone asks us something?” wondered Siarles, looking none too certain about this part of the enterprise.

“Just pretend you don’t speak French,” I told him.

The others laughed at this, but Siarles, bless him, was worried and did not catch my meaning. “But I don’t speak a word of French,” he insisted.

“Then pretending should be easy,” Mérian chirped lightly. She patted her hair, working in the ashes that greyed it; then took out the small wooden teeth that were part of her disguise and slipped them into her mouth; they were an off colour and made her jaw jut slightly, giving her face an older, far less comely appearance.

Bran and the others straightened their monkish robes and prepared to look pious. I had no disguise, but since no one in France had ever seen me before it was not thought to matter very much. Then, standing in the rain-washed yard of the archbishop of Rouen’s palace, Brother Jago led us in a prayer that the plan we set in motion would succeed, that bloodshed could be avoided, and that our actions would bring about the restoration of Elfael to its rightful rule.

When he finished, Bran looked at each of us in turn, head to toe, then, satisfied, said, “The downfall of Baron de Braose is begun, my friends. It is not something we have done, but something he has done to himself.” He smiled. “Come, let us do all we can to hasten his demise.”

CHAPTER 42

W
e were given a beggar’s greeting by the archbishop’s porter, who at first thought us English and then, despite his misgivings, was forced to take Bran at his word. For standing on his threshold was a legate of the pope and his attending servants and advisors. What else could he do but let us in?

Thus, we were admitted straightaway and shown to a small reception room and made to wait there until someone could be found who might more readily deal with us. There were no chairs in the room, and no fire in the hearth; the board against one wall was bare. Clearly, it was not a room used to receive expected, or welcome, visitors.

“Pax vobiscum,”
said a short, keen-eyed cleric in a white robe.
“Bona
in sanctus nomen.”

“Pax vobiscum,”
replied Bran. He nodded to Brother Jago, who stepped forward and, with a little bow of respect, began to translate for Father Dominic and his companions.

The man, it turned out, was a fella named Canon Laurent, and he was the principal aid to Archbishop Bonne-Âme. “His Grace has asked me to express his regrets, as he is unable to welcome you personally. Your arrival has caught us at a very busy and eventful time. Please accept our apologies if we cannot offer you the hospitality you are certainly due, and which it would be our pleasure to provide under more ordinary circumstances.”

The priest was as slippery and smooth as an eel in oil, but beneath the mannered courtesy, I sensed a staunch and upright spirit. “How may I be of service to you?” he said, folding his hands and tucking them into the sleeves of his robe.

“We have come bearing an important message for King William from His Holiness, the pope.”

“Indeed,” the canon replied, raising his eyebrows. “Perhaps if I knew more about this message it would aid your purpose.”

“Our message is for the king alone,” explained Bran, through Jago. “Yet I have no doubt that His Majesty will explain all to you in the time and manner of his choosing. If you would inform him that we are waiting, we will be in your debt.”

That was plain enough. The canon, unable to wheedle more from our Bran, conceded and promised to take our request to the king. “If you wish, I can arrange for you to wait somewhere more comfortable,” he offered.

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 William’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.