Scarlet (39 page)

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.”

“Call it what you will, my lord, but do not call it justice,” said Bran, his voice shaking with fury. Sweet Jesus, I had never seen him so angry. His face was white, his eyes flashing quick fire. “This is an offence against heaven. The people of Elfael will not rest until we have gained the justice promised to us.”

“You and your people will conform yourself to the regent’s rule,” Flambard declared. “As regent, Abbot Hugo is charged with your care and protection. Henceforth, he will provide you with the comfort and solace of the king’s law.”

“With all respect, Cardinal,” Bran called, fighting to keep his rage from devouring his reason, “we cannot accept this judgement.”

“The king has spoken,” concluded Cardinal Bayeux. “The continued prosecution of this dispute has no merit. The matter is herewith concluded.”

King William, impervious to our lord’s anger, nodded once and turned away. He and his soldiers and confidants walked back to the house and went inside. The cardinal rolled up the parchment and turned to follow his monarch.

With that, our Day of Judgement was over.

As the door closed on the backs of the royal party, a wide double door opened at the far end of the yard, and soldiers who had been awaiting this moment streamed out to encircle us. Weapons ready, they formed a wall, shoulder-to-shoulder around the perimeter of the yard.

“We must leave here at once,” said Angharad. “Bran!”

He was no longer listening. “We will not be denied!” he shouted, starting forth. “This is not the end. Do you hear?”

She pulled Bran’s sleeve, restraining him. Shaking off her grasp, he started after the swiftly retreating cardinal. “Iwan! Siarles!” she snapped, “See to your lord!”

The two leapt forward and took hold of Bran, one on either side. “Come away, my lord,” said Iwan. “Don’t make things worse. They only want half a reason to attack us.”

“You do well to drag him away,” called Marshal Guy, laughing. “Drag the beaten dog away!”

Gysburne was the only one to find amusement in this disaster, mind—he and a few of the less astute-looking soldiers with him. The rest appeared suitably grim, realising that this was no good news for them, either. Count Falkes looked like a man who has had his bones removed, and it was all he could do to remain in the saddle. His pale countenance was more ghastly still, and his lips trembled, no doubt in contemplation of his ruin.

Iwan and Siarles were able to haul Bran back. Mérian rushed to his side to help calm him. Meanwhile, Tuck and Angharad, fearful of what the Ffreinc might do next, moved quickly to turn everyone and march them from the yard before bloodshed could turn the disaster into a catastrophe.

Obeying cooler heads, we turned and started slowly away under the narrowed eyes and naked weapons of the king’s soldiers. As we passed Count de Braose’s company, I looked up and saw Odo, his round, owlish face stricken. On impulse, I raised my hand and beckoned him to join us. “Come, monk,” I told him. “If you would quit the devil and stand on the side of the angels, you are welcome here.”

To my surprise, he lifted the reins and moved out from the Ffreinc ranks. Some of those around him tried to prevent him, but he pulled away from their grasp; the abbot, sneering down his long nose, told them to let the craven Judas go. “Let him leave if he will,” said Marshal Gysburne, snatching the bridle strap and halting Odo’s mount, “but he goes without the horse.”

So my dear dull scribe took his life in his hands, plucked up his small courage, and slid down from the saddle to take his place among the Grellon.

As we marched from the yard, the soldiers tightened the circle and drew in behind us to make certain we would depart without causing any trouble. Abbot Hugo called out one last threat. “Do not think to return to Elfael,” he said, his voice ringing loud in the yard. “We have marked you, and we will kill you on sight should you or any of your rabble ever set foot in Elfael again.”

When Jago translated the abbot’s challenge for us, I saw Bran stiffen. Turning to address the abbot, he said in Latin, “Enjoy this day, vile priest—it is the last peace you will know. From this day hence, it is war.”

Abbot Hugo shouted something in reply, and the Ffreinc soldiers made as if they might mount an attack. They drew swords and lowered their shields, preparing to charge. But Bran snatched up a bow, and quick as a blink, planted an arrow between the abbot’s legs, pinning the hem of his robe to the hard ground. “The next arrow finds your black heart, Abbot,” Bran called. “Tell the soldiers to put up their weapons.” Hugo heeded the warning and wisely called for the king’s men to hold and let us depart. Slowly, Bran lowered the bow, turned, and led his people from the king’s stronghold.

Heads held high, we strode out through the gate and into our blood-tinged fate.

EPILOGUE

A
re you sure he’s the one?” asked Marshal Guy of Gysburne.

“Absolutely certain,” muttered Abbot Hugo. “There is no doubt. Bran ap Brychan was heir to the throne of Elfael. That idiot de Braose killed his father, and he himself was thought to be dead—but of course that was bungled along with everything else the baron and his milksop nephew touched.”

“To think we had him in our grasp and didn’t recognise him,” Gysburne observed. “Curious.”

Hugo took a deep breath and fixed his marshal with a steely gaze. “King Raven, the so-called Phantom, and Bran are one and the same. I’d stake my life on it.”

“We should have taken him when we had the chance,” remarked Gysburne, still puzzling over the deception played upon them.

“A mistake,” spat Hugo, “we will not repeat.”

Count Falkes de Braose had been escorted from the yard by knights of the king, to be taken to Lundein and there put on a ship to Normandie. Abbot Hugo and his marshal were left to consider the unexpected rise in their fortunes, and the threats to their rule. Their first thoughts turned to Bran and his followers. They quickly decided that so long as Bran and his men remained at large, they would never enjoy complete control over the people and lands that King William had entrusted to their stewardship.

“I can take him now,” said Guy.

“Not here,” said Hugo. “Not in sight of the king and his court. That will not do. No, let the upstart and his rabble get down the road a pace, and follow them. They won’t get far on foot. Wait until they make camp for the night, and then kill them all.”

“There are women and children, and at least one priest,” Guy pointed out. “What shall we do with them?”

“Spare no one,” the abbot replied.

“But, my lord,” objected Guy. He was a knight of the realm, and did not fancy himself a murderer. “We cannot slaughter them like cattle.”

“Bran ap Brychan said it himself,” countered the abbot. “It is war. His words, not mine, Gysburne. If it is war he wants, this is where it begins.”

Before Marshal Guy could argue further, the abbot called his knights and men-at-arms—and as many of the count’s men who wished to join his army—to gather in a corner of the yard. “On your knees, men,” he said. “Bow your heads.”With a clatter of armour, the knights under Guy Gysburne’s command drew their swords and knelt in a circle around the abbot. Folding their hands over the hilts of their unsheathed swords, they bowed their heads. Raising his right hand, Hugo made the sign of the cross over the kneeling soldiers.

“Lord of Hosts,” he prayed, “I send these men out to do battle in your name. Shield them with your hand, and protect them from the arrows of the enemy. Let their toil be accounted righteousness for your name’s sake. Amen.”

The soldiers raised their heads as the abbot said, “For any and all acts committed in carrying out the charge laid upon you this day, you are hereby absolved in heaven and on earth. Obey the will of your commander, who serves me even as I serve God Almighty. For the sake of God’s anointed, King William, the holy church, and the Lord Jesus Christ himself, show no mercy to those who rebel against their rule, and do so with the full knowledge that all of your deeds will be accounted to your favour on the earth and in heaven, and that you bear no stain of guilt or sin for the shedding of blood this day.”

With that, Guy and his men mounted their horses and silently rode from the yard in pursuit of King Raven and his flock.