Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“You mean to kill them all anyway as soon as we’re gone,” said Gysburne.
As Alan relayed the marshal’s words, Bran gazed at his adversary with an expression so hard it might have been carved of stone. “Tell him,” he replied, “that if I meant to kill them, they would be dead already.”
“How do we know you’ll keep your word?” demanded Aloin when the translator finished.
“You will all die here and now if the surrender is not agreed,” said Alan. “My lord Bran says that if his word is not acceptable, then you are free to take your wounded with you now.”
The abbot did not like this last proviso, and made to dispute it, but Bran would not relent. In the end, Gysburne sealed the bargain by turning the sword in his hand and throwing it down in the dirt halfway between himself and Bran.
“God in heaven be praised!” said Tuck. “I do believe they’re going to surrender. You’ve done it, Bran. You beautiful man, you’ve done it!”
“Steady on, Friar,” replied Bran. “This is not finished yet by a long throw. We are dancing on a knife edge here; pray we don’t yet slip.” He cast his gaze around the square. “I greatly fear a fall now would prove fatal.”
“All of you,” said Iwan, pointing to the sword on the ground.
One by one, the soldiers added their weapons to the marshal’s; Captain Aloin was the last to disarm.
“What now?” said Siarles.
“Gather round, everyone,” said Bran, and explained how they were to shepherd the Ffreinc through the forest. “We’ll see them to the Vale of Wye and release them at the border of the March. Then, they are on their own.”
“It will be dark soon,” Tuck pointed out.
“Then we had best get started,” Bran replied. “All saints and angels bear witness, on my life they will not spend another night in my realm.”
Castle Neufmarché
F
our long days on the road brought the weary abbot and his footsore company—six soldiers, three monks, and two dejected commanders—to the busy market town of Hereford, the principal seat of Baron Neufmarché. Very possibly, the baron may have been the closest thing to an ally that Abbot Hugo possessed just then. Exhausted, begrimed from his journey, and aching from sleeping in rude beds appropriated from settlements alongside the road, Hugo lifted his sweaty face to the solid stone walls of the castle on the hill above the town and felt what it must be like for weary pilgrims to behold the promised land.
Here, at last, he would be given a welcome worthy of his rank. Moreover, if he sharpened his appeal with hints of clerical patronage—offers of perpetual prayer and special indulgences excusing the baron from certain past sins—Hugo imagined he might enlist the baron’s aid to help him recover his abbey and reclaim Elfael from the hands of that blasted King Raven and his troop of outlaws. “Captain Aloin,” he called, climbing down from a swaybacked horse—the only one they had been able to commandeer from the first Norman town they had come to after leaving the March. “You and your men will rest and wait for us in the town. Go to the monastery and get some food and drink—my monks will take you there.”
“Where are you going, Abbot?”
“Marshal Guy and I will go to the baron and see if he is of a mood to receive us. If all goes well, I will send for you as soon as suitable arrangements can be made.”
The captain, who had risked life and limb in the abbot’s service, and whose troops bore the brunt of the failure to roust King Raven from his roost, was not best pleased to be shut out of the proceedings now. But Aloin was too tired to argue, so agreed—if only that he might find a cool place to sit down that much sooner. He waved the marshal and abbot away, ordered his men to go with the monks and fetch food and drink from the abbey and bring some back for him; and then, sitting himself down in the shade of the stone archway leading into the town square, he pulled off his boots and closed his eyes. Before he drifted off to sleep, it occurred to him that this was likely the last he would see of the abbot. This caused him fleeting concern. Yet, close on this first thought was another: if he never saw that grasping, arrogant, conniving churchman again . . . well, all things considered, that was fine too.
Meanwhile, Bernard Neufmarché, Lord of Hereford and Gloucester, was sitting in his private courtyard gazing up at the sky for no other reason than that he thought a shadow had passed over him and he felt a sudden chill. He glanced up to see if an errant cloud had obscured the sun for a moment, but there were no clouds, and the sun shone as brightly as ever. The baron was not a man for omens or portents, but it did seem to him that lately—at least, ever since his lady wife had become smitten with all things Welsh—he often had odd feelings and sudden urges to do things he had never done before, such as sit quietly alone with his thoughts in his pleasant courtyard. Moreover, he often entertained the notion that strange forces were swirling around him, moving him towards destinations and destinies unknown.
He smiled at his own superstitious nature—something else he never did.
When Remey, his red-capped seneschal, appeared in the doorway to tell him that he had visitors, he felt the intrusion like a clammy dampness in the small of his back. Odd, that. “Who is it?” he asked, and before Remey could reply, he added, “Send them away. I do not wish to see anyone today.”
“Of course, my lord baron,” replied the seneschal smoothly, “but you may wish to reconsider when I tell you that Abbot Hugo de Rainault and Marshal Guy de Gysburne have arrived on foot, alone, and wish to speak to you most urgently.”
“Indeed?” wondered the baron, intrigued now. “Very well.” He sighed, rising from his warm bench. “Give them something to drink, and I will join them in the hall. I want to speak to Father Gervais first.”
“Very wise, my lord.” Remey withdrew to find the steward and order some refreshments for the baron’s unexpected guests.
When his servant had gone, the baron walked slowly across the courtyard to an opposite doorway which led onto the porch of the little chapel, where he found the family’s elderly priest sitting in a pool of light from the courtyard and nodding over a small parchment chapbook in his lap. The baron picked up the book; it was the Gospel of Saint Matthew in Latin. He was able to pick out a few words here and there, and the thought came to him that perhaps it was time he learned to read properly—not like a barnyard chicken pecking seeds willy-nilly.
The old priest awoke with a start. “Oh! Bless me, I must have dozed off. Good day to you, my son, and God’s rich blessing.”
“Very well, Father,” replied the baron, and thanked the priest. “I would not disturb your meditations, but we have visitors—Abbot Hugo de Rainault and his marshal, Guy of some such. I believe you know the abbot?”
“I had dealings with him now and then,” replied the priest, “but that was a long time ago. I would not say I knew him.”
The baron considered this and turned another page of the book in his hand. “There must be trouble in Elfael,” mused the baron idly. “I can think of no other reason de Rainault would turn up at my door.”
The priest considered this. “Yes,” he agreed slowly, “no doubt you are right about that. Then again, it has been very quiet of late. We would have heard about any trouble, I think.”
“Perhaps not,” countered the baron. “The outlaws own the King’s Road through the forest. Nothing moves in or out of Wales that they do not allow—which is why I expect this visit means trouble.”
“You know best, Bernard.”
“Well, in any event we’ll soon find out,” said the baron with a sigh. “I’m going to see them now, but I wanted to ask if you would come with me to greet them. I’d like to have you there, Father.”
“Certainly, my son. I’d be delighted.”
The baron held out his hand to the elder man and helped him to his feet.
“These old bones get slower every day,” said the priest, rising heavily.
“Nonsense, Father,” replied Baron Neufmarché. “The years touch you but lightly.”
“Bah!
Now
who is speaking nonsense?”
They strolled amiably to the baron’s great hall, where, at a table near the wide double door leading to the castle’s main yard, a very dusty Gysburne and travel-soiled abbot were finishing their wine and cheese. “My lord baron!” declared Gysburne, standing quickly and brushing crumbs from his tunic. “God be good to you, Sire. My thanks for your inestimable hospitality.”
“God with you, Marshal,” replied the baron, “and with you, Abbot de Rainault. Greetings and welcome. I hope you are well?”
Abbot Hugo extended his hand to be reverenced. “God with you, Baron. I fear you find me not at all well.”
“Oh? I am sorry to hear it.” The baron turned to his companion, and they exchanged a knowing glance. “May I present my dear friend, Father Gervais. I think you may know one another.”
The abbot glanced at the elderly cleric. “No, I don’t think so. I would remember. God with you, Father.” He gave the old man a nod and dismissed him with a slighting smile. “It will save us all some bother if I come to the point, my lord.”
“I am all for it,” replied the baron. “Please, continue.”
“There has been a wicked uprising in Elfael. Soldiers under the command of Marshal Guy, here, were slaughtered in an unprovoked attack and the fortress taken. In short, we have been driven from our lands by an uprising of Welsh rebels. I say rebels, and so they style themselves. In truth, they are little more than thieves and outlaws, every last one.”
“I see.” Baron Bernard frowned thoughtfully. “That is not good news.”
“What is more, they have killed a regiment of king’s men under the command of one Captain Aloin. The few survivors have been driven into exile with me.”
“Hmmm . . .” said the baron, shaking his head.
“These rebels, Lord Abbot,” said Father Gervais, “would they be the same that control the King’s Road through the forest? We have heard about them.”
“The same, since you ask. Yes, the same. Their strength in arms and numbers has grown in these last months, and they have become ever more bold in their raiding and thieving. We had hoped that the arrival of the king’s soldiers would have been sufficient to discourage them. Alas, they respect no authority and live only to shed innocent blood.”
“How many men did the king lend you?” wondered the baron, summoning a steward with a gesture. “A chair for Father Gervais,” he said. “And one for myself. Bring us wine too.”
The steward brought the chairs, and another produced a small table for the wine; while the cups were filled, the abbot continued. “How many king’s men did I have? Too few, by the rood. If we had received numbers sufficient to the task—and which I specifically requested, mind you—I am certain this disaster could have been averted. It is only through my most stringent endeavours at persuasion that any of us have survived at all.”
Marshal Guy stared at the abbot, whose lies he almost believed himself.
“The attack was vicious and unprovoked, as I say,” concluded the abbot. “They struck without warning and showed no mercy. Though we mounted a vigorous defence, we were at last overwhelmed. We were fortunate to escape with our lives.”
“Yes, no doubt,” mused the baron thoughtfully. “You said they were with you, the soldiers who survived the attack—where are they now?”
“In the town,” replied Guy. “We’ve been on the road for four days without horses. We are all of us exhausted.”
“Of course,” replied the baron.
Guy could not fail to notice that the baron did not offer to send for the troops and bring them to the castle to be fed. In fact, the baron seemed more than content to let the matter rest where it lay. The abbot, however, was not so inclined; he had the spoon in his fist and meant to stir the pot with it.
“My lord baron,” said Hugo, offering up his cup to be refilled.
“How many men have you under your command?”
The baron waited while the wine was poured. “Not as many as I should like,” he answered, raising his cup to his lips, “times being what they are.” He drank a sip to give himself a little time to think. “No doubt, King William would be able to raise as many as required.” He smiled. “But I am no king.”
“No, of course not,” replied the abbot. He placed his cup carefully on the table and looked the baron full in the face. “Even so, I would like to ask you to consider lending me some of your soldiers. Now”—he raised his hand as if to forestall an objection he saw coming—“think carefully before you answer. You would be aiding the church in its ongoing affairs, and that would place me in a position to pass along certain indulgences . . .” He watched the baron for his reaction. “Certain, shall we say, very
valuable
indulgences. The perpetual prayers of an abbey can guarantee salvation on the Day of Judgement, as we know—which is ordinarily obtained only at great expense.”
The baron, still smiling, said nothing.
“You could of course lead your men,” continued Hugo. “I would not presume to usurp your place on the field. Indeed, I have no doubt that under your able command Elfael would be rid of the outlaws within two or three days—a week at most.”
Baron Neufmarché placed his cup very deliberately on the table and leaned forward. “Your confidence in me is most gratifying, Lord Abbot. And of course, I wish I were in a position to help. Unfortunately, what you suggest is difficult just now—not to say impossible. I am truly sorry.”
The abbot’s face froze. His white hair wild on his head, his pristine satin robe stained from the toil of his flight, he appeared haggard and old as he gazed at the baron, trying to find a way over the stone wall so deftly thrown into his path. “Ah, well,” he said at last, “I find it never hurts to ask.”
“You have not because you ask not,” declared Father Gervais suddenly. “Saint James . . . I believe.”
“Precisely,” murmured the abbot, thinking furiously how to rescue his stranded request.
“What plans have you made?” inquired the baron, looking to Gysburne.
“We will go to the king,” answered Guy. “His men would return in any case, and we—”
“The king, yes,” interrupted the abbot, rousing himself to life again. “It is
his
cantref, after all, and his to defend.”
“My thoughts exactly,” concurred the baron—as if the point had been under dispute but was now successfully resolved to the satisfaction of all. “It goes without saying that I
would
ask you to stay here and rest a few days, but I can see that the urgency of your journey requires you to reach Londein without delay. I only wish it was possible to lend you horses for the remainder of your journey”—he spread his hands helplessly—“but, alas, such is not the case.”
“Your thoughtfulness is commendable,” intoned the abbot. He slumped wearily in his chair, looking more and more like an old bone that had been gnawed close and tossed onto the midden heap.
“No, no,” countered the baron, “it is nothing. Please, you will stay and eat something before you go. I insist. Then, my commander will escort you to rejoin your men in the town and see you on your way. You’ve come this far without incident; we don’t wish to see anything ill befall you now, do we?”
And that was that.
A cold supper was brought to the chamber, and while the abbot and marshal ate, two mules were loaded with provisions to be led by a driver who would accompany them and bring the animals back upon their arrival in Londein.
As the abbot and marshal were preparing to leave, the baron and several of his men joined them in the yard to bid the visitors farewell. “God speed you, my friends,” he said cheerily. “At least you have good weather for your journey.”
“At the very least,” agreed the abbot sourly.
“Ah,” said the baron, as if thinking of it for the first time, “There was a sheriff, I believe, in Elfael. You didn’t say what became of him. Killed, I suppose, in the battle?”
“Not at all,” answered Gysburne. “Sheriff de Glanville was leading a division of men who were butchered by the rebels. All were murdered, save the sheriff, who was taken prisoner and is being held hostage. They promise to release him once our wounded soldiers are well enough to travel. Although, what is to become of him, I cannot say.”