Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“I see,” said Baron Neufmarché gravely. “A bad business all around. Well, I bid you
adieu
and wish you safe travels.” He turned and summoned his commander to his side. “See here, Ormand,” he said, “my friends are travelling to Londein on an errand of some urgency. I want you to escort them through the town and see them safely to the borders of my realm. Let nothing untoward happen to them while they are with you.”
“To be sure, Sire.” Ormand, a capable and levelheaded knight who served as the baron’s marshal, put out a hand to his new charges. “Shall we proceed, my lords? After you.”
The baron, standing at the topmost gate, waved his unwanted guests away; he waited until they were lost to sight in the narrow street leading down from the castle. Then, hurrying to his chambers, he called for a pen and parchment to send a message to the baroness in Wales informing her of the uprising and instructing her to tell King Garran to gather his soldiers and be ready to step in should the revolt show signs of spreading.
“Remey!” he called, waving the small square of parchment in the air to dry the ink. “I need a messenger at once—and see that he has the fastest horse in the stable. I want this delivered to Lady Agnes this time tomorrow and no later.”
Londein
C
ardinal Flambard pulled up the hem of his robe and stepped over the low rail of the boat and onto the dock. He dipped into his purse for a coin and flipped it to the ferryman, then turned and strolled up the dock, avoiding the gulls fighting over piles of fish guts some unthinking oaf had left to swelter in the sun. He raised his eyes to the Billings Gate and started his climb up the steep bank, stifling an inward sigh. It was his lot ever to run to the king’s least whim and answer His Majesty’s flimsiest fancy. Like two men sharing a prison cell, they were chained to one another until one of them died. Such was the price of standing so near the throne.
Standing? Ranulf Flambard occupied that gilded seat as often as ever the king sat there—considering that Red William remained in perpetual motion, flitting here and there and everywhere . . . stamping out rebellion, squabbling with his disgruntled brothers, resisting the constant incursions by the Mother Church into what he considered his private affairs. And when the king wasn’t doing that, he was hunting. In fact, that was William: always at the sharp end of any conflict going or, failing that, causing one.
And the dutiful Ranulf Flambard, Chief Justiciar of England, was there at his side to pick up the pieces.
It was to William’s side that he was summoned now, and he laboured up from the stinking jetty with a scented cloth pressed to his nose. The riverside at the rank end of summer was a very cesspool—when was it not? Proceeding through the narrow streets lining the great city’s wharf he allowed himself to think what life might be like as a bishop in a remote, upcountry see. As attractive as the notion seemed at the moment, would all that serenity soon pall? It was not likely he would ever find out. Turning from that, he wondered what fresh debacle awaited him this time.
At the gate to the White Tower he was admitted without delay and personally conducted by the porter to the entrance to the king’s private apartment, where his presence was announced by the chamberlain. Following a short interval, he was admitted.
“Oh, Flambard, it’s you,” said William, glancing up. He was stuffing the voluminous tail of his shirt into his too-tight breeches. Finishing the chore, he started towards the door. “At last.”
“I came as soon as I received your summons, Majesty. Forgive me for not anticipating your call.”
“Eh? Yes, well . . .” Red William looked at his chief advisor and tried to work out whether Flambard was mocking him. He could not tell, so let it go. “You’re here now and there’s work to do.”
“A pleasure, Sire.” He made a tight little bow that, perfected over years of service, had become little more than a slight nod of the head with a barely discernible bend at the waist. “Am I to know what has occasioned this summons, my lord?”
“It is all to do with that business in Elvile,” William said, pushing past the justiciar and bowling down the corridor which led to his audience rooms. “Remember all that ruck?”
“I seem to have a recollection, Sire. There was some trouble with one of the barons—de Braose, if I recall the incident correctly. You banished the baron and took the cantref under your authority—placed it in the care of some abbot or other, and a sheriff somebody.”
“You remember, good,” decided the king. “Then you can talk to him.”
“Talk to whom, Majesty, if I may ask?”
“That blasted abbot—he’s here. Been driven off his perch by bandits, apparently. Demanding an audience. Screaming the roof down.” The king stopped walking so abruptly that the cardinal almost collided with his squat, solid form. “Give him whatever he wants. No—whatever it takes to make him go away. I’m off to Normandie in a fortnight, and I cannot spare even a moment.”
“I understand, Highness,” replied the cardinal judiciously. “I will see what can be done.”
They continued on to the audience chamber, discussing the king’s proposed journey to Normandie, where he planned to meet with King Philip to challenge the French monarch’s increasingly flagrant incursions beyond the borders of the Vexin. “Philip is a low, craven ass. His trespasses will not be tolerated, hear?” said William as he pushed open the chamber door. “Ah! There you are.” This was spoken as if the king had spent the better part of the day in a harried search for the petitioner.
“My lord and majesty,” said the abbot, once again resplendent in a simple white satin robe and purple stole. “You honour your servant with your presence.”
William waved aside the flattery. “What is it you want? I was told it was a matter of some urgency. Speak, man, let’s get it done.”
“My lord,” said Abbot Hugo, “I fear I bring unhappy tidings. The—”
“Who are you?” asked the king, turning to the young man standing a few steps behind the abbot. “Well? Step up. Let me know you.”
“I am Marshal Guy de Gysburne at your service, Sire,” replied the knight.
“Gysburne, eh? I think I know your father—up north somewhere, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, Majesty.”
“Are you the sheriff ?”
“Majesty?”
“The sheriff I appointed to Elvile—or whatever the miserable place is called.”
“No, Majesty,” replied Guy, “I am the abbot’s marshal. Sheriff de Glanville is—”
“De Glanville—yes! That’s the fellow,” said the king as the memory came back to him. “Came to me begging the use of some soldiers. Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
“That is what we’ve come to speak to you about, Highness,” said the abbot, resuming his tale of woe. “It pains me to inform you that the realm of Elfael is in open rebellion against your rule. The rebels have slaughtered most of the men you sent to aid in the protection of your loyal subjects.”
Abbot Hugo then proceeded to describe a realm under siege and a population captive to chaos and terror. He spoke passionately and in some detail—so much so that even Gysburne felt himself moved to outrage at the accumulated atrocities, though the abbot’s description had parted company with the truth after the first few words. “If that was not enough,” concluded Hugo, “the outlaws have seized the throne and taken your sheriff hostage.”
“They have, eh? By the rood, I’ll have their eyes on my belt! I’ll hang the—”
“Your Majesty,” interrupted Cardinal Flambard, “perhaps it would be best if I were to sit down with the abbot here and see what can be done?”
“No need, Flambard,” retorted the king. “A blind man can see what needs to be done. Rebellion must be snuffed out swiftly and mercilessly, lest it spreads out of hand. These Welsh must be taught a lesson. I’ve too long been over-lenient with them—too generous, by the blood, and they’ve used me for a fool.”
“Sire,” ventured Cardinal Flambard gently, “I do not think this present circumstance is quite as simple as it might seem at first blush. I think I remember this outlaw fellow from Elfael, Sire. Was he not the same who came to you at Rouen with word of Duke Robert’s treason? He uncovered the plot against you—that was why Baron de Braose was exiled, if you will recall.”
“Yes? What of it?”
“Well, it would seem that the fellow sought restitution of his lands in exchange for his service to your throne.”
Abbot Hugo’s expression grew grim. He had carefully avoided any mention of the circumstances leading up to the insurrection—lest his own part in the baron’s conspiracy against William should inadvertently come to light.
“Ah, yes. Good hunting land, Elvile, I believe.”
“The best, Sire,” encouraged Hugo.
“What is your point, Flambard? We settled with Duke Robert and his schemers. That is over and done.”
“Quite so, Sire,” offered Hugo.
“If I may,” continued the justiciar, undeterred, “I would suggest that inasmuch as this Welshman did not receive the reward he was looking for at the time, it would seem that he has taken matters into his own hands.”
“I am to blame for this?” said William. “Is that what you’re suggesting?
I
am to blame for this rebellion?”
“By no means, Sire. Far from it. I merely point out that the two matters are related. Perhaps in light of the present circumstance it would be most expedient simply to allow the Welshman to claim the throne. I believe he offered to swear fealty to you once. If you were to allow him his due this time, I have no doubt he could be persuaded to make good his previous offer.”
William the Red stared at his chief counsellor in disbelief. “Give him what he wants—is that what you said?”
“In a word, Majesty, yes.”
“By the bloody rood, Flambard, that I
will not
do! If we were to allow these rogues to murder my troops and then take whatever they want with our blessing, the kingdom would soon descend into anarchy! No, sir! Not while I sit on the throne of England. All such insurrections will be crushed. This rogue will be captured and brought to the tower in chains. He will be tried for treason against the crown, and he will be hung before the city gate. That is how we deal with rebels while William sits the throne!”
“Very wise, Your Majesty,” intoned the abbot. “It goes without saying that you shall have my entire support—and that of my marshal.”
William glanced at the abbot and gave a short blast through his nostrils. “Huff.” Turning swiftly on the cardinal, he said, “Summon the barons. I want them to—” He stopped, did a rapid calculation in his head, and then said, “No, send to them and command them to raise their men and attend me at Hereford . . . Who’s that?”
“Neufmarché, Highness,” volunteered the abbot, with smug satisfaction at the thought that the baron would be forced to help in the end.
“All are to meet me at Hereford Castle with their troops. We will march on Elfael from there and take these rebels. I want sufficient force to quash the rebellion in the egg. It shouldn’t take long.” He looked to the marshal for agreement.
“A few days, Sire,” said Gysburne, speaking up. “There are not so many that they cannot be brought to justice in a day or two of fighting—a week at most.”
“There! You see? A week and the thing is done, the rebels brought to heel, and I can go to Normandie.”
Cardinal Flambard pursed his lips doubtfully.
“Well?” demanded the king accusingly. “You’re sulking, priest. Out with it.”
“With all respect, Highness, I still believe an embassy to this nobleman, outlaw as he may be, would achieve the same end with far less cost—and then there is the bloodshed to think about.”
“Nonsense,” snorted William. “Hang the cost and bloodshed. The rest of Wales will see and understand by this that our sovereign rule will not be violated. Treason will not be tolerated. And
that
will save blood and silver in days to come.”
“You can always invade Wales as a last resort, my liege,” suggested Cardinal Flambard. “Should the embassy fail, that is, which I doubt . . .”
But William the Red was no longer listening. He had turned his back and was striding for the door. “Send to the barons, Cardinal,” he called over his shoulder. “All are to meet me in Hereford ready to fight in six days’ time.”
For nine seasons long they lived in the woode
he sheriff, they vexed, and his men.
The regent’s reeve bent but did not yet break,
and Rhiban was angered with him.
“I must regayne my land and my rights,
My people needs all must be free.
Let’s go with our bows to the true king’s keep,
And there with our points make our plea.”
“I rede that not,” said Mérian fayre,
“Belovéd, repent of your haste.
Let’s all of us, yeomen and women alike,
Go with you to argue your case.”
So soon they are gone up to greate Lundein Town,
Wives, maids, and warriors same.
But when city folk ’round there them saw,
They thought that besiegers there came.
The ploughman he leaves his plough in the fields,
The smithy has fled from his shop;
And beggars who only a’creeping could go,
Over their crutches did hop.
The king is informed of the forth-marching host
And assembles his armies at speed.
He swings-to the gates and he marshals his men,
Their progress he means to impede.
With Fryer Tuck, Rhiban approaches the king
Under the true sign of peace.
The king gives him entrance, for he is full wise
And wishes hostility cease.
“God save the king,” quod Rhiban to he,
“And them that wish him full well;
And he that does his true sovereign deny,
I wish him with Satan to dwell.”
I
wan awoke in the hall of the fortress where he had been born, raised, and grown to manhood. As a young warrior, he had become champion to Brychan ap Tewdwr, Bran’s father—a hard man, fair but uncompromising, easily angered and stony as flint—and until the arrival of the Ffreinc invaders Caer Cadarn, the Iron Stronghold, had been his home. God willing, it would be again.
He sat up and looked around at the scores of bodies asleep on the floor around him, then rose and quietly made his way to the entrance, pushed open the heavy oaken door, and stepped out into the quiet dawn of a fresh day. He turned his face to the new-risen sun and drew the soft morning air deep into his lungs, exhaling slowly. From somewhere high above a lark poured out its heart in praise of a glorious day. “It should be like this always,” he murmured.
Surveying the yard and surrounding buildings, he noted the alterations made to the old fortress during the Ffreinc occupation of the last four years—mostly for the better, he had to admit. The timber palisade had been shored up all around, and weak timbers replaced and strengthened; a covered guard station had been erected above the entrance gate; the roof of the hall had been replaced with new thatch and given stout new doors; there were new storehouses, a granary, and the kitchen and cookhouse had both been enlarged. There were other changes he would notice in the days to come, to be sure.
Still, it felt like home to him. The thought brought a rare smile to his lips. He had come home.
What the day held, he could not say, but if it was anything like the last it would be busy. Since the capture of the sheriff and the departure of Hugo and his retinue from Saint Martin’s, Cymry had been streaming to the caer bringing provisions and livestock; men and women brought their families for protection and to help defend the caer against the retaliation all knew was surely coming. For now, they were housed mostly in the hall and outbuildings of the fortress—with a few, here and there, sleeping on the ramparts.
He washed his face in the big, iron basin beside the door and then walked across the deserted yard to an empty storehouse behind the stables. Outside the small, square wooden building he found Alan a’Dale sitting slumped against a nearby post, his head on his knees.
“God with you, Alan,” said Iwan, nudging the minstrel with his foot.
Alan jolted awake and jumped to his feet. “Oh, Iwan—it’s you. Here, I must have nodded off for a few winks just then.”
“Never mind,” said Iwan. “No harm done. Has our captive made any trouble?”
“Quiet as a lamb,” replied Alan. He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Quieter, even. Maybe he has resigned himself to his fate.”
“Not likely,” replied Iwan. “Open the door, and let’s have a look at him.”
Alan untied the braided leather rope used to secure the storehouse and pulled open the rough plank door. There, huddled in his cloak on the beaten dirt floor, sat Richard de Glanville, Sheriff of Elfael, chained at the wrists and ankles, red-eyed from lack of sleep, his hair wild on his head as if he had been beating his skull against the walls of his prison. He spat and began cursing as soon as he saw who had come to observe him.
Iwan regarded the enraged prisoner for a moment, then said, “You would think a man so eager for the captivity of others would endure his own with a little more dignity. What is he saying?”
Alan listened to the sheriff ’s onrushing gush of abuse, then said, “Nothing worth hearing. Suffice it to say that he holds himself ill-used.”
“No doubt,” Iwan agreed, then addressed the prisoner. “If you think yourself mistreated now, Sheriff, try escaping and whole new realms of woe will open before you.” To Alan he added, “Tell him what I said.”
Alan did as commanded, which loosed another tirade in snarled French from the captive.
“Me tuer maintenant, ou me relâcher—je l’exige!”
shouted Sheriff de Glanville.
“Vous les porcs dégoûtants. M’entendre? Je
l’exige!”
“What did he say?” asked Iwan. “Something about pigs?”
“Aye, swine came into it,” replied Alan. “More to the point, he says he wants us to kill him now or set him free.”
“If it was left to me,” replied the champion, “he would have had his wish long since. But our Lord Bran thinks he may be of some value yet.”
“Mes regrets, mon shérif. Hélas, il est impossible,”
said Alan to the sheriff, who spat by way of reply.
Iwan said, “I’ll send someone to relieve your watch very soon. But before you go, see his water bowl is filled and get him some bread and a little meat if there is any.”
“As good as done,” replied Alan.
“And tell our hostage that he is going to be with us for a few more days at least, so he must try to endure his captivity with better grace than he has shown till now.”
This was passed along to the prisoner, who spat again and turned his face to the wall. Alan retied the rope securing the door, and he and Iwan walked across the yard to the hall. “He is a right rogue, that one,” Alan observed. “As black-souled a brute as ever strode the earth on two legs. What if King William will not bargain for his life?”
“Oh, he’ll bargain, never fear,” Iwan assured him. “For all his faults, de Glanville is a Ffreinc nobleman. And if I’ve learned anything these last years, it is that the noble Ffreinc look out for their own. William may not like de Glanville very much—no blame there, God knows—but he will bargain. All we need do is make sure the ransom is not so high that the king will refuse to pay.”
F
ollowing the eviction of the Ffreinc from the cantref, Bran had swiftly moved to occupy not only the fortress of Caer Cadarn, but the nearby town as well, reclaiming them for the Cymry. To that end, he had summoned the venerable Bishop Asaph to return and take charge of the abbey at Saint Martin’s. Before being forced into exile by Abbot Hugo, the elderly cleric had been the head of Llanelli, the monastery Count Falkes de Braose had pulled down and rebuilt, and around which he had constructed his new town. As soon as Asaph, along with a goodly body of monks, was firmly installed and keeping watch over the town and its inhabitants—both the remaining Ffreinc townsfolk and the wounded knights, all of whom had been left behind by the abbot and his troops—Bran then moved to regain control of the fortress. This was swiftly done, since the Ffreinc had abandoned the stronghold before the last battle; they had never worried that King Raven would attack it in any case, and only ever kept a token occupation in place. Bran gave the defence of the caer and the valley round about to Iwan, with Siarles and Alan to help. He sent Tomas and Rhoddi on fast horses to ride throughout Elfael and to settlements in the nearest cantrefs and spread the news that King Raven had driven out the Ffreinc invaders and taken Caer Cadarn: all who could were to gather weapons and supplies and come occupy the caer—for safety, for defence, and so that Elfael’s ancient stronghold would not be abandoned.
With these measures in place, Bran had returned to Cél Craidd; and now, two days after escorting Abbot Hugo and Marshal Gysburne and their few remaining troops to the borders of the March, he planned his defence of his realm. He had spent the day at the caer working with Iwan on the fortifications there, returning at sundown. And now, while the rest of the forest dwellers slept, Bran sat in council with his closest advisors: Angharad, his Wise Banfáith, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet, and Owain. Mérian’s absence was a pang felt by them all.
“Forgive me, Rhi Bran, but I thought—” Owain gave a shrug. “What is the point of driving out the enemy if we still must skulk around in the greenwood like outlaws?”
“We have not seen the last of the Ffreinc,” Bran told him. “Iwan and Siarles can direct the defence of the caer, but we need Cél Craidd as well.”
“How long, then?” Owain asked.
“Until William the Red recognizes my claim,” Bran replied.
“Surely, that cannot be long in coming,” Owain said. “The king must recognize your kingship now. We’ve defeated his lackeys.”
“Nothing of the kind, lad,” Scarlet told him. “We’ve bloodied their noses a bit, is all. They’ll come back—”
“In force,” added Tuck. “You can bet your last ha’penny on that.”
Two days of jubilation following the Ffreinc defeat had given way to more sober reflection. It was, Tuck thought, as if the farm dog that chased every passing wagon had, against every sane expectation, finally caught one. Now the forest dwellers were faced with the awful realization that there would be reprisals, and they were woefully outmanned. How could they hope to protect their gains? That was the question in the forefront of their minds, and it leached the joy from their hearts.
“The point is,” Bran continued, “we will never be secure in Elfael until we have King William’s seal on a treaty of peace and protection. I do not expect Red William to grant that without a fight—which is why we’re still skulking around in the greenwood like outlaws.” He broke another stick and tossed the ends into the fire, then declared the council at an end.
Scarlet rose and shuffled off to join Noín and Nia in their hut; Owain, whose wound, though still painful, was healing quickly, went to his rest. Tuck and Angharad were left to sit with Bran a little while longer. “You are right to prepare for war, of course,” Tuck began.
“Did you think we would gain Elfael without one?”
“But perhaps King William’s appetite for this war is no match for your own,” the friar ventured, watching the firelight and shadows flicker over Bran’s sharp features. “Perhaps even now he is searching for a way to avoid a fight.”
“Perhaps,” Bran allowed. “What are you suggesting?”
“We might send an emissary to the king with an offer of peace.”
Bran regarded the little priest thoughtfully.
“Peace, that is,” Tuck clarified, “in exchange for fealty.”
“If William recognizes my throne, I agree to swear fealty—and the war is over.”
“Over before it has begun.”
Bran looked to Angharad sitting quietly beside the fire on her three-legged stool. “What do you see?” he asked.
“The friar is right to suggest an offer of peace,” observed Angharad. “It is close to God’s heart always.” She rose stiffly and pulled the edges of her Bird Spirit cloak closed. “But unless God moves in the Red King’s heart, peace we will not have.”
The old woman made a little stirring motion with her hands in the smoke from the fire, then lifted her palms upward as if raising the fragrance towards the night-dark sky above. Tilting her face heavenward, her small, dark eyes lost in the creases of her wrinkled face, she stood very still for a long moment.
Bran and Tuck found themselves holding their breath in anticipation.
At last, she sighed.
“What do you see, Mother?” asked Bran gently, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the flames.
“I see . . .” she began, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly as she searched the tangled pathways of the future. “. . . I see a trail of blood that leads from this place and spreads throughout the land. Where it ends, God knows.” She opened her eyes, and her face crinkled in a sad smile. “What we sow here will be reaped not by our children, but by our children’s children—or those who after them come. But sow we must; another course we have not.”
“Yet, there is hope?” asked the friar.
“There is always hope, Aethelfrith,” replied the old woman. “In hope we do abide. As children of the Swift Sure Hand, hope is our true home. You, a priest, must understand this.”
Tuck smiled at the gentle rebuke. “I bow to your teaching, Banfáith. And you are right, of course. I used to know a bishop who said much the same thing. Hope is the treasure of our souls, he would say.”
“It is an end worth fighting for,” mused Bran. “It may be for others to complete what we’ve begun, but there must be a beginning. And we will carry this fight as far as we can before passing it on to those who come after.”
The three of them sat in silence, watching the flames and listening to the crack and hiss of the wood as it burned. From somewhere in the forest an owl called to its mate. It was a sound Tuck had heard countless times since throwing in his lot with the forest folk, but tonight it filled him with an almost unbearable sadness. He rose from his place and bade the other two a good night. “God rest you right well, friends, and grant you His peace.”
“Tuck,” said Bran as the friar stepped from the hearth, “the Ffreinc are grasping, devious devils—false-hearted as the sea is wide. Even so, I am willing to swear fealty to Red William if it means we can draw a living breath without their foot on our neck. If you can find a way to speak peace to William, I stand ready to do my part. I want you to know that.”
That night the friar did not sleep. Though cool and damp, the sky was clear and ablaze with stars; he found a place among the roots of one of the giant oaks and settled down in the dry bracken to pray for Elfael and its people, and all those who would not be able to avoid the war that was coming. He was praying still when the watchers rose, silently saddled their horses, and departed Cél Craidd to take up their posts on the King’s Road.