Hood (48 page)
Uncertain what to say, Mérian bit her lip.
“Come, my lady,” coaxed the baron. He saw her hesitancy and offered her a subtle reminder of her place, “We have already made arrangements, and your father has consented.”
“I would be honoured, sire,” she said, “seeing my father has consented.”
“Good!” He smiled again and offered Mérian a little bow of courtesy. “You have made my daughter very happy.”
A third soldier came rushing up just then, and the baron excused himself and turned to greet the newcomer. “Ah, de Lacy! You have word?”
“Oui, mon baron de seigneur,”
blurted the man, red-faced from rushing in the heat. The baron raised his hand and commanded him to speak English for the benefit of the two knights with him. The messenger gulped air and dragged a sleeve across his sweating face. Beginning again, he said, “It is true, my lord. Baron de Braose did dispatch wagons and men through your lands. They passed through Hereford on the day the council convened and returned but yesterday.” The man faltered, licking his lips.
“Yes? Speak it out, man!” Calling toward the tent, the baron shouted, “Remey! Bring water at once.” In a moment, the seneschal appeared with a jar and cup. He poured and offered the cup to the baron, who passed it to the soldier. “Drink,”
Bernard ordered, “and let us hear this from the beginning— and slowly, if you please.”
The messenger downed the water in three greedy draughts.
Taking back the cup, the baron held it out to be refilled, then drank a little himself. “See here,” he said, passing the vessel to the nobles with him, “de Braose’s men passed through my lands without permission—did you mark?” The nobles nodded grimly. “This is not the first time they have trespassed with impunity. How many this time?”
“Seven knights and fifteen men-at-arms, not counting ox herds and attendants for three wagons. As I say, they returned but yesterday, only—most were afoot, and there were no wagons.”
“Indeed?”
“There is rumour of an attack in the forest. Given that some of the men were seen to be wounded, it seems likely.”
“Do they say who perpetrated the attack?”
“Sire, there is talk . . . rumours only.” The soldier glanced at the two noblemen standing nearby and hesitated.
“Well?” demanded the baron. “If you know, say it.”
“They say the train was attacked by the phantom of the forest.”
“Mon Dieu!”
exclaimed Remey, unable to stifle his surprise.
The baron glanced hastily over his shoulder to see the two young women following the conversation. “Pray excuse us, ladies. This was not for your ears.” To the men, he said, “Come; we will discuss the matter in private.” He led his party into the tent, leaving Mérian and Lady Sybil to themselves once more.
“Le fantôme!”
whispered Sybil, eyes wide at what she heard.
“I have heard of this. It is a creature
gigantesque
?
Oui
?”
“Yes, a very great, enormous creature,” said Mérian, drawing Sybil closer to share this delicious secret. “The people call him King Raven, and he haunts the forest of the March.”
“Incroyable!”
gasped Sybil. “The priests say this is very impossibility,
n’est-ce pas
?”
“Oh no. It is true.” Mérian gave her a nod of solemn assurance. “The Cymry believe King Raven has arisen to defend the land beyond the Marches. He protects Cymru, and nothing can defeat him—not soldiers, not armies, not even King William the Red himself.”
D
ressed as humble wool merchants, Bran, Iwan, Aethelfrith, and Siarles swiftly crossed the Marches and entered England. Strange merchants these: avoiding towns entirely, travelling only by night, they progressed through the countryside—four men mounted on sturdy Welsh horses, each leading a packhorse laden with provisions and their wares, which consisted of three overstuffed wool sacks. Laying up in sheltered groves and glades and hidden glens along the way, they slept through the day with one of their number on watch at all times.
They arrived in Lundein well before the city gates were open and waited impatiently until sleepy-eyed guards, yawning and muttering, drew the crossbeams and gave them leave to enter. They went first to the Abbey of Saint Mary the Virgin, where, after a cold-water bath, the travellers changed into clean clothes and broke fast with the monks. Then, groomed and refreshed, they led their packhorses through the narrow streets of the city to the tower fortress. At the outer wall of the tower, they inquired of the porter and begged audience with Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux, Chief Justiciar of England.
“He is not here,” the porter informed them. “He is away on king’s business.”
“If you please, friend,” said Aethelfrith, “could you tell us where we might find him? It is of utmost importance.”
“Winchester,” replied the porter. “Seek him there.”
Bran and Iwan exchanged a puzzled glance. “Where?”
“Caer Wintan—the king’s hunting lodge,” the friar explained for the benefit of the Welsh speakers. “It is not far— maybe two days’ ride.”
The four resumed their journey, pausing long enough to provision themselves from the farmers’ stalls along the river before crossing the King’s Bridge. Once out of the city, they turned onto the West Road and headed for the royal residence at Winchester. Riding until long after dark, rising early, and resting little along the way, the travellers reached the ancient Roman garrison town two days later. Upon asking at the city gate, they were directed to King William’s hunting lodge: a sprawling half-timbered edifice built by a long-forgotten local worthy, and carelessly enlarged over generations to serve the needs of various royal inhabitants. The great house was the one place in all England the Red King called home.
Unlike the White Tower of Lundein, the Royal Lodge boasted no keep or protective stone walls; two wings of the lodge enclosed a bare yard in front of the central hall. A low wooden palisade formed the fourth side of the open square, in the centre of which was a gate and a small wooden hut for the porter. As before, the travellers presented themselves to the porter and were promptly relieved of their weapons before being allowed into the beaten-earth yard, where knights, bare to the waist, practised with wooden swords and padded lances.
They tied their horses to the ringed post at the far end of the yard and proceeded to the hall. They were made to wait in an antechamber, where they watched Norman courtiers and clerks enter and leave the hall, some clutching bundles of parchment, others bearing small wooden chests or bags of coins. Bran, unable to sit still for long, rose often and returned to the yard to see that all was well with Iwan and Siarles, who waited with the horses, keeping an eye on their precious cargo.
Brother Aethelfrith, meanwhile, occupied himself with prayers and psalms that he mumbled in a low continuous murmur as he passed the knots of his rope cincture through his pudgy hands.
The morning stretched and dwindled away. Midday came and went, and the sun began its long, slow descent. Bran had gone to see if Iwan had watered the horses when Aethelfrith called him back inside. “Bran! Hurry! The cardinal has summoned us!”
Bran rejoined Tuck, who was waiting for him at the door.
“Mind your manners now,” the friar warned, taking him by the arm. “We need not make this more difficult than it is already. Agreed?”
Bran nodded, and the two were conducted into Ranulf of Bayeux’s chamber. A whole year and more had passed, and yet the same two brown-robed clerics sat at much the same table piled high with rolled and folded parchments, still scratching away with their quill pens. Between them in a high-backed chair sat the cardinal, wearing a red satin skullcap and heavy gold chain. His red hair was cut short; it had been curled with hot irons and dressed with oil so that it glimmered in the light from the high window. Three rings adorned the fingers of his pale hands, which were folded on the table before him. Eyes closed, Cardinal Ranulf rested his head against the back of his chair, apparently asleep.
“My lord cardinal,” announced the porter, “I bring before you the Welsh lord and his priest.”
“And his
English
priest,” added Aethelfrith with a smile.
“Don’t you be forgetting.”
“Cardinal,” said Bran, not waiting to be addressed, “we have come about the de Braose grant.”
The chief justiciar slowly opened his eyes. “Have I seen you before?” he asked, passing a lazy glance over the two men standing before him at the table.
“Yes, sire,” replied the friar respectfully. “Last year it was.
Allow me to present Lord Bran of Elfael. We discussed the king’s grant of Elfael to Baron William de Braose.”
Recognition seemed to come drifting back to the cardinal then. Presently he nodded, regarding the slim young man before him. “Just so.” The Welsh lord appeared different somehow— leaner, harder, with an air of conviction about him. “Do you speak French?” inquired the cardinal.
“No, my lord,” answered Aethelfrith. “He does not.”
“Pity,” sniffed Bayeux. Changing to Latin, he asked, “What is your business?”
“I have come to reclaim my lands,” replied Bran. “You will recall that you said the grant made to Baron de Braose could be rescinded for a fee—”
“Yes, yes,” replied the cardinal as if the memory somehow pained him, “I remember.”
“I have brought the money, my lord cardinal,” answered Bran. He raised a hand to Tuck, who hurried to the door and gave a whistle to the two waiting outside. A moment later, Iwan appeared, lugging a large leather provision bag. Approaching the cardinal, the champion hoisted the bundle onto the table, opened it, and allowed some of the smaller bags of silver to spill out.
“Six hundred marks,” said Bran. “As agreed.” He put his hand to the sack. “Here is two hundred. The rest is ready to hand.”
Ranulf reached for one of the bags and weighed it in his palm as he raised his eyes to study Bran once more. “That is as it may be,” he allowed slowly. “I regret to inform you, however, six hundred marks was last year’s price.”
“My lord?”
“If you had redeemed the grant when offered,” continued the cardinal, “you could have had it for six hundred marks.
You waited too long. The price has gone up.”
“Gone up?” Bran felt the heat of anger rising to his face.
“Events move on apace. Time and tide, as they say,” intoned the cardinal with lofty sufferance. “It is the same with the affairs of court.”
“Pray spare me the lesson, my lord,” muttered Bran through clenched teeth. “How much is required now?”
“Two thousand marks.”
“You stinking bandit!” Bran spat. “We agreed on six hundred, and I have brought it.”
The cardinal’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Careful, my hotheaded prince. If it were not for the king’s need to raise money for his troops in Normandie, your petition would not be considered at all.” He reached a hand toward one of the money sacks. “As it is, we will accept this six hundred in partial payment of the two thousand—”
“You want money?” cried Bran. He saw the cardinal, officious and smug in his sumptuous robes as he reached for the coins; his vision dimmed as the blood rage came upon him.
“Here is your money!”
Reaching across the table, he seized the cardinal by the front of the robe, pulled him up out of his chair, and thrust him down on the table, crushing his face against the coins spilled there. Ranulf let out a strangled cry, and his two scribes jumped up. As the nearest one bent to his master’s aid, Bran took up an ink pot and dashed the contents into his face. Instantly blinded, the clerk fell back, bawling, shaking black ink everywhere. The other started for the door. “Stay!” shouted Bran, his knife in his hand.
Iwan, uncertain what was happening, glanced nervously at his lord. Tightening his grip on the money sack, he backed toward the door. Cardinal Ranulf, squirming under his grasp, pulled free, falling back in his chair. Bran leapt onto the table and kicked the pile of parchments, scattering letters, deeds, and royal writs across the room. He kicked another pile and then jumped down, seizing the cardinal once more. “Does the king know what you do in his name?” asked Bran.
The cardinal spat at him, and Bran slammed his head down on the table. “Answer me, pig!”
“Bran!” Iwan put a hand to his lord’s shoulder to pull him away. “Bran, enough!”
Shaking off Iwan’s hand, Bran pulled the cardinal up, wielding the knife in his face and shouting, “Does the king know what you do in his name?”
“What do you think?” sneered the cardinal. “I act with William’s authority and blessing. Release me at once, or I will see you dance on the gibbet before the day is out.”
“Pray forgive him, Your Eminence,” said Tuck, pushing in beside Bran. “He is overwrought and emotional.” Taking Bran’s hand in both of his own, it took all his considerable strength to wrest the knife from his grasp and pull him away. “If you please, sire, accept this six hundred marks in part payment for the whole. We will bring you the rest when we have it.”
He looked to Bran, indicating that an answer was required. “Not so?”
Bran took a step back from the table. “They get nothing from me—not a penny.”
“Bran, think of your people,” pleaded Aethelfrith.
But Bran was already walking away. He signalled Iwan and Siarles, still holding the leather bags. “Bring the money,” he told them. The two scooped the loose coins and money bags back into the sacks and then hurried to follow their lord.
“I will have you in chains!” shouted the cardinal. “You cannot treat the royal justiciar this way!”
“Again I beg your indulgence, Your Eminence,” said Friar Tuck, “but my lord has decided to take his appeal to a higher court.”
“Fool, this is the king’s court!” the cardinal roared. “There is none higher.”
“I think,” replied Tuck, hurrying away, “you will find that there is one.”
Tuck rejoined the others in the yard. Bran was already mounted and ready to ride. Iwan and Siarles were securing the money sacks when from the hall entrance burst Cardinal Ranulf, shouting,
“Saivez-les! Aux armes!”
Some of the knights still lingering in the yard heard the summons and turned to see the cardinal. Red-faced and angry, his robes splotched with black ink, hands outthrust, he was pointing wildly at the departing Britons.