Tuck (9 page)

Tuck kept his eyes on Llewelyn, who seemed to recognize something familiar in the young man beside him. But if the long black robes did not fully disguise him, then the sallow, sombre expression, the slightly hunched shoulders and inwardly bending frame, the close-shorn hair and gleaming white scalp of his tonsure, the large sad eyes, hesitant step, and almost timid way he held his head—taken all together, the appearance was so unlike Bran ap Brychan that Llewelyn did not trust his first impression and withheld judgement on the newcomer’s identity.

For his part, Bran inclined his head in humble acceptance and offered, as it seemed to those looking on, a somewhat melancholy smile—as if the slender young man carried some secret grief within and it weighed heavily on his heart. He turned to Tuck, and the others also looked to the priest as for an explanation.

“My lords,” said Tuck, “allow me to present to you my dear friend, Father Dominic.”

CHAPTER 10

S
peaking with the humble, yet confident authority that one would expect of a papal envoy, the slender young man introduced as Father Dominic charmed his listeners with tales of his travels in the service of the Holy Father and his dealings with kings and cardinals. It fell to Tuck, of course, to translate his stories for the benefit of his listeners since Bran spoke in the curious, chiefly meaningless jibber-jabber of broken Latin that passed for the language of the Italian nobility among folk who had never heard it. Tuck was able to keep one step ahead of his listeners by his many sudden consultations—to clarify some word or thought—where Bran, as Father Dominic, would then whisper the bare bones of what his struggling translator was to say next. Such was Father Dominic’s winsome manner that Tuck found himself almost believing in the charming lies, even knowing them to be spun of purest nonsense and embellished by his own ready tongue.

Father Dominic revealed that he was on a mission from Rome, and explained that he had come to the region to make acquaintance with churchmen among the tribes of Britain who remained outside Norman influence. This was announced in a casual way, but the subtlety was not lost on his listeners. Father Dominic, speaking through Tuck, told them that because of the delicate nature of his inquiry, he was pleased to travel without his usual large entourage to enable him to go where he would, unnoticed and unannounced. The Mother Church was reaching out to all her children in Britain, he said, the silent and suffering as well their noisier, more overbearing, and belligerent brothers.

All the while, their distracted host would glance towards the empty doorway. Finally, when Bran’s absence could no longer be comfortably ignored, Llewelyn spoke up. “Forgive me for asking, Friar Aethelfrith, but I begin to worry about our cousin. Is he well? Perhaps he has fallen ill and requires attention.”

Bran ap Brychan’s kinsmen had done him the honour of travelling a considerable distance to greet their cousin from the south, and although beguiled by the unexpected arrival of a genuine emissary of the pope in Rome, they could not help but wonder about their cousin’s puzzling absence. Father Dominic heard Llewelyn’s question, too, and without giving any indication that he knew what had been said, he smiled, raised his hands in blessing to those who sat at the table with him, then begged to be excused, as he was feeling somewhat tired from his journey.

“Certainly, we understand,” said Llewelyn, jumping to his feet. “I will have quarters prepared for you at once. If you will kindly wait but a moment—”

Father Dominic waved off his host, saying, through Tuck, “Pray do not trouble yourself. I shall find my own way.”

With that he turned and, despite Llewelyn’s continued protests, walked to the door of the hall, where he paused with his hand on the latch. He stood there for a moment. Then, with the others looking on, stepped back from the door, shook himself around and—wonder of wonders—seemed to grow both larger and stronger before the startled eyes of his audience. When he turned around it was no longer Father Dominic who stood before them, but Bran himself once more—albeit berobed as a priest, and with a shorn and shaven pate.

Llewelyn was speechless, and all around the board stared in astonishment at the deception so skilfully executed under their very noses. They looked at one another in baffled bemusement. When Llewelyn finally recovered his tongue, he contrived to sound angry—though his tone fell short by a long throw. “How now, Cousin? What is this devilment?”

“Forgive me if I have caused offence,” said Bran, finding his own true voice at last, “but I knew no better way to convince you all.”

“Convince?” wondered Llewelyn. “And what, pray, are we to be convinced of, Cousin?”

Bran shrugged off the black robe, resumed his place at the board, and poured himself a cup of ale, saying, “That I will tell, and gladly.” Smiling broadly, he raised his cup to the men around the board. “First, I would know these kinsmen of mine a little better.”

“As soon said as done,” replied Llewelyn, some of his former goodwill returning. Indicating the elder man sitting beside him, he said, “This is Hywel Hen, Bishop of Bangor, and the granduncle of young Brocmael beside him; Hywel was brother to your mother’s father. Next is Cynwrig, from Aberffraw, and his son Ifor. Then we have Trahaern, Meurig, and Llygad from Ynys Môn. Meurig is married to your mother’s younger cousin, Myfanwy.”

“God with you all,” said Bran. “I know your names, and I see my dear mother in your faces. I am pleased to meet you all.”

“We’ve met before, my boy,” said Hywel Hen, “though I don’t expect you to remember. You were but a bare-bottomed infant in your mother’s arms at the time. I well remember your mother, of course—and your father. Fares the king well, does he?”

“If it lay in my power to bring you greetings from Lord Brychan, trust that nothing would please me more,” replied Bran. “But such would come to you from beyond the grave.”

The others took this in silence.

“My father is dead,” Bran continued, “and all his war band with him. Killed by the Ffreinc who have invaded our lands in Elfael.”

“Then it is true,” said Meurig. “We heard that the Ffreinc are moving into the southlands.” He shook his head. “I am sorry to hear of King Brychan’s death.”

“As are we all,” said Trahaern, whose dark hair rippled across his head like the waves of a well-ordered sea. “As are we all. But tell us, young Bran, why did you put on the robes of a priest just now?”

“I cannot think it was for amusement,” offered Meurig. “But if it was, let me assure you that I am not amused.”

“Nor I,” said Cynwrig. “Your jest failed, my friend.”

“In truth, my lords, it was no jest,” replied Bran. “I wanted you to see how easily men defer to a priest’s robe and welcome him that wears it.”

“You said it was to
convince
us,” Llewelyn reminded him.

“Indeed.” Hands on the table, Bran leaned forward. “If I had come to you saying that I intended to fetch King Gruffydd from Earl Hugh’s prison, what would you have said?”

“That you were softheaded,” chuckled Trahaern. “Or howling mad.”

“Our king is held behind locked doors in a great rock of a fortress guarded by Wolf Hugh’s own war band,” declared Llygad, a thickset man with the ruddy face of one who likes his ale as much as it likes him. “It cannot be done.”

“Not by Bran ap Brychan, perhaps,” granted Bran amiably. “But Father Dominic—who you have just seen and welcomed at this very table—has been known to prise open doors barred to all others.”

He looked to Tuck for confirmation of this fact. “It is true,” the friar avowed with a solemn shaking of his round head. “I have seen it with my own eyes, have I not?”

“Why should you want to see our Rhi Gruffydd freed from prison?” asked Hywel, fingering the gold bishop’s cross upon his chest. “What is that to you?”

Despite the bluntness of the question, the others looked to Bran for an answer, and the success of King Raven’s northern venture seemed to balance on a knife edge.

“What is it to me?” repeated Bran, his tone half-mocking. “In truth, it is
everything
to me. I came here to ask your king to raise his war band and return with me to help lead them in the fight. Unless, of course,
you
would care to take the throne in his absence . . . ?” He regarded Hywel pointedly and then turned his gaze to the others around the board. No one volunteered to usurp the king’s authority, prisoner though he was.

“I thought not,” continued Bran. “It is true that I came here to ask your king to aid me in driving the Ffreinc from our homeland and freeing Elfael from the tyranny of their rule. But now that I know that my best hope lies rotting in a Ffreinc prison—for all he is my kinsman, too—I will not rest until I have freed him.”

Bran’s kinsmen stared at him in silence that was finally broken by Trahaern’s sudden bark of laughter.

“You dream big,” the dark Welshman laughed, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. “I like you.”

The tension eased at once, and Tuck realized he had been holding his breath—nor was he the only one. The two younger Cymry, silent but watchful, sighed with relief and relaxed in their elders’ pleasure.

“It will take more than a priest’s robe to fetch Gruffydd from Wolf Hugh’s prison,” Meurig observed. “God knows, if that was all it took he’d be a free man long since.”

The others nodded knowingly, and looked to Bran for his response.

“You have no idea,” replied Bran, that slow, dangerous smile sliding across his scarred lips, “how much more there is to me than that.”

CHAPTER 11

  Caer Rhodl

T
he wedding was all Baroness Neufmarché hoped it would be, conducted in regal pomp and elegance by Father Gervais, who had performed the marriage ceremony for herself and the baron all those years ago. Lady Sybil—resplendent in a satin gown of eggshell blue, her long brown hair plaited with tiny white flowers—made a lovely bride. And King Garran, his broad shoulders swathed in a long-sleeved, grey tunic falling to the knees and a golden belt around his lean waist, looked every inch a king worthy of the name. It was to Agnes’s mind a fine match; they made a handsome couple, and seemed unusually happy in one another’s company. Garran’s French was not good, though better than Sybil’s Welsh, but neither seemed to care; they communicated with smiling glances and flitting touches of fingers and hands.

The final prayer caught Lady Agnes somewhat by surprise. When Sybil’s attendants—several of the groom’s young female cousins—stepped forward to hold the
carr
over the couple kneeling before Father Gervais, Agnes felt tears welling up in her eyes. The simple white square of cloth was the same one that had been stretched above her head the day she married the baron and which had swaddled the infant Sybil at her baptism. Now it sheltered her daughter on her wedding day, and would, please God, wrap Sybil’s baby in turn. This potent reminder of the continuity of life and the rich depth of family and tradition touched the baroness’s heart and moved her unexpectedly. She stifled a sob.

“My love,” whispered the baron beside her, “are you well?”

Unable to speak, she simply nodded.

“Never mind,” he said. “It is soon over.”

No
, she thought,
it is only beginning. It all begins again.

After the service in the rush-strewn hall, the wedding feast began. Trestles and boards, tables, chairs, and benches filled the courtyard where a pit had been dug to roast a dozen each of spring lambs and suckling pigs; vats of ale sat upon stumps, and tuns of wine nestled in cradles; the aroma of baking bread mingled with that of the roasting meat in the warm, sun-washed air. As the newly wedded couple emerged from the hall, the musicians began to play. The bride and groom were led by their attendants in stately procession around the perimeter of the yard, walking slowly in opposite directions, pausing to distribute silver coins among the guests, who waved hazel branches at the royal pair.

After the third circuit of the yard, Garran and Sybil were brought to the high table and enthroned beneath a red-and-blue striped canopy where they began receiving gifts from their subjects: special loaves of bread or jars of mead from humbler households; and from the more well-to-do households, items of furniture, artfully woven cloth, and a matched pair of colts. Visitors who had made the journey from the baron’s holdings in France brought more exotic gifts: crystal bowls, engraved pewter platters, a gilded cross, soft leather shoes and gloves, and jeweled rings with golden bands. Having given their gifts, the celebrants took their places at the long tables. When everyone was seated, the servants filled the cups and bowls with wine, and the first of many healths were raised to the married couple, often accompanied by a word or two in Welsh that none of the Ffreinc understood, but which brought bursts of laughter from all the Britons.

Then, as the servants began carrying platters of food to the tables, some of the groom’s men seized the instruments from the minstrels and, with great enthusiasm, began playing and singing as loudly as they could. Their zeal, though commendable, was far in excess of their abilities, Lady Agnes considered; however, they were soon joined by others of the wedding party, and before a bite of food was touched the entire Welsh gathering was up on their feet dancing. Some of the groom’s men hoisted the bride in her chair and carried it around the yard, and three of the bride’s maids descended on the groom and pulled him into the dance. The servants attempting to bring food to the tables quickly abandoned the task since it was all but impossible to carry fully laden trenchers and platters through the gyrating crowd.

Lady Agnes, at first appalled by the display, quickly found herself enjoying the spectacle. “Have you ever seen the like?” asked the baron, smiling and shaking his head.

“Never,” confessed the baroness, tapping her foot in time to the music. “Is it not . . .”

“Outrageous?” suggested the baron, supplying the word for her.

“Glorious!” she corrected. Rising from her place, she held out her hands to her husband. “Come,
mon cher
, it is a long time since we shared a dance together.”

Baron Neufmarché, incredulous at his wife’s eagerness to embrace the raucous proceedings, regarded her with a baffled amazement she mistook for reluctance. “Bernard,” said Lady Agnes, seizing his hand, “if you cannot dance at a wedding, when will you dance?”

The baron allowed himself to be pulled from his chair and into the melee and was very soon enjoying himself with enormous great pleasure, just one of the many revellers lost in the celebration. Amidst the gleeful clatter, he became aware that his wife was speaking to him. “There it is again,” she said.

“What?” he asked, looking around. “Where?”

“There!” she said, pointing at his face. “That smile.”

“My dear?” he said, puzzled.

She laughed, and it was such a thrilling sound to his ears that he wondered how he had lived without it for so long. “I haven’t seen that smile for many years,” she declared. “I had all but forgotten it.”

The music stopped and the dance ended.

“Has it been all that rare?” Bernard asked, falling breathless back into his chair.

“As rare, perhaps, as my own,” replied the baroness.

He suddenly felt a little giddy, although he had only had a mouthful or two of wine. “Then we shall have to do something about that,” he said, and reaching out, pulled his wife to him and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Tonight,
mon cher
,” she whispered, her lips next to his ear, “we shall discover what else we have forgotten.”

The feast resumed in earnest then, and the happy celebrants sat down to their meal, and the day stretched long into the twilight. As the shadows began to deepen across the yard and the first pale stars winked on in the sky, torches were lit and the ale vats and wine tuns replenished. There was more singing and dancing, and one of King Garran’s lords rose to great acclaim to tell a long and, judging from the laughter of his listeners, boisterously entertaining story. Lady Agnes laughed too, although she had not the slightest idea what the story might have been about; it did not matter. Her laughter was merely the overflowing of an uncontainable abundance of joy from a truly happy heart.

As the festivities continued into the night, Lady Agnes noticed that some of the groom’s men had taken up places by the gate—three on each side—and as the musicians began another lively dance, she saw two more of the groom’s men creeping along the far wall. She stiffened to a tingle of fear in the knowledge that something was about to happen—treachery of some kind? Perhaps an ambush?

She nudged the baron with her elbow; he was leaning back in his chair, nodding, tapping his hands on the armrests in time to the music. “Bernard!” she hissed, and nodded towards the gate. The two groom’s men had reached the gate. “Something is happening.”

He looked where she indicated and saw the gathered men. He could make out the forms of horses standing ready just outside the gate. He glanced hurriedly around for his knights. All that he could see were either dancing or drinking, and some had coaxed Welsh girls onto their laps.

Before he could summon them, one of the men at the gate raised a horn and blew a sharp blast. Instantly, a hush fell upon the revellers. “My cymbrogi!” the man called. “Kinsmen and countrymen all!”

“Wait! That’s Garran,” said Baron Bernard.

“Shh! What’s he saying?”

He spoke in Welsh first, and then again in French, saying, “I thank you for your attendance this day, and pray let the celebration continue. My wife and I will join you again tomorrow. You have had the day, but the night belongs to us. Farewell!”

The second groom’s man turned, and Agnes saw her daughter—with a man’s dull cloak pulled over her glistening gown—raise her hand and fling a great handful of silver coins into the crowd. With a shout, the people dashed for the coins, and the newly wedded couple darted through the doorway towards the waiting horses. The groom’s men shut the gate with a resounding thump and took up places before it so that no one could give chase; the music resumed and the festivity commenced once more.

“Extraordinary,” remarked Baron Neufmarché with a laugh. “I wish I had thought of that on my wedding day. It would have saved all that commotion.”

“You
loved
the commotion, as I recall,” his wife pointed out.

“I loved
you
,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “Then—as I love you now.”

Perhaps it was the wine and song making him feel especially expansive, or the music and contagious spirit of the celebration; but it was the first time in many years that Bernard had said those words to his wife. Yet, even as he spoke them he knew them to be true. He
did
love Agnes. And he wondered why he had allowed so many other concerns—and women—to intrude upon his love for her, to wither it and debase it. Now, in this moment, all else faded in importance, growing dim and inconsequential beside his life with Agnes. In that moment, he vowed within himself to make up for those years of waste and the pain his neglect and infidelity must have caused her.

The baron stood. “Come, my dear, the revelry will continue, but I grow weary of the throng. Let us go to our rest.” He held out his hand to his wife; she took it and he pulled her to her feet. The celebration did continue far into the night, the revellers pausing to rest only when dawnlight pearled the sky in the east.

For three days the wedding festivities continued. On the fourth day people began taking their leave of the bride and groom, paying homage to both as their king and queen before departing for home. Baron Neufmarché, well satisfied that he had done all he could to strengthen his client king and provide for his daughter, turned his thoughts to Hereford and the many pressing concerns waiting for him there.

“My dear,” he announced on the morning of the fifth day after the wedding, “it is time we were away. I have ordered the horses to be saddled and the wagon made ready. We can depart as soon as we have paid our respects to the dowager queen, and said our farewells.”

Lady Agnes nodded absently. “I suppose . . .” she said mildly.

The baron caught the hesitancy in her tone. “Yes? What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking of staying,” she said.

“Stay here?”

“Where else?”

“In Wales?”

“Why not?” she countered. “I am happy here, and I can help Sybil begin her reign. She still has much to learn, you know. You could stay, too,
mon cher
.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “We could be together.”

The baron frowned.

“Oh, Bernard,” she said, taking his arm, “I am happy for the first time in many years—truly happy. Do not take that away from me, I beg you.”

“No,” he said, “you need not beg. You can stay, of course—if that is what you want. I only wish I could stay with you. I’d like nothing more than to see the building work on the new castle properly begun. Alas, I am needed back in Hereford. I must go.”

Agnes sympathized. “But of course,
mon cher
. You go and tend to your affairs. I will remain here and do what I can to help. When you have finished, you can return.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Perhaps we will winter here.”

“I would like that.” He leaned close and kissed her gently. “I shall return as soon as may be.”

So, that was that. Lady Agnes stayed at Caer Rhodl, and the baron returned to Hereford, leaving behind his wife and daughter and, to his own great surprise, a piece of his heart.