Scarlet (38 page)

“Please, come inside,” said Garran, directing his guests towards the hall. “We have prepared a repast to refresh you from your journey. Tonight we will begin the feast of remembrance.”

“And the funeral ceremony?” inquired the baron.

“That will take place later today at twilight. The feast follows the burial.”

They were led to the hall, where a number of mourners were gathered. Lady Agnes, who had imagined the Welsh to be dressed in rough pelts, their faces tattooed in weird designs, and feathers in their hair and necklaces made from the bones of birds and small animals, was pleasantly impressed with not only the general appearance of the barbarians—most of whom were dressed neither better nor worse than the typical English or French serf of her limited acquaintance—but with their solemn, almost stoic dignity as well. The room was festooned with banners of various tribes and illumined by the light of countless beeswax candles, the warm scent of which mingled with that of the clean rushes bestrewing the floor. On trestles set up in the centre of the room, on a board covered with fresh juniper branches, lay King Cadwgan himself, covered in his customary cloak, on which was placed a large white-painted wooden cross.

Lady Agnes blanched to see him, but no one else seemed to consider it odd that the deceased should reside in the hall surrounded, as in life, by his subjects and kinsmen. Indeed, every now and then, one of the mourners would come forward to stroke the head of the dead king, whose hair had been washed and brushed to form a wispy nimbus around his head. One by one, the new arrivals were introduced to the other notables in the room, and they were given shallow bowls of mead to drink. Kitchen servants and young girls circulated with trays of small parcels of spiced meat, nuts, and herbs wrapped in pastry, which they served to the funeral guests.

The baroness, although unable to understand anything that was said around her—or perhaps because of it—began watching these courtesies intently. What she saw was a people, whether highborn or low, who seemed to enjoy one another’s company and, crude as they undeniably were, revelled in the occasion. A time of sadness, of course, yet the funereal room rang with almost continual laughter. In spite of any previous notions, she found herself drawn to the unabashed sincerity of these folk and was moved by their honest displays of kindness and fellowship.

Thus, the mourners occupied themselves until the sun began to set, at which time a body of priests and monks arrived. As if on signal the mourners began to sing, and though the words were strange and there were no musical instruments, Agnes thought she had never heard music so sweetly sad. After a lengthy stint of singing, a grey-robed priest who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings stepped to the bier and, bowing three times, stretched his hands over the corpse and began to pray. He prayed in Latin, which the baroness had not expected. The prayer, while curious in its expression, was more or less like any she might have heard in Angevin.

When the prayer was finished, the priest was given a crosier—by which Agnes was given to know that he was actually a bishop. Striking the crosier on the floor three times, he gestured to the board. Six men of the tribe stepped forward and, taking their places around the dead king, lifted the board from the trestles and carried it from the hall. The mourners all fell into place behind them, and in this way they were led out into the yard and down from the fortress mound into the valley, eventually arriving in the yard of a small wooden church, where a grave had been dug within the precinct of the low, stone-walled yard. The grave was lined with large flat flagstones, some of which had been roughly shaped for the purpose.

The mourners paused to remove their shoes before entering the churchyard, which Lady Agnes considered very odd; but entering the holy precinct barefoot stirred her soul more profoundly than anything which had happened thus far. When the body on its board was carefully lowered into the hole prepared to receive it by six barefoot men, her ever-watchful eyes grew a little moist at the corners. There were prayers over the grave, and still more when the earth was replaced in the hole, covering the dead king. Then, this part of the service concluded, the people began drifting away in small clumps of two or three.

It was simple, but genuine and heartfelt, and the sincerity of the people winsome. Agnes, more intensely affected by the experience than she could possibly have imagined, became very thoughtful and silent on the way back to the caer. And when, as they mounted the hill and saw the first stars beginning to shine, the mourners began singing, Lady Agnes, for whom life presented nothing more than a series of challenges and hardships to be overcome, felt something tight loosen in her heart, and the tears began to flow. She heard in the melody such indomitable spirit and courage that she was ashamed of her former disparagement of these fine and dignified people. She walked along, slippers in hand, listening to the voices as they mingled in the sweet summer air, tears of joy and sadness glistening on her cheeks.

The baron, walking with Prince Garran and his mother, did not see his wife, or he might well have been alarmed. Later, as they sat down to the first of several feasts in honour of the dead king, he did note that Lady Agnes seemed subdued, but pleasantly so, her smile unforced, her manner more calm and peaceable than he could recently remember.
No doubt,
he thought,
she is tired from the journey.
But as she smiled at him when she saw him regarding her from his place near the prince, he returned her smile and thought to himself that he had been right to insist she come.

The next days were given to preparations for the coronation of Prince Garran who, as the baron had long ago determined, should follow his father to the throne. This decision was roundly ratified by the people of Eiwas, so there was no awkwardness or difficulty regarding the succession, and the coronation took place in good order, with little ceremony but great celebration by those who, having laid to rest the old king, had stayed to welcome the new.

When Baron Neufmarché and his wife took their leave of King Garran two days later, they urged the new monarch to come to visit them in Hereford. “Come for Michaelmas,” the baron said, his tone gently insistent. “We will hold a feast in your honour, and talk about our future together.” As if in afterthought, he added, “You know, I think my daughter would like to know you better—you have not met Sybil, I think?” The young king shook his head. “No? Then it is arranged.”

“You must come,” added the baroness, pressing his hand as she stepped to the carriage, “and bring your mother, too. Do promise to bring her. I will send a carriage so she will travel more comfortably.”

“My lady,” replied the new-made king, unable to gainsay his lord’s wife, “it will be my pleasure to attend you at Michaelmas.”

Later, as the carriage climbed the first of many hills that would take the caer from view, Lady Agnes said, “King Garran and our Sybil, so? You have not mentioned this to me.”

“Ah, um—” The baron hesitated, uncertain how to proceed now that his impromptu plan had been revealed. “I meant to tell you about that, but ah, well, the notion just came to me a day or so ago, and there wasn’t time to—”

“I like it,” she told him, cutting short his stuttering.

He stared at her as if he could not think he had heard her right. “You would approve of such a union?” wondered Bernard, greatly amazed at this change in his wife’s ordinarily dour humour.

“It would be a good match,” she affirmed. “Good for both of them, I should think. Yes, I do approve. I will speak to Sybil upon our return. See to it that you secure Garran’s promise.”

“It will be done,” said the baron, still staring at his wife in slight disbelief. “Are you feeling well, my love?”

“Never better,” she declared. She was silent a moment, musing to herself, then announced, “I think a Christmas wedding would be a splendid thing. It will give me time to make the necessary plans.”

Baron Neufmarché, unable to think of anything to say in the presence of this extraordinary transformation of the woman he had known all these years, simply gazed at her with admiration.

CHAPTER 45

N
óin and I spent the rest of the summer luxuriating in one another’s love, and talking, talking, talking. Like two blackbirds sitting on a fence we filled the air morning to night with our chatter. She told me all the greenwood gossip—all the doings large and small that filled the days we were apart. I told her of my captivity and passing the time with Odo scribbling down my ramblings. “I should like to read that,” Nóin said, then smiled. “That alone would make it worth learning to read.”

“Odo tells me that reading is not so difficult,” I explained, “but the only things written are either for lawyers or priests, and not at all of interest to plain folk like you and me.”

“I should like it all the same,” Nóin insisted.

As the days passed, I considered making good on my promise to build my wife and daughter a new house. I found a nice spot on a bit of higher ground at one end of Cél Craidd, and marked out the dimensions on the ground with sticks. I then went to our Lord Bran to beg his permission to clear the ground and cut a few limbs of stout oak for the roof beam, lintel, and corner posts.

“Why build a house?” he asked, holding his head to one side as if he couldn’t understand. Before I could point out that I had promised it to my bride, and that her own small hut was a bit too snug for three or more he added, “We will be gone from here come Michaelmas.”

“I know, but I promised Noín—” I began.

“Come hunting with us instead,” Bran said. “We’ve missed you on the trails.”

My broken fingers were slowly healing, but as my usefulness with a bow was still limited, I served mainly to beat the bushes for game. “Don’t worry,” Siarles told me after that first time we went out. “You’ll be drawing like a champion again in no time. Rest those fingers while you can.”

In this, he was a prophet, no mistake. I did not know it then, but would have cause to remember his words in times to come.

Thus, the summer slowly dwindled down and golden autumn arrived. I began counting the days to Michaelmas and the time of leaving we called the Day of Judgement. Bran and Angharad held close counsel and determined that we would go with as many of the Grellon as could be spared, leaving behind only those who could not make the journey and a few men to protect them. We would go to Caer Wintan—known to the English as Winchester—and receive the king’s decision on the return of our lands. “The king must see the people who depend on his judgement for their lives,” Angharad said. “We must travel together and stand before him together.”

“What if he will not see us all in a herd?” wondered Iwan when he learned this.

“He will speak to all, or none,” Bran replied, “for then he will judge what is right and for the good of all, and not for me only.”

The next day, Bran sent Siarles with an extra horse to Saint Dyfrig’s Abbey to fetch Brother Jago, and twelve days before the Feast of Saint Michael, we set off. It is no easy thing to keep so many people moving, I can tell you. We were thirty folk in all, counting young ones. We went on foot, for the most part; the horses were used to carry provisions and supplies. None of us rode save Angharad, for whom the walk would have been far too demanding. Her old bones would not have lasted the journey, I believe, for it is a fair distance to Caer Wintan from Elfael.

The weather stayed good—warm days, nights cool and dry. We camped wherever we would; with that many people and enough of them bearing longbows, we had no great fear of being harassed by Englishmen or Normans either one. The only real danger was that we would not reach Caer Wintan in time, for as the days of travel drew on, the miles began to tell and the people grew weary and had to rest more often. We moved more slowly than Bran had reckoned. “Do not worry,” counselled Friar Tuck. “You can always take a few with you and ride ahead, can you not? You will get there in time, never fear.”

Bran rejected this notion outright. We would arrive together each and every last one, he said, or we would not arrive at all. It was for the people we were doing this, he said, so the king must look into the eyes of those for whom his judgement is life or death. There was nothing for it but that we would simply have to travel more quickly.

That night he gathered us all and told us again why we were going to see the king and what it meant. He explained how it was of vital importance that we should arrive in good time, saying, “King William must have no grievance against us, nor any cause to change his mind. We must endure the hardships of the road, my friends, for what we do we do not for ourselves alone, but for the sake of all those in Elfael who cannot join us. We do it for the farmers who have been driven from their fields, and families from their homes; for the widows who have lost their men, and those who stood in the shadow of the gallows. We do it for all who have been made to labour on the baron’s hateful strongholds and town, for those who have fled into bleak and friendless exile. We do it for those who will come after us to help shoulder the burden of reclaiming that which we have lost to the enemy. Yes, and for all who have gone before us we do this, theirs the sacrifice, ours the gain.” He gazed at all of those clustered around him, holding their eyes with his. “We do not do this for ourselves alone, but for all who have suffered under the oppression of the Ffreinc.”

Thus he braced our flagging spirits, speaking words of encouragement and hope. The next day, he became tireless in urging each and every one of us to hasten our steps; and when anyone was seen to be dragging behind, he hurried to help that one. Sometimes he seemed to be everywhere at once—now at the front of the long line of travellers, now at the rear among the stragglers. He did all this with endless good humour, telling one and all to think what it would be like to be free in our own lands and secure in our own homes once more.

The next day he did the same, and the next. He coaxed and cajoled until he grew hoarse, and then Friar Tuck took over, leading our footsore flock in songs. When we ran out of those, he started in on hymns, and little by little, all the urging and singing finally took hold. We walked easier and with lighter hearts. The miles fell behind us at a quicker pace until at last we reached the low, lumpy hills of the southlands.

Caer Wintan was a thriving market town, helped, no doubt, by the presence of the royal residence nearby. Not wishing to risk trouble, we skirted the town and did not draw attention to ourselves beyond sending Tuck and a few men to buy fresh provisions.

We arrived with a day to spare and camped within sight of the king’s stronghold—an old English hunting lodge that had once belonged to an earl or duke, I suppose. It was the place where Red William spent those few days he was not racing here or there to shore up his sagging kingdom in one place or another. It reminded me of Aelred’s manor, my old earl’s house, but with two long wings enclosing a bare dirt yard in front of the black-and-white half-timbered hall. The only defence for the place was a wooden palisade with a porter’s hut beside the timber gate.

With a day to spare, we spent it washing our clothes and bathing, ridding ourselves of the road and making ourselves ready to attend the king. At sunrise on the third day after Saint Michael’s Day, we rose and broke fast; then, laundered and brushed, washed and combed, we walked to the king’s house with Bran in the lead, followed by Angharad leaning on her staff and, beside her, Iwan, holding his bow and a sheaf of arrows at his belt. Siarles and Mérian came next, and then the rest of us in a long double rank. I carried Nia and walked with Nóin; as we passed through the gate, I felt her slip her hand into mine and give it a squeeze. “I am glad to be here today,” she murmured. “I will remember it always.”

“Me, too,” I whispered. “It is a great day, this, and right worthy to be remembered.”

We assembled in the king’s yard, and Bran had just asked Brother Jago to inform the king’s porter that we had come in answer to the king’s summons as commanded and were awaiting his pleasure, when who should appear but Count Falkes de Braose and Abbot Hugo, accompanied by Marshal Guy de Gysburne and no fewer than fifteen knights. They swept in through the gates, heedless of our folk, who had to scatter to let them through.

One look at our straggled lot, and the Ffreinc drew their swords. Our own men set arrows on their strings and took a mark. We all stared at one another, eyes hard, faces grim, until Count Falkes broke the silence. “Bran ap Brychan,” intoned the count in his high nasal voice,
“Et tous vos compatriotes foule. Qu’une surprise désagréable!”

Brother Jago, taking his place at Bran’s shoulder, whispered the count’s greeting in our lord’s ear. I needed no translation to know that he had insulted Bran by calling us all “filthy countrymen” and a “disagreeable surprise.”

“Count Falkes, your arrival is as untimely as it is unwelcome,” replied Bran lightly. “What are you doing here?”

“One could ask the same of you,” countered Falkes. “I thought you were dead.”

“I am as you see me,” returned Bran. “But it would seem you still irk the earth with your presence. I asked why you have come.”

Marshal Gysburne muttered an oath at this reply when Jago had delivered it, and several other knights spat at us. I saw a flicker of anger flit across the count’s face, but his reply was restrained. “We are obeying the king’s summons. I cannot think you are here by accident.”

“We likewise have been summoned,” returned Bran. “Therefore, let us resolve to hold the peace between us for at least as long as we must stand before the king.”

With some reluctance, it seemed to me, Count Falkes agreed, although he really had no better choice. Starting a battle in the king’s yard would have gained him little and cost him much. “Very well,” he said at last. “We will keep the peace insofar as you keep your rabble subdued.”

I could not tell how much the count knew about our Bran and his busy doings—very little, I guessed, for his remark about Bran having been killed seemed to signify that Falkes did not recognise Bran as Father Dominic, or as King Raven, either. I thought the whole contest would be over once he recognised me, though, but after bandying words with Bran, he feigned disinterest in us and turned his face away, as if we were beneath his regard. I suppose I appeared just a married man with a child in his arms and a wife by his side.

So now, an uneasy truce was established—but it was that thin, I can tell you, a single lance point or arrow tip could have pierced it anywhere along the line. We waited there in the yard, wary and watching one another. Nóin, bless her, stood with her head high and shoulders straight, returning the glare of the marshal and his hard-eyed knights, and little Nia found a pile of pebbles to keep her busy, moving them from one place to another and singing to them all the while.

When it seemed that we must all snap under the strain, the great oak-and-iron door of the king’s royal residence opened and out stepped the king’s man, accompanied by two other household servants. “His Majesty the king has been informed of your arrival,” he announced in good English. “He begs the boon of your patience and will give audience as soon as may be.” Taking in the horde of Welshmen standing with Bran in the yard, he added, “It will not be possible for all of you to enter. The hall is not large enough. You must choose representatives to attend you; the rest will wait here.”

When Jago had relayed these words to our lord, Bran replied, “With respect, as the king’s judgement will serve all my people, we will hear it together. Perhaps the king will not mind delivering his decision to us here as we wait so patiently.”

The fella made no answer, but simply bent his head, turned on his heel, and scuttled back inside. “All stand together,” sneered Count Falkes. “How very Welsh.” The word was a slur in his mouth.

“All hang together, too,” observed Abbot Hugo. His eye fell on me just then, and recognition came to him. His ruddy face froze. “You there!” he shouted. “Hold up your hands.”

“Don’t do it, Will,” warned Bran, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “He may suspect, but we need not feed his suspicion.”

I stood my ground, silently returning his gaze, but I kept my hands well out of the Black Abbot’s sight. It was then I saw Odo, sitting most uncomfortably on the back of a brown mare. He saw me, too, knew me, and—bless him—held his tongue. He would not betray me to his masters.

“I say!” cried the abbot, growing angry. “Order your man to show me his hands.”

“As he is my man,” said Bran, “he is mine to command. I will make no such demand.”

“By the Virgin, it
is
him,” insisted the abbot.

“What are you talking about?” wondered Count Falkes.

“The prisoner!” cried Hugo, jabbing his finger at me. “Scatlocke—the one they called Scarlet. That is him, I tell you!”

Count Falkes turned his gaze my way and studied me for a moment. “No,” he decided. “That is not the man.” No doubt my haircut and shave, and change of clothes and fleshing out a little on my wife’s good cooking, had changed me enough to make them just that little uncertain.

“It is him,” put in Gysburne. He looked at Bran and concluded, “And the last time we saw that one, he gave his name as Father Dominic. I would swear to it.” He gazed at the rest of us, his eyes passing back and forth along the ranks. “By the rood, they’re
all
here!” He pointed at Iwan. “I know I’ve seen that one before. I know it.”

“You are imagining things,” remarked the count. “They all look alike anyway, these Welsh.”

“Say nothing,” advised Angharad, speaking mostly to Bran, but to the rest of us as well. “Let them think what they will—it no longer matters what they say. Let them rail. We will not stoop to satisfy their accusations.”

So Bran ignored the Ffreinc taunts and finger-pointing which continued to be cast at him and some of the rest of us; instead, he and Angharad turned their faces to the ironbound door and waited. The sun rose slowly higher, and still we waited, growing warm beneath the bright autumn rays. Some of the Ffreinc grew tired of waiting in the saddle and, sheathing their weapons, climbed down from their horses. Others led their mounts away to water them. Most, however, remained to glare and frown and mutter curses at us. But that is the worst of what they did, and we braved it in silence without giving them cause for greater anger.