The Ffreinc are brutes and they are wrong, she insisted to herself. And that King William of theirs is the biggest brute of all!
After that last exchange, she refused to talk to anyone further regarding the tragedy that had befallen Bran and Elfael. She kept her thoughts to herself and buried her feelings deep in the fastness of her heart.
CHAPTER 15
Baron de Neufmarché, along with twenty men-at-arms, accompanied his wife to the ship waiting at Hamtun docks. Although he had used the ship Le Cygne in the past and knew both the captain and pilot by name, he nevertheless inspected the vessel bow to stern before allowing his wife to board. He supervised the loading of men, horses, provisions, and weapons—his wife would travel with Ormand, his seneschal, and a guard of seven men. Inside a small casket made of elm wood, Lady Agnes carried the letter he had written to his father and the gift of a gold buckle received from the Conqueror himself in recognition of the baron’s loyalty during the season of northern discontent in the years following the invasion.
Once Agnes was established in her quarters beneath the ship’s main deck, the baron bade his wife farewell. “The tide is on the rise. Godspeed, lady wife,” he said. Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed her cold fingers and added, “I wish you a mild and pleasant winter, and a glad Christmas.”
“It may be that I can return before the snow,” she ventured, hope lending a lightness to her voice. “We could observe Christmas together.”
“No”—Bernard shook his head firmly—“it is far too dangerous. Winter gales make the sea treacherous. If anything should happen to you, I could not forgive myself.” He smiled. “Enjoy your sojourn at home—it is brief enough.
Time will pass swiftly, and we will celebrate the success of your undertaking with the addition of a new estate.”
“Très bien,” replied Lady Agnes. “Have a care for yourself, my husband.” She leaned close and put her lips against his cheek. “Until we meet again, adieu, mon chéri.”
The pilot called down from the deck above that the tide was beginning to run. The baron kissed his wife once more and returned to the wharf. A short time later, the tide had risen sufficiently to put out to sea. The captain called for a crewman to cast off; the ropes were loosed, and the ship pushed on poles away from the dock. Once in the centre of the river, the vessel was caught by the current, turned, and headed out into the estuary and the unprotected sea beyond.
Bernard watched all this from the wooden dock. Only when the ship raised sail and cleared the headland at the wide river mouth did he return to his waiting horse and give the order to start for home. The journey took two days, and by the time he reached his westernmost castle at Hereford, he had decided to make a sortie into Welsh territory, into the cantref of Brycheiniog, to see what he could learn of the land he meant to possess.
Bran no longer knew how long he had been dragging his wounded body through the underbrush. Whole days passed in blinding flashes of pain and shuddering sickness. He could feel his strength departing, his lucid times growing fewer and further apart. He could no longer count on his senses to steer him aright; he heard the voices of people who were not there, and often what he saw before him was, on nearer examination, mere phantasm.
Following his plunge into the pool, he had been swept downstream a fair distance. The current carried him along high-sided banks overhung with leafless branches and great moss-covered limbs, deeper and ever deeper into the forest until finally washing him into the shallows of a green pool surrounded by the wrecks of enormous trees, the boles of which had toppled and fallen over one another like the colossal pillars of a desolated temple.
The warm, shallow water revived him, and he opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by half-sunk, waterlogged trunks and broken boughs. Green slime formed a thick sludge on the surface of the pool, and the air was rank with the stench of fetid stagnant water and decay, and black with shifting clouds of mayflies. Bran struggled upright and, on hands and knees, hauled himself over a sunken log and into the soft, soggy embrace of a peat bog, where he collapsed, a quivering, pain-wracked lump.
Evening was fast upon him when he had finally roused himself that first day and, aching in every joint and muscle, gathered his feet beneath him and climbed up on unsteady legs. Following a deer trail, he lurched like a half-drowned creature from the swamp and staggered into the haven of the greenwood. His chief concern that first night was finding shelter where he could rest and bind his wounds.
He did not know how badly he was injured—only that he was alive and grateful to be so. Once he found shelter, he would remove his tunic and see what he could do to bandage himself.
After he had rested and regained his strength, he would make his way to the nearest habitation and secure the aid of his fellow Cymry to continue his flight to safe haven in the north.
As twilight cast a purple gloom over the forest at the end of that first day, Bran found a great oak with a hollowed-out cavity down in the earth beneath the roots. The place had been used by a bear or badger; the earthy musk of the creature still lingered in the cavity. But the hole was dry and warm, and Bran fell asleep the moment he lay down his head.
He woke with a burning thirst, and light-headed from hunger. His wounds throbbed, and his muscles were stiff.
There was nothing for his hunger, but he could hear the soft burble of a brook nearby, and easing himself upright, he made his unsteady way to the moss-carpeted bank. He knelt and, with some difficulty because of the cut that ran along the side of his face, stretching from cheekbone to ear, cupped water to his mouth. The inside of his cheek was as raw as sliced meat, and his tongue traced an undulating line like a thick, blood-soaked string.
The cold water made the inside of his mouth sting and brought tears to his eyes, but he quenched his thirst as best he could and then carefully removed his tunic and mantle to better assess his injuries. He could not see the cut in his upper back, but by reaching around cautiously, he was able to feel that it had stopped bleeding. The deep rent in his chest was easier to examine. Caked with dried blood that he gently washed away, the cut was ragged and ratty, the skin puckered along the edges. The wound ached with a persistent throb; the bones had been nicked when the blade forced his ribs apart, but he did not think any had been broken.
Lastly, he examined the bite on his arm. The limb was tender— the hound’s teeth had broken the skin, nothing worse— the flesh swollen and sore, but the ragged half circle of raised, red puncture wounds did not seem to be festering. He bathed his arm in the brook and washed the dried blood from his chest and stomach. He tried to bathe the spear cut on his upper back but succeeded only in dribbling water over his shoulders and making himself cold. He drew on his clothes and contemplated the choices before him.
So far as he could see, he had but two courses: return to Elfael and try to find someone to take him in, or continue on to Gwynedd and hope to find help somewhere along the way before he reached the mountains.
The land to the north was rough and inhospitable to a man alone. Even if he had the great good fortune of making it through the forest unaided, the chances of finding help were remote. Elfael, on the other hand, was very nearly deserted; most of his countrymen had fled, and the Ffreinc were seeking his blood. It came to him that he could do no better than try to take his own advice and go to Saint Dyfrig’s to seek sanctuary with the monks.
The decision was easily made, and he gathered what strength he could muster and set out.With any luck, he allowed himself to think, day’s end would find him behind friendly walls, resting in the guest lodge.
Bran’s luck had so far proved as irksomely elusive as the trail. It served him no better now. The forest pathways crossed one another in bewildering profusion, each one leading on to others—over and under fallen trunks, down steep grades into rills and narrow defiles, up sharp-angled ridges and scrub-covered hillsides. Hunger had long since become a constant, gnawing pain in his stomach. He could drink from the streams and brooks he encount
ered, but nourishing food was scarce. There were mushrooms in extravagant overabundance, but most, he knew, were poisonous, and he did not trust himself to recognise the good ones. Finding nothing else, he chewed hazel twigs just to have something in his mouth.
Hungry, pain-riddled, he allowed his mind to wander.
He imagined himself received into the safety of the abbey and welcomed to a dinner of roast lamb, braised leeks, and oat bread and ale. This comforting dream awakened a ferocious appetite that refused to subside—even when he tried to appease it with sour blackberries gobbled by the purple handful from a bramble bush. In his haste, he bit the inside of his cheek, breaking open the wound afresh and driving him to his knees in agony. He lay for a long time on the ground, rocking back and forth in misery until he became aware that he was being watched.
“What?” asked a voice somewhere above him. “What?”
Raising his eyes, Bran saw a big black rook on a branch directly over his head. The bird regarded him with a shiny bead of an eye. “What?”
He dimly remembered a story about a starving prophet fed by crows. “Bring me bread.”
“What?” asked the bird, stretching its wings.
“Bread,” Bran said, his voice a breathless groan. “Bring me some bread.”
The rook cocked its head to one side. “What?”
“Stupid bird.” Angered by the rook’s refusal to aid in his revival, Bran dragged himself to his feet once more. The bird started at the movement; it flew off shrieking, its cry of “Die! Die!” echoing through the wood.
Bran looked around and realised with a sinking heart that he had dreamed most of the day away. He moved on then, dejected and afraid to trust his increasingly unreliable judgement. The wounds to his chest and back throbbed with every step and were hot to the touch. As daylight deteriorated around him, his steps slowed to an exhausted shuffle; hunger burned like a flame in his gut, and it hurt his chest to breathe. The long day ended, leaving him worse off than when it had begun, and night closed over him like a fist. He closed his eyes beneath the limbs of a sheltering elm and spent an uncomfortable night on the ground.
When he rose again the next morning, he was just as weary as when he lay down. Climbing to his feet on that second day, he felt fear circling him like a preying beast. He remembered thinking that if he did not find a trail out of the wood, this day might be his last. That was when he had decided to follow the next stream he found, thinking that it would eventually lead to the river that ran through the middle of Elfael.
This he did, and at first it seemed his determination would be rewarded, for the forest thinned and he glimpsed open sky ahead. Closer, he saw sunlight on green grass and imagined the valley spreading beyond. He limped toward the place and, as he passed the last trees, stepped out into a wide meadow—at the centre of which was a shimmering pool. Dragonflies flitted around the water’s edge, and larks soared high above. The stream he had been following emptied itself into the pool and, so far as he could tell, did not emerge again.
It had taken him the better part of two days to reach another dead end, and now, as he gazed around him, he knew his strength was gone. Hope crushed to a cold cinder, Bran staggered stiff legged through the long grass to stand gazing down into the water, too tired to do anything but stand.
After a time, he lowered himself painfully down to kneel at the water’s edge, drank a few mouthfuls, then sat down beside the pool. He would rest a little before moving on. He fell back in the grass and closed his eyes, giving way to the fatigue that paralysed him. When he woke again, it was dark. The moon was high above a line of clouds moving in from the northwest. Exhausted still, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
It rained before morning, but Bran did not rise. And that was how the old woman found him the next day.
She hobbled from the forest on her stout legs and stood for a long time contemplating the wreck of him. “Dost thou ever seek half measures?” she asked, glancing skyward. “Whether ’tis meet or ill, I know not. But heavy was the hand that broke this reed.”
She paused, as if listening. “Oh, aye,” she muttered. “Aye and ever aye. Your servant obeys.”
With that she removed the moth-eaten rag that was her cloak and placed it over the wounded man. Then she retreated to the forest the way she had come. It was midday before she returned, leading two ragged men pulling a handcart. She directed them to the place where she had found the unconscious young man; he was where she left him, still covered by her cloak.
“We could dig a grave,” suggested one of the men upon observing the wounded stranger’s pale, bloodless flesh. “I do believe ’twould be a mercy.”
“Nay, nay,” she said. “Take him to my hearth.”
“He needs more than hearth care,” observed the man, scratching a bristly jaw. “This ’un needs holy unction.”
“Go to, Cynvar,” the old woman replied. “If thou wouldst but stir thyself to action—and yon stump with thee”—she indicated the second man still standing beside the cart— “methinks we mayest yet hold death’s angel at bay.”
“You know best, hudolion,” replied the man. He motioned to his fellow, and the two lifted the stranger into the cart. The movement caused the wounded man to moan softly, but he did not waken.
“Gently, gently,” chided the old woman. “I have work enough without thee breaking his bones.”
She laid a wrinkled hand against the pale young stranger’s wounded cheek and then touched two fingers to his cold brow.
“Peace, beloved,” she crooned. “In my grasp I hold thee, and I will not let thee go.”
Turning to the men once more, she said, “Grows the grass beneath thy feet? About thy business, lads! Be quick.”
CHAPTER 16
Count Falkes de Braose anticipated the arrival of his cousin with all the fret and ferment of a maid awaiting a suitor. He could not remain seated for more than a few moments at a time before he leapt to his feet and ran to inspect some detail he had already seen and approved twice over. Ill at ease in his own skin, he started at every stray sound, and each new apprehension caused his heart to sink: What if Earl Philip arrived late? What if he met trouble on the way? What if he did not arrive at all?
He fussed over the furnishings of his new stronghold: Were they adequate? Were they too spare? Would he be considered niggardly—or worse yet, a spendthrift? He worried about the preparation of the feast: Was the fare sumptuous enough? Was the wine palatable? Was the meat well seasoned? Was the bread too hard, the soup too thin, the ale too sweet or too sour? How many men would come with Philip? How long would they stay?
When these and all the other worries overwhelmed him, he grew resentful of the torment. What cause did Philip have to be angry with him? After all, he had taken Elfael with but a bare handful of casualties. Most of the footmen had not even used their weapons. His first campaign, and it was an absolute triumph! What more could anyone ask?
By the time Philip, Earl of Gloucester, arrived with his retinue late in the day, Falkes was limp with nervous exhaustion. “Cousin!” boomed Philip, striding across the pennon-festooned yard of Caer Cadarn. He was a tall, long-legged man, with dark hair and an expanding bald spot that he kept hidden beneath a cap trimmed in marten fur. His riding gauntlets were trimmed in the same fur, as were the tops of his boots. “It is good to see you, I do declare it! How long has it been? Three years? Four?”
“Welcome!” uttered Falkes in a strangled cry. He loped across the yard with unsteady strides. “I pray you had an uneventful journey—peaceful, that is.”
“It was. God’s grace, it was,” answered Philip, pulling his kinsman into a rough embrace. “But you now—are you well?”
He cast a quizzical eye over his younger cousin. “You seem pale and fevered.”
“It is nothing—an ague born of anticipation—it will pass.” Falkes turned and flapped a hand in the vague direction of the hall. “Valroix Palace it is not,” he apologised, “but consider it yours for as long as you
desire to stay.”
Philip cast a dubious glance at the crude timber structure.
“Well, so long as it keeps the rain off, I am satisfied.”
“Then come, let us share the welcome cup, and you can tell me how things stand at court.” Falkes started across the yard, then remembered himself and stopped. “How is Uncle?
Is he well? It is a shame he could not accompany you. I should like to properly thank him for entrusting the settlement of his newest commot to me.”
“Father is well, and he is pleased, never fear,” replied Philip de Braose. Removing his gauntlets, he tucked them in his belt. “He would have liked nothing better than to accompany me, but the king has come to rely on him so that he will not abide the baron to remain out of sight for more than a day or two before calling him to attendance. Nevertheless, the baron has instructed me to bring him a full account of your deeds and acquisitions.”
“Bien sûr! You shall have it,” said Falkes, nervousness making his voice a little too loud. Turning to the knights and men-at-arms in Philip’s company, he called, “Messires, you are most welcome here. Quarters have been arranged, and a feast has been prepared for your arrival. But first, it would please me if you would join me in raising a cup of wine.”
He then led his guests into the great hall, the walls of which had been newly washed until they gleamed as white as the Seven Maidens. Fresh green rushes had been strewn over the sand-scoured wooden floor, permeating the enormous room with a clean scent of mown hay. A great heap of logs was blazing on the hearth at one end of the room, where, on an iron spit, half an ox was slowly roasting, the juices sizzling in a pan snugged in the glowing coals.