Life proceeded like this for many days: he would wake to find his guardian beside him, ready to feed him his broth, whereupon, after only a few sips from the stag horn spoon, he would be overcome by the urge to sleep. Upon waking, he would find himself better refreshed than before, and what is more, Bran not only found that he was eating more each time, but also suspected that the intervals between sleeping and eating were shorter.
The comforting routine was interrupted one day when Bran awoke to find himself alone in the cave. He moved his head to look around, but the hag was nowhere to be seen. The pit-pat drip of water that had accompanied his waking moments for the last many days was gone. Alone and unobserved, he decided to stand up.
Slowly, cautiously, he levered himself onto the elbow of his good arm. His shoulders were stiff, and his chest ached; even the tiniest movement set off a crippling surge of agony that left him panting. At each attack he would pause, eyes squeezed shut, clutching his chest, until the waves of pain receded and he could see straight again.
On the ground near his bed was a shallow iron basin full of water; guarding against any sudden moves, he stretched out his hand and was able to hook two fingers over the rim and pull the heavy vessel closer.When the water stopped sloshing around the basin, he leaned over it and looked in. The face staring back at him was woefully misshapen; the right side was puffy and discoloured, and a jagged black line ran from the lower lip to the earlobe. The flesh along this lightning-strike line was pinched and puckered beneath a rough beard, which had been unevenly shaved to keep the hair away from the wound.
Angry at what he saw reflected in the water, he gave the basin a shove and instantly regretted it. The violent movement caused another upwelling of pain, greater than any before. He could not bear it and fell back, tears streaming down the sides of his face. He moaned, and that started him coughing, which opened the wound in his chest. The next thing he knew, he was coughing up blood.
The stuff came bubbling up his throat, thick and sweet, and spilled over his chin. He gagged and hacked, spitting blood in a fine red mist over himself. Each cough brought forth another, and he could not catch his breath. Just when he thought he would choke to death on his own blood, the old woman appeared beside him.
“What hast thou done?” she asked, kneeling beside him.
Unable to reply, he wheezed and spluttered, blood welling up over his teeth. With a quick motion, Angharad tore aside the sheepskin covering and placed a gentle hand on his chest.
“Peace!” she whispered, like a mother to a distraught and unquiet child.
Power of moon have I over thee,
Power of sun have I over thee,
Power of stars have I over thee,
Power of rain have I over thee,
Power of wind have I over thee,
Power of heaven have I over thee,
Power of heaven have I over thee in the power of God to heal thee.
She moved her hand over his chest, her fingertips softly brushing the injured flesh. “Closed for thee thy wound, and stanched thy blood. As Christ bled upon the cross, so closeth he thy wound for thee,” she intoned, her voice a caress.
A part of this hurt on the high mountains,
A part of this hurt on the grass-deep meadow,
A part of this hurt on the heathered moors,
A part of this hurt on the great surging sea that has best means to bear it.
This hurt on the great surging sea, she herself has the best means to bear it for thee . . . away . . . away . . . away.
Under Angharad’s warm touch, the pain subsided. His lungs eased their laboured pumping, and his breathing calmed. Bran lay back, his chin and chest glistening with gore, and mouthed the words, Thank you.
Taking a bit of rag, she soaked it in the basin and began washing him clean, working patiently and slowly. She hummed as she worked, and Bran felt himself relaxing under her gentle ministrations. “Now wilt thou sleep,” the old woman told him when she finished.
Eyelids heavy, he closed his eyes and sank into the soft, dark, timeless place where his dreams kindled and flared with strange visions of impossible feats, of people he knew but had never met, of things past—or perhaps yet to come—when the king and queen gave life and love to the people, when bards lauded the deeds of heroes, when the land bestowed its gifts in abundance, when God looked with favour upon his children and hearts were glad. Over all he dreamed that night, there loomed the shape of a strange bird with a long beak and a face as smooth and hard and black as charred bone.
CHAPTER 19
Spring could not come soon enough for Falkes de Braose. The count ached for an end to the roof-rattling, teeth-chattering cold of the most inhospitable winter he had ever known—and it had only just begun! As he shivered in his chair, wrapped in cloaks and robes—a very hillock of dun-coloured wool—he consoled himself with the thought that when winter came next year, he would be firmly ensconced in his own private chamber in a newly built stone keep. In blissful dreams he conjured snug, wood-panelled rooms hung with heavy tapestries to keep out the searching fingers of the frigid wind, and a down-filled bed set before a blazing hearth all his own. He would never again suffer the dank drear of the great hall, with its drafts and smoke and freezing damp.
He would not abide another winter swaddled like a grotesquely oversized worm waiting for spring so it could shrug off its cocoon. Next winter, a ready supply of fuel would be laid in; he would determine how much was required and then treble the amount. This daily struggle to squeeze inadequate warmth from wet timber was slow insanity, and the count vowed never to endure it again. This time next year, he would laugh at the rain and cheerfully thumb his nose at each snowflake as it floated to the ground.
Meanwhile, he waited in perpetual dudgeon for the spring thaw, studying the plans drawn by the master architect for the baron’s new borderland castles: one facing the yet-to-be-conquered northwestern territories, one to anchor the centre and the lands to the south, and one to defend the backs of the other two from any attacks arising from the east. The castles were, with only slight variations, all the same, but Falkes studied each sheaf of drawings with painstaking care, trying to think of improvements to the designs that he could suggest and that might win his uncle’s approval. So far, he had come up with only one: increasing the size of the cistern that captured rainwater for use in times of emergency. As this detail was not likely to impress his uncle, he kept at his scrutiny and dreamed of warmer climes.
Five days after the feast of Saint Benedict, a messenger arrived with a letter from the baron. “Good news, I hope,” said Falkes to the courier, taking receipt of the wrapped parchment. “Will you stay?”
“My lord baron requires an answer without delay,” replied the man, shaking rainwater from his cloak and boots.
“Does he indeed?” Falkes, his interest sufficiently piqued, waved the courier away to the cookhouse. Alone again, he broke the seal, unrolled the small scrap of parchment, and settled back in his chair, holding the crabbed script before his eyes.
He read the letter through to the end and then scanned it again to make sure he had not missed anything.
The message was simple enough: his uncle, eager to strengthen his grasp on Elfael so that he could begin his long-anticipated invasion into fresh territories, desired the construction of his new castles to begin without further delay.
The baron was sending masons and skilled workers at once.
Further, many of these would be bringing their families, eliminating the need to return home when the building season ended, thus allowing them to work longer before winter brought a halt to their labours. Therefore, Baron de Braose wanted his nephew to put every available resource of time and energy into building a town and establishing a market so that the workers and their families would have a place to live while the construction continued.
“A town!” spluttered Falkes. “He wants an entire town raised before next winter!”
The baron concluded his letter sayi
ng that he knew he could rely on his nephew to carry out his command with utmost zeal and purpose, and that when the baron arrived on Saint Michael’s Day to inspect the work, he trusted he would find all ready and in good order.
Falkes was still sitting in his chair with a stunned expression on his long face when the messenger returned. “My lord?” asked the man, approaching uncertainly.
Falkes stirred and glanced up. “Yes? Oh, it is you. Did you find something to eat?”
“Thank you, sire, I have had a good meal.”
“Well,” replied Falkes absently, “I am glad to hear it. I suppose you want to get back, so I . . .” His voice trailed off as he sat gazing into the flames on the hearth.
“Ahem,” coughed the messenger after a moment. “If you please, sire, what reply am I to make to the baron?”
Raising the letter to his eyes once more, Falkes took a deep breath and said, “You may tell the baron that his nephew is eager to carry out his wishes and will press ahead with all speed. Tell him . . .” His voice grew small at the thought of the enormity of the task before him.
“Pardon?” asked the messenger. “You were saying?”
“Yes, yes,” resumed the count irritably. “Tell the baron his nephew wishes him success in all his undertakings. No, tell him . . . Tell the baron nothing. Wait but a little, and I will compose a proper reply.” He flicked his long fingers at the messenger. “You may go see to your mount.”
Bowing quickly, the messenger departed. Falkes went to his table, took up his pen, and wrote a coolly compliant answer to his uncle’s demand on the same parchment, then rolled and resealed it and called for a servant to take the letter to the waiting messenger. He heard the clatter of iron-shod hooves in the courtyard a short time later and, closing his eyes, leaned his head against the back of his chair.
An entire town to raise in one summer. Impossible! It could not be done.Was his uncle insane? The baron himself, with all his men and money, could surely not accomplish such a thing.
He slumped farther into his chair and pulled the woollen cloaks more tightly under his chin as hopelessness wrapped its dark tendrils around him. Three castles to erect, and now a complete town as well. His own dream of a warm chamber in a newly enlarged fortress receded at an alarming pace.
By the Blesséd Virgin, a town!
So lost in his despair was he that it was not until the next day that Falkes found a way out of the dilemma: it did not have to be a whole town. That would come, in time and in good order. For now, the undertaking could be something much more modest—a market square, a meeting hall, a few houses, and, of course, a church. Constructing even that much would be difficult enough—where was he to find the labourers?
Why, a church alone would require as many men as he had ready to hand; where would he find the rest?
The church alone . . . , he thought, and the thought brought him upright in his chair. Yes! Of course! Why, the answer was staring him full in the face.
He rose and, leaving the warmth of his hall behind, rushed out into the snow-covered yard, calling for his seneschal. “Orval! Orval!” he cried. “Bring me Bishop Asaph!”
The summons came while the bishop was conducting an audit of food supplies with the kitchener. It was turning into a hard winter, and this year’s harvest had been poor; the monastery was still sheltering a dozen or so people who, for one reason or another, could not escape to Saint Dyfrig’s.
Thus, the bishop was concerned about the stock of food on hand and wanted to know how long it would last.
Together with Brother Brocmal, he was examining the monastery’s modest storerooms, making an exact accounting, when the riders arrived to fetch him. “Bishop Asaph!” called the porter, running across the yard. “The Ffreinc—the Ffreinc have come for you!”
“Calm yourself, brother,” Asaph said. “Deliver your charge with some measure of decorum, if you please.”
The porter gulped down a mouthful of air. “Three riders in de Braose livery have come,” he said. “They have a horse for you and say you are to accompany them to Caer Cadarn.”
“I see.Well, go back and tell them I am busy just now but will attend them as soon as I have finished.”
“They said I was to bring you at once,” countered the porter.
“If you refused, they said they would come and drag you away by your ears!”
“Did they indeed!” exclaimed the bishop. “Well, I will save them the trouble.” Handing the tally scroll to the kitchener, he said, “Continue with the accounting, Brother Brocmal, while I deal with our impatient guests.”
“Of course, bishop,” replied Brother Brocmal.
Asaph returned with the porter and found three marchogi on horseback waiting with a saddled fourth horse. “Pax vobis-cum,” said the bishop, “I am Father Asaph. How may I be of assistance?” He spoke his best Latin, slowly, so they would understand.
“Count de Braose wants you,” said the foremost rider.
“So I have been given to understand,” replied the bishop, who explained that he was in the midst of a necessary undertaking and would come as soon as he was finished.
“No,” said the horseman. “He wants you now.”
“Now,” explained the bishop, still smiling, “is not convenient. I will come when my duties allow.”
“He doesn’t care if it is convenient,” replied the soldier.
“We have orders to bring you without delay.”
He nodded to his two companions, who began dismounting. “Oh, very well,” said Asaph, moving quickly to the waiting horse. “The sooner gone, the sooner finished.”
With the help of the porter, the bishop mounted the saddle and took up the reins. “Well? Are you coming?” he asked in a voice thick with sarcasm. “Apparently, it does not do to keep the count waiting.”
Without another word, the marchogi turned their mounts and rode from the yard out into a dazzling, sun-bright day.
The soldiers led the way across the snow-covered valley, and the bishop followed at an unhurried pace, letting his mind wander as it would. He was still trying to get the measure of these new overlords, and each encounter taught him a new lesson in how to deal with the Ffreinc invaders.
Strictly speaking, they were not Ffreinc, or Franks, at all; they were Normans. There was a difference—not that any of the Britons he knew cared for such fine distinctions. To the people of the valleys beyond the March, the tall strangers were invaders from France—that was all they knew, or needed to know. To the Britons, be they Ffreinc, Angevin, or Norman, they were merely the latest in a long line of would-be conquerors.
Before the Normans, there were the English, and before the English, the Danes, and the Saxons before them. And each invader had carved out dominions for themselves and had gradually been gathered in and woven into the many-coloured mantle that was the Island of the Mighty.
These Normans were, from what he knew of them, ambitious and industrious, capable of great acts of piety and even greater brutality. They built churches wherever they went and filled them on holy days with devout worshippers, who nevertheless lived like hellions the rest of the time. It was said of the Ffreinc that they would blithely burn a village, slaughter all the men, and hang all the women and children, and then hurry off to church lest they miss a Mass.
Be that as it may, the Normans were Christian at least— which was more than could be said for the Danes or English when they had first arrived on Britain’s fair shores. That being the case, the Church had decided that the Normans were to be treated as brothers in Christ—albeit as one would treat a domineering, wildly violent, and unpredictable older brother.
There was, so far as Bishop Asaph could see, no other alternative. Had he not urged King Brychan—if once, then a thousand times over the years—to acknowledge the Conqueror, swear fealty, pay his taxes, and do what he could to allow his people to live in peace? “What?” Asaph could hear the king cry in outrage. “Am I to kneel and kiss the rosy rump of that usurping knave? And
me a king in my own country? Let me be roasted alive before I stoop to pucker!”
Well, he had sown his patch and reaped his reward, God save him—and his feckless son, too. Now that was a very shame. Profligate, recklessly licentious, and dissolute the prince may have been—no mistake about it, he was all that and more—yet he had qualities his father lacked, hidden though they might have been. Were they hidden so deeply as to never be recovered? That was the question he had often asked himself.
Alas, the question was moot, and would so forever remain. With Bran’s death, the old era passed and a new had begun. Like it or not, the Ffreinc were a fact of life, and they were here to stay. The path was as clear as the choice before him: his only hope of guiding his scattered flock through the storms ahead was to curry favour with the ruling powers. Bishop Asaph intended to get along with them however he could and hope—and pray—for the best.
It was in this frame of mind that Llanelli’s deferential senior cleric entered the fortress where Count Falkes de Braose sat blowing on numb fingers in his damp, smoke-filled hall, beside a sputtering fire of green wood.
“Ah, Bishop Asaph,” said the count, glancing around as the churchman was led into the hall. “It is good to see you again.
I trust you are well?” Falkes sniffed and drew a sleeve under his runny nose.
“Yes,” answered the bishop stiffly, “well enough.”
“I, on the other hand, seem destined to endure no end of suffering,” opined the count, “what with one thing and another—and this vile weather on top of it all.”
“And yet despite your sufferings, you remain alive to complain,” observed the bishop, his voice taking on the chill of the room. In Falkes’s presence he felt anew the loss of Brother Ffreol and the death of Bran—not to mention the massacre at Wye Ford. Ffreol’s death had been an accident— that was what he had been told. The slaughter of the king and warband was, regrettably, a consequence of war he would have to accept. Bran’s death was, in his mind, without justification. That the prince had been killed trying to escape without paying the ransom was, he considered, beside the point. Whatever anyone thought of the young man, he was Elfael’s rightful king and should have been accorded due respect and courtesy.