He tightened the laces of his shoes, then made his way through the building site that had been his home—God’s home—and walked out across the valley to Caer Cadarn. Upon presenting himself at the fortress gate, he was, as he had come to expect, made to tarry in the yard until the count deigned to see him. Here, the Bishop of Llanelli loitered in the sun like a friendless farmhand with muck on his feet, while the count sat at meat. He resented this treatment but tried not to take offence; he decided to recite a psalm instead.
Twenty psalms later, the count’s seneschal finally came for him. At the door to the audience chamber, Asaph thanked Orval and composed himself, smoothing his robe and adjusting his belt. Stepping through the opened door, Bishop Asaph found the count hunched over a table laden with the half-empty plates of the meal just finished and squares of parchment on which were drawn plans for defensive fortifications.
“Forgive me, bishop, if I do not offer you refreshment,” said the count distractedly. “I am otherwise occupied, as you see.”
“I would not presume upon your attentions,” said the bishop tartly. “You can be sure that I would not come here at all if need did not demand it.”
Falkes glanced up sharply. “Pray, what are you prattling about now?”
“We were promised provisions,” said the bishop.
“When?”
“Why, when Baron Neufmarché was here. It has been almost a month now, and the need grows ever—”
“Neufmarché promised grain, yes, I remember.” Count de Braose returned to the drawings before him. “What of it?”
“My lord count,” said the bishop, his palms growing wet with apprehension, “it has not arrived.”
“Has it not?” sniffed the count. “Well, perhaps he has forgotten.”
“The baron promised to send the supplies immediately upon his return to Hereford. It has been, as I say, almost a month now, and the need is greater than ever. The people are at the end of their resources—they faint with hunger; the children cry. In some settlements, they are already starving. If relief is not forthcoming, they will die.”
“In that case,” replied the count, picking up a scrap of parchment and holding it at arm’s length before his face, “I suggest you take up the matter with the baron himself. It is his affair, not mine.”
“But—”
“We are finished here,” interrupted Count Falkes. “You may go.”
Aghast and confounded, Bishop Asaph stood in silence for a moment. “My lord, do you mean to say that nothing has been sent?”
“Have you taken root?” inquired the count. “The matter is concluded. You are dismissed. Go.”
The churchman turned and walked stiffly from the room.
By the time he reached the monastery, some semblance of reason had returned, and he had determined that the count was right. The baron had made the promise and must be held to account. Therefore, he would go to the baron and demand a reckoning. If he left at once, he could be in Hereford in four or five days. He would obtain an audience; he would implore; he would plead; he would beg the baron to make good his vow and release the promised food and supplies without delay.
CHAPTER 29
It took the two aging priests of Llanelli more than a week to reach the Neufmarché stronghold in Hereford. Though Bishop Asaph fervently hoped to travel more swiftly, he could not go faster than doddering Brother Clyro could walk, nor could he bring himself to deny the needy who, upon seeing the passing monks, ran to beg them for prayers and blessings.
Weary and footsore, they reached Hereford toward evening of the eighth day and found their way to the Abbey of Saints James and John, where they took beds for the night. They were led by the porter to the guest lodge and provided with basins of water to wash and later joined the priests for prayers and a simple supper before going to sleep. After prime the next morning, the bishop left his companion at prayer and made his way to the baron’s fortress. Set on a bluff overlooking the river Wye, the castle could be seen for miles in every direction: an impressive structure built of stone and enclosed by a deep, steep-sided ditch filled with water diverted from the river.
It was not the first fortress on this site; the previous one had been burned to the ground long ago during a battle with the English. The Ffreinc had rebuilt it, but in stone this time; larger, stronger, bristling with battlements, walls, and towers, it was built to last. Its latest inhabitant had extended the grounds around the stronghold to include common grazing lands, cattle pens, granaries, and barns.
The bishop paused before entering the castle gate. “Great of Might,” he murmured, lifting a hand toward heaven, “you know our need. Let relief be swiftly granted. Amen.” He then proceeded through the gate, where he was met by a gatekeeper in a short red tunic. “Pax vobiscum,” said the bishop.
“God with you,” answered the gateman, taking in the bishop’s robe and tonsure. “What is your business here, father?”
“I seek audience with Baron Neufmarché, if you please. You may tell him that Bishop Asaph of Elfael is here on a matter of highest importance.”
The servant nodded and led the cleric across a wooden bridge over the water ditch, through another gate, and into an inner yard, where he waited while the gatekeeper announced his presence to a page, who conveyed the request for an audience to the baron. While he awaited the baron’s summons, Bishop Asaph watched the people around him as they went about their daily affairs. He found himself thinking about what a strange race they were, these Ffreinc, made up of many contradictions. Industrious and resourceful, they typically pursued their interests with firmness of purpose and an admirable ardour. Yet from what he had seen of the marchogi in Elfael, they could just as quickly abandon themselves to dejection and despondency when events betrayed them. Devout, stalwart, and reverent in the best of times, they also seemed inordinately subject to weird caprices and silly superstitions. A handsome people, hale and strong bodied, with long, straight limbs and clear eyes set in broad, open faces— they nevertheless seemed to suffer from a rare abundance of infirmities, maladies, and ailments.
All these things and arrogant, too. They were, the bishop concluded, fiercely ambitious. In appetite for acquisition: insatiable. In intensity for mastery: rapacious. In aspiration for achievement: merciless. In desire for domination: inexorable.
However, and he had always to remember this, they could be fair-minded and loyal, and when it suited them, they displayed a laudable sense of justice—at least with their own. The English and Cymry were treated poorly for the most part, it was true; but the capacity for evenhanded tolerance was not entirely lacking. The bishop hoped he would encounter some of this fairness in his dealings with the baron today.
Presently, the page returned to announce that the baron would be pleased to see him at once, and Asaph was brought into a large, stone-flagged anteroom, where he was offered a cup of wine and some bread before making his way into the baron’s audience chamber—an enormous oak-panelled room with a narrow arched window of leaded glass that kept out the wind but allowed the light to come streaming through.
“Bishop Asaph!” boomed the baron as the priest was announced. “Pax vobiscum!” He crossed the chamber in long, quick strides and held out his hand in the peculiar greeting of Ffreinc noblemen. “It is good to see you again.” The bishop grasped the offered hand somewhat awkwardly. “You should have told me you were coming! I would have had a dinner prepared in your honour. But come! Come, sit with me. I will have some refreshment brought, and we will eat together.”
The effusive greeting banished Bishop Asaph’s worst fears. “Thank you, Baron Neufmarché, but your servant was kind enough to offer me bread and wine just now. I would not presume to keep you from your affairs a moment longer than necessary.”
“So earnest,” observed the baron lightly. “It is a most welcome interruption, bishop. You have an advocate in me. I hope you know that.”
“You cannot imagine how it gratifies me to hear those words, Baron Neufmarché.
You are very kind.”
Neufmarché brushed aside the compliment. “It is nothing.
However, I can see that you are troubled—and I think it must be something serious indeed to bring you from your beautiful valley.” He gestured his guest to a chair beside his own. “Here, my friend; sit down and tell me what is distressing you.”
“To be blunt, it is about the food supplies you promised to send.”
“Yes? I trust they were put to good use. I assure you, the grain and meat were the finest I could lay hands to at short notice.”
“I am certain they were,” Bishop Asaph conceded. “But we never received them.”
“Nothing? Nothing at all?” wondered the baron. Asaph shook his head slowly. “How is that possible?”
“That is what I have come to discover,” replied the bishop, who then told of his conversation with Count Falkes. “In short,” concluded the bishop, “the count gave me to know in no uncertain terms that the supplies had never been sent—or, if they had, they never arrived. He suggested I take up the matter with you”—the bishop spread his hands—“so here I am.”
“I see.” The baron pursed his lips in a frown of vexation and ran a broad hand through his long, dark hair. “This is most disturbing. I made arrangements for the supplies the same day I returned from Elfael, and was glad to do it. Why, the wagoners reported a successful delivery with no difficulties along the way.”
“I do believe you, baron,” the bishop assured him. “It can only be that de Braose has taken the food and kept it for himself.”
“So it would seem,” Baron Neufmarché concurred. Rising from his chair, he crossed to the door in quick strides, opened it, and summoned the servant waiting outside. “Bring Remey here at once.” The man hurried away, and the baron returned to his guest. “This will soon be put right.”
“What do you intend—if I may be so bold?”
“I intend to send another consignment immediately,” declared the baron. “What is more, I intend to make certain that it reaches you this time. I will give orders that the food is to be delivered to you and no one else.”
“Baron Neufmarché,” sighed Asaph, feeling the weight of care lift from his shoulders, “you have no idea how much this means to me. It is a blessing of the highest order.”
“It is nothing of the kind,” protested Neufmarché. “If I had been more diligent, this would not have happened, and you would not have had to undertake such an onerous errand.
I am sorry.” He paused. Then, his voice becoming grave, he said, “I can see now that we have no ally in Count de Braose.
He is duplicitous and deceitful, and his word can no longer be trusted.”
“Alas, it is true,” confirmed Asaph readily.
“We must watch him closely, you and I,” the baron continued. “I have received word of, shall we say, certain undertakings involving the count and his uncle.” He offered a brief confidential smile. “But never fear, my friend; trust that I will do whatever I can to intercede for you.”
Before the bishop could think what to say, the door opened and a thin man in a soft red hat entered the room.
“Ah, there you are!” called the baron. “Remey, you will recall the supplies we sent to Count Falkes in Elfael, yes?”
“I do, my lord. Of course. I saw to it personally at your request.”
“How many wagons did we send?”
The old servant placed a finger to his lips for a moment and then said, “Five, I believe. Three of grain, and two more loaded with meat and various other necessaries.”
“That is correct, Remey,” confirmed the baron. “I want you to ready another consignment of the same.” He paused, glancing at the bishop, then added, “And double it this time.”
“Ten wagons!” gasped Bishop Asaph. This went far beyond his most fervent hopes. “My lord baron, this is most generous—indeed, more than generous! Your largesse is as noble as it is needful.”
“Think nothing of it,” the baron replied grandly. “I am only too glad to be of some small service. Now then, perhaps I can persuade you to share a little sustenance with me before you return to Elfael. In fact, if you would consent to stay a day or so, you may depart with the first wagons.”
“Nothing would please us more,” replied the bishop, almost giddy with relief. “And tonight, Brother Clyro and I will hold vigil for you and extol your name before the Throne of Grace.”
“You are too kind, bishop. I am certain I do not deserve such praise.”
“On the contrary, I will spread word of your munificence from one end of Elfael to the other so that all our people will know who to thank for their provision.” Tears started to his eyes, and he dabbed them with his hands, saying, “May God bless you richly, baron, for troubling yourself on our behalf.
May God bless you well and richly.”
Bran spent the day getting to know the people of Cél Craidd, the hidden heart of the greenwood. A few were folk of Elfael, but many were from other cantrefs—chiefly Morgannwg and Gwent, which had also fallen under Norman sway. All, for one reason or another, had been forced to abandon their homes and seek the refuge of the wood. He talked to them and listened to their stories of loss and woe, and his heart went out to them.
That night he sat beside the hearth in Iwan’s hut, and they talked of the Ffreinc and what could be done to reclaim their homeland. “We must raise a warband,” Iwan declared, brash in his enthusiasm. “That is the first thing. Drive the devils out. Drive them so far and so hard they dare not come back again.”
The three men faced one another across the small fire burning in the centre of the hut’s single room. “We could get swords and armour,” Siarles suggested. “And horses, to be sure. Good ones—trained to battle.” The young man had been chief huntsman to the king of Gwent, but when the Ffreinc deposed his lord and took all hunting rights to themselves, Siarles had fled to the forest rather than serve a Ffreinc lord. He had assumed the position of Iwan’s second. “De Braose has hundreds of horses. We’ll raise a thousand,” he said, exuberance getting the better of him. He considered this for a moment and then amended it, saying, “Not every warrior will need a horse, mind. To be sure, we must have footmen as well.”
The mere thought of trying to find so many men and horses was laughable to Bran. Even if men in such numbers could somehow be found, arming and equipping a warband of that size could well take a year or more—and they must be housed and fed in the meantime. It was absurd, and Bran pitied his friends for their hopeless, pathetic dream; it might make the British heart beat faster, but it was doomed to failure. The Ffreinc were bred for battle; they were better armed, better trained, better horsed. Engaging them in open battle was certain disaster; every British death strengthened their hold on the land that much more and increased misery and oppression for everyone. To think otherwise was folly.
Listening to Iwan and Siarles, Bran grew more certain than ever that his future lay in the north amongst his mother’s kinsmen. Elfael was lost—it had been so from the moment his father was cut down in the road—and there was nothing he could do to change that. Better to accept the grim reality and live than to die chasing a glorious delusion.
He looked sadly at the two men across from him, their faces eager in the firelight. They burned with zeal to drive the enemy from the valley and redeem their homeland. Why stop there? Bran thought. They might as well hope to reclaim Cymru, England, and Scotland, too—for all the good it would do them. Unable to endure the futile hope of those keen expressions, Bran rose suddenly and left the hut.
He stepped out into the moonlight and stood for a moment, feeling the cool night air wash over him. Gradually, he became aware that he was not alone. Angharad was sitting on a stump beside the door. “They have no one else,” she said. “And nowhere else to go.”
“What they want—,” Bran began, then halted. Did anyone have even the slightest notion of the effort in time and money that it would take to raise a sufficiently large army to do what Iw
an suggested? “It is impossible,” he declared after a moment. “They are deluded.”
“Then you must tell them. Tell them now. Explain why they are wrong to want what they want. Then you can leave knowing that, as their king, you did all you could.”
Her words rankled. “What do you expect of me, Angharad?” He spoke softly so those inside would not overhear. “What they propose is madness—as you and I know.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But they have nothing else.
They have no kinsmen in the north waiting to take them in.
Elfael is all they have. It is all they know. If their hope is mistaken, you must tell them.”
“I will,” said Bran, drawing himself up, “and let that be the end.” He went back into the hut, taking his place at the fire once more.
“We could go to Lord Rhys in the south,” Iwan was saying. “He has returned from Ireland with a large warband. If we convinced him to help us, he might loan us the troops we need.”
“No,” Bran said quietly. “There is no plunder to be had, and we have nothing to offer them. King Rhys ap Tewdwr will not get dragged into a war for nothing, and he has enough worries of his own.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Iwan. “Is there someone else?”
Bran looked at his friend, the light still burning in his eyes; he could not bring himself to snuff out that fragile flame.
Angharad was right: the people had no one to lead them and nowhere else to go. For Iwan, and for them all, it was Elfael or nothing.
Bran hesitated, wrestling with the decision. God have mercy, he thought, I cannot abandon them. In that instant, a new path opened before him, and Bran saw the way ahead. “We don’t have to fight the Ffreinc,” he declared abruptly.
“No?” wondered Iwan. “I think they won’t surrender for asking—a pleasant thought even so.”