“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.
&nb
sp; 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.
CHAPTER 12
While Bran continued to court the confidence of Llewelyn and the lords of Gwynedd, slowly converting them to his scheme, Tuck was given the chore of gleaning all the information and gossip he could discover about Earl Hugh d’Avranches. He begged a ride across the strait in one of the local fishing boats to the busy dockyards at Bangor, where he spent a goodly while talking to the seamen of various stripes; all had strong opinions, but were weak on actual facts. When he reckoned he had gleaned all that could be learned on the docks, he moved on to the market square and strolled among the stalls, listening to the merchants and their customers, and stumping up the cost of a jar or two to share when he found someone whose opinions seemed worth his while to hear. As the day began to fade toward evening, he took shelter at the monastery, sat with the monks at table, and talked to the porter, kitchener, and secnab.
In this way, Tuck had collected a tidy heap of tittle-tattle and, after sifting everything well and wisely, it came to this: Hugh d’Avranches had come to England with the invading forces of the Duke of Normandy—William the Conqueror to some,Willy Bastard to others, father of the present King of England, William Rufus. And although Hugh did not actually fight at Hastings against Good King Harold, the Norman nobleman was nevertheless granted generous swathes of land in the north of England as a reward for his loyalty and support. Why was this? He had ships.
It was said that if not for Hugh d’Avranches’ ships, the invasion of England would never have taken place. The master of upwards of sixty seaworthy vessels, he lent them to Duke William to carry the Ffreinc army across the Narrow Sea to Britain’s green and pleasant shores, thereby earning himself an earldom. Most of the Cymry knew Earl Hugh as a fierce adversary well deserving of his wolfish nickname; more extreme views considered him little more than a boot-licking toady to his bloat-gut royal master, and called him Hw Fras, or Hugh the Fat. In either case, the Cymry of the region had long since come to know and loathe him as a ruler who made life a torrent of misery for all who lived within his reach, and a very long reach it was.
From his sprawling fortress at Caer Cestre on the northern border between England and Wales, Earl Hugh harrowed the land: raiding, thieving, spoiling, feuding, burning, and wreaking whatever havoc he might on any and all beyond the borders of his realm. Forever a thorn in the side of the local Cymry, he pricked them painfully whenever he got the chance.
It went without saying that it fell to King Gruffydd of Gwynedd to make a stand against this rapacious tyrant. Time and again Gruffydd’s warriors and the earl’s—or those of the earl’s blood-lusting kinsman, Robert of Rhuddlan—tangled and fought. Some times the Cymry bloodied the Norman noses, but more often it went the other way. On one disastrous day, however, King Gruffydd ap Cynan had been captured. Earl Robert had bound his prize in chains and hauled him to Caer Cestre, where Gruffydd was cast into Fat Hugh’s hostage pit. That was eight years ago, and he was still there, kept alive at Hugh’s pleasure to torment and torture as whim moved him. It was thought that the Welsh king would rot in captivity. Hugh had no intention of releasing him and had refused to set either a ransom or a day of execution, but the earl did allow the Welsh king’s kinsmen to pay their respects on high holy days, when a selected few were admitted to the danksome keep with carefully inspected parcels of food, clothing, candles, and other necessaries for their captive king.
The earl’s fortress at Caer Cestre was a squat square lump of ruddy stone with thick walls and towers at each corner and over the gate, and the whole surrounded by a swampy, stinking ditch. It had been constructed on the remains of a stout Saxon stronghold which was itself built on foundations the Romans had erected on the banks of the River Dee. The town was also walled, and those walls made of stone the Roman masons cut from the red cliffs along the river. The caer, it was said, could not be conquered by force.
These and other things Tuck learned and reported it all to Bran.
“He likes his whoring and hunting, our Hugh,” he reported. They were sitting in the courtyard of Llewelyn’s house, sharing a jug of cool brown ale. A golden afternoon sun was slanting down, warming the little yard agreeably, and the air was soft and drowsy with the buzz of bees from the hives on the other side of the wall. “They say he likes his mistresses better than his money box, his falcons better than his mistresses, and his hounds better than his falcons.”
“Thinks himself a mighty hunter, does he?” mused Bran with his nose in the jar. He took a sip and passed it to Tuck.
“That he does,” the friar affirmed. “He spends more on his dogs and birds than he does on himself—and he’s never been known to spare a penny there, either.”
“Does he owe anyone money?” wondered Bran.
“That I cannot say,” Tuck told him. “But it seems he spends it as fast as he gets it. Musicians, jugglers, horses, hounds, clothes from Spain and Italy, wine from France—he demands and gets the best of whatever he wants. The way people talk, a fella’d think Fat Hugh was one enormous appetite got up in satin trousers.”
Bran chuckled. He took back the jar and raised it. “A man who is slave to his appetites,” he said, taking another drink, “has a brute for a master.”
“Aye, truly. That he has,” the friar agreed cheerfully. “Here now! Save a bit o’ that for me!”
Bran passed the jar to the friar, who upended it and drained it in a gulp, froth pouring down his chin, which he wiped on a ready sleeve.
When Tuck handed the empty jar back, Bran peered inside and declared, somewhat cryptically, “It is the master we shall woo, not th
e slave.”
What he meant by this, Tuck was not to discover for several days. But Bran set himself to preparing his plan and acquiring the goods he needed, and also pressed his two young cousins, Brocmael and Ifor, into his service. He spent an entire day instructing the pair in how to comport themselves as members of his company. Of course, Tuck was given a prime part in the grand scheme as well, so the bowlegged little friar was arrayed accordingly in some of Bishop Hywel Hen’s best Holy Day vestments borrowed for the purpose.
At last, Bran declared himself satisfied with all his preparations. The company gathered in Llewelyn’s hall to eat and drink and partake of their host’s hospitality before the fire-bright hearth. Llewelyn’s wife and her maids tended table, and two men from the tribe regaled the visitors and their host with song, playing music on the harp and pipes while Llewelyn’s daughters danced with each other and anyone else they could coax from their places at the board. Some of the noblemen had brought their families, too, swelling the ranks of the gathering and making the company’s last night a glad and festive time.
The next morning, after breaking fast on a little bread soaked in milk, Bran repeated his instructions to Llewelyn, Trahaern, and Cynwrig. Then, mounting their horses, the four set off for the docks in search of a boat heading north. Caer Cestre sat happily on the Afon Dyfrdwy, which Tuck knew as the River Dee. All told, Earl Hugh’s castle was no great distance—it seemed to Tuck that they could have reached it easily in three easy days of riding—but Bran did not wish to slope unnoticed into town like a fox slinking into the dove cote. He would have it no other way but that they would arrive by ship and make as big an occasion of their landing as could be. When Bran came to Caer Cestre, he wanted everyone from the stable-hand to the seneschal to know it.