“Hmmm . . .” said the baron, shaking his head.
“These rebels, Lord Abbot,” said Father Gervais, “would they be the same that control the King’s Road through the forest? We have heard about them.”
“The same, since you ask. Yes, the same. Their strength in arms and numbers has grown in these last months, and they have become ever more bold in their raiding and thieving. We had hoped that the arrival of the king’s soldiers would have been sufficient to discourage them. Alas, they respect no authority and live only to shed innocent blood.”
“How many men did the king lend you?” wondered the baron, summoning a steward with a gesture. “A chair for Father Gervais,” he said. “And one for myself. Bring us wine too.”
The steward brought the chairs, and another produced a small table for the wine; while the cups were filled, the abbot continued. “How many king’s men did I have? Too few, by the rood. If we had received numbers sufficient to the task—and which I specifically requested, mind you—I am certain this disaster could have been averted. It is only through my most stringent endeavours at persuasion that any of us have survived at all.”
Marshal Guy stared at the abbot, whose lies he almost believed himself.
“The attack was vicious and unprovoked, as I say,” concluded the abbot. “They struck without warning and showed no mercy. Though we mounted a vigorous defence, we were at last overwhelmed. We were fortunate to escape with our lives.”
“Yes, no doubt,” mused the baron thoughtfully. “You said they were with you, the soldiers who survived the attack—where are they now?”
“In the town,” replied Guy. “We’ve been on the road for four days without horses. We are all of us exhausted.”
“Of course,” replied the baron.
Guy could not fail to notice that the baron did not offer to send for the troops and bring them to the castle to be fed. In fact, the baron seemed more than content to let the matter rest where it lay. The abbot, however, was not so inclined; he had the spoon in his fist and meant to stir the pot with it.
“My lord baron,” said Hugo, offering up his cup to be refilled.
“How many men have you under your command?”
The baron waited while the wine was poured. “Not as many as I should like,” he answered, raising his cup to his lips, “times being what they are.” He drank a sip to give himself a little time to think. “No doubt, King William would be able to raise as many as required.” He smiled. “But I am no king.”
“No, of course not,” replied the abbot. He placed his cup carefully on the table and looked the baron full in the face. “Even so, I would like to ask you to consider lending me some of your soldiers. Now”—he raised his hand as if to forestall an objection he saw coming—“think carefully before you answer. You would be aiding the church in its ongoing affairs, and that would place me in a position to pass along certain indulgences . . .” He watched the baron for his reaction. “Certain, shall we say, very valuable indulgences. The perpetual prayers of an abbey can guarantee salvation on the Day of Judgement, as we know—which is ordinarily obtained only at great expense.”
The baron, still smiling, said nothing.
“You could of course lead your men,” continued Hugo. “I would not presume to usurp your place on the field. Indeed, I have no doubt that under your able command Elfael would be rid of the outlaws within two or three days—a week at most.”
Baron Neufmarché placed his cup very deliberately on the table and leaned forward. “Your confidence in me is most gratifying, Lord Abbot. And of course, I wish I were in a position to help. Unfortunately, what you suggest is difficult just now—not to say impossible. I am truly sorry.”
The abbot’s face froze. His white hair wild on his head, his pristine satin robe stained from the toil of his flight, he appeared haggard and old as he gazed at the baron, trying to find a way over the stone wall so deftly thrown into his path. “Ah, well,” he said at last, “I find it never hurts to ask.”
“You have not because you ask not,” declared Father Gervais suddenly. “Saint James . . . I believe.”
“Precisely,” murmured the abbot, thinking furiously how to rescue his stranded request.
“What plans have you made?” inquired the baron, looking to Gysburne.
“We will go to the king,” answered Guy. “His men would return in any case, and we—”
“The king, yes,” interrupted the abbot, rousing himself to life again. “It is his cantref, after all, and his to defend.”
“My thoughts exactly,” concurred the baron—as if the point had been under dispute but was now successfully resolved to the satisfaction of all. “It goes without saying that I would ask you to stay here and rest a few days, but I can see that the urgency of your journey requires you to reach Londein without delay. I only wish it was possible to lend you horses for the remainder of your journey”—he spread his hands helplessly—“but, alas, such is not the case.”
“Your thoughtfulness is commendable,” intoned the abbot. He slumped wearily in his chair, looking more and more like an old bone that had been gnawed close and tossed onto the midden heap.
“No, no,” countered the baron, “it is nothing. Please, you will stay and eat something before you go. I insist. Then, my commander will escort you to rejoin your men in the town and see you on your way. You’ve come this far without incident; we don’t wish to see anything ill befall you now, do we?”
And that was that.
A cold supper was brought to the chamber, and while the abbot and marshal ate, two mules were loaded with provisions to be led by a driver who would accompany them and bring the animals back upon their arrival in Londein.
As the abbot and marshal were preparing to leave, the baron and several of his men joined them in the yard to bid the visitors farewell. “God speed you, my friends,” he said cheerily. “At least you have good weather for your journey.”
“At the very least,” agreed the abbot sourly.
“Ah,” said the baron, as if thinking of it for the first time, “There was a sheriff, I believe, in Elfael. You didn’t say what became of him. Killed, I suppose, in the battle?”
“Not at all,” answered Gysburne. “Sheriff de Glanville was leading a division of men who were butchered by the rebels. All were murdered, save the sheriff, who was taken prisoner and is being held hostage. They promise to release him once our wounded soldiers are well enough to travel. Although, what is to become of him, I cannot say.”
“I see,” said Baron Neufmarché gravely. “A bad business all around. Well, I bid you adieu and wish you safe travels.” He turned and summoned his commander to his side. “See here, Ormand,” he said, “my friends are travelling to Londein on an errand of some urgency. I want you to escort them through the town and see them safely to the borders of my realm. Let nothing untoward happen to them while they are with you.”
“To be sure, Sire.” Ormand, a capable and levelheaded knight who served as the baron’s marshal, put out a hand to his new charges. “Shall we proceed, my lords? After you.”
The baron, standing at the topmost gate, waved his unwanted guests away; he waited until they were lost to sight in the narrow street leading down from the castle. Then, hurrying to his chambers, he called for a pen and parchment to send a message to the baroness in Wales informing her of the uprising and instructing her to tell King Garran to gather his soldiers and be ready to step in should the revolt show signs of spreading.
“Remey!” he called, waving the small square of parchment in the air to dry the ink. “I need a messenger at once—and see that he has the fastest horse in the stable. I want this delivered to Lady Agnes this time tomorrow and no later.”
CHAPTER 31
Londein
Cardinal Flambard pulled up the hem of his robe and stepped over the low rail of the boat and onto the dock. He dipped into his purse for a coin and flipped it to the ferryman, then turned and strolled up the dock, avoiding the gul
ls fighting over piles of fish guts some unthinking oaf had left to swelter in the sun. He raised his eyes to the Billings Gate and started his climb up the steep bank, stifling an inward sigh. It was his lot ever to run to the king’s least whim and answer His Majesty’s flimsiest fancy. Like two men sharing a prison cell, they were chained to one another until one of them died. Such was the price of standing so near the throne.
Standing? Ranulf Flambard occupied that gilded seat as often as ever the king sat there—considering that Red William remained in perpetual motion, flitting here and there and everywhere . . . stamping out rebellion, squabbling with his disgruntled brothers, resisting the constant incursions by the Mother Church into what he considered his private affairs. And when the king wasn’t doing that, he was hunting. In fact, that was William: always at the sharp end of any conflict going or, failing that, causing one.
And the dutiful Ranulf Flambard, Chief Justiciar of England, was there at his side to pick up the pieces.
It was to William’s side that he was summoned now, and he laboured up from the stinking jetty with a scented cloth pressed to his nose. The riverside at the rank end of summer was a very cesspool—when was it not? Proceeding through the narrow streets lining the great city’s wharf he allowed himself to think what life might be like as a bishop in a remote, upcountry see. As attractive as the notion seemed at the moment, would all that serenity soon pall? It was not likely he would ever find out. Turning from that, he wondered what fresh debacle awaited him this time.
At the gate to the White Tower he was admitted without delay and personally conducted by the porter to the entrance to the king’s private apartment, where his presence was announced by the chamberlain. Following a short interval, he was admitted.
“Oh, Flambard, it’s you,” said William, glancing up. He was stuffing the voluminous tail of his shirt into his too-tight breeches. Finishing the chore, he started towards the door. “At last.”
“I came as soon as I received your summons, Majesty. Forgive me for not anticipating your call.”
“Eh? Yes, well . . .” Red William looked at his chief advisor and tried to work out whether Flambard was mocking him. He could not tell, so let it go. “You’re here now and there’s work to do.”
“A pleasure, Sire.” He made a tight little bow that, perfected over years of service, had become little more than a slight nod of the head with a barely discernible bend at the waist. “Am I to know what has occasioned this summons, my lord?”
“It is all to do with that business in Elvile,” William said, pushing past the justiciar and bowling down the corridor which led to his audience rooms. “Remember all that ruck?”
“I seem to have a recollection, Sire. There was some trouble with one of the barons—de Braose, if I recall the incident correctly. You banished the baron and took the cantref under your authority—placed it in the care of some abbot or other, and a sheriff somebody.”
“You remember, good,” decided the king. “Then you can talk to him.”
“Talk to whom, Majesty, if I may ask?”
“That blasted abbot—he’s here. Been driven off his perch by bandits, apparently. Demanding an audience. Screaming the roof down.” The king stopped walking so abruptly that the cardinal almost collided with his squat, solid form. “Give him whatever he wants. No—whatever it takes to make him go away. I’m off to Normandie in a fortnight, and I cannot spare even a moment.”
“I understand, Highness,” replied the cardinal judiciously. “I will see what can be done.”
They continued on to the audience chamber, discussing the king’s proposed journey to Normandie, where he planned to meet with King Philip to challenge the French monarch’s increasingly flagrant incursions beyond the borders of the Vexin. “Philip is a low, craven ass. His trespasses will not be tolerated, hear?” said William as he pushed open the chamber door. “Ah! There you are.” This was spoken as if the king had spent the better part of the day in a harried search for the petitioner.
“My lord and majesty,” said the abbot, once again resplendent in a simple white satin robe and purple stole. “You honour your servant with your presence.”
William waved aside the flattery. “What is it you want? I was told it was a matter of some urgency. Speak, man, let’s get it done.”
“My lord,” said Abbot Hugo, “I fear I bring unhappy tidings. The—”
“Who are you?” asked the king, turning to the young man standing a few steps behind the abbot. “Well? Step up. Let me know you.”
“I am Marshal Guy de Gysburne at your service, Sire,” replied the knight.
“Gysburne, eh? I think I know your father—up north somewhere, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, Majesty.”
“Are you the sheriff ?”
“Majesty?”
“The sheriff I appointed to Elvile—or whatever the miserable place is called.”
“No, Majesty,” replied Guy, “I am the abbot’s marshal. Sheriff de Glanville is—”
“De Glanville—yes! That’s the fellow,” said the king as the memory came back to him. “Came to me begging the use of some soldiers. Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
“That is what we’ve come to speak to you about, Highness,” said the abbot, resuming his tale of woe. “It pains me to inform you that the realm of Elfael is in open rebellion against your rule. The rebels have slaughtered most of the men you sent to aid in the protection of your loyal subjects.”
Abbot Hugo then proceeded to describe a realm under siege and a population captive to chaos and terror. He spoke passionately and in some detail—so much so that even Gysburne felt himself moved to outrage at the accumulated atrocities, though the abbot’s description had parted company with the truth after the first few words. “If that was not enough,” concluded Hugo, “the outlaws have seized the throne and taken your sheriff hostage.”
“They have, eh? By the rood, I’ll have their eyes on my belt! I’ll hang the—”
“Your Majesty,” interrupted Cardinal Flambard, “perhaps it would be best if I were to sit down with the abbot here and see what can be done?”
“No need, Flambard,” retorted the king. “A blind man can see what needs to be done. Rebellion must be snuffed out swiftly and mercilessly, lest it spreads out of hand. These Welsh must be taught a lesson. I’ve too long been over-lenient with them—too generous, by the blood, and they’ve used me for a fool.”
“Sire,” ventured Cardinal Flambard gently, “I do not think this present circumstance is quite as simple as it might seem at first blush. I think I remember this outlaw fellow from Elfael, Sire. Was he not the same who came to you at Rouen with word of Duke Robert’s treason? He uncovered the plot against you—that was why Baron de Braose was exiled, if you will recall.”
“Yes? What of it?”
“Well, it would seem that the fellow sought restitution of his lands in exchange for his service to your throne.”
Abbot Hugo’s expression grew grim. He had carefully avoided any mention of the circumstances leading up to the insurrection—lest his own part in the baron’s conspiracy against William should inadvertently come to light.
“Ah, yes. Good hunting land, Elvile, I believe.”
“The best, Sire,” encouraged Hugo.
“What is your point, Flambard? We settled with Duke Robert and his schemers. That is over and done.”
“Quite so, Sire,” offered Hugo.
“If I may,” continued the justiciar, undeterred, “I would suggest that inasmuch as this Welshman did not receive the reward he was looking for at the time, it would seem that he has taken matters into his own hands.”
“I am to blame for this?” said William. “Is that what you’re suggesting? I am to blame for this rebellion?”
“By no means, Sire. Far from it. I merely point out that the two matters are related. Perhaps in light of the present circumstance it would be most expedient simply to allow the Welshman to claim the throne. I believe he offe
red to swear fealty to you once. If you were to allow him his due this time, I have no doubt he could be persuaded to make good his previous offer.”
William the Red stared at his chief counsellor in disbelief. “Give him what he wants—is that what you said?”
“In a word, Majesty, yes.”
“By the bloody rood, Flambard, that I will not do! If we were to allow these rogues to murder my troops and then take whatever they want with our blessing, the kingdom would soon descend into anarchy! No, sir! Not while I sit on the throne of England. All such insurrections will be crushed. This rogue will be captured and brought to the tower in chains. He will be tried for treason against the crown, and he will be hung before the city gate. That is how we deal with rebels while William sits the throne!”
“Very wise, Your Majesty,” intoned the abbot. “It goes without saying that you shall have my entire support—and that of my marshal.”
William glanced at the abbot and gave a short blast through his nostrils. “Huff.” Turning swiftly on the cardinal, he said, “Summon the barons. I want them to—” He stopped, did a rapid calculation in his head, and then said, “No, send to them and command them to raise their men and attend me at Hereford . . . Who’s that?”
“Neufmarché, Highness,” volunteered the abbot, with smug satisfaction at the thought that the baron would be forced to help in the end.
“All are to meet me at Hereford Castle with their troops. We will march on Elfael from there and take these rebels. I want sufficient force to quash the rebellion in the egg. It shouldn’t take long.” He looked to the marshal for agreement.
“A few days, Sire,” said Gysburne, speaking up. “There are not so many that they cannot be brought to justice in a day or two of fighting—a week at most.”
“There! You see? A week and the thing is done, the rebels brought to heel, and I can go to Normandie.”
Cardinal Flambard pursed his lips doubtfully.
“Well?” demanded the king accusingly. “You’re sulking, priest. Out with it.”
“With all respect, Highness, I still believe an embassy to this nobleman, outlaw as he may be, would achieve the same end with far less cost—and then there is the bloodshed to think about.”