Hood

CHAPTER
37

– you cannot save Elfael one pig at a time," Brother Aethelfrith was saying.

"Have you seen our pigs?" Bran quipped. "They are mighty pigs."

Iwan chuckled, and Siarles smirked.

"Laugh if you must," said the friar, growing peevish. "But you will wish soon enough you had listened to me,"

"The people are hungry," Siarles put in. "They welcome whatever we can give them."

"Then give them back their land!" cried Aethelfrith. "God love you, man; do you not see it yet?"

"And is this not the very thing we are doing?" Bran said. "Calm yourself, Tuck. We are already making plans to do exactly what you suggest."

The friar shook his tonsured head. "Are you deaf as well as blind?"

"Why do you think we watch the road?" asked Iwan.

"Watch it all you like," snipped the priest. "It will avail you nothing if you are not prepared for the flood I'm talking about."

The others frowned as one. "Tell us, then," said Bran. "What is it that we lack?"

"Sufficient greed," replied the cleric. "By the rood and Jehoshaphats nose, you think too small!"

"Enlighten us, 0 Head of Wisdom," remarked Iwan dryly.

"See here." Tuck licked his lips and leaned forward. "Baron de Braose is building three castles on the northern and western borders of Elfael, is he not? He has a hundred-maybe two hundredmasons, not to mention all those workers toiling away. Workmen must be paid. Sooner or later, they will be paid-every last manhundreds of them." Aethelfrith smiled as he watched the light come up in his listeners' eyes. "Ah! You see it now, do you not?"

"Hundreds of workers paid in silver," said Bran, hardly daring to voice the thought. "A river of silver."

"A flood of silver," corrected Aethelfrith. "Is this not what I am saying? Even now the baron is preparing to send his wagons with strongboxes full of good English pennies to pay all those workers. All the money you need will soon be flooding into the valley, and it is ripe for the taking."

"Well done, Tuck!" cried Bran, and he jumped to his feet and began pacing around the fire ring. "Did you hear, banfaith?" he asked, turning suddenly to Angharad sitting hunched on her three-legged stool beside the door. "Here is the very chance we need to drive the foreigners from our land."

"Aye, could be." She nodded in cautious agreement. "Mind, the Ffreinc will not send their silver through the land unprotected. There will be marchogi, and in plenty."

Bran thanked her for her word of warning, then turned to his champion. "Iwan?"

He frowned, sucking his teeth thoughtfully before answering. "We have-what?-maybe six men amongst us who have ever held more than a spade. We cannot go against a body of battle-trained knights on horseback."

"Yet the silver will not leap into our hands of its own accord, I think," offered Siarles.

Angharad, frowning on her stool, spoke again. "If thou wouldst obtain justice, thou must thyself be just."

The others turned questioning glances toward Bran, who explained, "I think she means we cannot attack them without provocation."

The group fell silent in the face of such a challenge. "Truly," Bran said at last. Raising his head, he gazed across the fire ring, dark eyes glinting with merry mischief. "We cannot take on knights on horseback, but King Raven can."

Brother Tuck remained unmoved. "It will take more than a big black bird to frighten battle-hardened knights, will it not?"

"Well then," Bran concluded. His smile was slow, dark, and fiendish. "We will give them something more to fear."

~Zx bbot Hugo de Rainault was used to better things. He had served in the courts of Angevin kings; princes had pranced to his whim; dukes and barons had run to his beck and bidding. Hugo had been to Rome- twice!-and had met the pope both times: Gregory and Urban had each granted him audience in their turn, and both had sent him away with gifts of jewel-encased relics and precious manuscripts. He had been extolled for an archbishopric and, in due time, perhaps even a papal legacy. He had governed his own abbey, controlled immense estates, held dominion over the lives of countless men and women, and enjoyed a splendour even the kings of England and France could sincerely envy.

Alas, all that was before the rot set in.

He had done what he could to prevent the debacle once the tide of fortune began to turn against him-benefactions and indulgences; costly gifts of horses, falcons, and hunting hounds to courtiers in high places; favourable endorsements for those in a position to speak a good word on his behalf. The reach of kings is long, however, and their memories for insults even longer. When William the Red cut up rough over the throne of England, Hugo had done what any rightthinking churchman would have done-the only thing he could have done. What choice did he have? Robert Curthose, the Conqueror's eldest, was the legitimate heir to his father's throne. Everyone knew it; most of the barons agreed and supported Robert's claim. Who could have known the deceitful William would move so swiftly and with such devastating accuracy? He cut the legs out from under his poor deluded brother with such uncanny ease, one had to wonder whether the hand of God was not in it after all.

Be that as it may, the whole sorry affair was the beginning of a long decline for Hugo, who had seen his own fortunes steadily wane since the day William the Red snatched away the crown. Now, at long last, the abbot was reduced to this: exile in a dreary backwater province full of hostile natives, to be bootlicker to a half-baked nobody of a count.

Hugo supposed he should be grateful, even for this little, but gratitude was not a quality he had cultivated. Instead, he cursed the rapacious Rufus; he cursed the blighted wilderness of a country he had come to; and he cursed the monstrous fate that had brought him so very low.

Low, he may be. Shattered, perhaps. Even devastated. But not destroyed. And never, ever finished.

He would, like Lazarus, rise again from this dismal hinterland tomb. He would use this opportunity, weak and slender though it was, to haul himself up out of the muck of his disgrace and reclaim his former stature. The de Braoses' new church might be an unlikely place to start, but stranger things had happened. That Baron William de Braose was a favourite of Red William was the single bright light in the whole cavalcade of misery he now endured. The road to the successful restoration of the abbot's wealth and power ran through the baron, and if Hugo had to wet-nurse his lordship's snotty-nosed nephew to ingratiate himself, so be it.

Time was against him, he knew. He was no longer a young man. The years had not mellowed him, however; if anything, they had made him leaner, harder, and subtler. Outwardly serene and benevolent, with a charitable smile-when it suited his interests-his scheming, devious soul never slept. Though his hair had gone white, he had lost none of it, nor any teeth. His body was still resilient and sturdy, with a peasant's enduring strength. What is more, he retained all the ruthless cunning and insatiable ambition of his younger years. Allied to that was the sagacity of age and the sly wisdom that had kept him alive through travails that would have consumed lesser men.

He paused in the saddle and gazed out over the Vale of Elfael: his new and, he fervently hoped, temporary home. It was not much to look at, although it was not without, he grudgingly admitted, a certain bucolic charm. The air was good and the ground fertile. Obviously, there was water enough for any purpose. There were worse places, he considered, to begin the reconquest.

Attending the abbot were two of Baron de Braose's knights. They rode with him for protection. The rest of his entourage and belongings would come in a week or so-three wagons filled with the few books and treasures left to him, and a smattering of more practical ecclesiastical accoutrements, such as robes, stoles, his mitre, crook, staff, standard, and other oddments. There would be five attendants: two priests, one to say Mass and another to carry out the details of administration, and three lay brothers-cook, chamberer, and porter. With these, chosen for their loyalty and unfaltering obedience, Abbot Hugo would begin afresh.

Once officially installed in his new church, Hugo would commence building his new empire. Ike Braose wanted a church; Hugo would give him an abbey entire. First would come a stone-built minster worthy of the name, and with it, a hospital-both inn for passing dignitaries and healing centre for those wealthy enough to pay for their care. There would be a great tithe barn and stable, and a kennel to raise hunting hounds to sell to the nobility. Then, when these were firmly established, a monastery school-the better to draw in the sons of the region's noblemen and worthies and reap fat grants of land and favours from appreciative parents.

With these thoughts, he lifted the reins and urged his brown palfrey on once more, following his escort to the count's fortress, where he would spend the night, continuing on to the church the next morning.

Within sight of their destination now, the riders picked up the pace. At the foot of the hill, they turned off the track and rode up to the fortress, passing over the narrow bridge and through the newly erected gate tower, where they were met by the snivelling nephew himself.

"Greetings, Abbot Hugo," called Count Falkes, hurrying to meet him. "I hope you have had a pleasant journey."

"Pax vobiscum," replied the cleric. "God be praised, yes. The journey was blissfully tranquil." He extended his hand for the young count to kiss his ring.

Count Falkes, unused to this courtesy, was taken aback. After a brief but awkward hesitation, he remembered his manners and pressed his lips to the abbot's ruby ring. Hugo, having made his point, now raised the hand over the young count in blessing. `Benedictus, oinni patri," he intoned, then smiled. "I imagine it must be easy to forget when one is unaccustomed to such decorum."

"Your Grace," replied the count dutifully. "I assure you, I meant no disrespect."

"It is already forgotten," the abbot replied. "I suppose there is little place for such ceremony here in the Marches." He turned to take in the hall, stables, and yard with a sweep of his keen eyes. "You have done well in a short time."

"Most of what you see was here already," the count conceded. "Aside from a few necessary improvements, I have not had time to construct anything better."

"Now that you say it," intoned the abbot, "I thought it possessed a certain quaint charm not altogether fitting the tastes of your uncle, the baron."

"We have plans to enlarge this fortress in due course," the count assured him. "The town and church are of more immediate concern, however. I have ordered those to be finished first."

"A wise course, to be sure. Make no mistake, I am most eager to see it all-especially the church. That is the solid cornerstone of any earthly dominion. There can be no true prosperity or governance without it." Abbot Hugo raised his hands and waved off any reply the count might make. "But, no, here I am, preaching to my host when the welcome cup awaits. Forgive me,"

"Please, Your Grace, come this way," said Falkes, leading the way to his hall. "I have prepared a special meal in your honour-and tonight we have wine from Anjou, selected especially for this occasion by the baron himself."

"Do you indeed? Good!" replied Hugo with genuine appreciation. "It has been a long time since I held a cup of that quality. It is a delicacy I will enjoy."

Count Falkes, relieved to have pleased his demanding guest, turned to greet the churchman's escort; he charged Orval, the seneschal, with the care of the knights and then led the abbot into the hall, where they could speak in private before supper.

The hall had been renovated. A fresh layer of clay and gypsum had been applied to the rough timber walls, and after being painstakingly smoothed and dried, the whole was whitewashed. The small window in the upper east wall was now closed with a square of oiled sheepskin. A new table sat a short distance from the hearth, with a tall iron candletree at each end. A fire cracked smartly on the big hearth, more for light than heat, and two chairs were drawn up on each side, with a jar and two silver goblets on the table between them.

The count filled the cups and passed one to his guest, and they settled themselves in their chairs to enjoy the wine and gain the measure of each other. "Health to you, Lord Abbot," said Falkes. "May you prosper in your new home."

Hugo thanked him courteously and said, "Truth told, a churchman has but one home, and it is not of this world. We sojourn here or there awhile, until it pleases God to move us along."

"In any event," replied the count, "I pray your sojourn amongst us is long and prosperous. There is great need hereabouts for a strong hand at the church plough-if you know what I mean."

"The former abbot incompetent, eh?" Raising his cup to his nose, he sniffed the wine, then sipped.

"Not altogether, no," said Falkes. "Bishop Asaph is capable enough in his way-but Welsh. And you know how contrary they can be,"

"Little better than pagans," offered Hugo with a sniff, "by all accounts.

"Oh, it is true," confirmed the count. "They are an ill-mannered race-coarse, unlettered, easily inflamed, and contentious as the day is long."

"And are they really as backward as they appear?"

"Difficult to say," answered Falkes. "Hardheaded and stiff-necked, yes. They resist all refinement and delight in ostentation of every kind."

"Like children, then," remarked the abbot. "I also have heard this."

"You would not believe the fuss they make over a good tale, which they will stretch and twist until any truth is bent out of all recognition to the plain facts of the matter. For example," said the count, pouring more wine, "the locals will have it that a phantom has arisen in the forest round about."

"A phantom?"

"Truly," insisted the count, leaning forward in his eagerness to have something of interest with which to regale his eminent guest. "Apparently, this unnatural thing takes the form of a great bird-a giant raven or eagle or some such-and they have it that this queer creature feeds on cattle and livestock, even human flesh come to that, and the tale is frightening the more timorous."

"Do you believe this story?"

"I do not," replied the count firmly. "But such is their insistence that it has begun disturbing my workmen. Wagoners swear they lost oxen to it, and lately some pigs have gone missing."

"Simple theft would account for it, surely," observed the abbot. "Or carelessness."

"I agree," insisted the count, "and would agree more heartily if not for the fact that the swineherds contend that they actually saw the creature swoop down and snatch the hogs from under their noses."

"They saw this?" marvelled the abbot.

"In full light of day," confirmed the count. "Even so, I would not put much store by it save they are not the only ones to make such a claim. Some of my own knights have seen it-or seen something, at least-and these are sturdy, trustworthy men. Indeed, one of my menat-arms was taken by the creature and narrowly escaped with his life."

"Mon Dieu, non!"

"Oh yes, it is true," affirmed the count, taking another sip from his cup. "The men I sent to track down the missing oxen found the animals-or the little left of them. The thing had eaten the wretched beasts, leaving nothing behind but a pile of entrails, some hooves, and a single skull."

"What do you think it can be?" wondered the abbot, savouring the extraordinary peculiarity of the tale.

"These hills are known to be home to many odd happenings," suggested Falkes. "Who is to say?"

"Who indeed?" echoed Abbot Hugo. He drank from his cup for a moment, then mused, "Pigs snatched away in midair, whole oxen gorged, men captured… It passes belief."

"To be sure," conceded the count. He drained his cup in a long swallow, then admitted, "Yet-and I do not say this lightly-the affair has reached such a state that I almost hazard to think something supernatural does indeed haunt the forest."