Hood

CHAPTER
45

The fields and groves of Winchester fell away behind the steady hoofbeats of the horses. Bran pushed a relentless pace, and the others followed, keeping up as best they could. When Bran finally paused to rest his mount, the sun was a golden glow behind the western hills. The first stars could be seen in patches of clear sky to the east, and the king's town was but a dull, smoke-coloured smudge on the southern horizon.

"Do you know what this means?" demanded Tuck. Out of breath and sweating from the exertion, he reined in beside Bran and gave vent to his anger.

"I suppose it means we wont be asked to join the king's Christmas hunt," replied Bran.

It means," cried Tuck, "that a worse fate has befallen Elfael than any since Good King Harold quit the battle with an arrow in his eye. Christ and all his saints! Attacking the cardinal like that you could have got us all killed-or worse! What were you thinking?"

"Me? You blame me?" shouted Bran. "You cannot trust these people, Tuck. The Ffreinc are two-faced liars and cheats, every last one-beginning with that red-haired maggot king of theirs!"

"Well, boyo, you showed them," the friar growled. "This time tomorrow there will be a price on your head-on all our heads, thanks to you.

"Good! Let Red William count the cost of cheating Bran ap Brychan."

"For the love of God, Bran," Tuck pleaded, "all you had to do was swallow a fair-sized chunk of that blasted Welsh pride and you could have had Elfael for two thousand marks."

"Yesterday it was six hundred marks, and today two thousand," Bran spat. "It'll be ten thousand tomorrow, and twenty the day after! It is always more, Tuck, and still more. There is not enough silver in all England to satisfy them. They'll never let us have Elfael."

"Not now," Tuck snapped. "You made fair certain of that, did you not?"

Bran, glaring at the fat priest, turned his face away.

Iwan and Siarles, leading the packhorses, reined up then. "Sire," said Iwan, "what about the money? What are we going to do now?"

"Why ask me?" Bran replied, not taking his eyes from the far horizon. "I had one idea and risked everything to make it work-we all did-but it failed. I failed. I have nothing else."

"But you will think of something," said Siarles. "You can always come up with something."

"Aye, and it had better be quick," Friar Tuck pointed out. "After what happened back there, the Ffreinc will be fast on our trail. We cannot stand here in the middle of the road. What are we going to do?"

Can't you see? thought Bran. We tried and failed. It is over. Finished. The Ffreinc rule now, and they are too powerful. The best we can do is take the money and divide it out amongst the people. They can use it to start new lives somewhere else. For myself, I will go to Gwynedd and forget all about Efael.

"Bran?" said Iwan quietly. "You know we will follow you anywhere. Just tell us what you want to do."

Bran turned to his friends. He saw the need in their eyes. It was as Angharad had said: they had no one else and nowhere else to go. For better or worse, beleaguered Elfael was their home, and he was all the king they had.

Well, he was a sorry excuse for a king-and no better than his father. King Brychan had cared little enough for his people, pursuing his own way all his life. "You are not your father," Angharad had told him. "You could be twice the king he was-and ten times the man-if you so desired. "

Yet here he was, set to follow in his father's footsteps and go his own way. Was this his fate? Or was there another way? Competing thoughts roiled in his mind until one finally won out: He was not his father; it was not too late; he could still choose a better way.

God in heaven, thought Bran, I cannot leave them. What am I to do?

"What are you thinking, Bran?" asked Aethelfrith.

"I was just thinking that the enemy of my enemy is my friend," said Bran as the words came to him.

"Indeed?" Tuck wondered, regarding him askance. "And who is this dubious friend of yours?"

"Neufmarche," said Bran. "You said the baron had called a council of his vassals and liege men-"

"Yes, but-"

"The place where they are meeting, could you find it?"

"It would not be difficult, but-"

"Then lead me to him."

"See here, Bran," Tuck remonstrated, "let us talk this over."

"You said the Ffreinc will be searching for us," he countered. "They will not think to look for us in the baron's camp."

"But, Bran, what have we to do with the baron?"

"There is no justice to be had of England's king," Bran answered, his voice cutting. "Therefore, we must make our appeal wherever we find a ready ear."

Turning in the saddle, the priest appealed to Iwan. "Talk to him, John. I've grown fond of this splendid neck of mine, and before I risk it riding into the enemy's camp, I would know the reason."

"He has a fair point, Bran," said the champion. "What have we to do with Neufmarche?"

Bran turned his horse around to address them. "The king weighs heavily on de Braose's side," he said, his face aglow in the golden light of the setting sun. "With the two of them joined against us, we need a powerful ally to even the balance." Regarding Tuck, he said, "You have said yourself that Neufmarche and de Braose are rivals-"

"Rivals, yes," agreed Tuck, "who would carve up Cymru between them-and then squabble over which one had the most." He shook his head solemnly. "Neufmarche may hate de Braose every mite and morsel as much as we do, but he is no friend to us."

"If we make alliance with him," said Bran, "he will be obliged to help us. He has the power and means to rid us of de Braose."

"Tuck is right," said Iwan. "Besides, how can we persuade him to ally with us? We have nothing to offer him that he wants."

"Even so," said Siarles, "would Neufmarche make such a bargain?"

"Aye, and if he did," added Tuck, "would he keep it?"

Bran paused in silent reflection. Could Neufmarche be trusted? There was no way to tell. "Lord Cadwgan in Eiwas holds him trustworthy and just. He and his people have been treated fairly. But whether the baron honours his word or not," Bran said, the words like stones in his mouth, "we will be no worse off than we are now."

"This is a remedy of last resort," Tuck argued. "Let us exhaust all other possibilities first."

"We have done that, my friend. We have. All that is left us now is to watch the Ffreinc grow from strength to strength at our expense. Baron de Braose and the Red King mean us nothing but harm. As for Neufmarche? We have nothing to lose." Bran offered a bitter smile. "If we must sleep with the devil, let us do it and be done. This is nothing more than what my father should have done long ago. If Brychan had sworn allegiance to the Ffreinc when he had the chance, we would not be in this predicament now"

The others, unable to gainsay this argument, reluctantly agreed.

Bran, brightening at last, said, "Lead the way, Tuck, and pray with every breath that we find the friend we seek."

)Baron Bernard de Neufmarche had dismissed the last of the day's petitioners and returned to his tent, where, after summoning Remey to bring him refreshment, he removed his short cloak and eased himself into his chair. It had been a long day but, in balance, a good one and a fitting conclusion to a council that had, in the end, satisfied his every demand. Convening at Talgarth-the scene of vaunted Lord Rhys ap Tewdwr's recent demise-had been the masterstroke, providing a strong and present reminder to all under his rule that he was not afraid to deal harshly with those who failed to serve him faithfully. The point had been made and accepted. Tomorrow the council would formally end, and he would send his vassals home-some to better fates than they had hoped, others to worse-and he would return to Hereford to oversee the harvest and begin readying the castle for the influx of fresh troops in the spring.

"Your wine, sire." Remey placed a pewter goblet on the table beside the baron's chair. "I have ordered sausages to be prepared, and there is fresh bread soon. Would you like anything else while you wait?"

"The wine will suffice for now," the baron replied, easing off his boots and stretching his legs. "Bring the rest when it is ready-and some of those fraises, if there are any left"

"Of course, sire," replied the seneschal. "The sessions went well today, I assume?"

"They went very well indeed, Remey. I am content." Baron Neufmarche raised his cup and allowed himself a long, satisfying sip, savouring the fine, tart edge of the wine. Councils always brought demands, and this one more than most-owing to the prolonged absence of the king. Royal dispatch fresh from Normandie indicated that the conflict between Red William and his brother, Duke Robert, had bogged down; with summer dwindling away, there would be no further advances at least until after harvest, if then. Meanwhile, the king would repair to Rouen to lick his wounds and restock his castles.

Thus, the king's throne in England appeared likely to remain vacant into the foreseeable future. An absent king forced the lesser lords to look for other sources of protection and redress. This, Neufmarche reflected, created problems and opportunities for the greater lords like himself, whose influence and interests rivalled the king's. A baron who remained wary and alert could make the most of the opportunities that came his way.

He was just congratulating himself on the several exceptional opportunities that he had already seized this day when one of the squires who served as sentry for the camp appeared outside the tent. Bernard saw him hovering at the door flap and called, "Yes? What is it?"

"Someone requests audience, sire."

"Affairs are concluded for the day," Neufmarche replied. "Tell them they are too late."

There was a short silence, and then a small cough at the door flap.

"What? Did you not hear what I said? The council is over."

"I have told them, sire," the squire replied. "But they insist."

"Do they!" shouted the baron. Rising from his chair, he stumped to the doorway in his stocking feet and threw back the hanging flap. "I am at rest, idiot!"

The squire jumped back, almost colliding with the two strangers behind him-Welshmen from the look of them: a young one, dark and slender, with a puckered scar along his cheek, and an older one, broad and bandy-legged, who, despite his outgrown tonsure, appeared to be a priest of some kind. Both men were dusty from the road and stank of the saddle.

"Well?" demanded the baron, glaring at the strangers who had disturbed his peace. "What is it? Be quick!"

"Pax vobiscum," said the fat priest. "We have come on a matter we think will be of special interest to you."

"The only thing that interests me right now," snarled the baron, is a cup of wine and the comfort of my chair-which I possessed until your unseemly interruption."

"William de Braose," said the young man quietly.

Neufmarche turned a withering gaze upon the lithe stranger. "What about him?"

"His star ascends in the king's court while yours declines." The young man smiled, the scar twisting his expression into a fierce grimace. "I would have thought the humiliation of that would be a constant embarrassment to a man like you. Am I wrong?"

"Impudent knave!" spat Neufmarche, thrusting forward. "Who are you to speak to me like this?"

The stranger did not flinch but replied with quiet assurance. "I am the man who offers you a way to reverse your sorry fate."

Baron Neufmarche succumbed to his own curiosity. "Come inside," he decided. "I will listen to what you have to say." Holding the flap aside, he invited the strangers to enter and dismissed the squire. "I would ask you to sit," the baron said, returning to his camp chair, "but I doubt you will be here that long. For I warn you, the moment I lose interest in your speech, I will have you thrashed and thrown out of this camp.

"As you say," replied the young man.

Taking up his cup once more, the baron said, "You have until this cup is drained." He drank deeply and said, "Less now. I would speak quickly if I were you."

"De Braose is a tyrant," the young man said, "with little understanding of the land he has taken, and none at all of the people under his rule. Most of them have fled, and those that remain are made to perform slave labour at the cost of their own fields and holdings. If they were allowed to return to their homes, to work the land and tend their herds, Elfael would enjoy prosperity unequalled by any other cantre? All that is required is someone who can guide the will of the people-someone the Cymry will follow, who can deliver them to you."

The baron sipped again, more slowly this time, and considered what he had heard. "You can do this?"

"I can." There was no hint of hesitation or doubt in the young man.

"Your offer is tempting, to be sure," allowed the baron cautiously. Putting the cup aside, he said, "But who are you to make such an offer?"

At this, the bowlegged friar spoke up. "Before you stands Bran ap Brychan, the rightful heir to Elfael. And I am Aethelfrith, at your service.

Neufmarche gazed at the young man before him. It never ceased to amaze him how very often events beyond his reckoning conspired to bring his plans to bountiful fruition. Here, he had not lifted a hand, and the prize plum had simply dropped into his lap. "The rightful heir is dead," he said, feigning indifference. "At least, that is what I heard."

"To my great relief," replied Bran, "it remains a rumour only. Still, it serves a useful purpose."

"When the time is right," put Aethelfrith, "we will make his presence known, and his people will rally to him and overthrow the de Braose usurpers."

"In exchange for your promise to restore me to the throne," Bran said, "I would pledge fealty to you. Elfael would then abide in peace."

Now the baron smiled. "What you have said has roused my interest-and more than you know." He rose and walked to the rear of the tent. "Will you take some wine?"

"It would be an honour," replied Tuck. "There is much to discuss."

"A moment, please," said the baron. "I will order cups to be brought." With that, he disappeared through the rear flap into the room used by his servants for preparing food for the baron and his guests. "Remey!" Neufmarche called aloud. "Wine for my visitors." The servant, just returning from the kitchen tent with a trencher of sausages, appeared at his summons. Stepping quickly to meet him, the baron raised a finger to his lips for silence, leaned close, and whispered, "Fetch me four knights-armed and ready to fight. Bring them here at once."

Remey's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Sire? Is something amiss?"

"No time to explain-but the two Welshmen are to be taken cap tive. Indeed, they will not leave this place alive. Understand?" The aging seneschal inclined his head in a compliant nod. "Go," said Neufmarche, taking the trencher from his hands. "I will keep them occupied until you return."

Remey turned on his heel and padded away. The baron returned to his audience room with the sausages, which he placed on the table, inviting his guests to help themselves. "Sit you down, please. Enjoy!" he said with expansive warmth. "The wine will come in a moment. In the meantime, I would hear more about how you plan to bring about de Braose's defeat."