Scarlet

CHAPTER 13

Eiwas

The journey to Wales seemed endless somehow. Although only a few days from his castle in England's settled heart, Bernard Neufmarche, Baron of Hereford and Gloucester, always felt as if he had travelled half a world away by the time he reached the lands of his vassal, Lord Cadwgan, in the Welsh cantref of Eiwas. The country was darker and strangely uninviting, with shadowy wooded keeps, secret pools, and lonely rivers. The baron thought the close-set hills and hidden valleys of Wales mysterious and more than a little forbidding-all the more so in winter.

It wasn't only the landscape he found threatening. Since his defeat of Rhys ap Tewdwr, a well-loved king and the able leader of the southern Welsh resistance, the land beyond the March had grown decidedly unfriendly to him. Former friends were now hostile, and former enemies implacable. So be it. If that was the price of progress, Neufmarche was willing to pay. Now, however, the baron made his circuits more rarely and, where once he might have enjoyed an untroubled ride to visit his vassal lords, these days he never put foot to stirrup in the region unless accompanied by a bodyguard of knights and men-at-arms.

Thus, he was surrounded by a strong, well-armed force. Not that he expected trouble from Cadwgan-despite their differences, the two had always got along well enough-but reports of wandering rebels stirring up trouble meant that even old friends must be treated with caution.

"Evereux!" called the baron as they came in sight of Caer Rhodl perched on the summit of a low rock crag. "Halt the men just there." He pointed to a stony outcrop beside the trail, a short distance from the wooden palisade of Cadwgan's fortress. "You and I will ride on together."

The marshal relayed the baron's command to the troops and, upon reaching the place, the soldiers paused and dismounted. The baron continued to the fortress gate-where, as expected, he was admitted with prompt, if cold, courtesy.

"My lord will be informed of your arrival," said the steward. "Please wait in the hall."

"But of course," replied the baron. "My greetings to your lord."

The Welsh king's house was not large, and Neufmarche had been there many times; he proceeded to the hall, where he and his marshal were kept waiting longer than the baron deemed hospitable. "This is an insult," observed Evereux. "Do you want me to go find the old fool and drag him here by the nose?"

"We came unannounced," the baron replied calmly, although he was also feeling the slight. "We will wait."

They remained in the hall, alone, frustration mounting by the moment, until eventually there came a shuffle in the doorway. It took a moment for the baron to realise that Lord Cadwgan had indeed appeared. Gaunt and hollow-cheeked, a ghastly shadow fell across his face; his clothes hung on his once-robust form as upon a rack of sticks. His skin had an unhealthy pallor that told the baron his vassal lord had not ventured outdoors for weeks, or maybe even months.

"My lord baron," said Cadwgan in the soft, listless voice of the sickroom. "Good of you to come."

His manner seemed to suggest that he imagined it was he who had summoned the baron to his hall. Neufmarche disregarded the inapt remark, even as he ignored the sharp decline evidenced in Cadwgan's appearance. "A fine day!" the baron declared, his voice a little forced and overloud. "I thought we might make a circuit of your lands."

"Of course," agreed Cadwgan. "Perhaps once we have had some refreshment, my son could accompany you."

"I thought you might ride with me," replied the baron. "It has been a long time since we rode together."

"I fear I would not be the best of company," said Cadwgan. "I will tell Garran to saddle a horse."

Unwilling to press the matter further, the baron said, "How is your lady wife?" When the king failed to take his meaning, he said, "Queen Anora-is she well?"

"Aye, yes, well enough." Cadwgan looked around the empty room as if he might find her sitting in one of the corners. "Shall I send someone to fetch her?"

"Let it wait. There is no need to disturb her just now."

"Of course, Sire." The Welsh king fell silent, gazing at the baron and then at Evereux. Finally, he said, "Was there something else?"

"You were going to summon your son, I think?" Neufmarche replied.

"Was I? Very well, if you wish to see him."

Without another word the king turned and padded softly away.

"The man is ill," observed the marshal. "That, or senile."

"Obviously," replied the baron. "But he has been a useful ally, and we will treat him with respect."

"As you say," allowed Evereux. "All the same, a thought about the succession would not be amiss. Is the son loyal?"

"Loyal enough," replied the baron. "He is a young and supple reed, and we can bend him to our purpose."

A few moments later, they were joined by the young prince himself who, with icy compliance, agreed to ride with the baron on a circuit of Eiwas. The baron spoke genially of one thing and another as they rode out, receiving nothing but the minimum required for civility in return. Upon reaching a stream at the bottom of the valley, the baron reined up sharply. "Know you, we need not be enemies," he said. "From what I have seen of your father today, it seems to me that you will soon be swearing vassalage to me. Let us resolve to be friends from the beginning."

Garran wheeled his horse and came back across the stream. "What do you want from me, Neufmarche? Is it not enough that you hold our land? Must you own our souls as well?"

"Guard your tongue, my lord prince," snarled Evereux. "It ill becomes a future king to speak to his liege lord in such a churlish manner."

The prince opened his mouth as if he would challenge this remark, but thought better of it and glared at the marshal instead.

"Your father is not well," the baron said simply. "Have you sent for a physician?"

Garran frowned and looked away. "Such as we have."

"I will send mine to you," offered the baron.

"My thanks, Baron," replied the prince stiffly, "but it will be to no purpose. He pines for Merian."

"Merian," murmured the baron, as if searching his memory for a face to go with the name. Oh, but not a day had passed from the moment he first met her until now that he did not think of her with longing, and stinging regret. Fairest Merian, stolen away from his very grasp. How he wished that he could call back the command that had sealed her fate. A clumsy and ill-advised attempt to capture the Welsh renegade Bran ap Brychan had resulted in the young hellion taking the lady captive to make good his escape from the baron's camp. Neufmarche had lost her along with any chance he might have had of loving her.

Mistaking the baron's pensive silence, Prince Garran said, "The king thinks her dead. And I suppose she is, or we would have had some word of her by now."

"There has been nothing? No demand for ransom? Nothing?" asked the baron. His own efforts to find her had been singularly unsuccessful.

"Not a word," confirmed Garran. "We always knew Bran for a rogue, but this makes no sense. If he only wanted money, he could have had it long since. My father would have met any demand-as well he knows." The young man shook his head. "I suppose my father is right; she must be dead. I only hope that Bran ap Brychan is maggot-food, too. "

Following Merian's kidnapping, the baron had sorrowfully informed Merian's family of the incident, laying the blame entirely at Bran's feet while failing to mention his own considerable part in the affair. All they knew was what the baron had told them at the time: that a man, thought to be Bran ap Brychan, had come riding into the camp, demanding to speak to the baron, who was in council with two of his English vassals. When the Welshman's demands were denied, he had grown violent and attacked the baron's knights, who fought him off. To avoid being killed, the cowardly rebel had seized the young woman and carried her away. The baron's men had given chase; there was a battle in which several of his knights lost their lives. In all likelihood, the fugitives had been wounded in the skirmish, but their fate was unknown, for they escaped into the hills, taking Lady Merian with them.

"Her loss has made my father sick at heart," Garran concluded gloomily. "I think he will not last the winter."

"Then," said the baron, a tone of genuine sympathy edging into his voice, "I suggest we begin making plans for your succession to your father's throne. Will there be any opposition, do you think?"

Garran shook his head. "There is no one else."

"Good," replied Neufmarche with satisfaction. "We must now look to the future of Eiwas and its people."