Hood (21 page)

Further, many of these would be bringing their families, eliminating the need to return home when the building season ended, thus allowing them to work longer before winter brought a halt to their labours. Therefore, Baron de Braose wanted his nephew to put every available resource of time and energy into building a town and establishing a market so that the workers and their families would have a place to live while the construction continued.

“A town!” spluttered Falkes. “He wants an entire town raised before next winter!”

The baron concluded his letter saying that he knew he could rely on his nephew to carry out his command with utmost zeal and purpose, and that when the baron arrived on Saint Michael’s Day to inspect the work, he trusted he would find all ready and in good order.

Falkes was still sitting in his chair with a stunned expression on his long face when the messenger returned. “My lord?” asked the man, approaching uncertainly.

Falkes stirred and glanced up. “Yes? Oh, it is you. Did you find something to eat?”

“Thank you, sire, I have had a good meal.”

“Well,” replied Falkes absently, “I am glad to hear it. I suppose you want to get back, so I . . .” His voice trailed off as he sat gazing into the flames on the hearth.

“Ahem,” coughed the messenger after a moment. “If you please, sire, what reply am I to make to the baron?”

Raising the letter to his eyes once more, Falkes took a deep breath and said, “You may tell the baron that his nephew is eager to carry out his wishes and will press ahead with all speed. Tell him . . .” His voice grew small at the thought of the enormity of the task before him.

“Pardon?” asked the messenger. “You were saying?”

“Yes, yes,” resumed the count irritably. “Tell the baron his nephew wishes him success in all his undertakings. No, tell him . . . Tell the baron nothing. Wait but a little, and I will compose a proper reply.” He flicked his long fingers at the messenger. “You may go see to your mount.”

Bowing quickly, the messenger departed. Falkes went to his table, took up his pen, and wrote a coolly compliant answer to his uncle’s demand on the same parchment, then rolled and resealed it and called for a servant to take the letter to the waiting messenger. He heard the clatter of iron-shod hooves in the courtyard a short time later and, closing his eyes, leaned his head against the back of his chair.

An entire town to raise in one summer. Impossible! It could not be done.Was his uncle insane? The baron himself, with all his men and money, could surely not accomplish such a thing.

He slumped farther into his chair and pulled the woollen cloaks more tightly under his chin as hopelessness wrapped its dark tendrils around him. Three castles to erect, and now a complete town as well. His own dream of a warm chamber in a newly enlarged fortress receded at an alarming pace.

By the Blesséd Virgin, a town!

So lost in his despair was he that it was not until the next day that Falkes found a way out of the dilemma: it did not have to be a
whole
town. That would come, in time and in good order. For now, the undertaking could be something much more modest—a market square, a meeting hall, a few houses, and, of course, a church. Constructing even that much would be difficult enough—where was he to find the labourers?

Why, a church alone would require as many men as he had ready to hand; where would he find the rest?

The church alone . . . ,
he thought, and the thought brought him upright in his chair.
Yes! Of course!
Why, the answer was staring him full in the face.

He rose and, leaving the warmth of his hall behind, rushed out into the snow-covered yard, calling for his seneschal. “Orval! Orval!” he cried. “Bring me Bishop Asaph!”

T
he summons came while the bishop was conducting an audit of food supplies with the kitchener. It was turning into a hard winter, and this year’s harvest had been poor; the monastery was still sheltering a dozen or so people who, for one reason or another, could not escape to Saint Dyfrig’s.

Thus, the bishop was concerned about the stock of food on hand and wanted to know how long it would last.

Together with Brother Brocmal, he was examining the monastery’s modest storerooms, making an exact accounting, when the riders arrived to fetch him. “Bishop Asaph!” called the porter, running across the yard. “The Ffreinc—the Ffreinc have come for you!”

“Calm yourself, brother,” Asaph said. “Deliver your charge with some measure of decorum, if you please.”

The porter gulped down a mouthful of air. “Three riders in de Braose livery have come,” he said. “They have a horse for you and say you are to accompany them to Caer Cadarn.”

“I see.Well, go back and tell them I am busy just now but will attend them as soon as I have finished.”

“They said I was to bring you at once,” countered the porter.

“If you refused, they said they would come and drag you away by your ears!”

“Did they indeed!” exclaimed the bishop. “Well, I will save them the trouble.” Handing the tally scroll to the kitchener, he said, “Continue with the accounting, Brother Brocmal, while I deal with our impatient guests.”

“Of course, bishop,” replied Brother Brocmal.

Asaph returned with the porter and found three marchogi on horseback waiting with a saddled fourth horse. “Pax vobis-cum,” said the bishop, “I am Father Asaph. How may I be of assistance?” He spoke his best Latin, slowly, so they would understand.

“Count de Braose wants you,” said the foremost rider.

“So I have been given to understand,” replied the bishop, who explained that he was in the midst of a necessary undertaking and would come as soon as he was finished.

“No,” said the horseman. “He wants you now.”

“Now,” explained the bishop, still smiling, “is not convenient. I will come when my duties allow.”

“He doesn’t care if it is convenient,” replied the soldier.

“We have orders to bring you without delay.”

He nodded to his two companions, who began dismounting. “Oh, very well,” said Asaph, moving quickly to the waiting horse. “The sooner gone, the sooner finished.”

With the help of the porter, the bishop mounted the saddle and took up the reins. “Well? Are you coming?” he asked in a voice thick with sarcasm. “Apparently, it does not do to keep the count waiting.”

Without another word, the marchogi turned their mounts and rode from the yard out into a dazzling, sun-bright day.

The soldiers led the way across the snow-covered valley, and the bishop followed at an unhurried pace, letting his mind wander as it would. He was still trying to get the measure of these new overlords, and each encounter taught him a new lesson in how to deal with the Ffreinc invaders.

Strictly speaking, they were not Ffreinc, or Franks, at all; they were Normans. There was a difference—not that any of the Britons he knew cared for such fine distinctions. To the people of the valleys beyond the March, the tall strangers were invaders from France—that was all they knew, or needed to know. To the Britons, be they Ffreinc, Angevin, or Norman, they were merely the latest in a long line of would-be conquerors.

Before the Normans, there were the English, and before the English, the Danes, and the Saxons before them. And each invader had carved out dominions for themselves and had gradually been gathered in and woven into the many-coloured mantle that was the Island of the Mighty.

These Normans were, from what he knew of them, ambitious and industrious, capable of great acts of piety and even greater brutality. They built churches wherever they went and filled them on holy days with devout worshippers, who nevertheless lived like hellions the rest of the time. It was said of the Ffreinc that they would blithely burn a village, slaughter all the men, and hang all the women and children, and then hurry off to church lest they miss a Mass.

Be that as it may, the Normans were Christian at least— which was more than could be said for the Danes or English when they had first arrived on Britain’s fair shores. That being the case, the Church had decided that the Normans were to be treated as brothers in Christ—albeit as one would treat a domineering, wildly violent, and unpredictable older brother.

There was, so far as Bishop Asaph could see, no other alternative. Had he not urged King Brychan—if once, then a thousand times over the years—to acknowledge the Conqueror, swear fealty, pay his taxes, and do what he could to allow his people to live in peace?
“What?”
Asaph could hear the king cry in outrage.
“Am I to kneel and kiss the rosy rump of that usurping
knave? And me a king in my own country? Let me be roasted alive before
I stoop to pucker!”

Well, he had sown his patch and reaped his reward, God save him—and his feckless son, too. Now that was a very shame. Profligate, recklessly licentious, and dissolute the prince may have been—no mistake about it, he was all that and more—yet he had qualities his father lacked, hidden though they might have been. Were they hidden so deeply as to never be recovered? That was the question he had often asked himself.

Alas, the question was moot, and would so forever remain. With Bran’s death, the old era passed and a new had begun. Like it or not, the Ffreinc were a fact of life, and they were here to stay. The path was as clear as the choice before him: his only hope of guiding his scattered flock through the storms ahead was to curry favour with the ruling powers. Bishop Asaph intended to get along with them however he could and hope—and pray—for the best.

It was in this frame of mind that Llanelli’s deferential senior cleric entered the fortress where Count Falkes de Braose sat blowing on numb fingers in his damp, smoke-filled hall, beside a sputtering fire of green wood.

“Ah, Bishop Asaph,” said the count, glancing around as the churchman was led into the hall. “It is good to see you again.

I trust you are well?” Falkes sniffed and drew a sleeve under his runny nose.

“Yes,” answered the bishop stiffly, “well enough.”

“I, on the other hand, seem destined to endure no end of suffering,” opined the count, “what with one thing and another—and this vile weather on top of it all.”

“And yet despite your sufferings, you remain alive to complain,” observed the bishop, his voice taking on the chill of the room. In Falkes’s presence he felt anew the loss of Brother Ffreol and the death of Bran—not to mention the massacre at Wye Ford. Ffreol’s death had been an accident— that was what he had been told. The slaughter of the king and warband was, regrettably, a consequence of war he would have to accept. Bran’s death was, in his mind, without justification. That the prince had been killed trying to escape without paying the ransom was, he considered, beside the point. Whatever anyone thought of the young man, he was Elfael’s rightful king and should have been accorded due respect and courtesy.

“Mind your tongue, priest, if you value it at all,” threatened de Braose, who promptly sneezed. “I am in no mood for your insolence.”

Duly chastised, Asaph folded his hands and said, “I was told you required my assistance. How may I be of service?”

Waving a long hand toward the empty chair on the other side of the fireplace, de Boase said, “Sit down and I will tell you.” When the churchman had taken his seat, the count declared, “It has been determined that Elfael needs a town.”

“A town,” the bishop repeated. “As it happens, I have long advocated a similar plan.”

“Have you indeed?” sniffed Falkes. “Well then. We agree.

It is to be a market town.” He went on to explain what would be required and when.

The cleric listened, misgiving mounting with every breath.

When the count paused to sneeze once more, the bishop spoke up. “Pray, excuse me, my lord, but who do you expect to build this town?”

“Your people, of course,” confirmed the count, stretching his hands toward the fire. “Who else?”

“But this is impossible!” declared Asaph. “We cannot build you an entire town in a single summer.”

The count’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “It will profit both of us.”

“Be that as it may, it cannot be done,” objected the churchman. “Even if we possessed a ready supply of tools and material, who would do the building?”

“Be at ease,” said the count. “You are growing distraught over nothing. Have I not already said that we will use as much existing building work as possible? We will begin with that and add only what is necessary. It does not have to be a city, mind— a small market village will do.”

“What
existing
buildings do you mean?”

“I mean,” replied the count with exaggerated patience, “those buildings already established—the church and outbuildings and whatnot.”

“But . . . but . . . ,” cried the bishop in a strangled voice.

“That is my monastery you are talking about!”

“Oui,”
agreed the count placidly. “We will begin there.

Those structures can easily be converted to other uses. We need only raise a few houses, a grange hall, smithery, and such like. Your monastery serves . . . what? A paltry handful of monks? My town will become a centre of commerce and prosperity for the whole valley. Where is the difficulty?”

“The difficulty, Count de Braose,” replied the bishop, fighting to keep his voice level, “is that I will no longer have a monastery.”

“Your monastery is no longer required,” stated the count.

“We need a market town, not a monkery.”

“There has been a monastery in this valley for eleven generations,” Asaph pointed out. He raised his hands and shook his head vehemently. “No. I will not preside over its destruction. It is out of the question.”

The churchman’s outright and obstinate refusal irritated de Braose; he felt the warmth of anger rising in him, and his voice grew hushed. “
Au contraire
, bishop,” he said, “it
is
the question. See here, we must have a town, and quickly. People are coming to settle in the valley; we need a town.”

He paused, gathered his nerves, and then continued in a more conciliatory tone, “The labourers will be drawn from the residents of the valley, and the materials will be supplied from the woods and stone fields of Elfael. I have already undertaken the requisition of the necessary tools and equipment, as well as oxen and wagons for transport. Anything else that you require will be likewise supplied. All that remains,” he said in conclusion, “is for you to supply the men. They will be ready to work as soon as the last snow has melted. Is that clear?”