Hood (29 page)

Her reproach annoyed him afresh, but he had promised himself that nothing she could say would change his mind or alter his course. “Why do you torment me this way?” he said in a tone heavy with resignation. “What do you want from me?”

“What do
I
want?” she threw back at him. “Only this—I want you to be the man you were born to be.”

“How do you know what I was born to be?”

“You were born to be a king,” Angharad replied simply.

“You were born to lead your people. Beyond that, God only knows.”

“King!” raged Bran, lashing out with a fury that surprised even himself. “My father was the king. He was a heavy-handed tyrant who thought only of himself and how the world had wronged him. You want me to be like him?”

“Not like him,” Angharad countered. “Better.” She held the young man with her uncompromising gaze. “Hear me now, Bran ap Brychan. You are not your father. You could be twice the king he was—and ten times the man—if you so desired.”

“And you hear
me
, Angharad!” said Bran, his voice rising with his temper. “I do not want to be king!”

The old woman’s eyes searched his face. “What did he do to you, Master Bran, that you fear it so?”

“I am not afraid,” he insisted. “It is just . . .” His voice faltered. How could he express a lifetime of hurt and humiliation, of need and neglect, in mere words?

“I don’t want it. I never wanted it,” he said, turning away from the old woman at last. “Find someone else.”

“There is no one else, Master Bran,” she said. “Without a king, the people will die. Elfael will die.”

Bran uttered an inarticulate growl of frustration and, turning away again, strode quickly to the cave entrance.

“Farewell, Angharad. I will remember you.”

“Go your way, Master Bran. But if you think about me at all, remember only this: a raven you are, and a raven you will remain—until you fulfil your vow.”

Bran stopped in the cave entrance and gave a bitter laugh.

“I made no vow, Angharad,” he said, her name a slur in his mouth. “Just you remember
that
.”

With swift strides, his long legs carried him from the cave.

Angry and determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and Angharad’s unreasonable expectations, he walked far into the forest before it occurred to him that he had not the slightest idea where he was going. As many times as he had been out gathering materials to make arrows, he had paid little heed to directions and pathways; and last night when Angharad led him to the valley overlook—from which he would certainly be able to find his way—it had been dark and the pathway unseen.

Already tired, he stopped walking and sat down on a fallen log to rest and think the matter through. The simplest solution, of course, would be to return to the cave and demand that Angharad lead him to the valley. That smacked too much of humiliation, and he rejected the idea outright. He would exhaust all other possibilities before confronting that disagreeable old hag again.

After trying to work out a direction from the sun, he rose from his perch and set off once more. This time, he walked more slowly and tried to spy out any familiar features that might guide him. Although he found no end of pathways— runs used by deer and wild pigs, and even an old charcoal burners’ trackway—the trails were so intertwined and tangled, crossing over one another, circling back, and crossing again, that he only succeeded in disorienting himself further.

He moved with more deliberate care now, reading direction from the moss on the trees. Certainly, he thought, if he kept moving north, he would eventually reach the high, open heathlands, and beyond them the mountains. All he had to do was get clear of the trees.

Morning lengthened, and the day warmed beneath a fulsome sun, and Bran began to grow hungry. How had he forgotten to bring provisions? Despite months of thinking of nothing but escape, now that the day had come, he was appalled to discover how little he had actually prepared. He had no food, no water, no money, nor even any idea which way to go. He looked at the bow in his hand and marvelled that he had remembered to bring that.

Well, he could get something to eat at the first settlement— just as soon as he found a way out of this accursed forest. Shouldering his bow, he trudged on with a growing hunger in his belly to match his unquiet heart.

CHAPTER 26

I
t was bad enough having to stand by and watch as his beloved monastery was destroyed piecemeal, but the tacit enslavement of his people was more than he could bear. Elfael’s men and women toiled like beasts of burden— digging the defensive ditches; building the earthen ramparts; carrying stone and timber to raise the baron’s strongholds; and pulling down buildings, clearing rubble, and salvaging materials for the town. From dawn’s first light to evening’s last gleam, they drudged for the baron. Then, often as not, they went home to work their own fields by the light of the moon, when it shone, and by torchlight and bonfires when it did not.

The bishop pitied them. What choice did they have? To refuse to work meant the loss of another holding—a prospect no one could abide. So they worked and muttered strong curses under their breath for the Ffreinc outlanders.

This was not the way it was supposed to be. He and the count had an understanding, an agreement. The bishop had lived up to his part of the bargain: he had delivered the treasure of Elfael’s king to Count de Braose in good faith, had offered no resistance and counselled the same amongst his flock; he had accepted Count de Braose as the new authority in Elfael and had trusted him to do right by the Cymry under his rule. But the Ffreinc did not deal fairly.

They took what they wanted and behaved as they pleased, never giving a thought to the Cymry now languishing under their reign.

It could not continue. The scant rations left from the previous winter were dwindling rapidly, and in some places in the valley the Cymry were beginning to run out of food.

Something must be done, and with both lord and heir dead, it fell to Bishop Asaph to do it.

Joining Brother Clyro in the chapel, he announced, “I have decided to speak to Count de Braose. I want you to remain in the chapel and uphold me before the Throne of Mercy.”

“How would you have me pray, father?” asked old Brother Clyro. “That God would remove this oppression, or that God would turn the hearts of the oppressors toward peace?” A pedantic, unimaginative man, a scribe and a scholar, he could be counted on to carry out the bishop’s instructions to the letter but, as ever, insisted on knowing the precise nature of those instructions.

“Pray for a softening of Count de Braose’s heart,” the bishop sighed, humouring him, “a turning from his ways, and for food to sustain the people through this ordeal.”

“It will be done,” replied Clyro with a nod.

Leaving the elderly cleric in the chapel, Bishop Asaph walked through the building site that had once been the monastery yard and struck off along the dirt road to the caer.

The day had grown warm, and he was thirsty by the time he reached the fortress. The place was all but deserted, save for a crippled stable hand who, in the absence of the others who were aiding construction of the town, had been pressed into duty as a porter.

“Bishop Asaph to see Count de Braose,” the cleric declared, presenting himself before the servant, who smelled of the stable. “It is a matter of highest importance. I demand audience with the count at once.”

The porter’s laugh as he limped across the yard was all the reply he received, and in the end, the bishop was made to wait in the yard until the count consented to receive him.

While he was waiting, however, another visitor arrived: a Norman lord, by the look of him. Astride a fine big horse and splendidly arrayed, with an escort of two retainers and three soldiers, he was, Asaph decided, most likely a count, or perhaps even a baron. Clearly a man of some importance.

Thus, it was with some surprise that the bishop heard himself hailed by the noble visitor. “You there!” the stranger called in a tone well suited to command. “Come here. I would speak to you.”

The bishop dutifully obeyed. “Your servant, my lord.”

“You are Welsh, yes?” asked the stranger in good, if slightly accented, Latin.

“I am of the Cymry, my lord,” answered the bishop.

“That is correct.”

“And a priest?”

“I am Father Asaph, bishop of what is left of the monastery of Llanelli,” replied the churchman. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am Bernard de Neufmarché, Baron of Gloucester and Hereford.” Indicating that the bishop was to follow, the baron led the churchman aside, out of the hearing of his own men and the count’s overcurious porter. “Tell me, how do the people hereabouts fare?”

The question was so unexpected that the bishop could only ask, “Which people?”

“
Your
people—the Welsh. How do they fare under the count’s rule?”

“Poorly,” answered the bishop without hesitation. “They fare poorly indeed, sire. They are forced to work for the count, building his strongholds, yet he does not feed them— nor do they have any food of their own.” Asaph went on to explain about the meagre harvest of the previous year and how the count’s ambitious building scheme had interfered with this year’s planting. He concluded, saying, “That is why I have come—to make entreaty with the count to release grain from his stores to feed the people.”

Baron Neufmarché listened to all the churchman had to say, nodding solemnly to himself. “Word of this has reached me,” he confided. “With your permission, bishop, I will see what I can do.”

“Truly?” wondered Asaph, greatly impressed. “But why should you do anything for us?”

Neufmarché merely leaned close and, in a lowered voice, said, “Because it pleases me. But see that it remains a secret between ourselves, understood?”

The bishop considered the baron’s words for a moment, then agreed. “As you say,” he replied. “I praise God for your kind intervention.”

The baron rejoined his men, and they were conducted directly to the hall, leaving a bewildered bishop to stand in the yard. “Father of Light,” he prayed, “something has just happened which passes all understanding—at least,
I
cannot make any sense of it. Yet, Strong Redeemer, I pray that the meaning will be for good, and not ill, for all of us who wait on the Lord’s deliverance in this time of testing.”

The bishop remained in a corner of the yard, lifting his voice in prayer. He was still praying when, a little later, Count Falkes’s seneschal came looking for him. “My lord will deal with you now,” Orval told him and started away again. “At once.”

The bishop followed the seneschal to the door of the hall and was conducted inside, where the count was seated in his customary chair beside the hearth. Baron Neufmarché was also in attendance, standing a little to one side; the visiting baron appeared to pay no heed to the bishop as he continued talking quietly to his own men. “Pax vobiscum,” said the bishop, raising his hand palm outward and making the sign of the cross.

“Yes? Yes?” said the count, as if irritated by his visitor’s display of piety. “Get on with it. As you can see, I am busy.

I have important guests.”

“I will be brief,” replied the bishop. “Simply put, the people are hungry. You cannot make them work all day without food, and if they have none of their own, then you must feed them.”

Count de Braose stared at the cleric for a moment, his lip curling with displeasure. “My dear confused bishop,” began the count after a moment, “your complaint is unfounded.”

“I think not,” objected the bishop. “It is the very truth.”

The count lifted a long, languid hand and raised a finger.

“In the first place,” he said, “if your people have no food, it is their own fault—merely the natural consequence of abandoning their land and leaving good crops in the field. This was entirely without cause, as we have already established.”

Another finger joined the first. “Secondly, it is not—”

“I do beg your pardon,” interrupted Neufmarché, stepping forward. Turning away from his knights, he addressed the count directly. “I could not help overhearing—but am I to understand that you make your subjects work for you, yet refuse to feed them?”

“It is a fact,” declared the bishop. “He has enslaved the entire valley and provides nothing for the people.”

“Enslaved,” snorted the count. “You dare use that word? It is an unfortunate circumstance,” corrected the count. Turning his attention to the baron, he said, “Do
you
undertake to feed all your subjects, baron?”

“No,” replied the baron, “not all of them—only those who render me good service. The ox or horse that pulls plough or wagon is fed—it is the same for any man who labours on my behalf.”

The count twitched with growing discomfort. “Well and good,” he allowed, “but this is a predicament of their own making. A hard lesson it may be, but they will learn it all the same. I rule here now,” the count said, facing the bishop once more, “and the sooner they accept this, the better.”

“And who will you rule,” asked the baron, “when your subjects have starved to death?” Advancing a few paces toward the bishop, the baron made a small bow of deference and said, “I am Baron Neufmarché, and I stand ready to supply grain, meat, and other provisions if it would aid you in this present difficulty.”

“I thank you, and my people thank you, sire,” said the bishop, careful not to let on that they had already spoken of the matter in private. “Our prayers for deliverance are answered.”

“What?” objected the count. “Am I to have nothing to say about this?”

“Of course,” allowed Neufmarché, “I would never intrude in the affairs of another lord in his realm. I merely make the offer as a gesture of goodwill. If you prefer to give them the grain out of your own stores, that is entirely your decision.”

The bishop, hands folded as if in prayer, turned hopeful eyes to the count, awaiting his answer.

Falkes hesitated, tapping the arms of his chair with his long fingers. “It is true that the storehouses are nearly empty and that we shall have to bring in supplies very soon.