Hood (34 page)

While they watched the cargo being carried into the chapel, the soldiers began to talk and were soon relating the unchancy events that had just befallen them in the forest. Thus, word of the visiting soldiers’ strange experience quickly reached Count de Braose, who summoned the baron’s knight to his fortress.

“What do you mean the horses vanished?” inquired the count when he had heard what the knight had to say.

“Count de Braose,” conceded the knight reluctantly, “we also lost a man.”

“Men and horses do not simply dissolve into the air.”

“As you say, sire,” replied the knight, growing petulant.

“Even so, I know what I saw.”

“But you said you saw
nothing
,” insisted Count Falkes.

“And I stand by it,” the knight maintained stolidly. “I am no liar.”

“Nor do I so accuse you,” replied the count, his voice rising. “I am merely attempting to learn what it was that you saw—if anything.”

“I saw,” began the knight cautiously, “a shadow. As I knelt to drink, a shadow fell over me, and when I looked up, I saw . . .” He hesitated.

“Yes? Yes?” urged the count, impatience making him sharp.

Drawing a bracing breath, the knight replied, “I saw a great dark shape—very like that of a bird.”

“A dark shape, you say. Like a bird,” repeated Falkes.

“But larger—far larger than any bird ever seen before. Black as the devil himself, and a wingspread wide as your arms.”

“Are you suggesting to me that this
bird
carried off your man and all the horses?” scoffed the count. “By heaven, it must have been a very Colossus amongst birds!”

The knight shut his mouth and stared at the count, his face growing hot with humiliation.

“Well? Go on; I would hear the rest of this fantastic yarn.”

“We gave chase, sire,” the knight said in a low, disgruntled voice. “We pursued the thing into the brushwood and found a deer track which we followed, but we neither saw nor heard anything again. When we returned to the stream, our horses were gone.” He nodded for emphasis. “Vanished.”

“You looked for them, I presume?” inquired the count.

“We searched both ways along the stream, and that is when Laurent disappeared.”

“And again, I suppose no one saw or heard anything?”

“Nothing at all. The forest was uncannily quiet. If there had been so much as a mayfly to see or hear, that we would have.

One moment Laurent was there, and the next he was gone.”

Growing tired of the murky vagueness of the report, the count cut the interview short. “If there is nothing else, you may go. But do not for a single moment think to lay any of this at
my
feet. By the Holy Name, I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

“I accuse no one,” muttered the knight.

“Then you are dismissed. Take some refreshment for yourself and your men, and then you may return to the baron. God knows what he will make of the tale.” When the knight made no move to leave, Count Falkes added, “I said, your service is completed. The supplies have been delivered, I believe? You may go.”

“We have no horses, sire.”

“And what do you imagine I should do about that?”

“I am certain Baron Neufmarché would deem it a boon of honour if you lent us some worthy mounts,” the knight suggested.

The count glared at the man before him. “You want me to lend you horses?” He made it sound as if it was the most outlandish thing he had heard so far. “And what? Watch you make
my
animals disappear along with the others? I’ll have none of it. You can ride back in the empty wagons. It would serve you right.”

The knight stiffened under the count’s sarcasm but held his ground. “The baron would be indebted to you, I daresay.”

“Yes, I
daresay
he would,” agreed the count. He regarded the knight; there was something in what he suggested. To have the baron beholden to him might prove a useful thing in future dealings. “Oh, very well, take some refreshment, and I will arrange it. You can leave tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, sire,” said the knight. “We are most grateful.”

When the knight had gone, Count Falkes put the matter out of his mind. Soldiers were a superstitious lot, all told, forever seeing signs and wonders where there were none.

Even the most solid-seeming needed little prompting—a shadow in the woods, was that it?—to embark on a flight of delirious fancy and set tongues wagging everywhere.

Probably the slack-witted guards, having ranged far ahead of the wagons, had emptied a skinful of wine between them and, in their drunken stupor, allowed their untethered horses to wander off.

Later that evening, however, as twilight deepened across the valley, the count was given opportunity to reappraise his hasty opinion when the missing soldier, Laurent, stumbled out of the forest and appeared at the gate of his stronghold. Half out of his head with fear, the fellow was gibbering about demons and ghosts and a weird phantom bird, and insisting that the ancient wood was haunted.

Before the count could interview the man in person, word had flashed throughout the caer that some sort of unworldly creature—a giant bird with a beak as long as a man’s arm, wings a double span wide, and glowing red eyes—had arisen in the forest, called forth by means both mysterious and infernal to instil terror in the hearts of the Ffreinc intruders. This last appeared only too likely, the count considered, watching his men fall over themselves in their haste to hear the lunatic. This time tomorrow, the tale would spread from one end of the valley to the other.

Whatever it was that had frightened the stricken soldier, it would take more than some cockeyed tale involving an oversized bird and the dubious misplacement of a few horses to make Count Falkes tremble in his boots. Nothing short of a midnight shower of fire and brimstone and the appearance of Lucifer himself could drive a de Braose from his throne once he had got his rump on it. And that was that.

CHAPTER 31

F
or Mérian, the invitation to attend the baron’s festivities came as a command to undertake an onerous obligation. “Must we go?” she demanded when her mother informed her. “Must I?”

She had heard how the Ffreinc lived: how the men worshipped their ladies and showered them with expensive baubles; how the noble houses were steeped in lavish displays of wealth—fine clothes, sumptuous food, imported wine, furniture made by artisans across the sea; how the Ffreinc prized beauty and held a high respect for ritual, indulging many extraordinary and extravagant courtesies.

All this and more she had heard from one gossip or another over the years, and it had never swayed her from her opinion that the Ffreinc were little more than belligerent swine, scrubbed up and dressed in satin and lace, perhaps, but born to the stockyard nonetheless. The mere thought of attending one of their festive celebrations produced in her a dread akin to the sweating queasiness some people feel aboard ship in uneasy seas.

“It is an honour to be asked,” Queen Anora told her.

“Then that is honour enough for me,” she replied crisply.

“Your father has already accepted the invitation.”

“He accepted without my permission,” Mérian pointed out. “Let him go without me.”

This was not the last word on the subject—far from it. In the end, however, she knew she must accept her father’s decision; she would pretend the dutiful daughter and go, like a martyr, to her fate.

Galled as she was to think of attending the event, she worried that she would not be properly dressed, that she would not know how to comport herself correctly, that her speech would betray her for a brutish Briton, that her family would embarrass her with their backward ways, and on and on. Just as there were a thousand objections to consorting with the Ffreinc, there was, she discovered, no end of hazards to fear.

As the baron’s castle at Hereford loomed into sight, rising in the deepening blue of a twilight summer sky above the thatched rooftops of the busy town, Mérian was overcome by an apprehension so powerful she almost swooned. Her brother, Garran, saw her sway and grasped her elbow to keep her from toppling from her saddle. “Steady there, sister,” he said, grinning at her discomfort. “You don’t want to greet all those highborn Ffreinc ladies covered with muck from the road. They’ll think you a stable hand.”

“Let them think what they will,” she replied, trying to sound imperious and aloof. “I care not.”

“You do,” he asserted. “Twitching like a sparrow with salt on its tail at the mention of the baron’s name. Do you think I haven’t seen?”

“Oh? And would it do you any harm to stand a little closer to the washbasin, brother mine? I doubt highborn Ffreinc ladies look kindly on men who smell of the sty.”

“Listen to that!” Garran hooted. “Your concern is as touching as it is sincere,” he chortled, “but your counsel is misdirected, dear sister. It is yourself you should worry about.”

And worry she did. Mérian had enough anxiety for the whole travelling party, and it twisted her stomach like a wet rag. By the time they reached the foot of the drawbridge spanning the outer ditch of the Neufmarché stronghold, she could scarcely breathe. And then they were riding through the enormous timber gates and reining up in the spacious yard, where they were greeted by none other than the baron himself.

Accompanied by two servants in crimson tunics, each bearing a large silver tray, the baron—his smooth-shaven face gleaming with goodwill—strode to meet them. “Greetings,
mes amis
!” bellowed the baron with bluff bonhomie. “I am glad you are here. I trust your journey was uneventful.”

“Pax vobiscum,” replied King Cadwgan, climbing down from his saddle and passing the reins to one of the grooms who came running to meet them. “Yes, we have travelled well, praise God.”

“Good!” The baron summoned his servants with a wave of his hand. They stepped forward with their trays, which contained cups filled to the brim with wine. “Here, some refreshment,” he said, handing the cups around. “Drink, and may it well become you,” he said, raising his cup. He sipped his wine and announced, “The celebration begins tomorrow.”

Mérian, having dismounted with the others and accepted the welcome cup, raised the wine to her lips; it was watered and cool and went down with undignified haste. When all had finished their cups, the new arrivals were conducted into the castle. Mérian, marching with the wooden stoicism of the condemned, followed her mother to a set of chambers specially prepared for them. There were two rooms behind a single wooden door; inside each was a single large bed with a mattress of goose down; two chairs and a table with a silver candleholder graced the otherwise bare apartment.

Food was brought to them, the candles lit, and a fire set in the hearth, for though it was a warm summer night, the castle walls were thick and constructed entirely of stone, making the interior rooms autumnal. Having seen to the needs of the baron’s guests, the servants departed, leaving the women to themselves. Mérian went to the window and pushed open the shutter to look out and down upon the massive outer wall. By leaning out from the casement, she could glimpse part of the town beyond the castle.

“Come to the table and eat something,” her mother bade her.

“I’m not hungry.”

“The feast is not until tomorrow,” her mother told her wearily. “Eat something, for heaven’s sake, before you faint.”

But it was no use. Mérian refused to taste a morsel of the baron’s food. She endured a mostly sleepless night and rose early, before her mother or anyone else, and drawn by morbid curiosity, she crept out to see what she could discover of the castle and the way its inhabitants lived. She moved silently along one darkened corridor after another, passing chamber after chamber until she lost count, and came unexpectedly to a large anteroom that contained nothing more than a large stone fireplace and a hanging tapestry depicting a great hunt: fierce dogs and men on horseback chasing stags, hares, wild boars, bears, and even lions, all of which ran leaping through a woodland race. Drawn to the tapestry, she was marvelling at the prodigious size and the tremendous amount of needlework required for such a grand piece when she felt eyes on her back.

Turning quickly, she found that she herself was the object of scrutiny. “Your pardon, Lady Mérian,” said her observer, emerging from the shadowed doorway across the room.

Dressed entirely in black—tunic, breeches, boots, and belt— save for a short crimson cloak neatly folded across his shoulders and fixed with a large brooch of fine yellow gold almost the same colour as his long, flowing hair, he wore a short sword at his side, sheathed in a black leather scabbard.

“Baron Neufmarché,” she said, suddenly abashed. “Forgive me. I did not mean to trespass.”

“Nonsense,” he said, smiling, “I fear it is
I
who am trespassing— on your enjoyment. I do beg your pardon.” He moved to join her at the tapestry. She gazed at the wall hanging, and he gazed at her. “It is fine, is it not?”

“It is very beautiful,” she said politely. “I’ve never seen the like.”

“A mere trifle compared to you, my lady.”

Blushing at this unexpected compliment, Mérian lowered her head demurely. “Here now!” said the baron. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he raised her face so that he could look into her eyes. “I see I have made you uncomfortable. Again, I must beg your pardon.” He smiled and released her. “That is twice already today, and I have not yet broken fast. Indeed,” he said, as if just thinking of it for the first time, “I was just on my way to the table. Will you join me?”

“Pray excuse me, my lord,” said Mérian quickly, “but my mother will have risen and is no doubt looking for me.”

“Then I must content myself to wait until the feast,” said the baron. “However, before I let you go, you must promise me a dance.”

“My lord, I know nothing of Ffreinc dancing,” she blurted. “I only know the normal kind.”

Neufmarché put back his head and laughed. “Then for you, I will instruct the musicians to play only the
musique normale
.” Unwilling to embarrass herself further, Mérian gave a small curtsy. “My lord,” she said, backing away, “I give you good day.”