Hood (43 page)
For his part, he had made it abundantly clear that he found her beautiful and even desirable. The mere notion awakened feelings Mérian considered so unholy that she tried to suffocate the fledgling thought by depriving it of all rational consideration. On her return to Caer Rhodl after the feast in Hereford, she had considered herself safely out of harm’s way and beyond the reach of the temptation the baron’s court represented. And now, without so much as an “If you please, Mérian,” she was to be sent away to the baron’s castle like so much baggage.
She pushed away from the window and flopped back on her bed. The thought that her father was simply using her to appease Neufmarché and further himself with the baron was too depressing to contemplate. All the same, that was the only explanation that made sense of the situation. If anyone else had suggested such a thing, she would have been the first to shout him down—all the while knowing it was her lot precisely.
In any event, the matter was closed to all appeal. Lord Cadwgan had made his decision and, regardless of anything Mérian or anyone else might say, would not reverse it. For the next few days, Mérian sulked and let everyone know exactly how she felt, delivering herself of long, soulful sighs and dark, moody glances until even Garran, her oblivious brother, complained about the damp chill in the air every time she passed by. But the evil day would not be held off. Her father commanded her to pack her belongings for her stay and had begun to make arrangements to take her to Hereford when Mérian received what she considered a reprieve. It came in the form of a summons for all the baron’s nobles to attend him in council.
The gathering was to be held at Talgarth in the baron’s newly conquered territory, and all client kings and landed lords, along with their families and principal retainers, must attend. It was not an invitation that could be refused. Under feudal law, the unfortunate who failed to attend a formal council faced heavy fines and loss of lands, title, or in extreme cases, even limbs.
Baron Neufmarché did not hold councils often; the last had been five years ago when he had moved his chief residence to Hereford Castle. Then he had served notice that he meant to remain in England and expected his nobles to be ready and forthcoming with their support—chiefly in rents and services, but also in advice.
Lord Cadwgan took a cloudy view of the summons to Deheubarth—the scene of the late King Rhys ap Tewdwr’s recent downfall and demise—considering it an insult to the Cymry and a none-too-subtle reminder of Ffreinc supremacy and ascendancy. The rest of the family felt likewise. Perversely, only Mérian welcomed the council, looking upon it as a pardon from the onerous duty that had been forced upon her.
Now, instead of Mérian going alone into the enemy camp, the whole family would have to go with her.
“You need not look so pleased,” her mother told her. “A little less gloating would better become you.”
“I do not gloat,” Mérian replied smugly. “But milk for the kit is milk for the cat—is that not what you always say, Mother?”
Three days of preparation followed, and the ordinarily sedate fortress shook life into itself in order to make ready the lord’s departure. On the fourth day after receiving the summons, the entourage set out. All rode, save the steward, cook, and groom, who travelled in a horse-drawn wagon piled high with food supplies and equipment. The servants had dusted off and repaired the old leather tents Lord Cadwgan used for campaigns and extended hunting trips—of which there had been few in the last seven or eight years—in anticipation of making camp along the way and at the appointed meeting place.
“How long will the council last?” asked Mérian as she and her father rode along. It was early on the second day of travel, the sun was high and bright, and Mérian was in good spirits— all the more since her father’s mood also showed signs of improving.
“How long?” repeated Cadwgan. “Why, as long as Neufmarché fancies.” He thought about it for a moment and said, “There is no way to tell. It depends on the business to be decided. Once, I remember, Old William—the Conqueror, mind, not the red-bearded brat—held a council that lasted four months. Think of that, Mérian. Four whole months!”
Mérian considered that if the baron’s council lasted four months, then summer would be over and she would not have to go to Hereford. She asked, “Why so long?”
“I was not there,” her father explained. “We were not yet under the thumb of the foreigners and had our own affairs to keep us occupied. As I recall, it was said the king wanted everyone to agree on the levy of taxes for land and chattels.”
“Agree with him, you mean.”
“Yes,” said her father, “but there was more to it than that.
The Conqueror wanted as much as he could get, to be sure, but he also knew that most people refuse to pay an unjust tax. He wanted all his earls, barons, and princes to agree—and to
see
one another agree—so that there could be no complaint later.”
“Clever.”
“Aye, he was a fox, that one,” her father continued, and Mérian, after their stormy relations of late, was happy to hear him speak and to listen. “The real reason the council lasted so long came down to the Forest Law.”
Mérian had heard of this and knew all right-thinking Britons, as well as Saxons and Danes, resented it bitterly. The reason was simple: the decree transformed all forested lands in England into one vast royal hunting preserve owned by the king. Even to enter a forest without permission of the warrant holder became a punishable offence. This edict, hated as it was from the beginning, made outlaws of all those who, for generations, had made their living out of the woodlands in one way or another—which was nearly everyone.
“So that was when it began?” mused Mérian.
“That it was,” Cadwgan confirmed, “and the council twisted and turned like cats on a roasting spit. They refused three times to honour the king’s wishes, and each time he sent them back to think about the cost of their refusal.”
“What happened?”
“When it became clear that no one would be allowed to return home until the matter was settled, and that the king was unbending, the council had no choice but to assent to the Conqueror’s wishes.”
“What a spineless bunch of lickspits,” observed Mérian.
“Do not judge them too harshly,” her father said. “It was either agree or risk being hung as traitors if they openly rebelled. Meanwhile, they watched their estates and holdings slowly descending into ruin through neglect. So with harvest hard upon them, they granted the king the right to his precious hunting runs and went home to explain the new law to their people.” Cadwgan paused. “Thank God, the Conqueror did not include the lands beyond the Marches.When I think what the Cymry would have done had
that
been forced on us . . .” He shook his head. “Well, it does not bear thinking about.”
D
espite Count Falkes’s repeated offer to accompany him, Abbot Hugo insisted on visiting his new church alone. “But the work is barely begun,” the count pointed out. “Allow me to bring the architect’s drawings so you can see what it will look like when it is finished.”
“You are too kind,” Hugo had told him. “However, I know your duties weigh heavily enough, and I would not add to them. I am perfectly capable of looking around for myself, and happy to do so. I would not presume to burden you with my whims.”
He rode out from the caer on his brown palfrey and arrived at Llanelli just as the labourers were starting their work for the day. The old church, with its stone cross beside the door, still stood on one side of the new town square. It was a rude wood-and-wattle structure, little more than a cow byre in Hugo’s opinion; the sooner demolished, the better.
The abbot turned from the sight and cast his critical gaze across the square at a jumbled heap of timber atop a foundation of rammed earth.What? By the rod of Moses!—was
that
the new church?
He strode closer for a better look. A carpenter appeared with a coiled plumb line and a chunk of chalk. “You there!” the abbot shouted. “Come here.”
The man glanced around, saw the priestly robes, and hurried over, offering a bow of deference. “You wish to speak to me, Your Grace?”
“What is this?” He flipped a hand at the partially built structure.
“It is to be a church, father,” replied the carpenter.
“No,” the abbot told him. “No, I do not think that likely.”
“Yes,” replied the workman. “I do believe it is.”
“I am the abbot here,” Hugo informed him, “and I say that”—he flapped a dismissive hand at the roughly framed building—“
that
is a tithe barn.”
The carpenter cocked his head to one side and regarded the priest with a quizzical expression. “A tithe barn, Your Grace?”
“
My
church will be made of stone,” Abbot Hugo told the carpenter, “and it will be of my design and raised on a site of my choosing. I will not have my church fronting the town square like a butcher’s stall.”
“But, father, see here—”
“Do you doubt me?”
“Not at all. But the count—”
“This is to be
my
church, not the count’s. I am in authority here,
compris
?”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” answered the confused carpenter.
“What am I to tell the master?”
“Tell him I will have the plans ready for him in three days,” declared the abbot, starting away. “Tell him to come to me for his new instructions.”
With that, the abbot marched to the old chapel, paused outside, and then pushed open the door. He was greeted by two priests; from the look of it, they had slept in the sanctuary amidst their bundled belongings.
“Who is in authority here?” demanded the abbot.
“Greetings in Christ, brother abbot,” said the bishop, stepping forward. “I am Asaph, Bishop of Llanelli.We would have made a better welcome, but as you can see, this is all that is left of the monastery, and the monks have all been pressed to labour for the count.”
“Be that as it may . . . ,” sniffed Hugo, glancing around the darkened chapel. It smelled old and musty and made him sneeze. “I see you are ready to depart. I shall not keep you.”
“We were waiting to pass the reins to you, as it were,” replied Asaph.
“That will not be necessary.”
“No? We thought you might like to know something about your new flock.”
“Your presumption has led you astray, bishop. It is the flock that must get to know and heed the shepherd.” Hugo sneezed again and turned to leave. “God speed you on your way.”
“Abbot, see here,” said the bishop, starting after him.
“There is much we would tell you about Elfael and its people.”
“You presume to
teach
me?” Abbot Hugo turned on him.
“All I need to know, I learned from the saddle of my horse on the way here.” He glanced balefully at the rude structure and the two lorn priests. “Your tenure here is over, bishop.
God in his wisdom has decreed a new day for this valley. The old must make way for the new. Again, I wish you God’s speed. I do not expect we will meet again.”
The abbot returned to his horse across the square, passing the carpenter, who was now sitting on a stack of lumber with a saw across his lap. “What about this?” called the carpenter, indicating the unfinished jumble of timber behind him.
“What am I to do with this?”
“It is a tithe barn,” replied the abbot. “It will need a wider door.”
Y
ou, Tuck, have the most important duty,” Bran had told him as he boosted the priest into the saddle. “The success of our plan rests on you.”
“Aye,” he had replied, “you can count on me!” Borne on waves of hope and optimism, he had departed Cél Craidd with cheers and glad farewells still ringing in his ears.
Oh, but the fiery blush of enthusiasm for his part in Bran’s grand scheme had faded to dull, muddy pessimism by the time Aethelfrith reached his little oratory on the Hereford road.
How, by the beards of the apostles, am I to discover the movements of the de
Braose treasure train?
As if that were not difficult enough, he must acquire the knowledge far enough in advance to give Bran and his Grellon enough time to prepare. To that end, he had been given the best of the horses so that he might return with the news at utmost speed.
“Impossible,” Aethelfrith muttered to himself. With or without a horse. Impossible. “Never should have agreed to such a lack-brain scheme.”
Then again, the idea had originated with himself, after all. “Tuck, old son,” he murmured, “you’ve gone and put both feet in the brown pie this time.”
As he approached the oratory, he was relieved to see that no one was waiting for him. People had visited in his absence; small gifts of eggs, lumps of cheese, and beeswax candles had been placed neatly beside his door. After tethering his mount in the long grass around back, he filled a bucket from the well and left it for the animal. He gathered up the offerings from his doorstep and went in to light the fire, eat a bite of supper, and contemplate his precarious future. He fell asleep praying for divine inspiration to attend his dreams.
