Scarlet kr-2

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Oh, but it was becoming ever more difficult. The people were taxed to the teeth, the nobles likewise, and the chorus of grumbling was becoming a deafening din from some quarters, which is why Ranulf-a man of the cloth, after all-could no longer travel about the land alone, but went with an armed escort to protect him from any who felt themselves particularly aggrieved by his efforts on the king's behalf.

  William, of course, was ultimately to blame for the resentment festering throughout his realm. It was not that the king was a spendthrift. Common opinion to the contrary, William the Red was no more wastrel than his father-a man who lived well, to be sure, although far less so than many of his barons-but war was a costly business: much expenditure for piddling little gain. Even when William won the conflict, which he usually did, he almost always came away the poorer for it. And the warring was incessant. If it wasn't the Scots, it was the Bretons; and if not foreign troublemakers it was his own brothers, Prince Henry and Duke Robert, fomenting rebellion.

  Yet today, if only for today, the news from the treasury would please the king, and Ranulf was eager to share this good news and advance another step towards reaping a substantial reward for himself-the lucrative bishopric of Duresme, perhaps, which was empty now owing to the death of the previous incumbent.

  Cardinal de Bayeux and his escort passed through the wide and handsome gate with but a nod to the porter. They quickly crossed the yard where the king's baggage train still waited to be unloaded. Ranulf dismissed his soldiers and commanded them to remain ready outside, then entered the tower and climbed the stairs to the antechamber above, where he was admitted by the steward and informed that the king was at table and awaiting his arrival.

  Entering silently, Ranulf took one look at his royal patron and read the king's disposition instantly. "His Majesty is displeased," declared Cardinal Ranulf from the doorway. He made a small bow and smoothed the front of his satin robe.

  "Displeased?" wondered William, beckoning him in with a wave of his hand. "Why would you say displeased? Hmm?" Rising from his chair, the king began to pace along the length of the table where he had lately enjoyed a repast with his vavasours. The king's companions had gone, or been sent away, and William was alone.

  "Why, indeed?" said the king, without waiting for Ranulf 's reply. "My dear brother, Robert, threatens war if I do not capitulate to his ridiculous whims… my barons find ever more brazen excuses to reduce their tributes and taxes… my subjects are increasingly rebellious to my rule and rude to my person!"

  The king turned on his chief counsellor and waved a parchment like a flag. "And now this!"

  "Ill tidings, mon roi?"

  "By the holy face of Lucca!"William shouted. "Is there no end to this man's demands?"

  "Which man, Sire, if you please?" Ranulf moved a few paces into the room.

  "This jackanapes of a pope!" roared the king. "This Urban-he says Canterbury has been vacant too long and insists we invest an archbishop at once."

  "Ignore him, Sire," suggested Ranulf.

  "Oh, but that is not the end of his impudence," continued the king without pausing to draw breath. "Far from it! He demands not only my seal on a letter of endorsement, but a public demonstration of my support as well."

  "Which, as we have often discussed, you are understandably loath to give," sympathised the cardinal, stifling a yawn.

  "Blast his eyes! I am loath to give him so much as the contents of my bowels."William, his ruddy cheeks blushing hot with anger, threw a finger in his counsellor's face. "God help me if I ever suffer one of his lick-spit legates to set foot in my kingdom. I'll boil the beggar in his own blood, and if Urban persists in these demands, I will throw my support to Clement-I swear I will."

  "Tell him so," suggested Ranulf simply. "That is what the Conqueror would have done-and did, often enough."

  "There! There you say it, by Judas!" crowed William. "My father had no illusions about who should rule the church in his kingdom. He would not suffer any priest to stick his nose into royal affairs."

  It was true. William's father, the Conqueror, had ruled the church like he ruled everything else on his adopted island. Not content to allow such a wealthy and powerful institution to look to its own affairs, he continually meddled in everything from appointing clerics to the collection of tithes-ever and always to his own advantage. Ranulf knew that the son, William the Red, was peeved because, try as he might, he could not command the same respect and obedience from the church that his father had taken as his due.

  "Mark me, Bayeux, I'll not swear out my throne to Urban no matter how many legates and emissaries he sends to bedevil me."

  "Tell His Eminence that his continued attempts to leech authority from the throne make this most sacred display of loyalty a mockery." Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux moved to a place across the table from his pacing king. "Tell him to stuff the Fisherman's Ring up his sanctimonious-"

  "Ha!" cried William. "If I told him that, he would excommunicate me without a second thought."

  "Do you care?" countered Ranulf smoothly. "Your Majesty holds Rome in contempt in any of a hundred ways already."

  "You go too far! My faith, or lack of it, is my own affair. I'll not be chastised by the likes of you, Bayeux."

  Ranulf bowed his head as if to accept the reprimand and said, "Methinks you misunderstand me, Sire. I meant that the king of England need spare no thought for Pope Urban's tender feelings. As you suggest, it is a simple enough matter to offer support to his rival, Clement."

  William allowed himself to be calmed by the gentle and shrewd assertions of his justiciar. "It is that," sneered William. The king of England surveyed the remains of his midday meal as if the table were a battlefield and he was searching for survivors. "I much prefer Clement anyway."

  "You see?" Ranulf smiled, pleased with the way he had steered the king to his point of view. "God continues to grace your reign, Sire. In his wisdom, he has provided a timely alternative. Let it be known and voiced abroad that you support Clement, and we'll soon see how the worm writhes."

  "If Urban suspected I was inclined to pledge loyalty to Clement, he might cease badgering me." William spied a nearby goblet on the table; there was still some wine in it, so he gulped it down. "He might even try to woo me back into his camp instead. Is that what you mean?"

  "He might," confirmed Ranulf in a way that suggested this was the very least William might expect.

  "He might do more," William ventured. "How much more?"

  "The king's goodwill has a certain value to the church just now. It is the pope who needs the king, not the other way around. Perhaps this goodwill might be bartered for something of more substantial and lasting value."

  William stopped pacing and drew his hand through his thinning red hair. "The pope has nothing I want," he decided at last. He turned and stumped back to his chair. "He is a prisoner in his own palace. Why, he cannot even show his face in Rome." William looked into another cup, but it was empty so he resumed his search. "The man can do little enough for himself; he can do nothing for me."

  "Nothing?" asked the cardinal pointedly. "Nothing at all?"

  "Nothing I can think of," maintained William stubbornly. "If you know something, Bayeux, tell me now or leave me alone. I grow weary of your insinuations."

  "Given Urban's precarious position-a position made all the more uncertain by the king's brother…"

  "Robert?" said William. "My brother may be an ass, but he has no love for Rome."

  "I was thinking of Henry, Sire," said the cardinal. "Seeing that Henry is courting Clement, it seems to me that Urban, with the proper inducement, might be willing to recognize the English crown's right to appoint clergy in exchange for your support," suggested the cardinal. "What is that worth, do you think?"

  William stared at his chief justiciar. "The wheels of government grind slowly, as you well and truly know," he said, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he considered the implications of his counsellor's suggestion. "You are paid to see that they do."


  "Yes, and every day a pulpit stands empty, the crown collects the tithe, as you well and truly know."

  "A tithe which would otherwise go to the church," said William. "Ultimately to Rome."

  "Indirectly, perhaps," agreed Ranulf. He buffed his fingernails against the sleek satin of his robe. "Urban contests this right, of course. But if the pope were to formally relinquish all such claims in favour of the crown…"

  "I would become head of the church in England," said William, following the argument to its conclusion.

  "I would not go so far, Sire," allowed Ranulf. "Rome would never allow secular authority to stand above the church. Urban's power ebbs by the day, to be sure, but you will never pry that from his miser's grasp."

  "Well," grumped the king, "it would amount to the same thing. England would be a realm unto itself, and its church an island in the papal sea."

  "Even so," granted Ranulf gallantly. "Your Majesty would effectively free the throne of England from the interference of Rome for good and forever. That would be worth something."

  "How much?" said William. He leaned across the table on his fists. "How much would it be worth?"

  "Who can say? Tithes, lands-the sale of benefices alone could run to-"

  William might not understand the finer points of the papal dispute that had inadvertently thrown up two rival claimants to Saint Peter's golden chair, but he knew men and money. And clerics were the same as most men in wanting to ease the way for their offspring in the world. A payment to the church to secure a position for an heir was money well spent. "Thousands of marks a year," mused William.

  "Pounds, Sire. Thousands, yes-thousands of pounds straight into your treasury. It would only take a letter."

  William looked at the empty goblet in his hand, and then threw it the length of the room. It struck the far wall and tumbled down the tapestry. "By the Blessed Virgin, Flambard, you are a rascal! I like it!"

  Returning to his chair, William resumed his place at the table. "Wine!" he shouted to an unseen servant lurking behind the door. "Sit," he said to Ranulf. "Tell me more about this letter."

  The cardinal tossed the black velvet bag onto the bench and sat down; he cleared a place among the crumbs and bones with the side of his hand. Choosing a goblet from those on the table before him, he emptied it and waited for the servant to appear with a jar. When the cups were filled once more, the king and his chief advisor drank and discussed how to make best use of the pope and his predicament.

  CHAPTER 4

  Brother Odo is dozing over his quill again. Much as I like to see him jump, I won't wake him just yet. It gives me time. The longer I stretch this tale, the more time I have before the tale stretches me, so to speak. Besides, I need a little space to think.

  What I think on now is the day I first set eyes on King Raven. A pleasant day it was, too, in all its parts. Crisp, bright autumn was descending over the March. I had been months a-wandering, poking here and there as fancy took me, moving ever and always in the direction of the setting sun. I had no plan other than to learn more of this King Raven, and find him if I could. A fellow of the forest, such as myself, might make himself useful to a man like that. If I did, I reckoned, he might be persuaded to take me under his wing.

  I kept my ears sharp for any word of King Raven, and asked after him whenever I happened on a settlement or holding. I worked for food and a bed of straw in barn or byre, and talked to those who were bold enough to speak about the abuses of the crown and events in the land. Many of those I spoke to had heard the name-as well they might, for Baron de Braose, Lord of Bramber, had set aside a right handsome reward for his capture. Some of the folk had a tale or two of how this Raven fella had outwitted the baron or abbot, or some such; but none knew more than I did of this elusive blackbird or his whereabouts.

  The further west I wended, however, the pickings got better in one respect, but worse in another. More had heard of King Raven, to be sure, and some were happy enough to talk. But those who knew of him held that this Raven was not a real man at all. Rather, they had it that he was a phantom sent up from the lowest infernal realm to bedevil the Normans. They said the creature took the form of a giant, high-crested bird, with wings to span a ten-foot pike, and a wicked long beak. Deadly as plague to the Normans, they said, and black as Satan's pit whence he sprung, he was a creature bred and born of deviltry-although one alewife told me that he had given some kinfolk of hers aid in food and good money when they were that desperate for it, so he couldn't be all that bad.

  As green spring gave way to summer, I settled for a spell with a swineherd and his gap-toothed wife on their small farm hard by Hereford, where Baron Neufmarche keeps his great stone heap of a castle. Although Wales is only a few days' saunter up the road, I was in no hurry just then. I wanted to learn more, if more was to be learned, and so I lay low, biding my time and listening to the locals when they had cause to speak of matters that interested me.

  When the day's work was finished, I'd hie up to town to spend a fair summer evening at the Cross Keys, an inn of questionable repute. The innkeeper was a rascal, no mistake-it's him they should be hanging, not Will-but he served a worthy jar and thick chops so tender and juicy your teeth could have a rest. I came to know many of the local folk who called at the Keys, and they came to trust me with their more private thoughts.

  Always, I tried to steer the talk towards happenings in the March, hoping for a word or two of King Raven. Thus, it fell out one night that I met a freeman farmer who traded at Hereford on market days. He had come up to sell a bit of bacon and summer sausage and, seeing me cooling my heels, came to sit down beside me on the low wall that fronted the inn. "Well," said I, raising my jar, "here's hail to the king."

  "Hail to the king, devil take him when he will."

  "Oh? Red William gone out of favour with you?" I ask.

  "Aye," says the farmer, "and I don't care who knows it." All the same, he glanced around guiltily to see who might be overhearing. No one was paying any mind to a couple of tongue-wags like ourselves, so he took a deep draught of his ale and reclined on his elbow against the wall. "I pray for his downfall every day."

  "What has the king done to you to earn such ire?"

  "What hasn't he done? Before Rufus I had a wife and a strapping big son to help me with the chores."

  "And now?"

  "Wife got croup and died, and son was caught in the greenwood setting rabbit snares. Lost his good right hand to the sheriff 's blade. Now he can't do more'n herd the stock."

  "You blame the king for that?"

  "I do. If I had my way King Raven would pluck out his eyes and eat his right royal liver."

  "That would be a sight," I told him. "If that feathered fella was more than a story to tell on a summer night."

  "Oh! He is," the farmer insisted. "He is, right enough."

  My vengeful friend went on then to relate how the dread bird had swooped down on a passel of Norman knights as they passed through the March on the King's Road one fine night.

  "King Raven fell out of the sky like a venging angel and slew a whole army o' the baron's rogues before they could turn and run," the farmer said. "He left only one terrified sot alive to warn the baron to leave off killin' Brits."

  "This creature-how did he kill the knights?" I wondered.

  The farmer looked me in the eye and said, "With fire and arrows."

  "Fair enough," says I. "But if it was with fire and arrows, how do they know it was the phantom bird who did it, and not just some peevish Welshman? You know how contrary they can be when riled."

  "Oh, aye," agreed the farmer. "I know that right enough. But it was the King Raven, no mistake." He shook his head with unwavering assurance. "That I know."

  "Because?" I prodded lightly.

  "Because," says he with a slow smile, "the arrows was black. Stone tip to feather, they was black as Beelzebub's tongue."

  This bit of news thrilled me more than anything I'd heard yet. Black arrows, mind! Ju
st the kind of thing ol'Will Scarlet might think up if he was about such business as spreading fear and havoc among the rascal brigade. In this tetchy farmer's tale, I saw the shape of a man, and not a phantom. A man that much like myself it gave me the first solid hope to be getting on with.

  I lingered on the holding through harvesttime to help out, and then, as the leaves began to fall and the wind freshened from the north, I took my leave and, one bright day, took to the road once more. I walked from settlement to settlement, pausing wherever I could to seek word of King Raven.

  Autumn had come to the land, as I say, and I eventually arrived at the edge of the March and entered the forest. Easy in my own company, I remained alert to all around me. I travelled slow and with purpose, camping by the road each night. On those clean, clear mornings I rose early and made for a high place, the better to watch and listen and learn what I could of the woodland 'round about.

  See now, the Forest of the March is an ancient wood, old when Adam was a lad. A wild place not like any forest I'd known in England. Denser, darker, more tangled and woolly, it clutched tight to its secrets and held them close. Mind you, I am a man used to forest ways and byways, and as the bright days chased one another off toward winter, I began to get the measure of it.

  One morning, just as the weather turned, I woke to a chill mist and the sound of voices on the King's Road. I had seen wolf scat on the trail before sunset and decided a prudent man might do well to sleep out of reach of those rangy, long-toothed hunters. So, having spent the night in the rough crook of a stout oak within sight of the King's Road-a stiff cradling, to be sure-I stirred as the daylight broke soft on a grey and gusty day, and heard the sound of men talking on the trail below. Their voices were quiet and low, the easy rhythmic tones familiar, even as the words were strange. It took me a moment to shake the sleep out of my ears and realise they were speaking Welsh. My mother's tongue it was, and I had enough of it from my barefoot days to make myself understood.