"Alas! That time is gone. Everywhere kings quarrel amongst themselves, wasting their substance on trivialities and the meaningless pursuit of power, each one striving to rise at the expense of the other. They are maggots in manure, fighting for supremacy of the dung heap. Meanwhile, the enemy goes from strength to strength. The invader waxes mighty while the Gwr Gwyr, the True Men, melt away like mist on a sun-bright morning.
"The Day of the Wolf has dawned. The dire shape of its coming was seen and foretold, its arrival awaited with fear and dread. At long last it is here, and there are none who can turn it aside. Hear me, 0 Rhi Bran, the Red King stretches out his hand across the land, grasping, seizing, rending. He will not be satisfied until all lies under his dominion, or until he awakens from his sleep of death and acknowledges the law of love and justice laid down before the foundations of the world."
She spoke with eyes shut, her head weaving from side to side, as if listening to a melody Bran could not hear.
"I am Angharad, and here in the forest I watch and wait. For, as I live and breathe, the promise of my birth will yet be proved. By the grace of the Christ, my druid, I will yet compose a song to be sung before a king worthy of his praise." Then, slowly opening her eyes, she gazed at Bran directly. "Do you believe me when I say this?"
"I do believe," replied Bran without hesitation. More than anything else he had ever wanted, he ached for those words, somehow, to be true.
ishop Asaph stood in the door of his old wooden chapel, watching the labourers break a hole in the wall of his former chapter house, which was to become the residence of Count de Braose's chief magistrate and tax collector-an ominous development, to be sure, but of a piece with the multitude of changes taking place throughout Elfael almost daily.
The monastery yard had slowly become the market square of the new town, and the various monastic buildings either converted to accommodate new uses or pulled down to make way for bigger, more serviceable buildings. One row of monks' cells was being removed to make way for a blacksmith forge and granary. The long, low wattleand-daub refectory was to be a guildhall, and the modest scriptorium a town treasury. That there were no guilds in Elfael seemed not to matter; that no one paid taxes was, apparently, beside the point. The guilds would come in due course; the taxman, too.
Lamentable though the thought surely was, the bishop could not give it more than fleeting consideration. His mind was occupied with the far more urgent matter of feeding his hungry people. The grain promised by Baron Neufmarche had not yet arrived, and Asaph had determined to go to Count de Braose and see what might be done. He had hoped his next audience with the count would be on more amiable terms, but the prospect of better dealings seemed always to remain just beyond his grasp.
He tightened the laces of his shoes, then made his way through the building site that had been his home-God's home-and walked out across the valley to Caer Cadarn. Upon presenting himself at the fortress gate, he was, as he had come to expect, made to tarry in the yard until the count deigned to see him. Here, the Bishop of Llanelli loitered in the sun like a friendless farmhand with muck on his feet, while the count sat at meat. He resented this treatment but tried not to take offence; he decided to recite a psalm instead.
Twenty psalms later, the count's seneschal finally came for him. At the door to the audience chamber, Asaph thanked Orval and composed himself, smoothing his robe and adjusting his belt. Stepping through the opened door, Bishop Asaph found the count hunched over a table laden with the half-empty plates of the meal just finished and squares of parchment on which were drawn plans for defensive fortifications.
"Forgive me, bishop, if I do not offer you refreshment," said the count distractedly. "I am otherwise occupied, as you see."
"I would not presume upon your attentions," said the bishop tartly. "You can be sure that I would not come here at all if need did not demand it."
Falk-es glanced up sharply. "Pray, what are you prattling about now?"
"We were promised provisions," said the bishop.
"When?"
"Why, when Baron Neufmarche was here. It has been almost a month now, and the need grows ever-"
"Neufmarche promised grain, yes, I remember." Count de Braose returned to the drawings before him. "What of it?"
"My lord count," said the bishop, his palms growing wet with apprehension, "it has not arrived."
"Has it not?" sniffed the count. "Well, perhaps he has forgotten."
"The baron promised to send the supplies immediately upon his return to Hereford. It has been, as I say, almost a month now, and the need is greater than ever. The people are at the end of their resourcesthey faint with hunger; the children cry. In some settlements, they are already starving. If relief is not forthcoming, they will die."
"In that case," replied the count, picking up a scrap of parchment and holding it at arm's length before his face, "I suggest you take up the matter with the baron himself. It is his affair, not mine."
"But-"
"We are finished here," interrupted Count Falkes. "You may go."
Aghast and confounded, Bishop Asaph stood in silence for a moment. "My lord, do you mean to say that nothing has been sent?"
"Have you taken root?" inquired the count. "The matter is concluded. You are dismissed. Go."
The churchman turned and walked stiffly from the room. By the time he reached the monastery, some semblance of reason had returned, and he had determined that the count was right. The baron had made the promise and must be held to account. Therefore, he would go to the baron and demand a reckoning. If he left at once, he could be in Hereford in four or five days. He would obtain an audience; he would implore; he would plead; he would beg the baron to make good his vow and release the promised food and supplies without delay.
CHAPTER
29
IL took the two aging priests of Llanelli more than a week to reach the Neufmarche stronghold in Hereford. Though Bishop Asaph fervently hoped to travel more swiftly, he could not go faster than doddering Brother Clyro could walk, nor could he bring himself to deny the needy who, upon seeing the passing monks, ran to beg them for prayers and blessings.
Weary and footsore, they reached Hereford toward evening of the eighth day and found their way to the Abbey of Saints James and John, where they took beds for the night. They were led by the porter to the guest lodge and provided with basins of water to wash and later joined the priests for prayers and a simple supper before going to sleep. After prime the next morning, the bishop left his companion at prayer and made his way to the baron's fortress. Set on a bluff overlooking the river Wye, the castle could be seen for miles in every direction: an impressive structure built of stone and enclosed by a deep, steep-sided ditch filled with water diverted from the river.
It was not the first fortress on this site; the previous one had been burned to the ground long ago during a battle with the English. The Ffreinc had rebuilt it, but in stone this time; larger, stronger, bristling with battlements, walls, and towers, it was built to last. Its latest inhabitant had extended the grounds around the stronghold to include common grazing lands, cattle pens, granaries, and barns.
The bishop paused before entering the castle gate. "Great of Might," he murmured, lifting a hand toward heaven, "you know our need. Let relief be swiftly granted. Amen." He then proceeded through the gate, where he was met by a gatekeeper in a short red tunic. "Pax vobiscum," said the bishop.
"God with you," answered the gateman, taking in the bishop's robe and tonsure. "What is your business here, father?"
"I seek audience with Baron Neufmarche, if you please. You may tell him that Bishop Asaph of Elfael is here on a matter of highest importance.
The servant nodded and led the cleric across a wooden bridge over the water ditch, through another gate, and into an inner yard, where he waited while the gatekeeper announced his presence to a page, who conveyed the request for an audience to the baron. While he awaited the baron's summons, Bishop Asaph watched the people a
round him as they went about their daily affairs. He found himself thinking about what a strange race they were, these Ffreinc, made up of many contradictions. Industrious and resourceful, they typically pursued their interests with firmness of purpose and an admirable ardour. Yet from what he had seen of the marchogi in Elfael, they could just as quickly abandon themselves to dejection and despondency when events betrayed them. Devout, stalwart, and reverent in the best of times, they also seemed inordinately subject to weird caprices and silly superstitions. A handsome people, hale and strong bodied, with long, straight limbs and clear eyes set in broad, open faces-they nevertheless seemed to suffer from a rare abundance of infirmities, maladies, and ailments.
All these things and arrogant, too. They were, the bishop concluded, fiercely ambitious. In appetite for acquisition: insatiable. In intensity for mastery: rapacious. In aspiration for achievement: merciless. In desire for domination: inexorable.
However, and he had always to remember this, they could be fairminded and loyal, and when it suited them, they displayed a laudable sense of justice-at least with their own. The English and Cymry were treated poorly for the most part, it was true; but the capacity for evenhanded tolerance was not entirely lacking. The bishop hoped he would encounter some of this fairness in his dealings with the baron today.
Presently, the page returned to announce that the baron would be pleased to see him at once, and Asaph was brought into a large, stoneflagged anteroom, where he was offered a cup of wine and some bread before making his way into the baron's audience chamber-an enormous oak-panelled room with a narrow arched window of leaded glass that kept out the wind but allowed the light to come streaming through.
"Bishop Asaph!" boomed the baron as the priest was announced. "Pax vobiscum!" He crossed the chamber in long, quick strides and held out his hand in the peculiar greeting of Ffreinc noblemen. "It is good to see you again." The bishop grasped the offered hand somewhat awkwardly. "You should have told me you were coming! I would have had a dinner prepared in your honour. But come! Come, sit with me. I will have some refreshment brought, and we will eat together."
The effusive greeting banished Bishop Asaph's worst fears. "Thank you, Baron Neufmarche, but your servant was kind enough to offer me bread and wine just now. I would not presume to keep you from your affairs a moment longer than necessary."
"So earnest," observed the baron lightly. "It is a most welcome interruption, bishop. You have an advocate in me. I hope you know that."
"You cannot imagine how it gratifies me to hear those words, Baron Neufmarche. You are very kind."
Neufmarche brushed aside the compliment. "It is nothing. However, I can see that you are troubled-and I think it must be something serious indeed to bring you from your beautiful valley." He gestured his guest to a chair beside his own. "Here, my friend; sit down and tell me what is distressing you."
"To be blunt, it is about the food supplies you promised to send."
"Yes? I trust they were put to good use. I assure you, the grain and meat were the finest I could lay hands to at short notice."
"I am certain they were," Bishop Asaph conceded. "But we never received them."
"Nothing? Nothing at all?" wondered the baron. Asaph shook his head slowly. "How is that possible?"
"That is what I have come to discover," replied the bishop, who then told of his conversation with Count Falkes. "In short," concluded the bishop, "the count gave me to know in no uncertain terms that the supplies had never been sent-or, if they had, they never arrived. He suggested I take up the matter with you"-the bishop spread his hands-"so here I am."
"I see," The baron pursed his lips in a frown of vexation and ran a broad hand through his long, dark hair. "This is most disturbing. I made arrangements for the supplies the same day I returned from Elfael, and was glad to do it. Why, the wagoners reported a successful delivery with no difficulties along the way."
"I do believe you, baron," the bishop assured him. "It can only be that de Braose has taken the food and kept it for himself."
"So it would seem," Baron Neufmarche concurred. Rising from his chair, he crossed to the door in quick strides, opened it, and summoned the servant waiting outside. "Bring Remey here at once." The man hurried away, and the baron returned to his guest. "This will soon be put right."
"What do you intend-if I may be so bold?"
"I intend to send another consignment immediately," declared the baron. "What is more, I intend to make certain that it reaches you this time. I will give orders that the food is to be delivered to you and no one else."
"Baron Neufmarche," sighed Asaph, feeling the weight of care lift from his shoulders, "you have no idea how much this means to me. It is a blessing of the highest order."
"It is nothing of the kind," protested Neufmarche. "If I had been more diligent, this would not have happened, and you would not have had to undertake such an onerous errand. I am sorry." He paused. Then, his voice becoming grave, he said, "I can see now that we have no ally in Count de Braose. He is duplicitous and deceitful, and his word can no longer be trusted."
"Alas, it is true," confirmed Asaph readily.
"We must watch him closely, you and I," the baron continued. "I have received word of, shall we say, certain undertakings involving the count and his uncle." He offered a brief confidential smile. "But never fear, my friend; trust that I will do whatever I can to intercede for you."
Before the bishop could think what to say, the door opened and a thin man in a soft red hat entered the room. "Ah, there you are!" called the baron. "Remey, you will recall the supplies we sent to Count Falkes in Elfael, yes?"
"I do, my lord. Of course. I saw to it personally at your request."
"How many wagons did we send?"
The old servant placed a finger to his lips for a moment and then said, "Five, I believe. Three of grain, and two more loaded with meat and various other necessaries."
"That is correct, Remey," confirmed the baron. "I want you to ready another consignment of the same." He paused, glancing at the bishop, then added, "And double it this time."
"Ten wagons!" gasped Bishop Asaph. This went far beyond his most fervent hopes. "My lord baron, this is most generous-indeed, more than generous! Your largesse is as noble as it is needful."
"Think nothing of it," the baron replied grandly. "I am only too glad to be of some small service. Now then, perhaps I can persuade you to share a little sustenance with me before you return to Elfael. In fact, if you would consent to stay a day or so, you may depart with the first wagons."
"Nothing would please us more," replied the bishop, almost giddy with relief. "And tonight, Brother Clyro and I will hold vigil for you and extol your name before the Throne of Grace,"
"You are too kind, bishop. I am certain I do not deserve such praise."
"On the contrary, I will spread word of your munificence from one end of Elfael to the other so that all our people will know who to thank for their provision." Tears started to his eyes, and he dabbed them with his hands, saying, "May God bless you richly, baron, for troubling yourself on our behalf. May God bless you well and richly."
)3ran spent the day getting to know the people of Cel Craidd, the hidden heart of the greenwood. A few were folk of Elfael, but many were from other cantrefs-chiefly Morgannwg and Gwent, which had also fallen under Norman sway. All, for one reason or another, had been forced to abandon their homes and seek the refuge of the wood. He talked to them and listened to their stories of loss and woe, and his heart went out to them.
That night he sat beside the hearth in Iwan's hut, and they talked of the Ffreinc and what could be done to reclaim their homeland. "We must raise a warband," Iwan declared, brash in his enthusiasm. "That is the first thing. Drive the devils out. Drive them so far and so hard they dare not come back again."
The three men faced one another across the small fire burning in the centre of the hut's single room. "We could get swords and armour," Siarles suggested. "And horses, to be s
ure. Good ones-trained to battle." The young man had been chief huntsman to the king of Gwent, but when the Ffreinc deposed his lord and took all hunting rights to themselves, Siarles had fled to the forest rather than serve a Ffreinc lord. He had assumed the position of Iwan's second. "De Braose has hundreds of horses. We'll raise a thousand," he said, exuberance getting the better of him. He considered this for a moment and then amended it, saying, "Not every warrior will need a horse, mind. To be sure, we must have footmen as well."
The mere thought of trying to find so many men and horses was laughable to Bran. Even if men in such numbers could somehow be found, arming and equipping a warband of that size could well take a year or more-and they must be housed and fed in the meantime. It was absurd, and Bran pitied his friends for their hopeless, pathetic dream; it might make the British heart beat faster, but it was doomed to failure. The Ffreinc were bred for battle; they were better armed, better trained, better horsed. Engaging them in open battle was certain disaster; every British death strengthened their hold on the land that much more and increased misery and oppression for everyone. To think otherwise was folly.
Listening to Iwan and Siarles, Bran grew more certain than ever that his future lay in the north amongst his mother's kinsmen. Elfael was lost-it had been so from the moment his father was cut down in the road-and there was nothing he could do to change that. Better to accept the grim reality and live than to die chasing a glorious delusion.
He looked sadly at the two men across from him, their faces eager in the firelight. They burned with zeal to drive the enemy from the valley and redeem their homeland. Why stop there? Bran thought. They might as well hope to reclaim Cymru, England, and Scotland, too for all the good it would do them. Unable to endure the futile hope of those keen expressions, Bran rose suddenly and left the hut.
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