After a fair distance, they came to a place where a narrow animal trail crossed their own. Here the sheriff paused. He sat for a moment, looking both ways along the ground. The tracks of pigs and deer lay intertwined in the snow and, here and there, the spoor of wolves—and all were old. Just as he was about to move along, his eye caught the sign that had no doubt caused him to stop in the first place: the slender double hoofprint of a deer and, behind and a little to one side, a slight half-moon depression. Without a word, he climbed down from the saddle and knelt for a better look. The half-moon print was followed by another a short stride length away.
“You have found something, Sire?” asked Bailiff Antoin after a moment.
“It seems our ride is to be rewarded today,” replied de Glanville.
“Deer?”
“Poacher.”
Antoin raised his eyes and peered down the tunnel formed by the overhanging branches. “Better still,” he replied.
The sheriff resumed his saddle and, with a gesture to silence the chattering soldiers, turned onto the narrow trail and began following his quarry. The trail led up a low rise and then down into a dell with a little rock-bound rill trickling along the bottom. There in the soft mud were a half dozen depressions—including the mark of a knee where a man had knelt to drink.
De Glanville raised a gauntlet to halt those coming from behind. He caught the sheen of a damp glimmer where water had splashed onto a rock. “He was here not long ago,” observed the sheriff. Turning in the saddle, he singled out two of his men. “Stay here and be ready should he double back before we catch him.”
He lifted the reins and urged his mount across the brook, up the opposite bank, and into a thicket of elder that formed a rough hedge along the streambed. Once beyond the hedge, the trail opened slightly, allowing the sun to penetrate the dense tangle overhead. Shafts of weak winter light slanted down through the naked branches above. A few hundred paces further along, the sheriff could see that the track entered a snow-covered glade. He reined up and, pointing to the clearing ahead, motioned Antoin and the remaining knights to dismount and circle around on foot. When they had gone from sight, Sir Richard proceeded on alone, pausing again as he entered the clearing. There, across the snowy space, kneeling beside the sleek, ruddy stag he had just brought down, was a swarthy Welshman. Knife in hand, he stooped to begin butchering his kill. In a glance the sheriff saw the hunter, the knife, and the longbow leaning against the trunk of a fallen birch a few paces from the crouching man.
Drawing his sword silently from its sheath with his left hand, de Glanville unslung his shield with his right. Tightening his grip on the pommel of his sword, he drew a deep breath and called across the glade, “In the name of the king!”
The shout rang clear in the chilly air, shattering the quiet of the glade.
The startled Welshman lurched and spun. “Throw down your weapons!” shouted de Glanville. The hunter dived for his bow. In the time it took the sheriff to swing his shield into place, the hunter had an arrow on the string. “Halt!” cried the sheriff as the poacher drew and loosed.
The arrow struck home with a jolt that rocked the sheriff in his high-cantled saddle. The arrow point pierced the solid ashwood planking that formed the body of the shield, the iron point protruding a finger’s width below the sheriff ’s eye.
The man’s quickness was impressive, but ultimately futile. Before he could nock another arrow, two knights rushed into the clearing from either side. The hunter whirled and loosed at the nearest of the two, but the arrow merely grazed the top of the soldier’s shield and careered away. Desperate, the Welshman swung the bow at the second knight and turned to flee. The two soldiers captured him in a bound, subduing him with a few skull-crushing blows before dragging him to where Sheriff de Glanville sat watching from his horse.
“Poaching deer in the king’s forest,” the sheriff said, his voice loud in the sanctuary of the glade, “is an offence punishable by death. Do you have anything to say before you are hanged?”
The hunter, who clearly did not understand the language of the Ffreinc, nevertheless knew the fate he faced just then. He gave out a cry and, with a mighty heave, tried to shake off the two soldiers clinging to him. They hung on, however, and showered blows upon his head until he subsided once more.
“Bailiff Antoin,” said the sheriff, “you profess some proficiency in the tongue of these brutes. Ask him if he has anything to say.”
The bailiff, clinging to the man’s right arm, informed him of the charge against him. The Welshman struggled and shouted, pleading and cursing as he flailed helplessly in the grasp of his captors until he was silenced with blows to the head and stomach. “It appears he has no defence,” Bailiff Antoin declared.
“No, I wouldn’t think so,” remarked the sheriff. The three remaining knights burst into the glade just then. “The rope, Bailiff,” de Glanville ordered, and Antoin reached into the bag behind the sheriff ’s saddle and drew out a coiled length of braided leather.
The Welshman saw the rope and began shouting and struggling again. The sheriff ordered his knights to haul the man to the nearest tree. The rope was lofted over a stout bough and the quickly fashioned noose pulled tight around the wretch’s neck.
“By order of His Majesty, King William of England, in whose authority I am sworn, I sentence you to death for the crime of poaching the king’s deer,” said the sheriff, his voice low and languid, as if pronouncing such judgement was a dreary commonplace of his occupation. He directed Bailiff Antoin to repeat his words in Welsh. The bailiff struggled, lapsing now and again into French, and finished with a shrug of indifference.
The sheriff, satisfied that all had been done in proper order, said, “Carry out the sentence.”
The knight holding the end of the rope was joined by two others and the three began pulling. The leather stretched and creaked as the victim’s weight was lifted from the ground. The poor Welshman scrabbled with his hands as the noose tightened around his neck and his dancing feet swung free, toes kicking up clods of snow.
Then, as the suffocated choking began, the sheriff seemed to reconsider. “Hold!” he said. “Let him down.”
Instantly the rope slackened, and the man’s feet touched ground once more. The wretch collapsed onto his knees, and his hands tore at the constricting leather band around his neck, his breath coming in great, grunting gasps.
When the colour had returned to the Welshman’s face, the sheriff said, “Inform the prisoner that I will give him one more chance to live.”
Antoin, standing over the gasping man, relayed the sheriff ’s words. The unfortunate looked up, eyes full of hope, and grasped the bailiff ’s leg as might a beggar beseeching a would-be benefactor.
“Tell him,” continued de Glanville, “that I will let him go if he will but tell me where King Raven can be found.”
The bailiff duly repeated the offer, whereupon the Welshman rose to his feet. Speaking slowly and with care, aware of the dire consequence of his reply, the hunter folded his hands in supplication to the sheriff and delivered himself of an impassioned speech.
“What did he say?” asked the sheriff when the hunter finished.
“I cannot be certain,” began the bailiff, “but it seems that he is a poor man with hungry children—five in number. His wife is dead—no, ill, she is ill. He says his cattle were killed by soldiers of the marshal. They have nothing.”
“That is no excuse,” replied de Glanville. “Does he know that? Ask him.”
The bailiff repeated the sheriff ’s observation, and the Welshman retorted with an impassioned plea.
“He says,” offered Antoin, “that they are starving. The loss of his cattle has driven him to take the deer. This, he grieves, ah, no, regrets—but always when hunger drove him to the wood, he could take a deer with his lord’s blessing.”
The sheriff considered this, and then said, “The law is the law. What about King Raven? Make him understand that he can walk free, and take the
deer with him, if he tells me where to find that rebel and thief.”
This was told to the prisoner, who replied in the same impassioned voice. The bailiff listened, then answered, “The poacher says, if it is a crime to be hungry, then a guilty man stands before you. But if there be a thing such as mercy under heaven, then he pleads to you before God to let him go for the sake of mercy. He calls upon Christ to be his witness, for he knows nothing of King Raven or where he might be found.”
The sheriff listened to this, impressed as he occasionally was with the Welsh facility with expression. If talking could save them, they had nothing to fear. Alas, words were but empty things, devoid of power and all too easily broken, discarded, and forgotten. “I will ask one last time,” said the sheriff. “Tell me what I want to know.”
When the sheriff ’s words had been translated, the captive Briton drew himself up full height and gave his answer, saying, “Release me, for the sake of Christ before whom we all must stand one day. But know this, if it lay in my power to know the wiles and ways of the creature you call King Raven, I would not spare so much as a breath to tell you.”
“Then save your breath for dying,” replied the sheriff when the captive’s reply had been relayed. “Hang him!”
The three knights began hauling on the end of the rope. The Welshman’s feet were soon kicking and his hands clawing at the noose once more. His strangled cries were swiftly choked off, and his face, now purple and swollen, glared his dying hatred for the sheriff and all Ffreinc invaders.
In a few moments, the victim’s struggles ceased and his hands fell limp to his sides, first one and then the other. The sheriff leaned on the pommel of his saddle, watching the poacher’s body as it swung, twisting gently from side to side. After a time, the bailiff said, “He is dead, Sire. What do you want us to do with the body?”
“Let it swing,” said the sheriff. “It will be a warning to others of his kind.”
With that, he turned his mount and started from the clearing, mildly satisfied with the day’s work. True, he was no closer to finding King Raven, but hanging a poacher was always a good way to demonstrate his authority and power over the local serfs. A small thing, perhaps, as some would reckon, but it was, after all, in the exercise of vigilance and attention to such small details that power was maintained and multiplied.
Richard de Glanville, Sheriff of the March, knew very well the ways and uses of power. He would find the rebel known as King Raven one day, and on that day all Elfael would see how traitors to the crown were punished. Justice might be delayed, but it could not be escaped. King Raven would be caught, and his death would make that of the hanged poacher seem like a child’s game. He would not merely punish the rebel, he would destroy him and snuff out his name forever. That, he considered, would be a delight to savour.
CHAPTER 26
We rode hard for Glascwm and passed through the gates of Saint Dyfrig’s as a wet winter storm closed over the valleys. Rain, stinging cold, spattered into the hard-packed yard as the monks scurried to pull the horses into the stable and bundle us soggy travellers into the refectory where they could spoon hot soup into us. They did not yet know who it was they entertained—not that it would have made a difference, I reckon, for the abbey yard was already full of local folk who, having fled the Ffreinc, sought sanctuary within the walls of the abbey.
Wet and wretched, battered and beaten down, they stood slump-shouldered in the rain before the low huts they had built in the yard, watching us with the mute, dull-eyed curiosity of cattle as we trotted through the gate. Forlorn and past caring, they huddled before their hovels, shivering as the rain puddled in the mud at their bare feet. The monks had made a fire in the middle of the yard to warm them, but the damp fuel ensured that it produced more smoke than heat. Most were thin, half-starved farmers by the look of them; and more than a few bore the signs of Norman justice: here a missing hand, or chopped-off foot, there an eye burned out by a red-hot poker.
Oh, the Ffreinc love lopping bits off the poor folk. They are tireless at it. And when a Norman noble cannot find good excuse to maim some unfortunate who wanders across his path . . . why, he’ll concoct a reason out of spit and spider silk.
As soon as we dismounted, the ladies were taken to the guest lodge where they could dry their clothes, but the rest of us foreswore that comfort for a hot meal instead. The abbot, a stiff old stick with a face like a wild pig’s rump, huffed and puffed when he saw our lord and his rough companions puddling up his dining hall. “Bran ap Brychan!” he cried, bursting into the long, low-beamed room. “They told me you were killed dead a year ago or more.”
“I am as you see me, Father,” replied Bran, standing to receive Abbot Daffyd’s blessing. “I hope we find you well.”
“Well enough. If the Ffreinc would leave off harrowing the valleys and driving decent folk from their homes, we would fare that much better. I hope you do not plan on staying—we are stretched tight as a drum head with caring for those we have already.”
“We will not trouble you any longer than necessary,” Bran assured him.
“Good.” The old man did not waste words. His forthright manner made me smile. Here was a fella who would listen to reason, and give back the same. “I’m glad you’re not dead. What are you doing here?”
“And here I was thinking you would never ask,” replied Bran. Iwan and Siarles chuckled, but Bran silenced them with a stern glance. “A few days ago, a letter was brought to you by Bishop Asaph.”
“That is so,” answered the abbot, folding his hands over his chest. His frown suggested he suspected grave mischief, and he was not wrong. “What is that to you, my son—if I may be so bold?”
“Be as bold as you like,” answered Bran. “Only tell me that you have that letter.”
“I do.”
“And have you read it, Father?”
“I have not,” said Daffyd. “But another has.”
“I hope he is a trustworthy man.”
“If he was not, I would not have given him the task.”
“Come, then.” He put a hand to the abbot’s shoulder and turned him around. “We will hear it together.”
“You’re soaking wet!” remarked the abbot, shrugging off Bran’s hand. “I’ll not have you shaking water all over my abbey. Stay here and finish your soup. I will bring the letter here.”
I began to appreciate the abbot right well. He was a bluff old dog whose bark concealed the fact that he would never bite. Bran returned to his place on the bench with a rueful smile. “He knew me as a boy,” he explained, “when he was under Asaph at Llanelli.”
The abbot returned as we were finishing our soup and bread. He brought the folded square of parchment clutched tight in both hands, as if he thought it might try to wriggle free; with him was a dark-haired, slender monk of middling years with a long face, prominent nose, and skin the colour of good brown ale.
“This is Brother Jago,” announced the abbot. “He was born in Genoa and raised in Marseilles. He speaks Ffreinc far better than anyone here in the abbey. He has read the letter.”
The slender monk dipped his head in acknowledgement of his superior’s wishes. “I am happy to serve,” he said, and I discerned in his speech a lightly lisping quality I’d never heard before. He turned to the abbot, who still stood holding the parchment bundle. “Father?” he said, extending his hand.
Abbot Daffyd gazed at the letter and then at Bran. “Are you certain you wish to proceed with this?”
Bran nodded.
The abbot frowned. “I will not be a party to this. You will excuse me.”
“I understand, Abbot,” replied Bran. “No doubt, it is for the best.”
Placing the bundle in Brother Jago’s hands, the abbot turned and left the room. When the door had closed again, Bran nodded to the monk. “Begin.”
Jago untied the blue cord and carefully unfolded the prepared skin. He stood for a moment, gazing at it, then placed it on the board in front of him and, leaning sti
ff-armed on his hands, began to read in a slow, confident voice.
“I, William, by the grace of God, Baron of Bramber and Lord of Brienze, to the greatly esteemed and reverend Guibert of Ravenna. Greetings in God, may the peace of Christ, Our Eternal Saviour, remain with you always. Pressed—” Jago paused. “Ah, no, rather . . . urged by faith, we are obliged to believe and to maintain that the Church is one: Holy, Catholic, and also Apostolic. We believe in Her firmly and we confess with simplicity that outside of Her there is neither Salvation nor the remission of Sins, and She represents one sole mystical Body whose Head is Christ and the Head of Christ is God.”
Although we understood little enough of what he said, the musical quality of his speech drew us near; as he continued to read, we gathered around to hear him better.
“In all our Realms and whatsoever lands exist under our rule, granted by God, we venerate this Church as one. Therefore, of the one and only Church there is one Body and one Head, not two heads like a monster; that is, Christ and the Vicar of Christ, Peter and the successor of Peter, since the Lord speaking to Peter Himself said: ‘Feed my sheep,’ meaning, my sheep in general, not these, nor those in particular, whence we understand that He entrusted all to this same Peter, entrusting to him and him alone, the Keys of the Kingdom . . .”
Well, I never would have believed it—that Bloody Baron de Braose should preach so about the nature of the church and whatnot—well, it passed understanding.
“. . . Therefore, if anyone should say that they are not belonging—”Jago broke off, read to himself for a moment, then raised his head and said, “I am sorry. It has been some time since I read French like this.”
“You are doing well,” Bran said. “Pray, continue.”
“Ah . . . that they are not under the authority of Peter and his successors, they must confess not being the Sheep of Christ, since Our Lord says in the Gospel of John ‘there is one sheepfold and one Shepherd.’
Therefore, whoever resists this power thus ordained by God, resists the ordinance of God, unless he invent like Manicheus two beginnings, which is false and judged by us heretical, since according to the testimony of Moses, it is not ‘in the beginnings’ but ‘in the beginning’ that God created Heaven and Earth. Furthermore, we declare, we proclaim, we define that it is absolutely necessary for Salvation that every human creature be subject to the Roman Pontiff . . .”