Scarlet

  She might balk, but she would do as she was told. He hurried to his chambers below and called for his seneschal. “Remey,” he said when his chief servant appeared carrying a tray laden with cold meat, cheese, bread, and ale. “I need a carriage. Lady Agnes and I will attend the funeral of my Welsh client, Cadwgan. My lady’s maidservants will attend her, and tell my sergeant to choose no fewer than eight knights and as many men-at-arms. Tell them to make ready to march before nightfall.”

  “It will be done, Sire,” replied the seneschal, touching the rolled brim of his soft cap.

  “Thank you,” said Neufmarché with a gesture of dismissal. As the ageing servant reached the door, the baron called out, “And Remey! See to it that the carriage is good and stout. The roads are rock-lined ruts beyond the March. I want something that will get us there and back without breaking wheels and axles at every bump.”

  “To be sure, my lord,” replied Remey. “Will you require anything else?”

  “Spare no effort. I want it ready at once,” the baron said. “We must leave before the day is out if we are to reach Caer Rhodl in time.”

  The seneschal withdrew, and the baron sat down to his meal in solitude, his thoughts already firmly enmeshed in grand schemes for his Welsh commot and his long-cherished desire for expansion in the territory. Prince Garran would take his father’s place on the throne of Eiwas, and under the baron’s tutelage would become the perfect tool in the baron’s hand. Together they would carve a wide swathe through the fertile lowlands and grass-covered slopes of the Welsh hill country. The Britons possessed a special knack with cattle, it had to be admitted; when matched with the insatiable Norman appetite for beef, the fortune to be made might well exceed even the baron’s more grandiose fancies.

  The carriage Remey chose for the journey was surprisingly comfortable, muffling the judders and jolts of the deeply rutted roads and rocky trackways, making the journey almost agreeable. Accompanied by a force of sixteen knights and men-at-arms on horseback, and a train of seven pack mules with servants to attend them, they could not have been more secure. The baron noted that even Lady Agnes, once resigned to the fact that there was no escaping her fate, had perked up. After the second day, a little colour showed in her pale cheeks, and by the time the wooden fortress that was Caer Rhodl came into view, she had remarked no fewer than three times how good it was to get out of the perpetual chill of the castle. “Merveilleux!” she exclaimed as a view of the distant mountains hove into view. “Simply glorious.”

  “I am so glad you approve, my dear,” remarked the baron dryly.

  “I had no idea it could be like this,” she confessed. “So wild so beautiful. And yet . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “And yet so, so very, very empty. It makes me sad somehow—the mélancolie, no? Do not tell me you do not feel it, my love.”

  “Oh, but I do,” answered the baron, taking unexpected delight in his headstrong wife’s rare reversal of opinion. “I do feel it. No matter how often I visit the lands beyond the March, I always sense a sorrow I cannot explain—as if the hills and valleys hold secrets it would break the heart to hear.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” granted Agnes. “Quaint, yes, and perhaps a little mysterious. But not frightening. I thought it would be more frightening somehow.”

  “Well, as you see it today, with the sun pouring bright gold upon the fields, it does appear a more cheerful place. God knows, that is not always the way.”

  In due course, the travelling company was greeted on the road by riders sent out from the caer to welcome them and provide a proper escort into Cadwgan’s stronghold. Upon entering the circular yard behind the timber palisade, they were met by Prince Garran and his three principal advisors—one of his own and two who had served his father for many years.

  “Baron Neufmarché!” called Garran, striding forth with his arms outspread in welcome as his guests stepped down from the carriage. “Pax vobiscum, my lord. God be good to you.”

  “And to you,” replied the baron. “I could wish this a happier time, but I think we all knew this day would come. Now that it is here, my sympathies are with you and your mother. You have suffered much, I think, the past two years.”

  “We struggle on,” replied the prince.

  “You do,” agreed the baron, “and it does you credit.” He turned to his wife and presented her to the young prince.

  “Baroness Neufmarché,” said Garran, accepting her hand. “Rest assured that we will do all in our power to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”

  “Lady Agnes, if you please,” she replied, delighted at the prince’s dark good looks and polite manner—not to mention his facility in her own language. The baroness thanked her handsome young host and was in turn presented to Cadwgan’s widow, Queen Anora. “My lady, may God be gracious to you in your season of mourning,” Agnes said, speaking in simple French though she suspected the queen did not fully comprehend. Prince Garran smoothly translated for his mother, who smiled sadly and received the baroness’s condolences with austere grace.

  “Please, come inside,” said Garran, directing his guests towards the hall. “We have prepared a repast to refresh you from your journey. Tonight we will begin the feast of remembrance.”

  “And the funeral ceremony?” inquired the baron.

  “That will take place later today at twilight. The feast follows the burial.”

  They were led to the hall, where a number of mourners were gathered. Lady Agnes, who had imagined the Welsh to be dressed in rough pelts, their faces tattooed in weird designs, and feathers in their hair and necklaces made from the bones of birds and small animals, was pleasantly impressed with not only the general appearance of the barbarians—most of whom were dressed neither better nor worse than the typical English or French serf of her limited acquaintance—but with their solemn, almost stoic dignity as well. The room was festooned with banners of various tribes and illumined by the light of countless beeswax candles, the warm scent of which mingled with that of the clean rushes bestrewing the floor. On trestles set up in the centre of the room, on a board covered with fresh juniper branches, lay King Cadwgan himself, covered in his customary cloak, on which was placed a large white-painted wooden cross.

  Lady Agnes blanched to see him, but no one else seemed to consider it odd that the deceased should reside in the hall surrounded, as in life, by his subjects and kinsmen. Indeed, every now and then, one of the mourners would come forward to stroke the head of the dead king, whose hair had been washed and brushed to form a wispy nimbus around his head. One by one, the new arrivals were introduced to the other notables in the room, and they were given shallow bowls of mead to drink. Kitchen servants and young girls circulated with trays of small parcels of spiced meat, nuts, and herbs wrapped in pastry, which they served to the funeral guests.

  The baroness, although unable to understand anything that was said around her—or perhaps because of it—began watching these courtesies intently. What she saw was a people, whether highborn or low, who seemed to enjoy one another’s company and, crude as they undeniably were, revelled in the occasion. A time of sadness, of course, yet the funereal room rang with almost continual laughter. In spite of any previous notions, she found herself drawn to the unabashed sincerity of these folk and was moved by their honest displays of kindness and fellowship.

  Thus, the mourners occupied themselves until the sun began to set, at which time a body of priests and monks arrived. As if on signal the mourners began to sing, and though the words were strange and there were no musical instruments, Agnes thought she had never heard music so sweetly sad. After a lengthy stint of singing, a grey-robed priest who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings stepped to the bier and, bowing three times, stretched his hands over the corpse and began to pray. He prayed in Latin, which the baroness had not expected. The prayer, while curious in its expression, was more or less like any she might have heard in Angevin.

  When the prayer was finished, the priest was gi
ven a crosier—by which Agnes was given to know that he was actually a bishop. Striking the crosier on the floor three times, he gestured to the board. Six men of the tribe stepped forward and, taking their places around the dead king, lifted the board from the trestles and carried it from the hall. The mourners all fell into place behind them, and in this way they were led out into the yard and down from the fortress mound into the valley, eventually arriving in the yard of a small wooden church, where a grave had been dug within the precinct of the low, stone-walled yard. The grave was lined with large flat flagstones, some of which had been roughly shaped for the purpose.

  The mourners paused to remove their shoes before entering the churchyard, which Lady Agnes considered very odd; but entering the holy precinct barefoot stirred her soul more profoundly than anything which had happened thus far. When the body on its board was carefully lowered into the hole prepared to receive it by six barefoot men, her ever-watchful eyes grew a little moist at the corners. There were prayers over the grave, and still more when the earth was replaced in the hole, covering the dead king. Then, this part of the service concluded, the people began drifting away in small clumps of two or three.

  It was simple, but genuine and heartfelt, and the sincerity of the people winsome. Agnes, more intensely affected by the experience than she could possibly have imagined, became very thoughtful and silent on the way back to the caer. And when, as they mounted the hill and saw the first stars beginning to shine, the mourners began singing, Lady Agnes, for whom life presented nothing more than a series of challenges and hardships to be overcome, felt something tight loosen in her heart, and the tears began to flow. She heard in the melody such indomitable spirit and courage that she was ashamed of her former disparagement of these fine and dignified people. She walked along, slippers in hand, listening to the voices as they mingled in the sweet summer air, tears of joy and sadness glistening on her cheeks.

  The baron, walking with Prince Garran and his mother, did not see his wife, or he might well have been alarmed. Later, as they sat down to the first of several feasts in honour of the dead king, he did note that Lady Agnes seemed subdued, but pleasantly so, her smile unforced, her manner more calm and peaceable than he could recently remember. No doubt, he thought, she is tired from the journey. But as she smiled at him when she saw him regarding her from his place near the prince, he returned her smile and thought to himself that he had been right to insist she come.

  The next days were given to preparations for the coronation of Prince Garran who, as the baron had long ago determined, should follow his father to the throne. This decision was roundly ratified by the people of Eiwas, so there was no awkwardness or difficulty regarding the succession, and the coronation took place in good order, with little ceremony but great celebration by those who, having laid to rest the old king, had stayed to welcome the new.

  When Baron Neufmarché and his wife took their leave of King Garran two days later, they urged the new monarch to come to visit them in Hereford. “Come for Michaelmas,” the baron said, his tone gently insistent. “We will hold a feast in your honour, and talk about our future together.” As if in afterthought, he added, “You know, I think my daughter would like to know you better—you have not met Sybil, I think?” The young king shook his head. “No? Then it is arranged.”

  “You must come,” added the baroness, pressing his hand as she stepped to the carriage, “and bring your mother, too. Do promise to bring her. I will send a carriage so she will travel more comfortably.”

  “My lady,” replied the new-made king, unable to gainsay his lord’s wife, “it will be my pleasure to attend you at Michaelmas.”

  Later, as the carriage climbed the first of many hills that would take the caer from view, Lady Agnes said, “King Garran and our Sybil, so? You have not mentioned this to me.”

  “Ah, um—” The baron hesitated, uncertain how to proceed now that his impromptu plan had been revealed. “I meant to tell you about that, but ah, well, the notion just came to me a day or so ago, and there wasn’t time to—”

  “I like it,” she told him, cutting short his stuttering.

  He stared at her as if he could not think he had heard her right. “You would approve of such a union?” wondered Bernard, greatly amazed at this change in his wife’s ordinarily dour humour.

  “It would be a good match,” she affirmed. “Good for both of them, I should think. Yes, I do approve. I will speak to Sybil upon our return. See to it that you secure Garran’s promise.”

  “It will be done,” said the baron, still staring at his wife in slight disbelief. “Are you feeling well, my love?”

  “Never better,” she declared. She was silent a moment, musing to herself, then announced, “I think a Christmas wedding would be a splendid thing. It will give me time to make the necessary plans.”

  Baron Neufmarché, unable to think of anything to say in the presence of this extraordinary transformation of the woman he had known all these years, simply gazed at her with admiration.

  CHAPTER 45

  Nóin and I spent the rest of the summer luxuriating in one another’s love, and talking, talking, talking. Like two blackbirds sitting on a fence we filled the air morning to night with our chatter. She told me all the greenwood gossip—all the doings large and small that filled the days we were apart. I told her of my captivity and passing the time with Odo scribbling down my ramblings. “I should like to read that,” Nóin said, then smiled. “That alone would make it worth learning to read.”

  “Odo tells me that reading is not so difficult,” I explained, “but the only things written are either for lawyers or priests, and not at all of interest to plain folk like you and me.”

  “I should like it all the same,” Nóin insisted.

  As the days passed, I considered making good on my promise to build my wife and daughter a new house. I found a nice spot on a bit of higher ground at one end of Cél Craidd, and marked out the dimensions on the ground with sticks. I then went to our Lord Bran to beg his permission to clear the ground and cut a few limbs of stout oak for the roof beam, lintel, and corner posts.

  “Why build a house?” he asked, holding his head to one side as if he couldn’t understand. Before I could point out that I had promised it to my bride, and that her own small hut was a bit too snug for three or more he added, “We will be gone from here come Michaelmas.”

  “I know, but I promised Noín—” I began.

  “Come hunting with us instead,” Bran said. “We’ve missed you on the trails.”

  My broken fingers were slowly healing, but as my usefulness with a bow was still limited, I served mainly to beat the bushes for game. “Don’t worry,” Siarles told me after that first time we went out. “You’ll be drawing like a champion again in no time. Rest those fingers while you can.”

  In this, he was a prophet, no mistake. I did not know it then, but would have cause to remember his words in times to come.

  Thus, the summer slowly dwindled down and golden autumn arrived. I began counting the days to Michaelmas and the time of leaving we called the Day of Judgement. Bran and Angharad held close counsel and determined that we would go with as many of the Grellon as could be spared, leaving behind only those who could not make the journey and a few men to protect them. We would go to Caer Wintan—known to the English as Winchester—and receive the king’s decision on the return of our lands. “The king must see the people who depend on his judgement for their lives,” Angharad said. “We must travel together and stand before him together.”

  “What if he will not see us all in a herd?” wondered Iwan when he learned this.

  “He will speak to all, or none,” Bran replied, “for then he will judge what is right and for the good of all, and not for me only.”

  The next day, Bran sent Siarles with an extra horse to Saint Dyfrig’s Abbey to fetch Brother Jago, and twelve days before the Feast of Saint Michael, we set off. It is no easy thing to keep so many people moving, I can tell
you. We were thirty folk in all, counting young ones. We went on foot, for the most part; the horses were used to carry provisions and supplies. None of us rode save Angharad, for whom the walk would have been far too demanding. Her old bones would not have lasted the journey, I believe, for it is a fair distance to Caer Wintan from Elfael.

  The weather stayed good—warm days, nights cool and dry. We camped wherever we would; with that many people and enough of them bearing longbows, we had no great fear of being harassed by Englishmen or Normans either one. The only real danger was that we would not reach Caer Wintan in time, for as the days of travel drew on, the miles began to tell and the people grew weary and had to rest more often. We moved more slowly than Bran had reckoned. “Do not worry,” counselled Friar Tuck. “You can always take a few with you and ride ahead, can you not? You will get there in time, never fear.”

  Bran rejected this notion outright. We would arrive together each and every last one, he said, or we would not arrive at all. It was for the people we were doing this, he said, so the king must look into the eyes of those for whom his judgement is life or death. There was nothing for it but that we would simply have to travel more quickly.

  That night he gathered us all and told us again why we were going to see the king and what it meant. He explained how it was of vital importance that we should arrive in good time, saying, “King William must have no grievance against us, nor any cause to change his mind. We must endure the hardships of the road, my friends, for what we do we do not for ourselves alone, but for the sake of all those in Elfael who cannot join us. We do it for the farmers who have been driven from their fields, and families from their homes; for the widows who have lost their men, and those who stood in the shadow of the gallows. We do it for all who have been made to labour on the baron’s hateful strongholds and town, for those who have fled into bleak and friendless exile. We do it for those who will come after us to help shoulder the burden of reclaiming that which we have lost to the enemy. Yes, and for all who have gone before us we do this, theirs the sacrifice, ours the gain.” He gazed at all of those clustered around him, holding their eyes with his. “We do not do this for ourselves alone, but for all who have suffered under the oppression of the Ffreinc.”