Scarlet

  I nodded. “The contest was fair—all it wanted was a better day.” I lifted my eyes to his, hoping to see some compassion there. But where the moment before they had been alive with light and mirth, his eyes were flat and cold. Could he change his demeanour so quickly?

  “You deserved better,” said the dark-haired lady.

  “I make no complaint,” I said.

  “It is a hard thing,” Bran observed, glancing at the young woman beside him, “but we do not always get what we want or deserve in this life.”

  “Sadly true, my lord,” I agreed. “Who should know that better than Will Scarlet?”

  I lowered my head and prepared to accept my defeat, and as I did so I saw that he was not looking at me, but at the young woman. She was glaring at him—why, I cannot say—seeming to take strenuous exception to the drift of our little talk.

  “But, sometimes, William,” the forest king announced, “we get better than we deserve.” I looked up quickly, and I saw a little of the warmth ebbing back into him. “I have decided you can stay.”

  It was said so quick I did not credit what I had heard. “My lord, did you say . . . I can stay?”

  He nodded. “Providing you swear allegiance to me to take me as your lord and share my fortunes to the aid of my Grellon, and the oppressed folk of Elfael.”

  “That I will do gladly,” I told him. “Let me kneel and I will swear my oath here and now.”

  “Did you hear that, everyone?” His smile was suddenly broad and welcoming. To me, he said, “I would I had a hundred hardy men as right ready as yourself—the Ffreinc would be fleeing back to their ships and reckoning themselves lucky to escape with their miserable hides.” With that Iwan—

  Beg pardon?” says Odo, interrupting again.

  “Are we never to get this told?” I say with a sigh of resignation, although I do not mind his questions as much as I let on, for it lengthens the time that much more.

  “That word Grellon—what does it mean?”

  “It is Britspeak, monk,” I tell him. “It means flock—like birds, you know. It is what the people of Coed Cadw—and that means, well that’s a little more difficult. It means something like Guarding Wood, as if the forest was a fortress, which in a way, it is.”

  “Grellon,” murmurs Odo as he writes the word, sounding out the letters one by one. “Coed Cadw.”

  “As I was saying, Grellon is what Rhi Bran’s people call themselves, right? Can we move on?” At Brother Odo’s nod, I continue . . .

  So now, Iwan sent someone to fetch Bran’s sword; and I was made to kneel in the barley stubble; and as the first drops of rain begin to fall upon my head, I plighted my troth to a new lord, the exiled king of Elfael. No matter that he was an outlaw hunted even then by every Norman in the territory, no matter that he had less in his purse than a wandering piper, no matter that a fella could pace the length and breadth of his entire realm while singing “Hey-Nonny-Nonny,” and finish before the song was done. No matter any of it, nor that to follow him meant I took my life in my own two hands by joining an outlaw band. I knew in my heart that it was right to do, if only to annoy the rough and overbearing Normans and all their heavy-handed barbarian ways.

  Oh, but it was more than that. It felt right in my soul. It seemed to me even as I repeated the words that would bind my life and fortunes to his that I had come home at last. And when he touched my shoulder with his sword and raised me to my feet, a tear came to my eye. Though I had never seen him or that forest settlement before, and knew nothing of the people gathered close around, it felt as if I was being welcomed into the fellowship of my own tribe and family. And nothing that has happened since then in all our scraps and scrapes has moved me from that stand.

  The rain began coming harder then, and we all returned to the village. “Your skill is laudable, William,” said Bran as we walked back together.

  “Almost as good as your own,” said the lady, falling into step beside him. “You may as well admit it, Bran, your man William is as good with a bow as you are yourself.”

  “Just Will, if you please,” I told them. “William Rufus has disgraced our common name in my eyes.”

  “Rufus!” Bran laughed. “I have never heard him called that before.”

  “It is common enough in England,” I replied. Willy Conqueror’s second son—the rakehell William, now king over us—was often called Rufus behind his back, on account of his flaming torch of red hair and scalding hot temper. His worthless brother, Duke Robert, is called Curthose owing to his penchant for wearing short tunics.

  Thinking of those two ne’er-do-well nobles made me that sorry for Thane Aelred who, like all right-thinking men of his kind, had thrown in his lot with Robert, the lawful heir to the throne. Alas, Robby Shortshift turned out to be unreliable as a weathercock, forever turning this way and that at the slightest breath of a favourable wind from each and any quarter. That poor numbskull never could make up his mind, and would never fully commit himself to any course, nor stay one once decided. He was a flighty sparrow, but imagined himself a gilded eagle. The shame of it is that he led so many good men to ruination.

  Aye, the only time he really ever led.

  Of course, Red William held tight to the throne he’d stolen from his brother, and used the confusion over the succession—confusion he himself caused, mind—to further strengthen his grip. After he seized the royal money mintery, he had himself crowned king, sat himself on the throne, and decreed that what was in truth little more than a family disagreement had actually been a rebellious uprising, and all those who supported sad brother Robert were made out to be dangerous traitors. Lands were seized, lives lost. Good men were banished and estates forfeited to the crown. Only a small handful of fortune-kissed aristos came away scapegrace clean.

  Turning to the lady, I said, “Speaking of names, now that I’ve given mine . . .”

  “This is Lady Mérian,” Bran said. “She is our . . .” He hesitated.

  “Hostage,” she put in quickly. The way she mouthed the word with such contempt, I could tell it was a sore point between them.

  “Guest,” Bran corrected lightly. “We are to endure the pleasure of her company for a little while longer, it seems.”

  “Ransom me,” she said crisply, “or release me and your trial will be over, my lord.”

  He ignored the jibe. “Lady Mérian is the daughter of King Cadwgan of Eiwas, the next cantref to the south.”

  “Bran keeps me against my will,” she added, “and refuses to set a price for my release even though he knows my father would pay good silver, and God knows the people here could use it.”

  “We get by,” replied Bran amiably.

  “Forgive my curiosity,” I said, plunging in, “but if her father is only over in the next cantref, why does he not send a host to take her back by force?” I lifted a hand to the patched-together little village we were entering just then. “I mean, it would not take much to overwhelm this stronghold, redoubtable as it is.”

  “My father doesn’t know where I am,” Mérian informed me. “And anyway, it is all the baron’s fault. I wouldn’t be here if he had not tried to kill Bran.”

  “Is that Baron de Braose?” I asked.

  “No.” She shook her head, making her long curls bounce. “Baron Neufmarché—he is my father’s overlord. Bran took me captive when the baron turned traitor against him.”

  “It is somewhat complicated,” offered Bran with a rueful smile.

  “No,” contradicted Mérian, “it is simplicity itself. All you need do is send a message to my father and the silver is yours.”

  “When the time is right, Mérian, I will. Be sure of it. I will.”

  “That’s what you always say,” she snipped. To me she confided, “He always says that—it’s been a year and more, and he’s still saying it.”

  The way they talked a fella’d thought they were a married couple airing a grudge nursed through long seasons of living together. There was little hostility in it, a
nd instead I sensed a certain restraint and even a sort of backwards respect. They’d had this discussion so often, I suppose, that the heat had gone out of it long ago and they were left with the familiar warmth of genuine affection.

  “Forgive my asking, but why was the baron trying to kill you, my lord?”

  “Because he wants Elfael,” said Iwan, coming up behind me. “No Ffreinc usurper can ever sit secure on the throne while Bran is alive.”

  “Elfael is a good place to stand if you’re trying to conquer all Cymru,” Bran explained. “Elfael may be small, but it is a prize both de Braose and Neufmarché want to possess for their own. De Braose has it now, but that could change.”

  “Aye,” said Iwan firmly, “it will and one day soon.”

  In this, I began to see the shape of the desperate necessity that had driven them into hiding. As in England, so in Wales. The Welsh now faced what Saxon England had suffered a generation ago. The difference was that now the Normans were far more numerous, far better supplied, and far more deeply entrenched in land and power than ever before. Restless, industrious, and determined as the day is long, the Norman overlords had stretched their long, greedy fingers into every nook and cranny of life in the Island of the Mighty. They are relentless, constantly searching out and seizing whatever they want and, often as not, destroying the rest. And now they had turned their attention to the hill-fast lands beyond the March.

  I would not have given an empty egg for Wales’ chances of surviving the onslaught. England in its strength, with its massed war host and bold King Harry leading the best warriors the land ever saw, could not resist the terrible Norman war machine. What hope in hell did proud little Wales ever have?

  So now. Fool that I am, I had joined my fate to theirs, exchanging the freedom of the road and the life of a wandering odd-jobber for certain death in a fight we could never win.

  Well, that’s Will Scarlet for you—doomed beginning and end. Oh, but shed him no tears—he had himself a grand time between.

  CHAPTER 7

  Castle Truan

  A little more than a year had passed since Baron William de Braose decreed that a market town would be built within the borders of his newly seized lands in Elfael. In that short time, the place had grown to respectable size. Already it was larger than Glascwm, the only other settlement worthy of a name in the region. True, the inhabitants had been moved in from the baron’s other estates—some from Bramber and lands beyond the March and some from the baron’s lands in France—for, unfortunately, the local Welsh shunned the place and refused to reside there. That, however, did not detract from the pride that Count Falkes felt in what he reckoned a considerable achievement by any measure: creating a town with a busy little market from a run-down, worthless monastery housing a few doughty old monks.

  One day, thought Falkes as he surveyed the tidy market square, this town, his town, would rival Monmouth or perhaps even Hereford. One day, if he could just maintain order in the cantref and keep his uncle off his back. Baron de Braose might have many good qualities, but patience, like a lame hound, was lagging far to the rear of the pack.

  Falkes was only too aware that his uncle chafed at what he considered his nephew’s slow progress. In the baron’s view, the conquest of Wales should have concluded long since. “It has been almost two years,” he had said last time Falkes had visited him at Bramber.

  It was at the first of summer that the baron had invited him, along with his cousin and closest friend, the baron’s son, Philip, on a hunting foray in the south of England. The sunny, open countryside of his uncle’s estate made a welcome change from grey, damp Wales. Falkes was enjoying the ride and basking in the warmth of a splendid summer day, if not in his uncle’s good opinion.

  “Two years!” said William de Braose as they paused beneath an elm tree to rest the horses. “Two years and what have we to show for it?”

  “We have a town, Uncle,” Falkes had pointed out. “A very fine town. And, if I may be so bold to suggest, it has not been two years, but only a little more than one since work began.”

  “A town.”William de Braose turned a cold eye on his nephew. “A single town.”

  “And an abbey,” added Falkes helpfully, casting Philip a sideways glance. “The new church is almost finished. Indeed, Abbot Hugo is hoping you will attend the consecration ceremony.”

  His uncle had allowed that while that was all well and good, he had far grander plans than this solitary town. Elfael was still the only cantref he had conquered in the new territories, and it was costing him more than he liked. “Taxes are low,” he observed. “The money collected hardly pays the supply of the abbey.”

  “The British are poor, Sire.”

  “They are lazy.”

  “No, my lord, it may be true they work less than the English,” granted Falkes, who was beginning to suspect his uncle entertained a faulty understanding of the Britons, “but their needs are less. They are a simple folk, after all.”

  “You should be more stern with them. Teach them to fear the steel in your hand.”

  “It would not help,” replied Falkes calmly. “Killing them only makes them more stubborn.”

  As Falkes had learned to his regret, the slaughter of the ruling Welsh king and his entire warband—while offering an immediate solution to the problem of conquering Elfael—had so thoroughly embittered the people against him that it made his position as ruler of the cantref exceedingly difficult and tenuous.

  “Impose your will,” the baron insisted. “Make them bend to your bidding. If they refuse, then do what I do—knock some heads, seize lands and property.”

  “They own little enough as it is,” Falkes pointed out. “Most of them hold land in common, and few of them recognise property rights of any kind. Money is little use to them; they barter for what they need. Whenever I tax a man, I am far more likely to be paid in eggs than silver.”

  “Eggs!” sneered his uncle. “I speak of taxes and you talk eggs.”

  “It happens more often than you know,” declared Falkes, beginning to exhaust his own small store of patience.

  “What about this creature of yours—this phantom of the forest?

  What do they call it?”

  “Rhi Bran y Hud,” replied Falkes. “It means King Raven the Enchanter.”

  “The devil, you say! Have you caught the rascal yet?”

  “Not yet,” confessed Falkes. “Sheriff de Glanville is hopeful. It is only a matter of time.”

  “Time!” roared the baron. “It has been two years, man! How much more time do you need?”

  “Father,” said Earl Philip, speaking up just then, “may I suggest a visit to the commot? See it for yourself. You will quickly get the measure of Elfael. And you will see what Falkes is making of the place.”

  “A worthy suggestion, Philip,” the baron had replied, curling the leather reins around his gloved fist as around the neck of an enemy, “but you know that is impossible. I am away to Rouen within the month. If all goes well, I should return before Christmas.”

  “I will speak to Abbot Hugo,” said Falkes, “and we will hold the consecration at Christmas.”

  “Rouen is where Duke Robert is encamped,” mused Philip, concern wrinkling his smooth brow. “What takes you there, Father?”

  Then, while the hounds and their handlers spread out across the field before them, Baron de Braose had confided his plans to meet in secret with a few like-minded noblemen who were anxious to do something about the incessant fighting between the king and his brothers. “Their silly squabble is costing us money that would be better spent on the expansion of our estates and the conquest of Wales,” the baron fumed, wiping sweat from his plump round face. “Whenever one of them thumbs his nose at the other, I have to raise an army and sail off to Normandie or Angevin to help the king slap down the knave. I’ve had a bellyful of their feuding and fighting. Something must be done.”

  “Dangerous words, Father,” cautioned Philip. “I would be careful about rep
eating any of that anywhere. You never know who is listening.”

  “Phaw!” scoffed the baron. “I would tell Rufus to his face if he were here. The king must know how his noblemen feel. No, the situation is intolerable, and something must be done. Something will be done, by heaven.”

  Philip and Falkes exchanged a worried glance. Speech like this was dangerously close to treason. King William, who knew better than anyone else how little his nobles and subjects esteemed him, viewed even the slightest wavering of support as disloyalty; open disagreement was considered outright betrayal.

  “If the king learns of this secret société , he will not be best pleased,” Philip pointed out. “You will all be condemned as traitors.”

  “The king will not learn of it,” the baron boasted. He drew off a glove and swatted at a fly buzzing before his face, then dragged his blue linen sleeve across his forehead. “Special measures have been taken. We have appealed to the archbishop of Rouen, who has agreed to summon a council of noblemen concerning the papal succession.”

  “The archbishop has recognised Urban as pope,” declared Philip, unimpressed with this revelation, “as everyone knows.”

  “Yes,” granted his father, “but Urban’s position is faltering just now. He is increasingly out of favour, and Clement occupies Rome. It would not take much to swing the balance his way.”

  “Is this what you propose to do? Throw the weight of the nobles behind Clement?”

  “For certain concessions,” the baron replied. “A papal ban on this continual family warring would be a good beginning.”

  “The king would ignore any declaration the pope might make—just as his father always did,” scoffed Philip. “Comme le père, donc le fils.”

  The baron frowned and looked to Falkes. “What say you, Count? Do you agree with my upstart son?”

  “It is not my place to agree or disagree, Sire.”

  “Hmph!” snorted the baron in derision. “What good is that?”

  “But if I might offer a suggestion,” continued Falkes, choosing his words carefully, “it seems to me that while it is true the king is likely to ignore any censure by the church, were you to establish Clement firmly on the throne of Saint Peter, Clement would be in a position to offer William certain benefits in exchange for a signed treaty of peace between the king and his brothers.”