Hood

  Several board-and-trestle tables had been erected, draped in cloths, and decked with fir branches. As the men settled on the long benches, the steward and his serving boys filled an assortment of vessels with wine drawn from a tun brought from Aquitaine. When each of the guests was in possession of a cup, their host raised his chalice and called, “My friends, let us drink to King William and his continued good health!

  Long may he reign!”

  “King William!” they all cried and downed the first of many such cups that night. With the men thus fortified, the celebration soon turned into a revel, and Count Falkes’s anxiety slowly gave way to a pleasant, wine-induced contentment.

  Cousin Philip seemed happy with his efforts and would certainly return to his uncle with a good report. As the evening wore on, Falkes became more and more the jovial host, urging his guests to eat and drink their fill; and when they had done so, he invited his own men, and some of their wives, to join the festivities. Those who knew how to play music brought their instruments, and there was singing and dancing, which filled the hall and lasted far into the night.

  Accordingly, it was not until late the next day that Falkes and Philip found opportunity to sit down together. “You have done well, Cousin,” Philip asserted. “Father always said that Elfael was a plum ripe for the plucking.”

  “How right he was,” agreed Falkes readily. “I hope you will tell him how grateful I am for his confidence. I look forward to an early demonstration of my loyalty and thanks.”

  “Rest assured I will tell him. Know you, he has charged me to convey a secret—all being well.”

  “I hope you think it so,” said Falkes.

  “It could not be better,” replied Philip. “Therefore, I am eager to inform you that the baron intends to make Elfael his staging ground for the conquest of the territories.”

  “Which territories?” wondered Falkes.

  “Selyf, Maelienydd, and Buellt.”

  “Three commots!” Falkes exclaimed. “That is . . . ambitious.”

  Falkes had no idea his uncle entertained such far-reaching plans. But then, with the endorsement of the king, what was to prevent Baron de Braose from laying claim to the whole of Wales?

  “Ambitious, to be sure,” avowed Philip pleasantly. “My father is intent, and he is determined. Moreover, he has the fortune to make it possible.”

  “I would never doubt it.”

  “Good,” replied Philip, as if a knotty issue had been decided. “To this end, the baron requires you to undertake a survey of the land to be completed before spring.”

  “Before spring—,” repeated Falkes, struggling to keep up.

  “But we have only just begun to establish—”

  “Zut!” said Philip, brushing aside his objection before it could be spoken aloud. “The baron will send his own men to perform the survey. You need only aid them with an appropriate guard to ensure their safety while they work.”

  “I see.” The pale count nodded thoughtfully. “And what is this survey to determine?”

  “The baron requires three castles to be built—one on the border to the north, one south, and one west—on sites best suited for controlling the territories beyond each of those borders. This the surveyors will determine.”

  “Three castles,” mused Falkes, stroking his thin, silky beard.

  The cost of such an undertaking would be staggering. He hoped he would not be expected to help pay for the project.

  Philip, seeing the shadow of apprehension flit across his cousin’s face, quickly explained. “You will appreciate,” he continued, “that the building will be funded out of the baron’s own treasury.”

  Falkes breathed easier for the reassurance. “What about the people of Elfael?” he wondered.

  “What about them?”

  “I assume they will be required to supply ready labour.”

  “Of course—we must have workers in sufficient number.”

  “They may resist.”

  “I don’t see how they can,” declared Philip. “You said the king and his son have already been removed, along with their men-at-arms. If you were to encounter any meaningful resistance, you would certainly have done so by now. Whatever opposition we meet from here on will be easily overcome.”

  Despite his cousin’s effortless assurance, Falkes remained sceptical. He had no clear idea how many of the original inhabitants remained in Elfael. Most seemed to have fled, but it was difficult to determine their numbers, for even in the best of times they rarely stayed in one place, preferring to wander here and there as the whim took them, much like the cattle they raised and which formed their chief livelihood. Be that as it may, those few who remained in the scattered farms and steadings were certain to have something to say about invaders taking their property, even if it was mostly grazing land.

  “You can tell your father, my uncle, that he will find everything in good order by next spring, God willing. In the meantime, I will await the arrival of the surveyors—and what is more, I will accompany them personally to see that all is carried out according to the baron’s wishes.”

  They talked of the work to be done, the materials to be obtained, the number of men who would be needed, and so on. In all that followed, Count Falkes paid most stringent attention—especially when it came to the labourers who would be required.

  It was common practise amongst the Ffreinc to entice the local population of conquered lands to help with construction work; for a little pay, parcels of land, or promises of preferential dealings, an ample workforce could often be gathered from the immediate area. The custom had been applied to rousing effect amongst the Saxons. This is how the Conqueror and his barons had accomplished so much so quickly in the subjugation and domination of England. There was no reason why the same practise should not also work in Wales.

  The prospect of ready silver went a long way toward slaking any lingering thirst for rebellion. Often those who shouted the loudest about rising up against the invaders were the same ones who profited most handily from the invasion. God knows, Baron de Braose’s renowned treasury had won more battles than his soldiers and could be relied upon to do so again. And as everyone knew, the Welsh, for all their prideful bluster, were just as greedy for gain as the most grasping, lack-land Saxon.

  It was with this in mind that the two kinsmen rode out the following day to view the commot. Philip wanted to get a better idea of the region and see firsthand the land that had so quickly fallen under their control.

  The day began well, with a high, bright sky and a fresh breeze pushing low clouds out of the west. Autumn was advancing; everywhere the land was slumping down toward its winter rest. The leaves on the trees had turned and were flying from the branches like golden birds across a pale blue sky.

  Away in the distance, always in the distance, defining the boundary of the commot, towered the green-black wall of the forest, looming like a line of clouds, dark and turbulent, heralding the advance of a coming storm.

  The two noblemen, each accompanied by a knight and three men-at-arms, rode easily together through the valley and across the rolling hills. They passed by the little monastery at Llanelli and paused to examine the setting of the place and the construction of the various buildings before riding on. They also visited one of Elfael’s few far-flung settlements, cradled amongst the branching valleys. This one, huddled in the wind shadow of the area’s highest hill, consisted of a house and barn, a granary, and a coop for chickens. It, like so many others, was abandoned. The people had gone—where, Falkes had no idea.

  After visiting a few of the dwellings, they returned to their horses. “A piss-poor place,” observed Earl Philip, climbing back into the saddle. “I would not allow one of my dogs to live here.” He shook his head. “Are they all like this?”

  “More or less,” replied Falkes. “They are mostly herdsmen, from what I can tell. They follow their cattle, and these holdings are often abandoned for months at a time.”

  “What about the far
ms, the crops?” wondered Philip, taking up the reins.

  “There are few enough of those,” answered Falkes, turning his horse back onto the trackway. “Most of the open land is used for grazing.”

  “That will change,” decided Philip. “This soil is rich— look at the grass, lush and thick as it is! You could grow an abundance of grain here—enough to feed an army.”

  “Which is precisely what will be needed,” replied Falkes, urging his mount forward. He thought about the baron’s plans to subdue the next commots. “Two or three armies.”

  They rode to the top of the hill above the settlement and looked out over the empty valley with its narrow stream snaking through the deep green grass, rippling in the wind. In his mind’s eye, Earl Philip could see farms and villages springing up throughout the territory. There would be mills—for wood and wool and grain—and storehouses, barns, and granaries. There would be dwellings for the farmers, the workers, the craftsmen: tanners, chandlers, wainwrights, ironsmiths, weavers, bakers, dyers, carpenters, butchers, fullers, leatherers, and all the rest.

  There would be churches, too, one for each village and town, and perhaps a monastery or two as well. Maybe, in time, an abbey.

  “A good place,” mused Falkes.

  “Yes.” His cousin smiled and nodded. “And it is a good thing we have come.” He let his gaze sweep over the hilltops and up to the blue vault of heaven and felt the warm sun on his face. “Elfael is a rough gem, but with work it will polish well.”

  “To be sure,” agreed Falkes. “God willing.”

  “Oh, God has already willed it,” Philip assured him. “As sure as William is king, there is no doubt about that.” He paused, then added, “None whatsoever.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The day following the feast of Saint Edmund —three weeks after Earl Philip’s visit—and the weather had turned raw. The wind was rising out of the north, gusting sharply, pushing low, dirty clouds over the hills. Count Falkes’s thin frame was aching with the chill, and he longed to turn around and ride back to the scorching, great fire he kept blazing in the hearth, but the baron’s men were still disputing over the map they were making, and he did not want to appear irresolute or less than fully supportive of his uncle’s grand enterprise.

  There were four of them—an architect, a surveyor, and two apprentices—and although Falkes could not be sure, he suspected that in addition to their charting activities, they were also spies. The questions they asked and the interest they took in his affairs put the count on his guard; he knew only too well that he enjoyed his present position through the sufferance of Baron de Braose. Not a day went by that he did not ponder how to further advance his uncle’s good opinion of him and his abilities, for as Elfael had been given, so Elfael could be taken away.Without it, he would become again what he had been: one more impoverished nobleman desperate to win the favour of his betters.

  Fate had reached down and plucked him from the heaving ranks of desperate nobility. Against every expectation, he had been singled out for advancement and granted this chance to make good. Spoil this, and Falkes knew another opportunity would never come his way. For him, it was Elfael . . . or nothing.

  Thus, he must ever and always remain vigilant and ruthless in his dealings with the Welsh under his rule, nor could he afford to show any weakness to his countrymen, however insignificant, that might give the baron cause to send him back to Normandie in disgrace.

  Although his cousin Philip heartily assured him that his uncle, the baron, applauded his accomplishments, Falkes reckoned he would not be secure in his position as Lord of Elfael until the de Braose banner flew unopposed over the surrounding commots. So despite the bone-cracking cold, a most miserable Falkes remained with his visitors, sitting on his horse and shivering in the damp wind.

  The surveying party had arrived the day before when the first wains rolled down into the shallow bowl of the valley.

  Bumping across the stream that was now a swift-running torrent, the high-sided, wooden-wheeled vehicles toiled up the slope and came to a stop at the foot of the mound on which the fortress stood. The wagons, five in all, were full of tools and supplies for the men who would oversee the construction of the three castles Baron de Braose had commissioned.

  Building work would not begin until the spring, but the baron was anxious to waste not a single day; he wanted everything to be ready when the masons and their teams of apprentices arrived with the thaw.

  By the time the wildflowers brushed the hilltops with gold, the foundations of each defensive tower would be established.

  When the stars of the equinox shone over the sites, the ditches would be man deep and the walls shoulder high. By midsummer, the central mound would belly to the sky, and stone curtains twice the height of the workmen would crown the hillcrests.

  And when the time came for the master mason to call his men to pack their tools and load the wains to return to their families in Wintancaester, Oxenforde, and Gleawancaester, the walls and keep, bailey, donjon, and ditch would be half-finished.

  For now, however, the wagons and animals would remain in sight of Caer Cadarn, where their drivers would camp in the lee of the fortress to shelter from the perpetual wind and icy rain that roared down out of the northwest. All winter long, Count Falkes’s men-at-arms would be kept busy hunting for the table, while the footmen and servants foraged for wood to keep the fires ablaze in hearth and fire ring of caer and camp.

  It was not at all a convivial country, Falkes decided, for although winter had yet to arrive in force, the count had never been so cold in all his life. Curse the baron’s impatience! If only the invasion of Elfael could have waited until the spring.

  As it was, Falkes and his men had come so late to Wales that they had not had time to adequately prepare for the season of snow and ice. Falkes found he had seriously underestimated the severity of the British weather; his clothes—he wore two or three tunics and mantles at a time, along with his heaviest cloak—were too thin and made of the wrong stuff. His fingers and toes suffered perpetual chilblains. He stamped his way around the fortress, clapping his hands and flapping his arms across his chest to keep warm. By night, he took to his bed after supper and burrowed deep under the fleeces and skins and cloaks that served him for bedclothes in his dank, wind-fretted chamber.

  Just this morning he had awakened in his bed, aghast to find that frost had formed on the bedclothes overnight; he swore an oath that he would not sleep another night in that room. If it meant he had to bed down with the servants and dogs beside the hearth in the great hall, so be it. The only time his hands and feet were ever warm was when he sat in his chair before the hearth, with arms and legs outstretched toward the fire—a position he could maintain only for a few moments altogether; but those were moments of pure bliss in what looked to be a long, grinding, bitter winter—more ordeal than season.

  It was not until the light was beginning to fail and the surveyor could no longer read the chart he was making that the builders decided to stop for the day and return to Caer Cadarn. The count was the first to turn his horse and head for home. As the work party came in sight of the fortress, the skies opened and rain began hammering down in driving sheets. Falkes lashed his mount to speed and covered the remaining distance at a gallop. He raced up the long ramp, through the gates, and into the yard to find a half dozen unfamiliar horses tethered to the rail outside the stable.

  “Who has come?” he asked, throwing the reins of his mount to the head stabler.

  “It is Baron Neufmarché of Hereford,” replied the groom.

  “He arrived only a short while ago.”

  Neufmarché here? Mon Dieu! This is a worry, thought the count. What could he possibly want with me?

  Dashing back across the rain-scoured yard, a very wet Falkes de Braose entered the great hall. There, standing before a gloriously radiant hearth, was his uncle’s compatriot and chief rival, accompanied by five of his men: knights every one. “Baron Neufmarché!” called Falke
s. He shrugged off his sodden cloak and tossed it to a waiting servant. “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he brayed, trying to sound far more gracious than he felt at the moment. Striding quickly forward, he rubbed the warmth back into his long hands. “Welcome!

  Welcome, messires, to you all!”

  “My dear Count de Braose,” replied the baron with a polite bow of courtesy. “Pray forgive our intrusion—we were on our way north, but this vile weather has driven us to shelter. I hope we do not trespass on your hospitality.”

  “Please,” replied Falkes, oozing cordiality, “I am honoured.” He glanced around to see the cups in the hands of his guests. “I see my servants have seen to your refreshment. Bon.”

  “Yes, your seneschal is most obliging,” the baron assured him. Taking up a spare cup, already poured, he handed it to the count. “Here, drink and warm yourself by the fire. You have had an inclement ride.”

  Feeling uncomfortably like a guest in his own house, Falkes nevertheless thanked the baron and accepted the cup.

  Withdrawing a poker from the fire, he plunged it into the wine; the hot iron sizzled and sputtered. The count then raised his steaming cup and said, “To King William!” Several cups later, when a meal had been prepared and they all sat down together, the count at last discovered the errand that brought the baron to his door, and it had nothing to do with seeking shelter from the rain.

  “I have long wished to visit the Earl of Rhuddland,” the baron informed him, spearing a piece of roast beef with his knife. “I confess I may have waited too far into the autumn, but affairs at court kept me in Lundein longer than I anticipated.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “C’est la vie.”

  Count Falkes allowed himself a sly, secret smile; he knew Baron Neufmarché had been summoned by King William to attend him in Lundein and kept waiting several days before finally being sent away. William the Red had still not completely forgiven the contrary noblemen who had upheld his brother Robert’s claim to the throne, legitimate though it undoubtedly was. When the dust of revolt had settled, William had tacitly pardoned those he considered rebels, returning them to rank and favour—although he could not resist harassing them in small ways just to prove the point.