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  “Yes,” replied the man, “and what is the nature of your business here?”

  “We want to see the king.”

  “To be sure.” The court official glanced at those attending Bran and said, “You four are together?”

  “We are,” replied Bran.

  “The question is why would you see the king?”

  “We have come to seek redress for a crime committed in the king’s name,” Bran explained.

  The official’s glance sharpened. “What sort of crime?”

  “The slaughter of our lord and his warband and the seizure of our lands,” volunteered Brother Ffreol, taking his place beside Bran.

  “Indeed!” The courtier became grave. “When did this happen?”

  “Not more than ten days ago,” replied Bran.

  The courtier regarded the men before him and made up his mind. “Come.”

  “We will see the king now?”

  “You will follow me.”

  The official led them through the wooden door and into the next room, which, although smaller than the anteroom they had just left, was whitewashed and strewn with fresh straw; at one end was a fireplace, and opposite the hearth was an enormous tapestry hung from an iron rod. The hand-worked cloth depicted the risen Christ on his heavenly throne, holding an orb and sceptre. The centre of the room was altogether taken up by a stout table at which sat three men in high-backed chairs. The two men at each end of the table wore robes of deep brown and skullcaps of white linen. The man in the centre was dressed in a robe of black satin trimmed with fox fur; his skullcap was red silk and almost the same colour as his long, flowing locks. He also wore a thick gold chain around his neck, attached to which were a cross and a polished crystal lens. Before the men were piles of parchments and pots containing goose quills and ink, and all three were writing on squares of parchment before them; the scratch of their pens was the only sound in the room.

  “Yes?” said one of the men as the four approached the table. He did not raise his eyes from his writing. “What is it?”

  “Murder and the unlawful seizure of lands,” intoned the courtier.

  “This is not a matter for the royal court,” replied the man dismissively, dipping his pen. “You must take it up with the Court of the Assizor.”

  “I thought perhaps this particular case might interest you, my lord bishop,” the courtier said.

  “Interesting or not, we do not adjudicate criminal cases,” sighed the man. “You must place the matter before the assizes.”

  Before the courtier could make a reply, Bran said, “We appeal to the king’s justice because the crime was committed in the king’s name.”

  At this the man in the red skullcap glanced up; interest quickened eyes keen and rapacious as a hawk’s. “In the king’s name, did you say?”

  “Yes,” replied Bran. “Truly.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You are Welsh.”

  “British, yes.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Here stands before you Bran ap Brychan, prince and heir to the throne of Elfael,” said Iwan, speaking up to save his future king the embarrassment of having to affirm his own nobility.

  “I see.” The man in the red silk cap leaned back in his chair. The gold cross on his chest had rubies to mark the places where nails had been driven into the saviour’s hands and feet. He raised the crystal lens and held it before a sharp blue eye. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Forgive me, sir, are you the king?” asked Bran.

  “My lord, we have no time for such as this. They are—,” began the man in the white skullcap. His objection was silenced by a flick of his superior’s hand.

  “King William has been called away to Normandie,” explained the man in the red skullcap. “I am Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux, Chief Justiciar of England. I am authorised to deal with all domestic matters in the king’s absence. You may speak to me as you would speak to His Majesty.” Offering a mirthless smile, the cardinal said, “Pray, continue. I would hear more of this alleged crime.”

  Bran nodded and licked his lips. “Nine days ago, my father, Lord Brychan of Elfael, set off for Lundein to swear allegiance to King William. He was ambushed on the road by Ffreinc marchogi, who killed him and all who were with him, save one. My father and the warband of Elfael were massacred and their bodies left to rot beside the road.”

  “My sympathies,” said Ranulf. “May I ask how you know the men who committed this crime were, as you call them, Ffreinc marchogi?”

  Bran put out a hand to Iwan. “This man survived and witnessed all that took place. He is the only one to escape with his life.”

  “Is this true?” wondered the cardinal.

  “It is, my lord, every word,” affirmed Iwan. “The leader of this force is a man named Falkes de Braose. He claims to have received Elfael by a grant from King William.”

  Ranulf of Bayeux raised the long white quill and held it lengthwise between his hands as if studying it for imperfections. “It is true that His Majesty has recently issued a number of such grants,” the cardinal told them. Turning to his assistant on the left, he said, “Bring me the de Braose grant.”

  Without a word the man in the chair beside him rose and crossed the room, disappearing through a door behind the tapestry.

  “There would seem to be some confusion here,” allowed the cardinal when his man had gone, “but we will soon find the cause.” Regarding the three before him, he added, “We keep good records. It is the Norman way.”

  Friar Aethelfrith stifled a hoot of contempt for the man’s insinuation. Instead, he beamed beatifically and loosed a soft fart.

  A moment later the cardinal’s assistant returned bearing a square of parchment bound by a red satin riband. This he untied and placed before his superior, who took it up and began to read aloud very quickly, skipping over unimportant parts. “Be it known . . . this day . . . by the power and enfranchisement . . . Ah!” he said. “Here it is.”

  He then read out the pertinent passage for the petitioners. “Granted to William de Braose, Baron, Lord of the Rape of Bramber, in recognition for his support and enduring loyalty, the lands comprising the Welsh commot Elfael so called, entitled free and clear for himself and his heirs in perpetuity, in exchange for the sum of two hundred marks.”

  “We were sold for two hundred marks?” wondered Iwan.

  “A token sum,” replied the cardinal dryly. “It is customary.”

  “The Norman way, no doubt,” put in Aethelfrith.

  “But it is Count Falkes de Braose who has taken the land,”

  Bran pointed out, “not the baron.”

  “Baron William de Braose is his uncle, I believe,” said the cardinal. “But, yes, that is undoubtedly where the confusion has arisen. There is no provision for Falkes to assume control of the land, as he is not a direct heir. The baron himself must occupy the land or forfeit his claim. Therefore, as Chief Justiciar, I will allow this grant to be rescinded.”

  “I do thank you, my lord,” said Bran, sweet relief surging through him. “I am much obliged.”

  The cardinal raised his hand. “Please, hear me out. I will allow the grant to be revoked for a payment to the crown of six hundred marks.”

  “Six hundred!” gasped Bran. “It was given to de Braose for two hundred.”

  “In recognition of his loyalty and support during the rebellion of the Barons,” intoned the cardinal. “Yes. For you it will be six hundred and fealty sworn to King William.”

  “That is robbery!” snapped Bran.

  The cardinal’s eyes snapped quick fire. “It is a bargain, boy.” He stared at Bran for a moment and then pulled the parchment to himself, adding, “In any case, that is my decision. The matter will be held in abeyance until such time as the money is paid.” He gestured to his assistant, who began writing an addendum to the grant.

  Bran stared at the churchman and felt the despair melt away in a sudden surge of white-hot rage. His vision became blood-tinged and h
ard. He saw the bland face and shrewd eyes, the man’s flaming red hair, and it was all he could do to keep from seizing the imperious cleric, pulling him bodily across the table, and beating the superior smirk off that smug face with his fists.

  Rigid as a stump, hands clenched in rage, he stared at the courtiers as his grip on reality slipped away. In a blood-tinted vision, he saw a tub of oil at his feet, and before anyone could stop him, he snatched up the tub and emptied it over the table, drenching the cardinal, his clerks, and their stacks of parchment. As the irate courtiers spluttered, Bran calmly withdrew an oil-soaked parchment from the pile; he held it to a torch in a wall sconce and set it ablaze. He blew on it to strengthen the flame, then tossed it back onto the table. The oil flared, igniting the table, parchments, and men in a single conflagration. The clerks pawed at the flames with their hands and succeeded only in spreading them. The cardinal, gripped with terror, cried out like a child as tongues of fire leapt to his hair and turned the rich fox fur trim into a collar of living flame. Bran glimpsed himself standing gaunt and grim as the howling clerics fled the room, each oil-soaked footprint alighting behind them as they ran. He saw Ranulf of Bayeux’s face bubble and crack like the skin of a pig on a spit, and as the cardinal fought for his last breath—

  “Abeyance, my lord,” said Ffreol. “Forgive me, but does that mean Baron de Braose keeps the land?”

  At the sound of Ffreol’s voice, Bran came to himself once more. He felt drained and somewhat light-headed. Without awaiting the cardinal’s reply, he turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.

  “Until the money is paid, yes,” Cardinal Ranulf replied to Ffreol. He reached for a small bronze bell to summon the porter. “Do not bother to return here until you have the silver in hand.” He rang the bell to end the audience, saying, “God grant you a good day and pleasant journey home.”

  CHAPTER 9

  And a pleasant journey home,” minced Aethelfrith in rude parody of Cardinal Ranulf. “Bring me my staff, and I will give that bloated toad a pleasant journey hence!”

  Bran, scowling darkly, said nothing and walked on through the gates, leaving the White Tower without a backward glance. The unfairness, the monstrous injustice of the cardinal’s demand sent waves of anger surging through him. Into his mind flashed the memory of a time years ago when a similar injustice had driven him down and defeated him: Bran had been out with some of the men; as they rode along the top of a ridgeway, they spied in the valley below a band of Irish raiders herding stolen cattle across the cantref. Outnumbered and lightly armed, Bran had let the raiders pass unchallenged and then hurried back to the caer to tell his father. They met the king in the yard, along with the rest of the warriors of the warband. “You let them go—and yet dare to show your face to me?” growled the king when Bran told him what had happened.

  “We would have been slaughtered outright,” Bran explained, backing away. “There were too many of them.”

  “You worthless little coward!” the king shouted. The warriors gathered in the yard looked on as the king drew back his hand and let fly, catching Bran on the side of the head. The blow sent the boy spinning to the ground. “Better to die in battle than live as a coward!” the king roared. “Get up!”

  “Lose ten good men for the sake of a few cows?” countered Bran, climbing to his feet. “Only a fool would think that was better.”

  “You snivelling brat!” roared Brychan, lashing out again. Bran stood to the blow this time, which only enraged his father the more. The king struck him again and yet again— until Bran, unable to bear the abuse any longer, turned and fled the yard, sobbing with pain and frustration.

  The bruises from that encounter lasted a long time, the humiliation longer still. Any ambition Bran might have held for the crown died that day; the throne of Elfael could crumble to dust for all he cared.

  They did not stay in Lundein again that night but fled the city sprawl as if pursued by demons. The moon rose nearly full and the sky remained clear, so they rode on through the night, stopping only a little before dawn to rest the horses and sleep. Bran had little to say the next day or the day after. They reached the oratory, and Brother Aethelfrith prevailed upon them to spend the night under his roof, and for the sake of wounded Iwan, Bran agreed.While the friar scurried about to prepare a meal for his guests, Bran and Ffreol took care of the horses and settled them for the night.

  “It isn’t fair,” muttered Bran, securing the tether line to the slender trunk of a beech tree. He turned to Ffreol and exclaimed, “I still don’t see how the king could sell us like that. Who gave him the right?”

  “Red William?” replied the monk, raising his eyebrows at the sudden outburst from the all-but-silent Bran.

  “Aye, Red William. He has no authority over Cymru.”

  “The Ffreinc claim that kingship descends from God,” Ffreol pointed out. “William avows divine right for his actions.”

  “What has England to do with us?” Bran demanded. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”

  “Answer that,” replied the monk sagely, “and you answer the riddle of the ages. Throughout the long history of our race, no tribe or nation has ever been able to simply leave us alone.”

  That night Bran sat in the corner by the hearth, sipping wine in sombre silence, brooding over the unfairness of the Ffreinc king, the inequity of a world where the whims of one fickle man could doom so many, and the seemingly limitless injustices—large and small—of life in general. And why was everyone looking to him to put it right? “For the sake of Elfael and the throne,” Ffreol had said.Well, the throne of Elfael had done nothing for him—save provide him with a distant and disapproving father. Remove the throne of Elfael—take away Elfael itself and all her people.Would the world be so different? Would the world even notice the loss? Besides, if God in his wisdom had bestowed his blessing on King William, favouring the Ffreinc ascendancy with divine approval, who were any of them to disagree?

  When heaven joined battle against you, who could stand?

  Early the next morning, the three thanked Friar Aethelfrith for his help, bade him farewell, and resumed the homeward journey. They rode through that day and the next, and it was not until late on the third day that they came in sight of the great, rumpled swath of forest that formed the border between England and Cymru. The dark mood that had dogged them since Lundein began to lift at last. Once amongst the sheltering trees of Coed Cadw, the oppression of England and its rapacious king dwindled to mere annoyance. The forest had weathered the ravages of men and their petty concerns from the beginning of time and would prevail. What was one red-haired Ffreinc tyrant against that?

  “It is only money, after all,” observed Ffreol, optimism making him expansive. “We have only to pay them and Elfael is safe once more.”

  “If silver is what the Red King wants,” said Iwan, joining in, “silver is what he will get.We will buy back our land from the greedy Ffreinc bastards.”

  Bran said, “There are two hundred marks in my father’s strongbox. That is a start.”

  “And a good one,” declared Iwan. All three fell silent for a moment. “How will we get the rest?” Iwan asked at last, voicing the thought all three shared.

  “We will go to the people and tell them what is required,” said Bran. “We will raise it.”

  “That may not be so easy,” cautioned Brother Ffreol. “If you could somehow empty every silver coin from every pocket, purse, and crock in Elfael, you might get another hundred marks at most.”

  To his dismay, Bran realised that was only too true. Lord Brychan was the wealthiest man in three cantrefs, and he had never possessed more than three hundred marks all at once in the best of times.

  Six hundred marks. Cardinal Ranulf might as well have asked for the moon or a hatful of stars. He was just as likely to get one as the other.

  Unwilling to succumb to despair again so soon, Bran gave the mare a slap and picked up the pace. Soon he was racing through the darkening wood, speeding along
the road, feeling the cool evening air on his face. After a time, his mount began to tire, so at the next fording place, Bran reined up. He slid from the saddle and led the horse a little way along the stream, where the animal could drink. He cupped a few handfuls of water to his mouth and drew his wet hands over the back of his neck. The water cooled his temper somewhat. It would be dark soon, he noticed; already the shadows were thickening, and the forest was growing hushed with the coming of night.

  Bran was still kneeling at the stream, gazing at the darkening forest, when Ffreol and Iwan arrived. They dismounted and led their horses to the water. “A fine chase,” said Ffreol. “I have not ridden like that since I was a boy.” Squatting down beside Bran, he put a hand to the young man’s shoulder and said, “We’ll find a way to raise the money, Bran, never fear.”

  Bran nodded.

  “It will be dark soon,” Iwan pointed out. “We will not reach Caer Cadarn tonight.”

  “We’ll lay up at the next good place we find,” said Bran.

  He started to climb into the saddle, but Ffreol said, “It is vespers. Come, both of you, join me, and we will continue after prayers.”

  They knelt beside the ford then, and Ffreol raised his hands, saying:

  I am bending my knee

  In the eye of the Father who created me,

  In the eye of the Son who befriended me,

  In the eye of the Spirit who walks with me,

  In companionship and affection.

  Through thine own Anointed One, O God,

  Bestow upon us fullness in our need . . .

  Brother Ffreol’s voice flowed out over the stream and along the water. Bran listened, and his mind began to wander. Iwan’s hissed warning brought him back with a start. “Listen!” The champion held up his hand for silence. “Did you hear that?”

  “I heard nothing but the sound of my own voice,” replied the priest. He closed his eyes and resumed his prayer. “Grant us this night your peace—”