A quick word with the porter, and their lodgings for the night were arranged. They ate soup with the brothers in the refectory, and while Ffreol and Aethelfrith attended the night vigil with the resident monks, Bran and Iwan went to the cell provided for them and fell asleep on fleece-covered straw mats. Upon arising with the bell the next morning, Bran saw that Ffreol and Aethelfrith were already at prayer; he pulled on his boots, brushed the straw from his cloak, and went out into the abbey yard to wait until the holy office was finished.
While he waited, he rehearsed in his mind what they should say to William the Red. Now that the fateful day had dawned, Bran found himself lost for words and dwarfed by the awful knowledge of how much depended upon his ability to persuade the English king of the injustice being perpetrated on his people. His heart sank lower and lower as he contemplated the dreary future before him: an impoverished lackey to a Ffreinc bounder whose reputation for profligate spending was exceeded only by his whoring and drinking.
When at last Ffreol and Aethelfrith emerged from the chapel, Bran had decided he would swear an oath to the devil himself if it would keep the vile invaders from Elfael.
The travellers took their leave and, passing beyond the monastery gates, entered the streets of the city to make their way to the White Tower, as the king’s stronghold was known.
Bran could see the pale stone structure rising above the rooftops of the low, mean houses sheltering in the shadows of the fortress walls. At the gates, Brother Ffreol declared Bran’s nobility and announced their intent to the porter, who directed them into the yard and showed them where to tie their horses. They were then met by a liveried servant, who conducted them into the fortress itself and to a large anteroom lined with benches on which a score or more men—mostly Ffreinc, but some English—were already waiting; others were standing in clumps and knots the length of the room. The thought of having to wait his turn until all had been seen cast Bran into a dismal mood.
They settled in a far corner of the room. Every now and then a courtier would appear, summon one or more petitioners, and take them away. For good or ill, those summoned never returned to the anteroom, so the mood remained one of hopeful, if somewhat desperate, optimism. “I have heard of people waiting twenty days or more to speak to the king,” Friar Aethelfrith confided as he cast his glance around the room at the men lining the benches.
“We will not bide that long,” Bran declared, but he sank a little further into gloom at the thought. Some of those in the room did indeed look as if they might have taken up more or less permanent residence there; they brought out food from well-stocked tuck bags, some slept, and others whiled away the time playing at dice. Morning passed, and the day slowly crept away.
It was after midday, and Bran’s stomach had begun reminding him that he had eaten nothing but soup and hard bread since the day before, when the door at the end of the great vestibule opened and a courtier in yellow leggings and a short tunic and mantle of bright green entered, passing slowly along the benches and eyeing the petitioners who looked up hopefully. At his approach, Bran stood. “We want to see the king,” he said in his best Latin.
“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 hard. 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.”
A
nd 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!”