"Precisement!" declared the priest. "You could not know, for God had not yet revealed his choice. And I believe that is why Rufus did not punish those who went against him. He understood that you were only acting in good faith according to holy law, and so he forgave you. He returned you to his grace and favour, as was only just and fair." The priest spread his hands as if presenting an object so obvious that it needed no further description. "Our king forgave you. Vila! God has forgiven you."
In the clear light of the elderly priest's unfaltering certainty, Bernard felt his melancholy dissipating. "There is yet one more matter," he said.
"Let me hear it," said the priest. "Unburden your soul and obtain absolution."
"I promised to send food to Elfael," the baron confessed. "But I did not."
"But you did," countered the priest. "I saw the men readying the supplies. I saw the wagons leave. Where did they go, if not to the relief of the Welsh?"
"Before, I mean. I let the Welsh priest think that Count de Braose had stolen the first delivery, because it suited my purposes."
"I see." Father Gervais tapped his chin with an ink-stained finger. "But you made good your original vow."
"Oh yes-doubled it, in fact."
"Well then," replied the priest, "you have overturned the wrong and provided your own penance. You are absolved."
"And you are certain that my attainment of lands in Wallia is ordained by heaven?"
"Deus vult!" the priest confirmed. "God wills it." He raised his hand to the baron's arm and gave it a fatherly squeeze. "You can believe that. Your endeavours prosper because God has so decreed. You are his instrument. Rejoice and be grateful."
Bernard de Neufmarche smiled, doubts routed and faith restored. "Thank you, father," he said, his countenance lightening. "As always, your counsel has done me good service."
The priest returned his smile. "I am glad. But if you wish to continue in favour with the Almighty, then build him a church in your new territories.
"One church only?" said the baron, his spirits rising once more. "I will build ten!"
CHAPTER
37
– you cannot save Elfael one pig at a time," Brother Aethelfrith was saying.
"Have you seen our pigs?" Bran quipped. "They are mighty pigs."
Iwan chuckled, and Siarles smirked.
"Laugh if you must," said the friar, growing peevish. "But you will wish soon enough you had listened to me,"
"The people are hungry," Siarles put in. "They welcome whatever we can give them."
"Then give them back their land!" cried Aethelfrith. "God love you, man; do you not see it yet?"
"And is this not the very thing we are doing?" Bran said. "Calm yourself, Tuck. We are already making plans to do exactly what you suggest."
The friar shook his tonsured head. "Are you deaf as well as blind?"
"Why do you think we watch the road?" asked Iwan.
"Watch it all you like," snipped the priest. "It will avail you nothing if you are not prepared for the flood I'm talking about."
The others frowned as one. "Tell us, then," said Bran. "What is it that we lack?"
"Sufficient greed," replied the cleric. "By the rood and Jehoshaphats nose, you think too small!"
"Enlighten us, 0 Head of Wisdom," remarked Iwan dryly.
"See here." Tuck licked his lips and leaned forward. "Baron de Braose is building three castles on the northern and western borders of Elfael, is he not? He has a hundred-maybe two hundredmasons, not to mention all those workers toiling away. Workmen must be paid. Sooner or later, they will be paid-every last manhundreds of them." Aethelfrith smiled as he watched the light come up in his listeners' eyes. "Ah! You see it now, do you not?"
"Hundreds of workers paid in silver," said Bran, hardly daring to voice the thought. "A river of silver."
"A flood of silver," corrected Aethelfrith. "Is this not what I am saying? Even now the baron is preparing to send his wagons with strongboxes full of good English pennies to pay all those workers. All the money you need will soon be flooding into the valley, and it is ripe for the taking."
"Well done, Tuck!" cried Bran, and he jumped to his feet and began pacing around the fire ring. "Did you hear, banfaith?" he asked, turning suddenly to Angharad sitting hunched on her three-legged stool beside the door. "Here is the very chance we need to drive the foreigners from our land."
"Aye, could be." She nodded in cautious agreement. "Mind, the Ffreinc will not send their silver through the land unprotected. There will be marchogi, and in plenty."
Bran thanked her for her word of warning, then turned to his champion. "Iwan?"
He frowned, sucking his teeth thoughtfully before answering. "We have-what?-maybe six men amongst us who have ever held more than a spade. We cannot go against a body of battle-trained knights on horseback."
"Yet the silver will not leap into our hands of its own accord, I think," offered Siarles.
Angharad, frowning on her stool, spoke again. "If thou wouldst obtain justice, thou must thyself be just."
The others turned questioning glances toward Bran, who explained, "I think she means we cannot attack them without provocation."
The group fell silent in the face of such a challenge. "Truly," Bran said at last. Raising his head, he gazed across the fire ring, dark eyes glinting with merry mischief. "We cannot take on knights on horseback, but King Raven can."
Brother Tuck remained unmoved. "It will take more than a big black bird to frighten battle-hardened knights, will it not?"
"Well then," Bran concluded. His smile was slow, dark, and fiendish. "We will give them something more to fear."
~Zx bbot Hugo de Rainault was used to better things. He had served in the courts of Angevin kings; princes had pranced to his whim; dukes and barons had run to his beck and bidding. Hugo had been to Rome- twice!-and had met the pope both times: Gregory and Urban had each granted him audience in their turn, and both had sent him away with gifts of jewel-encased relics and precious manuscripts. He had been extolled for an archbishopric and, in due time, perhaps even a papal legacy. He had governed his own abbey, controlled immense estates, held dominion over the lives of countless men and women, and enjoyed a splendour even the kings of England and France could sincerely envy.
Alas, all that was before the rot set in.
He had done what he could to prevent the debacle once the tide of fortune began to turn against him-benefactions and indulgences; costly gifts of horses, falcons, and hunting hounds to courtiers in high places; favourable endorsements for those in a position to speak a good word on his behalf. The reach of kings is long, however, and their memories for insults even longer. When William the Red cut up rough over the throne of England, Hugo had done what any rightthinking churchman would have done-the only thing he could have done. What choice did he have? Robert Curthose, the Conqueror's eldest, was the legitimate heir to his father's throne. Everyone knew it; most of the barons agreed and supported Robert's claim. Who could have known the deceitful William would move so swiftly and with such devastating accuracy? He cut the legs out from under his poor deluded brother with such uncanny ease, one had to wonder whether the hand of God was not in it after all.
Be that as it may, the whole sorry affair was the beginning of a long decline for Hugo, who had seen his own fortunes steadily wane since the day William the Red snatched away the crown. Now, at long last, the abbot was reduced to this: exile in a dreary backwater province full of hostile natives, to be bootlicker to a half-baked nobody of a count.