The two gazed at each other across the ditch of language gaping between them.
"There you are!" They turned to see Baron Neufmarche striding toward them, flanked by two severe-looking knights dressed in the long, drab tunics and trousers of Saxon nobility. "My lords," declared the baron in English, "have you ever seen two more beautiful ladies in all of England?"
"Never, sire," replied the two noblemen in unison.
"It is pleasant to see you again, Lady Merian," said the baron. Smiling into her eyes, he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. Turning quickly, he kissed his daughter on the forehead and rested his hand on her shoulder. "I see you are finding pleasure in one another's company at last."
"We are trying," Merian said. She offered Sybil a hopeful smile. Clearly, the young woman had no idea what her father was saying.
"I hope that when the council is over, you still plan to attend us in Hereford," the baron said.
"Well, I… Merian faltered, unable to untangle her mixed emotions so quickly. After all, when originally mooted, the proposition had been greeted with such hostility on her part that now she hardly knew what she felt about the idea.
Neufmarche smiled and waved aside any excuse she might make. "We would make you most welcome, to be sure." He stroked his daughter's hair. "In fact, now that you know each other better, perhaps you might accompany Sybil to our estates in Normandie when she returns this autumn. It could be easily arranged."
Uncertain what to say, Merian bit her lip.
"Come, my lady," coaxed the baron. He saw her hesitancy and offered her a subtle reminder of her place, "We have already made arrangements, and your father has consented."
"I would be honoured, sire," she said, "seeing my father has consented."
"Good!" He smiled again and offered Merian a little bow of courtesy. "You have made my daughter very happy."
A third soldier came rushing up just then, and the baron excused himself and turned to greet the newcomer. "Ah, de Lacy! You have word?"
"Oui, anon baron de seigneur," blurted the man, red-faced from rushing in the heat. The baron raised his hand and commanded him to speak English for the benefit of the two knights with him. The messenger gulped air and dragged a sleeve across his sweating face. Beginning again, he said, "It is true, my lord. Baron de Braose did dispatch wagons and men through your lands. They passed through Hereford on the day the council convened and returned but yesterday." The man faltered, licking his lips.
"Yes? Speak it out, man!" Calling toward the tent, the baron shouted, "Remey! Bring water at once." In a moment, the seneschal appeared with a jar and cup. He poured and offered the cup to the baron, who passed it to the soldier. "Drink," Bernard ordered, "and let us hear this from the beginning-and slowly, if you please."
The messenger downed the water in three greedy draughts. Taking back the cup, the baron held it out to be refilled, then drank a little himself. "See here," he said, passing the vessel to the nobles with him, "de Braose's men passed through my lands without permission-did you mark?" The nobles nodded grimly. "This is not the first time they have trespassed with impunity. How many this time?"
"Seven knights and fifteen men-at-arms, not counting ox herds and attendants for three wagons. As I say, they returned but yesterday, only-most were afoot, and there were no wagons."
"Indeed?"
"There is rumour of an attack in the forest. Given that some of the men were seen to be wounded, it seems likely."
"Do they say who perpetrated the attack?"
"Sire, there is talk… rumours only." The soldier glanced at the two noblemen standing nearby and hesitated.
"Well?" demanded the baron. "If you know, say it."
"They say the train was attacked by the phantom of the forest."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Remey, unable to stifle his surprise.
The baron glanced hastily over his shoulder to see the two young women following the conversation. "Pray excuse us, ladies. This was not for your ears." To the men, he said, "Come; we will discuss the matter in private." He led his party into the tent, leaving Merian and Lady Sybil to themselves once more.
"Le fantonie!" whispered Sybil, eyes wide at what she heard. "I have heard of this. It is a creature gigantesque? Oui?"
"Yes, a very great, enormous creature," said Merian, drawing Sybil closer to share this delicious secret. "The people call him King Raven, and he haunts the forest of the March,"
"Incroyable!" gasped Sybil. "The priests say this is very impossibility, nest ce pas?"
"Oh no. It is true." Merian gave her a nod of solemn assurance. "The Cymry believe King Raven has arisen to defend the land beyond the Marches. He protects Cymru, and nothing can defeat him-not soldiers, not armies, not even King William the Red himself."
CHAPTER
44
]Dressed as humble wool merchants, Bran, Iwan, Aethelfrith, and Siarles swiftly crossed the Marches and entered England. Strange merchants these: avoiding towns entirely, travelling only by night, they progressed through the countryside-four men mounted on sturdy Welsh horses, each leading a packhorse laden with provisions and their wares, which consisted of three overstuffed wool sacks. Laying up in sheltered groves and glades and hidden glens along the way, they slept through the day with one of their number on watch at all times.
They arrived in Lundein well before the city gates were open and waited impatiently until sleepy-eyed guards, yawning and muttering, drew the crossbeams and gave them leave to enter. They went first to the Abbey of Saint Mary the Virgin, where, after a cold-water bath, the travellers changed into clean clothes and broke fast with the monks. Then, groomed and refreshed, they led their packhorses through the narrow streets of the city to the tower fortress. At the outer wall of the tower, they inquired of the porter and begged audience with Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux, Chief Justiciar of England.
"He is not here," the porter informed them. "He is away on king's business."
"If you please, friend," said Aethelfrith, "could you tell us where we might find him? It is of utmost importance."
"Winchester," replied the porter. "Seek him there."
Bran and Iwan exchanged a puzzled glance. "Where?"
"Caer Wintan-the king's hunting lodge," the friar explained for the benefit of the Welsh speakers. "It is not far-maybe two days' ride."
The four resumed their journey, pausing long enough to provision themselves from the farmers' stalls along the river before crossing the King's Bridge. Once out of the city, they turned onto the West Road and headed for the royal residence at Winchester. Riding until long after dark, rising early, and resting little along the way, the travellers reached the ancient Roman garrison town two days later. Upon asking at the city gate, they were directed to King William's hunting lodge: a sprawling half-timbered edifice built by a long-forgotten local worthy, and carelessly enlarged over generations to serve the needs of various royal inhabitants. The great house was the one place in all England the Red King called home.
Unlike the White Tower of Lundein, the Royal Lodge boasted no keep or protective stone walls; two wings of the lodge enclosed a bare yard in front of the central hall. A low wooden palisade formed the fourth side of the open square, in the centre of which was a gate and a small wooden hut for the porter. As before, the travellers presented themselves to the porter and were promptly relieved of their weapons before being allowed into the beaten-earth yard, where knights, bare to the waist, practised with wooden swords and padded lances. They tied their horses to the ringed post at the far end of the yard and proceeded to the hall. They were made to wait in an antechamber, where they watched Norman courtiers and clerks enter and leave the hall, some clutching bundles of parchment, others bearing small wooden chests or bags of coins. Bran, unable to sit still for long, rose often and returned to the yard to see that all was well with Iwan and Siarles, who waited with the horses, keeping an eye on their precious cargo. Brother Aethelfrith, meanwhile, occupied himself with prayers and psalms that he mumbled in a low continuous murmur as he passed the knots of his rope cincture through his pudgy hands.