"And so, my lady, are you," I told her, and, pulling her close, kissed her with the first of countless kisses we would share that night.
As for the rest, I need not say more. If you have ever loved anyone, then you will know full well. If not, then nothing I can say will enlighten you.
CHAPTER 44
Caer Rhodl
Even though he had known this day was coming, the news caught Baron Neufmarche off his guard. He had just returned from a short trip to Lundein and afterward gone to his chapel to observe Mass and to offer a prayer of thanks for his safe return and a season of gainful commerce. Father Gervais was officiating, and the old priest who usually mumbled through the service in a low, unintelligible drone, perked up when the lord of Hereford appeared in the doorway of the small, stone church tucked inside the castle wall.
Priest and worshipper acknowledged one another with a glance and a nod, as the baron slipped into the enclosed wooden stall which served his family during their observances in the chapel. The priest moved through the various sequences of the daily office, lifting his voice and lingering over the scripture passages so that the baron, whose Latin he knew to be limited, could follow more easily. He chanted with his eyes closed, saying, "Deus, qui omnipotentiam tuam parcendo maxime et miserando manifestas," his old voice straining after the notes that once came so easily.
At those long familiar strains, Bernard felt himself relax; the toil of his recent journey overtook him, and he slumped back on the bench and rested his head against the high back of the stall. He was soon asleep, and remained happily so until some inner prompting woke him at the beginning of the dismissal. Upon hearing the words "Dominus vobiscum," he roused himself and sat up.
Father Gervais was making the sign of the cross above the altar of the near-empty sanctuary. "Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus," he intoned, his deep voice loud in the small, stone chapel; and Neufmarche joined him in saying, "Amen."
The service concluded, the elderly priest stepped down from the low platform to greet the baron. "Dear Bernard," he said, extending his hands in welcome, "you have returned safely. I trust your journey was profitable?"
"It was, Father," answered the baron. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. "Very profitable." The old man took his arm and the two walked out into the brilliant light of a glorious late-summer day. "And how are things with you, Father?" he said as they stepped into the shaded path between the castle rampart and the rising wall of the tower keep.
"About the same, my son. Oh, yes, well…" He paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "Ah, now then. But perhaps you haven't heard yet. I fear I may be the bearer of bad news, Bernard."
"Bad news, Father?" The baron had not heard anything on the road, nor in the town when he passed through. None of the household servants had hinted that anything was amiss; he had not seen Lady Agnes since his return, otherwise he would certainly have been informed. His wife delighted in ill tidings-the worse the better. He glanced at the old man beside him, but Father Gervais did not appear distraught in the least. "I have heard nothing."
"A rider arrived this morning from your foreign estates-what do you call them? Eye-ass?"
"Eiwas," the baron corrected gently. "It is a commot in Wales, Father, ruled by my client, Lord Cadwgan-a local nobleman enfeoffed to me."
"Ah, your liegeman, yes." The doddering priest nodded.
"The messenger, Father," prompted Neufmarche gently, "what did he say?"
"He said that the king has died," said the priest. "Would that be the same one, King Kad… Kadeuka… no, that can't be right."
"Cadwgan," corrected Neufmarche. "King Cadwgan is dead, you say?"
"I am sorry, Bernard, but yes. There is to be a funeral, and they are wanting to know if you would attend. I asked the fellow to wait for you, but we didn't know when you would return, so he went on his way."
"When is the funeral to be held?"
"Well." The priest smiled and patted his temple. "This old head may not work as swiftly as once it did, but I do not forget." He made a calculation, tapping his chin with his fingertips. "Two days from tomorrow, I believe. Yes, something like that."
"In three days!" exclaimed the baron.
"I think that's what he said, yes," agreed the priest affably. "Is it far, this Eye-as place?"
"Far enough," sighed the baron. He could reach Caer Rhodl in time for the funeral, but he would have to leave at once, with at least one night on the road. Having just spent six days travelling, the last thing he wanted was to sit another three days in the saddle.
A brief search led the baron to the one place he might have guessed his wife would be found. She was sitting in the warmest room of Castle Hereford-a small, square chamber above the great hall. It had no feature other than a wide, south-facing window which, during the long summer, admitted the sunlight the whole day through. Lady Agnes, dressed in a gauzy fluff of pale yellow linen, had set up her tapestry frame beside the wide-open window and was plying her needle with a fierce, almost vengeful concentration. She glanced up as he came in, needle poised to attack, saw who it was, and as if stabbing an enemy, plunged the long needle into the cloth before her. "You have returned, my lord," she observed, pulling the thread tight. "Pleasant journey?"
"Pleasant enough," said Neufmarche. "You have fared well in my absence, I trust."
"I make no complaint."
Her tone suggested that his absence was the cause of no end of tribulations, too tiresome to mention now that he was back. Why did she always do that? he wondered, and decided to ignore the comment and move straight to the meat of the matter at hand. "Cadwgan has died at last," he said. "I must go to the funeral."
"Of course," she agreed. "How long will you be away this time?"
"Six days at least," he answered. "Eight, more like. I'd hoped I'd seen the last of the saddle for a while."
"Then take a carriage," suggested Agnes, striking with the needle once more.
"A carriage." He stared at her as if he'd never heard the word before. "I will not be seen riding in a carriage like an invalid," he sniffed.
"You are a baron of the March," his wife pointed out. "You can do what you like. There is no shame in travelling in comfort with an entourage as befits a man of your rank and nobility. You could also travel at night, if need be."
The baron spied a table in the corner of the room and, on it, a silver platter with a jar and three goblets. He strode to the table and took up the jar to find that it contained sweet wine. He poured himself a cup, then poured one for his lady wife. "If I got a carriage, you could come to the funeral with me," he said, extending the goblet to her.
"Me?"What little colour she had drained from the baroness's thin face; the needle halted in midflight. "Go to Wales? Perish the thought. C'est impossible! No."
"It is not impossible," answered her husband, urging the cup on her. "I go there all the time, as you know."
She shook her head, pursing her thin lips into a frown. "I will not consort with barbarians."
"They are not barbarians," the baron told her, still holding out the cup of wine. "They are crude and uneducated, true, and given to strange customs, God knows. But they are intelligent in their own way, and capable of many of the higher virtues."