Lady Agnes folded her spindly arms across her narrow bosom. "That is as may be," she allowed coolly. "But they are a contentious and bloody race who love nothing more than carving Norman heads from Norman shoulders." She shivered violently and reached for the shawl that was perpetually close to hand. "You have said as much yourself."
"In the main, that may be true," the baron granted, warming to the idea of his wife's company as he contemplated the more subtle nuances of the situation. To arrive at the funeral on horseback leading a company of mounted knights and men-at-arms would certainly reinforce his position as lord and master of the cantref-but arriving with the baroness beside him in a carriage, accompanied by a domestic entourage, would firmly place his visit on a more social and personal footing. This, he was increasingly certain, was just the right note to strike with Cadwgan's family, kinsmen, countrymen, and heir. In short, he was convinced it was an opportunity not to be missed.
Placing the goblet firmly in her hand, he drank from his cup and declared, "Ordinarily, I would agree with you. However, my Welsh fiefdom is an exception. We have been on productive and peaceful terms for many years, and your appearance at this time will commence a new entente between our two noble houses."
Lady Agnes frowned and glared into her cup as if it contained poison. She did not like the way this conversation was going, but saw no way to disarm the baron in his full-gallop charge. "May it please you, my lord," she said, shoving back her chair and rising to her feet, "I will send with you a letter of condolence for the women of the house and my sincere regret at not being able to offer such comforts in person."
She stepped around the tapestry frame to where the baron was standing, rose up on her toes, and kissed his forehead, then bade him good afternoon. Bernard watched his wife-head high, back stiff-as she walked to the door. Oh, she could be stubborn as a barnyard ass. In that, she was her father's daughter to the last drop of her Angevin blood.
She might balk, but she would do as she was told. He hurried to his chambers below and called for his seneschal. "Remey," he said when his chief servant appeared carrying a tray laden with cold meat, cheese, bread, and ale. "I need a carriage. Lady Agnes and I will attend the funeral of my Welsh client, Cadwgan. My lady's maidservants will attend her, and tell my sergeant to choose no fewer than eight knights and as many men-at-arms. Tell them to make ready to march before nightfall."
"It will be done, Sire," replied the seneschal, touching the rolled brim of his soft cap.
"Thank you," said Neufmarche with a gesture of dismissal. As the ageing servant reached the door, the baron called out, "And Remey! See to it that the carriage is good and stout. The roads are rock-lined ruts beyond the March. I want something that will get us there and back without breaking wheels and axles at every bump."
"To be sure, my lord," replied Remey. "Will you require anything else?"
"Spare no effort. I want it ready at once," the baron said. "We must leave before the day is out if we are to reach Caer Rhodl in time."
The seneschal withdrew, and the baron sat down to his meal in solitude, his thoughts already firmly enmeshed in grand schemes for his Welsh commot and his long-cherished desire for expansion in the territory. Prince Garran would take his father's place on the throne of Eiwas, and under the baron's tutelage would become the perfect tool in the baron's hand. Together they would carve a wide swathe through the fertile lowlands and grass-covered slopes of the Welsh hill country. The Britons possessed a special knack with cattle, it had to be admitted; when matched with the insatiable Norman appetite for beef, the fortune to be made might well exceed even the baron's more grandiose fancies.
The carriage Remey chose for the journey was surprisingly comfortable, muffling the judders and jolts of the deeply rutted roads and rocky trackways, making the journey almost agreeable. Accompanied by a force of sixteen knights and men-at-arms on horseback, and a train of seven pack mules with servants to attend them, they could not have been more secure. The baron noted that even Lady Agnes, once resigned to the fact that there was no escaping her fate, had perked up. After the second day, a little colour showed in her pale cheeks, and by the time the wooden fortress that was Caer Rhodl came into view, she had remarked no fewer than three times how good it was to get out of the perpetual chill of the castle. "Merveilleux!" she exclaimed as a view of the distant mountains hove into view. "Simply glorious."
"I am so glad you approve, my dear," remarked the baron dryly.
"I had no idea it could be like this," she confessed. "So wild so beautiful. And yet…"
"Yes?"
"And yet so, so very, very empty. It makes me sad somehow-the melancolie, no? Do not tell me you do not feel it, my love."
"Oh, but I do," answered the baron, taking unexpected delight in his headstrong wife's rare reversal of opinion. "I do feel it. No matter how often I visit the lands beyond the March, I always sense a sorrow I cannot explain-as if the hills and valleys hold secrets it would break the heart to hear."
"Yes, perhaps," granted Agnes. "Quaint, yes, and perhaps a little mysterious. But not frightening. I thought it would be more frightening somehow."
"Well, as you see it today, with the sun pouring bright gold upon the fields, it does appear a more cheerful place. God knows, that is not always the way."
In due course, the travelling company was greeted on the road by riders sent out from the caer to welcome them and provide a proper escort into Cadwgan's stronghold. Upon entering the circular yard behind the timber palisade, they were met by Prince Garran and his three principal advisors-one of his own and two who had served his father for many years.
"Baron Neufmarche!" called Garran, striding forth with his arms outspread in welcome as his guests stepped down from the carriage. "Pax vobiscum, my lord. God be good to you."
"And to you," replied the baron. "I could wish this a happier time, but I think we all knew this day would come. Now that it is here, my sympathies are with you and your mother. You have suffered much, I think, the past two years."
"We struggle on," replied the prince.
"You do," agreed the baron, "and it does you credit." He turned to his wife and presented her to the young prince.
"Baroness Neufmarche," said Garran, accepting her hand. "Rest assured that we will do all in our power to make your stay as pleasant as possible."
"Lady Agnes, if you please," she replied, delighted at the prince's dark good looks and polite manner-not to mention his facility in her own language. The baroness thanked her handsome young host and was in turn presented to Cadwgan's widow, Queen Anora. "My lady, may God be gracious to you in your season of mourning," Agnes said, speaking in simple French though she suspected the queen did not fully comprehend. Prince Garran smoothly translated for his mother, who smiled sadly and received the baroness's condolences with austere grace.
"Please, come inside," said Garran, directing his guests towards the hall. "We have prepared a repast to refresh you from your journey. Tonight we will begin the feast of remembrance."
"And the funeral ceremony?" inquired the baron.
"That will take place later today at twilight. The feast follows the burial."
They were led to the hall, where a number of mourners were gathered. Lady Agnes, who had imagined the Welsh to be dressed in rough pelts, their faces tattooed in weird designs, and feathers in their hair and necklaces made from the bones of birds and small animals, was pleasantly impressed with not only the general appearance of the barbarians-most of whom were dressed neither better nor worse than the typical English or French serf of her limited acquaintance-but with their solemn, almost stoic dignity as well. The room was festooned with banners of various tribes and illumined by the light of countless beeswax candles, the warm scent of which mingled with that of the clean rushes bestrewing the floor. On trestles set up in the centre of the room, on a board covered with fresh juniper branches, lay King Cadwgan himself, covered in his customary cloak, on which was placed a large white-painted wooden cross.