Lady Agnes blanched to see him, but no one else seemed to consider it odd that the deceased should reside in the hall surrounded, as in life, by his subjects and kinsmen. Indeed, every now and then, one of the mourners would come forward to stroke the head of the dead king, whose hair had been washed and brushed to form a wispy nimbus around his head. One by one, the new arrivals were introduced to the other notables in the room, and they were given shallow bowls of mead to drink. Kitchen servants and young girls circulated with trays of small parcels of spiced meat, nuts, and herbs wrapped in pastry, which they served to the funeral guests.
The baroness, although unable to understand anything that was said around her-or perhaps because of it-began watching these courtesies intently. What she saw was a people, whether highborn or low, who seemed to enjoy one another's company and, crude as they undeniably were, revelled in the occasion. A time of sadness, of course, yet the funereal room rang with almost continual laughter. In spite of any previous notions, she found herself drawn to the unabashed sincerity of these folk and was moved by their honest displays of kindness and fellowship.
Thus, the mourners occupied themselves until the sun began to set, at which time a body of priests and monks arrived. As if on signal the mourners began to sing, and though the words were strange and there were no musical instruments, Agnes thought she had never heard music so sweetly sad. After a lengthy stint of singing, a grey-robed priest who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings stepped to the bier and, bowing three times, stretched his hands over the corpse and began to pray. He prayed in Latin, which the baroness had not expected. The prayer, while curious in its expression, was more or less like any she might have heard in Angevin.
When the prayer was finished, the priest was given a crosier-by which Agnes was given to know that he was actually a bishop. Striking the crosier on the floor three times, he gestured to the board. Six men of the tribe stepped forward and, taking their places around the dead king, lifted the board from the trestles and carried it from the hall. The mourners all fell into place behind them, and in this way they were led out into the yard and down from the fortress mound into the valley, eventually arriving in the yard of a small wooden church, where a grave had been dug within the precinct of the low, stone-walled yard. The grave was lined with large flat flagstones, some of which had been roughly shaped for the purpose.
The mourners paused to remove their shoes before entering the churchyard, which Lady Agnes considered very odd; but entering the holy precinct barefoot stirred her soul more profoundly than anything which had happened thus far. When the body on its board was carefully lowered into the hole prepared to receive it by six barefoot men, her ever-watchful eyes grew a little moist at the corners. There were prayers over the grave, and still more when the earth was replaced in the hole, covering the dead king. Then, this part of the service concluded, the people began drifting away in small clumps of two or three.
It was simple, but genuine and heartfelt, and the sincerity of the people winsome. Agnes, more intensely affected by the experience than she could possibly have imagined, became very thoughtful and silent on the way back to the caer. And when, as they mounted the hill and saw the first stars beginning to shine, the mourners began singing, Lady Agnes, for whom life presented nothing more than a series of challenges and hardships to be overcome, felt something tight loosen in her heart, and the tears began to flow. She heard in the melody such indomitable spirit and courage that she was ashamed of her former disparagement of these fine and dignified people. She walked along, slippers in hand, listening to the voices as they mingled in the sweet summer air, tears of joy and sadness glistening on her cheeks.
The baron, walking with Prince Garran and his mother, did not see his wife, or he might well have been alarmed. Later, as they sat down to the first of several feasts in honour of the dead king, he did note that Lady Agnes seemed subdued, but pleasantly so, her smile unforced, her manner more calm and peaceable than he could recently remember. No doubt, he thought, she is tired from the journey. But as she smiled at him when she saw him regarding her from his place near the prince, he returned her smile and thought to himself that he had been right to insist she come.
The next days were given to preparations for the coronation of Prince Garran who, as the baron had long ago determined, should follow his father to the throne. This decision was roundly ratified by the people of Eiwas, so there was no awkwardness or difficulty regarding the succession, and the coronation took place in good order, with little ceremony but great celebration by those who, having laid to rest the old king, had stayed to welcome the new.
When Baron Neufmarche and his wife took their leave of King Garran two days later, they urged the new monarch to come to visit them in Hereford. "Come for Michaelmas," the baron said, his tone gently insistent. "We will hold a feast in your honour, and talk about our future together." As if in afterthought, he added, "You know, I think my daughter would like to know you better-you have not met Sybil, I think?" The young king shook his head. "No? Then it is arranged."
"You must come," added the baroness, pressing his hand as she stepped to the carriage, "and bring your mother, too. Do promise to bring her. I will send a carriage so she will travel more comfortably."
"My lady," replied the new-made king, unable to gainsay his lord's wife, "it will be my pleasure to attend you at Michaelmas."
Later, as the carriage climbed the first of many hills that would take the caer from view, Lady Agnes said, "King Garran and our Sybil, so? You have not mentioned this to me."
"Ah, um-" The baron hesitated, uncertain how to proceed now that his impromptu plan had been revealed. "I meant to tell you about that, but ah, well, the notion just came to me a day or so ago, and there wasn't time to-"
"I like it," she told him, cutting short his stuttering.
He stared at her as if he could not think he had heard her right. "You would approve of such a union?" wondered Bernard, greatly amazed at this change in his wife's ordinarily dour humour.
"It would be a good match," she affirmed. "Good for both of them, I should think. Yes, I do approve. I will speak to Sybil upon our return. See to it that you secure Garran's promise."
"It will be done," said the baron, still staring at his wife in slight disbelief. "Are you feeling well, my love?"
"Never better," she declared. She was silent a moment, musing to herself, then announced, "I think a Christmas wedding would be a splendid thing. It will give me time to make the necessary plans."
Baron Neufmarche, unable to think of anything to say in the presence of this extraordinary transformation of the woman he had known all these years, simply gazed at her with admiration.
CHAPTER 45
Noin and I spent the rest of the summer luxuriating in one another's love, and talking, talking, talking. Like two blackbirds sitting on a fence we filled the air morning to night with our chatter. She told me all the greenwood gossip-all the doings large and small that filled the days we were apart. I told her of my captivity and passing the time with Odo scribbling down my ramblings. "I should like to read that," Noin said, then smiled. "That alone would make it worth learning to read."