"No, of course not," replied the abbot. He placed his cup carefully on the table and looked the baron full in the face. "Even so, I would like to ask you to consider lending me some of your soldiers. Now"-he raised his hand as if to forestall an objection he saw coming-"think carefully before you answer. You would be aiding the church in its ongoing affairs, and that would place me in a position to pass along certain indulgences…" He watched the baron for his reaction. "Certain, shall we say, very valuable indulgences. The perpetual prayers of an abbey can guarantee salvation on the Day of Judgement, as we know-which is ordinarily obtained only at great expense."
The baron, still smiling, said nothing.
"You could of course lead your men," continued Hugo. "I would not presume to usurp your place on the field. Indeed, I have no doubt that under your able command Elfael would be rid of the outlaws within two or three days-a week at most."
Baron Neufmarche placed his cup very deliberately on the table and leaned forward. "Your confidence in me is most gratifying, Lord Abbot. And of course, I wish I were in a position to help. Unfortunately, what you suggest is difficult just now-not to say impossible. I am truly sorry."
The abbot's face froze. His white hair wild on his head, his pristine satin robe stained from the toil of his flight, he appeared haggard and old as he gazed at the baron, trying to find a way over the stone wall so deftly thrown into his path. "Ah, well," he said at last, "I find it never hurts to ask."
"You have not because you ask not," declared Father Gervais suddenly. "Saint James… I believe."
"Precisely," murmured the abbot, thinking furiously how to rescue his stranded request.
"What plans have you made?" inquired the baron, looking to Gysburne.
"We will go to the king," answered Guy. "His men would return in any case, and we-"
"The king, yes," interrupted the abbot, rousing himself to life again. "It is his cantref, after all, and his to defend."
"My thoughts exactly," concurred the baron-as if the point had been under dispute but was now successfully resolved to the satisfaction of all. "It goes without saying that I would ask you to stay here and rest a few days, but I can see that the urgency of your journey requires you to reach Londein without delay. I only wish it was possible to lend you horses for the remainder of your journey"-he spread his hands helplessly-"but, alas, such is not the case."
"Your thoughtfulness is commendable," intoned the abbot. He slumped wearily in his chair, looking more and more like an old bone that had been gnawed close and tossed onto the midden heap.
"No, no," countered the baron, "it is nothing. Please, you will stay and eat something before you go. I insist. Then, my commander will escort you to rejoin your men in the town and see you on your way. You've come this far without incident; we don't wish to see anything ill befall you now, do we?"
And that was that.
A cold supper was brought to the chamber, and while the abbot and marshal ate, two mules were loaded with provisions to be led by a driver who would accompany them and bring the animals back upon their arrival in Londein.
As the abbot and marshal were preparing to leave, the baron and several of his men joined them in the yard to bid the visitors farewell. "God speed you, my friends," he said cheerily. "At least you have good weather for your journey."
"At the very least," agreed the abbot sourly.
"Ah," said the baron, as if thinking of it for the first time, "There was a sheriff, I believe, in Elfael. You didn't say what became of him. Killed, I suppose, in the battle?"
"Not at all," answered Gysburne. "Sheriff de Glanville was leading a division of men who were butchered by the rebels. All were murdered, save the sheriff, who was taken prisoner and is being held hostage. They promise to release him once our wounded soldiers are well enough to travel. Although, what is to become of him, I cannot say."
"I see," said Baron Neufmarche gravely. "A bad business all around. Well, I bid you adieu and wish you safe travels." He turned and summoned his commander to his side. "See here, Ormand," he said, "my friends are travelling to Londein on an errand of some urgency. I want you to escort them through the town and see them safely to the borders of my realm. Let nothing untoward happen to them while they are with you."
"To be sure, Sire." Ormand, a capable and levelheaded knight who served as the baron's marshal, put out a hand to his new charges. "Shall we proceed, my lords? After you."
The baron, standing at the topmost gate, waved his unwanted guests away; he waited until they were lost to sight in the narrow street leading down from the castle. Then, hurrying to his chambers, he called for a pen and parchment to send a message to the baroness in Wales informing her of the uprising and instructing her to tell King Garran to gather his soldiers and be ready to step in should the revolt show signs of spreading.
"Remey!" he called, waving the small square of parchment in the air to dry the ink. "I need a messenger at once-and see that he has the fastest horse in the stable. I want this delivered to Lady Agnes this time tomorrow and no later."
CHAPTER 31
Londein
Cardinal Flambard pulled up the hem of his robe and stepped over the low rail of the boat and onto the dock. He dipped into his purse for a coin and flipped it to the ferryman, then turned and strolled up the dock, avoiding the gulls fighting over piles of fish guts some unthinking oaf had left to swelter in the sun. He raised his eyes to the Billings Gate and started his climb up the steep bank, stifling an inward sigh. It was his lot ever to run to the king's least whim and answer His Majesty's flimsiest fancy. Like two men sharing a prison cell, they were chained to one another until one of them died. Such was the price of standing so near the throne.
Standing? Ranulf Flambard occupied that gilded seat as often as ever the king sat there-considering that Red William remained in perpetual motion, flitting here and there and everywhere… stamping out rebellion, squabbling with his disgruntled brothers, resisting the constant incursions by the Mother Church into what he considered his private affairs. And when the king wasn't doing that, he was hunting. In fact, that was William: always at the sharp end of any conflict going or, failing that, causing one.
And the dutiful Ranulf Flambard, Chief Justiciar of England, was there at his side to pick up the pieces.
It was to William's side that he was summoned now, and he laboured up from the stinking jetty with a scented cloth pressed to his nose. The riverside at the rank end of summer was a very cesspool-when was it not? Proceeding through the narrow streets lining the great city's wharf he allowed himself to think what life might be like as a bishop in a remote, upcountry see. As attractive as the notion seemed at the moment, would all that serenity soon pall? It was not likely he would ever find out. Turning from that, he wondered what fresh debacle awaited him this time.
At the gate to the White Tower he was admitted without delay and personally conducted by the porter to the entrance to the king's private apartment, where his presence was announced by the chamberlain. Following a short interval, he was admitted.
"Oh, Flambard, it's you," said William, glancing up. He was stuffing the voluminous tail of his shirt into his too-tight breeches. Finishing the chore, he started towards the door. "At last."
"I came as soon as I received your summons, Majesty. Forgive me for not anticipating your call."
"Eh? Yes, well…" Red William looked at his chief advisor and tried to work out whether Flambard was mocking him. He could not tell, so let it go. "You're here now and there's work to do."