Caer Rhodl
Even though he had known this day was coming, the news caught Baron Neufmarché 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 omnipoténtiam tuam parcéndo maxime et miserando maniféstas,” 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 Neufmarché 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 enfe-offed to me.”
“Ah, your liegeman, yes.” The doddering priest nodded.
“The messenger, Father,” prompted Neufmarché 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 Neufmarché. “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 Neufmarché. “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 gob-let 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.”
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 domes-tic 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 Neufmarché 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 any-thing 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 coun-try. 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 com-fortable, 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 mélancolie, 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 mys-terious. 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 Neufmarché!” 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 Neufmarché,” 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.
Lady Agnes blanched to see him, but no one else seemed to con-sider 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 care-fully 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 fol-low 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 Neufmarché 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 splen-did thing. It will give me time to make the necessary plans.”
Baron Neufmarché, 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.