men and women, and enjoyed a splendour even the kings of England and France could sincerely envy.
Alas, all that was before the rot set in.
He had done what he could to prevent the debacle once the tide of fortune began to turn against him—benefactions and indulgences; costly gifts of horses, falcons, and hunting hounds to courtiers in high places; favourable endorsements for those in a position to speak a good word on his behalf. The reach of kings is long, however, and their memories for insults even longer.When William the Red cut up rough over the throne of England, Hugo had done what any right-thinking churchman would have done—the only thing he could have done. What choice did he have? Robert Curthose, the Conqueror’s eldest, was the legitimate heir to his father’s throne. Everyone knew it; most of the barons agreed and supported Robert’s claim.Who could have known the deceitful William would move so swiftly and with such devastating accuracy? He cut the legs out from under his poor deluded brother with such uncanny ease, one had to wonder whether the hand of God was not in it after all.
Be that as it may, the whole sorry affair was the beginning of a long decline for Hugo, who had seen his own fortunes steadily wane since the day William the Red snatched away the crown. Now, at long last, the abbot was reduced to this: exile in a dreary backwater province full of hostile natives, to be bootlicker to a half-baked nobody of a count.
Hugo supposed he should be grateful, even for this little, but gratitude was not a quality he had cultivated. Instead, he cursed the rapacious Rufus; he cursed the blighted wilderness of a country he had come to; and he cursed the monstrous fate that had brought him so very low.
Low, he may be. Shattered, perhaps. Even devastated. But not destroyed. And never, ever finished.
He would, like Lazarus, rise again from this dismal hinterland tomb. He would use this opportunity, weak and slender though it was, to haul himself up out of the muck of his disgrace and reclaim his former stature. The de Braoses’ new church might be an unlikely place to start, but stranger things had happened. That Baron William de Braose was a favourite of Red William was the single bright light in the whole cavalcade of misery he now endured. The road to the successful restoration of the abbot’s wealth and power ran through the baron, and if Hugo had to wet-nurse his lordship’s snotty-nosed nephew to ingratiate himself, so be it.
Time was against him, he knew. He was no longer a young man. The years had not mellowed him, however; if anything, they had made him leaner, harder, and subtler. Outwardly serene and benevolent, with a charitable smile—when it suited his interests—his scheming, devious soul never slept. Though his hair had gone white, he had lost none of it, nor any teeth. His body was still resilient and sturdy, with a peasant’s enduring strength.What is more, he retained all the ruthless cunning and insatiable ambition of his younger years. Allied to that was the sagacity of age and the sly wisdom that had kept him alive through travails that would have consumed lesser men.
He paused in the saddle and gazed out over the Vale of Elfael: his new and, he fervently hoped, temporary home. It was not much to look at, although it was not without, he grudgingly admitted, a certain bucolic charm. The air was good and the ground fertile. Obviously, there was water enough for any purpose. There were worse places, he considered, to begin the reconquest.
Attending the abbot were two of Baron de Braose’s knights. They rode with him for protection. The rest of his entourage and belongings would come in a week or so—three wagons filled with the few books and treasures left to him, and a smattering of more practical ecclesiastical accoutrements, such as robes, stoles, his mitre, crook, staff, standard, and other oddments. There would be five attendants: two priests, one to say Mass and another to carry out the details of administration, and three lay brothers—cook, chamberer, and porter. With these, chosen for their loyalty and unfaltering obedience, Abbot Hugo would begin afresh.
Once officially installed in his new church, Hugo would commence building his new empire. De Braose wanted a church; Hugo would give him an abbey entire. First would come a stone-built minster worthy of the name, and with it, a hospital—both inn for