“My lord cardinal,” announced the porter, “I bring before you the Welsh lord and his priest.”
“And his English priest,” added Aethelfrith with a smile.
“Don’t you be forgetting.”
“Cardinal,” said Bran, not waiting to be addressed, “we have come about the de Braose grant.”
The chief justiciar slowly opened his eyes. “Have I seen you before?” he asked, passing a lazy glance over the two men standing before him at the table.
“Yes, sire,” replied the friar respectfully. “Last year it was.
Allow me to present Lord Bran of Elfael. We discussed the king’s grant of Elfael to Baron William de Braose.”
Recognition seemed to come drifting back to the cardinal then. Presently he nodded, regarding the slim young man before him. “Just so.” The Welsh lord appeared different somehow— leaner, harder, with an air of conviction about him. “Do you speak French?” inquired the cardinal.
“No, my lord,” answered Aethelfrith. “He does not.”
“Pity,” sniffed Bayeux. Changing to Latin, he asked, “What is your business?”
“I have come to reclaim my lands,” replied Bran. “You will recall that you said the grant made to Baron de Braose could be rescinded for a fee—”
“Yes, yes,” replied the cardinal as if the memory somehow pained him, “I remember.”
“I have brought the money, my lord cardinal,” answered Bran. He raised a hand to Tuck, who hurried to the door and gave a whistle to the two waiting outside. A moment later, Iwan appeared, lugging a large leather provision bag. Approaching the cardinal, the champion hoisted the bundle onto the table, opened it, and allowed some of the smaller bags of silver to spill out.
“Six hundred marks,” said Bran. “As agreed.” He put his hand to the sack. “Here is two hundred. The rest is ready to hand.”
Ranulf reached for one of the bags and weighed it in his palm as he raised his eyes to study Bran once more. “That is as it may be,” he allowed slowly. “I regret to inform you, however, six hundred marks was last year’s price.”
“My lord?”
“If you had redeemed the grant when offered,” continued the cardinal, “you could have had it for six hundred marks.
You waited too long. The price has gone up.”
“Gone up?” Bran felt the heat of anger rising to his face.
“Events move on apace. Time and tide, as they say,” intoned the cardinal with lofty sufferance. “It is the same with the affairs of court.”
“Pray spare me the lesson, my lord,” muttered Bran through clenched teeth. “How much is required now?”
“Two thousand marks.”
“You stinking bandit!” Bran spat. “We agreed on six hundred, and I have brought it.”
The cardinal’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Careful, my hotheaded prince. If it were not for the king’s need to raise money for his troops in Normandie, your petition would not be considered at all.” He reached a hand toward one of the money sacks. “As it is, we will accept this six hundred in partial payment of the two thousand—”
“You want money?” cried Bran. He saw the cardinal, officious and smug in his sumptuous robes as he reached for the coins; his vision dimmed as the blood rage came upon him.
“Here is your money!”
Reaching across the table, he seized the cardinal by the front of the robe, pulled him up out of his chair, and thrust him down on the table, crushing his face against the coins spilled there. Ranulf let out a strangled cry, and his two scribes jumped up. As the nearest one bent to his master’s aid, Bran took up an ink pot and dashed the contents into his face. Instantly blinded, the clerk fell back, bawling, shaking black ink everywhere. The other started for the door. “Stay!” shouted Bran, his knife in his hand.
Iwan, uncertain what was happening, glanced nervously at his lord. Tightening his grip on the money sack, he backed toward the door. Cardinal Ranulf, squirming under his grasp, pulled free, falling back in his chair. Bran leapt onto the table and kicked the pile of parchments, scattering letters, deeds, and royal writs across the room. He kicked another pile and then jumped down, seizing the cardinal once more. “Does the king know what you do in his name?” asked Bran.
The cardinal spat at him, and Bran slammed his head down on the table. “Answer me, pig!”
“Bran!” Iwan put a hand to his lord’s shoulder to pull him away. “Bran, enough!”
Shaking off Iwan’s hand, Bran pulled the cardinal up, wielding the knife in his face and shouting, “Does the king know what you do in