Lord Brychan of Elfael, set off for Lundein to swear allegiance to King William. He was ambushed on the road by Ffreinc marchogi, who killed him and all who were with him, save one. My father and the warband of Elfael were massacred and their bodies left to rot beside the road.”
“My sympathies,” said Ranulf. “May I ask how you know the men who committed this crime were, as you call them, Ffreinc marchogi?”
Bran put out a hand to Iwan. “This man survived and witnessed all that took place. He is the only one to escape with his life.”
“Is this true?” wondered the cardinal.
“It is, my lord, every word,” affirmed Iwan. “The leader of this force is a man named Falkes de Braose. He claims to have received Elfael by a grant from King William.”
Ranulf of Bayeux raised the long white quill and held it lengthwise between his hands as if studying it for imperfections. “It is true that His Majesty has recently issued a number of such grants,” the cardinal told them. Turning to his assistant on the left, he said, “Bring me the de Braose grant.”
Without a word the man in the chair beside him rose and crossed the room, disappearing through a door behind the tapestry.
“There would seem to be some confusion here,” allowed the cardinal when his man had gone, “but we will soon find the cause.” Regarding the three before him, he added, “We keep good records. It is the Norman way.”
Friar Aethelfrith stifled a hoot of contempt for the man’s insinuation. Instead, he beamed beatifically and loosed a soft fart.
A moment later the cardinal’s assistant returned bearing a square of parchment bound by a red satin riband. This he untied and placed before his superior, who took it up and began to read aloud very quickly, skipping over unimportant parts. “Be it known . . . this day . . . by the power and enfranchisement . . . Ah!” he said. “Here it is.”
He then read out the pertinent passage for the petitioners. “Granted to William de Braose, Baron, Lord of the Rape of Bramber, in recognition for his support and enduring loyalty, the lands comprising the Welsh commot Elfael so called, entitled free and clear for himself and his heirs in perpetuity, in exchange for the sum of two hundred marks.”
“We were sold for two hundred marks?” wondered Iwan.
“A token sum,” replied the cardinal dryly. “It is customary.”
“The Norman way, no doubt,” put in Aethelfrith.
“But it is Count Falkes de Braose who has taken the land,”
Bran pointed out, “not the baron.”
“Baron William de Braose is his uncle, I believe,” said the cardinal. “But, yes, that is undoubtedly where the confusion has arisen. There is no provision for Falkes to assume control of the land, as he is not a direct heir. The baron himself must occupy the land or forfeit his claim. Therefore, as Chief Justiciar, I will allow this grant to be rescinded.”
“I do thank you, my lord,” said Bran, sweet relief surging through him. “I am much obliged.”
The cardinal raised his hand. “Please, hear me out. I will allow the grant to be revoked for a payment to the crown of six hundred marks.”
“Six hundred!” gasped Bran. “It was given to de Braose for two hundred.”
“In recognition of his loyalty and support during the rebellion of the Barons,” intoned the cardinal. “Yes. For you it will be six hundred and fealty sworn to King William.”
“That is robbery!” snapped Bran.
The cardinal’s eyes snapped quick fire. “It is a bargain, boy.” He stared at Bran for a moment and then pulled the parchment to himself, adding, “In any case, that is my decision. The matter will be held in abeyance until such time as the money is paid.” He gestured to his assistant, who began writing an addendum to the grant.
Bran stared at the churchman and felt the despair melt away in a sudden surge of white-hot rage. His vision became blood-tinged and hard. He saw the bland face and shrewd eyes, the man’s flaming red hair, and it was all he could do to keep from seizing the imperious cleric, pulling him bodily across the table, and beating the superior smirk off that smug face with his fists.
Rigid as a stump, hands clenched in rage, he stared at the courtiers as his grip on reality slipped away. In a blood-tinted vision, he saw a tub of oil at his feet, and before anyone could stop him, he snatched up the tub