As the weeks passed, she thought less about Bran and his miserable death and more about the fate of his leaderless people. Of course, they were not—as Garran, her elder brother, so helpfully pointed out—leaderless. “They have a new king now—William Rufus,” he told her. “And his subject lord, Count de Braose, is their ruler.”
“De Braose is a vile murderer,” Mérian snapped.
“That may be,” Garran granted with irritating magnanimity, “but he has been given the commot by the king. And,” he delighted in pointing out, “the crown is divinely appointed by God. The king is justice, and his word is law.”
“The king is himself a usurper,” she countered.
“As were most of those before him,” replied her brother, smug in his argument. “Facts are facts, dear sister. The Saxon stole the land from us, and now the Ffreinc have stolen it from them.We possess what we hold by King William’s sufferance.
He is our sovereign lord now, and it is no good wishing otherwise, so you had best make peace with how things are.”
“You make peace with how things are,” she answered haughtily. “I will remain true to our own kind.”
“Then you will continue to live in the past,” Garran scoffed. “The old ways are over for us. Times are changing, Mérian. The Ffreinc are showing us the way to peace and prosperity.”
“They are showing us the way to hell !” she shouted, storming from his presence.
That young Prince Bran had died needlessly was bad enough. That he had been killed trying to flee was shameful, yes, but anyone might have done the same in his place. What she found impossible to comprehend or accept was her brother’s implied assertion that their Norman overlords were somehow justified in their crime by the innate superiority of their customs or character, or whatever it was her brother found so enamouring.
The Ffreinc are brutes and they are wrong, she insisted to herself. And that King William of theirs is the biggest brute of all!
After that last exchange, she refused to talk to anyone further regarding the tragedy that had befallen Bran and Elfael. She kept her thoughts to herself and buried her feelings deep in the fastness of her heart.
CHAPTER 15
Baron de Neufmarché, along with twenty men-at-arms, accompanied his wife to the ship waiting at Hamtun docks. Although he had used the ship Le Cygne in the past and knew both the captain and pilot by name, he nevertheless inspected the vessel bow to stern before allowing his wife to board. He supervised the loading of men, horses, provisions, and weapons—his wife would travel with Ormand, his seneschal, and a guard of seven men. Inside a small casket made of elm wood, Lady Agnes carried the letter he had written to his father and the gift of a gold buckle received from the Conqueror himself in recognition of the baron’s loyalty during the season of northern discontent in the years following the invasion.
Once Agnes was established in her quarters beneath the ship’s main deck, the baron bade his wife farewell. “The tide is on the rise. Godspeed, lady wife,” he said. Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed her cold fingers and added, “I wish you a mild and pleasant winter, and a glad Christmas.”
“It may be that I can return before the snow,” she ventured, hope lending a lightness to her voice. “We could observe Christmas together.”
“No”—Bernard shook his head firmly—“it is far too dangerous. Winter gales make the sea treacherous. If anything should happen to you, I could not forgive myself.” He smiled. “Enjoy your sojourn at home—it is brief enough.
Time will pass swiftly, and we will celebrate the success of your undertaking with the addition of a new estate.”
“Très bien,” replied Lady Agnes. “Have a care for yourself, my husband.” She leaned close and put her lips against his cheek. “Until we meet again, adieu, mon chéri.”
The pilot called down from the deck above that the tide was beginning to run. The baron kissed his wife once more and returned to the wharf. A short time later, the tide had risen sufficiently to put out to sea. The captain called for a crewman to cast off; the ropes were loosed, and the ship pushed on poles away from the dock. Once in the centre of the river, the vessel was caught by the current, turned, and headed out into the estuary and the unprotected sea beyond.
Bernard watched all this from the wooden dock. Only when the