The prospect of ready silver went a long way toward slaking any lingering thirst for rebellion. Often those who shouted the loudest about rising up against the invaders were the same ones who profited most handily from the invasion. God knows, Baron de Braose’s renowned treasury had won more battles than his soldiers and could be relied upon to do so again. And as everyone knew, the Welsh, for all their prideful bluster, were just as greedy for gain as the most grasping, lack-land Saxon.
It was with this in mind that the two kinsmen rode out the following day to view the commot. Philip wanted to get a better idea of the region and see firsthand the land that had so quickly fallen under their control.
The day began well, with a high, bright sky and a fresh breeze pushing low clouds out of the west. Autumn was advancing; everywhere the land was slumping down toward its winter rest. The leaves on the trees had turned and were flying from the branches like golden birds across a pale blue sky.
Away in the distance, always in the distance, defining the boundary of the commot, towered the green-black wall of the forest, looming like a line of clouds, dark and turbulent, heralding the advance of a coming storm.
The two noblemen, each accompanied by a knight and three men-at-arms, rode easily together through the valley and across the rolling hills. They passed by the little monastery at Llanelli and paused to examine the setting of the place and the construction of the various buildings before riding on. They also visited one of Elfael’s few far-flung settlements, cradled amongst the branching valleys. This one, huddled in the wind shadow of the area’s highest hill, consisted of a house and barn, a granary, and a coop for chickens. It, like so many others, was abandoned. The people had gone—where, Falkes had no idea.
After visiting a few of the dwellings, they returned to their horses. “A piss-poor place,” observed Earl Philip, climbing back into the saddle. “I would not allow one of my dogs to live here.” He shook his head. “Are they all like this?”
“More or less,” replied Falkes. “They are mostly herdsmen, from what I can tell. They follow their cattle, and these holdings are often abandoned for months at a time.”
“What about the farms, the crops?” wondered Philip, taking up the reins.
“There are few enough of those,” answered Falkes, turning his horse back onto the trackway. “Most of the open land is used for grazing.”
“That will change,” decided Philip. “This soil is rich— look at the grass, lush and thick as it is! You could grow an abundance of grain here—enough to feed an army.”
“Which is precisely what will be needed,” replied Falkes, urging his mount forward. He thought about the baron’s plans to subdue the next commots. “Two or three armies.”
They rode to the top of the hill above the settlement and looked out over the empty valley with its narrow stream snaking through the deep green grass, rippling in the wind. In his mind’s eye, Earl Philip could see farms and villages springing up throughout the territory. There would be mills—for wood and wool and grain—and storehouses, barns, and granaries. There would be dwellings for the farmers, the workers, the craftsmen: tanners, chandlers, wainwrights, ironsmiths, weavers, bakers, dyers, carpenters, butchers, fullers, leatherers, and all the rest.
There would be churches, too, one for each village and town, and perhaps a monastery or two as well. Maybe, in time, an abbey.
“A good place,” mused Falkes.
“Yes.” His cousin smiled and nodded. “And it is a good thing we have come.” He let his gaze sweep over the hilltops and up to the blue vault of heaven and felt the warm sun on his face. “Elfael is a rough gem, but with work it will polish well.”
“To be sure,” agreed Falkes. “God willing.”
“Oh, God has already willed it,” Philip assured him. “As sure as William is king, there is no doubt about that.” He paused, then added, “None whatsoever.”
CHAPTER 17
The day following the feast of Saint Edmund —three weeks after Earl Philip’s visit—and the weather had turned raw. The wind was rising out of the north, gusting sharply, pushing low, dirty clouds over the hills. Count Falkes’s thin frame was aching with the chill, and he longed to turn around and ride back to the scorching, great fire he kept blazing in the hearth, but the baron’s men were still disputing over the map they were