that served him for bedclothes in his dank, wind-fretted chamber.
Just this morning he had awakened in his bed, aghast to find that frost had formed on the bedclothes overnight; he swore an oath that he would not sleep another night in that room. If it meant he had to bed down with the servants and dogs beside the hearth in the great hall, so be it. The only time his hands and feet were ever warm was when he sat in his chair before the hearth, with arms and legs outstretched toward the fire—a position he could maintain only for a few moments altogether; but those were moments of pure bliss in what looked to be a long, grinding, bitter winter—more ordeal than season.
It was not until the light was beginning to fail and the surveyor could no longer read the chart he was making that the builders decided to stop for the day and return to Caer Cadarn. The count was the first to turn his horse and head for home. As the work party came in sight of the fortress, the skies opened and rain began hammering down in driving sheets. Falkes lashed his mount to speed and covered the remaining distance at a gallop. He raced up the long ramp, through the gates, and into the yard to find a half dozen unfamiliar horses tethered to the rail outside the stable.
“Who has come?” he asked, throwing the reins of his mount to the head stabler.
“It is Baron Neufmarché of Hereford,” replied the groom.
“He arrived only a short while ago.”
Neufmarché here? Mon Dieu! This is a worry, thought the count. What could he possibly want with me?
Dashing back across the rain-scoured yard, a very wet Falkes de Braose entered the great hall. There, standing before a gloriously radiant hearth, was his uncle’s compatriot and chief rival, accompanied by five of his men: knights every one. “Baron Neufmarché!” called Falkes. He shrugged off his sodden cloak and tossed it to a waiting servant. “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he brayed, trying to sound far more gracious than he felt at the moment. Striding quickly forward, he rubbed the warmth back into his long hands. “Welcome!
Welcome, messires, to you all!”
“My dear Count de Braose,” replied the baron with a polite bow of courtesy. “Pray forgive our intrusion—we were on our way north, but this vile weather has driven us to shelter. I hope we do not trespass on your hospitality.”
“Please,” replied Falkes, oozing cordiality, “I am honoured.” He glanced around to see the cups in the hands of his guests. “I see my servants have seen to your refreshment. Bon.”
“Yes, your seneschal is most obliging,” the baron assured him. Taking up a spare cup, already poured, he handed it to the count. “Here, drink and warm yourself by the fire. You have had an inclement ride.”
Feeling uncomfortably like a guest in his own house, Falkes nevertheless thanked the baron and accepted the cup.
Withdrawing a poker from the fire, he plunged it into the wine; the hot iron sizzled and sputtered. The count then raised his steaming cup and said, “To King William!” Several cups later, when a meal had been prepared and they all sat down together, the count at last discovered the errand that brought the baron to his door, and it had nothing to do with seeking shelter from the rain.
“I have long wished to visit the Earl of Rhuddland,” the baron informed him, spearing a piece of roast beef with his knife. “I confess I may have waited too far into the autumn, but affairs at court kept me in Lundein longer than I anticipated.”
He lifted a shoulder. “C’est la vie.”
Count Falkes allowed himself a sly, secret smile; he knew Baron Neufmarché had been summoned by King William to attend him in Lundein and kept waiting several days before finally being sent away. William the Red had still not completely forgiven the contrary noblemen who had upheld his brother Robert’s claim to the throne, legitimate though it undoubtedly was. When the dust of revolt had settled, William had tacitly pardoned those he considered rebels, returning them to rank and favour—although he could not resist harassing them in small ways just to prove the point.
The delay Neufmarché complained of had allowed the count’s uncle to make good the de Braose clan’s first foray into Wales without interference from the lords of neighbouring territories. While Neufmarché was idling in Lundein, Count Falkes had, with uncommon swiftness and ease, conquered