Elfael. The whole campaign had been closely planned to avoid extraneous entanglements from the likes of rival lords such as Neufmarché, for if Baron de Braose had had to beg Neufmarché for permission to cross his lands that lay between Norman England and the Welsh provinces, Falkes was fairly certain they would all be waiting still.
“You have done well,” the baron said, gazing around the hall approvingly, “and in a very short time. I take it the Welsh gave you no trouble?”
“Very little,” affirmed Falkes. “There is a monastery nearby, with a few monks and some women and children in hiding. The rest seem to have scattered to the hills. I expect we won’t see them until the spring.” He cut into a plump roast fowl on the wooden trencher before him. “By then we will be well fortified hereabouts, and opposition will be futile.” He sliced into the succulent breast of the bird, raised a bite on his knife, and nibbled daintily.
Neufmarché caught the veiled reference to increased fortification. No one builds fortresses to hold down a few monks and some women and children, he thought and guessed the rest. “They are a strange people,” he observed, and several of his knights grunted their agreement. “Sly and secretive.”
“Bien sûr,” Falkes replied. He chewed thoughtfully and asked, trying to sound casual, “Do you plan to make a foray yourself ?”
The bluntness of the question caught the baron off guard.
“Me? I have no plans,” he lied. “But now that you mention it, the thought has crossed my mind.” He raised his cup to give himself time to think and then continued, “I confess, your example gives me heart. If I imagined that acquiring land would be so easy, I might give it some serious consideration.”
He paused as if entertaining the possibility of an attack in Wales for the very first time. “Busy as I am ruling the estates under my command, I’m not at all certain a campaign just now would be wise.”
“You would know better than I,” Falkes conceded. “This is my first experience ruling an estate of any size. No doubt I have much to learn.”
“You are too modest,” Neufmarché replied with a wide, expansive smile. “From what I have seen, you learn very quickly.” He drained his cup and held it aloft. A servant appeared and refilled it at once. “I drink to your every success!”
“And I to yours, mon ami,” said Count Falkes de Braose.
“And I to yours.”
The next morning, the baron departed with an invitation for Falkes to visit him whenever he passed through his lands in Herefordshire. “I will look forward to it with keenest pleasure,” said the count as he waved his visitors away. He then hurried to his chamber, where he drafted a hasty letter to his uncle, informing him of the progress with the ongoing survey of the building sites—as well as his adversary’s unannounced visit. Falkes sealed the letter and dispatched a messenger the moment his guests were out of sight.
CHAPTER 18
Angharad stirred the simmering contents of the cauldron with a long wooden spoon and listened to the slow plip, plip, plip of the rain falling from the rim of stone onto the wet leaves at the entrance to the cave. She took up the bound sprig of a plant she had gathered during the summer and with a deft motion rolled the dry leaves back and forth between her palms, crumbling the herb into the broth. The aroma of her potion was growing ever more pungent in the close air of the cave.
Every now and then she would cast a glance toward the fleece-wrapped bundle lying on a bed of pine boughs and covered with moss and deer pelts. Sometimes the man inside the bundle would moan softly, but for the most part his sleep was as silent as the dead. Her skill with healing unguents and potions extended to that small mercy if nothing more.
When the infusion was ready, she lifted the cauldron from the fire and carried it to a nearby rock, where it was left to cool. Then, taking up an armful of twigs from the heap just inside the cave entrance, she returned to her place by the fire.
“One for the Great King on his throne so white,” she said, tossing a twig onto the embers. She waited until the small branch flared into flame, then reached for another, saying, “Two for the Son the King begat.”
This curious ritual continued for some time—taking up a twig