will not do!” cried Falkes. He took three quick strides and then turned on the bishop once more. “Here now! I give you one more day to inform the people and assemble the required labourers—the two strongest men from each family or settlement. They will come to your monastery, where they will be met and assigned to one of the building sites.” Glaring at the frowning cleric, he said, “Is that understood?”
“Of course,” the bishop replied diffidently. “But what if they refuse to come? I can only relay your demands. I am not their lord—”
“But I am!” snapped Falkes. “And yours as well.” When the bishop made no reply, he added, “If they fail to comply, they will be punished.”
“I will tell them.”
“See that you do.” Falkes dismissed the churchman then. As Asaph reached the door, the count added, “I will come to the monastery yard at dawn tomorrow. The workers will be ready.”
The bishop nodded, departing without another word.
Upon arriving at the monastery, he commanded the porter to sound the bell and convene the monks, who were quickly dispatched to the four corners of the cantref to carry the count’s summons to the people.
When Count de Braose and his men arrived at the monastery the next morning, they found fifteen surly men and four quarrelsome boys standing in the mostly empty yard with their bishop. The count rode through the gate, took one look at the desultory crew, and cried, “What? Is this all? Where are the others?”
“There are no others,” replied Bishop Asaph.
“I distinctly said two from every holding,” complained the count. “I thought I made that clear.”
“Some of the holdings are so small that there is only one man,” explained the bishop. Indicating the sullen gathering, he said, “These represent every holding in Elfael.” Looking at the unhappy faces around him, he asked the count, “Did you think there would be more?”
“There must be more!” roared Falkes de Braose. “Work is already falling behind for lack of labourers. We must have more.”
“That is as it may be, but I have done as you commanded.”
“It is not enough.”
“Then perhaps you should have invaded a more populous cantref,” snipped the cleric.
“Do not mock me,” growled the count, turning away. He strode to his horse. “Find more workers. Bring them in. Bring everybody in—women too. Bring them all. I want them here tomorrow morning.”
“My lord count,” said the bishop, “I beg you to reconsider.
The ploughing will soon be finished. That is of utmost concern, and it cannot wait.”
“My town cannot wait!” shouted Falkes. Raising himself to the saddle, he said, “I will not be commanded by the likes of you. Have fifty workers here tomorrow morning, or one holding will burn.”
“Count de Braose!” cried the bishop. “You cannot mean that, surely.”
“I do most certainly mean exactly what I say. I have been too lenient with you people, but that leniency is about to end.”
“But you must reconsider—”
“Must? Must?” the count sneered, stepping his horse close to the cleric, who shrank away. “Who are you to tell me what I must or must not do? Have the fifty, or lose a farm.”
With that, the count wheeled his horse and rode from the yard. As the Ffreinc reached the gate, one of the boys picked up a stone and let fly, striking the count in the middle of the back. Falkes whirled around angrily but could not tell who had thrown the rock; all were standing with hands at their sides, staring with dour contempt, men as well as boys.
Unwilling to allow the insult to stand, Falkes rode back to confront them. “Who threw the stone?” he demanded. When no one answered, he called to the bishop. “Make them tell me!”
“They do not speak Latin,” replied the churchman coolly.
“They only speak Cymry and a little Saxon.”
“Then you ask for me, priest!” said the count. “And be quick about it. I want an answer.”
The bishop addressed the group, and there was a brief discussion. “It seems that no one saw anything, count,” the cleric reported. “But they all vow to keep a close watch for such disgraceful behaviour in the future.”
“Do they indeed? Well, for one, at least, there will be no future.” Indicating a smirking lad standing off to one side, the count spoke a command in Ffreinc to his soldiers, and instantly two of the marchogi dismounted and rounded on the panic-stricken youth.
The elder Britons leapt forward to intervene but were prevented by the swiftly drawn swords of the remaining soldiers.