be so bold to suggest, it has not been two years, but only a little more than one since work began.”
“A town.”William de Braose turned a cold eye on his nephew. “A single town.”
“And an abbey,” added Falkes helpfully, casting Philip a sideways glance. “The new church is almost finished. Indeed, Abbot Hugo is hoping you will attend the consecration ceremony.”
His uncle had allowed that while that was all well and good, he had far grander plans than this solitary town. Elfael was still the only cantref he had conquered in the new territories, and it was costing him more than he liked. “Taxes are low,” he observed. “The money collected hardly pays the supply of the abbey.”
“The British are poor, Sire.”
“They are lazy.”
“No, my lord, it may be true they work less than the English,” granted Falkes, who was beginning to suspect his uncle entertained a faulty understanding of the Britons, “but their needs are less. They are a simple folk, after all.”
“You should be more stern with them. Teach them to fear the steel in your hand.”
“It would not help,” replied Falkes calmly. “Killing them only makes them more stubborn.”
As Falkes had learned to his regret, the slaughter of the ruling Welsh king and his entire warband—while offering an immediate solution to the problem of conquering Elfael—had so thoroughly embittered the people against him that it made his position as ruler of the cantref exceedingly difficult and tenuous.
“Impose your will,” the baron insisted. “Make them bend to your bidding. If they refuse, then do what I do—knock some heads, seize lands and property.”
“They own little enough as it is,” Falkes pointed out. “Most of them hold land in common, and few of them recognise property rights of any kind. Money is little use to them; they barter for what they need. Whenever I tax a man, I am far more likely to be paid in eggs than silver.”
“Eggs!” sneered his uncle. “I speak of taxes and you talk eggs.”
“It happens more often than you know,” declared Falkes, beginning to exhaust his own small store of patience.
“What about this creature of yours—this phantom of the forest?
What do they call it?”
“Rhi Bran y Hud,” replied Falkes. “It means King Raven the Enchanter.”
“The devil, you say! Have you caught the rascal yet?”
“Not yet,” confessed Falkes. “Sheriff de Glanville is hopeful. It is only a matter of time.”
“Time!” roared the baron. “It has been two years, man! How much more time do you need?”
“Father,” said Earl Philip, speaking up just then, “may I suggest a visit to the commot? See it for yourself. You will quickly get the measure of Elfael. And you will see what Falkes is making of the place.”
“A worthy suggestion, Philip,” the baron had replied, curling the leather reins around his gloved fist as around the neck of an enemy, “but you know that is impossible. I am away to Rouen within the month. If all goes well, I should return before Christmas.”
“I will speak to Abbot Hugo,” said Falkes, “and we will hold the consecration at Christmas.”
“Rouen is where Duke Robert is encamped,” mused Philip, concern wrinkling his smooth brow. “What takes you there, Father?”
Then, while the hounds and their handlers spread out across the field before them, Baron de Braose had confided his plans to meet in secret with a few like-minded noblemen who were anxious to do something about the incessant fighting between the king and his brothers. “Their silly squabble is costing us money that would be better spent on the expansion of our estates and the conquest of Wales,” the baron fumed, wiping sweat from his plump round face. “Whenever one of them thumbs his nose at the other, I have to raise an army and sail off to Normandie or Angevin to help the king slap down the knave. I’ve had a bellyful of their feuding and fighting. Something must be done.”
“Dangerous words, Father,” cautioned Philip. “I would be careful about repeating any of that anywhere. You never know who is listening.”
“Phaw!” scoffed the baron. “I would tell Rufus to his face if he were here. The king must know how his noblemen feel. No, the situation is intolerable, and something must be done. Something will be done, by heaven.”
Philip and Falkes exchanged a worried glance. Speech like this was dangerously close to treason. King William, who knew better than anyone else how little his nobles and subjects esteemed him, viewed even the slightest wavering of support as disloyalty; open disagreement was