They slipped back into the castle and went to their separate quarters to prepare for the next day’s activities. That night at supper, Bran baited and set the snare to catch Wolf Hugh.
CHAPTER 18
Ah, there you are!” cried Earl Hugh as his Spanish guests trooped into the hall. With him at the table were several of his courtiers, six or seven of the women he kept, and, new to the proceedings, five Ffreinc noblemen the others had not seen before—large looming, well-fleshed Normans of dour demeanour. Judging from the cut and weave of their short red woollen cloaks, white linen tunics and fine leather boots, curled hair and clean-shaven faces, they were more than likely fresh off the boat from France. Their smiles were tight—almost grimaces—and their eyes kept roaming around the hall as if they could not quite credit their surroundings. Indeed, they gave every appearance of men who had awakened from a pleasant dream to find themselves not in paradise, but in perdition.
“Here’s trouble,” whispered Bran through his smile. “Not one Norman to fleece, but five more as well. We may have to hold off for tonight.”
“No doubt you know best,” Tuck said softly; and even as he spoke, an idea sprang full-bloomed into his round Saxon head. “Yet, here may be a godsend staring us dead in the eye.”
“What do you see?” Bran said, still smiling at the Ffreinc, who were watching from their places at the board. He motioned Alan and the others to continue on, saying, “Keep your wits about you, everyone—especially you, Alan. Remember, this is why we came.” Turning once more to Tuck, he said, “Speak it out, and be quick. What is it?”
“It just came to me that this is like John the Baptiser in Herod’s pit.”
Bran’s mouth turned down in an expression of exasperated incomprehension. “We don’t have time for a sermon just now, Friar. If you have something to say—”
“King Gruffydd is John,” Tuck whispered. “And Earl Hugh is Herod.”
“And who am I, then?”
“It is obvious, is it not?”
“Not to me,” Bran muttered. He gestured to the earl as if to beg a moment’s grace so that he might confer a little longer.
“Lord bless you.” Tuck sighed. “Do you never pay attention when the Holy Writ is read out? Still, I’d have thought some smattering of the tale would have stuck by you.”
“Tuck! Tell me quick or shut up,” Bran rasped in a strained whisper. “We’re being watched.”
“You’re Solomé, of course.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“The dancing girl!”
Bran gave him a frustrated glare and turned away once more. “Just you be on your guard.”
The two approached the board where the earl and his noble visitors were waiting. Alan, standing ready, smiled broadly for the Normans and made an elaborate bow. “My lords, I give you greetings in the name of Count Rexindo of Spain”—he paused so that Bran might make his own gesture of greeting to the assembled lords—“and with him, Lord Galindo and Lord Ramiero”—he paused again as the two young Welshmen bowed—“and Father Balthus, Bishop of Pamplona.” Tuck stepped forward and, thinking it appropriate, made the sign of the cross over the table.
“Welcome, friends!” bellowed Earl Hugh, already deeply into his cups. “Sit! Sit and drink with us. Tonight, we are celebrating my good fortune! My lords here”—he gestured vaguely at the five newcomers—“bring word from Normandie, that my brother has died and his estates have passed to me. I am to be a baron. Baron d’Avranches—think of that, eh!”
“My sympathies for the loss of your brother,” replied the count.
“He was a rascal and won’t be missed or mourned,” sniffed the earl. “But he leaves me the family estates, for which I am grateful.”
“A fine excuse for a drink, then,” remarked Count Rexindo through his able interpreter. “I can think of none better than sudden and unexpected wealth.” Bran sent up a silent prayer that none of the earl’s new guests could speak Spanish and took his place on the nearest bench; the rest of his company filled in around him. Two of the women—one of whom had been openly preening for the count’s attention ever since he stepped across the threshold—brought a jar and some cups. She placed these before Bran, and then bent near to fill them—bending lower and nearer than strictly necessary. The count smiled at her obvious attentions, and gave her a wink for her effort. Such blatant flirtation was shameless as it was bold. But then, Tuck reflected, shame was certainly an oddity in Earl