Scarlet

CHAPTER 26

We rode hard for Glascwm and passed through the gates of Saint Dyfrig's as a wet winter storm closed over the valleys. Rain, stinging cold, spattered into the hard-packed yard as the monks scurried to pull the horses into the stable and bundle us soggy travellers into the refectory where they could spoon hot soup into us. They did not yet know who it was they entertained-not that it would have made a difference, I reckon, for the abbey yard was already full of local folk who, having fled the Ffreinc, sought sanctuary within the walls of the abbey.

Wet and wretched, battered and beaten down, they stood slump-shouldered in the rain before the low huts they had built in the yard, watching us with the mute, dull-eyed curiosity of cattle as we trotted through the gate. Forlorn and past caring, they huddled before their hovels, shivering as the rain puddled in the mud at their bare feet. The monks had made a fire in the middle of the yard to warm them, but the damp fuel ensured that it produced more smoke than heat. Most were thin, half-starved farmers by the look of them; and more than a few bore the signs of Norman justice: here a missing hand, or chopped-off foot, there an eye burned out by a red-hot poker.

Oh, the Ffreinc love lopping bits off the poor folk. They are tireless at it. And when a Norman noble cannot find good excuse to maim some unfortunate who wanders across his path… why, he'll concoct a reason out of spit and spider silk.

As soon as we dismounted, the ladies were taken to the guest lodge where they could dry their clothes, but the rest of us foreswore that comfort for a hot meal instead. The abbot, a stiff old stick with a face like a wild pig's rump, huffed and puffed when he saw our lord and his rough companions puddling up his dining hall. "Bran ap Brychan!" he cried, bursting into the long, low-beamed room. "They told me you were killed dead a year ago or more."

"I am as you see me, Father," replied Bran, standing to receive Abbot Daffyd's blessing. "I hope we find you well."

"Well enough. If the Ffreinc would leave off harrowing the valleys and driving decent folk from their homes, we would fare that much better. I hope you do not plan on staying-we are stretched tight as a drum head with caring for those we have already."

"We will not trouble you any longer than necessary," Bran assured him.

"Good." The old man did not waste words. His forthright manner made me smile. Here was a fella who would listen to reason, and give back the same. "I'm glad you're not dead. What are you doing here?"

"And here I was thinking you would never ask," replied Bran. Iwan and Siarles chuckled, but Bran silenced them with a stern glance. "A few days ago, a letter was brought to you by Bishop Asaph."

"That is so," answered the abbot, folding his hands over his chest. His frown suggested he suspected grave mischief, and he was not wrong. "What is that to you, my son-if I may be so bold?"

"Be as bold as you like," answered Bran. "Only tell me that you have that letter."

"I do."

"And have you read it, Father?"

"I have not," said Daffyd. "But another has."

"I hope he is a trustworthy man."

"If he was not, I would not have given him the task."

"Come, then." He put a hand to the abbot's shoulder and turned him around. "We will hear it together."

"You're soaking wet!" remarked the abbot, shrugging off Bran's hand. "I'll not have you shaking water all over my abbey. Stay here and finish your soup. I will bring the letter here."

I began to appreciate the abbot right well. He was a bluff old dog whose bark concealed the fact that he would never bite. Bran returned to his place on the bench with a rueful smile. "He knew me as a boy," he explained, "when he was under Asaph at Llanelli."

The abbot returned as we were finishing our soup and bread. He brought the folded square of parchment clutched tight in both hands, as if he thought it might try to wriggle free; with him was a dark-haired, slender monk of middling years with a long face, prominent nose, and skin the colour of good brown ale.

"This is Brother Jago," announced the abbot. "He was born in Genoa and raised in Marseilles. He speaks Ffreinc far better than anyone here in the abbey. He has read the letter."

The slender monk dipped his head in acknowledgement of his superior's wishes. "I am happy to serve," he said, and I discerned in his speech a lightly lisping quality I'd never heard before. He turned to the abbot, who still stood holding the parchment bundle. "Father?" he said, extending his hand.

Abbot Daffyd gazed at the letter and then at Bran. "Are you certain you wish to proceed with this?"

Bran nodded.

The abbot frowned. "I will not be a party to this. You will excuse me."

"I understand, Abbot," replied Bran. "No doubt, it is for the best."

Placing the bundle in Brother Jago's hands, the abbot turned and left the room. When the door had closed again, Bran nodded to the monk. "Begin."

Jago untied the blue cord and carefully unfolded the prepared skin. He stood for a moment, gazing at it, then placed it on the board in front of him and, leaning stiff-armed on his hands, began to read in a slow, confident voice.

"I, William, by the grace of God, Baron of Bramber and Lord of Brienze, to the greatly esteemed and reverend Guibert of Ravenna. Greetings in God, may the peace of Christ, Our Eternal Saviour, remain with you always. Pressed-" Jago paused. "Ah, no, rather… urged by faith, we are obliged to believe and to maintain that the Church is one: Holy, Catholic, and also Apostolic. We believe in Her firmly and we confess with simplicity that outside of Her there is neither Salvation nor the remission of Sins, and She represents one sole mystical Body whose Head is Christ and the Head of Christ is God."

Although we understood little enough of what he said, the musical quality of his speech drew us near; as he continued to read, we gathered around to hear him better.

"In all our Realms and whatsoever lands exist under our rule, granted by God, we venerate this Church as one. Therefore, of the one and only Church there is one Body and one Head, not two heads like a monster; that is, Christ and the Vicar of Christ, Peter and the successor of Peter, since the Lord speaking to Peter Himself said: 'Feed my sheep,' meaning, my sheep in general, not these, nor those in particular, whence we understand that He entrusted all to this same Peter, entrusting to him and him alone, the Keys of the Kingdom…"

Well, I never would have believed it-that Bloody Baron de Braose should preach so about the nature of the church and whatnot-well, it passed understanding.

"… Therefore, if anyone should say that they are not belonging-"Jago broke off, read to himself for a moment, then raised his head and said, "I am sorry. It has been some time since I read French like this."

"You are doing well," Bran said. "Pray, continue."

"Ah… that they are not under the authority of Peter and his successors, they must confess not being the Sheep of Christ, since Our Lord says in the Gospel of John 'there is one sheepfold and one Shepherd.'

Therefore, whoever resists this power thus ordained by God, resists the ordinance of God, unless he invent like Manicheus two beginnings, which is false and judged by us heretical, since according to the testimony of Moses, it is not 'in the beginnings' but 'in the beginning' that God created Heaven and Earth. Furthermore, we declare, we proclaim, we define that it is absolutely necessary for Salvation that every human creature be subject to the Roman Pontiff…"

When Jago broke off once more to collect himself, Iwan said, "What is the old rascal talking about?"

"Shh!" hissed Tuck. "Let him read on and we will see."

Jago resumed his reading. "… Be it known to all sons of our Holy Church present and future that we have heard the Spirit's admonition to seize the day of Peace, and have ordained this concord to be made between William and Guibert, formerly Archbishop of Ravenna…"

Merian and Cinnia, given dry robes by the monks, entered just then. "You started without us!" Merian said, her voice sharp with disapproval.

"Shh!" said Bran. "You have missed little enough." He gestured to Jago. "Go on."

"… attendant with very Sacred vows to uphold His Holiness, the Pope, and bind our Powers to the Throne of Saint Peter and the One Church Universal, recognizing him as Pontiff and Holy Father, forsaking all other Powers, henceforth holding only to the Authority invested in His Holiness, the Patriarch of Rome. May the Divinity preserve you for many years, most Holy and Blessed Father.

"Given at Rouen on the third day of September, before these witnesses: Roger, Bishop of Rheims; Reginald des Roches, Bishop of Cotillon; Robert, Duke of Normandy; Henry Beauclerc; Joscelin, Bishop of Vexin; Hubert de Burgh, Justiciar of King Philip; Gilbert de Clare, Count of Burgundy and Argenton; Ralph fitzNicholas, our seneschal; Henry de Capella, Baron of Aquitaine; and others in most Solemn and August Assembly."

Jago glanced up quickly and, seeing all eyes on him, concluded. "Written by the hand of his servant Girandeau, scribe to Teobaldo, Archbishop of Milan."

Well, I won't say I gleaned the full meaning of that letter just then. Then again, no one did. Indeed, we all sat looking a little perplexed at what we'd heard. Iwan spoke for us all, I think, when he said, "That was worth a man's life on Christmas day?"

"There is something in it we cannot yet see," replied Bran.

"If we only knew where to look," sighed Tuck. "For all its folderol, it is only a simple offer of support for the pope. I confess, I make nothing of it."

Jago straightened and turned a thoughtful gaze to Bran. "Pray, how did you come by this, my lord?" he asked, his voice quiet in the silence.

"It was with some other items taken in a raid," Bran said simply.

Jago nodded, accepting this without comment. "These other items-may I see them?"

Bran considered for a moment, then turned to Tuck. "Show him."

Tuck rose and turned his back to one and all and, from a hidden pocket in his robe, produced a roll of cloth tied with a horsehair string. He untied the string and unrolled the cloth on the table to reveal the ruby-studded ring and the finely embroidered gloves.

Jago took one look at the ring and picked it up; he held it between thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that so that the light glinted on the gold and ring of tiny rubies. "Do you know whose crest this is?"

"That of a Ffreinc nobleman," replied Iwan.

"Beyond that?" said Bran. "We know nothing."

Jago nodded again. Replacing the ring, he picked up the gloves, lifting them to his nose to take in the scent of the fine leather. Almost reverently, he traced the heavy gold thread of the cross and the looped whorl of the Chi Rho with a respectful fingertip. "I have seen gloves like this only once in my life-but once seen, it is never forgotten." He smiled, as if recalling the memory even then. "They were on the hands of Pope Gregory. I saw him as a boy when he passed through the village where I was born.

"But," he said, replacing the gloves, "I fear this does little to help you. I am sorry I could not be of better service." He placed the palm of his hand on the parchment. "I agree with the friar. There is something in the letter that the baron does not wish known to a wider world."

Well, you could have knocked us down with a wren feather. We all looked at each other, the mystery deeper now than when we had begun.

Lady Merian found her voice first. "Nevertheless, it goes back. Whether we discover what it means or not," she declared, "it must be returned-all of it-as we agreed."