The official led them through the wooden door and into the next room, which, although smaller than the anteroom they had just left, was whitewashed and strewn with fresh straw; at one end was a fireplace, and opposite the hearth was an enormous tapestry hung from an iron rod. The hand-worked cloth depicted the risen Christ on his heavenly throne, holding an orb and sceptre. The centre of the room was altogether taken up by a stout table at which sat three men in highbacked chairs. The two men at each end of the table wore robes of deep brown and skullcaps of white linen. The man in the centre was dressed in a robe of black satin trimmed with fox fur; his skullcap was red silk and almost the same colour as his long, flowing locks. He also wore a thick gold chain around his neck, attached to which were a cross and a polished crystal lens. Before the men were piles of parchments and pots containing goose quills and ink, and all three were writing on squares of parchment before them; the scratch of their pens was the only sound in the room.
'Yes?' said one of the men as the four approached the table. He did not raise his eyes from his writing. 'What is it?'
'Murder and the unlawful seizure of lands,' intoned the courtier.
'This is not a matter for the royal court,' replied the man dismissively, dipping his pen. 'You must take it up with the Court of the Assizor.'
'I thought perhaps this particular case might interest you, my lord bishop,' the courtier said.
'Interesting or not, we do not adjudicate criminal cases,' sighed the man. 'You must place the matter before the assizes.'
Before the courtier could make a reply, Bran said, 'We appeal to the king's justice because the crime was committed in the king's name.'
At this the man in the red skullcap glanced up; interest quickened eyes keen and rapacious as a hawk's. 'In the king's name, did you say?'
'Yes,' replied Bran. 'Truly.'
The man's eyes narrowed. 'You are Welsh.'
'British, yes.'
'What is your name?'
'Here stands before you Bran ap Brychan, prince and heir to the throne of Elfael,' said Iwan, speaking up to save his future king the embarrassment of having to affirm his own nobility.
'I see.' The man in the red silk cap leaned back in his chair. The gold cross on his chest had rubies to mark the places where nails had been driven into the saviour's hands and feet. He raised the crystal lens and held it before a sharp blue eye. 'Tell me what happened.'
'Forgive me, sir, are you the king?' asked Bran.
'My lord, we have no time for such as this. They are-,' began the man in the white skullcap. His objection was silenced by a flick of his superior's hand.
'King William has been called away to Normandie,' explained the man in the red skullcap. 'I am Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux, Chief Justiciar of England. I am authorised to deal with all domestic matters in the king's absence. You may speak to me as you would speak to His Majesty.' Offering a mirthless smile, the cardinal said, 'Pray, continue. I would hear more of this alleged crime.'
Bran nodded and licked his lips. 'Nine days ago, my father, Lord Brychan of Elfael, set off for Lundein to swear allegiance to King William. He was ambushed on the road by Ffreinc marchogi, who killed him and all who were with him, save one. My father and the warband of Elfael were massacred and their bodies left to rot beside the road.'
'My sympathies,' said Ranulf. 'May I ask how you know the men who committed this crime were, as you call them, Ffreinc marchogi?'
Bran put out a hand to Iwan. 'This man survived and witnessed all that took place. He is the only one to escape with his life.'
'Is this true?' wondered the cardinal.
'It is, my lord, every word,' affirmed Iwan. 'The leader of this force is a man named Falkes de Braose. He claims to have received Elfael by a grant from King William.'
Ranulf of Bayeux raised the long white quill and held it lengthwise between his hands as if studying it for imperfections. 'It is true that His Majesty has recently issued a number of such grants,' the cardinal told them. Turning to his assistant on the left, he said, 'Bring me the de Braose grant.'
Without a word the man in the chair beside him rose and crossed the room, disappearing through a door behind the tapestry.
'There would seem to be some confusion here,' allowed the cardinal when his man had gone, 'but we will soon find the cause.' Regarding the three before him, he added, 'We keep good records. It is the Norman way.'
Friar Aethelfrith stifled a hoot of contempt for the man's insinuation. Instead, he beamed beatifically and loosed a soft fart.
A moment later the cardinal's assistant returned bearing a square of parchment bound by a red satin riband. This he untied and placed before his superior, who took it up and began to read aloud very quickly, skipping over unimportant parts. 'Be it known… this day… by the power and enfranchisement… Ah!' he said. 'Here it is.
He then read out the pertinent passage for the petitioners. 'Granted to William de Braose, Baron, Lord of the Rape of Bramber, in recognition for his support and enduring loyalty, the lands comprising the Welsh commot Elfael so called, entitled free and clear for himself and his heirs in perpetuity, in exchange for the sum of two hundred marks.'
'We were sold for two hundred marks?' wondered Iwan.
'A token sum,' replied the cardinal dryly. 'It is customary.'
'The Norman way, no doubt,' put in Aethelfrith.
'But it is Count Falkes de Braose who has taken the land,' Bran pointed out, 'not the baron.'
'Baron William de Braose is his uncle, I believe,' said the cardinal. 'But, yes, that is undoubtedly where the confusion has arisen. There is no provision for Falkes to assume control of the land, as he is not a direct heir. The baron himself must occupy the land or forfeit his claim. Therefore, as Chief Justiciar, I will allow this grant to be rescinded.'
'I do thank you, my lord,' said Bran, sweet relief surging through him. 'I am much obliged.'
The cardinal raised his hand. 'Please, hear me out. I will allow the grant to be revoked for a payment to the crown of six hundred marks.'
'Six hundred!' gasped Bran. 'It was given to de Braose for two hundred.'
'In recognition of his loyalty and support during the rebellion of the Barons,' intoned the cardinal. 'Yes. For you it will be six hundred and fealty sworn to King William.'
'That is robbery!' snapped Bran.
The cardinal's eyes snapped quick fire. 'It is a bargain, boy.' He stared at Bran for a moment and then pulled the parchment to himself, adding, 'In any case, that is my decision. The matter will be held in abeyance until such time as the money is paid.' He gestured to his assistant, who began writing an addendum to the grant.
Bran stared at the churchman and felt the despair melt away in a sudden surge of white-hot rage. His vision became blood-tinged and hard. He saw the bland face and shrewd eyes, the man's flaming red hair, and it was all he could do to keep from seizing the imperious cleric, pulling him bodily across the table, and beating the superior smirk off that smug face with his fists.
Rigid as a stump, hands clenched in rage, he stared at the courtiers as his grip on reality slipped away. In a blood-tinted vision, he saw a tub of oil at his feet, and before anyone could stop him, he snatched up the tub and emptied it over the table, drenching the cardinal, his clerks, and their stacks of parchment. As the irate courtiers spluttered, Bran calmly withdrew an oil-soaked parchment from the pile; he held it to a torch in a wall sconce and set it ablaze. He blew on it to strengthen the flame, then tossed it back onto the table. The oil flared, igniting the table, parchments, and men in a single conflagration. The clerks pawed at the flames with their hands and succeeded only in spreading them. The cardinal, gripped with terror, cried out like a child as tongues of fire leapt to his hair and turned the rich fox fur trim into a collar of living flame. Bran glimpsed himself standing gaunt and grim as the howling clerics fled the room, each oil-soaked footprint alighting behind them as they ran. He saw Ranulf of Bayeux's face bubble and crack like the skin of a pig on a spit, and as the cardinal fought for his last breath-
