Scarlet

'It may not come to that,' replied the baron.

'If it did?'

'Que sera,' answered his father. A drum began beating just then, and Baron de Braose gazed out across the field to a clump of beech trees where the handlers were waiting. 'If all goes well, you will receive a sign before Christmas. I will send it with the winter supplies.' With that, he put spurs to his mount and galloped away.

Earl Philip watched his father's broad back, his frown a scowl of displeasure. 'A word beyond this field and we are dead men,' he muttered.

'Count Falkes!' The baron called back to him. 'When you catch this phantom raven of yours, let me know. I think I'd like to see him hang.'

Well, thought Falkes de Braose as he rode into the town square, we would all like to see King Raven hang. And hang he would, there was no doubt about that. But there were other, more pressing matters on his mind than chasing down elusive thieves. And anyway, Elfael had been quiet lately-not an incident in many months. Most likely, the black bird and his band of thieves had been frightened away by the sheriff, and was now raiding elsewhere-someplace where the purses were fatter and the pickings easier.

Count Falkes paused outside Abbot Hugo's stone-built church. It was a handsome building. The abbot had spared no expense, commanding the finest materials available and gathering the best masons, and it showed.

The count had no great love for his abbot, a haughty, high-handed cleric who connived and conspired to get his way in everything-from the cloth of gold for the altar to the lead roof gleaming dully in the sun. That very roof Falkes paused to admire just now. Ordinary thatch was not good enough for Hugo; it had to be lead, cast in heavy sheets in Paris and shipped at great expense across the channel. And then there was the stonework-only the most skilled stonecutters were allowed to work on the archway carvings, producing the finest decoration money could buy. At the church entrance, Falkes stopped to examine a few of the finished sculptures-some of the last to be finished: a dragon with wings, chasing its tail for eternity; a centaur brandishing a sword; a lion and horse intertwined in mortal combat; Aquarius, the water man, with his bucket and ladle; an angel driving Adam and Eve from the Garden; a winged ox; a mermaid rising from the waves clutching an anchor; and more, all of them contained in dozens of small stone plaques around the arch and on the pillars.

Falkes traced the shapely outline of the mermaid with his finger. He had to admit that the work was extraordinary, but then, so was the cost-and increasingly difficult to bear. It meant, among other things, that he required constant support; he was still far too dependent for his survival on regular supplies from his uncle. True, the largest part of the problem was the baron himself, and his unquenchable zeal for conquest. If Baron de Braose was prepared to build slowly, to develop the land and settle the people, Count Falkes had no doubt that Elfael and the territories west could eventually be made to yield untold wealth. But the baron was not willing to wait, and Falkes had to bear the brunt of his uncle's impatience-just as he had to endure the umbrage of the abbot, whose spendthrift ways could well ruin them all.

Falkes entered the church. Cool and dim inside, it breathed an air of quiet serenity despite the steady chink of chisel on stone. He stood for a moment and watched the two masons on the wooden scaffold dressing the capitals of one of the pillars. One of them was carving what looked like a bear, and the other a bird.

'You there!' shouted Falkes, his voice loud in the quiet of the sanctuary. 'What is your name?'

The masons stopped their work and turned to look down at the count, striding down the centre of the nave. 'Me, Sire? I am Ethelric.'

'What is that you are carving, Ethelric?'

'A raven, Sire,' replied the sculptor, pointing to the leafy bough issuing from the face carved into the top of the pillar. 'You can tell by the beak, Sire.'

'Remove it.'

'Sire?' asked the mason, bewilderment wrinkling his brow.

'Remove it at once. I do not wish to see any such images in this church.'

The second stone-carver on the scaffold spoke up. 'Begging your pardon, Sire, but the abbot has approved of all the work we are doing here.'

'I do not care if the king himself has approved it. I am paying for it, and I do not want it. Remove the hideous thing at once.'

'There you are, Count Falkes!' exclaimed Abbot Hugo, moving up the nave to take his place beside the count. His white hair was neatly curled beneath a fine cloth cap, and his robe was glistening white satin. 'I saw your horse outside and wondered where you had gone.' Glancing at the two stone-carvers on the scaffold, he nodded to them to get back to work and, taking the count by the arm, led Falkes down the aisle. 'We'll let these men get on with their work, shall we?'

'But see here,' protested the count.

'Come, there is something I wish to show you,' said the abbot, surging ahead. 'The work is going well. We have years of construction still before us, of course, but the building will soon be serviceable. I'm contemplating a consecration ceremony on the eve of All Souls. What do you think of that?'

'I suppose,' agreed Falkes diffidently, 'although Baron de Braose will not be likely to attend. But see here, that carving in there…'

The abbot opened the door and stepped out. 'Why not?' he asked, turning back. He looped his arm through the count's and walked him into the market square. 'I would very much like the baron to attend. In fact, I insist. He must see what we have achieved here. It is his triumph as much as my own. He must attend.'

'I agree, of course,' said Falkes. 'However, the baron is away in France and not expected to return much before Christmas.'

'Pity,' sniffed the abbot, none too distraught. 'Then we will simply wait. It will give us time to finish more of the corbels and capitals.'

'That is what I wanted to speak to you about, Abbot,' said Falkes, who went on to explain that his treasury was all but depleted and there would be no more funds to pay the workers. 'I sent a letter to the baron-and it, like everything else, awaits his return from France.'

Abbot Hugo stopped walking. 'What am I to do until then? The men must be paid. They cannot wait until Christmas. The work must continue. The work must go on if we are ever to see the end of it.'

'That is as may be,' granted the count, 'but there is no money to pay them until the baron returns.'

'Can you not borrow from somewhere?'

'Do you really need cloth of gold to dress the altar?'

The abbot pursed his lips in a frown.

'You said you wished to show me something,' said Falkes.

'This way,' said the abbot. They walked across the empty market square to what was left of the former monastery of Llanelli, on whose ruins the town was being raised. The modest chapter house had been enlarged to provide adequate space for the abbot's needs-which, so it appeared to Falkes, were greater than his own, though he had a score of knights to house. Inside, what had been the refectory was now the abbot's private living quarters.

'I have drawn plans for the abbey garden and fields,' the abbot said, placing a rolled parchment in the count's hands. 'Some wine?'

'You are too kind,' said Falkes. Unrolling the skin, he carried it to the room's single window and held it to the light. The outline of the town was a simple square, and the fields, indicated by long narrow parallel lines, seemed to be some distance from the town and almost twice as large as Llanelli itself. 'What are you thinking of growing?'

'Flax mostly,' replied the abbot, 'and barley, of course. We will use what we need and sell the surplus.'

'With such a great extent of fields,' said the count, 'you will surely have a surplus. But I am wondering who will work these fields for you?'

'The monks.' Abbot Hugo handed him a cup of wine.

'How many monks do you reckon you will need?'

'As to that,' replied the abbot with a smile, 'I estimate that I can make do with no fewer than seventy-five, to begin.'

'Seventy-five!' cried Falkes. 'By the Virgin! If you had said thirty I would have thought that was fifteen too many. Why do you need so many?'