Hereford
Baron Bernard Neufmarché unexpectedly found himself in complete agreement with Lady Agnes, who was determined to make the wedding of her daughter Sybil splendid in every way possible. Much to his amazement and delight—for the baron had long ago resigned himself to a wife he considered little more than a frail ghost of a woman—the baroness was now a creature transformed. Gone were the headaches, vapours, and peculiar lingering maladies she had endured since coming to Britain. She was energetic and enthusiastic, tireless in her work at organizing the wedding. Major military campaigns received less attention, in his experience. What is more, the too-slender Agnes had gained weight; her previously skeletal figure had begun filling out to a more robust shape, and a wholesome glow of ruddy good health had replaced her customary sickly pallor.
This change in the woman he had known fully half his life was as surprising as it was welcome. He had never before seen anyone altered so utterly, and he revelled in it. Indeed, the renewal of his wife affected him far more deeply than he could have imagined. His own outlook had altered as well. Something like gratitude had come over him; he looked at the world around him with a warm and pleasant feeling of contentment. For the first time in a very long time he was happy.
For all this, and more, he had his Welsh minions to thank.
On reflection, the baron thought he knew almost to the precise moment when the change—no, the transformation—of Agnes began. It was in the churchyard of the little Welsh church where they had laid to rest the body of his vassal, King Cadwgan of Eiwas. Something had touched his wife at the funeral, and when the three days of observance drew to a close, the rebirth had begun.
Perhaps nowhere was the change more evident than in her view of the Welsh themselves. Where before Lady Agnes had considered them subhuman savages, a nation of brutish barbarians at best, now she viewed them more as unfortunates, as children who had survived an infancy of deprivation and neglect—which she was now intent on redressing.
Sybil’s wedding was just the beginning; once she and Prince Garran—no, the young man was king now, it must be remembered—once the two young people were married, Lady Agnes planned nothing less than the rehabilitation of the entire realm and all its people. “They only want a town or two and markets,” Agnes had informed him a few weeks ago, “some proper churches—good stone, mind—and a monastery, of course. Yes, and a better road. Then farms would flourish. I do believe it would be one of the finest cantrefs in the land.”
“They are cattle herders, mostly,” the baron had pointed out as he skimmed through a list of provisions he was amassing for the wedding.
“That, I suspect, is because they know little else,” she concluded. “We shall show them how to husband the land.”
“Teach them to farm?”
“Bien sur,” she replied lightly. “Why not? Then they will have things to trade in the markets. With the money that brings, they can begin making something of themselves.”
In Agnes’s view, the pitiful Welsh holdings were to be built up and made productive, the wasteland tilled and the wildwood managed—as in her father’s prosperous estates in Normandie. With the considerable aid and support of the Neufmarché nobility, Eiwas would become a dazzling jewel, a bright and shining star leading all of Wales into a glorious new day of abundance and prosperity.
This was in the future, thank heaven—just thinking about the work involved made the baron tired. Nevertheless, he had to admit that he liked this new, industrious, spirited, far-thinking wife much better than the frail, sharp-tongued, sickly old one. And, truth be told, her plans for the cantref were not so very different from his own. Now that she was of similar mind, accomplishing his will in Eiwas and establishing himself more firmly in Wales would be that much easier. Yes, forging a lasting alliance through the marriage of his daughter to a Welsh king was a match that made good sense in more ways than one.
For his part, Bernard had assembled all the necessary supplies for a feast the like of which he was sure no one beyond the March had ever seen. It was his intention that the occasion should be spoken of in awed tones by his Welsh vassals for years to come. He wanted to cow them with a spectacle of such stunning opulence that they would fight one another to be next in line to receive such largess from his hand.
There was also the matter of a house. After all, as the doting father of the bride, he could not allow his precious daughter to live in the tumbledown wooden fortress that was Caer Rhodl. She would have a proper house of stone, with solid stone walls to keep her and his grandchildren—when they came along—safe from the buffeting winds of war and strife. Not that he expected trouble; since his defeat of King Rhys ap Tewdwr in the lightning conquest of Deheubarth things were much more peaceful in the region. He was, he felt, succeeding in winning over the inhabitants of that southern cantref just as he had won over the people of Eiwas.
Still, in Wales, one never knew what to expect. It was better to be ready for whatever martial crisis might arise—not to mention the fact that it would eventually become a convenient base from which to extend his power deeper into Wales. To that end, he had his master builder draw up plans for a castle with stout ramparts, a high donjon, garrison, stables, flagstone yard, and, surrounding all, a steep-sided moat. The house and its castle would be his wedding gift to the couple.
King Garran, proud Welshman that he was, would no doubt have rejected outright the suggestion that his stronghold was inadequate in any aspect. But if the fortress came as a wedding gift for himself and his new bride—well, the young king could hardly refuse it. Baron Neufmarché would have his way in the end.
Thus, as the days drew down toward the celebration, the baron put the finishing touches on his elaborate preparations. And on a bright summer day, he and the baroness and their daughter broke fast on a bit of bread and watered wine, and then walked out into the yard, where a covered carriage drawn by two chestnut horses awaited. As the ladies were helped up into the carriage, the baron issued final instructions to the servants who were staying behind, then climbed into the carriage himself.
They proceeded out through the castle gate and down into the town and out onto the King’s Road. At the edge of Hereford they were met by a bodyguard of twenty knights and men-at-arms accompanied by nine wagons piled high with provisions, dishes and utensils, clothes and personal belongings; and four wagons filled with cooks, kitchen helpers, musicians, and sundry servants, all under the supervision of Remey, the baron’s aged seneschal.
“God with you, Sire,” said the baron’s master-at-arms.
“God with you, Marshal Orval,” returned the baron. “Is all well this morning?”
“All is well and in order, and awaiting your command,” replied the marshal, making a small bow from the saddle. “If you will give the order, we will be on our way.”
The baron glanced at the double rank of knights arrayed at the edge of the field beside the road. “Is this all you have mustered?” wondered the baron. “I thought there would be more.”
“Indeed, Sire, yes,” replied Marshal Orval, “there are as many more as you see here. I thought best to send the others on ahead to make certain the way is clear. We should encounter no trouble on the way.”
“Very good, Marshal,” agreed Neufmarché, satisfied at last. “Then you may give the signal and move out. We have a wedding to attend.” With this last, he reached over and gave his daughter’s hand a squeeze.
For her part, the young lady was suitably demure beneath a cap of pale blue silk with a veil that rested lightly over her long dark hair. In her lap she carried a posy of tiny white flowers bound in a bit of green cloth. She smiled at her father as the carriage lurched into motion, and said, “You have gone to far too much trouble—as I feared you might.”
“Nonsense!” replied the baron. “Only what was necessary—nothing more.”
“Nine wagons—necessary?” She laughed, not at all put out by her father’s extravagance. “I’m not marrying the entire realm.”
“Au contraire, chéri, but you are,” insisted Bernard. “You will be queen and ruler of the realm—the woman all your male subjects will admire and all female subjects emulate.”
“Your father is right,” offered the baroness. “A future queen cannot be seen to hold herself too low, or she will lose the respect of those who must live beneath her rule.”
“Nor would we care to be thought close-fisted on such an important occasion,” continued the baron. “We must by all means demonstrate the prosperity we intend to cultivate in the realm. The people must see what it is that we intend for them.”
“Not all the people, surely,” said Sybil in mild derision. “I doubt I will have any dealings with the serfs.”
“Do you not think so?” replied her mother. “Each and every one of your vassals will benefit from your rule—serfs as well as nobility. You must not allow yourself to become distant from those you rule. This is something that happens far too often in France, and I do not think it altogether a good thing.”
This last pronouncement surprised the baron into silence. Coming from a bishop or cardinal such a sentiment would not seem out of place; but this—from the lips of a woman who, after fourteen years still did not know the names of the cook or any of the kitchen servants, and had yet to meet the porter, stabler, and grooms—it fair took his breath away.
Lady Agnes turned to him. “Ce n’est pas, mon mari?” she inquired with a lift of her eyebrow.
It took him a moment to realize she was speaking to him. “Oh! Indeed! Indeed, yes,” he agreed hurriedly. “Sadly, it is much the way of things in France, but we have the opportunity to do better now.” He smiled at the grave expression on his daughter’s face. “But do not worry, mon coeur. It will soon be second nature to you.” He glanced from his daughter to his wife, and added, “Why, you’ll be surprised at how naturally it grows.”
“And you will have your handmaids and servants to help—as well as a seneschal,” Agnes continued. “A good seneschal is worth his weight in gold—and we shall make it a matter of some urgency to find one who knows what he’s about. Your grandfather will have some ideas, I think; I will write to him and ask him to send two or three and you can choose the one that suits you best.”
“A Welsh seneschal would be better, surely,” ventured Sybil. “Because of the language . . .”
“Tch!” her mother countered. “That would never do. You would soon fall into the errors of their ways. As I said, it will be your duty—the duty of us all—to teach them.”
They talked of this and other things, and the day passed with the countryside juddering slowly by. Because of all the wagons, they could not move with any speed, and as the sun dropped lower and ever lower in the west, Marshal Orval searched for and found a suitable place to make camp for the night. While the servants prepared a meal for all the entourage, the baron and baroness walked up to the top of the nearest hill to stretch their legs after riding in the carriage all day. In the distance they could see the dark, close-crowded hills of Wales, misty with the coming of night.
“What do you see?” asked Agnes.
The baron was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I see wealth and power and a throne to rival England’s.” His naked declaration embarrassed him a little; he could feel Agnes’s eyes on him, so he shrugged and added, “At least, it is closer now than it has ever been. The wedding will make a glorious beginning.”
She returned his smile and took his hand. “That, mon amour, is exactly what I was thinking.”