Stephen Lawhead - Scarlet

"Only one, Your Grace," came the reply. "The storm blew itself out overnight. The sea has been running high, but it is calming now. Och! That was a bad one-as bad as any I've seen in a month of years."

"Are we still on course?" asked Bran.

"More or less," affirmed the master. "More or less. But we will be able to raise the sails soon. Until then, have your men see to the horses. Unbind them and give the poor beasts a little food and water."

While Iwan and Siarles saw to that chore, two of the sailors began preparing a meal for us. Bran and I watched this activity as we leaned heavily on the rail, neither of us feeling very bold or hearty just then. "What a night," Bran sighed. "How is the hand?"

"Not so bad," I lied. "Hardly feel it at all." Looking out at the still-rumpled sea, I asked, "What will happen when we get to Rouen, if we should be so fortunate?"

"I mean to get an audience with Red William."

"As Lord Bran," I wondered, "or Father Dominic?"

He showed me his lopsided smile. "Whichever one the king will agree to see. It is the message that is important here, not the messenger."

"Leaving that aside," I said, "I'm beginning to think we're mad for risking our necks aboard this mad ship and storm-stirred sea to save a king we neither love nor honour."

He regarded me curiously. "Is that you talking, Will? It was you who put us onto it, after all."

"Yes, but, I didn't think-"

"If you're right, then it is well worth the risk of a kingdom," Bran said.

"Whose kingdom, my lord?" I wondered. "William's… or yours?"

We talked until Cinnia called us to our food which, following a little good-natured teasing by the sailors, we were able to get down. After we had eaten, Ruprecht gave orders to his crew for the sail to be run up. Once this was done, the ship began to run more smoothly. We had no more trouble with the ever-contrary weather and reached the French mainland that evening. We dropped anchor until morning, then proceeded up the coast until reaching the estuary of a wide inland river at a place called Honfleur. Although some of our provisions had been damaged by seawater in the storm, we did not stop to take on more provisions because Ruprecht assured us that Rouen was only a day or so upriver and we could get all we needed there at half the cost of the harbour merchants.

So, we sailed on. The storm we had endured at sea had gone before us and was now settled over the land. Through a haze of rain we watched the low hills of Normandie slowly slide by the rail. Although we could not escape the rain, the river remained calm, and it was good to see land within easy reach on either side of the ship. I confess, it did feel strange to go into the enemy's land. And I did marvel that no one tried to apprehend us or attack us in any way. But no one did, and we spent the night anchored in the middle of the stream, resuming our slow way at sunrise the next day. As promised, we reached the city of Rouen while it was still morning and made fast at the wharf that served the city. Iwan and Siarles readied the horses, and Bran meanwhile arranged with Ruprecht to provision the boat and wait for our return.

Then, pausing only to ask directions of one of the harbour hands, we set off once more beneath clearing skies on blessed dry land. Oh! It was that good to be on solid ground again, and it was but a short ride to the palace of the archbishop where, it was said, the English king had arrived the previous day.

"Here is the way it will be," Bran said as we entered the palace yard. "To anyone who asks, we are still ambassadors of the pope with an urgent message for the king."

"Aye," agreed Iwan dryly, "but which pope?"

"Pray we do not have to explain beyond that," Bran told him. "At all events, do not any of you speak to anyone. Let Jago, here, do the talking for us." He put his hand on the priest's shoulder. "Brother Alfonso knows what to say."

"What if someone asks us something?" wondered Siarles, looking none too certain about this part of the enterprise.

"Just pretend you don't speak French," I told him.

The others laughed at this, but Siarles, bless him, was worried and did not catch my meaning. "But I don't speak a word of French," he insisted.

"Then pretending should be easy," Merian chirped lightly. She patted her hair, working in the ashes that greyed it; then took out the small wooden teeth that were part of her disguise and slipped them into her mouth; they were an off colour and made her jaw jut slightly, giving her face an older, far less comely appearance.

Bran and the others straightened their monkish robes and prepared to look pious. I had no disguise, but since no one in France had ever seen me before it was not thought to matter very much. Then, standing in the rain-washed yard of the archbishop of Rouen's palace, Brother Jago led us in a prayer that the plan we set in motion would succeed, that bloodshed could be avoided, and that our actions would bring about the restoration of Elfael to its rightful rule.

When he finished, Bran looked at each of us in turn, head to toe, then, satisfied, said, "The downfall of Baron de Braose is begun, my friends. It is not something we have done, but something he has done to himself." He smiled. "Come, let us do all we can to hasten his demise."

We were given a beggar's greeting by the archbishop's porter, who at first thought us English and then, despite his misgivings, was forced to take Bran at his word. For standing on his threshold was a legate of the pope and his attending servants and advisors. What else could he do but let us in?

Thus, we were admitted straightaway and shown to a small reception room and made to wait there until someone could be found who might more readily deal with us. There were no chairs in the room, and no fire in the hearth; the board against one wall was bare. Clearly, it was not a room used to receive expected, or welcome, visitors.

"Pax vobiscum," said a short, keen-eyed cleric in a white robe. "Bona in sanctus nomen."

"Pax vobiscum," replied Bran. He nodded to Brother Jago, who stepped forward and, with a little bow of respect, began to translate for Father Dominic and his companions.

The man, it turned out, was a fella named Canon Laurent, and he was the principal aid to Archbishop Bonne-Ame. "His Grace has asked me to express his regrets, as he is unable to welcome you personally. Your arrival has caught us at a very busy and eventful time. Please accept our apologies if we cannot offer you the hospitality you are certainly due, and which it would be our pleasure to provide under more ordinary circumstances."

The priest was as slippery and smooth as an eel in oil, but beneath the mannered courtesy, I sensed a staunch and upright spirit. "How may I be of service to you?" he said, folding his hands and tucking them into the sleeves of his robe.

"We have come bearing an important message for King William from His Holiness, the pope."

"Indeed," the canon replied, raising his eyebrows. "Perhaps if I knew more about this message it would aid your purpose."

"Our message is for the king alone," explained Bran, through Jago. "Yet I have no doubt that His Majesty will explain all to you in the time and manner of his choosing. If you would inform him that we are waiting, we will be in your debt."

That was plain enough. The canon, unable to wheedle more from our Bran, conceded and promised to take our request to the king. "If you wish, I can arrange for you to wait somewhere more comfortable," he offered.

Jago thanked him and said, "That will not be necessary. But if you could have some food brought here, that would be a mercy."

"It will be done," replied the canon as he withdrew.

"That went well," Bran observed cheerfully.

"Job's bones, Bran," muttered Iwan. "You are a bold one. How can you think of food at a time like this?"