Stephen Lawhead - Hood

The workers camped a little distance away from the ditch beyond which rose the bailey mound where they had been working that day. Cups of ale and loaves of bread were passed from hand to hand as whole chickens, splayed on green elm branches, were turned slowly in the flames.

Men talked easily and watched the stars gather in the sky overhead as they waited for their supper. When they had eaten, they spread their bedrolls in the emptied wagon beds and lay down to pass a peaceful night amongst the heaps of stone and stockpiled timbers of the building site. It was not until one of the drivers went to yoke his team the next morning in preparation for the return journey that he noticed half of the oxen had disappeared. Of the twelve beasts to have entered the pen the night before, only six remained. Three of his own animals were missing, half of a second team, and one of a third.

He quickly called the other drivers to him, but other than standing and staring at the half-empty pen, no one had any explanation for the disappearance. They called the master, but he could offer nothing better than, "The Welsh are a thieving kind, as God knows. It's their nature. I say, find the nearest farmer and you'll find your oxen, like as not."

When asked, however, the master refused to spare any of his men from the building work to search for the missing beasts. They were still arguing over who should go to the fortress to request a party to track down the purloined animals when the count himself appeared. He had come with a small force to make a circuit of the construction works. Now that the long-awaited supplies had arrived, he wanted to make certain that nothing prevented the workmen from making good and speedy progress.

"Thieves, you say?" wondered Falk-es when the drivers had explained the predicament. "How many?"

"Difficult to say, my lord," replied the driver. "No one saw them."

"No one saw anything?"

"No, my lord. We only discovered the theft a short while ago. It must have happened during the night."

"And the ox pens are not guarded, I suppose?"

"No, my lord."

"Why not?"

"No one steals oxen, my lord."

"I think," retorted the count, "you will find that they do. The Welsh will steal anything they can lay hands to."

"So it would appear."

"Indeed," replied the count sharply. "You will find them, or go back without them."

"We dare not go back without them," the driver said.

"Why not? The wagons are empty," Falkes pointed out. "You can get more oxen in Lundein."

"My lord," replied the driver gravely, "matched teams are scarce as bird hair just now. You won't find any for sale between here and Paris."

"Be that as it may," rejoined the count, "what do you expect me to do about it?"

"We thought begging your pardon, sire-that his lordship might lend us some soldiers to find the thieves, my lord."

Unwillingness tugged the edges of the count's lips into a frown. First the missing horses, and now this. Was it really so difficult to keep animals from wandering off? "You want my men to search for oxen?"

"Five or six men-at-arms should be enough." Seeing the count's hesitation, the wagoner added, "The sooner we find the missing team, the sooner we can be on our way to fetch more supplies for the masons." When the count still failed to reply, he continued, "Now that the season is full on, the baron will not take kindly to any delays." As a last resort, he added, "Also, the workers will be wanting their pay."

Count Falkes regarded the empty wagons and the drivers standing idle. "Yes, yes, you have made your point," he said at last. "Ready your wagons and prepare to leave. We will find the stolen beasts. Oxen are slow; they cannot have gone far."

"Right you are, my lord," said the driver, hurrying away before the count changed his mind.

Turning to the soldiers who had accompanied him to the site, de Braose called the foremost knight to him. "Guiscard! Come here; a problem has arisen."

The knight attended his lord and listened to his instructions carefully. "Consider it done," he replied. "And the thieves, sire? What shall we do with them?"

"This land is now governed by the Custom of the March. You know what we do with thieves, do you not?"

A slow smile spread across the knight's smooth face. "Yes, I believe I recall."

"Then do it," ordered the count. "Show no mercy."

The knight bent his head in acknowledgement of his orders, then turned and started away. He had taken only a few paces when the count called after him, "On second thought, Guiscard, keep one or two alive, and bring them to me. We will draw and quarter them in the new town square and let their well-deserved deaths serve as a warning to anyone else who makes bold to steal from Baron de Braose."

"It will be done, sire." The knight mounted the saddle and called three men-at-arms to attend him.

"See you make some haste," the count shouted as they rode off. "The wagons must be on their way without further delay."

The day could not pass quickly enough for Merian. In her impatience, she forgot her displeasure at her mother's meddling and her abhorrence of all things Ffreinc, and instead fell to fretting about clothes. She stood gazing with mounting chagrin at the gown spread out on her bed. Why, oh why, had she chosen that one? What had possessed her?

As much as she loathed the idea of consorting with Norman nobility, she did not want to give any of them the satisfaction of dismissing her as an ignorant British churl. When the time came to dress for the feast, she had worked herself into such a nervous state that she felt as if someone had opened a cage of sparrows inside her, and the poor birds were all aflutter to get out.

Trying her best to maintain her fragile composure, she forced herself to wash slowly and carefully in the small basin of cool water. She put on a fresh chemise of costly bleached linen and allowed her mother to brush her hair until it shone. Her long, dark tresses were gathered and braided into a thick and intricate plait, the end of which was adorned with a clasp of gold. Merian then drew on her best gown of pale blue and, over it, a short, silk-embroidered mantle of fine cream-coloured linen. The gown and mantle were gathered at the waist by a wide kirtle of yellow satin, the beaded tassels of which almost brushed her toes. When she was ready, Queen Anora approved her daughter's choices and said, "But there is something missing…"

Suddenly stricken, Merian gasped, "What? What have I forgotten?"

"Calm yourself, child," cooed her mother, bending to a small wooden casket that had travelled with them from Eiwas. Raising the lid, she produced a gossamer-thin veil of white samite hemmed with gold thread. She arranged the long rectangle of rare cloth with the point of one corner between Merian's dark brows and the rest trailing down her back to cover, yet reveal, the young woman's braided hair.

"Mother, your best veil," breathed Merian.

"You shall wear it tonight, my lovely," replied her mother. Bending to the casket once more, she brought out a thin silver circlet, which she placed on her daughter's head to secure the veil, then stepped back to observe her handiwork. "Exquisite," her mother pronounced. "A jewel to brighten any celebration. Let the Norman ladies gnaw their hearts with envy."

Merian thanked her mother with a kiss. "I will be happy if I can survive the evening without falling over."

"Off with you now," said Anora, sending her away with a pat on the cheek. "Put on your shoes. The chamberlain will be here any moment.

Stepping into new soft leather slippers, never worn, Merian tied the slender laces above her ankles, and as the knock sounded on the chamber door, she straightened, drew a deep, calming breath, and prepared to take her place amongst the highborn guests assembling in the baron's hall.