Bishop Asaph, squeezed between the rock of the count's demands and the hard place of his people's obstinate resistance to any such scheme, decided there was no harm in trying to mitigate the damage and ingratiate himself with the count. "I see you are determined," he said. "Might I offer a suggestion?"

"If you must," granted Falkes.

"It is only this. Why not wait until the fields have been sown and planted?" suggested the churchman. "Once the crops are in, the people will be more amenable to helping with the building. Grant them a reprieve until the sowing is finished. They will thank you for it, and it will demonstrate your fairness and good faith."

"Dieu d fend! Delay the building? That I will not do!" cried Falkes. He took three quick strides and then turned on the bishop once more. "Here now! I give you one more day to inform the people and assemble the required labourers-the two strongest men from each family or settlement. They will come to your monastery, where they will be met and assigned to one of the building sites." Glaring at the frowning cleric, he said, "Is that understood?"

"Of course," the bishop replied diffidently. "But what if they refuse to come? I can only relay your demands. I am not their lord-"

"But I am!" snapped Falkes. "And yours as well." When the bishop made no reply, he asked, "If they fail to comply, they will be punished."

"I will tell them."

"See that you do." Falkes dismissed the churchman then. As Asaph reached the door, the count added, "I will come to the monastery yard at dawn tomorrow. The workers will be ready."

The bishop nodded, departing without another word. Upon arriving at the monastery, he commanded the porter to sound the bell and convene the monks, who were quickly dispatched to the four corners of the cantref to carry the count's summons to the people.

When Count de Braose and his men arrived at the monastery the next morning, they found fifteen surly men and four quarrelsome boys standing in the mostly empty yard with their bishop. The count rode through the gate, took one look at the desultory crew, and cried, "What? Is this all? Where are the others?"

"There are no others," replied Bishop Asaph.

"I distinctly said two from every holding," complained the count. "I thought I made that dear."

"Some of the holdings are so small that there is only one man," explained the bishop. Indicating the sullen gathering, he said, "These represent every holding in Elfael," Looking at the unhappy faces around him, he asked the count, "Did you think there would be more?"

"There must be more!" roared Falkes de Braose. "Work is already falling behind for lack of labourers. We must have more."

"That is as it may be, but I have done as you commanded."

"It is not enough."

"Then perhaps you should have invaded a more populous cantref," snipped the cleric.

"Do not mock me," growled the count, turning away. He strode to his horse. "Find more workers. Bring them in. Bring everybody inwomen too. Bring them all. I want them here tomorrow morning."

"My lord count," said the bishop, "I beg you to reconsider. The ploughing will soon be finished. That is of utmost concern, and it cannot wait.

"My town cannot wait!" shouted Falkes. Raising himself to the saddle, he said, "I will not be commanded by the likes of you. Have fifty workers here tomorrow morning, or one holding will burn."

"Count de Braose!" cried the bishop. "You cannot mean that, surely."

"I do most certainly mean exactly what I say. I have been too lenient with you people, but that leniency is about to end."

"But you must reconsider-"

"Must? Must?" the count sneered, stepping his horse close to the cleric, who shrank away. "Who are you to tell me what I must or must not do? Have the fifty, or lose a farm."

With that, the count wheeled his horse and rode from the yard. As the Ffreinc reached the gate, one of the boys picked up a stone and let fly, striking the count in the middle of the back. Falkes whirled around angrily but could not tell who had thrown the rock; all were standing with hands at their sides, staring with dour contempt, men as well as boys.

Unwilling to allow the insult to stand, Falkes rode back to confront them. "Who threw the stone?" he demanded. When no one answered, he called to the bishop. "Make them tell me!"

"They do not speak Latin," replied the churchman coolly. "They only speak Cymry and a little Saxon."

"Then you ask for me, priest!" said the count. "And be quick about it. I want an answer."

The bishop addressed the group, and there was a brief discussion. "It seems that no one saw anything, count," the cleric reported. "But they all vow to keep a close watch for such disgraceful behaviour in the future."

"Do they indeed? Well, for one, at least, there will be no future." Indicating a smirking lad standing off to one side, the count spoke a command in Ffreinc to his soldiers, and instantly two of the marchogi dismounted and rounded on the panic-stricken youth.

The elder Britons leapt forward to intervene but were prevented by the swiftly drawn swords of the remaining soldiers. After a momentary scuffle and much shouting, the offending youngster was marched to the centre of the yard, where he was made to stand while the count, drawing his sword, approached his quivering, bawling prisoner.

"Wait! Stop!" cried the bishop. "No, please! Don't kill him!" Asaph rushed forward to place himself between the count and his victim, but two of the soldiers caught him and dragged him back. "Please, spare the child. He will work for you all summer if you spare him. Do not kill him, I beg you."

Count de Braose tested the blade and then raised his arm and, with a fury born of frustration, yanked down the boy's trousers and struck the boy's exposed backside with the flat of his sword-once, twice, and again. Thin red welts appeared on the pale white skin, and the boy began to wail with impotent fury.

Satisfied with the punishment, the count sheathed his sword, then raised his foot and placed his boot against the crying lad's wounded rump and gave him a hard shove. The boy, his legs tangled in his trousers, stumbled and fell on his chin in the dirt, where he lay, weeping hot tears of pain and humiliation.

The count turned from his victim, strode to his horse, and mounted the saddle once more. "Tomorrow I want fifty men here, ready to work," he announced. "Fifty, do you hear?" He paused as the bishop translated his words. "Fifty workmen or, by heaven, a farm will burn." His words were still ringing in the yard as he and his soldiers rode out.

The next morning there were twenty-eight workers waiting when the count's men arrived, and most of those were monks, as the entire monastery-save aged Brother Clyro, who was too old to be of much use at heavy labour-rallied to the cause. Bishop Asaph hastened to explain the deficit and promised more workers the next day, but the count was not of a mood to listen. Since the tally was short the required number, the count ordered his soldiers to ride to the nearest farm and put it to the torch. Later, the smoke from the burning darkened the sky to the west, and the following day, eighteen more Cymryten men, six women, and two more boys-joined the labour force, bringing the total to forty-six, only four shy of the number decreed by the count.

Falkes de Braose and his men entered the yard to find the bishop on his knees before a sulky and fearful gathering of native Cymry and monks. The bishop pleaded with the count to rescind his order and accept those who had come as sufficient fulfilment of his demand. When that failed to sway the implacable overlord, Asaph stretched himself out on the ground before the count and begged for one more day to find workers to make up the number.

The count ignored his entreaties and ordered another holding to be burned. That night the monks offered prayers of deliverance all night long. The next morning four more workers appeared-two of them women with babes in arms-bringing up the total to the required fifty, and no more farms were destroyed.