Hood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “A wise course, to be sure. Make no mistake, I am most eager to see it all—especially the church. That is the solid cornerstone of any earthly dominion. There can be no true prosperity or governance without it.” Abbot Hugo raised his hands and waved off any reply the count might make. “But, no, here I am, preaching to my host when the welcome cup awaits. Forgive me.”

  “Please, Your Grace, come this way,” said Falkes, leading the way to his hall. “I have prepared a special meal in your honour—and tonight we have wine from Anjou, selected especially for this occasion by the baron himself.”

  “Do you indeed? Good!” replied Hugo with genuine appreciation. “It has been a long time since I held a cup of that quality. It is a delicacy I will enjoy.”

  Count Falkes, relieved to have pleased his demanding guest, turned to greet the churchman’s escort; he charged Orval, the seneschal, with the care of the knights and then led the abbot into the hall, where they could speak in private before supper.

  The hall had been renovated. A fresh layer of clay and gypsum had been applied to the rough timber walls, and after being pain-stakingly smoothed and dried, the whole was whitewashed. The small window in the upper east wall was now closed with a square of oiled sheepskin. A new table sat a short distance from the hearth, with a tall iron candletree at each end. A fire cracked smartly on the big hearth, more for light than heat, and two chairs were drawn up on each side, with a jar and two silver goblets on the table between them.

  The count filled the cups and passed one to his guest, and they settled themselves in their chairs to enjoy the wine and gain the measure of each other. “Health to you, Lord Abbot,” said Falkes. “May you prosper in your new home.”

  Hugo thanked him courteously and said, “Truth told, a churchman has but one home, and it is not of this world.We sojourn here or there awhile, until it pleases God to move us along.”

  “In any event,” replied the count, “I pray your sojourn amongst us is long and prosperous. There is great need hereabouts for a strong hand at the church plough—if you know what I mean.”

  “The former abbot incompetent, eh?” Raising his cup to his nose, he sniffed the wine, then sipped.

  “Not altogether, no,” said Falkes. “Bishop Asaph is capable enough in his way—but Welsh. And you know how contrary they can be.”

  “Little better than pagans,” offered Hugo with a sniff, “by all accounts.”

  “Oh, it is true,” confirmed the count. “They are an ill-mannered race—coarse, unlettered, easily inflamed, and contentious as the day is long.”

  “And are they really as backward as they appear?”

  “Difficult to say,” answered Falkes. “Hardheaded and stiff-necked, yes. They resist all refinement and delight in ostentation of every kind.”

  “Like children, then,” remarked the abbot. “I also have heard this.”

  “You would not believe the fuss they make over a good tale, which they will stretch and twist until any truth is bent out of all recognition to the plain facts of the matter. For example,” said the count, pouring more wine, “the locals will have it that a phantom has arisen in the forest round about.”

  “A phantom?”

  “Truly,” insisted the count, leaning forward in his eagerness to have something of interest with which to regale his eminent guest. “Apparently, this unnatural thing takes the form of a great bird—a giant raven or eagle or some such— and they have it that this queer creature feeds on cattle and livestock, even human flesh come to that, and the tale is frightening the more timorous.”

  “Do you believe this story?”

  “I do not,” replied the count firmly. “But such is their insistence that it has begun disturbing my workmen.

  Wagoners swear they lost oxen to it, and lately some pigs have gone missing.”

  “Simple theft would account for it, surely,” observed the abbot. “Or carelessness.”

  “I agree,” insisted the count, “and would agree more heartily if not for the fact that the swineherds contend that they actually saw the creature swoop down and snatch the hogs from under their noses.”

  “They saw this?” marvelled the abbot.

  “In full light of day,” confirmed the count. “Even so, I would not put much store by it save they are not the only ones to make such a claim. Some of my own knights have seen it— or seen something, at least—and these are sturdy, trustworthy men. Indeed, one of my men-at-arms was taken by the creature and narrowly escaped with his life.”

  “Mon Dieu, non!”

  “Oh yes, it is true,” affirmed the count, taking another sip from his cup. “The men I sent to track down the missing oxen found the animals—or the little left of them. The thing had eaten the wretched beasts, leaving nothing behind but a pile of entrails, some hooves, and a single skull.”

  “What do you think it can be?” wondered the abbot, savouring the extraordinary peculiarity of the tale.

  “These hills are known to be home to many odd happenings,” suggested Falkes. “Who is to say?”

  “Who indeed?” echoed Abbot Hugo. He drank from his cup for a moment, then mused, “Pigs snatched away in midair, whole oxen gorged, men captured . . . It passes belief.”

  “To be sure,” conceded the count. He drained his cup in a long swallow, then admitted, “Yet—and I do not say this lightly—the affair has reached such a state that I almost hazard to think something supernatural does indeed haunt the forest.”

  CHAPTER 38

  All through the night, Bran sat hunched beside the hearth, arms around his knees, staring into the shimmering flames. Iwan, Aethelfrith, and Siarles had long ago crawled off to sleep, but Angharad sat with him still. Every now and then she would pose a question to sharpen his thinking; otherwise, the hudolion’s hut remained steeped in a seething silence—the hush of intense and turbulent thought—as Bran forged the perfect weapon in the glowing fires of his mind.

  He was not tired and could not have slept anyway, with his thoughts burning bright. As dawn began to invade the darkness in the east, the fires began to cool, and the shape of his cunning craftwork was revealed.

  “That is everything, I think,” he said, raising his head to regard the old woman across the smouldering fire ring.

  “Have I forgotten anything?”

  He was rewarded with one of her wrinkled smiles. “You have done well, Master Bran.” Raising her hand, palm outward, above her head, she said, “This night you have become a shield to your people. But now, in the time-between-times, you are also a sword.”

  Bran took that as high approval. He stood, easing out the kinks in his cramped muscles. “Well then,” he said, “let us wake the others and get started. There is much to do, and no time to lose.”

  Angharad lifted her hand to the men slumped across the room. “Patience. Let them sleep. There will be little enough time for that in the days to come.” Indicating his own empty sleeping place, she said, “It would be no bad thing if you closed your eyes while you have the chance.”

  “I could not sleep now for all of the baron’s riches,” he told her.

  “Nor could I,” she said, rising slowly. “Since that is the way of it, let us greet the dawn and ask the King of Hosts to bless our battle plan and the hands that must work to make it succeed.” She stepped to the door and pushed aside the ox hide, beckoning him to follow.

  They stood for a moment in the early light and listened to the forest awaken around them as the dawn chorus of birds filled the treetops. Bran looked out at the pitiful clutch of humble dwellings, but felt himself a king of a vast domain.

  “The day begins,” he said after a moment. “I want to get started.”

  “In a little while,” she suggested. “Let us enjoy the peace of the moment.”

  “No, now,” he countered. “Bring me my hood and cloak; then wake everyone and assemble them. They should remember this day.”

  “Why this day above any other?”

  “Because,” explained Br
an, “from this day on, they are no longer fugitives and outcasts. Today they become King Raven’s faithful flock.”

  “The Grellon,” suggested Angharad—an old word, it meant both “flock” and “following.”

  “Grellon,” repeated Bran as the banfáith moved off to strike the iron and rouse Cél Craidd. He turned his face to the warm red glow of the rising sun. “This day,” he declared, speaking softly to himself, “the deliverance of Elfael begins.”

  It is a very great honour,” said Queen Anora. “I would have thought you would be pleased.”

  “How should I be pleased?”

  “Relations are strained just now, it is true,” her mother granted. “But your father thought that perhaps—”

  “My father, the king, has made his views quite clear,”

  Mérian insisted. “Don’t tell me he has changed his opinion just because an invitation has come.”

  “This may be the baron’s way of making amends,” her mother countered. It was a weak argument, and Mérian regarded her mother with a frown of haughty disdain. “The baron knows he has done wrong and wishes to restore the peace.”

  “Oh, so now the baron repents, and the king dances dizzy with gratitude?” said Mérian.

  “Mérian!” reprimanded her mother sharply. “That will do, girl. You will respect your father and abide by his decision.”

  “What?” demanded Mérian. “And is there nothing to be said?”

  “You have said quite enough.” Her mother, stiff backed, turned in her chair to face her. “You will obey.”

  “But I do not understand,” insisted the young woman. “It makes no sense.”

  “Your father has his reasons,” replied the queen simply.

  “And we must respect them.”

  “Even if he is wrong?” countered Mérian. “That is most unfair, Mother.”

  Queen Anora observed her daughter’s distraught expression— brows knit, mouth pressed hard, eyes narrowed—and remembered her as an infant demanding to be let down to walk in the grass on the riverbank and being told that she could not because it was too dangerous so close to the water. “It is only an invitation to join the court for a summer,” her mother said, trying to lighten the mood. “The time will pass quickly.”

  “Pass as it may,” Mérian declared loftily, “it will pass without me!” She rose and fled her mother’s chamber, stalking down the narrow corridor to her own room, where she went to the window and shoved open the shutters with a crash. The early evening air was soft and warm, the fading light like honey on the yard outside her window, but she was not in a mood to take in such things, much less enjoy them. Her father’s decision seemed to her arbitrary and unfair. She should, she felt, have a say in it since it was she who must comply.

  The baron’s courier had arrived earlier in the day with a message asking if Mérian might come to Hereford to spend the remainder of the summer with his lordship’s daughter, Sybil. He was hoping Mérian would help teach the young lady something of British customs and speech. Sybil would, of course, gladly reciprocate. Baron Neufmarché was certain the two ladies would become fast friends.

  Lord Cadwgan had listened to the message, thanked the courier, and dismissed him in the same breath, saying, “I am much obliged to the baron. Please tell my lord that Mérian would be delighted to accept his invitation.”

  So that, apparently, was that: a decision that trod heavily on some of her most deeply held convictions, and Mérian was to have nothing to say about it. Since the downfall of Deheubarth, her father had been writhing like a frog in cinders, desperate to distance himself from the reach of Neufmarché.

  And now, all of a sudden, he seemed just as eager to court the baron’s good favour. Why? It made no sense.

  The very thought of spending the summer in a castle full of foreigners sent waves of disgust coursing through her slender frame. Her aversion, natural and genuine, was also an evasion.

  For what Mérian refused to admit, even to herself, was that she had enjoyed the baron’s feast immensely. Truth be told, she had glimpsed an attractive alternative to life in a crumbling caer on the Marches border. She did not allow herself to so much as imagine that she might acquire this life for herself— God forbid! But somewhere in her deepest heart lurked the hunger for the charm and grandeur she had experienced that glittering night, and, heaven help her, it all danced around the person of Baron Neufmarché himself.

  For his part, he had made it abundantly clear that he found her beautiful and even desirable. The mere notion awakened feelings Mérian considered so unholy that she tried to suffocate the fledgling thought by depriving it of all rational consideration. On her return to Caer Rhodl after the feast in Hereford, she had considered herself safely out of harm’s way and beyond the reach of the temptation the baron’s court represented. And now, without so much as an “If you please, Mérian,” she was to be sent away to the baron’s castle like so much baggage.

  She pushed away from the window and flopped back on her bed. The thought that her father was simply using her to appease Neufmarché and further himself with the baron was too depressing to contemplate. All the same, that was the only explanation that made sense of the situation. If anyone else had suggested such a thing, she would have been the first to shout him down—all the while knowing it was her lot precisely.

  In any event, the matter was closed to all appeal. Lord Cadwgan had made his decision and, regardless of anything Mérian or anyone else might say, would not reverse it. For the next few days, Mérian sulked and let everyone know exactly how she felt, delivering herself of long, soulful sighs and dark, moody glances until even Garran, her oblivious brother, complained about the damp chill in the air every time she passed by. But the evil day would not be held off. Her father commanded her to pack her belongings for her stay and had begun to make arrangements to take her to Hereford when Mérian received what she considered a reprieve. It came in the form of a summons for all the baron’s nobles to attend him in council.

  The gathering was to be held at Talgarth in the baron’s newly conquered territory, and all client kings and landed lords, along with their families and principal retainers, must attend. It was not an invitation that could be refused. Under feudal law, the unfortunate who failed to attend a formal council faced heavy fines and loss of lands, title, or in extreme cases, even limbs.

  Baron Neufmarché did not hold councils often; the last had been five years ago when he had moved his chief residence to Hereford Castle. Then he had served notice that he meant to remain in England and expected his nobles to be ready and forthcoming with their support—chiefly in rents and services, but also in advice.

  Lord Cadwgan took a cloudy view of the summons to Deheubarth—the scene of the late King Rhys ap Tewdwr’s recent downfall and demise—considering it an insult to the Cymry and a none-too-subtle reminder of Ffreinc supremacy and ascendancy. The rest of the family felt likewise. Perversely, only Mérian welcomed the council, looking upon it as a pardon from the onerous duty that had been forced upon her.

  Now, instead of Mérian going alone into the enemy camp, the whole family would have to go with her.

  “You need not look so pleased,” her mother told her. “A little less gloating would better become you.”

  “I do not gloat,” Mérian replied smugly. “But milk for the kit is milk for the cat—is that not what you always say, Mother?”

  Three days of preparation followed, and the ordinarily sedate fortress shook life into itself in order to make ready the lord’s departure. On the fourth day after receiving the summons, the entourage set out. All rode, save the steward, cook, and groom, who travelled in a horse-drawn wagon piled high with food supplies and equipment. The servants had dusted off and repaired the old leather tents Lord Cadwgan used for campaigns and extended hunting trips—of which there had been few in the last seven or eight years—in anticipation of making camp along the way and at the appointed meeting place.

  “How long will the council
last?” asked Mérian as she and her father rode along. It was early on the second day of travel, the sun was high and bright, and Mérian was in good spirits— all the more since her father’s mood also showed signs of improving.

  “How long?” repeated Cadwgan. “Why, as long as Neufmarché fancies.” He thought about it for a moment and said, “There is no way to tell. It depends on the business to be decided. Once, I remember, Old William—the Conqueror, mind, not the red-bearded brat—held a council that lasted four months. Think of that, Mérian. Four whole months!”

  Mérian considered that if the baron’s council lasted four months, then summer would be over and she would not have to go to Hereford. She asked, “Why so long?”

  “I was not there,” her father explained. “We were not yet under the thumb of the foreigners and had our own affairs to keep us occupied. As I recall, it was said the king wanted everyone to agree on the levy of taxes for land and chattels.”

  “Agree with him, you mean.”

  “Yes,” said her father, “but there was more to it than that.

  The Conqueror wanted as much as he could get, to be sure, but he also knew that most people refuse to pay an unjust tax. He wanted all his earls, barons, and princes to agree—and to see one another agree—so that there could be no complaint later.”

  “Clever.”

  “Aye, he was a fox, that one,” her father continued, and Mérian, after their stormy relations of late, was happy to hear him speak and to listen. “The real reason the council lasted so long came down to the Forest Law.”

  Mérian had heard of this and knew all right-thinking Britons, as well as Saxons and Danes, resented it bitterly. The reason was simple: the decree transformed all forested lands in England into one vast royal hunting preserve owned by the king. Even to enter a forest without permission of the warrant holder became a punishable offence. This edict, hated as it was from the beginning, made outlaws of all those who, for generations, had made their living out of the woodlands in one way or another—which was nearly everyone.