by Mary Lide
“We started off in single file, Prince Taliesin in the lead on his black stallion, thrusting through boldly under the ranked trees, using his shield to batter through. These past days he and his men had not been idle, I grant them that, each day scouting out a trail and blazing it so that at the right moment we would know which way to go. Close behind him came Urien, with Hue; dear God, had I mirth to spare, I should have smiled to see my page lead out that horse and scramble onto its back, gathering up the reins like a knight new-spurred. Myself, I rode behind one of the guards. I was prepared, too, skirts bound up, knife ready and sharp, my hair tied under a cap, out of sight. I had thought to cut it off, but Urien had begged me not, and for haste as much as vanity I had left it alone. As for the knife, my Welsh rider bid me put it away. ‘No need to stab me in the back,’ he told me with a broken grin. ‘You’ll know when to use it if you must.’ Behind us in line the other men wound along in their silent fashion, save one, who went at some distance in front, to act as scout on foot.
“The path they had patiently prepared cut straight across the forest wilderness, dipping and rising along the contours of the land so that sometimes we seemed to be plunged into ravines, at others breasting a cliff, but never losing cover of the thickest growths of trees, never following any known way. The summer foliage swung about us thick and damp; the moisture fell in great drops; we saw no one, nothing, save only once, breaking from the ferns beneath our hooves, a deer bounded away, its eyes bulging with alarm, its golden-flecked coat drenched with rain. Toward dawn I began to realize that however much we twisted and doubled around, the trees had begun to thin; once we skirted close to a kind of farm, but we never faltered from our easy gait, not fast, not slow, eating up the miles.
“It lacked two hours to first light when we finally came to a stop. The rain still dripped and blew in gusts, not enough to hinder us, only sufficient to cover our tracks; we had been hugging a long, thin finger of woods and had come to its fringe end. Beyond it stretched a hill of low-lying bushes and gorse, beyond again, an open road, gleaming white. The sight of that white road both startled and repelled, but the Celts were obviously relieved to see it. At this early hour it was still empty, winding along the forest edge before bending out of sight. Around that bend, we now learned, was the border town of Brittany. But how to reach the town, or cross the boundary, guarded here by a bridge that spanned the river whose course I now realized we had been following these past hours? Out of the forest, upon the plains, the river had widened, deepened, too wide or deep to ford, no way through except by this bridge. And athwart the bridge Henry’s men had laid their barricade. From our halting place we could not see this, of course; but the prince’s men already had, and they explained, with the help of sticks and stones, just how the guard was kept, where housed, when changed, each hour thirty men or more to bar the passage to anyone they were suspicious of.
“Silence followed, not a happy one. Thirty men. That number beat in my brain. I was ready to plead that we should retreat, but my rider bid me be quiet in no uncertain terms. ‘On our own,’ he told me in his laconic way, ‘a river is easy to swim across. Now we must wait.’ He meant, of course, ‘with you in tow.’ He had me dismount, pointed to a kind of gulley running down the hill, where we could hide, and began to lead his horse away, presumably to tether it out of sight. ‘What next?’ I began to ask but he put his finger to his lips. ‘Watch,’ he said. We watched. Farther along the hillside, closer to the road, the Celts hunkered down under cover of long grass and scrub. They did not look especially uncomfortable; they might have been sitting around their own campfires, and one was even whistling beneath his breath, a tuneless song, while he sharpened up his sword. As the darkness lightened, some early travelers went by, one or two at first, trotting back from some night adventure of their own—a young man still half drunk from wine or lust, a peasant with a cart of produce, an old woman carrying eggs. These were no use to us. A sudden louder sound made us all look up.
“Along the road, still out of sight, a group of horses was approaching, not fast, not slow, several of them, trotting along in military style, a regular entourage. And this, I think, was what the prince watched and waited for, not this procession in particular, but one like it, any of sufficient size that he and his men could use for disguise. If he had a plan other than this, I could not guess what it would have been, and my spirits quaked to think that he would take such risks.
“We waited. Slowly and steadily the hooves beat up the road until the little band came into sight. It did not seem so little as it began to unfold. Ahead rode the outriders, men-at-arms, resplendent in green and red, with an abbot’s miter for their crest, riding fine battle steeds, escort to a most unwarlike group, ecclesiastical, as the six black-cowled monks proved. The sight of those fine horses made the Celts’ eyes shine. One whistled again beneath his breath and ran his thumb across his spear; another crossed himself, muttering, ‘Praise God from whom all blessings come that He has sent His gifts today,’ before he, too, slid closer to the road. There were six mounted men in all, two in front, two more behind, and two on either side a litter, large, hung with leather and silk, swaying alarmingly between the mules who carried it. The riders rode, hands on hips, not especially energetic, not especially cheerful in the rain, not especially watchful. The monks strode on stoically, either telling their beads or with heads bent low to avoid the wind. God sent us His true gifts indeed. We took them with open arms.
“It was quickly done, and professional. Celts make the best thieves in the world; stealing is but play to them, trained to pick off a man’s sword while his back is turned. They claim they can unhorse a Norman knight and leave him sitting in midair before he even knows his horse is gone. Now they slipped like shadows along the road, two ahead, two behind, two gone to fetch their own horses and charge. At a prepared signal those four uncoiled like catapults beneath the very bellies of the splendid mounts. One each to front and back, one each to side and side, to tip the riders unceremoniously on the ground; the last two, mounted themselves, to sweep down from the woods, driving the frightened monks like autumn leaves. I tell you, it was in an instant done; six riders sprawled without even breath to shout alarm; six monks gibbering with fright; the placid mules already turned toward the shelter of the trees; the road stretching empty, white, and innocent.
“Within the confines of the litter all was not so quiet. The leather curtains heaved and shook, and a head stuck out, a sleepy one, prepared for complaint. ‘By all the saints of Christendom,’ a priestly voice began to trumpet, ‘by Saint Cyprian of Stefensforth, what goes amiss?’ and a most unpriestly string of oaths poured forth. Urien recognized that priest at once and nudged me into awareness. We started up at the same time and together ran down the hill. Who could forget that raucous, oathswearing voice, and to whom it belonged, the Abbot of Stefensforth, red-faced and fat, who, already pried out of cover by the Celts, was shuffling along in his embroidered robes, protesting at his most impious.
‘We know that abbot,’ we cried in unison. ‘He is of no earthly use to us. He has already plotted against Henry last year. He would have made us part of that plot and ambushed us to make us join with him . . .’ My own voice trailed into silence as I realized it was the first time I had spoken of my free will to Taliesin for many days—anything of import, that is—that was not full of anger, disappointment, bitterness of my own. I owed the fat abbot at least some thanks for that.
“Taliesin was one of those on foot; he was tugging at the horses’ bridles to fasten them to our own; some of his men were already gagging and binding the abbot’s riders (any left who were not too dazed to move) and were stripping off the monks’ black robes before binding and gagging them in the same way. The abbot, seeing what was planned for him, was already begging most piteously, his flesh cringing in anguish. I heard him offer gold for his own skin, nothing, of course, for his fellow travelers. I do not know if he knew us at first, too distraught to think of anything, too intent on s
aving himself, but we knew him, and so I told Prince Taliesin. I thought to warn the prince; instead he took my warning in another way.
‘Ambush,’ he repeated with a frown, ‘trap you into rebellion. God’s wounds, rebellion your brothers made soon enough.’ Then he laughed. ‘No earthly use, I think you said; we’ll make use of him unearthily.’ His laugh was a genuine one, warm, and full of good cheer. ‘We’ll have him call on God for help instead. As fellow conspirator, since he’s so good at setting traps, we’ll use him to walk out of one.’
“He looked at me almost pityingly that I was slow to catch his drift. ‘God’s my life, do I have to spell it out like a primer book?’ But his men had already understood, were grinning among themselves, and Urien, too, had run back to bring Hue down. Thank God Hue at least obeyed and climbed into the litter without argument; wide enough that litter was to hold several men of ordinary girth, and covered with monkish robes, he and Urien were almost concealed. Taliesin threw me a cloak. ‘Get you in,’ he said as I stood as if rooted to the spot. ‘Pull that knife you are so fond of brandishing. Prick it against the abbot’s ribs, let him sweat a little lard off, that he do as we bid.’ “I clambered in, hugging to one side. It was warm and comfortable within the tent of curtains; there were rugs and furs, and a jug of wine and fresh white bread with which the abbot had been breaking fast. Outside we heard the prince addressing the abbot in mock reverence. ‘My lord,’ he was intoning, and there was a ripple to his voice that it had lacked; I only knew its lack on hearing it again, ‘my lord abbot, I hear you are so well loved by Henry, our king, that you will speak for us to Henry’s men. Tell them you long to visit the king to inform him of those plots you made and make confession to him of your part in the rebellion of his sons.’
“The abbot, caught mid-bellow in outrage, choked and wheezed in a new frenzy of fear as Taliesin’s meaning hit home. ‘Who are you,’ he spluttered at last, ‘that you speak of things better left unsaid?’ He gave a fearful glance around, as if he expected Henry to appear from behind a tree. ‘And who are you to threaten me, a man of God?’
‘No one.’ The prince’s reply was cheerful. ‘A mere passerby who wants to cross a bridge. You will achieve that for us, vouch for us to Henry’s guard, protest your loyalty and ours. And to demonstrate your loyalty, you will offer them gold, all those bags you’ve tucked away beneath your furs. And prayers, of course, many prayers as you go on pilgrimage to Rennes.’ “The abbot’s face grew redder than before; he seemed to swell with rage. ‘And if I refuse?’ His one attempt at dignity. ‘By the holy Mass, shall I be made a mock of by every cheeky rogue? I came in fact on pilgrimage, but not for this. I can shout out truth before you cut me down. Who would then believe you?’
‘You’ll not shout.’ Taliesin’s voice was brisk. He beckoned to his Celts to push the abbot inside, like trying to bend a bag of grain. ‘Not with my men’s knives at your back.’ He gestured to where we three were hunched together, Hue, hidden beneath a pile of cloaks, almost asleep; Urien, all eyes in a white face; myself, pretending a fierceness I did not have.
“Dear God, I thought, to put such work on us. But the prince was continuing in his mocking way—he was a professional, I tell you; he might have been stealing horses and carts all his life, as I expect he had. ‘Besides,’ he was telling the abbot, ‘if you challenge us, we shall produce witnesses against you. The name of Sedgemont is well known to you. You owe us much for the ambush that you tried against us last year.’
“I could not see Taliesin, but I knew across his face had spread that young and joyful grin, the grin he gave when he saw victory ahead. I remembered how he rode, how fought, with an outpouring of joy. And I thought, realization breaking upon me like a summer storm, as the abbot heaved and pushed, Dear God, he shows his faith in us; he trusts us to serve him now. But it was his ‘us’ that finished me. ‘Dear God,’ I prayed again as I held my knife with grim intent, ‘Mother of God, protect and hear. I have been wrong; I have misjudged. And this day’s work will prove it so.’
“The litter was being turned once more to face the right way on the road; the patient mules tugged and strained between the traces. We lurched along. The road was rough beneath its slick of rain. Inside the litter the abbot grunted, intent upon hefting his weight into more comfortable place. In stretching out to find room, his fat legs happened on Hue’s own. ‘What’s that, what’s that?’ he almost screamed. ‘Mother of God, what’s hid there?’ For I think, such was his previous fright, he had not realized there were three of us. I started to mutter about extra baggage, when Urien, fierce as a lion, piped up, ‘My master. Treat him with care else we boot you over the bridge.’ A threat that made the abbot pale, although the thought of Urien booting such bulk almost made me laugh again. Ahead of us we could hear the prince and his men chattering softly to each other, as much at ease as upon their own high hills. Between the slats of wood through which, on pushing back the covers, we could peer, we could see the white road slipping past. Easily was it done, I say, quickly; the soldiers and the monks left behind, gagged and bound; the horses tied with our own; the abbot’s litter, with its abbot installed, rolling merrily along. Henry’s men could have taken a lesson in competency.
“I repeat, I do not know what plan the prince had had. I think, like all Celtic warlords, he loved to improvise; a carefully thought-out scheme losing much of its charm, better to take whatever fate or God drops into your lap. And so, I think, are Celtic warlords made, masters or men, the reverse of what more cautious souls call ‘temperance,’ what those who plan and arrange each moment’s place shudder at for thoughtlessness. But to a Celt such unexpected chance, such unrehearsed plan, gives him a freedom, an ease, an expansiveness that caution does not dare contemplate. And for a moment there, on that wet and slippery road, I knew that freedom, exulted in that expansiveness, shared in its wild grace.
“By now we had swayed around the corner that hitherto had blocked our view ahead and, incidentally, shielded us. Now we could see the rough stones of the bridge’s approach, and the horses’ hooves began to clatter and clink in new fashion, ringing out hollowly as we came full upon the wooden planks. My palms, my face, were wet, and my fingers slipped upon the knife hilt, for all I held it so tightly that the abbot squirmed. ‘Ill-served,’ I heard him hiss menacingly. ‘Those mercenaries cost me two years’ rents.’ Beside me Urien tightened his grip on his sword, which he had brought with him from Falaise. ‘Ill-served,’ he whispered back, ‘ill-served, forsooth. Was my lord ill-served at your table, abbot, when you schemed to betray him?’ And I felt the abbot’s start as he dissolved into a silence, peering at us, curiously, with an avid intensity that I recalled.
“We had come to an abrupt halt. Men’s voices were raised in questioning; answers sounded overloud. I nudged the curtains aside a crack. We were halted midspan, the river water lapping green below. Ahead of us the king’s guards, some mounted, more on foot, had come spilling out from their guardhouse to bar our advance. I shall never forget the way the river ran fast and deep and green, splotched on its swollen surface with great raindrops, or the way a gaggle of geese had gathered beneath one of the stone pillars, or the way the king’s captain pushed forward on his brown horse.
“Taliesin’s reply was pleasant, not hurried, passing the time of day—the downpour, the state of the world, all done with courtesy. But the captain did not unbend, nor did his men, waiting for us with weapons drawn on the far bank.
‘And you, sirs, what do you do? Not many travelers in these parts.’
“The prince’s reply was succinct, the sort of answer a mercenary gives. ‘The Abbot of Stefensforth, on Church affairs.’
