Tuck kr-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The count drank from his cup while his words were translated for the earl, smiling, looking for all the world like a man at utter ease with himself and his fellows. The women at the board seemed to find his dark looks attractive; they vied for his notice with winks and none-too-subtle smiles. When Alan finished, Count Rexindo indicated his companions and conferred with his interpreter, who said, "Pray allow me to introduce the count's companions. I present to you Father Balthus, Bishop of Pamplona," he said, and Tuck dipped his head in modest acknowledgement. "Also, I give you Lord Galindo of Tolosa"-and here he indicated Ifor-"and next to him is Lord Ramiero of Petilla." Brocmael, solemn as the tomb, inclined his head. "They are favourites among the count's many cousins."

  If Alan suspected that he was part of a cunning deception, he did not let it show in the slightest. On the contrary, the further into the tale he delved, the more comfortable he became, and the more his admiration for the dark-haired young nobleman grew. Bran, as Count Rexindo, was a very marvel: his manner, his air, his being-everything about him had changed since entering that den of rogues; even his voice had taken on a subtle quality of refinement and restraint.

  Tuck, too, was impressed, for when Bran spoke his made-up Spanish, it was with the light, soft lisping tone of Hibernia that Tuck recalled in their friend from Saint Dyfrig's, the stately Brother Jago. Slow boat that he was, it finally occurred to the friar that this was where Bran had got the names and titles and all the rest for them all. All that time spent travelling together last spring, Bran had had plenty of time to learn all that and more besides from the Spanish monk.

  "You like to hunt, eh?" mused Earl Hugh into his cup. "So do I, by the bloody rood! So do I."

  A brief conference between Tuck, Alan, and Bran set the course for the next part of the plan. "Give him to know that in Spain I am renowned as a great hunter, and that my father keeps a stable of the best horses in the realm. There is nothing I have not hunted." Bran nodded. "Make a good tale of it, Tuck, but be sure to remember what you have said so you can tell me after."

  Tuck relayed to Alan what Bran had said, and added his own warning, "And don't over-egg the pudding, boyo," he said. "I'll be listening, mind, so keep it pure and simple."

  "Never fear," replied Alan, who then turned to Earl Hugh and said, "My apologies, Lord. The count is embarrassed by his lack of French. But he wishes you to know that in his home country, he is a very champion among hunters and has ridden to the hunt throughout Spain. His father, the duke, keeps a stable of the finest horses to be found anywhere in the realm."

  The earl listened, his interest piqued. "No finer horses than mine, I'll warrant," he suggested when Alan finished. "I'd like to see them. Did you bring any with you?"

  "Alas no, Lord," answered Alan, without waiting to consult his master. "They are very valuable animals, as you must imagine, and could not be allowed to make a voyage, however short."

  "A pity," replied Hugh. "I should like to have seen them in the flesh. My own horses have been praised by those who know a good animal when they see one. I'll show them to you, eh?"

  Alan turned his head to receive the count's decision, then said, "My lord would like nothing more than to have the pleasure of viewing your excellent animals."

  "Then let's be at it!" said Hugh, hoisting himself from his chair with the aid of the board before him. Calling for his seneschal, he motioned his visitors to follow and bowled from the hall with a lurching, unsteady gait.

  "We're well on our way, men," Bran whispered. To Ifor and Brocmael, he said, "This next part will be in your hands. Are you ready?" Both young men nodded. "Good." To Tuck, he added, "Tell Alan-"

  "My lord," said Alan, with a fishy grin at Tuck, "it is not necessary, as I speak a fair bit of Cymry, too, ye ken?"

  "You do amaze me," Bran confessed. "I begin to believe you were born to this."

  "Just where did you learn to speak like that?" Tuck wondered. "I mean no offence, but you spoke like a roadside beggar before we passed through these gates."

  Alan lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "It is useful for the earnin' o' a penny or two," he said, putting on the rough speech again as easily as a man putting on a hat. "A wanderin' musician is a pitiful lump without his harp."

  "Wandering musician," echoed Tuck. "A minstrel?"

  "If ye like," said Alan.

  "How did you lose your harp?" the friar asked.

  "Let's just say some lords appreciate a jest more'n others, ye ken?"

  Bran laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "I want you to stay with us while we're here-will you do that? I'll reward you well. Perhaps when this is over we can even find you a harp."

  "I am honoured, Sire," the beggar answered.

  "Here now!" called Earl Hugh from a doorway across the way. "This way to the stables."

  "Let the hunt begin," said Bran, and the four Spanish noblemen and their interpreter hurried to join their host.

  CHAPTER 15

  Cel Craidd

  Merian held the long smooth length of ash between her fingers and carefully wrapped the thin rawhide strap in a tight spiral around the end, placing the clipped halves of stripped feathers from a goose's wing just so as she slowly turned the rounded shaft. Half her mind was on her task-fletching arrows required patience and dexterity, but consumed little thought-and the other half of her mind was on the worrying news that had reached them the night before.

  The news had come after nightfall. Merian and Noin and two of the other women were tending to the evening meal, and the rest of Cel Craidd was still at work: some trimming and shaping branches of ash and yew for war bows, or assisting Siarles in splitting narrow lengths of oak for arrows; two of the women were weaving hemp and linen for strings, and Tomas was helping Angharad affix the steel points. Scarlet and his small host of warriors-two of the younger women and three of the older children-were hard at work training to the longbow-they would practice until it was too dark to see. And any who were not busy with either bows or arrows were tending the bean field. The forest round about was sinking into a peaceful and pleasant autumn twilight.

  And then they heard the long, low whistle that signalled the return of the scouts-those who had been away all day watching the King's Road. A few moments later, Rhoddi and Owain tumbled breathless down the bank and into the settlement bearing the news: Sheriff de Glanville had returned with upwards of fifty knights.

  "They came quick and they came quiet," Rhoddi said when he had swallowed a few mouthfuls of water and splashed a cup over his head. "It was already getting dark, and they were on us before we knew it or we would have prepared a welcome for them."

  "Where's Iwan?" asked Siarles, already halfway to flying off to his aid.

  "He stayed to watch and see if any more came along," explained Owain. "He sent us on ahead." Catching Siarles's disapproving glance, the young warrior added, "There was nothing we could do. There were just too many, and we didn't have men or arrows enough to take 'em on."

  "We thought better to let be this once," offered Rhoddi.

  "Rhi Bran would have fought 'em," said Siarles.

  "Given men enough and clear warning to get set in place, aye," agreed Rhoddi, "King Raven would have taken 'em on and no doubt won the day. But we en't Bran, and we didn't have men enough or time."

  Iwan had returned a little while later to confirm what the others had said. "So now, Bloody Hugo has fifty more knights to throw at us. I hope Bran and Tuck fare well on their errand-we'll need all the help we can get. I just wish there was some way to get word to them."

  Now, as the sun beat down brightly upon their wildwood settlement, Merian looked around at the quiet industry around her, Iwan's words circling in her mind like restless birds. I might not be able to get word to Bran, she thought, but I can do better than that-I can raise troops myself. In that moment, she knew what she had to do: she would go to her father and persuade him to join Bran in the battle to drive the Ffreinc out of Elfael. Her father could command thirty, perhaps forty
men, and each one trained to the longbow. Experienced archers would be more than welcome and, added to however many men Bran was able to raise, would form the beginnings of a fair army. She knew Bran's feelings about involving her father, but he was wrong. She'd tried to persuade him otherwise and met with a stubborn-nay, prideful-resistance. But in this matter of life and death, she considered, the outcome was just too important to allow such petty concerns to cloud good judgement. They needed troops, her father had them, and that was that.

  Bran, she knew, would forgive her when he saw the men she would bring. Moreover, if she left at once, she could be back in Cel Craidd with the promise of warriors or better, the warriors themselves, before Bran returned.

  Having made up her mind, the urge to go reared up like a wild horse and she was borne along like a helpless rider clinging to its neck. She made short work of the arrow she was fletching, set it aside, and rose, brushing bits of feather from her lap. I can't be wearing this home to meet my family, she decided, looking down at her stained and threadbare gown. Hurrying to her hut, she went inside and drew a bundle down from the rafters, untied it, and shook out the gown she had worn as an Italian noblewoman when accompanying Bran on the mission to rescue Will Scarlet. Though of the finest quality, the material was dark and heavy and made her look like an old woman; nevertheless, it was all she had and it would have to do. As she changed into the gown, she thought about what she would say to the family she had not seen for… how long had it been? Two years? Three? Too long, to be sure.

  She brushed her hair and washed her face, and then hurried off to prepare a little something to eat on the way, and to ready a horse. Caer Rhodl was no great distance. It was still early; if she left at once and did not stop on the way, she could be there before nightfall.

  "Are you certain, my lady?" said Noin with a frown when Merian explained why she was saddling a horse while wearing her Italian gown. "Perhaps you should wait and speak to Iwan. Tell him what you plan."

  "I am only going to visit my family," replied Merian lightly. "Nothing ill can come of it."

  "Then tell Angharad. She should-" Merian was already shaking her head. "But you must tell someone."

  "I am," said Merian. "I'm telling you, Noin. But I want you to promise me you won't tell anyone else until this evening when I'm sure to be missed. Promise me."

  "Not even Will?"

  "No," said Merian, "not a word to anyone-even Will. I should be at Caer Rhodl by the time anyone thinks to come looking for me, and by then there will be no need."

  "Take someone with you, at least," suggested Noin, her voice taking on a note of pleading. "We could tell Will, and he could go with you."

  "He is needed here," answered Merian, brushing aside the offer. "Besides, I will be safe home before anyone knows it."

  Noin's frown deepened; a crease appeared between her lowered brows. "There are dangerous folk about," she protested weakly.

  "I shouldn't worry," replied Merian, a smile curving her lips. "The only dangerous folk here about are us." She took the other woman's hand and pressed it firmly. "I'll be fine."

  With that, she took up her small cloth bag, mounted quickly into the saddle, and was gone.

  She struck off along a familiar path-it seemed as if she had lived a lifetime in this forest; were there any paths she didn't know?-and with swift, certain strides soon reached the King's Road. There she paused to take a drink of water from her stoppered jar and listen for anyone moving in the greenwood. Satisfied there was no one else about, she crossed the road, flitting quickly as a bird darting from one leafy shelter to another, and rode quickly on.

  Just after midday, the trail divided and she took the southern turning, which, if she remembered correctly, would lead to her father's lands in Eiwas. The day was warm now, and she was sweating through her clothes; she drank some more water and moved along once more, riding a little slower now; she was well away from Cel Craidd, and there had been no sign of anyone following her. Except for a few stands of nettles and some brambles to be avoided, the path was clear and bright and easy underfoot. When she grew hungry, she ate from the bag slung under her arm, but she did not stop until finally reaching the forest's southwestern border.

  Here, at the edge of the great wood that formed the boundary of the March, the land fell away to the south in gentle, sloping runs of low, grassy hills and wooded valleys-the land of her home. As she gazed out upon it now, Merian was lifted up and swept away on wave after wave of guilt: it was so close! And all this time it had been awaiting her return-her family had been awaiting her return.

  Stepping from the forest, she started down the broad face of a long hill towards the small, winding track she knew would lead her home-the same track Bran had used so often in the past when he came calling, usually in the dead of night. The thought sent another pang through her. Why, oh why, had she never tried to get home sooner?

  It was no good telling herself that she had been taken prisoner and held against her will. That had been true for only the first few moments of her captivity. Events had proven Bran right: Baron Neufmarche was a sly, deceitful enemy, and no friend of hers or her family's. He had shown neither qualm nor hesitation in sending men to kill them following their escape. Once she understood that, she had stopped trying to get away. In fact, she had been more than content to remain at Bran's side in his struggle to save Elfael. And after that first season, the greenwood had become her home, and truth be told, she had rarely spared a passing thought for Eiwas or her family since.

  The reason was, she decided, because in her heart of hearts she knew there was nothing waiting for her at Caer Rhodl except marriage-most likely to an insufferable Ffreinc nobleman of her father's choosing in order to advance her family's fortunes and keep the cantref safe. As true as that may have been, it was still only part of the tale. Partly, too, her lack of interest in returning home was due to the fact that in the months following her abduction she had become a trusted member of King Raven's council. In Cel Craidd she was honoured and her presence esteemed by all, and not merely some chattel to be packed off to the first Norman with a title that her father deemed advantageous to befriend. Merian did not mean to condemn her father, but in the precarious world her family inhabited that was the way things were.

  In short, with Bran she had a place-a place where she was needed, valued, and loved, a place she did not have without him. And that, more than anything else, had prevented her from leaving.

  Now Bran needed her more than ever, if he only knew it. Stubborn as an old plough horse, Bran had refused to even consider asking her father for aid. They needed warriors; Lord Cadwgan had them. The solution was simple, and Merian was not so childish as to allow anything so inconsequential as stubbornness or pride or a misplaced sense of honour to stand in the way of obtaining the aid her people so desperately needed.

  Oh, there was a question: when, exactly, had she begun thinking of them as her people?

  Merian continued along the well-trod trail, her mind ranging far and wide as her mount carried her unerringly home. Once she passed a farmer and his wife working in a turnip field; they exchanged greetings, but she did not turn aside to talk to them. In fact, she stopped only once for a short rest in a little shady nook beside the road; she watered the horse, then drank some herself, and splashed some water on her face before moving on again. The sun quartered the sky, eventually beginning its long descent.

  The sun was well down and the first stars were alight in the east when Merian came in sight of Caer Rhodl. The old fortress with its timber walls stood tall and upright on the hill, the little wooden church quiet in the valley below. The place breathed an air of peace and contentment. In fact, nothing about the settlement had changed that she could see. Everything was still just the same as she remembered it.

  This thought gave her heart a lift as she hurried on, reaching the long ramp leading to the gate, which stood open as if awaiting her arrival. A few more quick steps brought her through the gate and into the yard,
where Merian paused to look around.

  Across the way, two grooms were leading horses to the stables; the horses were lathered, lately ridden-and at some distance and speed. Odd, she had not seen them on the road.

  And then she saw Garran, her brother. Merian had only the briefest glimpse of him as he disappeared through the entrance to the hall, but she thought he was in the company of a young woman. With a shout, she called his name and started across the yard. Three men and several women stood talking near the kitchen; they turned at Merian's cry and saw a dark-haired young woman in a long dark gown flitting across the yard.

  "Here! You!" shouted one of the men, moving forward. "Stop!"

  When Merian gave no sign that she had heard him, he cried out again, and moved to catch her before she reached the hall.

  "Here, now!" he called, stepping into her path. "Where might you be going, young miss?"

  So intent was she that it was not until the man took hold of her arm that she noticed him. "What?" she said. Feeling the man's hand tighten around her arm, she tried to pull away. "Let me go!" Looking towards the door to the hall, she cried, "Garran! Garran, it's me!"

  "Be still," said the man, pulling her back. "You just stop that now. We're going to have a talk."

  "Let me go!" She turned to face her captor, and recognized him as one of her father's men. "Luc?"

  "Here, now," he said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "How do you know my name?"

  "Luc, it's Merian," she said. "Merian-do you not know me?"

  A figure appeared in the doorway behind Luc. "What's this?"

  Merian's gaze shifted to the hall entrance. "Garran!"

  "I warned you," said her father's man, pulling her away. "Come along. You're going to-"

  "Release me!" Merian wriggled in his grasp.