Hood kr-1

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The summons came while the bishop was conducting an audit of food supplies with the kitchener. It was turning into a hard winter, and this year's harvest had been poor; the monastery was still sheltering a dozen or so people who, for one reason or another, could not escape to Saint Dyfrig's. Thus, the bishop was concerned about the stock of food on hand and wanted to know how long it would last.

  Together with Brother Brocmal, he was examining the monastery's modest storerooms, making an exact accounting, when the riders arrived to fetch him. "Bishop Asaph!" called the porter, running across the yard. "The Ffreinc-the Ffreinc have come for you!"

  "Calm yourself, brother," Asaph said. "Deliver your charge with some measure of decorum, if you please."

  The porter gulped down a mouthful of air. "Three riders in de Braose livery have come," he said. "They have a horse for you and say you are to accompany them to Caer Cadarn."

  "I see. Well, go back and tell them I am busy just now but will attend them as soon as I have finished."

  "They said I was to bring you at once," countered the porter. "If you refused, they said they would come and drag you away by your ears!"

  "Did they indeed!" exclaimed the bishop. "Well, I will save them the trouble." Handing the tally scroll to the kitchener, he said, "Continue with the accounting, Brother Brocmal, while I deal with our impatient guests.

  "Of course, bishop," replied Brother Brocmal.

  Asaph returned with the porter and found three marchogi on horseback waiting with a saddled fourth horse. "Pax vobiscum," said the bishop, "I am Father Asaph. How may I be of assistance?" He spoke his best Latin, slowly, so they would understand.

  "Count de Braose wants you," said the foremost rider.

  "So I have been given to understand," replied the bishop, who explained that he was in the midst of a necessary undertaking and would come as soon as he was finished.

  "No," said the horseman. "He wants you now."

  "Now," explained the bishop, still smiling, "is not convenient. I will come when my duties allow"

  "He doesn't care if it is convenient," replied the soldier. "We have orders to bring you without delay."

  He nodded to his two companions, who began dismounting. "Oh, very well," said Asaph, moving quickly to the waiting horse. "The sooner gone, the sooner finished."

  With the help of the porter, the bishop mounted the saddle and took up the reins. "Well? Are you coming?" he asked in a voice thick with sarcasm. "Apparently, it does not do to keep the count waiting."

  Without another word, the marchogi turned their mounts and rode from the yard out into a dazzling, sun-bright day. The soldiers led the way across the snow-covered valley, and the bishop followed at an unhurried pace, letting his mind wander as it would. He was still trying to get the measure of these new overlords, and each encounter taught him a new lesson in how to deal with the Ffreinc invaders.

  Strictly speaking, they were not Ffreinc, or Franks, at all; they were Normans. There was a difference-not that any of the Britons he knew cared for such fine distinctions. To the people of the valleys beyond the March, the tall strangers were invaders from France-that was all they knew, or needed to know. To the Britons, be they Ffreinc, Angevin, or Norman, they were merely the latest in a long line of would-be conquerors.

  Before the Normans, there were the English, and before the English, the Danes, and the Saxons before them. And each invader had carved out dominions for themselves and had gradually been gathered in and woven into the many-coloured mantle that was the Island of the Mighty.

  These Normans were, from what he knew of them, ambitious and industrious, capable of great acts of piety and even greater brutality. They built churches wherever they went and filled them on holy days with devout worshippers, who nevertheless lived like hellions the rest of the time. It was said of the Ffreinc that they would blithely burn a village, slaughter all the men, and hang all the women and children, and then hurry off to church lest they miss a Mass.

  Be that as it may, the Normans were Christian at least-which was more than could be said for the Danes or English when they had first arrived on Britain's fair shores. That being the case, the Church had decided that the Normans were to be treated as brothers in Christ-albeit as one would treat a domineering, wildly violent, and unpredictable older brother.

  There was, so far as Bishop Asaph could see, no other alternative. Had he not urged King Brychan-if once, then a thousand times over the years-to acknowledge the Conqueror, swear fealty, pay his taxes, and do what he could to allow his people to live in peace? "What?" Asaph could hear the king cry in outrage. `Am I to kneel and kiss the rosy rump of that usurping knave? And me a king in my own country? Let me be roasted alive before I stoop to pucker!"

  Well, he had sown his patch and reaped his reward, God save himand his feckless son, too. Now that was a very shame. Profligate, recklessly licentious, and dissolute the prince may have been-no mistake about it, he was all that and more-yet he had qualities his father lacked, hidden though they might have been. Were they hidden so deeply as to never be recovered? That was the question he had often asked himself.

  Alas, the question was moot, and would so forever remain. With Bran's death, the old era passed and a new had begun. Like it or not, the Ffreinc were a fact of life, and they were here to stay. The path was as clear as the choice before him: his only hope of guiding his scattered flock through the storms ahead was to curry favour with the ruling powers. Bishop Asaph intended to get along with them however he could and hope-and pray-for the best.

  It was in this frame of mind that Llanelli's deferential senior cleric entered the fortress where Count Falkes de Braose sat blowing on numb fingers in his damp, smoke-filled hall, beside a sputtering fire of green wood.

  "Ah, Bishop Asaph," said the count, glancing around as the churchman was led into the hall. "It is good to see you again. I trust you are well?" Falkes sniffed and drew a sleeve under his runny nose.

  "Yes," answered the bishop stiffly, "well enough."

  "I, on the other hand, seem destined to endure no end of suffering," opined the count, "what with one thing and another-and this vile weather on top of it all."

  "And yet despite your sufferings, you remain alive to complain," observed the bishop, his voice taking on the chill of the room. In Falkes's presence he felt anew the loss of Brother Ffreol and the death of Bran-not to mention the massacre at Wye Ford. Ffreol's death had been an accident-that was what he had been told. The slaughter of the king and warband was, regrettably, a consequence of war he would have to accept. Bran's death was, in his mind, without justification. That the prince had been killed trying to escape without paying the ransom was, he considered, beside the point. Whatever anyone thought of the young man, he was Elfael's rightful king and should have been accorded due respect and courtesy.

  "Mind your tongue, priest, if you value it at all," threatened de Braose, who promptly sneezed. "I am in no mood for your insolence: "

  Duly chastised, Asaph folded his hands and said, "I was told you required my assistance. How may I be of service?"

  Waving a long hand toward the empty chair on the other side of the fireplace, de Boase said, "Sit down and I will tell you." When the churchman had taken his seat, the count declared, "It has been determined that Elfael needs a town."

  "A town," the bishop repeated. "As it happens, I have long advocated a similar plan."

  "Have you indeed?" sniffed Falkes. "Well then. We agree. It is to be a market town." He went on to explain what would be required and when.

  The cleric listened, misgiving mounting with every breath. When the count paused to sneeze once more, the bishop spoke up. "Pray, excuse me, my lord, but who do you expect to build this town?"

  "Your people, of course," confirmed the count, stretching his hands toward the fire. "Who else?"

  "But this is impossible!" declared Asaph. "We cannot build you an entire town in a single summer."

  The count's eyes narrowed dangerously. "It will prof
it both of us."

  "Be that as it may, it cannot be done," objected the churchman. "Even if we possessed a ready supply of tools and material, who would do the building?"

  "Be at ease," said the count. "You are growing distraught over nothing. Have I not already said that we will use as much existing building work as possible? We will begin with that and add only what is necessary. It does not have to be a city, mind-a small market village will do."

  "What existing buildings do you mean?"

  "I mean," replied the count with exaggerated patience, "those buildings already established-the church and outbuildings and whatnot."

  "But… but…," cried the bishop in a strangled voice. "That is my monastery you are talking about!"

  "Oui," agreed the count placidly. "We will begin there. Those structures can easily be converted to other uses. We need only raise a few houses, a grange hall, smithery, and such like. Your monastery serves… what? A paltry handful of monks? My town will become a centre of commerce and prosperity for the whole valley. Where is the difficulty?"

  "The difficulty, Count de Braose," replied the bishop, fighting to keep his voice level, "is that I will no longer have a monastery."

  "Your monastery is no longer required," stated the count. "We need a market town, not a monkery."

  "There has been a monastery in this valley for eleven generations," Asaph pointed out. He raised his hands and shook his head vehemently. "No. I will not preside over its destruction. It is out of the question.

  The churchman's outright and obstinate refusal irritated de Braose; he felt the warmth of anger rising in him, and his voice grew hushed. `Au contraire, bishop," he said, "it is the question. See here, we must have a town, and quickly. People are coming to settle in the valley; we need a town."

  He paused, gathered his nerves, and then continued in a more conciliatory tone, "The labourers will be drawn from the residents of the valley, and the materials will be supplied from the woods and stone fields of Elfael. I have already undertaken the requisition of the necessary tools and equipment, as well as oxen and wagons for transport. Anything else that you require will be likewise supplied. All that remains," he said in conclusion, "is for you to supply the men. They will be ready to work as soon as the last snow has melted. Is that clear?"

  "Which men do you imagine I command?" demanded the bishop in his anger at being thrown out of his beloved monastery. "There are no men," he snapped, "only a paltry handful of monks,"

  "The Welsh," said Falkes. "The people of Elfael, your countrymen-that is who I mean."

  "The men of Elfael are gone," scoffed the bishop. "The best were slaughtered on their way to Lundein," he said pointedly, "and the rest fled. The only ones left are those who had nowhere else to go, and if they have any sense at all, they will stay far away from this valley."

  The count glared from beneath his brows. "Courtesy, priest," warned de Braose. "Sarcasm ill becomes you."

  "Count de Braose," appealed the bishop, "every able-bodied man gathered his family and his flocks and fled the valley the moment you and your soldiers arrived. There are no men."

  "Then you must find some," said Falkes, growing weary of the bishop's unwillingness to see things from his point of view. "I do not care where you find them, but find them you will."

  "And if I decline to aid you in this?"

  "Then," replied Falkes, his voice falling to a whisper, "you will quickly learn how I repay disloyalty. I assure you it can be extremely unpleasant."

  Bishop Asaph stared in disbelief. "You would threaten a priest of Christ?"

  The young count shrugged.

  "And this… after I delivered the king's treasury to you? This is how I am to be repaid? We agreed that the church would not be harmed. You gave me your word."

  "Your church will be in a town," said the count. "Where is the harm?"

  "We are under the authority of Rome," Asaph pointed out. "You hold no power over us."

  "I hold a royal grant for this commot. Any interference in the establishment of my rule will be reckoned treason, which is punishable by death." He spread his hands as if to indicate that the matter was beyond his immediate control. "But we need not dwell on such unhappy things. You have plenty of time to make the right decision."

  "You cannot do this," blurted the bishop. "In the name of God, you cannot."

  "Oh, I think you will find that I can," replied Falk-es. "One way or another there will be a town in this valley. You can help me, or you and your precious monks will perish. The choice, my dear bishop, is yours."

  CHAPTER

  20

  winter laid siege to the forest and set up encampment on the hilltops and valleys throughout Elfael. The tiny, branchframed patch of sky that could be seen from the mouth of the cave was often obscured, cast over with heavy, snow-laden clouds. Bran, warm beneath layered furs and skins, would sometimes wake in the night and listen to the gale as it shrieked through the naked trees outside, beating the bare branches together and sending the snow drifting high and deep over the forest trails and trackways.

  The cave, however fierce the storm outside, remained dry and surprisingly comfortable. Bran spent his days dozing and planning his eventual departure; when he grew strong enough to leave this place, he would resume his flight to the north. Having no other plan, that was as good as any. For now, however, he remained content to sleep and eat and recover his strength. Sometimes he would wake to find himself alone, but Angharad always returned by day's end-often with a fat hare or two slung over her shoulder, and once with half a small deer, which she hung from an iron hook set in the rock at the entrance to the cave. In the evenings, she cooked their simple meals and tended his wounds while the pot bubbled on the fire.

  And at night, each night of that long winter, the cave was transformed. No longer a rock-bound hole in a cliff face, it became a shining gateway into another world. For each night after they had eaten, Angharad sang.

  The first time it took Bran by surprise. Without any hint or warning of what was to come, the old woman disappeared into the dark interior of the cave and returned bearing a harp. Finely made of walnut and elm wood, with pegs of oak, the curve of its shapely prow was polished smooth by years of handling.

  Bran watched as she carefully brushed away the dust with the hem of her mantle, tightened the strings, and tuned the instrument. Then, settled on her stool, her head bent near as if in dose communion with an old friend, a frown of concentration on her puckered face, Angharad had begun to play-and Bran's bemusement turned to astonished delight.

  The music those gnarled old fingers coaxed from the harp strings that night was pure enchantment, woven tapestries of melody, wonder made audible. And when she opened her mouth to sing, Bran felt himself lifted out of himself and transported to places he never knew existed. Like the ancient harp cradled in her lap, Angharad's voice took on a beauty and quality far surpassing the rude instrument. At once agile and sure and gentle, the old woman's singing voice possessed a fluid, supple strength-now soaring like the wind over the far-off mountains, now a bird in flight, now a cresting wave rolling upon the shore.

  And was it not strange that when Angharad sang, she herself was subtly changed? No longer the gray hag in a tattered robe, she assumed a more noble, almost regal aspect, a dignity her shabby surroundings ordinarily denied, or at least obscured from view. Well-accustomed to her presence now, Bran was no longer repulsed by her appearance; in the same way, he no longer noticed her odd, archaic way of speaking with her thee and thou and wouldst and goest, and all the rest. Neither her aspect nor her speech seemed remarkable; he accepted both the same way he recognized her healing skill: they seemed natural to her, and most naturally her.

  In fact, as Bran soon came to appreciate, with a harp in her weathered hands, Angharad became more herself.

  Extraordinary as it was to Bran, that first night's performance was merely the seeding of a disused well, or the clearing of a brush-filled spring to let fresh new waters flow. Thereaft
er, as night after night she took her place on the stool and cradled the harp to her bosom, Angharad's voice, like fine gold, began to take on added luster through use. A voice so rare, Bran mused, must come from somewhere else, from some other time or place, from some other world-perhaps from the very world Angharad's songs described.

  The world Angharad sang into being was the Elder World, the realm of princely warriors and their noble lovers. She sang of longforgotten heroes, kings, and conquerors; of warrior queens and ladies of such beauty that nations rose and fell at the fleeting glance of a limpid eye; of dangerous deeds and queer enchantments; of men and women of ancient renown at whose names the heart rose and the blood raced faster.

  She sang of Arianrhod, Pryderi, Llew, Danu, and Carridwen, and all their glorious adventures; of Pwyll and Rhiannon, and their impossible love; of Taliesin, Arthur Pendragon, and wise Myrddin Embries, whose fame made Britain the Island of the Mighty. She sang of the Cauldron of Rebirth, the Isle of the Everliving, and the making of many-splendoured Albion.

  One night, Bran realised that he had not heard such tales since he was a child. This, he thought, was why the songs touched him so deeply. Not since the death of his mother had anyone sung to him. This is why he listened to them all with the same awed attention. Caught up in the stories, he lived them as they took life within him; he became Bladudd, the blighted prince who sojourned seven years in unjust servitude; he became the lowly swineherd Tucmal, who challenged the giant champion Ogygia to mortal combat; he flew with doomed Yspilladan on his beautiful wings of swan feathers and wax; he spent a lonely lifetime in hopeless pining for the love of beautiful, inconstant Blodeuwedd; he was a warrior standing shoulder to shoulder with brave Meldryn Mawr to fight against dread Lord Nudd and his demon horde in a land of ice and snow. All these and many more did Bran become.

  After each night's song, Angharad laid aside the harp and sat for a time, gazing into the fire as if into a window through which she could see the very things she sang about. After a time, her body would give a little shake, and she would come to herself again, like one emerging from a spell. Sometimes the sense of what he had heard eluded himshe could tell by the frown that knitted his brow and tugged at the corner of his mouth that he had not understood. So, wrapping her arms around her knees as she sat on her three-legged stool, she would gaze into the fire and talk about the story and its inner meaning-the spirit of the song, Angharad called it.