Hood kr-1

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  "As you say," replied the young man.

  Taking up his cup once more, the baron said, "You have until this cup is drained." He drank deeply and said, "Less now. I would speak quickly if I were you."

  "De Braose is a tyrant," the young man said, "with little understanding of the land he has taken, and none at all of the people under his rule. Most of them have fled, and those that remain are made to perform slave labour at the cost of their own fields and holdings. If they were allowed to return to their homes, to work the land and tend their herds, Elfael would enjoy prosperity unequalled by any other cantre? All that is required is someone who can guide the will of the people-someone the Cymry will follow, who can deliver them to you."

  The baron sipped again, more slowly this time, and considered what he had heard. "You can do this?"

  "I can." There was no hint of hesitation or doubt in the young man.

  "Your offer is tempting, to be sure," allowed the baron cautiously. Putting the cup aside, he said, "But who are you to make such an offer?"

  At this, the bowlegged friar spoke up. "Before you stands Bran ap Brychan, the rightful heir to Elfael. And I am Aethelfrith, at your service.

  Neufmarche gazed at the young man before him. It never ceased to amaze him how very often events beyond his reckoning conspired to bring his plans to bountiful fruition. Here, he had not lifted a hand, and the prize plum had simply dropped into his lap. "The rightful heir is dead," he said, feigning indifference. "At least, that is what I heard."

  "To my great relief," replied Bran, "it remains a rumour only. Still, it serves a useful purpose."

  "When the time is right," put Aethelfrith, "we will make his presence known, and his people will rally to him and overthrow the de Braose usurpers."

  "In exchange for your promise to restore me to the throne," Bran said, "I would pledge fealty to you. Elfael would then abide in peace."

  Now the baron smiled. "What you have said has roused my interest-and more than you know." He rose and walked to the rear of the tent. "Will you take some wine?"

  "It would be an honour," replied Tuck. "There is much to discuss."

  "A moment, please," said the baron. "I will order cups to be brought." With that, he disappeared through the rear flap into the room used by his servants for preparing food for the baron and his guests. "Remey!" Neufmarche called aloud. "Wine for my visitors." The servant, just returning from the kitchen tent with a trencher of sausages, appeared at his summons. Stepping quickly to meet him, the baron raised a finger to his lips for silence, leaned close, and whispered, "Fetch me four knights-armed and ready to fight. Bring them here at once."

  Remey's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Sire? Is something amiss?"

  "No time to explain-but the two Welshmen are to be taken cap tive. Indeed, they will not leave this place alive. Understand?" The aging seneschal inclined his head in a compliant nod. "Go," said Neufmarche, taking the trencher from his hands. "I will keep them occupied until you return."

  Remey turned on his heel and padded away. The baron returned to his audience room with the sausages, which he placed on the table, inviting his guests to help themselves. "Sit you down, please. Enjoy!" he said with expansive warmth. "The wine will come in a moment. In the meantime, I would hear more about how you plan to bring about de Braose's defeat."

  CHAPTER

  46

  The last day of the baron's council found Merian in a pensive mood. Having resigned herself to the fact that she would leave the council and return, not to Caer Rhodl, but to Castle Neufmarche in Hereford, she was nevertheless apprehensive. A sojourn amongst the Ffreinc in the baron's household? Secretly she was fascinated by the thought-even regarding the prospect of a winter spent in Normandie in a kindly light. Even so, she could not deny the feeling that she was behaving as something of a traitor. A traitor to what? Her family? Her country? Her own ideas about who and what the Ffreinc were?

  She could not decide.

  Her father had as much as commanded her to go. Her own mother had told her, "It is important that you do well in the baron's court, Merian. He likes you, and we need his friendship just now." Although she did not say it outright, her mother had given her to know that by currying favour with the baron, she was helping her family survive. In short, she was little more than a hostage to the baron's good pleasure.

  She told herself that Cymru would be the same whether she was attached to the baron's court or not. She told herself that in all likelihood, her poor opinion of the Ffreinc was based on hearsay and ignorance and that this was a chance to discover the truth. Of course, she still considered the Ffreinc enemies, but was not a Christian required to love her enemy? From the time she was old enough to stand beside her mother in church, she had been instructed to love her enemies and do good to those who persecuted her. So if not the Ffreinc, then who? She told herself that any young woman in her position would welcome the chance to advance herself in this way, and that she should be grateful.

  She told herself all these things and more. Yet the feeling of betrayal would not go away.

  It was with these thoughts turning over in her mind that she made her way amongst the untidy sprawl of tents to the baroness's pavilion in the centre of the camp. Merian had been sent to find Sybil and inform her friend that she had said her good-byes to her parents and that her things were packed and awaiting collection by the baron's servants. As she passed the baron's tent, however, a shout brought her up short. She stopped.

  It sounded like an argument had broken out. There was a crash, as if a table had been overturned, and suddenly, out of the tent burst four marchogi dragging two men between them. At the sight of the young noblewoman standing directly in their path, the soldiers halted. The foremost prisoner raised his head. Even with the blood streaming from a cut above his eye, even though she never thought to see him again amongst the living, she knew him.

  "Bran!" She blurted the name in startled amazement. "Is it you?"

  "Merian," gasped Bran, no less astonished to see her.

  "Step aside, lady," said one of the knights, jerking Bran to his feet.

  Without thinking, Merian held up her hand. "Stop!" she said, and the soldiers paused. She stepped nearer. "I thought you died-everyone said so."

  "Wishful thinking."

  "You know this man?" The voice was Neufmarche's. He stepped from the tent and came to stand beside Merian.

  "I did once," Merian replied, turning to the baron. "I-until this moment, I thought him dead! Why are you treating him so? What has he done?"

  "He claims to be the heir of Elfael," the baron replied. "Is this true?"

  "It is," Merian granted.

  "That is all I need to know." The baron, sword in hand, waved the soldiers on. "Take them away."

  "I am sorry you had to see that, my dear-," the baron began. He did not finish the thought, for as the knights, still distracted by Merian, stepped past her, Bran twisted in their grasp and shook himself free. Snatching a dagger from the belt of his nearest captor, he spun on his heel, grabbed Merian, and pulled her roughly to him. Neufinarche made a clumsy attempt to snatch her from Bran's grasp, and almost lost his hand.

  "Stay back!" Bran shouted, raising the naked blade to Merians slender neck.

  "Bran, no-," Merian gasped.

  One of the knights made a sudden lunge toward him. Bran evaded the move, pressing the knife to Merian's throat and drawing a frightened scream from the young woman. "If you have any care for her at all," he snarled, "you will stand aside,"

  "Stand easy, men," the baron told his soldiers. To Bran he said, "Do you imagine this will aid you in any way?"

  "That we will soon discover," he said. Turning to the soldiers holding Tuck, he commanded, "Release the priest."

  The knights looked to the baron. He saw the sharp blade pressed against the soft white flesh-flesh he coveted-and could not bear to see it harmed. Neufmarche surrendered with a nod. "Do it," he said dully. "Let him go."

  "Tuck," called Bran
, "bring the horses!"

  The English friar shook free of his captors, giving one a pointed kick, saying, "That is for laying unclean hands on one of God's humble servants." He hurried to where the horses had been left on the nearby picket line.

  "Bran, let me go," pleaded Merian, her fear quickly melting into anger. "This is not meet."

  "I asked you to come with me once," he said, his mouth close to her ear. "You refused. Now it seems you are to join me whether you will or no."

  Tuck hurried back, leading the horses. He passed one pair of reins to Bran and scrambled into the saddle. Bran, stepping gingerly backwards to the horse, pulled Merian with him. "Climb up and be quick," he told her, maintaining his grip on the knife. Gathering her skirts, she put her foot to the stirrup, and Bran, with a sudden movement, boosted her onto the horse and, quick as a cat, vaulted up behind her.

  "Farewell, baron," said Bran, shaking out the reins. "Had you been true, you would have enjoyed the spectacle of your rival's downfall. Now you will have to content yourself with the knowledge that this day you sealed your own."

  "I will track you down like an animal," said Neufmarche. "When I find you, I will gut you and hang your carcass for the birds."

  "You must catch me first, Neufmarche," said Bran. "And if we are followed from this place, Merians lovely corpse will be all you find on the trail."

  "Don't waste your breath on them," said Tuck. "Let us hie from this vipers' den."

  "Away, Tuck!" With that, Bran slapped the reins across the shoulders of his mount, and the horse leapt ahead. The fat priest followed, and the two riders disappeared with their hostage, passing between the dose-set tents and out of sight. The soldiers watched in flat-footed amazement.

  "After them!" shouted the baron. "Merian is not to be harmed,"

  "What about the other two?" asked one of the knights.

  "Once the lady is safe-and only then," the baron cautioned, "kill them. If anything happens to her, your lives are forfeit."

  The four knights ran for their horses and clattered off in pursuit of the fugitives. Baron Neufmarche watched until they were out of camp and then returned to his tent, his spirits soaring with jubilation. By the time his knights returned with Merian, the last heir to the throne of Elfael really would be dead, his unwanted presence a fast-fading memory. The troops promised by his father, the duke, would arrive with the first ships in the spring, and in the council just concluded, he had-through bargaining, wheedling, threatening, and cajoling over many days-finally obtained the support of his vassal lords for his threefold plan.

  The unexpected appearance of Elfael's prince might have swiftly undone all his hard work over the last many days, but fortunately, that problem would be swiftly resolved when the knights returned with his head in a sack. Thus, no sooner than it had arisen, the unforeseen impediment had been cleared. The conquest of Wales could begin.

  Friar Tuck was first to reach the little dell where the four had made camp-not far from the fields where the council was meeting, but hidden in a fold between two hills. "Iwan! Siarles!" he shouted, thundering down the hillside to the stand of beech trees where they had camped. "To arms! The Ffreinc are coming!"

  The two men appeared, drawing their swords as they ran. Iwan took in the situation at a glance, thrust his sword into the turf, and raced back for his longbow. Tuck reached the shelter of the trees and threw himself from the saddle as Iwan appeared, clutching two bow staves in one hand and a sheaf of arrows in the other. "There are four of them!" cried Tuck. "Bran has a woman with him and cannot outpace them much longer. We had but a few yards' start on them."

  "Four only?" said Iwan, tossing a bow to Siarles. "The way you were shouting, I thought all the Normans in England were on your tail-and their hounds as well."

  "What woman?" wondered Siarles, bracing the bow against his leg to string it.

  "Our escape required a hostage," Tuck explained. "For God's sake, hurry!"

  A cry arose from the rim of the dell. They turned to see Bran pounding down the gentle slope, encumbered by a squirming, screaming female. His mount was tired and clearly labouring. Even as they watched, he was overtaken by the two Ffreinc knights sweeping up behind him with swords raised.

  "For the love of God!" cried Tuck. "Hurry!"

  "All in good time, brother," said Iwan, passing a handful of arrows to Siarles. "It does not do to hurry an archer. It makes him miss."

  With quick downward jabs, the two stuck the arrows point first in the turf and, plucking one each, nocked it to the string.

  "Left!" said Iwan.

  "Right!" answered Siarles, and with almost languid motion, the two pressed the longbows forward as if trying to step through them. There was a single dull thrum and fizzing hiss as the arrows flew. The knight on the left, standing in his stirrups, his arm raised high, ready to begin the fatal downward slash with his blade, was struck in the centre of the chest. Already unbalanced, the impact slammed him backwards over the rump of his horse, dead when he hit the ground. The rider on the right had time but to glance once at the suddenly empty saddle of his companion before Siarles's arrow buried itself in his chest. The sword spun from his hand, and he clutched the arrow, fighting to turn his galloping mount-a fight he lost when Siarles's second arrow struck just below the first and knocked him from the saddle.

  Bran galloped on. The two remaining knights appeared on the rim of the dell and started down. "Left!" said Iwan again and loosed. The arrow, a blurred streak in the air, seemed to lift the soldier up ever so slightly as the horse ran out from under him.

  The sole remaining knight must have seen the two riderless horses breaking off to the side, for he tried to halt his headlong pursuit. With a cry of dismay, he jerked the reins back hard. The horse's churning hooves slipped in the long grass, and the animal slid. The knight, occupied with his stumbling mount, did not see the arrow that flung him from the saddle. He landed heavily on his side, rolled over, and did not move again.

  "Get their horses!" shouted Bran to Siarles as he reined his lathered mount to a halt. "Tuck! Iwan! Break camp. It will not be long before Neufmarche realises his knights are not coming back-and then he will come in force." The two hurried off to gather the water and provisions and saddle the horses.

  "Let me go!" shouted Merian, scratching at Bran's hands. He released his hold and let her fall. She landed in an awkward sprawl, her mantle sliding up over bare legs. Her shoes had come loose and been lost in the mad dash from the baron's camp. "You did that on purpose!" she raged, pulling down her mantle and scrambling to her feet. Bran slid down from the saddle. Livid with rage, dark eyes ablaze, Merian flew at him with her fists. "How dare you! I am not a sack of grain to be picked up and thrown over your shoulder. I demand-"

  "Enough!" Bran snapped, grabbing both of her wrists in one strong hand.

  "Take me back at once."

  "So your friend the baron can carve my head from my shoulders?" he said. "No, I think I would rather live a little longer."

  "My father will do the same unless you let me go. Whatever trouble you're in will not be helped by taking me. I am certain that it can be cleared up if we all just-"

  "Merian!" Bran's hand flicked out and connected with her cheek in a resounding slap. "Do you understand what just happened here?" He pointed to the dead knights on the hillside. "Look out there, Merian. This is no misunderstanding. The baron means to kill me, and I do not intend to give him another chance."

  "You hit me!" she said darkly. "Never do that again."

  11 "Then do not give me cause.

  Siarles returned, leading three horses. "One got away," he said.

  "Go help Iwan and Tuck," Bran told him, taking the reins. "Three is enough."

  "What are you going to do?" asked Merian, her voice shaking with anger.

  "Get as far away from here as possible," he replied, examining the horses. There was blood on one of the saddles, and the horse that had stumbled had a ragged gash in a foreleg. Bran released the animal and, selecting
one for Merian, pulled her around to the side and held out the stirrup for her. "Mount up."

  "No."

  "You are acting like a child."

  "And you are acting like a brigand," she said. Raising both hands, she pushed him over backward, turned, and started running-gaining only a few paces before she felt his arms around her waist, lifting her from her feet.

  "I am a brigand," he said. Lugging her back to the horse, he heaved her clumsily into the saddle and proceeded to tie her feet to the stirrups with the straps used to secure a lance. "Do not try me again, Merian, or I might forget I ever loved you."

  "You flatter yourself," she snarled. "But you were ever a flatterer and a liar."

  Iwan, Tuck, and Siarles emerged from the beech grove just then, leading two horses. "Ready!" called Iwan.

  "Ride out," Bran said. Holding tight to the reins of Merians mount, he swung up into the saddle. "Come, my lady," he said, his voice cold and cutting. "Let us hope that, along with your loyalty and good sense, you have not also forgotten how to ride."

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "To Cel Craidd," he replied. "Our fortress may not be as fine and rich as Castle Neufmarche, but it is blessedly free of Ffreinc, and you will receive a better welcome there than I received at the baron's hands."

  "They will find me, you know," she said, trying to sound brave and unconcerned. "And you will pay dearly for what you've done."

  "They will find you when I choose to let them find you, and they are the ones who will count the cost."

  Turning his eyes to the line of advancing twilight away to the east, Bran gazed at the gathering darkness and embraced it like a friend. He lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and drew the evening air deep into his lungs. When he glanced again to Merian, his eyes were veiled with the night, and she realised Bran was no longer the boy she had once known. "But now," he said, his words falling like a shadow between them, "it is time for this raven to fly."