Scarlet

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I thought you were a bear, I did.”

  He laughed. “Come. Iwan and Siarles will be wondering what has become of us.”

  He hurried off along the darkened path, and it was all I could do to keep up with him. His long legs carried him by fast strides—and his sight, even in the dark, led him unerringly along a path that could no longer be seen. I struggled along, slipping and sliding in his footsteps, trying to avoid the branches and twigs that whipped back in my face. After a time, Bran slowed his pace; the trees were closer here, the wood more dense and the snow less deep on the path. We moved along at a much improved pace until we arrived at a place far from the road and where we had last seen the sheriff ’s men.

  Bran paused and put his hand back to halt me. He hesitated, and then I heard Iwan’s voice murmur something, and Bran stepped from the trail and into a small, snug clearing that had been hewn from the dense undergrowth beside the trail. A fire burned brightly in the centre of this bower and, aside from Iwan and Siarles, there were five of the Grellon huddled close around the flames. They all rose when Bran stepped through the brush, and welcomed him. They made room for us by the fire, but before Bran sat down, he spoke to each one personally, telling them how pleased he was of their accomplishments this day.

  Aside from the men, there were two women from Cél Craidd. They had prepared barley cakes and a little mulled ale to help draw the chill from our bones, so while Bran spoke to the others, I sat down and soon had my frozen fingers wrapped around a steaming jar. “We were getting worried,” said Siarles, settling down beside me. “I might have known there would be trouble.”

  “A little,” I confessed. “The sheriff turned up and took it into his head to have us give some of his men a run through the wood.”

  “The sheriff ? Are you certain?”

  “Oh, aye, it was himself. I challenged him, and he tried to talk me into giving myself up for a hanging.” I sipped my hot ale. “Tempting as it was, I declined the offer and made one of my own. I decorated his fine cloak with arrow points.”

  Siarles regarded me in the firelight with a look approaching appreciation. “Did you kill him, then?”

  “I drew on him, but did not loose.”

  “Weeping Judas, why not?”

  “King Raven prevented me,” I replied. “He appeared just as I was about to let fly, and we’ve been running ever since. And now that I think of it, why did no one tell me about the treewalks and ladders?”

  Siarles grinned readily. “Oh, that—well, it’s a secret we like to keep to ourselves as much as possible. A man’s life could depend on it.”

  “As my own did this selfsame night. It would have cheered me no end to know I wasn’t about to end my days with a Norman spear in my back.”

  “So, now you know.”

  “Now I know,” I agreed. “One of these days, I’ll thank you to show me which of the other trails have been prepared this way and which trees.”

  “Oaks,” replied Siarles, taking the jar from me and helping himself to a sip.

  “Oaks,” I repeated, taking the cup back.

  “It’s always oak trees,” Iwan confirmed. “Look for a dangling vine. As for the trails, we’ll show you next time we come out. But that won’t be for a while now. We will let the trail grow cold.”

  “It is plenty cold now,” I said, quaffing down a hearty gulp. “If the snow keeps up, by morning you won’t be able to tell anyone passed this way at all.”

  Iwan nodded and stood abruptly. “Nóinina!” he called. “A dry cloak for our man here.”

  One of the women turned away from the fire and withdrew a bundle from a wicker basket they had brought. She came around the ring to where I sat, untied the bundle, and shook out a clean, dry cloak. “Oooh,” she cooed gently, “let me get that cold wet thing off you before you take a death.”

  Leaning over me, she deftly untied the laces and lifted off the wet garment; the cold air hit my damp clothes and I shivered. She spread the dry cloak over my shoulders and rubbed my back with her hands so as to warm me. “There now,” she said, “you’ll be warm and dry that soon.”

  “Many thanks,” I said, craning my head around to see her better. It was the woman who had come to Cél Craidd after being rescued from the Ffreinc. As it happens, I had helped build a hut for her and her wee daughter. “Nóinina, is it?” I asked, though I knew well and good that it was.

  “Aye, that’s me.” She gave me a fine smile, and I realized that she was a right fetching woman. Now, it might have been the heat of the fire after a long, cold day, or then again, it might have been something else, but I felt a certain warmth spread through me just then. “You’re called Will.”

  “That I am.”

  She lingered close, gazing down at me as I sat with my cup on my knees. “I helped build the hut for you and the little ’un,” I told her.

  “I know.” She smiled again and moved off. “And for that I’ll give you a barley cake.”

  She was back a few moments later with a jug of warm ale and a barley cake fresh from the griddle stone. “Get that into you and see if you don’t warm up.”

  “I’m feeling better already,” I told her. “Much better.”

  It didn’t last long. As soon as we all had a bite and drained our cups, Iwan put out the fire and we were away. Oh, but it was a long, slow trek back to the settlement through deep-drifting snow. We tried to walk in one another’s footsteps as much as possible so as not to disturb the snow overmuch, but that was tedious and taxing. We were fair exhausted by the time we reached Cél Craidd, and the night was far gone. Even so, our folk had built up a big, bright fire and were waiting for us with hot food and drink. They let out a great cheer when first we tumbled through the hedgewall and slid down the bank.

  Well, our trials were forgotten just that quick, and we all gathered round the fire to celebrate our victory. There was still a thing or two needin’ done—the oxen and wagons had been secured for the night, but the wagons would have to be unburdened and the oxen would require attention before another day had run. Our work was far from finished. Even so, the cares of tomorrow could fend for themselves a little while; this night we could celebrate.

  The mood was high. We had fought the Ffreinc and delivered a blow they would not soon forget. As soon as we took our places at the fire, cups were pressed into our hands and meat set to roast on skewers. We drank the first of many healths to one and all, and I was that surprised to find myself standing beside the widow woman once more.

  “Hello again, Nóinina,” I said, my clumsy half-Saxon tongue attempting the lilt she had given it. “It’s a good night that ends well even with the snow.”

  “Call me Nóin,” she said. Indicating my cup with a quick nod of her head, she said, “Your jar big enough for two?”

  “Just big enough,” I replied, and passed it to her.

  She raised it to her lips and drank deep, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she returned the jar. “Ah, now, that is as it should be—hale and hearty and strong, with a fine handsome head.” She leaned near, and her lips curved with sweet mischief as she added, “Just like our man here himself.”

  Oh, my stars! It had been long since any woman had spoken to me with such invitation in her voice. My heart near leapt out of my throat, and I had to look at her a second time to make sure it was ol’ Will Scarlet she was talking about. She gave me a wink with the smile, and I knew my fortunes had just improved beyond all reason. “Do not be leaving just yet,” she said, and skipped away.

  “I’ll keep a place for you right here,” I called after her.

  She returned with another jar and two skewers of meat for us to roast at the fire. We settled back to share a stump and a cup, and watch the snow drift down as the meat cooked. Sweet Peter’s beard, but the flames that warmed my face were nothing compared to the warmth of that fine young woman beside me. An unexpected happiness caught me up, and my heart took wing and soared through a winter sky ablaze with stars.

&nbs
p; I was on the point of asking her how she came to be in the forest when Lord Bran raised his cup and called for silence around the fire ring. “Here’s a health to King Raven and his mighty Grellon, who this night have plucked a tail feather from that stuffed goose de Braose!”

  “To King Raven and the Grellon,” we all cried, lofting our cups, “mighty all!”

  When we had drunk and recharged our cups, Bran called again, “Here’s a health to the men whose valour and hardihood has the sheriff and his men gnashing their teeth in rage tonight!”

  We hailed that and drank accordingly, swallowing down a hearty draught at the happy thought of the sheriff and count smarting from the wallop we’d given them.

  “Hear now!” Bran called when we had finished. “This health is for our good Will Scarlet who, heedless of the danger to himself, snatched a poor man from the sheriff ’s grasp. Thanks to Will, that man’s family will eat tonight and him with them.” Raising his cup, he cried, “To Will, a man after King Raven’s heart!”

  The shout went up, “To Will!” And everyone raised their jars to me. Ah, it was a grand thing to be hailed like that. And just to make the moment that much more memorable to me, as the king and all his folk drank my health, I felt Nóin slip her hand into mine and give it a squeeze—only lightly, mind, but I felt the tingle down to my toes.

  CHAPTER 13

  Eiwas

  The journey to Wales seemed endless somehow. Although only a few days from his castle in England’s settled heart, Bernard Neufmarché, Baron of Hereford and Gloucester, always felt as if he had travelled half a world away by the time he reached the lands of his vassal, Lord Cadwgan, in the Welsh cantref of Eiwas. The country was darker and strangely uninviting, with shadowy wooded keeps, secret pools, and lonely rivers. The baron thought the close-set hills and hidden valleys of Wales mysterious and more than a little forbidding—all the more so in winter.

  It wasn’t only the landscape he found threatening. Since his defeat of Rhys ap Tewdwr, a well-loved king and the able leader of the southern Welsh resistance, the land beyond the March had grown decidedly unfriendly to him. Former friends were now hostile, and former enemies implacable. So be it. If that was the price of progress, Neufmarché was willing to pay. Now, however, the baron made his circuits more rarely and, where once he might have enjoyed an untroubled ride to visit his vassal lords, these days he never put foot to stirrup in the region unless accompanied by a bodyguard of knights and men-at-arms.

  Thus, he was surrounded by a strong, well-armed force. Not that he expected trouble from Cadwgan—despite their differences, the two had always got along well enough—but reports of wandering rebels stirring up trouble meant that even old friends must be treated with caution.

  “Evereux!” called the baron as they came in sight of Caer Rhodl perched on the summit of a low rock crag. “Halt the men just there.” He pointed to a stony outcrop beside the trail, a short distance from the wooden palisade of Cadwgan’s fortress. “You and I will ride on together.”

  The marshal relayed the baron’s command to the troops and, upon reaching the place, the soldiers paused and dismounted. The baron continued to the fortress gate—where, as expected, he was admitted with prompt, if cold, courtesy.

  “My lord will be informed of your arrival,” said the steward. “Please wait in the hall.”

  “But of course,” replied the baron. “My greetings to your lord.”

  The Welsh king’s house was not large, and Neufmarché had been there many times; he proceeded to the hall, where he and his marshal were kept waiting longer than the baron deemed hospitable. “This is an insult,” observed Evereux. “Do you want me to go find the old fool and drag him here by the nose?”

  “We came unannounced,” the baron replied calmly, although he was also feeling the slight. “We will wait.”

  They remained in the hall, alone, frustration mounting by the moment, until eventually there came a shuffle in the doorway. It took a moment for the baron to realise that Lord Cadwgan had indeed appeared. Gaunt and hollow-cheeked, a ghastly shadow fell across his face; his clothes hung on his once-robust form as upon a rack of sticks. His skin had an unhealthy pallor that told the baron his vassal lord had not ventured outdoors for weeks, or maybe even months.

  “My lord baron,” said Cadwgan in the soft, listless voice of the sickroom. “Good of you to come.”

  His manner seemed to suggest that he imagined it was he who had summoned the baron to his hall. Neufmarché disregarded the inapt remark, even as he ignored the sharp decline evidenced in Cadwgan’s appearance. “A fine day!” the baron declared, his voice a little forced and overloud. “I thought we might make a circuit of your lands.”

  “Of course,” agreed Cadwgan. “Perhaps once we have had some refreshment, my son could accompany you.”

  “I thought you might ride with me,” replied the baron. “It has been a long time since we rode together.”

  “I fear I would not be the best of company,” said Cadwgan. “I will tell Garran to saddle a horse.”

  Unwilling to press the matter further, the baron said, “How is your lady wife?” When the king failed to take his meaning, he said, “Queen Anora—is she well?”

  “Aye, yes, well enough.” Cadwgan looked around the empty room as if he might find her sitting in one of the corners. “Shall I send someone to fetch her?”

  “Let it wait. There is no need to disturb her just now.”

  “Of course, Sire.” The Welsh king fell silent, gazing at the baron and then at Evereux. Finally, he said, “Was there something else?”

  “You were going to summon your son, I think?” Neufmarché replied.

  “Was I? Very well, if you wish to see him.”

  Without another word the king turned and padded softly away.

  “The man is ill,” observed the marshal. “That, or senile.”

  “Obviously,” replied the baron. “But he has been a useful ally, and we will treat him with respect.”

  “As you say,” allowed Evereux. “All the same, a thought about the succession would not be amiss. Is the son loyal?”

  “Loyal enough,” replied the baron. “He is a young and supple reed, and we can bend him to our purpose.”

  A few moments later, they were joined by the young prince himself who, with icy compliance, agreed to ride with the baron on a circuit of Eiwas. The baron spoke genially of one thing and another as they rode out, receiving nothing but the minimum required for civility in return. Upon reaching a stream at the bottom of the valley, the baron reined up sharply. “Know you, we need not be enemies,” he said. “From what I have seen of your father today, it seems to me that you will soon be swearing vassalage to me. Let us resolve to be friends from the beginning.”

  Garran wheeled his horse and came back across the stream. “What do you want from me, Neufmarché? Is it not enough that you hold our land? Must you own our souls as well?”

  “Guard your tongue, my lord prince,” snarled Evereux. “It ill becomes a future king to speak to his liege lord in such a churlish manner.”

  The prince opened his mouth as if he would challenge this remark, but thought better of it and glared at the marshal instead.

  “Your father is not well,” the baron said simply. “Have you sent for a physician?”

  Garran frowned and looked away. “Such as we have.”

  “I will send mine to you,” offered the baron.

  “My thanks, Baron,” replied the prince stiffly, “but it will be to no purpose. He pines for Mérian.”

  “Mérian,” murmured the baron, as if searching his memory for a face to go with the name. Oh, but not a day had passed from the moment he first met her until now that he did not think of her with longing, and stinging regret. Fairest Mérian, stolen away from his very grasp. How he wished that he could call back the command that had sealed her fate. A clumsy and ill-advised attempt to capture the Welsh renegade Bran ap Brychan had resulted in the young hellion taking the lady captive to
make good his escape from the baron’s camp. Neufmarché had lost her along with any chance he might have had of loving her.

  Mistaking the baron’s pensive silence, Prince Garran said, “The king thinks her dead. And I suppose she is, or we would have had some word of her by now.”

  “There has been nothing? No demand for ransom? Nothing?” asked the baron. His own efforts to find her had been singularly unsuccessful.

  “Not a word,” confirmed Garran. “We always knew Bran for a rogue, but this makes no sense. If he only wanted money, he could have had it long since. My father would have met any demand—as well he knows.” The young man shook his head. “I suppose my father is right; she must be dead. I only hope that Bran ap Brychan is maggot-food, too. “

  Following Mérian’s kidnapping, the baron had sorrowfully informed Mérian’s family of the incident, laying the blame entirely at Bran’s feet while failing to mention his own considerable part in the affair. All they knew was what the baron had told them at the time: that a man, thought to be Bran ap Brychan, had come riding into the camp, demanding to speak to the baron, who was in council with two of his English vassals. When the Welshman’s demands were denied, he had grown violent and attacked the baron’s knights, who fought him off. To avoid being killed, the cowardly rebel had seized the young woman and carried her away. The baron’s men had given chase; there was a battle in which several of his knights lost their lives. In all likelihood, the fugitives had been wounded in the skirmish, but their fate was unknown, for they escaped into the hills, taking Lady Mérian with them.

  “Her loss has made my father sick at heart,” Garran concluded gloomily. “I think he will not last the winter.”

  “Then,” said the baron, a tone of genuine sympathy edging into his voice, “I suggest we begin making plans for your succession to your father’s throne. Will there be any opposition, do you think?”

  Garran shook his head. “There is no one else.”

  “Good,” replied Neufmarché with satisfaction. “We must now look to the future of Eiwas and its people.”