I did not know how the Cymry hereabouts celebrated the Christ Mass, and nursed the strong suspicion that if Friar Tuck had not arrived when he did, King Bran’s pitiable flock would have had little with which to make their cheer. But when his pack mule arrived a short while later, it was clear that the friar had brought Christmas with him.
Within moments, he seemed to be everywhere at once, kindling the banked coals of the forest-dwellers’ hearts—a word of greeting here, a song there, a laugh or a story to lift the spirits of our downcast tribe. Bless him, he fanned the cold embers of joy into a cracking fine blaze.
Although they have adopted some of the more common Saxon practices, the Britons appeared not to observe the trimming of pine boughs, so it fell to Tuck and me to arrange this part of the festivities. The day had cleared somewhat, with bright blue showing through the clouds, so the two of us walked into the nearby wood to cut some suitable branches and bring them back. This we did, talking as we worked, and learning to know one another better.
“What we need now,” declared Tuck when we had cut enough greenery to satisfy tradition, “is a little holly.”
“As good as got,” I told him, and asked why he thought it needful.
“Why? It is a most potent symbol, and that is reason enough,” the priest replied. “See here, prickly leaves remind us of the thorns our dear Lamb of God suffered with silent fortitude, and the red berries remind us of the drops of healing blood he shed for us. The tree remains green all the year round, and the leaves never die—which shows us the way of eternal life for those who love the Saviour.”
“Then, by all means,” I said, “let us bring back some holly, too.”
Shouldering our cut boughs of spruce and pine, we made our way back to the village, pausing to collect a few of the prickly green branches on the way. “And will we have a Yule log?” I asked as we resumed our walk.
“I have no objection,” the friar allowed. “A harmless enough observance, quite pleasant in its own way. Yes, why not?”
Why not, indeed! Of all the odd bits that go to make up this age-old fest, I hold the Yule log chief among them and was glad our friar offered no objection. The way some clerics have it, a fella’d think it was Lucifer himself dragged into the hall on Christmas day. For all, it’s just a log—a big one, mind, but a log all the same.
As Thane Aelred’s forester, it always fell to me to find the log. We’d walk out together, lord and vassal, of a Christmas morn—along with one of the thane’s sons or daughters astride a big ox—and drag the log back to the hall, where it would be pulled through the door and its trimmed end set in a hearth already ablaze. Then, as the end burned, we’d feed that great hulk of wood inch by inch into the flame. Green as apples, that log would sputter and crack and sizzle as the sap touched the flame, filling the hall with its strong scent. We always chose a timber too green to burn any other time for the simple reason that, so long as that log was a-roast, none of the servants had to lift a finger beyond the simple necessities required to keep the celebration going.
A good Yule log could last a fortnight. I suspect it was the idleness of the vassals that got up so many priest’s noses. They do so hate to see anyone taking his ease. Then again, there was the ashes. See, when the feasting was over and the log reduced to cold embers, those selfsame ashes were gathered up to be used in various ways: we sprinkled some on cattle to ensure health and hearty offspring; we scattered some in the fields to encourage abundant crops; and, of course, sheep had their fleece dusted to improve the quality of their wool. A little was mixed with the first brewing of ale for the year to aid in warding off sickness and ill temper, and so on. In all, the ashes of a Yule log provided a useful and necessary commodity.
Over time, a good few of the Britons took up the Yule log tradition, just like many of the Saxons succumbed to the ancient and honourable Celtic rite of eating gammon on Christ’s day. To be sure, a Saxon never requires much encouragement where the eating of pigs is at issue, less yet if there is also to be drinking ale. So, naturally, a great many priests try to stamp out the practice of burning Yule trees.
“Well now,” said Tuck, when I remarked on his obvious charity towards a custom most of his ilk found offensive, “they have their reasons, do they not? But I tell the folk who ask me that the fire provided is the flame of faith, which burns brightest through the darkest nights of the year, feeding on the log—which is the holy, sustaining word of God, ever new and renewed, day by day, year by year. The ashes, then, are the dust of death, the residue of our sins when all has been cleansed in the Refiner’s fire.”
“Well said, Brother.”
“You seem a thoughtful sort of man, Will,” the cheerful cleric observed.
“I hope I am,” I replied.
“And dependable?”
“It would please me if folk considered me so.”
“And are you a loyal man, Will?”
I stopped walking and looked at him. “On my life, I am.”
“Good. Bran has need of men he can trust.”
“As do we all, Friar. As do we all.”
He nodded and we resumed our walk. The light was fading as the short winter day dwindled down.
“You said you lost your living,” he said after a moment. “I would hear that tale now, if nothing prevents you.”
“Nothing to tell you haven’t heard before, I’ll warrant,” I replied, and explained how I had been in service to Thane Aelred, who ran afoul of King William the Red during the accession struggle. “As punishment, the king burned the village and claimed the lands under Forest Law.” I went on to describe how I had wandered about, working for bread and bed and, hearing about King Raven, decided to try to find him if I could. “I found Iwan and Siarles first, and they brought me to Cél Craidd, where Bran took pity on me. What about you, Tuck? How did an upright priest like yourself come to have a place in this odd flock?”
“They came to me,” he replied. “On their way to Lundein, they were, and stopped for a night under the roof of my oratory.” He lifted a palm upward. “God did the rest.”
By the time we returned to the settlement, the first stars were peeking through the clouds in the east. A great fire blazed in the ring outside Bran’s hut, and there was a fine fat pig a-sizzle on a spit. A huge kettle of spiced ale was steaming in the coals; the cauldron was surrounded by spatchcocks splayed on willow stakes, and the savory scent brought the water to my mouth.
With the help of some of the children, Tuck and I placed pine branches over the doors of the huts and around the edge of the fire ring itself. At Bran’s hut and those of Angharad and Mérian, and Iwan and Siarles, we also fixed a sprig or two of the holly we had cut. A few of the smaller girls begged sprigs for themselves and plaited them into their hair.
As soon as the ale was ready, everyone rushed to the fire ring with their cups and bowls to raise the first of a fair many healths to each other and to the day. As wives and husbands pledged their cups to one another, I lofted my cup to Brother Tuck. “Was hale!” I cried.
Ruddy face beaming, he gave out a hearty, “Drink hale!” And we drank to one another.
Bran and Mérian, I noticed, shared a most cordial sip between them, and the way those two regarded one another over the rim of the cup sent a pang of longing through me, sharp and swift as if straight from the bow. I think I was not the only one sensing this particular lack, for as I turned around I glimpsed Nóin standing a little off to one side, watching the couples with a wistful expression on her face.
“A health to you, fair lady,” I called, raising my cup to her across the fire.
Smiling brightly, she stepped around the ring to touch the rim of her cup to mine. “Health and strength to you, Will Scarlet,” she said, her voice dusky and low.
We drank together, and she moved closer and, wrapping an arm around my waist, hooked a finger in my belt. “God’s blessing on you this day, and through all the year to come.”
“And to you and yours,” I replied.
Glancing around, I asked, “Where is the little ’un?”
“Playing with the other tads. Why?”
“There will be no keeping them abed tonight,” I suggested, watching the excited youngsters kicking up the snow in their games.
“Nor, perhaps, their elders,” Nóin said, offering me a smile that was both shy and seasoned. Oh, she knew the road and where it led; she had travelled it, but was a mite uncertain of her footing just then. It opened a place in my heart, so.
Well, we talked a little, and I remembered all over again how easy she was to be near, and how the firelight flecked her long, dark hair with red, like tiny sparks. She was the kind of woman a man would find comfortable to have around day in, day out, if he should be so fortunate.
I was on the point of asking her to join me at table for the feast when Friar Tuck raised his voice and declared, “Friends! Gather around, everyone! Come, little and large! Come fill your cups. It is time to raise a health to the founder of the feast, our dear Blesséd Saviour—who on this night was born into our midst as a helpless infant so that he might win through this world to the next and, by his striving, open the gates of heaven so that all who love him might go in.” Lofting his cup, Tuck shouted, “To our Lord and Eternal Master of the Feast, Jesus!”
“To Jesus!” came the resounding reply.
Thus, the Feast of Christ began.
The devil, however, is busy always. Observing neither feast nor fest, our infernal tormentor is a harsh taskmaster to his willing servants. The moment we dared lift cup and heart to enjoy a little cheer, that moment the devil’s disciples struck.
And they struck hard.
CHAPTER 16
The first sign of something amiss came as our forest tribe gathered to share the festal meal. We drank the abbot’s wine and savoured the aromas of roasting meat and fresh bread, and then Friar Tuck led us in the Christ Mass, offering comfort and solace to our exiled souls. We prayed with our good priest and felt God’s pleasure in our prayers.
It was as we were singing a last hymn the wind shifted, coming around to the west and bringing with it the scent of smoke.
Yes, Odo.” I sigh at his interruption. “It is not in any way unusual to smell smoke in a forest. In most forests there are always people burning things: branches and twigs to make charcoal, or render lard, clear land . . . what have you. But the Forest of the March is different from any other forest I’ve ever known, and that’s a fact.”
My monkish friend cannot understand what I am saying. To him, a forest is a forest. One stand of trees is that much like another. “See here,” I say, “Coed Cadw is ancient and it is wild—dark and dangerous as a cave filled with vipers. The Forest of the March has never been conquered, much less tamed.”
“You would call a forest tame?” He wonders at this, scratching the side of his nose with his quill.
“Oh, aye! Most forests in the land have been subdued in one way or another, mastered long ago by men—cleared for farmsteads, harvested for timber, and husbanded for game. But Coed Cadw is still untouched, see. Why, there are trees that were old when King Arthur rallied the clans to the dragon flag, and pools that have not seen sunlight since Joseph the Tin planted his church on this island. It’s true!”
I can see he doesn’t believe me.
“Odo, lad,” I vouch in my most solemn voice, “there are places in that forest so dark and doomful even wolves fear to tread—believe that, or don’t.”
“I don’t, but I begin to see what you mean,” he says, and we move on . . .
Well, as I say, we are all of us in fine festive fettle and about to sit down to a feast provided, mostly, at Abbot’s Hugo’s expense, when one of the women remarks that something has caught fire. For a moment, she’s the only one who can smell it, and then a few more joined her, and before we knew it, we all had the stink of heavy timber smoke in our nostrils. Soon enough, smoke began to drift into the glade from the surrounding wood.
In grey, snaking ropes it came, feeling its way around the boles of trees, flowing over roots and rocks, searching like ghost fingers, touching and moving on. Those of us seated at the table rose as one and looked to the west, where we saw a great mass of slate-black smoke churning up into the winter sky. Even as we stood gaping at the sight, ash and cinders began raining down upon us.
Someone gave out a cry, and Bran climbed onto the board. He stood with hands upraised, commanding silence. “Peace!” he said. “Remain calm. We will not fear until there is cause to fear, and then we will bind courage to our hearts and resist.” Turning to the men, he said, “Iwan, Siarles, fetch the bows. Will, Tomas, Rhoddi, follow me. We will go see what mischief is taking place.” To the others he said, “Those who remain behind, gather supplies and make ready to leave in case we must flee Cél Craidd.”
“Be careful, Will,” said Nóin, biting her lip.
“A little work before dinner,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound light and confident although the smoke thickening and ash raining down on our heads filled me with dread. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Iwan and Siarles returned and passed out the bows and bundles of arrows. I slung the strung bow over my chest and tied a sheaf of arrows to my belt. Leaving the folk in the care of Angharad and the friar, we departed on the run. We followed the drift of the smoke as the wind carried it from the blaze, and with every step the darkness grew as the smoke clouds thickened. Before long, we had to stop and wet the edges of our cloaks and pull them fast around our faces to keep from breathing the choking stuff.
We pressed on through the weird twilight and soon began to see the flicker of orange and yellow flames through the trees ahead. The fire produced a wind that gusted sharply, and we felt the heat lapping at our hands and faces. The roar of the blaze, like the surge of waves hurled onto the shore, drowned out all other sound.
“This way!” urged Bran, veering off the track at an angle towards the wall of fire.
Working quickly and quietly, we came around to a place where the fire had already burned. And there, standing on the charred, still-smouldering earth stood a body of Ffreinc soldiers—eight of them, loitering beside a wagon pulled by two mules and heaped with casks of oil. Some of them carried torches. The rest held lances and shields. All were dressed for battle, with round steel helmets and swords strapped to their belts; their shields leaned against the wagon bed.
We dropped to the ground and wormed back out of sight behind the screen of smoke and flames.
“Sheriff ’s men,” spat Siarles.
“Trying to burn us out,” observed Tomas, “and on Christmas day, the sots. Not very friendly, I’d say.”
“Shall we take them, Bran?” asked Rhoddi.
“Not yet,” Bran decided. “Not until we know how many more are with them.” Turning to me and Rhoddi, he said, “You two go with Iwan. Siarles and Tomas come with me. Go all the way to the end and take a good look”—he pointed off into the wood where the wall of flame burned brightest—“and then come back here. We will do the same.”
Rhoddi and I fell into step behind Iwan, and the three of us made our way along the inside of the fiery wall, as it were, until, after a few hundred paces, we reached the end. Keeping low, to better stay out of the smoke, we crawled on hands and knees to peer around the edge of the flames. Ten Ffreinc soldiers were working this end of the blaze—two with torches and three with casks of oil they were sprinkling on the damp underbrush. Five more stood guard with weapons ready.
Iwan pointed out the one who seemed to be the leader of the company, and we withdrew, hurrying back to the meeting place. Bran and Iwan spoke briefly together. “We will take the first group here and now,” Bran told us, unslinging his bow. “Then we will take the others.”
Iwan drew three arrows from the cloth bag. “Fan out,” he told us, indicating the spread with three jerks of his hand, “and loose on my signal.”
We all drew three shafts and crept into position, halting at the edge of the flame wall. The Ffreinc
were still watching the fire, their faces bright. When I saw Iwan fit an arrow to the string, I did likewise. When he stood, I stood. He drew, and so did I . . .
“Now!” he said, his voice low but distinct.
Six shafts streaked out from the wood, crossing the burned clearing in a wink. Four soldiers dropped to the ground.
The two remaining men-at-arms had no time to wonder what had happened to the other fellas. Before they could raise their shields or look around, winged death caught them, lifted them off their feet, and put them on their backs—pierced through with two shafts each.
Then it was a fleet-footed race to the further end of the flame wall. The fire was burning hotter as more of the underbrush and wood took light, drawing wind to itself and spitting it out in fluttering gusts. The smoke was heavy. We clutched our cloaks to our faces and made our way as best we could, stumbling half-blind through the murk to take up new positions.
The flames were now between us and the Ffreinc. We could see the soldiers moving as through a shimmering curtain. Imagine their surprise when out from this selfsame curtain flew not frightened partridges to grace the Christmas board, but six sizzling shafts tipped with stinging death.
Four of the arrows found their marks, and three Marchogi toppled into the snow. A fifth shaft ripped through a soldier’s arm and into the cask in the hands of the fella behind him. The amazed soldier dropped the cask, dragging down his companion, who was now securely nailed to the top of the cask.
“Ready . . . ,” said Iwan, placing another arrow on the string and leaning into the bow as he drew and took aim. “Now!”
Six more arrows sped through the high-leaping flames, and four more Ffreinc joined the first four on the ground. The remaining two, however, reacting quickly, threw themselves down, pulling their shields over them, thinking to protect themselves this way. But Iwan and Siarles, pressing forward as far as the flames would allow, each sent a shaft pelting into the centre of the shields; one glanced off, taking the edge of the shield with it. The other shaft struck just above the boss and penetrated all the way through and into the neck of the soldier cowering beneath it.
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