The last fella, crouching behind his shield, tried to back away. Bran knelt quickly and, holding the bow sideways, loosed a shaft that flashed out of the flames, speeding low over the ground. It caught the retreating soldier beneath the bottom edge of the shield, pinning the man’s ankles together. He fell screaming to the snow and lay there moaning and whimpering.
We held our breath and waited.
When no more soldiers appeared, we began to imagine it safe to leave.
“What are we to do about the fire?” I asked.
“We cannot fight it,” Siarles replied. “We’ll have to let it go and hope for the best.”
“We will watch it,” Iwan said. “If it spreads or changes direction, we should know.”
Bran looked back through the curtain of flame towards the fallen soldiers. “I did not see the sheriff.” Turning to us, he said, “Did anyone see the sheriff ?”
No one had seen him, of course, for just as the question had been spoken there came a shout and, from the night-dark wood behind us, mounted knights appeared, lances couched, crashing up out of the brush where they had been hidden.
CHAPTER 17
I saw the spearheads gleam sharp in the firelight and the fire glow red on the helmets of the knights and chamfers of the horses as they clattered up out of the brake. I tried to count and made it eight or ten of them, closing fast.
They were that near we had time but to pull once and loose.
In less time than it takes to catch a breath, our arrows streaked out, the stinging whine followed by a slap and crack like that of a whip as steel heads met padded leather jerkin and then ring mail, piercing both. The force of the blow lifted two hard-charging riders from the saddle and sent a third backwards over the rump of his horse.
Before the onrushing knights could check their mounts, we each had another shaft on the string. Iwan took the foremost knight, and I took the one behind him. Bran changed his aim at the last instant and sent a shaft into the breast of a charger that had already lost its rider. The oncoming horse’s legs tangled and it stumbled, taking down the two horses behind it as well. The knights tried to quit the saddle before their steeds rolled on them, but only one avoided the crush. The other was lost in a heap of horseflesh and churning hooves.
I pulled another arrow from my sheaf and nocked it, but did not have time to aim. I threw myself to the ground as a lance blade swept the place lately occupied by my head. As I scrambled to my feet, a trumpet sounded. I looked to the sound as at least eight more knights came bounding from the wood with Marshal Gysburne leading the charge.
Slow cart that I am, it was only then that I understood we had been caught in a neatly spread net and the ends were about to close on us.
Bran had already seen it. “Fall back!” he shouted.
But there was nowhere to flee.
Behind us was a wall of burning trees and brush, ahead a swarm of angry soldiers—each one in a blood-rage to take our heads.
The trumpet sounded again, and there he was: Sir Richard de Glanville, the devil himself, looking powerfully pleased with his surprise. He swept out of the darkness flanked by two knights holding torches, and I do believe he imagined that at the very sight of him the fight would go out of us. For as he emerged from the dark wood he called out in English.
The others looked to me. “He says we must surrender, but that quarter will be given.”
Siarles spat and put an arrow on the string. Iwan said, “We ask no quarter.”
Raising his bow, Siarles said, “Shall I make reply, Lord?”
Bran nodded. “Give him our answer.”
Before Bran had even finished speaking, the shaft was on its way. The sheriff, anticipating such a response, was ready.
Having faced a Welsh bowman before, he had provided himself with a small round shield clad in iron plate. As Siarles’ arrow seared across the flame-shot distance, de Glanville threw his heavy round shield before him, taking the blow on the iron boss. There was a spark as metal struck metal, and the sturdy oak shaft shattered from the impact.
There was no time for a second flight, for at that moment a second body of knights charged in on the flank. I could not count them. I saw only a rush out of the darkness as the horses appeared.
We all loosed arrows at will, sending as fast as we could draw. Three knights were despatched that quick, and two more followed before the first were clear of the saddle. Then, with the horses on top of us, it was time to flee.
“This way!” cried Bran, edging back and back towards the burning trees and brush—a place even the best-trained Norman horses would not willingly go. “Through there,” said Bran, already starting towards a gap between two burning elm trees. Pulling his cloak over his head, he darted through the narrow, fire-filled space as through a flaming arch.
Siarles and Rhoddi followed. Iwan, Tomas, and I made good their escape, sending another shaft each into the mounted soldiers as they wheeled and turned to get a good run at us. Then it was our turn to face the fire.
Pulling my cloak over my head, I bent low and ran for the flames, diving headlong between the two elms. I felt the heat lick out, scorching the cloth of my cloak, and then I was through to the other side. Tomas was not so fortunate. He got a little too close and his cloak caught fire. He came through in a rush, shouting and crying that he was burning alive. I grabbed him and threw him down on the ground, rolling him until the flames were out. He was singed, and his cloak was blackened a little along the hem in the back, but he was unharmed.
“To me!” shouted Bran. Through the flames, he had seen the Marchogi regrouping. As I took my place beside him, I could hear the sheriff rallying his men on the other side of the flame wall. “Take the horses!”
With that, he sent a shaft through the shimmering flames into the indistinct shapes that were the Ffreinc knights and their horses. The arrow found a target, for at once a knight gave out a cry. Soon we were all at it, braving the heat and smoke, to stand and deliver death and havoc from out of the flames. Again and again, I drew and loosed, working in rhythm with the others.
We made good account of ourselves, I think—though it was hard to be sure as we could not always see where our shafts went. But by the time the soldiers had regrouped and come charging around the end of the flame wall, there were far fewer than there had been just moments before.
“Away!” shouted Bran, pointing to the wood behind us. Siarles was already disappearing into the scrub at the edge of the clearing. Bran followed on his heels.
“Time to run for it,” said Iwan. Loosing one last shaft, he turned and fled.
I slung my bow and pushed Tomas ahead of me, saying, “Go! Run! Don’t lose them!”
We crossed the smouldering ground, leaping over the bodies of the soldiers we had killed before the sheriff had tipped his hand. While Tomas dived into the underbrush, I cast a glance over my shoulder as the knights came pounding into the clearing.
By the time Sheriff de Glanville took command of the field, he found it occupied only by his own dead men-at-arms, lying where they’d fallen in the melted snow. His voice sounded sharp in the cold night air. I fancied I could hear the disappointment and frustration as he began calling for his men to start searching the area for our tracks.
That much I got, anyway. The luck of Cain to ’em, I thought. The ground was that chewed up—what with the soldiers setting fires and all—I did not think they’d be able to find our trail in a month of Christmases, but we did not wait to find out. From the cover of the wood, we sent some more arrows into them, killing some, wounding others. The sheriff, realising the battle was now beyond winning, called the retreat. They fled back the way they had come and, since our arrows were mostly spent, we let them go.
“They might return,” Bran said, and ordered us all to scatter and work our way around the blaze. “Confuse your trail and make certain you are not followed. Then fly like ravens for the roost.”
I put my head down and lit out through the dark winter wood. Keepin
g the blaze on my left, I worked my way slowly and carefully around until I’d coursed half the circle, then faded back along a deer run that took me near to the bottom of the ridge protecting Cél Craidd. After a time picking my way carefully through a hedge of brambles and hawthorn, I reached the foot of the ridge and paused to listen, kneeling beside a rock to rest a moment before continuing.
I heard nothing but the night wind freshening the tops of the larches and pines. The fire still stained the night sky, tinting the smoke a dull rusty red, but it was less fierce now; already the blaze was dying out. Overhead, there were patches of winter sky showing through the clouds, and stars glimmering bright as needle pricks. The air was cold and crisp. As I started up the snow-covered slope it came to me that this attack signalled a change in our fortunes. We had beaten the sheriff this time, but it was just the beginning. Next time he would come with more men, and still more. There would be no stopping him now.
CHAPTER 18
In the bleak heart of midwinter, with the snow deep and white, the air cold and still, it seemed as if the greenwood awaited the coming of the new year with breath abated. We of the Raven Flock held our breath, too, waiting and watching through the night and all the next day. Bran doubled the number of watchers on the road, and set others in a surrounding ring around Coed Cadw. But the sheriff and his men did not return.
The evening of the day after the attack, Lord Bran summoned his advisors to his hut. Wary and uncertain still, we gathered. Iwan, Siarles, Mérian, Tuck, and myself took our places around the small hearth in the centre of his hut. “We have rattled the hornets in their nest,” Iwan pointed out as we settled to discuss what had happened the night before and what it might mean.
“That much is plain as your big feet,” replied Siarles.
“Where is Angharad?” wondered Mérian. “She should be with us.”
“So she should,” agreed Bran. “But she has begged leave to absent herself.”
“Not like her,” observed Iwan. “Not like her at all.”
“Is she well?” asked Tuck. “I could go see her.”
“She is well,” replied Bran, adding, “but the raid last night has disturbed her mightily. She did not foresee it.”
“Nor did any of us,” pointed out Tuck.
“No, but our hudolion feels she should have sensed it. She is going to her cave to learn the reason and”—he lifted the ring on its string around his neck—“to learn more of this lovely trinket.” The gold shone with a fine lustre, and the jewels gleamed even in the dim light of the hut.
Tuck took one look at the heavy gold bauble and cried, “Lord have mercy! Where did you get that?”
Bran explained about the raid on the supply train. Tuck sucked his teeth, shaking his head all the while. “I do not wonder Angharad is distressed. You have called down the wrath of Baron de Braose upon your silly heads, my friends.” Tapping the ring with a finger to watch it swing, he added, “He wants it back, and now you have made it worth his while to find you.”
“This wasn’t all,” said Iwan. “Show him the rest.”
Mérian fetched a small box, which she opened, drawing out the richly embroidered gloves and passing them to the friar.
“Well, well, lookee here,” chirped the priest, “what a fine pair of mittens.” Seizing them, he pulled them tightly over his chubby hands and held them up for all to see. “Goatskin, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, “and made in France, I shouldn’t wonder.” He withdrew his hands and stroked the leather flat again. “Someone will be missing these sorely.”
“Aye, but who?” asked Bran. “Abbot Hugo?”
“For him?” wondered Tuck. “Possibly. It would not surprise me that he holds himself so highly. But see here—” he indicated the cross on the right hand and, on the left glove, a curious symbol shaped something like a cross, but with two extra arms and a closed loop at its head. “That is the Chi Rho,” he told us, “and most often seen on the vestments of high priests of one kind or another.” He passed the gloves back to Mérian. “If you asked me, I’d say these were made for a prince among priests—an archbishop or cardinal, at least.”
“Then what are they doing here?” asked Iwan.
“Perhaps our humble abbot has more exalted ambitions,” replied Bran.
“Was there ever any doubt?” quipped Tuck. His smooth brow wrinkled with thought. “Ring and gauntlets,” he mused. “It must mean something. But for the love of Peter, I cannot think what it might be.”
“We were hoping you would have an idea,” sighed Mérian.
“Nay, lass,” replied the friar. “You will have to find a better and wiser man than the one that sits before you to get an answer.”
“There is one other thing,” said Bran. Reaching into the box, he brought out the square of parchment and passed that to the priest.
In the hurly-burly of the feast and later attack, I had mostly forgotten all about that thick folded square of lambskin. I looked at it now—I think we all did—as the very thing needed to explain the mystery to us.
“Why didn’t you say you had this?” said Tuck. He turned it over in his hands. “You haven’t opened it.”
“No,” answered Bran. “You may have the honour.”
We all edged close as the friar’s stubby fingers fumbled with the blue cord. When he had untied it, he laid it in his lap and looked around at the circle of faces hovering above him. “If we break this,” he said, fingering the wax seal, “there is no going back.”
“Break it,” commanded Bran. “It has already cost the lives of a score of men or more. We will see what it is that the abbot and sheriff value at such a high price.”
Drawing a breath, Tuck cracked the heavy wax seal and carefully unfolded the parchment, spreading it before him on the rush-strewn floor of the hut.
“What is it?” asked Iwan.
“What does it say?” said Siarles.
“Shh!” hissed Mérian. “Give the man a chance.” To Tuck she said, “Take your time.” Then, when he appeared to do just that, she added, “Well, what does it say?”
Lifting his face, he shook his head.
“Bad news?” wondered Bran.
“I don’t know,” replied the priest slowly.
Bran leaned close. “What then?”
“God knows,” Tuck lifted the parchment to pass around. “It is written fair enough, but not in Latin. I cannot read the bloody thing.”
“Are you certain?”
“I think so. I read little enough Latin, to be sure. But I cannot make out a word of that.” He shook his round head. “I don’t know what it is.”
We passed the parchment hand to hand, and as it came to me, I saw the entire surface covered with a fine, flowing script in dark brown ink. As I had never acquired the knack of reading—not English, nor Latin either—I had nothing to say about it. But it seemed to me that the words were well formed, the letters long and graceful—it put me in mind of ivy and how it loops and curls around all it touches. The skin was fine-grained and well prepared; there were hardly any grease smudges or ink spatters at all.
“I think it is Ffreinc,” Mérian decided, holding it up to the light and bending her head close. “I can speak it well enough, but I have only seen it written once or twice, mind.” She concluded, “It looks very like Ffreinc to me.”
“Yes, well, that would make sense,” mused Tuck, taking back the parchment. The two of them proceeded to examine it closely, tracing various letters with their fingers and muttering over it. “See, here that is a D,” said Tuck, “and that an I followed by E and U.” He paused to string together what he’d found. “Dee-a-oo,” he said.
“God!” exclaimed Mérian. “Dieu means God.” She put her finger on a letter. “What is that?”
Tuck peered hard at the script. “I think it might be an S ,” he said. “With an A . . . F . . . ah, no that might be an L . . . U . . . T . . .” He continued picking out letters one by one and uttered the word as he did so. I followed some of this, b
ut my small store of Ffreinc was of the more rough and ready sort spoken in the market, not the court or church, and it soon left me trailing far behind.
“Salutations!” said Mérian before he finished. “‘Greetings!’” She beamed happily. “Salutations dans Dieu,” she said. “‘Greetings in God’—that must be it.”
Tuck agreed. “I think so.”
“That would be expected,” said Iwan. “What else?”
The two continued, trying to scry out the letters and make words of them that Mérian knew. And though they succeeded in guessing several more, they fell far short of the mark and were forced to give up in the end, leaving us little the wiser for the effort. “We know it is Ffreinc, at least,” said Bran. “That is something.”
“Well, whatever is in that letter,” said Tuck, tapping the sheepskin with his finger, “you can be sure the baron will be missing it. I think de Braose wants his treasures back.”
“Oh, aye,” affirmed Iwan, “and he’s willing to risk good men to get them.”
Tuck nodded thoughtfully. “Mark me, there is a dread mystery here. You would be wise to return these things as soon as possible,” he concluded, “before any more blood is shed.”
“That I will not do,” declared Bran. “At least, not until I know what it is we have found. If de Braose considers it worth an army to recover”—he smiled suddenly—“perhaps it is worth more.”
“A castle!” suggested Siarles.
“Perhaps,” allowed Bran. “Maybe even a kingdom.”
And, no, Odo,” I say with a sigh, “I cannot read. Not even my own name when it is writ. Then again, Thane Aelred couldn’t read a whit, either, nor any of his vassals, saving the monks at the abbey, and he was a towering oak of a man, bless him.”
“Oh,” smirks he, “but there is nothing to it once you have the learning. I could teach you,” he says, hopeful as a puppy.
“Well then, Odo, me lad,” I tell him, “one day when I have the leisure of a cleric, as you most certainly do, I shall let you teach me to read. Now, where was I?”
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