“Call it what you will, my lord, but do not call it justice,” said Bran, his voice shaking with fury. Sweet Jesus, I had never seen him so angry. His face was white, his eyes flashing quick fire. “This is an offence against heaven. The people of Elfael will not rest until we have gained the justice promised to us.”
“You and your people will conform yourself to the regent’s rule,” Flambard declared. “As regent, Abbot Hugo is charged with your care and protection. Henceforth, he will provide you with the comfort and solace of the king’s law.”
“With all respect, Cardinal,” Bran called, fighting to keep his rage from devouring his reason, “we cannot accept this judgement.”
“The king has spoken,” concluded Cardinal Bayeux. “The continued prosecution of this dispute has no merit. The matter is herewith concluded.”
King William, impervious to our lord’s anger, nodded once and turned away. He and his soldiers and confidants walked back to the house and went inside. The cardinal rolled up the parchment and turned to follow his monarch.
With that, our Day of Judgement was over.
As the door closed on the backs of the royal party, a wide double door opened at the far end of the yard, and soldiers who had been awaiting this moment streamed out to encircle us. Weapons ready, they formed a wall, shoulder-to-shoulder around the perimeter of the yard.
“We must leave here at once,” said Angharad. “Bran!”
He was no longer listening. “We will not be denied!” he shouted, starting forth. “This is not the end. Do you hear?”
She pulled Bran’s sleeve, restraining him. Shaking off her grasp, he started after the swiftly retreating cardinal. “Iwan! Siarles!” she snapped, “See to your lord!”
The two leapt forward and took hold of Bran, one on either side. “Come away, my lord,” said Iwan. “Don’t make things worse. They only want half a reason to attack us.”
“You do well to drag him away,” called Marshal Guy, laughing. “Drag the beaten dog away!”
Gysburne was the only one to find amusement in this disaster, mind—he and a few of the less astute-looking soldiers with him. The rest appeared suitably grim, realising that this was no good news for them, either. Count Falkes looked like a man who has had his bones removed, and it was all he could do to remain in the saddle. His pale countenance was more ghastly still, and his lips trembled, no doubt in contemplation of his ruin.
Iwan and Siarles were able to haul Bran back. Mérian rushed to his side to help calm him. Meanwhile, Tuck and Angharad, fearful of what the Ffreinc might do next, moved quickly to turn everyone and march them from the yard before bloodshed could turn the disaster into a catastrophe.
Obeying cooler heads, we turned and started slowly away under the narrowed eyes and naked weapons of the king’s soldiers. As we passed Count de Braose’s company, I looked up and saw Odo, his round, owlish face stricken. On impulse, I raised my hand and beckoned him to join us. “Come, monk,” I told him. “If you would quit the devil and stand on the side of the angels, you are welcome here.”
To my surprise, he lifted the reins and moved out from the Ffreinc ranks. Some of those around him tried to prevent him, but he pulled away from their grasp; the abbot, sneering down his long nose, told them to let the craven Judas go. “Let him leave if he will,” said Marshal Gysburne, snatching the bridle strap and halting Odo’s mount, “but he goes without the horse.”
So my dear dull scribe took his life in his hands, plucked up his small courage, and slid down from the saddle to take his place among the Grellon.
As we marched from the yard, the soldiers tightened the circle and drew in behind us to make certain we would depart without causing any trouble. Abbot Hugo called out one last threat. “Do not think to return to Elfael,” he said, his voice ringing loud in the yard. “We have marked you, and we will kill you on sight should you or any of your rabble ever set foot in Elfael again.”
When Jago translated the abbot’s challenge for us, I saw Bran stiffen. Turning to address the abbot, he said in Latin, “Enjoy this day, vile priest—it is the last peace you will know. From this day hence, it is war.”
Abbot Hugo shouted something in reply, and the Ffreinc soldiers made as if they might mount an attack. They drew swords and lowered their shields, preparing to charge. But Bran snatched up a bow, and quick as a blink, planted an arrow between the abbot’s legs, pinning the hem of his robe to the hard ground. “The next arrow finds your black heart, Abbot,” Bran called. “Tell the soldiers to put up their weapons.” Hugo heeded the warning and wisely called for the king’s men to hold and let us depart. Slowly, Bran lowered the bow, turned, and led his people from the king’s stronghold.
Heads held high, we strode out through the gate and into our blood-tinged fate.
EPILOGUE
Are you sure he’s the one?” asked Marshal Guy of Gysburne.
“Absolutely certain,” muttered Abbot Hugo. “There is no doubt. Bran ap Brychan was heir to the throne of Elfael. That idiot de Braose killed his father, and he himself was thought to be dead—but of course that was bungled along with everything else the baron and his milksop nephew touched.”
“To think we had him in our grasp and didn’t recognise him,” Gysburne observed. “Curious.”
Hugo took a deep breath and fixed his marshal with a steely gaze. “King Raven, the so-called Phantom, and Bran are one and the same. I’d stake my life on it.”
“We should have taken him when we had the chance,” remarked Gysburne, still puzzling over the deception played upon them.
“A mistake,” spat Hugo, “we will not repeat.”
Count Falkes de Braose had been escorted from the yard by knights of the king, to be taken to Lundein and there put on a ship to Normandie. Abbot Hugo and his marshal were left to consider the unexpected rise in their fortunes, and the threats to their rule. Their first thoughts turned to Bran and his followers. They quickly decided that so long as Bran and his men remained at large, they would never enjoy complete control over the people and lands that King William had entrusted to their stewardship.
“I can take him now,” said Guy.
“Not here,” said Hugo. “Not in sight of the king and his court. That will not do. No, let the upstart and his rabble get down the road a pace, and follow them. They won’t get far on foot. Wait until they make camp for the night, and then kill them all.”
“There are women and children, and at least one priest,” Guy pointed out. “What shall we do with them?”
“Spare no one,” the abbot replied.
“But, my lord,” objected Guy. He was a knight of the realm, and did not fancy himself a murderer. “We cannot slaughter them like cattle.”
“Bran ap Brychan said it himself,” countered the abbot. “It is war. His words, not mine, Gysburne. If it is war he wants, this is where it begins.”
Before Marshal Guy could argue further, the abbot called his knights and men-at-arms—and as many of the count’s men who wished to join his army—to gather in a corner of the yard. “On your knees, men,” he said. “Bow your heads.”With a clatter of armour, the knights under Guy Gysburne’s command drew their swords and knelt in a circle around the abbot. Folding their hands over the hilts of their unsheathed swords, they bowed their heads. Raising his right hand, Hugo made the sign of the cross over the kneeling soldiers.
“Lord of Hosts,” he prayed, “I send these men out to do battle in your name. Shield them with your hand, and protect them from the arrows of the enemy. Let their toil be accounted righteousness for your name’s sake. Amen.”
The soldiers raised their heads as the abbot said, “For any and all acts committed in carrying out the charge laid upon you this day, you are hereby absolved in heaven and on earth. Obey the will of your commander, who serves me even as I serve God Almighty. For the sake of God’s anointed, King William, the holy church, and the Lord Jesus Christ himself, show no mercy to those who rebel against their rule, and do so with the full
knowledge that all of your deeds will be accounted to your favour on the earth and in heaven, and that you bear no stain of guilt or sin for the shedding of blood this day.”
With that, Guy and his men mounted their horses and silently rode from the yard in pursuit of King Raven and his flock.
THE TURBULENT TIMES
OF WILLIAM SCATLOCKE
In our own time of shifting borders and changing allegiances, forced migration and displacement, religious suspicion and conflict—it is not too hard to imagine the plight of William Scatlocke who, owing to the political upheaval of the eleventh century, suddenly found himself a homeless refugee. One day a valued member of a close-knit society, ancient as the hills and rooted as the oak groves around him . . . and the next a wandering vagabond looking for a community and the protection of a strong leader. Then, as now, a traditional way of life could be shattered in a matter of days, broken so thoroughly that repair was not possible—only something utterly different.
For Will and his countrymen, the Norman devastation and destruction did not end when England’s hapless King Harold was cut down on the battlefield at Hastings in the autumn of 1066. That was only the beginning of what would become a generations-long cataclysm of change. Under William the Conqueror and his flame-haired son, William II (William the Red or “Rufus” as he was often called) the centuries’ old structures that supported life for the largely Saxon population of England were subjected to merciless assault. The intricate system binding lord and vassal in a tightly intertwined chain of mutual loyalty, support, and protection perfected by the Saxons was broken, throwing the well-ordered nation into turmoil. New rulers of the realm meant strange new laws in the land. One of the most hated was known as Forest Law—a set of highly questionable legal codes designed solely for the benefit of the crown-wearer and his cronies, and not at all confined to “forests” as we understand the word (areas of dense woodland), but could encompass large tracts of grassland, marsh, and moorland. Entire villages were razed and burned to the ground, sometimes because the settlement occupied land that the king, or members of his court, had identified as prime real estate for hunting. Other times destruction was inflicted as punishment for an infraction—such as rebellion or treason—by the local lord. In either case the newly seized land would be confiscated and declared a royal possession and special preserve belonging to the king, who delivered these often-vast estates to the management and protection of a “shire reeve,” or sheriff, his personal representative on the scene. Such a claim on what had previously been common land and livelihood for many—available for hunting, gathering, grazing, timber, and sundry uses—represented a seismic shift in the established social order.
All of a sudden, it was a serious crime to trespass on royal land, and the hapless victim caught within the royal forest precinct faced losing a hand or an eye at best, or if worse came to worst, death by hanging.
So, here come the Normans, falling upon the land like wolves on a peaceful sheepfold. Through no fault of his own, Will—and countless others like him—are driven from their homes by the overbearing overlords who displaced their masters and seized their masters’ lands, leaving the common folk—the farmers, the craftsmen, the peasants—to their own slender devices. And if nowadays it is not uncommon to learn that the man driving your taxi was actually a heart surgeon in his own country, or that the woman who cleans the office building was a university lecturer before she was driven out of the land of her birth . . . then neither was it uncommon in Will Scarlet’s day to meet drifters, beggars, thieves, and outlaws who had previously been the bedrock of traditional communities now laid waste by the invaders. And in spite of the rigours of Forest Law, many sought a greenwood refuge in the desperate hope of finding food and shelter in the wilderness.
And if there wasn’t trouble enough on the secular front, the spiritual realm was suffering its own clash of cultures. Although church affairs were the purview of an educated elite and the aristocracy, trouble at the top of the social ladder affected those clinging to the lower rungs, and did so severely. We who live in “Christian” countries that have become largely post-Christian may have some difficulty appreciating the depth of passion aroused by the changes introduced to the English church by the Normans. We have only to look at the present turmoil resulting from conflict between religious powers in certain parts of the world to appreciate just how violent these struggles can become. The devastation and bloodshed is clearly visible to one and all, and hardly needs mentioning to anyone within range of CNN or Al Jazeera. Yet, it is worth pointing out that in the medieval world, when disease and death were constant, grim companions and the grave an all-too-likely prognosis for everything from toothache to plague, the church with its promise of eternal salvation was the solitary hope and ultimate sanctuary for those who lived beneath its sheltering wings: virtually every man, woman, and child alive in the land.
Thus, when even relatively minor changes—such as replacing the user-friendly English-speaking Saxon cleric with his more imperious Norman counterpart—could wreak spiritual and temporal havoc for the locals, what of the great challenges of the day such as which of two competing popes to support? This particular predicament did occur during William II’s reign, and the waves of that disturbance spread far and wide throughout Europe. Pope Clement in Rome and Pope Urban in France were battling for supremacy of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, and excommunicating opposing parties right and left. Kings and princes, dukes and barons, cardinals and archbishops all chose sides and lined up beneath the banner their favourite candidate. The result of decisions taken by the high and mighty in the rarified air of courtly affairs proved disastrous to those on the ground as the contest descended into physical violence: houses were looted, shops set ablaze, streets erupted in riots between rival camps, and lives were lost.
But all was not black and stormy; here and there small, stray rays of light broke through. For although the church was dominated by the rich and powerful, men with aristocratic connections whose commitment to the core tenets of Christian belief and practice was not always in ready evidence, it too had its countercultural element to be found in people like Friar Tuck, humble servants of the faith who eschewed riches, lived on small donations, and helped pave the way for the later, wildly popular and much needed Franciscan movement.
Will Scatlocke was, then, a man of his time. Denied his traditional way of life, with little or nothing to lose, he threw in his lot with Bran and his tribe of outlaws, who championed the cause of right and justice for those powerless to protect themselves from the abuses of the rapacious invaders. In the final book of the King Raven Trilogy, Friar Tuck—the simple mendicant monk—will take centre stage as the increasingly heated conflict between Welsh and Norman interests reaches its white-hot conclusion.
It has been gratifying to hear from readers who are eager for the next book and who want to know when the next instalment will appear. Generally speaking, it does take far longer to write a book than to read one—always a problem—and at this point I must beg your further indulgence as the writing and publication of Tuck, the third volume in the trilogy, will be delayed on account of a serious illness. Thanks to restored health and strength, I am working away at the conclusion of the series, and thank you for your patience and understanding.
—Stephen Lawhead
Oxford
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD is an internationally-acclaimed author of mythic history and imaginative fiction. His novels include the King Raven Trilogy, Patrick, The Song of Albion Trilogy, the Dragon King Trilogy (YA), and The Pendragon Cycle series, among many others. Lawhead makes his home in Oxford, England, with his wife.
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