Tuck

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The Ffreinc charge carried them past the tree where Tuck was hiding. Gripping his branch, he lunged out as the nearest horse passed, thrusting the sturdy length of oak in amongst its churning hooves. The resulting jolt nearly yanked his arm from his shoulder. The makeshift staff was torn from his grip and went spinning across the ground. But his aim succeeded, for the horse stumbled to its knees, pitching its rider over its broad neck as it went down.

  The knight landed with a grunt on the soft earth, arms flailing, weapons scattering. Tuck ran for his staff and snatched it up. The unhorsed knight made to rise, but the stalwart priest gave him a sharp rap on the back of the skull which sent his pot-shaped metal hat rolling. A second tap put him to sleep.

  Two of the Grellon were on the unconscious knight instantly. They rolled him over; one relieved the soldier of his sword and belt, and the other took his dagger and shield. They pulled his mail shirt up over his head and tied it there, then quick-footed it back to the shelter of the trees.

  “God have mercy,” breathed Tuck, and looked around to see what had become of the other two knights. One had quit his saddle owing to the wounds he had received and was lying on his side on the ground wheezing like a broken bellows; the other was in the grip of three Cymry who were taking turns bashing him with their clubs while he slashed wildly with his sword. The nimble Welshmen dodged the strokes and succeeded in hauling the knight from the saddle. While one of the Cymry seized the reins of the horse, the other two pounded the enemy into dazed submission. One of them wrested his sword from an unresisting hand and, with a swift downward stroke, dispatched the Ffreinc with it.

  Three more knights appeared—charging in hard from the wood to the right. Their sudden appearance so surprised the Grellon that they were thrown into a momentary confusion. But as the foremost knight passed beneath the low-hanging branch of an oak one of the Grellon dropped onto the rear of the horse as it passed beneath him. Throwing his arms around the soldier’s neck, the forest-dweller hurled himself from the horse, dragging his enemy with him. The horse careened on, and as the knight squirmed in the grasp of the Welshman, two more of the Grellon rushed to help subdue the armoured soldier.

  Before the two remaining knights could rally to the aid of their fallen comrade, they too were under assault by screaming, sword-wielding Cymry. More horses were crashing through the wood—they had circled around and were attacking through the grove. Tuck, cursing the duplicity of the Norman race, ran to find Bran.

  “Rhi Bran!” he shouted, making for the edge of the grove. “Rhi Bran!”

  “Here, Tuck!” came the reply, and Bran appeared from behind a tree a few hundred paces away. “Over here!”

  The priest scrambled to him fast as he could, his short legs stumbling over the uneven ground. “We’re attacked!” he shouted, pointing with his staff. “They’ve come round to take us from behind.”

  “The devils!” shouted Bran, already running to head off the assault. “Iwan! Siarles! To me! The rest of you stay where you are and keep them busy. Make every arrow count!”

  The three archers reached the glade to find five mounted knights in a deadly clash with four Grellon. The knights were stabbing with spears and slashing with swords, and the Cymry danced just out of reach, darting in quickly to deliver clout after clout with their makeshift staffs.

  “Iwan—the two on the left,” ordered Bran, nocking an arrow to the string. “Siarles—the one on the right. I’ll take the two in the centre.” He grasped the string in his two-fingered grip, pressing the belly of the longbow forward until it bent full and round. “Now!”

  The word was hardly spoken when it was overtaken by a buzzing whine as Bran’s arrow streaked across the shadow-dappled distance.

  Before it had reached its mark, two more arrows were sizzling through the air. There was a sound like cloth ripping in the wind, and the knight in the centre of the swarm was thrown back over the cantle of his saddle and off the rear of his mount. Two more knights followed the first to the ground, and as the two remaining Ffreinc soldiers swerved to meet this new threat, they were set upon by the Cymry, who pulled them down from their horses and slew them with their own weapons.

  More knights were pounding into the glade now, charging in force. They came crashing through the underbrush in twos and threes. Tuck held his breath and tightened his grip on his staff. It seemed that Bran and the others must surely be overwhelmed. But the three bows sang as one, sending flight after flight of arrows streaking through the glade. Horses screamed and reared, throwing their riders, who were then set upon by the Grellon. Other soldiers, pierced by multiple shafts, simply dropped from the saddle, dead before they reached the ground.

  Four knights just coming into the grove were met by three others fleeing the slaughter. The four newcomers glimpsed the carnage, then wheeled their mounts and joined their comrades in quick retreat.

  “Get the weapons!” shouted Bran, already racing back to rejoin those at the front line. “Iwan, stay here and give a shout if any come back.”

  But the Ffreinc did not return to the attack.

  One long moment passed, and then another. No more knights entered the glade from behind, and none dared challenge the archers on the front line again. The lowering sun deepened the shadows in the grove and began to fill up the valleys, and still the attack did not come. The Grellon watched and waited, and asked themselves if they had beaten the enemy back. Finally, when it appeared the assault had foundered, Tuck joined Iwan and the two ran to find Bran at the edge of the grove.

  “What do you reckon, my lord?” asked Iwan. “Have we turned them aside?”

  “So it would appear,” Bran concluded.

  “I dearly hope so,” sighed Tuck. “All this rushing about is hard on an old fat man like me.”

  “But they may be waiting for us to show ourselves,” Bran suggested.

  “Or for nightfall,” Iwan said, “so they can take us under cover of darkness.”

  “Either way,” said Bran, making up his mind, “they will not find us here. Get everyone up and ready to move on.”

  The Grellon assembled once more and, like ghosts drifting away on the vapours of night, faded silently into the depths of the wood. The men had stripped the weapons from the enemy soldiers—swords and lances mostly, but also daggers, helmets, belts, and shields. Arrows were retrieved, and three uninjured horses led away, leaving the heavy saddles and tack behind.

  By the time the setting sun had turned the sky the colour of burnished bronze, the grove was abandoned to the dead, who lay still and quiet in the soft green grass.

  “May God have mercy on their vile and wretched souls,” Tuck whispered, hastening away, “and grant them the peace they have denied to others.” Thinking better of this crabbed prayer, he added, “Welcome them into Your eternal kingdom—but not for my sake, Good Lord, no—but for the sake of Your own dear Son who always remembered to forgive His enemies. Amen.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Hereford

  Baron Bernard Neufmarché unexpectedly found himself in complete agreement with Lady Agnes, who was determined to make the wedding of her daughter Sybil splendid in every way possible. Much to his amazement and delight—for the baron had long ago resigned himself to a wife he considered little more than a frail ghost of a woman—the baroness was now a creature transformed. Gone were the headaches, vapours, and peculiar lingering maladies she had endured since coming to Britain. She was energetic and enthusiastic, tireless in her work at organizing the wedding. Major military campaigns received less attention, in his experience. What is more, the too-slender Agnes had gained weight; her previously skeletal figure had begun filling out to a more robust shape, and a wholesome glow of ruddy good health had replaced her customary sickly pallor.

  This change in the woman he had known fully half his life was as surprising as it was welcome. He had never before seen anyone altered so utterly, and he revelled in it. Indeed, the renewal of his wife affected him far more deeply than he could have ima
gined. His own outlook had altered as well. Something like gratitude had come over him; he looked at the world around him with a warm and pleasant feeling of contentment. For the first time in a very long time he was happy.

  For all this, and more, he had his Welsh minions to thank.

  On reflection, the baron thought he knew almost to the precise moment when the change—no, the transformation—of Agnes began. It was in the churchyard of the little Welsh church where they had laid to rest the body of his vassal, King Cadwgan of Eiwas. Something had touched his wife at the funeral, and when the three days of observance drew to a close, the rebirth had begun.

  Perhaps nowhere was the change more evident than in her view of the Welsh themselves. Where before Lady Agnes had considered them subhuman savages, a nation of brutish barbarians at best, now she viewed them more as unfortunates, as children who had survived an infancy of deprivation and neglect—which she was now intent on redressing.

  Sybil’s wedding was just the beginning; once she and Prince Garran—no, the young man was king now, it must be remembered—once the two young people were married, Lady Agnes planned nothing less than the rehabilitation of the entire realm and all its people. “They only want a town or two and markets,” Agnes had informed him a few weeks ago, “some proper churches—good stone, mind—and a monastery, of course. Yes, and a better road. Then farms would flourish. I do believe it would be one of the finest cantrefs in the land.”

  “They are cattle herders, mostly,” the baron had pointed out as he skimmed through a list of provisions he was amassing for the wedding.

  “That, I suspect, is because they know little else,” she concluded. “We shall show them how to husband the land.”

  “Teach them to farm?”

  “Bien sur,” she replied lightly. “Why not? Then they will have things to trade in the markets. With the money that brings, they can begin making something of themselves.”

  In Agnes’s view, the pitiful Welsh holdings were to be built up and made productive, the wasteland tilled and the wildwood managed—as in her father’s prosperous estates in Normandie. With the considerable aid and support of the Neufmarché nobility, Eiwas would become a dazzling jewel, a bright and shining star leading all of Wales into a glorious new day of abundance and prosperity.

  This was in the future, thank heaven—just thinking about the work involved made the baron tired. Nevertheless, he had to admit that he liked this new, industrious, spirited, far-thinking wife much better than the frail, sharp-tongued, sickly old one. And, truth be told, her plans for the cantref were not so very different from his own. Now that she was of similar mind, accomplishing his will in Eiwas and establishing himself more firmly in Wales would be that much easier. Yes, forging a lasting alliance through the marriage of his daughter to a Welsh king was a match that made good sense in more ways than one.

  For his part, Bernard had assembled all the necessary supplies for a feast the like of which he was sure no one beyond the March had ever seen. It was his intention that the occasion should be spoken of in awed tones by his Welsh vassals for years to come. He wanted to cow them with a spectacle of such stunning opulence that they would fight one another to be next in line to receive such largess from his hand.

  There was also the matter of a house. After all, as the doting father of the bride, he could not allow his precious daughter to live in the tumbledown wooden fortress that was Caer Rhodl. She would have a proper house of stone, with solid stone walls to keep her and his grandchildren—when they came along—safe from the buffeting winds of war and strife. Not that he expected trouble; since his defeat of King Rhys ap Tewdwr in the lightning conquest of Deheubarth things were much more peaceful in the region. He was, he felt, succeeding in winning over the inhabitants of that southern cantref just as he had won over the people of Eiwas.

  Still, in Wales, one never knew what to expect. It was better to be ready for whatever martial crisis might arise—not to mention the fact that it would eventually become a convenient base from which to extend his power deeper into Wales. To that end, he had his master builder draw up plans for a castle with stout ramparts, a high donjon, garrison, stables, flagstone yard, and, surrounding all, a steep-sided moat. The house and its castle would be his wedding gift to the couple.

  King Garran, proud Welshman that he was, would no doubt have rejected outright the suggestion that his stronghold was inadequate in any aspect. But if the fortress came as a wedding gift for himself and his new bride—well, the young king could hardly refuse it. Baron Neufmarché would have his way in the end.

  Thus, as the days drew down toward the celebration, the baron put the finishing touches on his elaborate preparations. And on a bright summer day, he and the baroness and their daughter broke fast on a bit of bread and watered wine, and then walked out into the yard, where a covered carriage drawn by two chestnut horses awaited. As the ladies were helped up into the carriage, the baron issued final instructions to the servants who were staying behind, then climbed into the carriage himself.

  They proceeded out through the castle gate and down into the town and out onto the King’s Road. At the edge of Hereford they were met by a bodyguard of twenty knights and men-at-arms accompanied by nine wagons piled high with provisions, dishes and utensils, clothes and personal belongings; and four wagons filled with cooks, kitchen helpers, musicians, and sundry servants, all under the supervision of Remey, the baron’s aged seneschal.

  “God with you, Sire,” said the baron’s master-at-arms.

  “God with you, Marshal Orval,” returned the baron. “Is all well this morning?”

  “All is well and in order, and awaiting your command,” replied the marshal, making a small bow from the saddle. “If you will give the order, we will be on our way.”

  The baron glanced at the double rank of knights arrayed at the edge of the field beside the road. “Is this all you have mustered?” wondered the baron. “I thought there would be more.”

  “Indeed, Sire, yes,” replied Marshal Orval, “there are as many more as you see here. I thought best to send the others on ahead to make certain the way is clear. We should encounter no trouble on the way.”

  “Very good, Marshal,” agreed Neufmarché, satisfied at last. “Then you may give the signal and move out. We have a wedding to attend.” With this last, he reached over and gave his daughter’s hand a squeeze.

  For her part, the young lady was suitably demure beneath a cap of pale blue silk with a veil that rested lightly over her long dark hair. In her lap she carried a posy of tiny white flowers bound in a bit of green cloth. She smiled at her father as the carriage lurched into motion, and said, “You have gone to far too much trouble—as I feared you might.”

  “Nonsense!” replied the baron. “Only what was necessary—nothing more.”

  “Nine wagons—necessary?” She laughed, not at all put out by her father’s extravagance. “I’m not marrying the entire realm.”

  “Au contraire, chéri, but you are,” insisted Bernard. “You will be queen and ruler of the realm—the woman all your male subjects will admire and all female subjects emulate.”

  “Your father is right,” offered the baroness. “A future queen cannot be seen to hold herself too low, or she will lose the respect of those who must live beneath her rule.”

  “Nor would we care to be thought close-fisted on such an important occasion,” continued the baron. “We must by all means demonstrate the prosperity we intend to cultivate in the realm. The people must see what it is that we intend for them.”

  “Not all the people, surely,” said Sybil in mild derision. “I doubt I will have any dealings with the serfs.”

  “Do you not think so?” replied her mother. “Each and every one of your vassals will benefit from your rule—serfs as well as nobility. You must not allow yourself to become distant from those you rule. This is something that happens far too often in France, and I do not think it altogether a good thing.”

  This last pr
onouncement surprised the baron into silence. Coming from a bishop or cardinal such a sentiment would not seem out of place; but this—from the lips of a woman who, after fourteen years still did not know the names of the cook or any of the kitchen servants, and had yet to meet the porter, stabler, and grooms—it fair took his breath away.

  Lady Agnes turned to him. “Ce n’est pas, mon mari?” she inquired with a lift of her eyebrow.

  It took him a moment to realize she was speaking to him. “Oh! Indeed! Indeed, yes,” he agreed hurriedly. “Sadly, it is much the way of things in France, but we have the opportunity to do better now.” He smiled at the grave expression on his daughter’s face. “But do not worry, mon coeur. It will soon be second nature to you.” He glanced from his daughter to his wife, and added, “Why, you’ll be surprised at how naturally it grows.”

  “And you will have your handmaids and servants to help—as well as a seneschal,” Agnes continued. “A good seneschal is worth his weight in gold—and we shall make it a matter of some urgency to find one who knows what he’s about. Your grandfather will have some ideas, I think; I will write to him and ask him to send two or three and you can choose the one that suits you best.”

  “A Welsh seneschal would be better, surely,” ventured Sybil. “Because of the language . . .”

  “Tch!” her mother countered. “That would never do. You would soon fall into the errors of their ways. As I said, it will be your duty—the duty of us all—to teach them.”

  They talked of this and other things, and the day passed with the countryside juddering slowly by. Because of all the wagons, they could not move with any speed, and as the sun dropped lower and ever lower in the west, Marshal Orval searched for and found a suitable place to make camp for the night. While the servants prepared a meal for all the entourage, the baron and baroness walked up to the top of the nearest hill to stretch their legs after riding in the carriage all day. In the distance they could see the dark, close-crowded hills of Wales, misty with the coming of night.