Tuck

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  He glanced to Angharad for support, but the old woman admonished him, saying, “What the friar suggests has merit, Lord King. Think you: force has availed us nothing, nor has any other remedy offered a cure for this wasting blight. We hurt them in the grove, mind. Our enemies may be ready to listen to such an offer. It would be well to ponder the matter further.”

  “I bow to your judgment,” allowed Bran grimly. Turning to the assembly, he said, “Let us suppose, for the moment, that we send an offer of peace to the abbot. What then?”

  “Then it is for the Ffreinc to decide, is it not?” replied Tuck. “Either they accept and proceed according to your decree—”

  “And if they don’t?” wondered Siarles.

  “We will be no worse off,” suggested Mérian.

  “But whatever happens will be on their heads,” added Tuck. “At all events, it is our Christian duty to try for peace if it lays in our power.”

  Bran chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. Tuck thought he could see a chink of light shining in the darkness of Bran’s bleak mood. “Lord Bran,” the friar said, “I would like to take the message to Hugo myself and alone.”

  “Why alone?” said Bran.

  “Priest to priest,” replied Tuck. “That is how I mean to approach him—two men of God answerable to the Almighty. Blesséd are the peacemakers, are they not?”

  “As Angharad suggests,” put in Mérian, “the abbot may welcome the opportunity to be rid of this bloodshed.”

  “Hugo will welcome the opportunity to carve him like a Christmas ham,” observed Scarlet. To Tuck, he said, “He’ll roast your rump and feed it to his hounds.”

  “Nay,” said Tuck. “He’ll do no such thing. I am a brother cleric and a minister of the church. A rogue he may be, but he will receive me, as he must.”

  “While I do not expect the abbot to honour any offer we put before him,” said Iwan, “I agree with our man Tuck—we should do what we can to avoid another bloodletting, as it may well be our blood next time instead of theirs. Try as I might, however, I can think of no other way to avoid it—our choices are that few. It is worth a try.”

  There was more talk then, as others added their voices to the discussion—some for the idea, others against. In the end, however, Tuck’s proposition carried the day.

  “Then it is decided,” declared Bran when everyone had had their say. “In observance of our Christian duty, and for the sake of our people, we will make this offer of peace to Hugo and urge him by all means to accept it and to support me before King William.”

  “It is the right decision, my lord,” said Mérian, pressing close. “If Hugo will listen to reason, then you’ll have reclaimed what is rightfully yours without risking the lives of any more of your people.”

  “Right or wrong it makes no difference,” Bran told her. “We are too weak to pursue the war further on our own.” He declared the council at an end and said, “I will frame a message for Tuck to deliver to the abbot. If he accepts my offer, we will soon be out of the forest and back in our own lands.”

  “I’ll believe it when it happens,” grumbled Siarles.

  “You’re not alone there,” Scarlet said. “Give ’em a year o’ Sundays and a angel choir to show ’em the way, the bloody Ffreinc will never shift an English inch.”

  “Then pray God to change their hearts,” Tuck said. “Do not think it impossible just because it has never happened.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The council concluded, and as everyone dispersed Tuck lingered in Angharad’s presence a little longer. Close to her, he was aware once again of a curious sensation—like that of standing beneath one of the venerable giants of the forest, an oak or elm of untold age. It was, he decided, the awareness that he was near something so large and calm and rooted to depths he could scarcely imagine. With her face a web of wrinkles and her thinning hair a haze of wisp on her head, she seemed the very image of age, yet commanded all she beheld with the keen intelligence of her deep-set, dark eyes. “I hope I have served him wisely,” he told the old woman.

  “So hope we all,” she replied.

  “I am afraid Siarles is right—offering peace is just begging for trouble.”

  “Trouble have we in abundance,” the banfáith pointed out. “It is a most hardy crop.”

  “Too true,” the friar agreed.

  “Hear me, friend priest,” she said, holding him with her deep-set, dark eyes. “This war began long ago; we merely join it now. The trouble is not of our making, but it is our portion and ours to endure.”

  “That does not cheer me much,” sighed Tuck.

  “Regrets, have you?”

  “No, never,” he answered. “That is the duty of any Christian.”

  “Then trust God with it and that which is given you, do.”

  “You are right, of course,” he said at last.

  Angharad regarded the friar with a kindly expression. The little priest with his rotund, bandy-legged form, his shaggy tonsure, his stained and tattered robe—smelling of smoke and sweat and who knows what else—there was that much like a donkey about him. And like the humble beast of burden, he was loyal and long-suffering, able to bear the heavy load of responsibility placed upon him now. “As God is our lord and leader,” she said, “it is our portion to obey and follow. We trust him to lead us aright. As with our Heavenly Lord, so with Bran. More we cannot do just now, but we must do that at least.”

  “Ah, but earthly vessels are all too fragile, are they not? We trust them at our peril.”

  The old woman smiled gently. “Yet it is all we have.”

  “Too true,” Tuck agreed.

  “So we trust and pray—never knowing which is the more needful.”

  Tuck accepted her counsel and made his way to the edge of the forest settlement, where he found Bran and Mérian sitting knee to knee on stumps facing one another as if in contest, while Will, Noín, and Odo stood looking on. “They know we will fight,” Mérian was saying. “If ever there was the smallest doubt, we showed them in the grove. But you must give them some assurance that we will not seek revenge if they accept your offer.”

  Bran nodded, conceding the point.

  “They have to know that they are not simply cutting their own throats,” she insisted.

  “I understand,” Bran replied. “And I agree. Go on.”

  “It must be something they can trust,” she continued, “even if they don’t trust you.”

  “Granted, Mérian,” said Bran, exasperation edging into his voice. “What do you suggest?”

  “Well”—she bit her lip—“I don’t know.”

  “Maybe we could get the abbot at Saint Dyfrig’s to oversee the truce,” suggested Noín. “He is a good man, and they know him.”

  “After what happened in the square on Twelfth Night, I cannot think they would trust any of us any farther than they could spit a mouthful of nails,” Scarlet said, shaking his head.

  “It must be someone they know, someone they can rely on to be fair.”

  Mérian’s face clenched in thought. “I know!” she said, glancing up quickly. “We could ask my father . . .”

  “Your father—what possible reason could Hugo have for trusting him?”

  “Because he is a loyal vassal of King William, as is the abbot himself . . .”

  “No,” said Bran, jumping up quickly. “This is absurd.” He began stalking around the stump. “It won’t work.”

  “Why—because you did not think of it?”

  “Your father hates me,” Bran said. “And that was before I abducted you! God alone knows what he thinks of me now. If that was not enough, Lord Cadwgan answers to Baron Neufmarché, his liege lord—and if the baron were to get wind of this there is no way we could keep him out of it.”

  “The Ffreinc would trust the baron,” Mérian said.

  “They might, but could we?” wondered Scarlet.

  “Have you forgotten Neufmarché tried to kill me last time I went to him for help?” said Bran
. “If it is all the same to you, I’d rather not give him another chance.”

  Mérian frowned. “That was unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate!” cried Bran. “Woman, the man is a two-faced Judas. He betrayed me outright. Indeed, he betrayed us both. Your own life was none too secure, if you’ll recall.”

  “What you say is true,” she conceded. “I’ll not argue. Still, he is a Ffreinc nobleman and if—together with my father, of course—we could convince him that it was in his own best interest to help us, I know he’d agree.”

  “Oh, he’d agree,” Bran retorted, “agree to help empty Elfael of his rivals so he could have it all to himself. We’d just be exchanging one tyrant for an even bigger, more powerful tyrant.” Bran gave a sharp chop of his hand, dismissing the suggestion. “No. If the Ffreinc require assurance that we will hold to our word, we will appeal to Abbot Daffyd to swear for us and they will have to accept that.” He sat back down. “Now then, what do we want Tuck to tell them?”

  They fell to discussing the substance of the message and soon hammered out a simple, straightforward appeal to meet and discuss the proposed offer of peace. By the time Siarles came to say that the horse was ready, the Ffreinc scribe, Odo, had schooled and corrected Tuck’s creaky Latin so there would be no mistake. “I have some of the Norman tongue too,” Tuck pointed out in French. “Picked up a fair bit in my years in Hereford.”

  “Not enough, God knows,” snipped Odo.

  “I understand far more than I can speak,” said Tuck.

  “Even so,” allowed the scribe, “it is not what you understand that will lead you to difficulty, but what you are likely to say.”

  “Perhaps you should come with me, then,” suggested Tuck. “To keep a poor friar from stumbling over the rocky places.”

  The colour drained from the already pasty face of the young cleric.

  “I thought not,” replied Tuck. “’Tis better I go alone.”

  “Ah!” said Odo. “I will write it down for you so the abbot can read it for himself if you go astray.” He bustled off to find his writing utensils and a scrap of something to carry the ink.

  “All is well?” asked Bran, seeing the scribe depart on the run.

  “Right as rain in merry May,” replied Tuck. “Odo is going to write it for me so if all else fails I have something to push under the abbot’s nose.”

  “Scarlet is right—this is dangerous. Hugo could seize you and have you hung, or worse. You don’t have to go. We can find another way to get a message through.”

  “The Lord is my shield and defender,” replied Tuck. “Of whom shall I be afraid?”

  “Well then,” Bran concluded, “God with you, Tuck. Siarles and I will see you to the edge of the forest at least.”

  A short while later, the would-be peacemakers paused at the place where the King’s Road crossed the ford and started down into the valley. Bran and Siarles were each armed with a bow and bag of arrows, and Tuck carried a new-made quarterstaff. In the distance they could see Caer Cadarn on its hump of rock, guarding the Vale of Elfael. “I do not expect the abbot will have let the fortress stand abandoned for long,” Bran surmised. “He would have moved men into it as soon as Count Falkes had gone.”

  “If any should see me, they will only see a poor fat friar on a skinny horse making for town—nothing to alarm anyone.”

  “And if they should take exception and stop you?” asked Siarles.

  “I will tell them I bring a word of greeting and hope to Abbot Hugo,” replied Tuck. “And that is God’s own truth.”

  “Then off with you,” said Bran, “and hurry back. We’ll wait for you here.”

  It took Tuck longer to reach the town than he had reckoned, and the sun was already beginning its descent as he entered the market square—all but empty, with only a few folk about and no soldiers that he could see. Always before there had been soldiers. Indeed, the town had a tired, deserted air about it. He tied his mount to an iron ring set in a wall, drew a deep breath, hitched up his robe, and strode boldly across the square to stand before the whitewashed walls of the abbey. He pounded on the timber door with the flat of his hand and waited. A few moments later, the door opened, and the white-haired old porter peered out.

  “Nous avons un message pour l’abbé,” Tuck intoned politely. “Prier, l’amène tout de suite.”

  Brother porter ducked his head respectfully and hurried away.

  “Thank you, Lord,” said Tuck, breathing a sigh of relief to have passed the first test.

  Tuck waited, growing more and more uneasy with each passing moment. Finally, the door in the abbey gate opened once more and the porter beckoned him to come inside, where he was led across the yard to the abbot’s lodge. A few of the monks stopped to stare as he passed—perhaps, thought Tuck, recognizing him from their previous encounter in King William’s yard not too many days ago.

  Once inside, he was conducted through a dark corridor and brought to stand before a panelled door. The porter knocked and received the summons to enter. He pushed open the door and indicated that Tuck should go in.

  The abbot was standing over a table on which was spread a simple supper. He was spearing a piece of cheese with a long fork as Tuck entered. Glancing up, Hugo stopped, his mouth agape. Then, collecting himself, he said in a low voice, “Vous devez être fou. Venir ici comme ceci. Que voulez-vous?”

  Tuck understood this to mean that the abbot thought he must be insane to come there, and demanded to know what he wanted.

  At this, Tuck, speaking in measured tones and with many haltings as he searched for the words, began his prepared speech. He appealed to Abbot Hugo as a brother in their common calling as priests of the church, and thanked the abbot for allowing him to speak. He then said that he had come with an offer of peace from the forest-dwellers. When words began to fail, he took out the little scrap of parchment Odo had prepared for him, listing the central stipulations of the plan. The abbot’s face grew red as he listened, but he held his tongue. Tuck concluded, saying, “You have until midday tomorrow to give your answer. If you accept Bran’s offer, you will ring the abbey bell nine times—three peals of three. Then, come to the edge of the forest, where you will be told what to do next. Do you understand?”

  To which the abbot replied, “I do not know which offends me the more—your uncouth speech or the crudeness of your appearance.” He waved a hand in front of his nose. “You smell worse than a stable hound.”

  Tuck bore the insult with a smile. He’d not expected an easy ride through enemy territory. “But you understand what I am saying?”

  “Oh, I understand,” confirmed Hugo. “However, I fail to see why I should dignify this ridiculous idea of sharing the governance of Elfael with a vile outlaw and rebel.”

  “Bran ap Brychan is neither outlaw nor rebel,” Tuck replied evenly, hoping he had got the words right. “In truth, his family has ruled this realm for a hundred years or more. If you agree, you would be sharing the dominion of the cantref with the rightful heir to the throne of Elfael, who—no fault of his own—has been deprived of his kingship.”

  “And if I do not agree?”

  “Then there will be a bloody price to pay.”

  “Is that supposed to frighten me?” asked Hugo, arching an eyebrow. “If so, forgive me if I refuse to take this threat of retribution seriously. It seems to me that if your Lord Bran could take this town by force, he would have done so long ere now, no?”

  “He is giving you one last chance,” said Tuck.

  “One last chance.”

  “Yes, Abbot—this is the last and best chance you will receive.”

  “So, I am supposed to simply abandon the town and fortress to the outlaws and imprison myself in the abbey here—is that it?”

  “You would not be held captive,” said Tuck, struggling to make himself understood. “Bran would rule the realm as a liegeman of the king, and you would support him in this and . . . ah, confine . . . your activities to the work of the abbey.�
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  “Non!” roared the abbot, throwing down the long-handled fork. “C’est impossible! The king has given me Elfael to rule as I see fit. I will in no wise share the governance of this realm with a low brigand.” Hugo leaned on the table with his fists, his anger mounting. “I may not have enough men to drive your King Raven from his forest perch, but if he has the might to defeat me, then let him try.”

  Tuck stared at the abbot, his mind whirling as he tried to decipher this last outburst. “But you will consider the offer?”

  “I think our talk is finished.” The abbot made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You may go, but if you ever come here again I will have you arrested to stand trial as a traitor to the crown. You can tell your friends that if I ever catch you or any of them your lives are forfeit.”

  Tuck stiffened at the insult. “I came here in good faith, Abbot, as a Christian priest. Even so, I don’t expect you’ll see me again.”

  “Out!”

  “I am going,” Tuck said, stepping towards the door. “But I urge you to seriously consider the offer of peace—pray, discuss it with your marshal and the sheriff. You have until midday tomorrow to decide, and if you accept—”

  “Porter!” shouted the abbot. “Take this man away!”

  Outside once more, Tuck returned to his mount, untied it, and heaved himself up into the saddle. As he lifted the reins he cast a backward look at the abbey and saw a monk flitting along the front of the church towards the guard tower.

  He did not linger, but departed quickly lest the abbot betray his word and arrest him. He urged his mount to a trot and left the town, hastening back to the forest with the curious sensation that he had been given a valuable prize but could not remember what it was—something Abbot Hugo had said . . . but what?

  In any event, he was satisfied that, as a priest of the church, he had done his duty. “Blesséd are the peacemakers,” he murmured to himself. “And the Good Lord help us all.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Saint Martin’s

  As long as those outlaws hold the King’s Road,”complained Marshal Guy, swirling the wine in his cup, “nothing enters or leaves the forest without their notice. We lost good men in that ill-advised attack at Winchester and—”