Tuck

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Thus, the trap was set and sprung, and the prey neatly captured. Tuck waited until the festivity slowly resumed, and when the music and drink were once again in full spate, he rose. Bowing to their host, who had recovered his good cheer, he approached the earl’s chair and, with Alan’s help, declared, “This game you propose sits ill with me, I do confess, my lord.”

  “Does it?” he replied lazily. “Does it indeed? How so, pray?”

  “The hunting of men is an abomination before the throne of God.” Before the earl could reply, he added, “True, it is a custom long honoured in Spain and elsewhere, but one that the church does not endorse.”

  This rocked the old wolf back a step or two. He frowned and swirled the wine in his cup. “If I told you that this rogue of a prisoner has earned his death ten times over, would that make it sit more comfortably with you?”

  “Perhaps,” Tuck allowed. “Though I would still wish to give the wretch the benefit of absolution. By your leave, Earl, I will hear his confession and shrive him now. Then he will be ready to face his ordeal with a clear mind and clean soul.”

  Seeing that Bishop Balthus was determined, and he equally anxious to maintain his top-lofty dignity in the eyes of his guests, Earl Hugh agreed. “Then do so,” he said, as if it had been his own idea all along. He put his nose in his cup once more. “Do so by all means, if it pleases you. One of my men will take you down to him.”

  Tuck thanked him, begged his dinner companions to excuse his absence, and then departed. In the company of the earl’s seneschal, who was standing at the door, the friar made his way down and down into the low-vaulted under-castle, to the hostage pit, to see for the first time the man they had come to free. Leaving the hall and its uproar behind, they passed along a dark, narrow corridor to an even darker, more narrow passage through the castle inner wall to a round chamber below what must have been the guardhouse. “Attendre ici, s’il vous plaît,” said the seneschal, who disappeared up the steps to the room above, returning a few moments later with a dishevelled man who had very obviously been drug from his bed. Yawning, the guard applied a key to an iron grate that covered a hole in the floor, unlocked it, and pulled back the grate. He took up a torch from a basket on the floor, lit it from the candle in the seneschal’s hand, and beckoned Bishop Balthus to follow. A short flight of spiral steps led them to another passage, at the end of which stood another iron grate which formed the door of a cell. Upon reaching the door, the guard thrust his torch closer, and in the fitful light of it Tuck saw the prisoner slumped against the wall with his head down, legs splayed before him, hands limp at his sides, palms upward. With his thick and matted tangle of hair and beard, he looked more like a bear dressed up in filthy rags than a man.

  Once again, the guard plied the key, and after a few moments huffing and puffing, the lock gave and the door swung open, squealing on its rusted hinges like a tortured rat. The prisoner started at the sound, then looked around slowly, hardly raising his head. But he made no other move or sound.

  Stepping past the gaoler, Tuck pushed the door open farther and, relieving the porter of his torch, entered the cell. It was a small, square room of unfinished stone with a wooden stool, a three-legged table, and a pile of rancid rushes in one corner for a bed. Although it stank of the slop bucket standing open beside the door, and vermin crawled in the mildewed rushes, the room was dry enough. Two bars of solid iron covered a square window near the top of one wall, and an iron ring was set into the opposite wall. To this ring was attached a heavy chain which was, in turn, clamped to the prisoner’s leg.

  “I will shrive him now,” Tuck said to the guard.

  The fellow settled himself to wait, leaning against the corridor wall. He picked his teeth and waited for the bishop to begin.

  “You are welcome to stay, of course,” said Tuck, speaking as the bishop. “Kneel down. I will shrive you too.”

  Understanding came slowly to the guard, but when it did he opened his mouth to protest.

  “Come!” insisted the smiling bishop. “We all need shriving from time to time. Kneel down,” he directed. “Or leave us in peace.”

  The gaoler regarded the prisoner, shrugged, and departed, taking the key with him. Tuck waited, and when he could no longer hear the man’s footsteps on the stairs outside, he knelt down before the prisoner and declared in a loud voice, sure to be overheard, “Pax vobiscum”

  The prisoner made no reply, nor gave any sign that he had heard.

  “Lord Gruffydd, can you hear me? Are you well?” Tuck asked, his voice hushed.

  At the sound of these words spoken in his own language by a priest, the king raised his head a little and, in a voice grown creaky from disuse, asked, “Who are you?”

  “Friar Aethelfrith,” Tuck replied softly. “I am with some others, and we have come to free you.”

  Gruffydd stared at him as if he could not make sense of what he had been told. “Free me?”

  “Yes.”

  The captive king pondered this a moment, then asked, “How many are with you?”

  “Three,” Tuck said.

  “It cannot be done,” Gruffydd replied. His head sank down again. “Not with three hundred, much less three.”

  “Take heart,” Tuck told him. “Do as I say and you will soon gain your freedom. Rouse yourself, and pay me heed now. I must tell you what to do, and we do not have much time.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Count Rexindo and his entourage assembled in the yard to await the appearance of the earl and his men. The stable-hands and idlers in the yard—many who had been in the hall the night before—watched them with an interest they had not shown in several days. Word of the day’s unusual sport had spread throughout the castle, and those who could had come to observe the spectacle for themselves. Under the gaze of the earl’s court, Bran gathered his company at a mounting block near the stables and traced out the steps of his plan one last time. All listened intently, keenly aware of the grave importance of what lay before them. When he finished, Bran asked, “You gave Lord Gruffydd the oil, Tuck?”

  “I did,” the friar answered, “and Brocmael here has the clothes we bought.”

  Bran glanced at the young man, who patted a bulge beneath his cloak.

  “Alan, you know what to say?” he asked, placing his hand on the fellow’s shoulder and searching his face with his eyes.

  “That I do, my lord. Come what may, I am ready. Never let it be said Alan a’Dale was ever at a loss for words.”

  “Well then,” Bran said, gazing around the ring of faces. “It’s going to be a long and dangerous day, God knows. But with the Good Lord’s help we’ll come through it none the worse.”

  “And the hounds?” asked Ifor.

  “Leave them to me,” answered Bran. There was a noise in the yard as the earl and his company—including the five Ffreinc noblemen they had feasted with the previous night—emerged from the doorway across the yard. He gave Brocmael and Ifor an encouraging slap on the back and sent them on their way. “To the horses, lads. See you keep your wits about you and all will be well.”

  As the two young Welshmen moved off to fetch their mounts, Bran composed himself as Count Rexindo; then, straightening himself, he turned, smiled, and offered a good-natured salute to Earl Hugh. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Pray for all you’re worth, good friar. I would have God’s aid and comfort on this day.”

  “Hey now,” Tuck replied, “it’s potent prayers I’m praying since first light this morning, am I not? Trust in the Lord. Our cause is just and we cannot fail.”

  The earl and his company came into earshot then, and the count, piping up, said, “Pax vobiscum, mes ami.” Alan added his greeting and gave the earl a low bow he did not in any way deserve.

  “Pax,” said Hugh. He rubbed his fat hands and glanced quickly around the yard, looking for his hounds and handlers. The lately arrived Ffreinc noblemen stood a little apart, stiff-legged and yawning; with faces unshaven and eyes rimmed red, they appeared ill
rested and queasy in the soft morning light. Clearly, they were not accustomed to the roister and revel such as took place in Castle Cestre of an evening. The earl shouted across the empty yard, his voice echoing off the stone walls. In response to his call, a narrow door opened at the far end of the stable block and the porter entered the yard, pulling a very reluctant prisoner at the end of a chain behind him. “Here! Here!” said Hugh.

  A moment later, from a door at the other end of the stables, the hounds and their handlers entered the yard. The hounds, seeing the horses and men assembled and waiting, began yapping with eager anticipation of the trail as hounds will. Count Rexindo, however, took one look at the chained captive and began shaking his head gravely.

  “This is very bad,” he said, speaking through Alan, who made a sour face as he spoke—so as to emphasize the count’s displeasure. “No good at all.”

  In truth, it was very bad. Years of captivity had reduced the Welsh king to little more than a rank sack of hair and bone. His limbs, wasted through disuse, were but spindles, and his skin dull and grey with the pallor of the prison cell. The bright morning light made him squint, and his eyes watered. Although he was so hunched he could hardly hold himself erect, Gruffydd nevertheless attempted to display what scraps of dignity he still possessed. This served only to make him appear all the more pathetic.

  “My lord the count says that this prisoner will not serve,” Alan informed the earl.

  “Why not?” wondered Hugh. “What is wrong with him?”

  The Spanish count flicked a dismissive hand at the shambling, ragged baggage before him and conferred with his interpreter, who said, “This man is in such wretched condition, the count fears it will be poor sport for us. The hunt will be over before it has begun.” The count shook his head haughtily. “Please, get another prisoner.”

  “But this is the only one I have, God love you!” retorted the earl, although he too peered at the captive doubtfully.

  Tuck wondered wonder how long it had been since the earl had last laid eyes on the Welsh lord—several months at least, he reckoned, perhaps years.

  “I say he will serve,” Hugh said stiffly. “In any event, he must, for there is no other.”

  Alan and Count Rexindo held a short consultation, whereupon Alan turned and said, “Begging your pardon, Lord Earl, but the man is clearly unwell. If he cannot give good chase there is little point in pursuing him. We regret that the hunt must be abandoned. With your permission, we will bid you farewell and prepare instead to take our leave.”

  The earl frowned mightily. He was that unused to having his will thwarted that he became all the more adamant that the hunt should take place as planned. He argued with such vehemence it soon became clear to the others that the earl and his visiting noblemen had wagered on the outcome of the day’s hunt—or, more likely, which among them would draw first blood. Having set such great store by his prowess, he was now loath to see that particular prize elude him.

  “The hunt will go ahead,” he declared flatly, and motioned for the porter to remove the chains from the prisoner. “This was your idea, after all, Count. We will make what sport of it we can.”

  Count Rexindo accepted the earl’s decision with good grace. He seemed to brighten then and said something to Alan, who translated, “Let it be as you say, Lord Earl. As it happens, the count has thought of a way to make a better game of it. We will not use the dogs, and this will give our quarry a fighting chance.”

  “Not use the dogs?” scoffed the earl. “But, see here, I thought you wished to try them one last time before the purchase.”

  Alan and the count held a brief discussion, and Alan replied, “It is not done this way in Spain,” he explained. “However, the count allows that you know your realm best. Might he suggest using just one hound? If you agree, the count would like to use one of the dogs he will buy. Moreover, he is prepared to wager that he will make the kill today.”

  “How much will he wager?” wondered Hugh, his pig eyes brightening at the thought.

  “Whatever you like,” answered Alan. “It makes no difference to the count.”

  “One hundred marks,” answered the earl quickly.

  Alan relayed this to Rexindo, who nodded appreciatively.

  “Done!” shouted the earl. Turning to Bishop Balthus, he said, “You! Priest! Mark this. You are a witness to the wager—one hundred marks silver to the one who makes the kill.”

  Tuck gave him a nod of acceptance, wondering where on God’s green earth Bran imagined he would find such a princely sum if—heaven forbid it!—he should lose the wager.

  Meanwhile, Bran, ignoring the stare of the captive king who stood shivering but a few paces away, instead approached the hounds and walked in amongst them, holding out his hands, as he was wont to do, allowing the dogs to lick his fingers and palms. He chose one from among those he had marked to buy—a big, sleek, shaggy grey creature—and rubbed the animal’s muzzle affectionately. Reaching into the pouch at his belt, he brought out a morsel he’d filched from last night’s meal and fed it to the hound, rubbing the dog’s nose and muzzle all the while. “This one,” he said through Alan. “Let us take this one with us and leave the others.”

  The earl, happy with the choice—all the more so since it meant he would not risk his other hounds developing a taste for this unusual game—agreed readily. Count Rexindo then gestured to his two young attendants and directed them to take charge of the prisoner. “Relâcher le captif,” Alan said to the gaoler, who began fumbling at his belt for the key to the shackles.

  The earl frowned again as the chains fell away, and it appeared he might have second thoughts about disposing of such a valuable prisoner in this way. The hound was given to sniff the captive’s clothing, and as the two young nobles began marching the prisoner away, he protested, “Here now! What goes?”

  Alan explained. “The count has ordered his men to take the wretch to the head of the hunting run and release him. They are to ride back here and tell us as soon as it is done, and then the chase will begin.” He paused, regarding the Ffreinc noblemen, then added, “With this many hunters there will surely be no sport unless the prey is given a fair start.”

  “Go then,” directed Earl Hugh, “and hurry back all the sooner.” Spying one of the servants just then creeping across the yard, he shouted, “Tremar! Bring us a saddle cup!” The man seized up like a thief caught with his hand in the satchel, then spun about and ran for the hall entrance. “Two of them!” roared Hugh as the man disappeared. To his noblemen, he added, “Hunting is such thirsty business.”

  When Count Rexindo finished with the hounds, he turned and walked back to where Bishop Balthus stood, and the cleric saw the count slip his fingers back into the pouch at his belt, replacing the rag that had been liberally doused with herb oil, and with which he had smeared his palm—the same that had stroked the dog’s nose and muzzle.

  “Do you think it will work?” Tuck whispered as the grooms brought out the horses. “Or are we mad?”

  “We can but pray. Still, if Gruffydd has followed your instruction,” he said, “we have a chance at least—if he can endure the hunt.” He motioned Alan to him and said, “You had best come with us today; we may need you. Tell the earl that Count Rexindo requires the aid of his servant and to bring a horse for you. Can you ride?”

  “I can keep a saddle, my lord,” he answered.

  “Good man.”

  As Alan arranged for himself to accompany the hunt, a servant appeared with two saddle cups overflowing, and these were passed hand to hand around the ring of gathered hunters. The Ffreinc noblemen revived somewhat with the application of a little wine, and were soon showing themselves as keen as the earl to begin the day’s amusement.

  “Watch them,” muttered Bran as he passed the cup to Tuck and Alan once more. “We have the measure of Hugh, but as for these—we don’t know them and cannot tell how they will behave once we’re on the trail. They may be trouble.”

  “I will keep my
eye on them, never fear,” Tuck told him.

  The grooms brought the horses then, and to pass the time the hunters examined the tack and weapons. It had been decided that each would have two spears and a knife: ample weapons to bring down a defenceless prey. By the time the count’s two young attendants returned from their errand, the earl was in a fever to begin the pursuit. Despite any lingering misgivings about losing a valuable captive, the idea of hunting a man had begun to work a spell in him, and like the hounds he cherished so much, waiting chafed him raw. At the earl’s cry, the company took to their saddles and clattered from the yard. Earl Hugh sang out for Count Rexindo to ride with him—which, of course, Bran was only too happy to do—and they were off.

  At first, Ifor and Brocmael and Tuck pretended to be as eager for the pursuit as those around them. They kept pace, staying only a little behind the earl, who was leading the chase; the Ffreinc noblemen thundered along behind—so close that Tuck could have sworn he could hear the bloodlust drumming in their veins.

  They reached the head of the game run at the gallop and entered the long, leafy avenue in full flight. Rather than wait for the hound and handler to catch up, Earl Hugh proceeded headlong down the run with Count Rexindo right beside. After a few hundred yards or so, the count swerved to the right as if to begin searching that side of the run. Two of the Ffreinc noblemen went with him, and the rest followed the earl. However, no one turned up a trail, so the party slowed, eventually coming to a halt. There was nothing for it but to return to the head of the run and await the hound, which was not long in coming.

  Nor was the animal slow in raising the scent of the fugitive. Only a few hundred paces into the run, the great grey beast gave out with a loud baying yelp and leapt ahead, straining at the leash—and the party was away once more. This time, they were led directly to the tree where Ifor and Brocmael had hidden Brocmael’s spear a few days earlier, the hound bawling and barking all the way. Upon arrival, the hunters discovered a heap of filthy rags—the prisoner’s ratty clothes, now cast aside.