Tuck

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Oh, well done, thought Tuck, rising at Bran’s gesture. As bishop, he gave the earl a small, benedictory flourish and, turning, followed the count from the hall.

  “What about the hounds?” cried Hugh after the departing count. Too late he remembered the money he hoped to make on the sale of his expensive animals.

  Alan, taking the count’s elbow, restrained him and whispered into his ear. Rexindo shook his head, gave a final gesture of farewell, and stepped through the door. “I am sorry, my lord,” Alan said, standing with his hand on the latch, “but the count says that he could not possibly consider buying such ill-trained and ungovernable beasts as the one he witnessed today. He has withdrawn his offer. You may keep your dogs.”

  With that, Alan disappeared, following Bishop Balthus, Lord Galindo, and Lord Ramiero across the threshold and into the corridor beyond. As soon as the heavy door shut behind them, they fairly flew to the stable and relieved the grooms of the care of their horses. Rexindo, true to his noble Spanish character, paid the grooms a few silver pennies each—as much to buy their aid as for their unwitting diligence—and with kind words and praise, bade them farewell. The chief groomsman, pleased and charmed by the count’s noble treatment, led the company from the yard and opened the gate for them himself.

  As they mounted their horses, Bran reached down a hand to Alan. “If you still want to come with me,” he said. Without hesitation, Alan a’Dale grabbed the offered hand, and Bran pulled him up to sit behind him.

  At last, having successfully skinned the wolf in his den, the short ride to Caer Cestre became a jubilant race. In the fading evening light, the company came clattering into a nearly deserted town square, where they dismounted and quickly made their way to the docks to meet King Gruffydd. When a cursory search failed to find him, they split up and, each taking a separate street, began combing the town. This, too, failed. “Perhaps he is waiting at one of the inns,” suggested Alan.

  Bran commended the idea and said, “You and Tuck go look there. Ifor, Brocmael, and I will wait for you at the wharf in case he should come there.”

  The two hurried off and were soon approaching the first of the river town’s three inns—a place called the Crown and Keys. Despite the somewhat lofty ambitions of its name, it was a low place, smuggy with smoke from a faulty chimney and poorly lit. A cushion of damp reeds carpeted the uneven floor upon which rested one long table down the centre of the room with benches on either side. Four men sat at the table, and the brewmistress stood nearby to fetch the necessaries for her patrons. One glance into the room told them they must pursue their search elsewhere.

  The next inn—The Star—was the place where they’d sat outside in the sun and enjoyed a jar on a day that now seemed years ago. Inside, the single large room was full of travellers and townsfolk; pipers had taken up residence beside the great hearth, and the skirl of pipes lent a festive atmosphere to the room. It took them longer here to look among the tables and investigate all the corners. Alan asked the alewife if anyone answering Gruffydd’s description had been seen in or about the place that day. “Nay—no one like that. It’s been a quiet day all told,” she said, shouting over the pipers. “Not being a market day, ye ken?”

  They had another look around the room and then moved on to the last of the town’s inns—a mean place only a rung or two up from a cattle stall; with a few small tables and a few nooks with benches, it had little to recommend it but its ready supply of ale, which many of the boat trade seemed to prefer, judging from the number of seafarers in the place. Again, they quickly gleaned that not only was King Gruffydd not in the room, but no one answering his description had been seen that day or any other. Tuck thanked the owner, and he and Alan hurried back to rejoin Bran and the others at the dock.

  “What now?” asked Ifor when Alan finished his report. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

  “I told him where to go,” said Tuck. “I made certain he understood.”

  “Maybe he’s hiding in a barn or byre somewhere,” suggested Alan.

  “When you took him out to the hunting run,” said Bran, “what did you tell him?”

  “To come to the dock in town and wait for us there,” said Ifor.“He said he would.”

  “Then, I think we must assume he is not in the town at all,” suggested Bran. “Otherwise he’d be here.”

  Tuck considered this. “He never made it, you mean?”

  “Either that,” confirmed Bran, “or he took matters into his own hands and fled elsewhere.”

  “You think he didn’t trust us to get him away safely?” said Brocmael.

  Ifor countered this, saying, “He knew we were kinsmen, and he was keen as the blade in my belt to be leaving Caer Cestre at last. He said he’d reward us right well for helping him.”

  “Did he say anything else?” asked Tuck.

  “He kept asking about Lord Bran—about why he would risk so much to free him.”

  “What did you tell him?” Bran asked.

  “We told him he would have to speak to you, my lord. Your reasons were your own.”

  “It does not seem as if he feared to trust us,” remarked Tuck. “Something ill must have befallen him.”

  “What now?” asked Alan again.

  “It’s back to foul Hugh’s hunting run,” Bran decided. “We must try to raise Gruffydd’s trail and track him down—this time in earnest. We’ll get what rest we can tonight and ride as soon as it is light enough to see the trail beneath our feet.” He hesitated, then added, “In any event, finding Gruffydd might be the least of our worries . . .”

  “Why?” said Tuck. “What else?”

  “The ship is gone.”

  Only then did it occur to Tuck to look among the vessels at anchor along the dock and in the central stream of the river. It was true; the Iberian boat that had brought them was no longer to be seen. “I thought he said he’d wait for us.”

  “He said his business would take him no more than a week,” Bran corrected. “Maybe he finished sooner than he expected.”

  “Or, it’s taken longer,” Alan pointed out.

  The two young noblemen shared a worried glance, and Tuck sighed, “Bless me, when it rains, it pours.”

  “Never mind,” said Bran. “So long as we stay out of sight of the earl, we’ll make good our escape. The Welsh border is only a day and a half away. We can always ride if need be.”

  They found a dry place on the dock among piles of casks and rope, and settled down for a restless night. It was warm enough, but as night drew on, clouds drifted in, bringing rain with the approach of dawn. Tuck awoke when his face grew wet and then could not get back to sleep, so contented himself with saying the Psalms until the others rose and they departed once more, leaving Alan a’Dale behind in case the Iberian ship should return.

  Skirting the earl’s stronghold, they made for the hunting run. By the time they reached the place where Gruffydd had shed his prison rags for those supplied by his rescuers, the sky was light enough and they could begin making out marks on the trail. Ifor and Brocmael dismounted and, on hands and knees, began searching the soft earth in the undergrowth around the tree where the clothes had been hidden. Ifor found a mark which he thought could have been made by the butt of a spear being used as a staff, and before Bran and Tuck could see it for themselves, Brocmael, working a little farther on, called out that he had found a half-print of a shoe.

  Bran and Tuck dismounted and hurried to where the dark-haired young nobleman was waiting. “It is a footprint, no doubt,” agreed Tuck when he saw it. “But is it our man? Or one of the Ffreinc handlers? That is the question, is it not?”

  “Follow it,” instructed Bran. “See if you can find out where it leads.”

  The trail was slight and difficult to follow, which made the going slow. Meanwhile, the sky flamed to sunrise in the east. By the time they had determined that the tracks they were finding did indeed belong to King Gruffydd, the sun was up and casting shadows across the many-stranded pathways of t
he wood.

  “This is not good,” observed Bran, gazing upwards at the cloud-swept heavens.

  “My lord?” said Tuck, following his glance. “What do you see?”

  “He’s going the wrong way,” Bran pointed out. “We’re being led deeper into the wood and away from the town.”

  So they were. But there was nothing for it. They had to follow the trail wherever it led, and eventually arrived at a sizeable clearing on the south-facing slope of a hill, in the centre of which was a small house made of mud and wattles; brush and beech saplings and small elm trees were growing up around the hovel, and the grass was long. Clearly, the steading had been abandoned some few years ago—no doubt when the earl became its nearest neighbour. The surrounding wood was actively reclaiming the clearing and had long since begun to encroach on what once had been fine, well-drained fields. The grass still bore the faint trace of a path: someone had walked through the place not long ago.

  At the edge of the clearing, the searchers paused to observe the house. “Do you think he’s down there, my lord?” asked Ifor.

  “He is,” affirmed Bran, “or was. Let’s find out.” He lifted the reins and proceeded into the old field. The house was decrepit—two of the four walls were in slow, dissolving collapse—but the upright posts still stood strong, and stout crossbeams supported what was left of the roof. “Go and see,” he told Ifor. “The rest of us will wait here so that we don’t make more of a trail than is here already.”

  The young man hurried off, and the others watched his progress across the field until he disappeared around the far side of the house. They waited, and Ifor reappeared a moment later, signalling them to come on ahead. By the time the others reached the house, they found a very groggy King Gruffydd sitting on a stump outside the ruined doorway and Ifor sprawled on the ground clutching his head.

  “I nearly did for your man, here,” said Gruffydd, looking up as Bran, swiftly dismounting, came to stand over him. “He woke me up and I thought he was a Ffreinc come to take me back.”

  “You hit him?” said Tuck, kneeling beside the injured Ifor.

  “Aye,” admitted the king, “I did, and for that I am heartily sorry.”

  Tuck jostled the young man’s shoulder. “Are you well, Ifor?”

  Ifor groaned. “Well enough,” he grunted between clenched teeth. “I think he broke my skull.”

  “I said I was sorry, lad,” offered Gruffydd somewhat testily. “Have you brought anything to eat?”

  “What are you doing here?” Bran asked. “We waited for you in the town. Why didn’t you come?”

  The grizzled king frowned as he watched Tuck gently probing the young man’s head. “I got lost.”

  Bran stared at the man, unable to think of anything to say.

  “It’s eight years since I was beyond the walls of that vile place,” Gruffydd explained. “I must have got muddled and turned around. And the air made me tired.”

  “The air,” repeated Bran dully.

  “I expect that’s so,” offered Tuck. “Considering his lordship hasn’t been out of that cramped cell in a good long while, his endurance might have suffered in that time. It makes sense.”

  “I apologize, my lord,” said Bran then. “It never occurred to me that your strength would be impaired.”

  “I’m not impaired, curse your lying tongue,” growled the king. “I was just a little tired is all.” He made to stand and tottered as he came to his feet. He swayed so much Tuck put out a hand to steady him, then thought better of it and pulled it away again. “Have you brought me a horse?”

  “We had no time to get you one,” Bran replied. “But it isn’t far—you can share with one of us.”

  “I will not ride behind anyone!” the king asserted stiffly.

  “You can have my horse, Sire,” volunteered Brocmael. “Ifor and I will share. For all it’s only back to town.”

  Bran nodded. “We best be on our way. I want to be as far from here as possible when Wolf Hugh realizes what has been done to him—if he hasn’t guessed already.”

  Dismounting quickly, Brocmael gave over the reins of his horse and helped his king into the saddle; then he vaulted up behind Ifor and the party set off.

  The fastest way to the town was along one of the hunting runs towards the castle. As the morning was still fresh, Bran decided the need for a speedy retreat outweighed the concern of being seen, so they made their way to the nearest hunting run and headed back the way they had come. They passed along the slightly undulating green-walled corridor, eyes searching the way ahead, alert to the barest hint of danger.

  Even so, danger took them unawares. They had just rounded a blind bend, and as the leaf-bounded tunnel of the run came straight they saw, in the near distance, a hunting party riding towards them. Without a word, the four fugitives urged their mounts into the brake and were soon concealed in the heavier undergrowth amongst the trees. “Do you think they saw us?” asked Ifor, drawing up beside Bran.

  “Impossible to say,” replied Bran. Dismounting, he darted back toward the run. “Stay here, everyone, and keep the horses quiet.”

  “Do as he says,” instructed Tuck, sliding from the saddle. He followed Bran, and found him crouched in the bracken, peering out from beneath low-hanging yew branches onto the run.

  “Any sign of them?” he said, creeping up beside Bran.

  “Not yet,” whispered Bran, laying a finger to his lips.

  In a moment, they heard the light jingling of the Ffreinc horses’ tack and the faint thump of hooves on the soft earth as they came. Bran flattened himself to the ground, and Tuck likewise. They waited, holding their breath.

  The first of the riders passed—one of the visiting Ffreinc noblemen who had ridden with them the previous day—scouting ahead of the others. At that moment, there was a rustling of brush behind them and King Gruffydd appeared.

  “Is it him?” demanded Gruffydd. “Is it Wolf d’Avranches?”

  “Shh!” Bran hissed. “Get down.”

  Just then the main body of hunters passed: four knights and Earl Hugh, riding easily in the early morning. “There he is!” said Gruffydd, starting up again.

  “Quiet!” said Bran.

  “That vile gut-bucket—I’ll have him!” growled Gruffydd, charging out of the brake. Bran made a grab for the king, caught him by the leg and pulled. Gruffydd kicked out, shaking Bran off, and stumbled out onto the run. The riders were but a hundred paces down the run when the Welsh king appeared out on the open track behind them. He gave a shout, and one of the riders turned, saw him, and jerked hard on the reins. “Ici! Arrêt! ” he cried, wheeling his horse.

  “He’s insane!” snarled Bran. Out from the wood he leaped, snagged the king by the neck of his cloak, and yanked him back under the bough of the yew tree.

  “Release me!” shouted the king, wrestling in his grasp.

  “You’ll get us all killed!” growled Bran, dragging him farther into the wood.

  “Let them come!” sneered Gruffydd, shrugging off Bran’s hands. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Jesu forgive,” said Tuck to himself. Stepping quickly behind the king, he tapped him on the shoulder. Gruffydd turned, and the friar brought the thick end of a stout stick down on the top of his head with a crack. The king staggered back a step, then lurched forward, hands grasping for the priest. Tuck gave him another smart tap, and the king’s eyes fluttered back in his head and he fell to his knees.

  “Good work, Tuck,” said Bran, catching Gruffydd as he toppled to the ground. From the hunting run there came a sound that set their hearts beating all the faster: hounds. The first dog gave voice, followed by two others. “Hurry! Get back to the horses.”

  Dragging the half-conscious king between them, they fought through the bracken and tangled vines of ivy to where Ifor and Brocmael were waiting with the horses. “Get his clothes off him,” directed Bran, pointing to Gruffydd. As Brocmael and Ifor began stripping off the Welsh king’s clothing, Bran laid out his plan. “Fly
back to town and make for the docks. Find Alan and have him get any ship that’s going.” Bran began shucking off his boots. “I’ll keep them busy while you make good your escape.”

  The baying of the hounds seemed to fill the forest now, drawing ever nearer.

  “What are you going to do?” said Tuck, watching Bran pull off his tunic and trousers.

  “Give those to me.” He took Gruffydd’s tunic and cloak from Ifor. “Get his trousers.”

  There was shouting from the hunting run; the hunters had found their trail. As the others hefted an unresisting Gruffydd into the saddle, Bran pulled on the Welsh king’s trousers and stuffed his feet into his boots.

  “I’ll stay with you,” said Tuck.

  “No,” said Bran. “Go with them. Take care of Gruffydd. If I don’t find you before you reach the town, see you get yourselves on the first ship sailing anywhere. Leave the horses if you have to—just see you get clear of the town with all haste.”

  “God with you,” said Tuck as Bran disappeared into the forest, racing towards the sound of the barking dogs.

  “We should stay and help him,” Ifor said.

  “He can take care of himself,” replied the priest, struggling into the saddle. “Believe me, no one knows how to work the greenwood like Rhi Bran.”

  “I’m staying,” Ifor declared, drawing his sword.

  “Put that away, lad,” Tuck told him. “There’s been enough disobedience for one day. We’ll do as we’re told.”

  With a grimace of frustration, the young Welshman thrust his blade back into the scabbard and the three took to flight, leading Bran’s horse with the wounded king slung sideways across his mount like a bag of grain.