“Never say it,” Tuck rebuked gently. “We are not alone—for the Lord of Hosts is on our side and stretches out His mighty arm against our enemies.” The little friar smiled, his round face beaming simple good pleasure at the thought. “If the Almighty stands with us, who can stand against us, aye?” Tuck prodded Scarlet in the chest with a stubby finger. “Just you answer me that, boyo. Who can stand against us?”
The friar had a point, Scarlet confessed, that no one could stand against God—then added, “But there does seem no end o’ folk that’ll try.”
The Grellon resumed the task of accumulating what provisions they could—meat from the hunt, grain and beans from the raid, tending the turnips in the field, making cheese from the milk of their two cows—preserving all they could and storing it up against the days of want that were surely coming.
Bran turned his attention to the other matter weighing on his mind. With everyone else already occupied, he called Scarlet and Tuck to him and announced, “Put on your riding boots. We’re going to find Mérian—and while we’re at it, we’ll see if we can convince King Cadwgan to lend some of his men to aid us.”
“This is what Mérian has been arguing all this while,” Tuck pointed out.
“Aye, it is,” Bran conceded. “I was against it at first, I confess, but our feet are in the flame now and we have no other choice. Maybe Mérian is right—maybe her family will help where mine would not. Lord Cadwgan holds no kindly feelings towards me, God knows, but she’s had a few days with him; I have to know whether she’s been able to soften her father’s opinion and persuade him. Pray she has, friends—it’s our last hope.” He spun on his heel and started away at once. “Ready the horses,” he called over his shoulder. “We have only this day.”
“It seems his disappointment has passed,” said Scarlet. “And we’re for a ride through lands filled with vengeful Ffreinc.”
“Lord have mercy.” Tuck sighed. “The last thing I need is to spend more time jouncing around on horseback. Still, if we can convince Cadwgan to help us, it will be worth another saddle sore.”
“So now, if the Ffreinc catch us rambling abroad in plain daylight,” warned Scarlet, “saddle sores will be least of all your earthly worries, friend friar.”
CHAPTER 26
Arriving just after midday, the three riders paused to observe King Cadwgan’s stronghold from a distance. All appeared peaceable and quiet on the low hill and surrounding countryside. There were folk working in the fields to the west and south of the fortress, and a few men and dogs moving cattle to another pasture for grazing. “Seems friendly enough from here,” remarked Scarlet. “Any Ffreinc around, d’you reckon?”
“Possibly,” answered Bran. “You never can tell—Cadwgan is client king to Baron Neufmarché.”
“Same as tried to kill you?” wondered Scarlet.
“One and the same. I made the mistake of asking Neufmarché for help, and thought he might behave honourably,” replied Bran. “It is not a mistake I shall make a second time.”
“A bad business, that,” mused Tuck. “It is a very miracle Cadwgan has survived this long under the baron’s heavy thumb.”
“You know him?” asked Scarlet.
“Aye, I do—we’re not the best of friends, mind, but I know him when I see him—for all I’ve lived in the shadow of Hereford castle for many years.”
“That is why I am sending you on ahead,” said Bran.
“Me!”
“I dare not show my face within those walls until you have seen how things sit with the king.”
“You want me to go in there alone?” Tuck said.
“Who better to spy out the lay of the land?” said Bran. “No one up there has ever seen you,” he pointed out. “To the good folk of Caer Rhodl you will simply be who you are—a wandering mendicant priest. You’ve nothing to fear.”
“Then why do I feel like Daniel sent into the lions’ lair?”
He made to urge his mount forward, but Bran took hold of the bridle strap and pulled him up. “On foot.”
“I have to walk?”
“Wandering mendicant priests do not ride fine horses.”
“Fine horses, my fat arse.” Tuck rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. “You call these plodders we ride ‘fine’?” Complaining, he squirmed down from his mount, landing hard on the path below.
“That grove of beeches,” said Bran, pointing a little way down the track the way they had come. “We’ll wait for you there.”
“What do you want me to tell Cadwgan?” Tuck asked, untying the loop that held his staff alongside the saddle.
“Tell him anything you like,” said Bran. “Only find out if it is safe for me to come up there and speak to him. And find out what has become of Mérian.”
Tuck beetled off on his bowed legs while Bran and Will rode back to wait in the grove. Upon reaching the foot of the fortress mound, Tuck worked his way along the rising, switchback path towards the entrance. The thought—the fervent hope—of cool dark ale awaiting him in a welcome cup sprang up, bringing the water to his thirsty mouth. By the time he reached the gate atop the long ramp, he was panting with anticipation. A word with the gatekeeper brought the desired result, and he was quickly admitted and directed to the cookhouse.
“Bless you, my son,” said Tuck. “May God be good to you.”
At the cookhouse, he begged a bite to eat and a cup of something to drink, and found the kitchener most obliging. “Come in, Friar, and be welcome,” said the woman who served the king and his household as master cook. “Sit you down, and I’ll soon set a dish or two before you.”
“And if you have a little ale,” suggested Tuck lightly, “I would dearly love to wash the dust of the road from my mouth.”
“That you shall have,” replied the cook—so amiably that Tuck remembered all over again how well he was so often received in the houses of the great lords. For however high and mighty the lord might be—with his own priests or those nearby to attend him as he pleased—his vassals and servants were usually more than glad to receive a priest of their own class. She busied herself in the next room and returned with a leather cannikin dripping with foam. “Here,” she said, passing the vessel to Tuck, “get some of this inside you and slay the nasty dragon o’ thirst.”
Tuck seized the container with both hands and brought it to his face. He drank deep, savouring the cool, sweet liquid as it filled his mouth and flowed over his tongue and down his chin. “Bless you,” he sighed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I was that parched.”
“Now, then,” said the master cook, “just enjoy your cup. I won’t be a moment.”
The cook left the kitchen for the larder, and Tuck sat on his stool, elbows on the board, sipping the good dark ale. In a moment, a young woman came in with a wedge of cheese on a wooden plate. “Cook said to give you this while you wait,” said the serving maid.
“Thank you, my child,” replied Tuck, taking the plate from her hand.
“If you please, Friar,” she said, “I have a sore foot.” She looked at him doubtfully. “Would you know of a cure or blessing?”
“Let me see,” he said, glancing down at her feet. “Which foot is it?”
She slipped off her shoe—a wooden clog with a leather top—and held the foot up slightly. Tuck saw a red welt at the base of her big toe that looked to him like the beginning of a bunion.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I have seen this before.” He gently lifted the young woman’s foot and touched the raw, red bulge. “I think you are fortunate to catch this before it has become incurable.”
She winced, drawing in her breath sharply. “Can you fix it?”
“I think so. Can you get a little mayweed hereabouts?”
“For a certainty,” she replied. “We use it all the time.”
“Then you’ll know how to make a tisane, do you not?”
The girl nodded.
“Good—make one and drink it down. Then take the wet leaves from the bowl and ap
ply them to the sore. Do this three times a day, every day for five days, and you’ll soon feel better. Oh, yes, put off your shoes for a few days.”
The girl made a sour face. “My lady does not like us to go barefoot,” she said. “Leastwise, not in the house.”
“Not to worry,” said Tuck. “When you go in the house, just put some willow bark shavings in your shoe. But take off your shoes whenever you can. Oh, yes—find some larger shoes if you can. The ones you are wearing are too small for you, and that, no doubt, is what has caused this ailment.” He laid a finger to his lips. “Now, then, I think Saint Birinius is the one to seek on this one,” he said. “Bow your head, child.”
The young woman did as she was told, and Tuck held his hand over her and sought the blessing of Birinius, whose feet were held in the fire by one of the old Mercian kings as a test of his faith and thus was one who knew the pain associated with various foot ailments. The young lady thanked the friar and left—only to be replaced by another woman bringing a small woollen cloak she had just finished making. “If it is not too much trouble, Friar,” she said politely, “I would ask a blessing for this cloak, as I’ve made it for my sister’s baby that’s due to come any day now.”
“May God be good to you for your thoughtfulness,” said Tuck. “It is no trouble at all.” And he blessed the soft square of delicate cloth.
When he finished, the cook returned and began placing bowls of minted beans and new greens and a plate of cold duck before him. The woman with the infant’s cloak thanked him and said, “My man is outside with a horse he’d like you to see when you’ve finished your meal.”
“Tell him I will attend directly,” replied Tuck, reaching for a wooden spoon. He ate and drank and worked out what he wanted to say to Lord Cadwgan. When the cook returned to see how he fared, Tuck asked, “The lord of this place—is he well?”
“Oh, indeed, Friar. Never better.”
“Good,” replied Tuck. “I am glad to hear it.”
“How could it be otherwise? A new-married man and his bride—why, birds in a nest, those two.”
This caught Tuck on the hop. “Lord Cadwgan . . . newly married, you say?”
“Lord have mercy, no!” laughed the cook. “It’s Garran I’m talking about. He’s king now, and lord of this place.”
“Oh, is he? But that must mean—”
The cook was already nodding in reply. “The old king died last year, and Garran has taken his father’s place on the throne, may God keep him.”
“Of course,” replied Tuck. He finished his meal wondering whether this revelation made his task easier or more difficult. Knowing little about Cadwgan, and nothing at all about Garran, there was no way to tell, he decided, until he met the young king in the flesh. He finished his meal and thanked the cook for extending the hospitality of her lord to him, then went out into the yard to see the horse. The stablehand was waiting patiently, and Tuck greeted him and asked what he could do. “The mare’s with foal,” the man told him, “as you can see. I would have a blessing on her that the birth will be easy and the young ’un healthy.”
“Consider it done,” replied the friar. Placing his hand on the broad forehead of the animal, Tuck said a prayer and blessed the beast, asking for the aid of Saint Eligius for the animal and, for good measure, Saint Monica as well. While he was praying he became aware that there were others looking on. On concluding, he turned to see that he was being watched by a young man who, despite his fair hair, looked that much like Mérian—the same large dark eyes, the same full mouth and high, noble forehead—that Tuck decided the fellow had to be her brother. “I do beg your pardon, my lord,” Tuck said, offering a slight bow, “but mightn’t you be Rhi Garran?”
“God be good to you, Friar, I might be and, as it happens, I am,” replied the young man with a smile. “And who, so long as we’re asking, are you to be blessing my horses?”
“I am as you see me,” replied Tuck, “a humble friar. Brother Aethelfrith is my name.”
“A Saxon, then.”
“I am, and that proud of it.”
“Now I know you must be a Christian,” replied Garran lightly, “for you speak the language of heaven right well. How is that, if you don’t mind my asking? For I’ve never known a Saxon to bother himself overmuch with learning the Cymry tongue.”
“That is easily told,” answered Tuck, and explained that as a boy in Lincolnshire he had been captured in a raid and sold into slavery in the copper mines of Powys; when he grew old enough and bold enough, he had made good his escape and was received by the monks of Llandewi, where he lived until taking his vows and, some little time later, becoming a mendicant.
The young king nodded, the same amiable smile playing on his lips the while. “Well, I hope they have fed you in the kitchen, friend friar. You are welcome to stay as long as you like—Nefi, here, will give you a corner of the stable for a bed, and I am certain my people will make you feel at home.”
“Your generosity does you credit, Sire,” Tuck said, “but it is you I have come to see—on a matter of some urgency.”
The young man hesitated. He made a dismissive gesture. “Then I commend you to my seneschal. I am certain he will be best able to help.” Again, he turned to go, giving Tuck the impression that he was intruding on the busy life of this young monarch.
“If you please, my lord,” said Tuck, starting after him, “it is about a friend of yours and mine—and of your sister Mérian’s.”
At this last name, the young king halted and turned around again. “You know my sister?”
“I do, my lord, and that right well, do I not?”
“How do you know her?” The king’s tone became wary, suspicious.
“I have lately come from the place where she has been living.”
Garran tensed and drew himself up. “Then you must be one of those outlaws of the greenwood we have been hearing about.” Before Tuck could reply, he said, “You are no longer welcome here. I suggest you leave before I have you whipped and thrown out.”
“So that is the way of it,” concluded Tuck.
“I have nothing more to say to you.” Garran turned on his heel and started away.
“God love you, man,” said Tuck, stepping after him. “It can do no harm to talk—”
“Did you not hear me?” snarled Garran, turning on the little friar. “I can have you beaten and cast out like the filth you are. Get you from my sight, or heaven help me, I will whip you myself.”
“Then do so,” Tuck replied, squaring himself for a fight. “For I will not leave until I have said what I came here to say.”
Garran glared at him, but said, “Go on, then. If it will get your repulsive carcase out of my sight the sooner, speak.”
“You seem to think that we harmed Mérian in some way,” Tuck began. “We did no such thing. Indeed, Mérian was not held against her will. She stayed in the greenwood, lived with us in the greenwood, because she believes in the cause that we pursue—the same cause that brings me here to ask your aid.”
“What cause?”
“Justice, pure and simple. King William has erred and fomented a great injustice against the rightful lord and people of Elfael, who are most cruelly used and oppressed. A most grievous wrong has been committed, and we seek to put it right. To speak plainly, we mean to drive out the wicked usurpers and reclaim the throne of Elfael. Your sister, Mérian, has been helping us do just that. She has been a most ardent and enthusiastic member of our little band. Let us go ask her,”
Tuck suggested, “and you can hear this from her own lips.”
Garran was already shaking his head. “You’re not going anywhere near her,” he said. “Mérian is home now—back among her family where she belongs. You will no longer twist her to your treason.”
“Twist her?” wondered Tuck. “She has been more than willing. Mérian is a leader among the forest folk. She is—”
“Whatever she was to you,” sneered Garran, “she is no more. Be gone!”
>
“Please, you must—”
“Must? Know you, Baron Neufmarché is my liege lord, as William is his. We are loyal to the crown in this house. If you persist in speaking of this, I will report you for treason against the throne of England—as is my sworn duty.”
“I beg you, Sire, do not—”
“Daffyd! Awstin!” the king shouted, calling for his men, who appeared on the run from the stables. Thrusting a finger at the friar, he said, “Throw him out and bar the gate behind him. If he does not leave, whip him, and drag him to the border of Eiwas—for I will not suffer him to remain in my sight or on my land another moment.”
“I will go, and gladly,” Tuck said. “But let me speak to Mérian—”
Garran’s face clenched like a fist. “Mention her name again and, priest or no, I will cut out your tongue.” He gave a nod to the two stablehands, who stepped forward and roughly took hold of Tuck.
The friar was hauled from the yard and pushed out through the gate. “Sorry, Friar,” said one as he closed the gate.
“Bless you, friend,” replied Tuck with a sigh, “I do not hold it against you.” He took a moment to shake the dust from his feet, and then started the long walk back to where Bran and Scarlet were waiting for a better word than he had to give them.
Nor was Bran any better pleased than Tuck imagined he would be. He listened to all that Tuck had to say about what had taken place up at the caer, and then walked a few paces apart and stood looking at the fortress mound in the near distance. He stood there so long that Scarlet eventually approached him and said, “My lord? What is your pleasure?”
When Bran failed to respond, he said, “If we hurry, we can be back in Cél Craidd before dark.”
Without turning, Bran replied, “I am not leaving until I have spoken to Mérian.”
“How?” wondered Tuck. “He will hardly allow any of us inside the caer again.”
Bran turned and flashed his crooked smile. “Tuck, old friend, I have been in and out of that fortress without anyone the wiser more times than you’ve et hot soup.” He looked around for a soft spot in the shade. “It’s going to be a long night; I suggest we rest until it gets dark.”
Tuck Page 22
