One of the lords stepped near to Gruffydd just then and whispered something in his ear. The king of Gwynedd squared himself, turned, and gazed boldly at the baron. “It seems I have spoken too freely,” Gruffydd said. “I am informed that we have a Ffreinc baron among us. Had I known that he was here—”
“Truly,” said Garran, “there is no harm done.” He turned and beckoned the baron and his sister nearer. “My lords, I present Baron Neufmarché, my liege lord, and with him, my sister Lady Mérian.”
“My lord baron,” said Gruffydd in stiff acknowledgement of Neufmarché. His hand went to the sword at his side and stayed there.
“As the baron is my overlord,” Garran continued, “it is well that he has heard your intentions for himself.”
“How so?” said Gruffydd suspiciously.
“For the fact that this was the very course he himself was urging only moments before we joined you here.”
“Mes seigneurs et mes rois,” said the baron. “C’est vrai.” Mérian translated for the Welsh kings, and explained that the baron had defied Red William’s summons and had come to Eiwas instead, and that he and Garran had just been discussing the need to aid the rebels of Elfael in their struggle against the crown. After a quick consultation with Bernard, she concluded, “Baron Neufmarché wishes you to know that he stands willing to pledge his men to the aid of Elfael, and asks only to be taken at his word.”
This provoked a hasty and heated discussion among the Welsh noblemen. Mérian watched as the debate seemed to roll back and forth. It was swiftly over, and the Welsh lords turned to face the baron with their answer. Gruffydd said, “We have argued your offer, Lord Baron, and it is most unexpected, to be sure—but no less welcome for that. We will accept your pledge and thank you for it.”
The baron expressed his gratitude to the Welsh kings for placing their trust in him, and then, through Mérian, asked, “How soon can you be ready to march?”
“We are already on the march,” replied Gruffydd. “Our men are on their way to Elfael even now.”
“Then,” replied the baron, when he had received Gruffydd’s answer, “we must make haste to overtake them. Among my people, it is counted a very great shame for a commander to lead from the rear.”
CHAPTER 39
Rhoddi scrambled through the upper branches of the greenwood canopy, skittering along the hidden path of the sky way, to drop deftly into the little clearing where the Grellon had set up camp after abandoning Cél Craidd the day before. He searched among the sleeping bodies huddled in their cloaks on the ground for the one he sought, and hastened to kneel beside it. “Bran!” he said, leaning close. “Owain says to come at once.”
Bran sat up. It was early still, the feeble grey light barely penetrating the heavy foliage of oak and elm round about. Reaching instinctively for his bow, he rose to his feet. “Trouble?”
Rhoddi shook his head. “There’s something moving on the King’s Road,” he said quietly, “something you should see.”
“Will,” called Bran softly, rousing the forester, “begin waking the others and get everyone ready to move. I’ll send word back.” To Rhoddi, he said, “Lead the way.”
The two climbed up the rope ladder onto the interconnected arrangement of limbs and boughs, planks and platforms that the Grellon maintained to move easily and quickly to and from the King’s Road overlook. A swift and precarious dash brought them to the place where Owain was perched high up among the rocks on the bank of the cliff overlooking the road. “What is it?” asked Bran, climbing up beside him. “More troops?”
“Aye,” replied Owain, “it is more troops, Sire. But there is something odd about these ones.” He pointed down the road to where a column of knights was just coming into view. “A scouting party passed just a little while ago. I think this is the main body just coming now.”
“Ffreinc, yes,” said Bran. “I see them. What is so odd about them?”
“The scouts were Cymry,” said Owain.
“Cymry!” said Bran. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. They were Welsh-born, I swear on Job’s bones—and all of them carried longbows same as us.”
“Not good,” muttered Bran. “Our own countrymen going to join King William—not good at all.” Before his companion could offer a reply, Bran grabbed his arm. “Look!” He pointed down to the second rank of mounted soldiers riding behind a double row of men-at-arms on foot. “I know that man—I know his standard . . . Saints in heaven!”
“Who is it?”
“Wait . . .” said Bran, straining forward. “Let them come a little closer . . .” He slapped the rock with his hand. “Yes!”
“Do you recognize someone, my lord?”
“It is Baron Neufmarché—or I am the archbishop of Canterbury,” said Bran, still squinting down into the road, “and, God help us, that is Mérian beside him.”
“Are you sure?”
Bran squirmed around on the rock and called down to Rhoddi waiting below. “Go get Scarlet! Tell him to bring every man who can draw a bow. Tell him I want them to be ready to fight when they get here. We’ll have to take them on the fly. Hurry, man! Go!”
In the road below, the soldiers came on, slowing as they neared the place where the road narrowed beneath the overhanging rocks. “Do you think they know we’re here?” wondered Owain.
“Perhaps,” replied Bran, withdrawing an arrow from the bundle and nocking it to the string. “Come closer, proud baron,” he whispered, pressing the belly of the bow forward. “Just a little closer and you’re mine.”
But when the riders resumed their march, it was not Neufmarché who advanced—it was Mérian, and another, riding beside her. The two advanced together.
“Who is that with her?” said Owain.
Bran stared hard at the mounted warrior beside Mérian.
After a moment, Owain observed, “He doesn’t look like a Ffreinc.”
“He isn’t,” concluded Bran. “He is Cymry.”
“Do you know him?”
Bran lowered the bow and eased the string. “That is Gruffydd, Lord of Gwynedd. Though what he is doing here in the company of Baron Neufmarché is a very mystery.”
“Maybe Neufmarché has taken them captive,” suggested Owain.
By way of reply, Bran drew and loosed an arrow into the road. It struck the dirt a few paces ahead of the two oncoming riders. Mérian reined up. She lifted her face to the rock walls rising to either side of the road and then, placing a hand to her mouth, called, “Rhi Bran! Are you here?” She waited a moment, then said, “Bran if you are here, show yourself. We have come to talk to you.”
Owain and Bran exchanged a puzzled glance. Bran moved to rise, but Owain put a hand on his arm. “Don’t do it, my lord. It might be a trick.”
“From anyone but Mérian,” replied Bran. “I will talk to them—keep an arrow on the string just in case.”
Bran stood on the rock. He lofted the bow and called down to the riders in the road. “Here I am.”
“Bran!” cried Mérian. “Thank God—”
“Are you well, Mérian? Have they hurt you?”
“I am well, Bran,” she called, beaming up at him. “I have brought help.” She twisted in the saddle and indicated the ordered ranks of troops behind her. “We have come to help you.”
“And Neufmarché,” said Bran. “What is he doing here?”
“He has joined us,” said Gruffydd, speaking up. “Greetings, Rhi Bran.”
“Greetings, Gruffydd. I never thought to see you again.”
“For that I am full sorry,” replied the lord of Gwynedd. “But I beg the chance to make it up to you. I have brought friends—and, yes, Baron Neufmarché is one of them.”
“You will forgive me if I am not wholly persuaded,” remarked Bran.
“Could you come down, do you think?” asked Gruffydd. “I grow hoarse and stiff-necked shouting up at you like this.”
Slinging his bow across his chest, Bran prepared to meet them on
the road. “Keep an eye on them,” he said to Owain. “When Scarlet and the others get here, position the men on the rocks there and there”—he pointed along the rocky outcropping—“and tell them to be ready to let fly if things are not what they seem.”
“God with you, my lord,” said Owain, putting an arrow on the string. “We’ll wait for your signal.”
Bran lowered himself quickly down the rocks, dropping from ledge to ledge and lighting on the edge of the road a hundred paces or so from where Mérian and Gruffydd were waiting. Behind them stood the ranks of the baron’s knights and men-at-arms, and Bran was relieved to see that none of them had moved and seemed content merely to stand looking on. Unslinging his bow, he put an arrow on the string and advanced cautiously, keeping an eye on the troops for any sign of movement.
He had walked but a few dozen paces when Mérian spurred her horse forward and galloped to him, throwing herself from the saddle and into his embrace. Her mouth found his, and she kissed him hard and with all the pent-up passion of their weeks apart. “Oh, Bran, I have missed you. I’m sorry I could not come sooner.”
“Mérian, I—”
“But, look!” she said, kissing him again. “I’ve brought an army.” She flung out a hand to those behind her. “They’ve come to help save Elfael.”
“Truly,” replied Bran, still not entirely trusting this turn of fortune. “How many are with you?”
“I don’t know—over five hundred, I think. Baron Neufmarché has come in on our side, and Rhi Gruffydd is here, and Garran and—”
“Votre dame est la plus persuasif,” said Neufmarché, reining up just then. King Garran rode beside him.
“It is true,” said Garran. “My sister can be very persuasive. She would not rest until we agreed to come help you.”
King Gruffydd rode up and took his place beside the baron. Seeing Gruffydd and Neufmarché side by side seemed so unnatural, Bran could hardly credit what he saw, and his native suspicion returned full force. Instinctively, he stepped in front of Mérian.
“That is close enough, Baron,” said Bran, raising his bow.
“Aros, Rhi Bran,” said Gruffydd. “You are among friends—more than you know. The baron has pledged his forces to your aid.” Indicating the troops amassed behind him with a wide sweep of his hand, he said, “We have come to confront King William and his army, and would be much obliged if you would lead us to them.”
“If you have truly come to fight the Ffreinc,” said Bran, “you will not go home disappointed. I can show you all you care to see.”
King Gruffydd climbed slowly down from the saddle. He walked to where Bran stood and then, in full sight of everyone there, went down on one knee before him. “My lord and friend,” he said, bending his head, “I pledge my life to you and to this cause. My men and I will see you on the throne of Elfael, or gladly embrace our graves. One or the other will prevail before we relinquish the fight. This is my vow.” Drawing his sword, he laid it at Bran’s feet. “From this day, my sword is yours to command.”
“Rise, my lord, I—” began Bran, but his throat closed over the words, and overcome with a sudden, heady swirl of emotions, he found he could not speak. In all that had happened in the last days and weeks, he had never foreseen anything like this: the help he had so long and so desperately needed had come at last, and the realization of what it meant fair whelmed him over.
Gruffydd rose, smiling. “I owe you my life and throne and more. Blind fool that I am, it took me a little time to see that.” Taking Bran by the arm, he pulled him away. “But come, Llewelyn is here—he has been most persuasive, too—and I’ve brought some others who are anxious to meet the renowned Rhi Bran y Hud.”
The next thing Bran knew he was surrounded by knights and noblemen—both Cymry and Ffreinc—all of them pledging their swords to him. He greeted all in turn, his thoughts churning, emotion running high as he tried to comprehend the magnitude of the good that had just befallen him. Baron Neufmarché remained a little apart, looking on from his saddle; he motioned Mérian to him and had a brief word. She hurried to Bran and said, “No one is happier than I am for this glad meeting, but the baron wishes me to say that it would not be the wisest course to be caught on the road just now. He asks if you might lead us to your camp, where the commanders can discuss the ordering of the troops and prepare the battle plan.”
“The baron is right,” allowed Gruffydd. “Is it far, your camp?”
“My settlement was destroyed—”
“Oh, Bran, no,” said Mérian. “Was anyone . . . ?”
“I am sorry, Mérian.” Bran put a hand to her shoulder to steady her for the blow. “Angharad was killed protecting Cél Craidd, and little Nia by accident. It happened when we were on a raid. Tomas is dead, too—from a Ffreinc spear.”
Mérian’s face crumpled. Bran slid his arm around her shoulders. “Later, my love,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear, “we will grieve them properly later. I need your strength just now.”
Nodding, she lifted her head and rubbed the tears from her eyes. “What would you have me do?”
“Tell the baron there is a place farther on along the road where we can gather.” He shook his head. “The troops will have to spread out into the forest and find places to camp of their own. My men can lead them.”
Bran raised his bow and loosed a shrill whistle that pierced the forest quiet and resounded among the rocks. From every side appeared his fighting men: Scarlet, Tuck, Rhoddi, Owain, Ifor, Brocmael, Idris, Geronwy, and Beli and Llwyd. They clambered down the rocks to join the company on the road and receive the good news. Moments later, Bran’s new army was on the move with Bran himself leading them—through the gorge and beyond it to a place where the land flattened out once more. The forest thinned somewhat around a stand of great oaks and elms, and here Bran gave orders for Rhoddi and Owain to lead the army into the wood round about and let them rest. “Tuck,” he said, snatching the friar by the sleeve as he greeted Mérian, “stay with me—and you, too, Scarlet. We are going to hold council to plan the battle.”
While men and horses and wagons trundled into a glen in the wood, there to establish a rude camp, the kings and noblemen sat down with Bran to learn the state of affairs in Elfael, and the strength and position of King William’s troops. Thus the council began, and it was long before each of the great lords had their say and all points of view had been taken into account. The sun was a dull copper glow low in the west, and the first stars were beginning to light up the sky, when a plan of battle that all agreed upon began to emerge.
Bran was, by turns, impressed with the expertise of his new battle chiefs and irked at the necessity of biding his time while they hammered out details he would have settled long ago. But, all in all, as the last light of day faded, he declared himself pleased with the plan and confident in his commanders. The scouts would go out at dawn and make a final assessment of the enemy position ahead of the battle. Then the rebel forces would take the field against the king’s army, led by the Cymry archers, supported and guarded on the flanks by Baron Neufmarché and his knights.
As soon as the council concluded, the lords went to find food and drink with their men. Bran sent Scarlet and Tuck to tell his own war band what had happened, and then sought Mérian. “It is the answer to prayer long in coming,” he told her. She stepped easily into his embrace. Feeling the living warmth of her in his arms, he confessed, his voice faltering slightly, “I never hoped to see you again. I thought we had parted for good.”
“Shhh,” she said. “I will never leave you again.” She gave him a lingering kiss and then said, “Tell me all that has happened while I’ve been away.”
They talked then, and the twilight deepened around them. They were still talking when Tuck came upon them. Unwilling to intrude on their intimate moment, he settled himself on the root of a tree to wait, thinking what a strange and wonderful day it had been. And here were Bran and Mérian, such a good match. There would be a wedding soon if he had any
thing to say about it . . . and, he thought, if they were all still alive this time tomorrow.
Leaning back against the rough bole of the old elm, he closed his eyes. From the depths of misery over the recent loss of Angharad, Tomas, and Nia, who could have foreseen that their fortunes would rise to such heights so quickly? Even so, the victory was not yet won—far from it. There were battles to be fought, and the lives of many swung in the balance. Death and destruction would be great indeed. Oh, Merciful Lord, he sighed inwardly, if that could somehow be prevented . . . “Let this cup pass from us,” he prayed softly.
“Ah, Tuck,” said Bran, interrupting the friar’s meditation, “you’re here—good.” Still holding Mérian, he turned to the little friar. “I have a job for you.”
CHAPTER 40
Dawn was still but a whisper in the pale eastern sky when Tuck finally reached Saint Martin’s. He paused below the brow of a hill a short distance from the little town and dismounted. He trudged wearily up to the top of the hill and there stood for a time to observe. The moon, bright still, illuminated the hills and filled the valleys with soft shadows. Nothing moved anywhere.
He yawned and rubbed his face with his hands. “This friar is getting too old for these midnight rambles.” His empty stomach growled. “Too right,” he muttered.
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