Hood (11 page)
“Lose ten good men for the sake of a few cows?” countered Bran, climbing to his feet. “Only a fool would think that was better.”
“You snivelling brat!” roared Brychan, lashing out again. Bran stood to the blow this time, which only enraged his father the more. The king struck him again and yet again— until Bran, unable to bear the abuse any longer, turned and fled the yard, sobbing with pain and frustration.
The bruises from that encounter lasted a long time, the humiliation longer still. Any ambition Bran might have held for the crown died that day; the throne of Elfael could crumble to dust for all he cared.
They did not stay in Lundein again that night but fled the city sprawl as if pursued by demons. The moon rose nearly full and the sky remained clear, so they rode on through the night, stopping only a little before dawn to rest the horses and sleep. Bran had little to say the next day or the day after. They reached the oratory, and Brother Aethelfrith prevailed upon them to spend the night under his roof, and for the sake of wounded Iwan, Bran agreed.While the friar scurried about to prepare a meal for his guests, Bran and Ffreol took care of the horses and settled them for the night.
“It isn’t fair,” muttered Bran, securing the tether line to the slender trunk of a beech tree. He turned to Ffreol and exclaimed, “I still don’t see how the king could sell us like that. Who gave him the right?”
“Red William?” replied the monk, raising his eyebrows at the sudden outburst from the all-but-silent Bran.
“Aye, Red William. He has no authority over Cymru.”
“The Ffreinc claim that kingship descends from God,” Ffreol pointed out. “William avows divine right for his actions.”
“What has England to do with us?” Bran demanded. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”
“Answer that,” replied the monk sagely, “and you answer the riddle of the ages. Throughout the long history of our race, no tribe or nation has ever been able to simply leave us alone.”
That night Bran sat in the corner by the hearth, sipping wine in sombre silence, brooding over the unfairness of the Ffreinc king, the inequity of a world where the whims of one fickle man could doom so many, and the seemingly limitless injustices—large and small—of life in general. And why was everyone looking to him to put it right?
“For the sake of Elfael and
the throne,”
Ffreol had said.Well, the throne of Elfael had done nothing for him—save provide him with a distant and disapproving father. Remove the throne of Elfael—take away Elfael itself and all her people.Would the world be so different? Would the world even notice the loss? Besides, if God in his wisdom had bestowed his blessing on King William, favouring the Ffreinc ascendancy with divine approval, who were any of them to disagree?
When heaven joined battle against you, who could stand?
E
arly the next morning, the three thanked Friar Aethelfrith for his help, bade him farewell, and resumed the homeward journey. They rode through that day and the next, and it was not until late on the third day that they came in sight of the great, rumpled swath of forest that formed the border between England and Cymru. The dark mood that had dogged them since Lundein began to lift at last. Once amongst the sheltering trees of Coed Cadw, the oppression of England and its rapacious king dwindled to mere annoyance. The forest had weathered the ravages of men and their petty concerns from the beginning of time and would prevail. What was one red-haired Ffreinc tyrant against that?
“It is only money, after all,” observed Ffreol, optimism making him expansive. “We have only to pay them and Elfael is safe once more.”
“If silver is what the Red King wants,” said Iwan, joining in, “silver is what he will get.We will buy back our land from the greedy Ffreinc bastards.”
Bran said, “There are two hundred marks in my father’s strongbox. That is a start.”
“And a good one,” declared Iwan. All three fell silent for a moment. “How will we get the rest?” Iwan asked at last, voicing the thought all three shared.
“We will go to the people and tell them what is required,” said Bran. “We will raise it.”
“That may not be so easy,” cautioned Brother Ffreol. “If you could somehow empty every silver coin from every pocket, purse, and crock in Elfael, you might get another hundred marks at most.”
To his dismay, Bran realised that was only too true. Lord Brychan was the wealthiest man in three cantrefs, and he had never possessed more than three hundred marks all at once in the best of times.
Six hundred marks. Cardinal Ranulf might as well have asked for the moon or a hatful of stars. He was just as likely to get one as the other.
Unwilling to succumb to despair again so soon, Bran gave the mare a slap and picked up the pace. Soon he was racing through the darkening wood, speeding along the road, feeling the cool evening air on his face. After a time, his mount began to tire, so at the next fording place, Bran reined up. He slid from the saddle and led the horse a little way along the stream, where the animal could drink. He cupped a few handfuls of water to his mouth and drew his wet hands over the back of his neck. The water cooled his temper somewhat. It would be dark soon, he noticed; already the shadows were thickening, and the forest was growing hushed with the coming of night.
Bran was still kneeling at the stream, gazing at the darkening forest, when Ffreol and Iwan arrived. They dismounted and led their horses to the water. “A fine chase,” said Ffreol. “I have not ridden like that since I was a boy.” Squatting down beside Bran, he put a hand to the young man’s shoulder and said, “We’ll find a way to raise the money, Bran, never fear.”
Bran nodded.
“It will be dark soon,” Iwan pointed out. “We will not reach Caer Cadarn tonight.”
“We’ll lay up at the next good place we find,” said Bran.
He started to climb into the saddle, but Ffreol said, “It is vespers. Come, both of you, join me, and we will continue after prayers.”
They knelt beside the ford then, and Ffreol raised his hands, saying:
I am bending my knee
In the eye of the Father who created me,
In the eye of the Son who befriended me,
In the eye of the Spirit who walks with me,
In companionship and affection.
Through thine own Anointed One, O God,
Bestow upon us fullness in our need . . .
Brother Ffreol’s voice flowed out over the stream and along the water. Bran listened, and his mind began to wander. Iwan’s hissed warning brought him back with a start. “Listen!” The champion held up his hand for silence. “Did you hear that?”
“I heard nothing but the sound of my own voice,” replied the priest. He closed his eyes and resumed his prayer. “Grant us this night your peace—”
There came a shout behind them.
“Arrêt!”
The three rose and turned as one to see four Ffreinc mar-chogi on the road behind them. Weapons drawn, the soldiers advanced, walking warily, their expressions grave in the dim light.
“Ride!” shouted Iwan, darting to his horse. “Hie!”
The cry died in his throat, for even as the three prepared to flee, five more marchogi stepped from the surrounding wood. Their blades glimmered dimly in the dusky light. Even so, Iwan, wounded as he was, would have challenged them and taken his chances, but Ffreol prevented him. “Iwan! No!
They’ll kill you.”
“They mean to kill us anyway,” replied the warrior carelessly. “We must fight.”
“No!” Ffreol put out a restraining hand and pulled him back. “Let me talk to them.”
Before Iwan could protest, the monk stepped forward. Stretching out empty hands, he walked a few paces to meet the advancing knights. “Pax vobiscum!” he called. Continuing in Latin, he said, “Peace to you this night. Please, put up your swords. You have nothing to fear from us.”
One of the Ffreinc made a reply that neither Bran nor Iwan understood. The priest repeated himself, speaking more slowly; he stepped closer, holding out his hands to show that he had no weapons. The knight who had spoken moved to intercept him. The point of his sword flicked the air. Ffreol took another step, then stopped and looked down.
“Ffreol?” called Bran.
The monk made no answer but half turned as he glanced back toward Bran and Iwan. Even in the failing light, Bran could see that blood covered the front of the monk’s robe.
Ffreol himself appeared confused by this. He looked down again, and then his hands found the gaping rent in his throat. He clutched at the wound, and blood spilled over his fingers. “Pax vobiscum,” he spluttered, then crashed to his knees in the road.
“You filthy scum!” screamed Bran. Leaping to the saddle, he drew his sword and spurred his horse forward to put himself between the wounded priest and the Ffreinc attackers. He was instantly surrounded. Bran made but one sweeping slash with his blade before he was hauled kicking from the saddle.
Fighting free of the hands that gripped him, he struggled to where Brother Ffreol lay on his side. The monk reached out a hand and brought Bran’s face close to his lips. “God keep you,” he whispered, his voice a fading whisper.
“Ffreol!” cried Bran. “No!”
The priest gave out a little sigh and laid his head upon the road. Bran fell upon the body. Clutching the priest’s face between his hands, he shouted, “Ffreol! Ffreol!” But his friend and confessor was dead. Then Bran felt the hands of his captors on him; they hauled him to his feet and dragged him away.
Jerking his head around, he saw Iwan thrashing wildly with his sword as the marchogi swarmed around him. “Here!” Bran shouted. “To me! To me!”
That was all he could get out before he was flung to the ground and pinned there with a boot on his neck, his face shoved into the dirt. He tried to wrestle free but received a sharp kick in the ribs, and then the air was driven from his lungs by a knee in his back.
With a last desperate effort, he twisted on the ground, seized the leg of the marchogi, and pulled him down. Grasping the soldier’s helmet, Bran yanked it off and began pummelling the startled soldier with it. In his mind, it was not a nameless Ffreinc soldier he bludgeoned senseless, but ruthless King William himself.
In the frenzy of the fight, Bran felt the handle of the soldier’s knife, drew it, and raised his arm to plunge the point into the knight’s throat. As the blade slashed down, however, the marchogi fell on him, pulling him away, cheating him of the kill. Screaming and writhing in their grasp, kicking and clawing like an animal caught in a net, Bran tried to fight free. Then one of the knights raised the butt of a spear, and the night exploded in a shower of stars and pain as blow after blow rained down upon him.
Y
ou are Welsh, yes? A Briton?”
Bruised, bloodied, and bound at the wrists by a rope that looped around his neck, Bran was dragged roughly forward and forced to his knees before a man standing in the wavering pool of light from a handheld torch. Dressed in a long tunic of yellow linen with a short blue cloak and boots of soft brown leather, he carried neither sword nor spear, and the others deferred to him. Bran took him to be their lord.
“Are you a Briton?” He spoke English with the curious flattened nasal tone of the Ffreinc. “Answer me!” He nodded to one of the soldiers, who gave Bran a quick kick in the ribs.
The pain of the blow roused Bran. He lifted his head to gaze with loathing at his inquisitor.
“I think you are Welsh, yes?” the Ffreinc noble said.
Unwilling to dignify the word, Bran merely nodded.
“What were you doing on the road?” asked the man.
“Travelling,” mumbled Bran. His voice sounded strange and loud in his ears; his head throbbed from the knocks he had taken.
“At night?”
“My friends and I—we had business in Lundein.We were on our way home.” He raised accusing eyes to his Ffreinc interrogator. “The man your soldiers killed was a priest, you bloody—” Bran lunged forward, but the soldier holding the rope yanked him back. He was forced down on his knees once more. “You will all rot in hell.”
“Perhaps,” admitted the man. “We think he was a spy.”
“He was a man of God, you murdering bastard!”
“And the other one?”
“What about the other one?” asked Bran. “Did you kill him, too?”
“He has eluded capture.”
That was something at least. “Let me go,” Bran said. “You have no right to hold me. I’ve done nothing.”
“It is for my lord to hold or release you as he sees fit,” said the Ffreinc nobleman. “I am his seneschal.”
“Who is your lord? I demand to speak to him.”
“Speak to him you shall,Welshman,” replied the seneschal.
“You are coming with us.” Turning to the marchogi holding the torches, he said,
“Liez-le.”
Bran spent the rest of the night tied to a tree, nursing a battered skull and a consuming hatred of the Ffreinc. His friend, Brother Ffreol, cut down like a dog in the road and himself taken captive . . . This, added to the gross injustice of Cardinal Ranulf ’s demands, overthrew the balance of Bran’s mind—a balance already made precarious by the loss of his father and the warband.
He passed in and out of consciousness, his dreams merging with reality until he could no longer tell one from the other. In his mind he walked a dark forest pathway, longbow in hand and a quiver of arrows on his hip. Over and over again, he heard the sound of hoofbeats, and a Ffreinc knight would thunder out of the darkness, brandishing a sword. As the knight closed on him, blade held high, Bran would slowly raise the bow and send an arrow into his attacker’s heart. The shock of the impact lifted the rider from the saddle and pinned him to a tree. The horse would gallop past, and Bran would walk on. This same event repeated itself throughout the long night as Bran moved through his dream, leaving an endless string of corpses dangling in the forest.
Sometime before morning, the moon set, and Bran heard an owl cry in the treetop above him. He came awake then and found himself bound fast to a stout elm tree, but uncertain how he had come to be there. Groggily, like a man emerging from a drunken stupor, he looked around. There were Ffreinc soldiers sleeping on the ground nearby. He saw their inert bodies, and his first thought was that he had killed them.