Hood (25 page)
Calmly, Bran picked up the club and swung hard. The brute pitched forward onto his face and rose no more.
Looking around, he called, “Who will be next?”
Crazed with fear and spitting with rage, the remaining giants rose as one and charged Bran, who ran to meet them, growing bigger with every step until he was a head taller than the tallest. Four blows were thrown, one after another, and four giants fell, leaving only the enormous chieftain still on his feet. Not only bigger, he was also quicker than the others, and before Bran could turn, he reached out and seized Bran by the throat.
Drawing a deep breath, Bran willed his neck to become a column of white granite; with all his strength the giant chieftain could not break that thick column.
Meanwhile, Bran took hold of the giant’s protruding ears. Grabbing one in each hand, he yanked hard, pulling the giant chieftain forward and driving the point of his granite chin right between the odious monster’s bulging eyes. The giant’s knees buckled, and he tumbled backward like a toppled pine tree, striking his head on the stone floor and expiring before he could draw his next breath.
Triumphant, Bran strode to the hearth and plucked the still-bubbling cauldron from the flames. Grasping the miraculous pot in his strong arms of stone, Bran walked from the castle of bone, back to the world outside, where he once again met the ancient hag who was waiting for him.
The hag jumped up and scurried to meet him.
“Truly, you are a mighty champion!” she cried. “From this day you are my husband.”
Bran glanced at her askance. “Lady, if lady you be, I am no such thing,” he declared. “You said I would achieve my greatest desire, and marriage to you is far from that. And even if I were so minded, I could not, for I am promised to another.”
The wild-haired hag opened her gaping, toothless mouth and laughed in Bran’s face. “O man of little understanding! Do you not know that whoever possesses the Cauldron of Rebirth is the Lord of the Forest?
He is my husband, and I am his wife.” Reaching out, she seized him with her scaly, clawlike hands and pressed her drooling lips close to his face.
Repulsed, Bran reared back and shook off her grip.
He started to run away, but she pursued him with uncanny swiftness. Bran changed himself into a stag and bolted away at speed, but the hag became a wolf and raced after him.When Bran saw that he could not elude her that way, he changed into a rabbit; the hag changed into a fox and matched him stride for stride. When he saw that she was gaining on him, Bran changed into an otter, slid into the clear-running stream, and swam away.
The hag, however, changed into a great salmon and caught him by the tail.
Bran felt the hag’s teeth biting into him and leapt from the stream, dragging the salmon with him. Once out of the water, the salmon loosed its hold, and instantly Bran turned into a raven and flew away.
But the hag, now become an eagle, flew up, seized him in her strong talons, and pulled him from the sky.
“You led me on a fine chase, but I have caught you, my proud raven!” she cackled with glee, resuming her former repulsive shape. “And now you must marry me.”
Squirming and pecking at the bony fingers clasped tightly around him, Bran, still in the form of a raven, cried, “I never will! I have promised myself to another.
Even now she is waiting for me on the shining shore.”
“Bran, Bran,” said the hag, “do you not know that I am that selfsame woman?” Smiling grotesquely, she told him all that had happened to him since meeting him that very morning on the strand where she went every day in the guise of a beautiful lady to search for a champion to become her mate. “It was myself you promised to take to wife,” she concluded. “Now lie with me and do your duty as a husband.”
Horrified, Bran cried out, “I never will!”
“Since you refuse,” said the old woman, still clutching him between her hands, “you leave me no choice!”
With that, she spat into her right hand and rubbed her spittle on Bran’s sleek head, saying, “A raven you are, and a raven you shall remain—until the day you fulfil your vow to take me to wife.”
The hag released Bran then, and he found that though he could still change his shape at will—now one creature, now another—he always assumed the form of a raven in the end. Thus, he took up his duties as Rhi
Bran the Hud, Lord of the Forest, whom some call the Dark Enchanter of the Wood. And from that day to this, he abides as a great black raven still.
The last note faded into silence. Laying aside the harp, Angharad gazed at the rapt young man before her and said, “That is the song of King Raven. Dream on it, my son, and let it be a healing dream to you.”
W
arm winds from the sea brought an early spring, and a wet one. From Saint David’s Day to the Feast of Saint John, the sky remained a low, slate-grey expanse of dribbling rain that swelled the streams and rivers throughout the Marches. Then the skies finally cleared, and the land dried beneath a sun so bright and warm that the miserable Outlanders in their rusting mail almost forgot the hardships of the winter past.
The first wildflowers appeared, and with them wagons full of tools and building materials, rolling into the valley from Baron de Braose’s extensive holdings in the south. The old dirt trackways were not yet firm enough, but Baron de Braose was eager to begin, so the first wagons to reach the valley churned the soft earth into deep, muddy trenches to swamp all those who would come after. From morning to night the balmy air was filled with the calls of the drivers, the crack of whips, and the bawling of the oxen as they struggled to haul the heavy-laden vehicles through the muck.
The Cymry also returned to the lower valleys from their winter sanctuaries in the high hills. Although most had fled the cantref, a few remained—farmers for the most part, who could not, like the sheep and cattle herders, simply take their property elsewhere—and a few of the more stubborn herdsmen who had contemplated their choices over the winter and concluded that they were unwilling to give up good grazing land to the Ffreinc. The farmers began readying their fields for sowing, and the herdsmen returned to the pastures. Following the age-old pattern of the clans from time past remembering— working through the season of sun and warmth, storing up for the season of rain and ice, when they took their ease in communal dwellings around a shared hearth—the people of the region silently reasserted their claim to the land of their ancestors. For the first time since the arrival of the Ffreinc, Elfael began to assume something of its former aspect.
Count Falkes de Braose considered the reappearance of the British a good sign. It meant, he thought, that the people had decided to accept life under his rule and would recognise him as their new overlord. He still intended to press them into helping build the town the baron required—and the castles, too, if needed—but beyond that he had no other plans for them. So long as they did what they were told, and with swift obedience, he and the local population would achieve a peaceable association. Of course, any opposition to his rule would be met with fierce retaliation—still, that was the way of the world, and only to be expected, no?
Anticipating a solid season of industry—a town to raise and border fortifications to be established—the count sent a messenger to the monastery to remind Bishop Asaph of his duty to supply British labourers to supplement the ranks of builders the baron would provide. He then busied himself with supervising the allotment of tools and materials for the various sites. Together with the architect and master mason, he inspected each of the sites to make sure that nothing had been overlooked and all was in readiness. He personally marked out the boundaries for the various towers and castle ditch enclosures, spending long days beneath the blue, cloud-crowded sky, and counted it work well done. He wanted to be ready when the baron’s promised builders arrived. Time was short, and there was much to be done before the autumn storms brought an end to the year’s labour.
Nothing would be allowed to impede the progress he meant to make. Only too aware that his future hung by the slender thread of his uncle, the baron’s, good pleasure, Falkes agonised over his arrangements; he ate little and slept less, worrying himself into a state of near exhaustion over the details large and small.
On a sunny, windblown morning, the master mason approached Falkes on one of his visits to the building sites. “If it please you, sire, I would like to begin tomorrow,” he said.
Having supervised the raising of no fewer than seven castles in Normandie, Master Gernaud—with his red face beneath his battered straw hat and faded yellow sweat rag around his neck—was a solid veteran of the building trade. These were to be the first castles he had raised outside France.
“Nothing would please me more,” the count replied. “Pray begin, Master Gernaud, and may God speed your work.”
“We will soon have need of the rough labourers,” the mason pointed out.
“It has been arranged,” replied the count with confidence.
“You shall have them.”
Two days passed, however, and none of the required British volunteers appeared.
When, after a few more days, not a single British worker had come to any of the building sites, Falkes de Braose sent for Bishop Asaph and demanded to know why.
“Have you spoken to them?” asked Falkes, leaning on the back of his oversized chair. The hall was empty save for the count and his guest; every available hand—excepting his personal servants and a few soldiers required to keep the fortress in order—had been sent to help with the construction.
“I have done as you required,” replied the churchman in a tone suggesting he could do no more than that.
“Did you tell them we must have the town established? Each day delayed is another day we must work in the winter cold.”
“I told them,” said Asaph.
“Then where are they?” queried Falkes, growing irate at the inconvenience perpetrated by the absent locals. “Why don’t they come?”
“They are farmers, not quarrymen or masons. It is ploughing season, and the fields must be prepared for sowing. They dare not delay; otherwise there will be no harvest.” He paused, plucked up his courage, and added, “Last year’s harvest was very poor, as you know. And unless they are allowed to put in their crops, the people will starve. They are hungry enough already.”
“What?” cried Falkes. “Do you suggest this is in any way my fault? They fled their holdings. The ignorant louts were in no danger, but they fled anyway. The blame lies with them.”
“I merely state the fact that the farmers of Elfael were prevented from gathering in the harvest last year, and now there is precious little ready food in the valleys.”
“They should have thought of that before they ran off and abandoned their fields!” Falkes cried, slapping the back of the chair with his long hands. “What of their cattle? Let them slaughter a few of those if they’re hungry.”
“The cattle are the only wealth they possess, lord count.
They cannot slaughter them. Anyway, the herds must be built up through the summer if there is to be food enough to see them through the winter.”
“This is not my concern!” Falkes insisted. “This problem is of their own making and will not be laid at
my
door.”
“Count de Braose,” said the bishop in a conciliatory tone, “they are simple folk, and they were afraid of your troops.
Their king and warband had just been slain. They feared for their lives. What did you expect—that they would rush with glad hosannas to welcome you?”
“That tongue of yours will get you hanged yet, priest,” warned de Braose, wagging a long finger in warning. “I would guard it if I were you.”
“Will that help raise your castles?” asked Asaph. “I merely point out that if they ran away, it was for good reason.
They are afraid, and nothing they have seen from you has changed that.”
“I meant them no harm,” insisted the count, growing petulant. “Nor do I mean them harm now. But the town
will
be raised, and the fortresses
will
be built. This commot
will
be settled and civilised, and that is the end of it.” Crossing his arms over his narrow chest, Falkes thrust out his chin as if daring the churchman to disagree.
Bishop Asaph, squeezed between the rock of the count’s demands and the hard place of his people’s obstinate resistance to any such scheme, decided there was no harm in trying to mitigate the damage and ingratiate himself with the count. “I see you are determined,” he said. “Might I offer a suggestion?”
“If you must,” granted Falkes.
“It is only this. Why not wait until the fields have been sown and planted?” suggested the churchman. “Once the crops are in, the people will be more amenable to helping with the building. Grant them a reprieve until the sowing is finished. They will thank you for it, and it will demonstrate your fairness and good faith.”
“
Dieu défend!
Delay the building? That I will
not
do!” cried Falkes. He took three quick strides and then turned on the bishop once more. “Here now! I give you one more day to inform the people and assemble the required labourers—the two strongest men from each family or settlement. They will come to your monastery, where they will be met and assigned to one of the building sites.” Glaring at the frowning cleric, he said, “Is that understood?”