Hood (38 page)
Back at the builders’ camp, the breathless searchers told what they had found in the forest and how they had been attacked by the forest phantom—a creature so hideous as to defy description—and only narrowly escaped with their lives.
As for the missing oxen, they had been completely devoured by the creature.
“Except for the vitals,” one of the men-at-arms explained to his astonished audience. “The devil thing devoured everything but the guts,” he said. The soldier next to him took up the tale. “The bowels it vomited in the meadow.We must have startled it at its feeding,” he surmised. Another soldier nodded, adding, “
C’est vrai
. No doubt that was why it attacked us.”
But the soldiers were wrong. It was not the phantom that fed on the stolen oxen. That very evening, in British huts and holdings all along the valley, a score of hungry families dined on unexpected gifts of good fresh meat that had been discovered lying on the stone threshold of the house. Each gift had been delivered the same way: wrapped in green oak leaves, one of which was pinned to the parcel by a long, black wing feather of a raven.
B
rother Aethelfrith paused on the road to drag a damp sleeve across his sweating face. The Norman merchants with whom he had been travelling had long since outpaced him; his short legs were no match for their mules and high-wheeled carts, and none of the four traders or their retainers had consented to allow him to ride in back of one of the wagons. To a man, all had made obscene gestures and pinched their nostrils at him.
“Stink? Stink, do I?” muttered the mendicant under his breath. He was a most fragrant friar, to be sure, but the day was sweltering, and sweat was honest reward for labours spent. “Normans,” he grumbled, mopping his face, “God rot them all!”
What a peculiar people they were: big, lumpy lunks with faces like horses and feet like boats. Vain and arrogant, untroubled by any notions so basic as tolerance, fairness, equality. Always wanting everything their own way, never giving in, they reckoned any disagreement as disloyal, dishonest, or deceitful, while judging their own actions, however outrageously unfair, as lawful God-given rights. Did the Ruler of heaven really intend for such a greedy, grasping, gluttonous race of knaves and rascals to supplant Good King Harold?
“Blesséd Jesus,” he muttered, watching the last of the wagons recede into the distance, “give the whole filthy lot flaming carbuncles to remind them how fortunate they are.”
Then, chuckling to himself over the image of the entire occupying population hopping around clutching painfully swollen backsides, he moved on. Upon cresting the next hill, he saw a stream and a fording place where the road met the valley. Several of the carts had paused to allow the animals to drink. “God be praised!” he cried and hurried to join them.
Perhaps they would take pity on him yet.
Arriving at the ford, he called a polite greeting, but the merchants roundly ignored him, so he walked a little way upstream until he came to a shady place, where, drawing his long brown robe between his legs, he tucked the ends into his belt and waded out into the stream. “Ahh,” he sighed, luxuriating in the cool water, “a very blessing on a hot summer day. Thank you, Jesus. Much obliged.”
When the merchants moved off a short while later, he remained behind, content to dabble in the stream a little longer. By all accounts, Llanelli was a mere quarter day’s walk from the ford. No one was expecting him, so he could take all the time he needed; and if he reached the monastery by nightfall, he would count himself fortunate.
The fat friar padded in the stream, watching the small, darting fish. He hummed to himself, enjoying the day as if it were a meal of meat and ale spread before him with lavish abundance. Upon reflection, he had no right to be so happy.
His errand, God knew, was sin itself.
How he had come to the idea, he still could not say. An overheard conversation—a marketplace rumour, an errant word, perhaps, spoken by a stranger in passing—had worked away in him, sending its black roots deep, growing unseen until it burst forth like a noxious flower in full bloom. One moment, he had been standing before the butcher’s stall, haggling over the price of a rind of bacon, and the next his bandy legs were scuttling him back to his oratory to pray forgiveness for the thoroughly immoral idea that had so forcefully awakened in his ever-scheming brain.
“Oh my soul,” he sighed, shaking his head at the mystery of it. “The heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. Who can know it?”
Although he had spent the night on his knees, begging both forgiveness and direction, as dawn came up bright in the east, that heavenly guidance was no more in evidence than the pope’s pardon. “If you have qualms, Lord,” he sighed, “stop me now. Otherwise, I go.”
Since nothing materialised to prevent him, he rose, washed his face and hands, strapped on his sandals, and hastened to consummate his scheme. It was
not
—and he was fiercely adamant about this part—for his own enrichment, nor did he desire any gain but justice. This was the heart of the matter.
Justice. For, as his old abbot had often said, “When iniquity sits in the judgement seat, good men must take their appeals to a higher court.”
Aethelfrith did not know how that appeal to justice might come about, but trusted that his information would give Bran all the inspiration he required to at least set the wheels in motion.
The shadows lengthened over the valley, and the road was not shrinking; with grudging reluctance, Aethelfrith stepped from the water, dried his feet on the hem of his robe, and continued on his way. The merchants’ van was well ahead of him now, but he dismissed the rude company from his thoughts. His destination was almost within sight. The Vale of Elfael stretched before him, its green fields spotted with slow-shifting cloud shadows. He doubted a more peaceful and serene dale could be found anywhere.
Buoyed by the beauty of the place, Brother Aethelfrith opened his mouth wide and began to sing aloud, letting his voice resound and echo out across the valley as he made his way down the long slope that would eventually bring him to Llanelli.
He was sweating again, long before reaching the valley floor.
In the near distance he saw the old fortress, Caer Cadarn, rising on its hump of rock overlooking the road. “May your walls keep you safe as Jericho,” Aethelfrith muttered, then crossed himself and hurried by.
The sun was touching the far western hills when he reached Llanelli—or what was left of it. The low wall of the enclosure had been taken down and most of the interior buildings either destroyed or converted to other uses. The yard had been enlarged to make a market square, and new structures—unfinished, their bare timbers rising from the builders’ rubble— stood at each corner. All that remained of the original monastery was a single row of monks’ cells and the chapel, which was only slightly larger than his own oratory. There seemed to be no one around, so he strode to the door of the chapel and walked in.
Two priests knelt before the altar, on which burned a single thick tallow candle that sent a black, oily thread of smoke into the close air. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then cleared his throat to announce his presence and said, “Forgive me, friends. I see I am interrupting your prayers.”
The nearer of the two priests looked around and then nudged the other, who quickly finished his prayer, crossed himself, and rose to greet the newcomer. “God be good to you, brother,” said the priest, taking in his visitor’s robe and tonsure. “I am Bishop Asaph. How can I be of service?”
“Greetings in Christ and all his glorious saints!” declared the mendicant. “Brother Aethelfrith, I am, come on an errand of some . . . ah”—he hesitated, not wishing to say too much about his illicit chore—“delicacy and importance.”
“Peace and welcome, brother,” the bishop said. “As you can see, we have little left to call our own, but we will help you in any way we can.”
“It is easily done and will cost you nothing,” the friar assured him. “I am looking for Bran ap Brychan—I have a message for him. I was hoping someone here could tell me where to find him.”
At this, a shadow passed over the bishop’s face. His smile of welcome wilted, and his eyes grew sad. “Ah,” he sighed. “I would that you had asked anything but that. Alas, you will not find the man you seek amongst the living.” He shook his head with weary regret. “Our young Prince Bran is dead.”
“Dead! Oh, dear God, how?” Aethelfrith gasped. “When did this happen?”
“Last autumn, it was,” replied the bishop. “As to how it happened—there was a fight, and he was cruelly cut down when trying to escape Count de Braose’s knights.” The English monk staggered backward and collapsed on a bench against the wall. “Here; rest a moment,” said Asaph. “Brother Clyro, fetch our guest some water.”
Clyro hobbled away, and the bishop sat down beside his guest. “I am sorry, my friend,” he said. “Your question caught me off guard, or I might have softened the blow for you.”
“Where is he buried? I will go and offer a prayer for his soul.”
“You knew our Bran?”
“Met him once. He stayed the night with me—he and that tall tree of a fellow—what was his name? John! They had a priest with them. Good man, I think. One of yours?”
“Iwan, yes. And Ffreol, perhaps?”
“The very fellows!” Aethelfrith nodded. “They were on their way to Lundein to see the king. I went with them in the end. Sorely disappointed they were. But I could have told them. The Ffreinc are bastards.”
“From what we have been able to learn,” Asaph said, “our Bran was captured on his way home. He was killed a few days later trying to escape.” He regarded his visitor with soft-eyed sadness. “It pains me the more,” he continued, “but Iwan and Brother Ffreol also fell afoul of Count de Braose.”
“Dead, too? All of them?” asked Aethelfrith.
Bishop Asaph bent his head in sorrowful assent.
“Filthy Norman scum,” growled the friar. “Kill first and repent later. That is all they know. Worse than Danes!”
“There was nothing to be done,” Asaph said. “We said a Mass for him, of course. But”—he lifted his hands helplessly —“there it is.”
“So now you have no king,” observed Aethelfrith.
“Bran was the last of his line,” affirmed the bishop. “We must be content now to simply survive and endure this unjust reign as best we can. And now”—his voice quivered slightly— “another blow has been dealt us. The monastery has been taken over for a market town.”
“Scabby thieves, the lot of ’em!” muttered Aethelfrith.
“Nay, worse than that. Even the lowest thief wouldn’t rob God of his home.”
“Baron de Braose has determined to install his own churchmen in this place. They are to arrive any day—indeed, when you came to the door, we thought it might be the new abbot come to drive us from our chapel.”
“Where will you go?”
“We are not without friends. The monastery of Saint Dyfrig in the north is sister to Llanelli, or once was. We will go to them . . . and from there?” The bishop offered a forlorn smile. “It is in God’s hands.”
“Then I am doubly sorry,” said Aethelfrith. “This world is full of trouble, God knows, and he spares not his own servants.” Brother Clyro returned with a bowl of water, which he offered to their guest. Aethelfrith accepted the bowl and drank deeply.
“Why did you want to see our Bran?” asked the bishop when he had finished.
“I had a notion to help him,” replied the friar. “But now that I see how events have fallen out, I warrant it a poor idea.
In any event, it is of no consequence now.”
“I see,” replied the bishop. He did not press the matter.
“Have you travelled far?”
“From Hereford. I keep an oratory there—Saint Ennion’s.
Have you heard of it?”
“Of course, yes,” replied the bishop. “One of our own dear saints from long ago.”
“To be sure,” conceded Aethelfrith. “But it is home to me now.”
“Then it is too far to come and return all at once. You must stay with us a few days”—the bishop lifted a hand in a gesture of helplessness—“or until the Ffreinc come to drive us all away.”
Friar Aethelfrith spent the next day helping Asaph and Clyro pack their belongings. They wrapped the bound parchment copies of the Psalms and the book of Saint Matthew, as well as the small golden bowl used for the Eucharist on high holy days. These things had to be disguised and secreted amongst the other bundles of clerical implements and utensils, for fear that the Ffreinc would confiscate them if their value was known.
They finished their work and enjoyed a simple supper of stewed beans with a little sliced leek and burdock. The next morning, Brother Aethelfrith bade his friends farewell and started back to his oratory. The merchants he had followed to Elfael had also concluded their business, and as he passed Castle Truan—what the Normans were now calling Caer Cadarn—he saw five mule-drawn carts turn out onto the road and thought, now that the wagons were empty of goods, he might beg bold and ask for a ride.
So he quickened his pace and by midmorning had caught up with the wagon van when it paused to water the animals at the valley stream before starting up the long slope of the forested ridge. He came within hailing distance and gave a shout, which was not returned. “I see they still have some manners to learn,” he muttered. “But no matter. They will have to be hard-hearted indeed to refuse my request.”
As he neared the fording place, he saw that the traders were standing together in a clump, motionless, with their backs to him; they seemed to be staring at something on the far side of the stream.
He hurried to join them, calling, “Pax vobiscum!”
One of the traders turned on him. “Keep your voice down!” he whispered savagely.
Mystified, the friar shut his mouth with a click of his teeth. Taking his place beside the men, he stared across the fording place and into the wood. The mules, impassive creatures ordinarily, seemed restless and uneasy; they jigged in their traces and tossed their heads. And yet the wood beyond the stream seemed quiet enough. Brother Aethelfrith could see no one on the road; all seemed calm and tranquil.