Hood (40 page)
“This way,” said Bran, motioning his guest to follow. He stepped through the split in the trunk of the blighted oak as through an open door. The friar followed, emerging on the other side into a wide, sunlit hollow large enough to contain a most curious settlement, a veritable village of hovels and huts made from branches and bark and—could it be?—the horns, bones, and skins of deer, oxen, and other beasts. On the far side of the glade were small fields, where a number of settlement dwellers were at work amongst the furrowed rows of beans, peas, and leeks.
“Passing strange,” murmured Aethelfrith, oddly delighted with the place.
“This is Cél Craidd,” Bran told him. “My stronghold.
You are welcome here, Tuck, my friend. The freedom of my home is yours.”
The cleric made a polite bow. “I accept your hospitality.”
“Come along, then,” said Bran, leading the way into the peculiar settlement, “there is someone else I would have you meet before we sit down to hear your news.”
Bran, his cloak of black feathers gleaming blue and silver in the bright daylight, led the way to one of the hovels in the centre of the settlement. As they approached, an old woman emerged, pushing aside the deer hide that served as her door.
She regarded the newcomer with a keen dark eye and then touched the back of her hand to her forehead.
“This is Angharad,” said Bran. “She is our banfáith.”
Seeing that the priest did not understand the word, he added, “It is like a bard. Angharad is Chief Bard of Elfael.”
To the old woman, he said, “And this is Brother Aethelfrith—he helped us in Lundein.” Clapping a hand to the friar’s shoulder, Bran continued, “He has come with news he deems so important that he has travelled all the way from Hereford.”
“Then let us hear it,” said Angharad. Stepping back, she pulled aside the deerskin and indicated that her guests should enter. The single large room had a bare earth floor; packed hard and swept clean, it was covered by an array of animal skins and handwoven coverings. More skins encircled a round firepit in the centre of the room, where a small fire flickered amongst the embers. There was a sleeping pallet on one side and a row of woven grass baskets.
Bran untied the leather laces at the neck of his feathered cloak and hung it on the tine of a protruding antler above one of the baskets; above the cloak, he hung the high-crested hood with its weird mask, then removed the black leather gauntlets and put them in the basket. He knelt over a basin on the floor to splash water on his face and drew his hands through his black hair. Shaking off the excess moisture, he arched his back and then suddenly slumped and sighed, and his body quivered as if with cold. The tremor passed, and Bran straightened. When he turned, he had changed slightly; he was more the Bran whom Aethelfrith remembered.
Angharad invited her guests to sit and stepped out to a barrel beside the door; she dipped out a bowl, which she brought to the priest. “Peace, friend, and welcome,” she said, offering him the cup. “May God be good to thee all thy days, and strengthen thee to every virtue.”
The priest bowed his head. “May his peace and joy forever increase,” he replied, “and may you reap the rich harvest of his blessing.”
“It is water only,” Bran explained. “We don’t have enough grain to make ale just now.”
“Water is the elixir of life,” declared the priest, raising the bowl to his lips. “I never tire of drinking it.” He sucked down a healthy draught and passed the bowl to Bran, who also drank and passed it to Iwan. When the big man finished, he returned the bowl to Angharad, who set it aside and took her place at the fire ring with the men.
“I trust all is well in Hereford,” said Bran, easing into the reason for the friar’s journey to Elfael.
“Better than here,” replied Aethelfrith. “But that could change.” Leaning forward in anticipation of the effect his words would have, he said, “What if I told you a flood of silver was coming your way?”
“If you told me that,” replied Bran, “I would say we will all need very big buckets.”
“Aye,” agreed the priest, “and tubs and vats and casks and tuns and barrels and cisterns large and small. And I say you had best find them quickly, because the flood is on the rise.”
Bran eyed the stout priest, whose plump cheeks were bunched in a self-satisfied grin. “Tell us,” he said. “I would hear more of this silver flood.”
T
he rider appeared unannounced in the yard at Caer Rhodl. The horse was exhausted: hide wet with lather, spume pink with blood, hooves cracked. Lord Cadwgan took one look at the suffering animal and its dead-eyed rider and commanded his grooms to take the poor beast to the stables and tend it. To the rider, he said, “Friend, your news must be grievous indeed to drive a good horse this way. Speak it out, and quickly—there will be ale and warm meat waiting for you.”
“Lord Cadwgan,” said the rider, swaying on his feet, “the words I have are bitter ashes in my mouth.”
“Then spit them out and be done, man! They will grow no sweeter for sucking on them.”
Drawing himself up, the messenger nodded once and announced, “King Rhys ap Tewdwr is dead—killed in battle this time yesterday.”
Lord Cadwgan felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Only months ago, Rhys, King of Deheubarth—and the man most Britons considered the last best hope of the Cymry to turn back the tide of the Ffreinc invaders—had returned from exile in Ireland, where he had spent the last few years ingratiating himself with Irish kings, slowly eliciting support for the British cause against the Ffreinc.Word had gone out that Rhys had returned with a massive warhost and was preparing to make a bid for the English throne while William the Red was preoccupied in Normandie. Such was the strength of King Rhys ap Tewdwr’s name that even men like Cadwgan—who had long ago bent the knee to the Ffreinc king—allowed themselves to hope that the yoke of the hated overlords might yet be thrown off.
“How can this be?” Cadwgan wondered aloud. “By whose hand? Was it an accident?” Before the messenger could answer, the lord collected himself and said, “Wait. Say nothing.” He raised his hand to prevent the reply. “We will not stand in the yard like market gossips. Come to my chambers and tell me how this tragedy has come about.”
On his way through the hall, King Cadwgan ordered drink to be brought to his room at once, then summoned his steward. With Queen Anora and Prince Garran in attendance, he sat the messenger down in a chair and commanded him to tell all he knew of the affair.
“Word came to our king that Ffreinc marchogi had crossed our borders and set fire to some of our settlements,” the messenger began after taking a long pull on the ale cup. “Thinking it was only a few raiders, Lord Rhys sent a warband to put a stop to it.When none of the warriors returned, the alarm was raised and the warhost assembled. We found the Ffreinc encamped in a valley inside our lands, where they were building one of those stone caers they glory in so greatly.”
“And this inside the Marches, you say?” asked Cadwgan.
The messenger nodded. “Inside the very borders of Deheubarth itself.”
“What did Lord Rhys say to that?”
“Our king sent word to the commander of the foreigners, demanding their departure and payment for the burned settlements on pain of death.”
“Good,” said Cadwgan, nodding his approval.
“The Ffreinc refused,” continued the messenger. “They cut off the noses of the messengers and sent the bloodied men back to tell the king that the Ffreinc would leave only with the head of Rhys ap Tewdwr as their prize.” The messenger lifted his cup and drank again. “By this we knew that they had come to do battle with our lord and kill him if they could.”
“They left him no choice,” observed Garran, quick to refill the cup. “They wanted a fight.”
“They did,” agreed the rider sadly, raising the cup to his lips once more. “Though the Ffreinc force was smaller than our own—fewer than fifty knights, and maybe two hundred footmen— we were wary of some treachery. God knows, we were right to be so. The moment we assembled the battle line, more marchogi appeared from the south and west—six hundred at least, two hundred mounted, and twice that on foot. They had taken ship and come in behind us.” The messenger paused.
“They had marched through Morgannwg and Ceredigion, and no one lifted a hand to stop them, nor to warn us.”
“What of Brycheiniog?” demanded Cadwgan. “Did they not send the battle host?”
“They did not, my lord,” replied the man curtly. “Neither blade nor shield of Brycheiniog was seen on the field.”
Speechless with shock, King Cadwgan stared at the man before him. Prince Garran muttered an oath beneath his breath and was silenced by his mother, who said, “Pray continue, sir.
What of the battle?”
“We fought for our lives,” said the messenger, “and sold them dear. At the end of the first day, Rhys raised the battle call and sent to the cantrefs close about, but none answered.
We were alone.” He passed a hand before his eyes as if to wipe the memory from his sight. “Even so,” he continued, “the fighting continued until the evening of the second day.
When Lord Rhys saw that we could not win, he gathered the remnant of the warhost to him, and we drew lots—six men to ride with word to our kinsmen, and the rest to remain and seek glory with their comrades.” The messenger paused, gazing emptily down. “I was one of the six,” he said in a low voice, “and here I am to tell you—Deheubarth is no more.”
King Cadwgan let out a long breath. “This is bad,” he said solemnly. “There is no getting around it.”
First Brychan at Elfael,
he thought,
and now Rhys at Deheubarth
. The Ffreinc, it seemed, would not be content with England. They meant to have all of Wales, too.
“If Deheubarth is fallen,” said Prince Garran, looking to his father, “then Brycheiniog cannot be far behind.”
“Who has done this?” asked Queen Anora. “The Ffreinc— whose warriors were they?”
“Baron Neufmarché,” answered the messenger.
“You know this?” demanded Cadwgan quickly. “You know this for a truth?”
The messenger gave a sharp jerk of his chin sideways.
“Not for a truth, no. The leaders amongst them wore a strange livery—one we have not seen before. But some of the wounded we captured spoke that name before they died.”
“Did you see the end?” asked Anora, clasping her hands beneath her chin in anticipation of the answer.
“Aye, my lady. Myself and the other riders—we watched it from the top of the hill. When the standard fell, we scattered with the news.”
“Where will you go now?” she enquired.
“I ride to Gwynedd, to inform the northern kingdoms,” replied the messenger. “God willing, and my horse survives.”
“That horse has run as far as it will go today and for many days, I fear,” replied the king. “I will give you another, and you will rest and refresh yourself here while it is readied.”
“You should stay here tonight,” Anora told the messenger.
“Continue on your way tomorrow.”
“My thanks to you, my lady, but I cannot. The northern kings were raising warriors to join us. They must hear that they can no longer look to the south for help.”
The king commanded his steward to bring food and make ready provisions the messenger could take with him. “I will see to the horse,” said Garran.
“My lord king, I am much obliged.” Having discharged his duty, the messenger slumped, grey faced, into the chair.
“We will leave you to your rest now,” said the queen, leading her husband out.
Once out of hearing of the chamber, the king turned to his wife. “There it is,” he concluded gloomily. “The end has begun. So long as the south remained free, it was possible to think that one day the Cymry might yet shake off the Ffreinc.
There will be nothing to stop the greedy dogs now.”
Queen Anora said, “You are client to Neufmarché. He will not move against us.”
“Client I may be,” spat the king bitterly. “But I am Cymry first, last, and always. If I pay tribute and rents to the baron, it is only to keep him far away from here. Now it seems he will not be satisfied with anything less than taking all of Cymru and driving us into the sea.”
He shook his head as the implications of the catastrophe rolled over him. “Neufmarché will keep us only so long as it pleases him to do so. Just now he needs someone to hold the land and work it, but when the time comes to repay a favour, or provide some relative with an estate, or reward some service rendered—
then
,” intoned Cadwgan ominously, “then all we have will be taken from us, and we will be driven out.”
“What can we do?” asked Anora, bunching her mantle in her fists. “Who is left that can stand against them?”
“God knows,” replied Cadwgan. “Only God knows.”
B
aron Neufmarché received the news of his resounding victory with a restrained, almost solemn demeanour. After accepting a report on the casualties suffered by his forces, he thanked his commanders for carrying out his orders so well and so completely, awarding two of them lands in the newly conquered territory, and another an advancement in rank to a lordship and the command of the unfinished castle that had so readily lured King Rhys ap Tewdwr to his doom. “We will speak more of this tonight at table. Go now; rest yourselves.
You have done me good service, and I am pleased.”
When the knights had gone, he went to his chapel to pray.
The simple room built within the stone walls of the castle was cool in the warmth of the day. The baron liked the air of calm quiet of the place. Approaching the simple wooden altar with its gilt cross and candle, he went down on one knee and bowed his head.
“Great God,” he began after a moment, “I thank you for delivering the victory into my hand. May your glory increase. I beg you, almighty Lord, have mercy on those whose lives were given in this campaign. Forgive their sins, account their valour to their merit, and welcome them to your eternal rest. Heal the wounded, Lord Christ, and send them a swift recovery. In all ways comfort those who have suffered the pains of battle.”
He remained in the chapel and was still enjoying the serenity when Father Gervais appeared. Aging now, though still vigorous, the cleric had been a member of the baron’s court since coming to Beauvais as a newly shorn priest to serve Bernard’s father.