Hood (47 page)
U
nder the keen watch of sentries hidden in the brush along the road, the Grellon walked hidden pathways. Moving with the stealth of forest creatures, men, women, and children ferried the plunder back to their greenwood glen on litters made of woven leather straps stretched between pine poles. It took most of the day to retrieve the spoils of their wild night’s work and store it safely away. Thus, the sun was low in the sky when Bran, Iwan, Tuck, Siarles, and Angharad finally gathered to open the iron-banded caskets.
Iwan and Siarles set to work, hacking at the charred wood and metal bands of the first two strongboxes. The others looked on, speculating on what they would find. Under the onslaught of an axe and pick, Iwan’s box gave way first; three quick blows splintered the sides, and three more released a gleaming cascade of silver onto the hearthside floor. Tuck scooped up the coins with a bowl and poured them into his robe, as Siarles, meanwhile, chopped at the top of the chest before him and presently succeeded in breaking open the ruined lock.
He threw open the lid. The interior was filled with cloth bags—each one tied by a cord that was sealed in wax with the baron’s crest. At a nod from Bran, he lifted one out and untied the string, breaking the seal, and poured the contents into Brother Tuck’s bowl: forty-eight English pennies, newly minted, bright as tiny moons.
“There must be over two hundred pounds here,” Siarles estimated. “More, even.”
Iwan turned his attention to the third box. Smaller than the other two, it had suffered less damage and proved more difficult to break open. With battering blows, Iwan smashed at the lock and wooden sides of the chest. The iron-banded box resisted his efforts until Siarles fetched a hammer and chisel and began working at the rivets, loosening a few of the bands to allow Iwan’s pick to gain purchase. Eventually, the two succeeded in worrying the lid from its hinges; tossing it aside, they upended the box, and out rolled plump leather bags—smaller than the baron’s black bags, but heavier.When hefted, they gave a dull chink.
“Open them,” Bran commanded. He sat on his haunches, watching the proceedings with dazzled amazement.
Plucking a bag from the chest, Iwan untied the string and shook the contents into Bran’s open hand. The gleam of gold flashed in the firelight as a score of thick coins plopped into his palm.
“Upon my vow,” gasped Aethelfrith in awe, “they’re filled with flaming
byzants
!”
Raising one of the coins, Bran turned it between his fingers, watching the lustrous shimmer dance in the light. He felt the exquisite weight and warmth of the fine metal. He had never seen genuine Byzantine gold
solidi
before. “What are they worth?”
“Well now,” the priest answered, snatching up a coin from the floor. “Let me see. There are twelve pennies in a shilling, and twenty shillings in a pound—so a pound is worth two hundred and forty pennies.” Tapping his finger on his palm as if counting invisible coins, the mendicant priest continued, amazing his onlookers with his thorough understanding of worldly wealth. “Now then, a mark, as we all know, is worth thirteen shillings and four pence, or one hundred sixty pennies—which means that there are one and a half marks in one pound sterling.”
“So how much for a byzant?” asked Siarles.
“Give me time,” said Tuck. “I’m getting to that.”
“This will take all night,” complained Siarles.
“It
will
if you keep interrupting, boyo,” replied the priest testily. “These are delicate calculations.” He gave Siarles a sour look and resumed, “Where was I? Right—so that’s . . .” He paused to reckon the total. “That’s over five pounds.” He frowned. “No, make that six—more.”
“A bag?” asked Bran.
“Each,” replied the priest, handing the byzant back to him.
“You mean to say
this
,” said Bran, holding the gold coin to the light, “is worth ten marks?”
“They are as valuable as they are scarce.”
“Sire,” said Iwan, dazzled by the extent of their haul, “this is far better than we hoped.” Reaching into another of the leather bags, he drew out more of the fat gold coins. “This is a . . . a miracle.”
“The Good Lord helps them who help themselves,” Friar Tuck said, pouring coins from the fold of his gathered robe into the bowl on the floor before him. “Blesséd be the name of the Lord!”
“How much is there altogether?” wondered Bran, gazing at the treasure hoard.
“Several hundred marks at least,” suggested Siarles.
“It is more than enough to pay the workers,” observed Angharad from her stool. “Much more.” She rose and gathered a deerskin from her sleeping place. Spreading it on the floor beside the kneeling priest, she instructed, “Count it onto this.”
“And count it out loud so we can all hear,” added Siarles.
“Help me,” said the priest. “Put them into piles of twelve.”
The two fell to arranging the silver coins into little heaps to represent a shilling, and then Brother Tuck began telling out the number, shilling by shilling. Siarles, using a bit of charred wood, kept a running tally on a hearthstone, announcing the reckoning every fourth or fifth stack, and calling out the total at each mark: one hundred . . . one hundred seventy-five . . . two hundred . . .
The women of Cél Craidd brought food—a haunch of roast meat from one of the slaughtered oxen and some fresh barley cakes made from the supplies intended for Abbot Hugo. Bran and the others ate while the counting continued.
After a while, they heard voices outside the hut. “Your flock grows curious,” Angharad said. “They have been patient long enough. You should speak to them, Bran.”
Rising, Bran stepped to the door and pushed aside the ox-hide covering. Stepping out into the soft night air, he saw the entire population of the settlement—forty-three souls in all— ranged on the ground around the door of the hut.Wrapped in their cloaks, they were talking quietly amongst themselves. A fire had been lit and some of the children were running barefoot around it.
“We are still counting the money,” he told them simply. “I will bring word when we have finished.”
“It is taking a fair sweet time,” suggested one of the men.
“There is a lot to count.”
“God be praised,” said another. “How much?”
“More than we hoped,” replied Bran. “Your patience will be rewarded, never fear.”
He returned to Angharad’s hearth and the counting.
“Three hundred fifty . . . ,” droned Siarles, making another mark on the stone, “. . . four hundred . . .”
“Four hundred marks!” gasped Iwan. “Why were they carrying so much money?”
“Something is happening that we have neither heard nor foreseen,” Angharad replied, “and this is the proof.”
Tuck, still counting, gave a cough to silence them. And the total continued to grow.
When the last silver penny had been accounted, the total stood at four hundred and fifty marks. Then, turning his attention to the leather bags in the last casket, the friar began to count out the gold coins to the value of ten marks each.
The others looked on breathlessly as the friar arranged the golden byzants in neat little towers of ten.
When he finished, Tuck raised his head and, in a voice filled with quiet wonder, announced, “Seven hundred and fifty marks. That makes five hundred pounds sterling.”
“Do I believe what I am hearing?” breathed Iwan, overwhelmed by the enormity of the plunder. “Five hundred
pounds
. . .” He turned his eyes to Bran and then to Angharad.
“What have we done?”
“We have ransomed Elfael from the stinking Ffreinc,” declared Bran. “Using their own money, too. Rough justice, that.”
Turning on his heel, he moved to the door and stepped out to deliver the news to those waiting outside. Angharad went with him and, raising her hands, said, “Silence. Rhi Bran would speak.”
When the murmuring died down, Bran said, “Through our efforts we have won five hundred pounds—more than enough to pay the redemption price Red William has set. We have redeemed our land!”
The sudden outcry of acclamation took Bran by surprise.
Hearing the cheers and seeing the glad faces in the moonlight took him back to another place and time. For a moment, Bran was a child in the yard at Caer Cadarn, listening to the revelry of the warriors returning from a hunt. His mother was still alive, and as Queen of the Hunt, she led the women of the valley, singing and dancing in celebration of the hunters’ success, her long, dark hair streaming loose as she spun and turned in the rising glow of a full moon.
Nothing could ever bring her back or replace the warmth he had known in the presence of that loving soul. But this he could do: he could reclaim the caer and, under his rule, return the court of Elfael to something approaching its former glory.
Angharad had once asked him what it was he desired. He had suspected even then that there was more to the question than he knew. Now, suddenly, he beheld the shape of his deepest desire. More than anything in the world, he wanted the joy he had known as a child to reign in Elfael once more.
Angharad, standing at his side, felt the surge of emotion through him as a torrent through a dry streambed, and knew he had made up his mind at last. “Yes,” she whispered. “This night, whatever you desire will bend to your will. Choose well, my king.”
Raising his eyes, he saw the radiant disc of the moon as it cleared the sheltering trees, filling the forest hollow with a soft, spectral light. “My people, my Grellon,” Bran said, his voice breaking with emotion, “tonight we celebrate our victory over the Ffreinc. Tomorrow we reclaim our homeland.”
M
érian had determined to endure the baron’s council with grace and forbearance. Spared the greater evil of having to spend the summer in the baron’s castle in Hereford, she could afford to be charitable toward her enemies. Therefore, she vowed to utter no complaint and to maintain a respectful courtesy to one and all in what she had imagined would be a condition little better than captivity.
As the days went by, however, her energetic dislike for the Ffreinc began to flag; it was simply too difficult to maintain against the onslaught of courtesy and charm with which she was treated. Thus, to her own great amazement—and no little annoyance—she found herself actually enjoying the proceedings despite the fact that the one hope she had entertained for the council—that she might renew her acquaintance with Cécile and Thérese—was denied her: they were not in attendance.
Their brother, Roubert, cheerfully informed her that his sisters had been sent back to Normandie for the summer and would not return until autumn, or perhaps not even until next spring. “It is good for them to acquire some of the finer graces,” he confided, adopting a superior tone.
What these graces might be, he did not say, and Mérian did not ask, lest she prove herself a backward hill-country churl in need of those same finer graces. She welcomed Roubert’s company but felt awkward in his presence. Although he always appeared eager to see her, she sensed a natural haughtiness in him and a veiled disdain for all things foreign—which was nearly everything in fair Britain’s island realm, including herself.
Aside from Roubert, the only other person near her own age was the baron’s dour daughter, Sybil. Mérian and the young lady had been introduced on the first day by Neufmarché himself, with the implied directive that they should become friends. For her part, Mérian was willing enough—there was little to do anyway with the council in session most of the day—but so far had received scant encouragement from the young noblewoman.
Lady Sybil appeared worn down by the heat of the summer sun and the innate discomforts of camp. Her fine dark hair hung in limp hanks, and dark shadows gathered beneath her large brown eyes. She appeared so listless and unhappy that Mérian, at first annoyed by the young woman’s affected swanning, eventually came to pity her. The young Ffreinc noblewoman languished in the shade of a canopy erected outside the baron’s massive tent, cooling herself with a fan made of kidskin stretched over a willow frame.
“
Mère de Dieu
,” sighed the young woman wistfully when Mérian came to visit her one day, “I am not . . . um”—she paused, searching for a word she could not find—“
accoutumé
so much this heated air.” Mérian smiled at her broken English. “Yes,” she agreed sympathetically, “it is very hot.”
“It is always so,
non
?”
“Oh no,” Mérian quickly assured her. “It is not. Usually, the weather is fine. But this summer is different.” A cloud of bafflement passed over Lady Sybil’s face. “Hotter,” Mérian finished lamely.
The two gazed at each other across the ditch of language gaping between them.
“There you are!” They turned to see Baron Neufmarché striding toward them, flanked by two severe-looking knights dressed in the long, drab tunics and trousers of Saxon nobility. “My lords,” declared the baron in English, “have you ever seen two more beautiful ladies in all of England?”
“Never, sire,” replied the two noblemen in unison.
“It is pleasant to see you again, Lady Mérian,” said the baron. Smiling into her eyes, he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. Turning quickly, he kissed his daughter on the forehead and rested his hand on her shoulder. “I see you are finding pleasure in one another’s company at last.”
“We are trying,” Mérian said. She offered Sybil a hopeful smile. Clearly, the young woman had no idea what her father was saying.
“I hope that when the council is over, you still plan to attend us in Hereford,” the baron said.
“Well, I . . . ,” Mérian faltered, unable to untangle her mixed emotions so quickly. After all, when originally mooted, the proposition had been greeted with such hostility on her part that now she hardly knew
what
she felt about the idea.
Neufmarché smiled and waved aside any excuse she might make. “We would make you most welcome, to be sure.” He stroked his daughter’s hair. “In fact, now that you know each other better, perhaps you might accompany Sybil to our estates in Normandie when she returns this autumn. It could be easily arranged.”