Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“Father is dead, Mérian.”
She heard what he said, but did not credit the words. “Where?” she asked. “Come along, I’m certain they—”
“Mérian, no,” said Garran firmly. “Listen to me. Father is dead.”
“He was sick for a very long time, my lady,” offered Luc. “My lord Cadwgan died last spring.”
“Father . . . dead?” Her stomach tightened into a knot, and her breath came in a gasp as the full weight of this new reality broke upon her. “It can’t be . . .”
Garran nodded. “I’m the king now.”
“And mother?” she asked, fearing the answer.
“She is well,” replied Garran. “Although, when she sees you . . .”
Some of the others who had gathered around spoke up. “Where have you been?” they asked. “We were told you had been killed. We thought you dead long ago.”
“I was taken captive,” Mérian explained. “I was not harmed.”
“Who did this to you?” demanded Luc. “Tell us and we will avenge you, my lady. This outrage cannot be allowed to stand—”
“Peace, Luc,” Garran interrupted. “That is enough.We will discuss this later. Now I want to take my sister inside and let her get washed. You and Rhys spread the news. Tell everyone that Lady Mérian has come home.”
“Gladly, Sire,” replied Rhys, who hurried off to tell the women standing a little way off.
Rhi Garran led the way into the hall, and Mérian followed, walking across the near-empty hall on stiff legs. She was brought to her father’s chamber at the far end of the hall and paused to smooth her clothes and hair with her fingers before allowing Garran to open the door. She gave him a nod, whereupon he knocked on the door, lifted the latch, and pushed it open.
The dowager queen sat alone in a chair with an embroidery frame on a stand before her. With a needle in one hand and the other resting on the taut surface of the stretched fabric, she hummed to herself as she bent over her work.
“Mother?” said Mérian, stepping slowly into the room as if entering a dream where anything might happen.
“Dear God in heaven!” shrieked Queen Anora, glancing up to see who it was that had entered the room.
“Mother, I—”
“Mérian!” Anora cried, leaping up so quickly she overturned the embroidery frame. She stretched out her arms to the daughter she had never hoped to see again. “Oh, Mérian. Come here, child.”
Mérian stepped hesitantly at first, then ran, and was gathered into her mother’s embrace. “Oh, oh, I—” she began, and found she could not speak. Tears welled in her eyes and began to run down her cheeks. She felt her mother’s hands on her face and her lips on her cheek.
“There now, dear heart,” her mother said soothingly. “All is well now you’re home.”
“Oh, Mother, I-I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, burying her face in the hollow of her mother’s throat. “There are so many times I would have come to you—so many times I
should
have come . . .”
“Hush, dearest one,” whispered Queen Anora, stroking her daughter’s hair. “You are here now and nothing else matters.” She held Mérian for a time without speaking, then said, “I only wish your father could have seen this day.”
Mérian, overcome with grief and guilt, wept all the more. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured again. “So very sorry.”
“Never mind,” Anora sighed after a moment. “You’re home now. Nothing else matters.” She held her daughter at arm’s length and cast her eyes over her, as if at a gown or tunic she had just finished sewing. “You’re half starved. Look at you, Mérian: you’re thin as a wraith.”
Mérian stepped back a little and looked down the length of her body, smoothing her bedraggled clothing with her hands. “We have many mouths to feed, and there is not always enough,” she began.
There was a movement behind her, and a voice said,
“Quel est
ceci?”
Mérian’s shock at hearing the news of her father’s death was only slightly greater than that of seeing the women who had entered the room. “Sybil!” gasped Mérian. “Baroness Neufmarché!”
At the sight of Mérian, Lady Agnes Neufmarché put her hands to her face in amazement.
“Mon Dieu!”
“Mérianne,”
said Sybil, echoing her mother’s astonishment.
Prince Garran stood to one side, a half smile on his face, enjoying the women’s surprise at seeing one another again so unexpectedly.
Mérian saw his smile and instantly turned on him. “What are
they
doing here?” she hissed.
The baroness crossed quickly to her.
“Mon cher,”
she cooed, placing a hand on her shoulder. “How you must have suffered,
non
?”
Mérian reacted as if she had been burned by the touch. She gave a start and shook off Lady Agnes’s hand. “You!” she snarled. “Don’t touch me!”
“Mérian!” said Garran. “Have you gone mad?”
“Why are they here?” demanded Mérian, her voice quivering with pent rage. “Tell me why they’re here!”
Lady Agnes stepped back, her expression at once worried and offended.
“Darling, what do you mean?” asked her mother. “They are living here.”
Mérian shook her head. “No,” she said, backing away a step. “That cannot be . . . it can’t.”
“Listen to you,” replied the queen gently. “Why ever not? Garran is married now. Sybil is his queen. The baroness is spending the winter here helping Sybil settle in and begin her reign.”
Mérian’s horrified gaze swung from the baroness to the slender young queen standing mute and concerned beside her. Garran moved to take Sybil’s hand, and she leaned toward him. “It is true, Mérian,” said Garran. “We were married four months ago. I’m sorry if we failed to seek your approval,” he added, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“My lord,” said Anora, her tone sharp. “That was not worthy of you.”
“Forgive me, Mother,” Garran said, inclining his head. “I think the excitement of this meeting has put us all a little out of humour. Come, Mérian, you are distraught. Be at peace, you are among friends now.”
“Friends, is it?” scoffed Mérian. “Some friends. The last time we met they tried to kill me!”
O
n your mettle, my lords,” said Alan a’Dale, glancing over Bran’s shoulder across the yard, where the earl of Cestre had just appeared at the stable door.
“Everyone ready?” asked Bran. Ifor and Brocmael nodded, their brows lowered with the weight of responsibility that had been laid upon them. “When we get into the forest,” Bran continued, “find your place and mark it well. If we should become separated, go back to the head of the run and wait for us there. Whatever happens, don’t linger in the run waiting for one of Hugh’s men to see you.”
“We know what to do,” said Ifor, speaking up for the first time since entering the Ffreinc stronghold.
“Count on us,” added Brocmael, finding his voice at last. “We won’t fail.”
“Just you and Alan keep the earl busy, my lord,” the friar said. “Let Tuck and his young friends here worry about the rest. If any of the earl’s men come looking for us, I’ll make sure they don’t twig to the lads’ doings here, never fear.”
Bran nodded and drew a deep breath. He arranged his features into the curiously empty-eyed, slightly bored guise of Count Rexindo, then turned to greet the earl with his customary short bow and,
“Pax
vobiscum.”
Earl Hugh, waddling like a barnyard sow, came puffing up already red faced and sweating with the exertion of walking across the courtyard. Accompanying him were two of his men: rough fellows in once-fine tunics spattered with wine stains and grease spots, each with a large dagger thrust into his leather belt—nasty brutes by both look and smell. Behind these two trailed three more stout Ffreinc in leather jerkins and short trows with high leather leggings; they wore soft leather caps on their heads and leather gauntlets on their hands with which they grasped the leashes of three hunting hounds. The dogs were grey, long-legged beasts with narrow heads and chests and powerful haunches; each looked fully capable of bringing down a stag or boar all on its own strength.
“Pax! Pax!” said Hugh as Bran stepped to meet him. “Good day for a chase, eh?”
“Indeed,” replied Bran, speaking directly through Alan now. “I am keen to see if the trails of England can match those of Spain.”
“Ho!” cried the earl in joyous derision. “My hunting runs are second to none—better even than Angevin, which are renowned the world over.”
Count Rexindo sniffed, unimpressed when the earl’s boast was relayed to him. He turned his attention to the dogs, walking to the animals and wading in amongst them, his hands outstretched to let them get his scent. It did not hurt that he had rubbed his palms and fingers with the meat he had filched from the supper platter the previous night. The hounds nuzzled his hands with ravenous enthusiasm, licking his fingers and jostling one another to get a taste. Bran smiled and stroked their sleek heads and silken muzzles, letting the animals mark and befriend him.
“Very unusual, these dogs,” he said through Alan. “What breed are they?”
“Ah, yes,” said Hugh, rubbing his plump palms together. “These are my boys—a breed of my own devising,” he declared proudly. “There are none like them in all England. Not even King William has hounds as fine as these.”
This required a small conference, whereupon the count replied through his translator. “No doubt your king must spare a thought for more important matters,” allowed Count Rexindo with a lazy smile. “But never fear, my lord earl. If your dogs are even half as good as you say, I will not hold your boast against you.”
The earl flinched at the slight. “You will not be disappointed, Count,” replied Hugh. He called for the horses to be brought out—large, well-muscled beasts, heavy through the chest and haunches. Hugh’s own mount was a veritable mountain of horseflesh, with a powerful neck and thick, solid legs. With the help of a specially made mounting stool and the ready arms of his two noblemen, Fat Hugh hefted himself into the saddle. But when the earl saw Bishop Balthus likewise struggling to mount, he called out in Ffreinc, “You there! Priest.” Tuck paused and regarded him with benign curiosity. “This hunt is not for you. You stay here.”
Although Tuck understood well enough what was said, he appealed to Alan, giving himself time to think and alerting Bran to the problem. Once it was explained to him, Bran reacted quickly. “My lord Balthus rides today, or I do not,” he informed the earl through Alan; he tossed aside the reins and made as if preparing to dismount.
Alan softened this blunt declaration by adding, “Pray allow me to explain, my lord.”
The earl, frowning mightily now, gave his permission with an irritated flick of his hand.
“You see,” Alan continued, “it seems Count Rexindo’s father required Bishop Balthus to make a sacred vow never to allow the count out of his sight during his sojourn in England.”
“Eh?” wondered the earl at this odd revelation.
“Truly, my lord,” confessed Alan. He leaned forward in the saddle and confided, “I think my lord the duke believes his son a little too . . . ah,
spirited
for his own good. He is the duke’s only heir, you understand. It is the bishop’s head if anything ill should befall the count.”
Earl Hugh’s glower lightened somewhat as he considered the implications of what he had just been told. “Let him come, then,” said the earl, changing his mind. “So long as he can keep his saddle—the same as goes for anyone who rides with me.”
Alan explained this to Count Rexindo, who picked up the reins once more.
“Gracias, señor,”
he said.
The dog handlers departed from the castle first, and after a few rounds of the saddle cup, the riders followed. Hugh and Count Rexindo led the way, followed by the earl’s two knights; the two young Spanish lords, Ramiero and Galindo, followed them, and Bishop Balthus fell into line behind the others, thinking that if he was last from the start no one would mark him dawdling along behind. “Wish us God’s speed, Alan,” he said as he kicked his mount to life.
“Godspeed you, my lord,” replied Alan, raising his hand in farewell, “and send you his own good luck.”
Out through the castle’s rear gate they rode. A fair number of the earl’s vassals were at work in his fields, and from his vantage point at the rear of the procession, Tuck could not help noticing the looks they got from the folk they passed: some glared and others spat; one or two thumbed the nose or made other rude gestures behind the backs of the earl and his men. It was sobering to see the naked hostility flickering in those pinched faces, and Tuck, mindful of his bishop’s robes, smiled and raised his hand, blessing those few who seemed to expect it.
Once beyond the castle fields, the hunting party entered a rough countryside of small holdings and grazing lands, hedged about by dense woodland through which wide trails had been clear cut—Earl Hugh’s vaunted hunting runs. Wide enough to let a horse run at full gallop without getting slapped by branches either side, they pursued a lazy curving pattern into the close-grown wood; a few hundred paces inside the entrance the dense foliage closed in, cutting off all sight and sound of the wider world. This, Tuck considered, would serve their purpose right fair—
if
Ifor and Brocmael could keep their wits about them in the tangle of bramble thickets and scrub wood brush that cloaked the edges of the run.
The party rode deeper into the wood, and Tuck listened to the soft plod of the horses’ hooves on the damp turf and breathed the warm air deep. As the sun rose and the greenwood warmed, he began to sweat in his heavy robes. He allowed himself to drop a little farther behind the others, and noticed that the two young Welshmen had likewise fallen behind the leaders.
The search has begun,
thought Tuck.
Soon the others were some distance ahead. Tuck picked up a little speed and drew up even with the Welshmen. “Be about your business, lads,” he said as he passed by them. “I’ll go ahead and keep watch and give a shout if Hugh or his men come back this way.”
Ifor and Brocmael stopped then, and Tuck rode on, still taking his time, keeping his eye on Bran and Earl Hugh and the others now fading into the dappled shadow of the trail far ahead. When he had put enough distance between himself and the two behind him, the friar reined his mount to a stop and waited, listening. He heard only the light flutter of the breeze lifting the leaves of the upper branches and the tiny tick and click of beetles in the long grass.
He had almost decided that Hugh and the others had forgotten about them when he heard the sound of returning hoofbeats. In a moment, he saw two horses emerge from the shadowed pathway ahead. The earl had sent his knights back to see what had happened to the stragglers.
Glancing quickly behind him, Tuck searched for a sign of his two young comrades, but saw nothing. “Hurry, lads,” he muttered between his teeth. “The wolf ’s pups are nosing about.”
Then, as the two Ffreinc knights neared, Tuck squirmed ungracefully from the saddle and, stooping to the right foreleg of his mount, lifted the animal’s leg and began examining the hoof. There was nothing wrong with it, of course, but he made as if the beast might have picked up a stone or a thorn. As the two hailed him in French, he let them see him digging at the underside of the hoof with his fingers. One of the knights directed a question at him as much as to say, “What goes here?”
“Mon cheval est . . .”
Tuck began. He pretended not to know the word for
lame
, or
limping
either, so just shrugged and indicated the hoof. The two exchanged a word, and then the second knight dismounted and crossed to where he stood. He bent and raised the hoof to examine it. Tuck stole a quick glance behind; the two tardy Welshmen were nowhere in sight. Sending up a prayer for them to hurry, he cleared his throat and laid his finger to the hoof in the huntsman’s hand, pointing to a place where he had been digging with his finger.
“Une pierre,”
he said. That the animal had picked up a pebble was perhaps the most likely explanation, and the knight seemed happy with that.
“Boiteux?”
he asked.
Tuck shrugged and smiled his incomprehension. The knight released the hoof and took hold of the bridle, and walked the animal in a circle around him, studying the leg all the while. Finally, satisfied that whatever had been wrong was no longer troubling the beast, he handed the reins back to Tuck, saying,
“Pendre seile.”
Tuck took his time gathering his bishop’s skirts and, with the help of the knight to boost him, fought his way back onto the high horse. Taking up the reins once more, he heard the sound of hoof-beats thudding on the trail behind. He turned in the saddle to see Ifor and Brocmael trotting towards them. Tuck hailed them and, satisfied now that the stragglers were all together once more, the Ffreinc knights led them up the game run to rejoin the others.
They soon came to a small clearing where Count Rexindo and Earl Hugh were waiting. At that moment, the hounds gave voice.
“La
chasse commence!”
cried the earl and, lashing his horse, galloped away, followed by his knights.
Bran wheeled his mount but lingered a moment to ask, “Success?”
“Just as we planned, my lord,” replied Ifor.
Brocmael made a furtive gesture, indicating the empty lance holder attached to his saddle, and said, “Never fear; we were not seen.”
“Well done,” said Bran. “Now we hunt, and pray we sight the game before our beefy host. Nothing would please me more than to steal the prize from under Hugh’s long Ffreinc nose.”