Hood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Dead,” moaned Iwan. “All . . . all of them dead.”

  Bran quickly retrieved a waterskin from its place behind his saddle. “Here,” he said, holding the skin to the warrior’s mouth, “drink a little. It will restore you.”

  The battlechief sucked down a long, thirsty draught and then shoved the skin away. “You must raise the alarm,” he said, some vigour returning to his voice. He clutched at Bran and held him fast. “You must ride and warn the people.Warn everyone. The king is dead, and the Ffreinc are coming.”

  “How much time do we have?” asked Bran.

  “Enough, pray God,” said the battlechief. “Less if you stay. Go now.”

  Bran hesitated, unable to decide what should be done.

  “Now!” Iwan said, pushing the prince away. “There is but time to hide the women and children.”

  “We will go together. I will help you.”

  “Go!” snarled Iwan. “Leave me!”

  “Not like this.”

  Ignoring the wounded man’s curses, Bran helped him to his feet and back into the saddle. Then, taking up the reins of Iwan’s horse, he led them both back the way he had come. Owing to the battlechief ’s wound, they travelled more slowly than Bran would have wished, eventually reaching the western edge of the forest, where he paused to allow the horses and wounded man to rest. “Is there much pain?” he asked.

  “Not so much,” Iwan said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ah, a little . . .”

  “We’ll wait here awhile.” Bran dismounted, walked a few paces ahead, and crouched beside the road, scanning the valley for any sign of the enemy invaders.

  The broad, undulating lowlands of Elfael spread before him, shimmering gently in the blue haze of an early autumn day. Secluded, green, fertile, a region of gentle, wooded hills seamed through with clear-running streams and brooks, it lay pleasantly between the high, bare stone crags of mountains to the north and east and the high moorland wastes to the south. Not the largest cantref beyond the Marches, in Bran’s estimation it tendered in charm what it lacked in size.

  In the near distance, the king’s fortress on its high mound, whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight, stood sentinel at the gateway to Elfael, which seemed to drowse in the heavy, honeyed light. So quiet, so peaceful—the likelihood of anything disturbing such a deep and luxurious serenity seemed impossibly remote, a mere cloud shadow passing over a sun-bright meadow, a little dimming of the light before the sun blazed forth again. Caer Cadarn had been his family’s home for eight generations, and he had never imagined anything could ever change that.

  Bran satisfied himself that all was calm—at least for the moment—then returned to his mount and swung into the saddle once more.

  “See anything?” asked Iwan. Hollow-eyed, his face was pale and dripping with sweat.

  “No Ffreinc,” Bran replied, “yet.”

  They started down into the valley at a trot. Bran did not stop at the hill fort but rode straight to Llanelli, the tiny monastery that occupied the heel of the valley and stood halfway between the fortress and Glascwm, the chief town of the neighbouring cantref—and the only settlement of any size in the entire region. Although merely an outpost of the larger abbey of Saint Dyfrig at Glascwm, the Llanelli monastery served the people of Elfael well. The monks, Bran had decided, not only would know best how to raise an alarm to warn the people, but also would be able to help Iwan.

  The gates of the monastery were open, so they rode through and halted in the bare-earth yard outside the little timber and mud-daubed church. “Brother Ffreol! Brother Ffreol!” Bran shouted; he leapt from the saddle and ran to the door of the church. A lone priest was kneeling before the altar. An elderly man, he turned as Bran burst in upon his prayers.

  “Lord Bran,” said the old man, rising shakily to his feet. “God be good to you.”

  “Where is Brother Ffreol?”

  “I am sure I cannot say,” replied the aging monk. “He might be anywhere. Why all this shouting?”

  Without reply, Bran seized the bell rope. The bell pealed wildly in response to his frantic pulling, and soon monks were hurrying to the church from every direction. First through the door was Brother Cefan, a local lad only slightly older than Bran himself. “Lord Bran, what is wrong?”

  “Where is Ffreol?” demanded Bran, still tugging on the bell rope. “I need him.”

  “He was in the scriptorium a short while ago,” replied the youth. “I don’t know where he is now.”

  “Find him!” ordered Bran. “Hurry!”

  The young brother darted back through the door, colliding with Bishop Asaph, a dour, humourless drone of advancing age and, as Bran had always considered, middling ability.

  “You there!” he shouted, striding into the church. “Stop that!

  You hear? Release that rope at once!”

  Bran dropped the rope and spun around.

  “Oh, it’s you, Bran,” said the bishop, his features arranging themselves in a frown of weary disapproval. “I might have guessed. What, pray, is the meaning of this spirited summons?”

  “No time to waste, bishop,” said Bran. Rushing up, he snatched the churchman by the sleeve of his robe and pulled him out of the church and into the yard, where twenty or so of the monastery’s inhabitants were quickly gathering.

  “Calm yourself,” said Bishop Asaph, shaking himself free of Bran’s grasp. “We’re all here, so explain this commotion if you can.”

  “The Ffreinc are coming,” said Bran. “Three hundred marchogi—they are on their way here now.” Pointing to the battlechief sitting slumped in the saddle, he said, “Iwan fought them, and he’s wounded. He needs help at once.”

  “Marchogi!” gasped the gathered monks, glancing fearfully at one another.

  “But why tell us?” wondered the bishop. “Your father should be the one to—”

  “The king is dead,” Bran said. “They murdered him—and the rest of the warband with him. Everyone is dead. We have no protection.”

  “I do not understand,” sputtered the bishop. “What do you mean? Everyone?”

  Fear snaked through the gathered monks. “The warband dead! We are lost!”

  Brother Ffreol appeared, pushing his way through the crowd. “Bran, I saw you ride in. There is trouble. What has happened?”

  “The Ffreinc are coming!” he said, turning to meet the priest and pull him close. “Three hundred marchogi. They’re on their way to Elfael now.”

  “Will Rhi Brychan fight them?”

  “He already did,” said Bran. “There was a battle on the road. My father and his men have been killed. Iwan alone escaped to warn us. He is injured—here,” he said, moving to the wounded champion, “help me get him down.”

  Together with a few of the other brothers, they eased the warrior down from his horse and laid him on the ground. While Brother Galen, the monastery physician, began examining the wounds, Bran said, “We must raise the alarm. There is still time for everyone to flee.”

  “Leave that with me. I will see to it,” replied Ffreol. “You must ride to Caer Cadarn and gather everything you care to save. Go now—and may God go with you.”

  “Wait a moment,” said the bishop, raising his hand to stop them from hurrying off. Turning to Bran, he said, “Why would the Ffreinc come here? Your father has arranged to swear a treaty of peace with William the Red.”

  “And he was on his way to do just that!” snapped Bran, growing angry at the perfunctory insinuation that he was lying. “Am I the Red King’s counsellor now that I should be privy to a Ffreinc rogue’s thoughts?” He glared at the suspicious bishop.

  “Calm yourself, my son,” said Asaph stiffly. “There is no need to mock. I was only asking.”

  “They will arrive in force,” Bran said, climbing into the saddle once more. “I will save what I can from the caer and return here for Iwan.”

  “And then?” wondered Asaph.

  “We will flee while there is still time!”

  The
bishop shook his head. “No, Bran. You must ride to Lundein instead. You must finish what your father intended.”

  “No,” replied Bran. “It is impossible. I cannot go to Lundein —and even if I did, the king would never listen to me.”

  “The king will listen,” the bishop insisted. “William is not unreasonable. You must talk to him. You must tell him what has happened and seek redress.”

  “Red William will not see me!”

  “Bran,” said Brother Ffreol. He came to stand at the young man’s stirrup and placed his hand on his leg as if to restrain him. “Bishop Asaph is right. You will be king now.William will certainly see you. And when he does, you must swear the treaty your father meant to undertake.”

  Bran opened his mouth to object, but Bishop Asaph stopped him, saying, “A grave mistake has been made, and the king must provide remedy. You must obtain justice for your people.”

  “Mistake!” cried Bran. “My father has been killed, and his warband slaughtered!”

  “Not by William,” the bishop pointed out. “When the king hears what has happened, he will punish the man who did this and make reparations.”

  Bran rejected the advice out of hand. The course they urged was childish and dangerous. Before he could begin to explain the utter folly of their plan, Asaph turned to the brothers who stood looking on and commanded them to take the alarm to the countryside and town. “The people are not to oppose the Ffreinc by force,” instructed the bishop sternly. “This is a holy decree, tell them. Enough blood has been shed already—and that needlessly. We must not give the enemy cause to attack. God willing, this occupation will be brief. But until it ends, we will all endure it as best we can.”

  The bishop sent his messengers away, saying, “Go now, and with all speed. Tell everyone you meet to spread the word— each to his neighbour. No one is to be overlooked.”

  The monks hurried off, deserting the monastery on the run. Bran watched them go, grave misgivings mounting by the moment. “Now then,” said Bishop Asaph, turning once more to Bran, “you must reach Lundein as quickly as possible. The sooner this error can be remedied, the less damage will result and the better for everyone. You must leave at once.”

  “This is madness,” Bran told him. “We’ll all be killed.”

  “It is the only way,” Ffreol asserted. “You must do it for the sake of Elfael and the throne.”

  Bran stared incredulously at the two churchmen. Every instinct told him to run, to fly.

  “I will go with you,” offered Ffreol. “Whatever I can do to aid you in this, trust it will be done.”

  “Good,” said the bishop, satisfied with this arrangement.

  “Now go, both of you, and may God lend you his own wisdom and the swiftness of very angels.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Racing up the ramp, Bran flew through the gates of Caer Cadarn. He leapt from the saddle, shouting before his feet touched the ground. The disagreeable Maelgwnt drifted into the yard. “What now?” he asked. “Foundered another horse? Two in one day—what will your father say, I wonder?”

  “My father is dead,” Bran said, his tone lashing, “and all who rode with him, save Iwan.”

  The steward’s eyes narrowed as he tried to work out the likelihood of Bran’s wild assertion. “If that is a jest, it is a poor one—even for you.”

  “It is God’s own truth!” Bran snarled. Clutching the startled man by the arm, he turned him around and marched swiftly toward the king’s hall. “They were attacked by a Ffreinc warhost that is on its way here now,” he explained. “They will come here first. Take the strongbox and silver to the monastery —the servants, too. Leave no one behind. The marchogi will take the fortress and everything in it for their own.”

  “What about the livestock?” asked Maelgwnt.

  “To the monastery,” replied Bran, dashing for the door. “Use your head, man! Anything worth saving—take it to Llanelli. The monks will keep it safe for us.”

  He ran through the hall to the armoury beyond: a square, thick-walled room with long slits for windows. As he expected, the best weapons were gone; the warband had taken all but a few rusty, bent-bladed swords and some well-worn spears. He selected the most serviceable of these and then turned to the rack of longbows hanging on the far wall.

  For some reason—probably for decorum’s sake in Lundein—his father had left all the warbows behind. He picked one up, tried it, and slung it over his shoulder. He tucked a red-rusted sword into his belt, grabbed up a sheaf of arrows and several of the least blunt spears, and then raced to the stables. Dumping the weapons on the floor, Bran commanded Cefn to saddle another of the mares. “When you’re finished, bring it to the yard. Brother Ffreol is on his way here by foot; I want to leave the moment he arrives.”

  Cefn, wan and distraught, made no move to obey. “Is it true?”

  “The massacre?” Bran asked. “Yes, it’s true. Ffreol and I ride now to Lundein to see the Red King, swear allegiance, and secure the return of our lands. As soon as I leave, run and find Maelgwnt—do everything he says.We’re moving everything to the monastery. Never fear, you will be safe there. Understand?”

  Cefn nodded.

  “Good. Hurry now. There is not much time.”

  Bran returned to the kitchen to find the old cook comforting her young helpers. They were huddled beneath her ample arms like chicks beneath the wings of a hen, and she held them, patting their shoulders and stroking their heads.

  “Mairead, I need provisions,” Bran said, striding quickly into the room. “Brother Ffreol and I are riding to Lundein at once.”

  “Bran! Oh, Bran!” wailed the woman. “Rhi Brychan is dead!”

  “He is,” Bran replied, pulling the two whimpering girls from her grasp.

  “And all who rode with him?”

  “Gone,” he confirmed. “And we will mourn them properly when we have rid ourselves of these scabby Ffreinc thieves. But you must listen to me now. As soon as I am gone, Maelgwnt will take everyone to Llanelli. Stay there until I return. The Ffreinc will not harm you if you remain at the monastery with the monks. Do you hear me?”

  The woman nodded, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Bran turned her and pushed her gently away. “Off with you now! Hurry and bring the food to the yard.”

  Next, Bran dashed to his father’s chamber and to the small wooden casket where the king kept his ready money. The real treasure was kept in the strongbox that Maelgwnt would see hidden at the monastery—two hundred marks in English silver. The smaller casket contained but a few marks used for buying at the market, paying for favours, bestowing largesse on the tenants, and other occasional uses.

  There were four bags of coins in all—more than enough to see them safely to Lundein and back. Bran scooped up the little leather bags, stuffed them into his shirt, then ran back out to the yard, where Brother Ffreol was just coming through the gate, leading Iwan on horseback behind him.

  “Iwan, what are you doing here?” Bran asked, running to meet them. “You should stay at the monastery where they can tend you.”

  “Save your breath,” advised Ffreol. “I’ve already tried to dissuade him, but he refuses to heed a word I say.”

  “I am going with you,” the battlechief declared flatly.

  “That is the end of it.”

  “You are wounded,” Bran pointed out needlessly.

  “Not so badly that I cannot sit in a saddle,” answered the big man. “I want to see the look in the Red King’s eye when we stand before him and demand justice. And,” he added, “if a witness to this outrage is required, then you will have one.”

  Bran opened his mouth to object once more, but Ffreol said, “Let him be. If he feels that way about it, nothing we say will discourage him, and stubborn as he is, he’d only follow us anyway.”

  Glancing toward the stable, Bran muttered, “What is keeping Cefn?” He shouted for the groom to hurry; when that brought no response, he started for the stable to see what was taking so long.

&n
bsp; Brother Ffreol held him back, saying, “Calm yourself, Bran. You’ve been running all day. Rest when you can. We will be on our way soon enough.”

  “Not soon enough for me,” he cried, racing off to the stable to help Cefn finish saddling the horses. They were leading two mares into the yard when Mairead appeared with her two kitchen helpers, each carrying a cloth sack bulging with provisions. While the priest blessed the women and prayed over them, Bran and Cefn arranged the tuck bags behind the saddles and strapped them down, secreting the money in the folds. “Come, Ffreol,” Bran said, taking the reins from the groom and mounting the saddle, “if they catch us here, all is lost.”

  “. . . and may the Lord make his face to shine upon you and give you his peace through all things whatsoever may befall you,” intoned the priest, bestowing a kiss on the bowed head of each woman in turn. “Amen. Now off with you! Help Maelgwnt, and then all of you hie to Llanelli as soon as you can.”

  The sun was already low in the west by the time the three riders crossed the stream and started up the long rising slope toward the edge of the forest; their shadows stretched long on the road, going before them like spindly, misshapen ghosts. They rode in silence until entering the shady margin of the trees.

  Coed Cadw, the Guarding Wood, was a dense tangle of ancient trees: oak, elm, lime, plane—all the titans of the wood. Growing amongst and beneath these giants were younger, smaller trees and thickets of hazel and beech. The road itself was lined with blackberry brambles that formed a hedge wall along either side so thick and lush that three paces off the road in any direction and a person could no longer be seen from the path.

  “Is it wise, do you think,” asked the priest, “to keep to the road? The marchogi are certain to be on it too.”

  “I do not doubt it,” replied Bran, “but going any other way would take far too long. If we keep our wits about us, we will hear them long before they hear us, and we can easily get off the road and out of sight.”