Hood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Bran accepted this observation without further comment. He stared gloomily into the fire, wishing he had followed his first impulse to leave Elfael and all its troubles as far behind as possible.

  After a time, Iwan asked about Lundein. Ffreol had been to the city several times on church business in years past, and he described for Bran and Iwan what they might expect to find when they arrived. As he talked, night deepened around them, and they continued to feed the fire until they grew too tired to keep their eyes open. They then wrapped themselves in their cloaks and fell asleep in the quiet grove.

  Rising again at dawn, the travellers shook the leaves and dew from their cloaks, watered the horses, and continued on. The day passed much like the one before, except that the settlements became more numerous and the English presence in the land became more marked, until Bran was convinced that they had left Britain far behind and entered an alien country, where the houses were small and dark and crabbed, where grim-faced people dressed in curious garb made up of coarse dun-coloured cloth stood and stared at passing travellers with suspicion in their dull peasant eyes. Despite the sunlight streaming down from a clear blue sky, the land seemed dismal and unhappy. Even the animals, in their woven willow enclosures, appeared bedraggled and morose.

  Nor was the aspect to improve. The farther south they went, the more abject the countryside appeared. Settlements of all kinds became more numerous—how the English loved their villages—but these were not wholesome places. Clustered together in what Bran considered suffocating proximity anywhere the earth offered a flat space and a little running water, the close-set hovels sprouted like noxious mushrooms on earth stripped of all trees and greenery—which the mud-dwellers used to make humpbacked houses, barns, and byres for their livestock, which they kept in muck-filled pens beside their low, smoky dwellings.

  Thus, a traveller could always smell an English town long before he reached it, and Bran could only shake his head in wonder at the thought of abiding in perpetual fug and stench. In his opinion, the people lived no better than the pigs they slopped, slaughtered, and fed upon.

  As the sun began to lower, the three riders crested the top of a broad hill and looked down into the Vale of Hafren and the gleaming arc of the Hafren River. A smudgy brown haze in the valley betrayed their destination for the night: the town of Gleawancaester, which began life in ancient times as a simple outpost of the Roman Legio Augusta XX. Owing to its pride of place by the river and the proximity of iron mines, the town begun by legionary veterans had grown slowly over the centuries until the arrival of the English, who transformed it into a market centre for the region.

  The road into the vale widened as it neared the city, which to Bran’s eyes was worse than any he had seen so far—if only because it was larger than any other they had yet passed. Squatting hard by the river, with twisting, narrow streets of crowded hovels clustered around a huge central market square of beaten earth, Gleawancaester—Caer Gloiu of the Britons —had long ago outgrown the stout stone walls of the Roman garrison, which could still be seen in the lower courses of the city’s recently refurbished fortress.

  Like the town’s other defences—a wall and gate, still unfinished—a new bridge of timber and stone bore testimony to Ffreinc occupation. Norman bridges were wide and strong, built to withstand heavy traffic and ensure that the steady stream of horses, cattle, and merchant wagons flowed unimpeded into and out of the markets.

  Bran noticed the increase in activity as they approached the bridge. Here and there, tall, clean-shaven Ffreinc moved amongst the shorter, swarthier English residents. The sight of these horse-faced foreigners with their long, straight-cut hair and pale, sun-starved flesh walking about with such toplofty arrogance made the gorge rise in his throat. He forcibly turned his face away to keep from being sick.

  Before crossing the bridge, they dismounted to stretch their legs and water the horses at a wooden trough set up next to a riverside well. As they were waiting, Bran noticed two barefoot, ragged little girls walking together, carrying a basket of eggs between them—no doubt bound for the market. They fell in with the traffic moving across the bridge. Two men in short cloaks and tunics loitered at the rail, and as the girls passed by, one of the men, grinning at his companion, stuck out his foot, tripping the nearest girl. She fell sprawling onto the bridge planks; the basket overturned, spilling the eggs.

  Bran, watching this confrontation develop, immediately started toward the child. When, as the second girl bent to retrieve the basket, the man kicked it from her grasp, scattering eggs every which way, Bran was already on the bridge. Iwan, glancing up from the trough, took in the girls, Bran, and the two thugs and shouted for Bran to come back.

  “Where is he going?” wondered Ffreol, looking around.

  “To make trouble,” muttered Iwan.

  The two little girls, tearful now, tried in vain to gather up the few unbroken eggs, only to have them kicked from their hands or trodden on by passersby—much to the delight of the louts on the bridge. The toughs were so intent on their merriment that they failed to notice the slender Welshman bearing down on them until Bran, lurching forward as if slipping on a broken egg, stumbled up to the man who had tripped the girl.

  The fellow made to shove Bran away, whereupon Bran seized his arm, spun him around, and pushed him over the rail. His surprised yelp was cut short as the dun-coloured water closed over his head. “Oops!” said Bran. “How clumsy of me.”

  “Mon Dieu! ” objected the other, backing away.

  Bran turned on him and drew him close. “What is that you say?” he asked. “You wish to join him?”

  “Bran! Leave him alone!” shouted Ffreol as he pulled Bran off the man. “He can’t understand you. Let him go!”

  The oaf spared a quick glance at his friend, sputtering and floundering in the river below, then fled down the street. “I think he understood well enough,” observed Bran.

  “Come away,” said Ffreol.

  “Not yet,” said Bran. Taking the purse at his belt, he untied it and withdrew two silver pennies. Turning to the older of the two girls, he wiped the remains of an eggshell from her cheek. “Give those to your mother,” he said, pressing the coins into the girl’s grubby fist. Closing her hand upon the coins, he repeated, “For your mother.”

  Brother Ffreol picked up the empty basket and handed it to the younger girl; he spoke a quick word in English, and the two scampered away. “Now unless you have any other battles you wish to fight in front of God and everybody,” he said, taking Bran by the arm, “let us get out of here before you draw a crowd.”

  “Well done,” said Iwan, his grin wide and sunny as Bran and Ffreol returned to the trough.

  “We are strangers here,” Ffreol remonstrated. “What, in the holy name of Peter, were you thinking?”

  “Only that heads can be as easily broken as eggs,” Bran replied, “and that justice ought sometimes to protect those least able to protect themselves.” He glowered dark defiance at the priest. “Or has that changed?”

  Ffreol drew breath to object but thought better of it. Turning away abruptly, he announced, “We have ridden far enough for one day. We will spend the night here.”

  “We will not!” objected Iwan, curling his lip in a sneer. “I’d rather sleep in a sty than stay in this stinking place. It is crawling with vermin.”

  “There is an abbey here, and we will be welcome,” the priest pointed out.

  “An abbey filled with Ffreinc, no doubt,” Bran grumbled. “You can stay there if you want. I’ll not set foot in the place.”

  “I agree,” said Iwan, his voice dulled with pain. He sat on the edge of the trough, hunched over his wound as if protecting it.

  The monk fell silent, and they mounted their horses and continued on. They crossed the bridge and passed through the untidy sprawl of muddy streets and low-roofed hovels. Smoke from cooking fires filled the streets, and all the people Bran saw were either hurrying home with a bundle of firewood on their backs or c
arrying food to be prepared—a freshly killed chicken to be roasted, a scrap of bacon, a few leeks, a turnip or two. Seeing the food reminded Bran that he had eaten very little in the last few days, and his hunger came upon him with the force of a kick. He scented the aroma of roasting meat on the evening air, and his mouth began to water. He was on the point of suggesting to Brother Ffreol that they should return to the centre of town and see if there might be an inn near the market square, when the monk suddenly announced, “I know just the place!” He urged his horse to a trot and proceeded toward the old south gate. “This way!”

  The priest led his reluctant companions out through the gate and up the curving road as it ascended the steep riverbank. Shortly, they came to a stand of trees growing atop the bluff above the river, overlooking the town. “Here it is—just as I remembered!”

  Bran took one look at an odd eight-sided timber structure with a high, steeply pitched roof and a low door with a curiously curved lintel and said, “A barn? You’ve brought us to a barn?”

  “Not a barn,” the monk assured him, sliding from the saddle. “It is an old cell.”

  “A priest’s cell,” Bran said, regarding the edifice doubtfully.

  There was no cross atop the structure, no window, no outward markings of any kind to indicate its function. “Are you sure?”

  “The blessed Saint Ennion once lived here,” Ffreol explained, moving toward the door. “A long time ago.”

  Bran shrugged. “Who lives here now?”

  “A friend.” Taking hold of a braided cord that passed through one doorpost, the monk gave the cord a strong tug. A bell sounded from somewhere inside. Ffreol, smiling in anticipation of a glad welcome, pulled the cord again and said, “You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Ffreol waited a moment, and when no one answered, he gave the braided cord a more determined pull. The bell sounded once more—a clean, clear peal in the soft evening air. Bran looked around, taking in the old oratory and its surroundings.

  The cell stood at the head of a small grove of beech trees. The ground was covered with thick grass through which an earthen pathway led down the hillside into the town. In an earlier time, it occupied the grove as a woodland shrine overlooking the river. Now it surveyed the squalid prospect of a busy market town with its herds and carts and the slow-moving boats bearing iron ore to be loaded onto ships waiting at the larger docks downriver.

  When a third pull on the bell rope brought no response, Ffreol turned and scratched his head. “He must be away.”

  “Can we not just let ourselves in?” asked Bran.

  “Perhaps,” allowed Ffreol. Putting his hand to the leather strap that served for a latch, he pulled, and the door opened inward. He pushed it farther and stuck in his head. “Pax vobiscum!” he shouted and waited for an answer. “There is no one here. We will wait inside.”

  Iwan, wincing with pain, was helped to dismount and taken inside to rest. Bran gathered up the reins of the horses and led them into the grove behind the cell; the animals were quickly unsaddled and tethered beneath the trees so they could graze. He found a leather bucket and hauled water from a stoup beside the cell. When he had finished watering the horses and settled them for the night, he joined the others in the oratory; by this time, Ffreol had a small fire going in the hearth that occupied one corner of the single large room.

  It was, Bran thought, an odd dwelling—half house, half church. There was a sleeping place and a stone-lined hearth, but also an altar with a large wooden cross and a single wax candle. A solitary narrow window opened in the wall high above the altar, and a chain of sausages hung from an iron hook beside the hearth directly above a low three-legged stool. Next to the stool was a pair of leather shoes with thick wooden soles—the kind worn by those who work the mines. Crumbs of bread freckled both the altar and the hearthstones, and the smell of boiled onions mingled with incense.

  Ffreol approached the altar, knelt, and said a prayer of blessing for the keeper of the cell. “I hope nothing has happened to old Faganus,” he said when he finished.

  “Saints and sinners are we all,” said a gruff voice from the open doorway. “Old Faganus is long dead and buried.”

  Startled, Bran turned quickly, his hand reaching for his knife. A quick lash of a stout oak staff caught him on the arm. “Easy, son,” advised the owner of the staff. “I will behave if you will.”

  Into the cell stepped a very short, very fat man. The crown of his head came only to Bran’s armpit, and his bulk filled the doorway in which he stood. Dressed in the threadbare brown robes of a mendicant priest, he balanced his generous girth on two absurdly thin, bandy legs; his shoulders sloped and his back was slightly bent, giving him a stooped, almost dwarfish appearance; however, his thick-muscled arms and chest looked as if he could crush ale casks in his brawny embrace.

  He carried a slender staff of unworked oak in one hand and held a brace of hares by a leather strap with the other. His tonsure was outgrown and in need of reshaving; his bare feet were filthy and caked with river mud, some of which had found its way to his full, fleshy jowls. He regarded his three intruders with bold and unflinching dark eyes, as ready to wallop them as welcome them.

  “God be good to you,” said Ffreol from the altar. “Are you priest here now?”

  “Who might you be?” demanded the rotund cleric. He was one of the order of begging brothers which the Ffreinc called fréres and the English called friars. They were all but unknown amongst the Cymry.

  “We might be the King of England and his barons,” replied Iwan, rising painfully. “My friend asked you a question.”

  Quick as a flick of a whip, the oak staff swung out, catching Iwan on the meaty part of the shoulder. He started forward, but the priest thumped him with the knob end of the staff in the centre of the chest. The champion crumpled as if struck by lightning. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

  “It was only a wee tap, was it not?” the priest said in amazement, turning wide eyes to Bran and Ffreol. “I swear on Sweet Mary’s wedding veil, it was only a tap.”

  “He was wounded in a battle several days ago,” Bran said. Kneeling beside the injured warrior, he helped raise him to his feet.

  “Oh my soul, I didn’t mean to hurt the big ’un,” he sighed. To Ffreol, he said, “Aye, I am priest here now.Who are you?”

  “I am Brother Ffreol of Llanelli in Elfael.”

  “Never heard of it,” declared the brown-robed priest.

  “It is in Cymru,” Bran offered in a snide tone, “which you sons of Saecsens call Wales.”

  “Careful, boy,” snipped the priest. “Come over highhanded with me, and I’ll give you a thump to remind you of your manners. Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Go on, then,” Bran taunted, thrusting forward. “I’ll have that stick of yours so far up your—”

  “Peace!” cried Ffreol, rushing forward to place himself between Bran and the brown priest. “We mean no harm. Pray, forgive my quick-tempered friends. We have suffered a grave calamity in the last days, and I fear it has clouded our better judgement.” This last was said with a glare of disapproval at Bran and Iwan. “Please forgive us.”

  “Very well, since you ask,” the priest granted with a sudden smile. “I forgive you.” Laying his staff aside, he said, “So now! We know whence you came, but we still lack names for you all. Do they have proper names in Elfael? Or are they in such short supply that you must hoard them and keep them to yourselves?”

  “Allow me to present Bran ap Brychan, prince and heir of Elfael,” said Ffreol, drawing himself upright. “And this is Iwan ap Iestyn, champion and battlechief.”

  “Hail and welcome, friends,” replied the little friar, raising his hands in declamation. “The blessings of a warm hearth beneath a dry roof are yours tonight. May it be so always.”

  Now it was Bran’s turn to be amazed. “How is it that you speak Cymry?”

  The brown priest gave him a wink. “And here was I, thinking you hotheaded so
ns of the valleys were as stupid as stumps.” He chuckled and shook his head. “It took you long enough. Indeed, sire, I speak the tongue of the blessed.”

  “But you’re English,” Bran pointed out.

  “Aye, English as the sky is blue,” said the friar, “but I was carried off as a boy to Powys, was I not? I was put to work in a copper mine up there and slaved away until I was old enough and bold enough to escape. Almost froze to death, I did, for it was a full harsh winter, but the brothers at Llandewi took me in, did they not? And that is where I found my vocation and took my vows.” He smiled a winsome, toothy grin and bowed, his round belly almost touching his knees. “I am Brother Aethelfrith,” he declared proudly. “Thirty years in God’s service.” To Iwan, he said, “I’m sorry if I smacked you too hard.”

  “No harm done, Brother Eathel . . . Aelith . . . ,” Iwan stuttered, trying to get his British tongue around the Saxon name.

  “Aethelfrith,” the priest repeated. “It means ‘nobility and peace,’ or some such nonsense.” He grinned at his guests. “Here now, what have you brought me?”

  “Brought you?” asked Bran. “We haven’t brought you anything.”

  “Everyone who seeks shelter here brings me something,” explained the priest.

  “We didn’t know we were coming,” said Bran.

  “Yet here you are.” The fat priest stuck out his hand.

  “Perhaps a coin might suffice?” said Ffreol. “We would be grateful for a meal and a bed.”

  “Aye, a coin is acceptable,” allowed Aethelfrith doubtfully. “Two is better, of course. Three, now! For three pennies I sing a psalm and say a prayer for all of you—and we will have wine with our dinner.”

  “Three it is!” agreed Ffreol.

  The brown priest turned to Bran expectantly and held out his hand.

  Bran, irked by the friar’s brash insistence, frowned. “You want the money now?”