Hood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Have you forgotten, Iwan? We went to Lundein and spoke to the king’s justiciar,” Bran said. “Do you remember what he said?”

  “Aye,” conceded the big man, “I remember. What help is that to us now?”

  “It is our very salvation!” Iwan and Siarles exchanged puzzled glances across the fire. Clearly, they did not see, so Bran explained, “The cardinal said he would annul Baron de Braose’s grant for six hundred marks. So we will simply buy Elfael from the king.”

  “Six hundred marks!” muttered Siarles in dull amazement.

  “Have you ever seen that much?”

  “Never,” allowed Bran. “In truth, I don’t know if there is that much silver to be had beyond the March. But the terms were laid down by William’s own man. The cardinal said we could have Elfael for six hundred marks.”

  “Aye,” mused Iwan, rubbing his chin doubtfully, “that is what he said—and it is just as impossible now as it was then.”

  “A high price, yes, but not impossible. Anyway, it is far less than what would be needed to raise and feed an army of a thousand men—not to mention weapons and armour. For that, we’d need ten times more than the cardinal is asking.”

  The two others fell silent gazing at him, calculating the enormity of the sums involved. Bran let his words work for a moment and then added, “That aside, I agree about the horses.”

  “You do?” wondered Siarles, much impressed.

  “Yes, but not a thousand. Three or four will suffice.”

  “What can we do with three horses?” scoffed the young forester.

  “We can begin raising the six hundred marks to redeem our homeland.”

  PART FOUR

  THE

  HAUNTING

  CHAPTER 30

  Ten wagons laden with sacks of barley and rye, bags of dried beans and peas, and whole sides of beef and smoked pork trundled along the rising trackway through the forest. The supply van of Baron Neufmarché had spent all morning toiling up the winding incline of the ridge, and the crest was now in sight. Along with the wagons, the baron had sent an armed escort: five men-at-arms under the command of a knight, all of them in mail hauberks and armed with swords and lances, their shields and steel helmets slung behind their saddles. Their presence dared Count Falkes, or anyone else, to divert the consignment of supplies intended for the starving folk of Elfael.

  The day had turned hazy and hot in the open places, the skies clear for the most part with but a smudgy suggestion of cloud to the west. The road, though deeply rutted and lumpy, was as dry as parchment. A drowsy hush lay over the rising woodland, as if the trees themselves dozed in the heat. The drivers did not press their teams too hard; the day was hot, the wagons were heavy, and they were loath to hurry. The food would arrive when it arrived, and that would be soon enough.

  The six advance guards paused on the spine of the ridge and waited for the ox train to reach the top. From their high vantage point, the soldiers could see the Vale of Elfael spreading green and inviting to the north. “This is tedious work,” muttered the knight leading the escort. Turning to one of his men, he said, “Richard, go down and tell them that we will ride on. There is a ford ahead—just there.” He pointed down the descending slope to a place where a stream cut through the road as it pursued its switchback descent into the valley. “We will water the horses and wait for them there.”

  The man-at-arms gave a nod, put spurs to his horse, and trotted back down the slope. “This way,” said the knight, and they rode down to the fording place, where they dismounted and stretched. After the animals had drunk their fill, the men drank, too, removing their round leather caps to lave cool water over their sweating heads. Kneeling in a sunny patch on the bank of the stream, the knight saw a shadow pass over him.

  He watched the shade slowly engulf him, and thinking nothing more than that an errant cloud had passed over the sun, he ducked his head and continued cupping water to his mouth. Behind him, and a little way above, he heard the rustling of feathers and, still on his knees, craned his neck around to see a huge, dark, winglike shape disappear into the undergrowth—nothing more than a dull glimmering of black feathers, and then it was gone.

  The sunlight returned, and the kneeling soldier was left with the strong sensation that something strange and unnatural had been watching him and, for all he knew, watched him still. The skin of his belly tightened beneath his chain mail tunic. Fear stretched both ways along his spine. The knight rose to his feet, replaced his leather cap, drew his sword, and prepared to fight. “To arms, men!” he cried. “To arms!”

  Instantly, the soldiers unsheathed swords and levelled lances. They drew together to form a protective line and waited for the anticipated onslaught. The moment stretched and passed. The attack did not come.

  The knight advanced cautiously to the place in the brush where the dark shape had disappeared. Gesturing for his men to maintain silence, he summoned them to him, indicating that the enemy was hiding in the underbrush. They paused at the ready, and then, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, they started into the brushwood, where they discovered a narrow trail used by animals when passing to and from the stream.

  Stopping every few steps to listen, the five soldiers advanced cautiously along the trackway.

  A hundred paces farther along, the trail divided. One way led into a deep-shaded game run; arched over by intertwining limbs, it was straight and narrow and dark as any underground tunnel. The other was more open and meandered amongst the trees, below which stunted saplings formed a scrubby underbrush where an enemy might hide.

  It could have been his overwrought imagination, but the knight felt dank and chill air seeping along the darker path. It came spilling out from the entrance of the game run like a vapour, invisible to the eye; nevertheless, he could feel it curling and coiling around his feet and ankles, climbing his legs. He stopped in his tracks and motioned the others behind him to halt as well.

  Loath to take the darker path, the knight was considering their position when he heard a far-off whinny. It seemed to come from behind them in the direction of the stream. “The horses!”

  Turning as one, the warriors ran back the way they had come, stumbling in their haste as they emerged once again on the low banks of the stream to find that their horses had vanished.

  “God in heaven!” cried the knight. “We have been tricked!

  Get up there,” he shouted, pushing two men along the upstream bank. “Find them!”

  He sent his other two men-at-arms to search downstream and then ran to the road and hurried back to the ridgetop to see the ox-drawn wagons still some way off, creeping slowly up the last rise.

  He returned to the fording place and sat down on a rock with his sword across his knees. Eventually, the two who had gone upstream returned to say they had found not so much as a hoofprint on the muddy bank. One of the guards who had been searching downstream returned with the same report—neither hide nor hair of any horse did he see.

  “Where is Laurent?” asked the knight. “He was with you; what happened to him?”

  “I thought he came back here,” replied the soldier, glancing around quickly. “Did he not?”

  “He did not,” retorted the knight angrily. “As you can well see, he did not!”

  “But he was just behind me,” insisted the man-at-arms.

  Looking back along the bank, he said, “He must have turned aside to relieve himself.”

  Assuming this to be the case, they waited for a time to see if their missing comrade would reappear. When he failed to show up, the knight and his men walked back along the downstream bank. They shouted and called his name and listened for sounds of the absent soldier thrashing through the brush. The surrounding wood remained deathly still and quiet.

  The five guardsmen were still shouting when the rider sent with the message for the wagons appeared. The knight turned on him. “Have you seen him?”

  “Who, my lord?”

  “Laurent—he’s disappeared. Did you s
ee anything amiss on the road?”

  Catching the wild cast of the knight’s eyes and frantic tone, he replied with studied caution. “Nothing amiss, my lord. All is well. The wagons will be here soon.”

  “All is not well, by heaven!” roared the knight. “Our horses have vanished, too.”

  “Vanished?”

  “Spirited away!”

  The rider’s bald brow furrowed, and tiny creases formed at the corners of his eyes. “But I—are you certain, sire?”

  “We watered the horses and knelt down to get a mouthful ourselves,” explained one of the men-at-arms, pushing forward. “When we looked up”—he glanced around to gather the assent of his companions—“the horses had disappeared.”

  “One moment there, and the next gone?” wondered the rider. “And you saw nothing?”

  “If we had, would we waste breath talking to you?” the knight charged angrily. Still gripping the hilt of his sword, he scanned the forest round about, a great, green, all-embracing wall. “Mark me, there is some witchery hereabouts. I can feel it.”

  They waited at the ford, armed and ready for whatever might happen next, however uncanny, but nothing more sinister than clouds of flies gathering about their heads had befallen them by the time the first of the ox-drawn wagons reached them. The driver stopped to allow his team to rest before continuing the descent into the Vale of Elfael. While they waited, the knight questioned the lead wagoner closely, and then all the rest in turn as they drew up to water their animals, but none of the drivers had seen or heard anything strange or disturbing on the road.

  When the oxen had rested, the wagon van of supplies resumed its journey to the monastery at Llanelli. While they were still some little way off, the wagons were seen by the guards at the count’s fortress. Hoping for a way to ingratiate himself with the baron—and to distance himself from any whiff of thievery or misuse of this second shipment—Count Falkes sent his own contingent of soldiers down to help convey the much-needed food supplies the short remaining distance to the monastery.

  The baron’s guards grudgingly tolerated the count’s men-at-arms, and the party continued on to Llanelli to supervise the unloading of the wagons at what remained of the monastery.

  While they watched the cargo being carried into the chapel, the soldiers began to talk and were soon relating the unchancy events that had just befallen them in the forest. Thus, word of the visiting soldiers’ strange experience quickly reached Count de Braose, who summoned the baron’s knight to his fortress.

  “What do you mean the horses vanished?” inquired the count when he had heard what the knight had to say.

  “Count de Braose,” conceded the knight reluctantly, “we also lost a man.”

  “Men and horses do not simply dissolve into the air.”

  “As you say, sire,” replied the knight, growing petulant.

  “Even so, I know what I saw.”

  “But you said you saw nothing,” insisted Count Falkes.

  “And I stand by it,” the knight maintained stolidly. “I am no liar.”

  “Nor do I so accuse you,” replied the count, his voice rising. “I am merely attempting to learn what it was that you saw—if anything.”

  “I saw,” began the knight cautiously, “a shadow. As I knelt to drink, a shadow fell over me, and when I looked up, I saw . . .” He hesitated.

  “Yes? Yes?” urged the count, impatience making him sharp.

  Drawing a bracing breath, the knight replied, “I saw a great dark shape—very like that of a bird.”

  “A dark shape, you say. Like a bird,” repeated Falkes.

  “But larger—far larger than any bird ever seen before. Black as the devil himself, and a wingspread wide as your arms.”

  “Are you suggesting to me that this bird carried off your man and all the horses?” scoffed the count. “By heaven, it must have been a very Colossus amongst birds!”

  The knight shut his mouth and stared at the count, his face growing hot with humiliation.

  “Well? Go on; I would hear the rest of this fantastic yarn.”

  “We gave chase, sire,” the knight said in a low, disgruntled voice. “We pursued the thing into the brushwood and found a deer track which we followed, but we neither saw nor heard anything again. When we returned to the stream, our horses were gone.” He nodded for emphasis. “Vanished.”

  “You looked for them, I presume?” inquired the count.

  “We searched both ways along the stream, and that is when Laurent disappeared.”

  “And again, I suppose no one saw or heard anything?”

  “Nothing at all. The forest was uncannily quiet. If there had been so much as a mayfly to see or hear, that we would have.

  One moment Laurent was there, and the next he was gone.”

  Growing tired of the murky vagueness of the report, the count cut the interview short. “If there is nothing else, you may go. But do not for a single moment think to lay any of this at my feet. By the Holy Name, I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I accuse no one,” muttered the knight.

  “Then you are dismissed. Take some refreshment for yourself and your men, and then you may return to the baron. God knows what he will make of the tale.” When the knight made no move to leave, Count Falkes added, “I said, your service is completed. The supplies have been delivered, I believe? You may go.”

  “We have no horses, sire.”

  “And what do you imagine I should do about that?”

  “I am certain Baron Neufmarché would deem it a boon of honour if you lent us some worthy mounts,” the knight suggested.

  The count glared at the man before him. “You want me to lend you horses?” He made it sound as if it was the most outlandish thing he had heard so far. “And what? Watch you make my animals disappear along with the others? I’ll have none of it. You can ride back in the empty wagons. It would serve you right.”

  The knight stiffened under the count’s sarcasm but held his ground. “The baron would be indebted to you, I daresay.”

  “Yes, I daresay he would,” agreed the count. He regarded the knight; there was something in what he suggested. To have the baron beholden to him might prove a useful thing in future dealings. “Oh, very well, take some refreshment, and I will arrange it. You can leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, sire,” said the knight. “We are most grateful.”

  When the knight had gone, Count Falkes put the matter out of his mind. Soldiers were a superstitious lot, all told, forever seeing signs and wonders where there were none.

  Even the most solid-seeming needed little prompting—a shadow in the woods, was that it?—to embark on a flight of delirious fancy and set tongues wagging everywhere.

  Probably the slack-witted guards, having ranged far ahead of the wagons, had emptied a skinful of wine between them and, in their drunken stupor, allowed their untethered horses to wander off.

  Later that evening, however, as twilight deepened across the valley, the count was given opportunity to reappraise his hasty opinion when the missing soldier, Laurent, stumbled out of the forest and appeared at the gate of his stronghold. Half out of his head with fear, the fellow was gibbering about demons and ghosts and a weird phantom bird, and insisting that the ancient wood was haunted.

  Before the count could interview the man in person, word had flashed throughout the caer that some sort of unworldly creature—a giant bird with a beak as long as a man’s arm, wings a double span wide, and glowing red eyes—had arisen in the forest, called forth by means both mysterious and infernal to instil terror in the hearts of the Ffreinc intruders. This last appeared only too likely, the count considered, watching his men fall over themselves in their haste to hear the lunatic. This time tomorrow, the tale would spread from one end of the valley to the other.

  Whatever it was that had frightened the stricken soldier, it would take more than some cockeyed tale involving an oversized bird and the dubious misplacement of a few horses to
make Count Falkes tremble in his boots. Nothing short of a midnight shower of fire and brimstone and the appearance of Lucifer himself could drive a de Braose from his throne once he had got his rump on it. And that was that.

  CHAPTER 31

  For Mérian, the invitation to attend the baron’s festivities came as a command to undertake an onerous obligation. “Must we go?” she demanded when her mother informed her. “Must I?”

  She had heard how the Ffreinc lived: how the men worshipped their ladies and showered them with expensive baubles; how the noble houses were steeped in lavish displays of wealth—fine clothes, sumptuous food, imported wine, furniture made by artisans across the sea; how the Ffreinc prized beauty and held a high respect for ritual, indulging many extraordinary and extravagant courtesies.

  All this and more she had heard from one gossip or another over the years, and it had never swayed her from her opinion that the Ffreinc were little more than belligerent swine, scrubbed up and dressed in satin and lace, perhaps, but born to the stockyard nonetheless. The mere thought of attending one of their festive celebrations produced in her a dread akin to the sweating queasiness some people feel aboard ship in uneasy seas.

  “It is an honour to be asked,” Queen Anora told her.

  “Then that is honour enough for me,” she replied crisply.

  “Your father has already accepted the invitation.”

  “He accepted without my permission,” Mérian pointed out. “Let him go without me.”

  This was not the last word on the subject—far from it. In the end, however, she knew she must accept her father’s decision; she would pretend the dutiful daughter and go, like a martyr, to her fate.

  Galled as she was to think of attending the event, she worried that she would not be properly dressed, that she would not know how to comport herself correctly, that her speech would betray her for a brutish Briton, that her family would embarrass her with their backward ways, and on and on. Just as there were a thousand objections to consorting with the Ffreinc, there was, she discovered, no end of hazards to fear.