Tuck kr-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  "Oh, aye," Tuck agreed with equal misgiving. "Right as a miller's scale."

  The presence of wealthy foreign strangers in the square was attracting some interest. A few of the idlers who had been standing at the well across the square were staring at them now and nodding in their direction. "You wanted to be noticed," Tuck said, smiling through his teeth. "But I don't think those fellas like what they're seeing."

  "You surprise me, Tuck. This is just what we want. If word of our arrival reaches the earl before we do, so much the better. See there?" He indicated two of the men just then hurrying away. "The news is on its way. Be at ease, and remember-as highborn Spanish noblemen it is beneath us to pay them heed."

  "You may be the king of Spain for all Caer Cestre knows," Tuck declared, "but these rich clothes fit me ill, for all I am a simple Saxon monk."

  "A simple Saxon worrier it seems to me," Bran corrected. "There is nothing to fear, I tell you."

  Brocmael and Ifor returned a short while later with pies and ale for all. Their errand had settled them somewhat and raised their confidence a rung or two. The four ate in the shade of the pillar at the side of the square and were just finishing when three of the idlers approached from the well.

  "Here's trouble," muttered Tuck. "Keep your wits about you, lads."

  But before any of them could speak, the beggar returned. He came charging across the square and accosted the men in blunt English. Bran and the others watched in amazement as the idlers halted, hesitated, then returned to their places at the well.

  "A man after my own heart," said Tuck. He looked their reprobate guide up and down. "Here now, I hardly know you."

  Not only had he washed himself head to toe, but he had cleaned his clothes with a bristle brush, cut his hair, and trimmed his beard. He had even found a feather to stick in his threadbare hat. Beaming with somewhat bleary good pleasure, he strode to where Bran was standing and with a low bow swept his cap from his head and proclaimed in the accent of an English nobleman, "Alan a'Dale at your service, my lord. May God bless you right well."

  "Well, Tuck," remarked Bran, much impressed, "he's brushed up a treat. Tell him that I mean no offence when I say that I'd not mark him for the same man."

  The man laughed, the sound full and easy. "The Alan you see is the Alan that is," he said. "Take 'im or leave 'im, friend, 'cause there en't no ither, ye ken?"

  When Tuck had translated, Bran smiled and said, "We'll take you at your word, Alan." To Tuck, he said, "Give him his pennies and tell him what we want him to do."

  "That is for the wash," said Tuck, placing a silver penny in Alan's pink-scrubbed palm, "and this is for leading us to Earl Hugh's castle. Now, sir, when we get there we want you to send for the earl's seneschal and tell him to announce us to the earl. Do that, and do it well-there's another penny for you when you're finished."

  "Too kind, you are, my friend," said Alan, closing his fist over the coins and whisking them out of sight.

  "And here's a pie for you," Tuck told him. The pie was still warm, its golden crust clean and unbroken.

  "For me?" Alan was genuinely mystified by this small courtesy. He looked from Tuck to Bran and then at the younger members of their party. His hand was shaking as he reached out to take the pie. "For me?" he said again, as one who could not quite believe his good fortune. It seemed to mean more to him than the silver he had just been given.

  "All for you, and we saved a little ale too," Tuck told him. "Eat now, and we will go as soon as you've finished."

  "Bless you, Father," he said, grabbing Tuck's hand and raising it to his lips. "May the Good Lord repay your kindness a thousand times."

  It happened so fast the little friar had no time to snatch his hand away again before the teary-eyed fellow had kissed it. "Here now! Stop that!"

  "Bless you, good gents all," he said, lapsing into the accents of the street once more. "Alan a'Dale en't one to fergit a good turn."

  He sat down on the ground at the base of the pillar and began to eat, stuffing his mouth hungrily and smacking his lips with each bite. Bran sent Ifor and Brocmael to water the horses while they waited, and then asked Tuck to find out what he could from their hungry guide. "Tell him who we are, Tuck, and let's see how he takes it."

  "My lord wants you to know that you are in the service of an esteemed and wealthy foreign nobleman in need of your aid. Perform your service well and you will be amply rewarded. He gives you good greeting."

  At this, Alan carefully laid his pie aside, rose to his knees, swiped off his hat, and bowed his head. "You honour your servant, m'lord. May God be good to you."

  "Give him our thanks," Bran said, "and ask him how long he's been in the town, and what news of the earl and his court."

  Turning to Alan, Tuck relayed Bran's question. "My lord thanks you and wishes to know how long you have sojourned in this place."

  Alan raised his eyes heavenward, his lips moving as he made his calculations. "In all, three year-give or take. No more than four."

  "And how do you find the lord here-Earl Hugh?" Tuck asked, then added, "Please, finish your meal. We will talk while you eat."

  "Aye, that's him," replied their guide, settling himself against the pillar once more. He picked up the pie and bit into it. "Fat Hugh, they call him-aye, and well-named, he. There's one hog wants the whole wallow all to himself, if ye ken."

  "A greedy man?"

  "Greedy?" he mused, taking another bite and chewing thoughtfully. "If a pig be greedy, then he's the Emperor o' Swine."

  "Is he now?" Tuck replied, and translated his words for the Cymry speakers, who chuckled at the thought.

  "That tallies with what we've heard already," replied Bran. "Ask him if he knows the castle-has he ever been inside it?"

  "Aye," nodded Alan when Tuck finished. "I ken the bloody heap right well. Lord have mercy, I been up there a few times." He crinkled up his eyes and asked, "Why would a bunch o' God fearin' folk like yerselves want to go up there anyway?"

  "We have a little business with the earl," explained Tuck.

  "Bad business, then," observed Alan. "Still, I don't suppose you can be blamed for not knowing what goes on hereabouts…" He tutted to himself. "Mark me, you'd be better off forgetting you ever heard of Wolf d'Avranches."

  "If it's as bad as all that," Tuck ventured, "then why did you agree to take us there so quickly?"

  "I didn't ken ye was God-fearin' gents right off, did I?" he said. "I maybe thought you were like his nibs up there, an' ye'd give as good as get, ye ken?"

  "And now?"

  "Now I ken different-like. Ye en't like them rascals up t'castle. Devil take 'em, but even Ol' Scratch won't have 'em, I daresay." Alan gazed at the strangers with pleading eyes. "Ye sure ye want to go up there?"

  "We thank you for the warning. If we had any other choice, no doubt we'd take your advice," Tuck told him. "But circumstances force us to go, and go we must."

  "Well, don't ye worry," said Alan, brushing crumbs from his clothes as he climbed to his feet. "I'll still see ye right, no matter. An' what's more, I'll say a prayer for yer safe return."

  "Thank you, Alan," Tuck said. "That's most thoughtful."

  "Hold tight to yer thanks," he replied. "For ye might soon be a'thinkin' otherwise."

  With that subtle warning still hanging in the air, the visitors and their rascal of a guide set off.

  PART THREE

  "But where is Will Scadlocke?" quod Rhiban to John,

  When he had rallied them all to the forest,

  "One of these ten score is missing who should

  Be stood at the fore with the best."

  "Of Scadlocke," spoke young Much, "sad tidings I give,

  For I ween now in prison he lay;

  The sherif 's men fowle have set him a trap,

  And now taken the rascal away.

  "Ay, and to-morrow he hanged must be,

  As soon as ere it comes day.

  But before the sheriff this victory could get,

&nb
sp; Four men did Will Scadlocke slay!"

  When Rhiban heard this loathly report,

  O, he was grieved full sore!

  He marshalled up his fine merrye men

  Who one and together all swore:

  That William Scadlocke rescued should be,

  And brought in safe once again;

  Or else should many a fayre gallant wight

  For his sake there would be slain.

  "Our mantles and cloaks, of deep Lincoln green,

  Shall we behind us here leave;

  We'll dress us six up as mendicant monks-

  And I whist they'll not Rhiban perceive."

  So donned they each one of them habits of black,

  Like masse-priests as such are from Spayne.

  And thus it fell out unknowingly, that,

  Rhiban the reeve entertain'd.

  To the sherif bold Rhiban proposed a sport,

  For full confidence he had achiev'd.

  If Will could outshoot monk Rhiban, disguised,

  The prisoner should earn a reprieve.

  This sheriff was loath but at length did agree

  For a trick on the prisoner he planned.

  Before William Scadlocke had taken his turn,

  The sheriff had twisted Will's hand.

  CHAPTER 14

  Earl Hugh's castle was built on the ancient foundations of the old Roman fort, partly of timber and partly of the same bloodred stone the Roman masons carved from the bluffs above the river so long ago. It loomed over the town like a livid, unsightly blemish: inflamed and angry, asquat its low hilltop.

  For all the brightness of the day, the place seemed to breathe a dark and doomful air, and Tuck shivered with a sudden chill as they passed through the gate-as if the frost of bitter winter clung to the old stone, refusing to warm beneath the autumn sun. And although it was but a short distance from the town which carried its name, Caer Cestre remained as remote behind its walls as any Ffreinc stronghold across the sea.

  This impression was due in part to the unseemly number of Ffreinc soldiers loitering in the courtyard-some in padded armour with wooden practice weapons, others standing about in clumps looking on, and still others sitting or reclining in the sun. There must have been twenty or more men in all, and a good few women too; and from the way they minced about the perimeter of the yard, smirking and winking at each and all, Tuck did not imagine they were wives of the soldiers. A heap of sleeping hounds lay in one corner of the yard, dozing in the sun, while nearby a group of stablehands worked at grooming four large chestnut-coloured hunting horses-big, raw-boned heavy-footed beasts of the kind much favoured by the Ffreinc.

  Striding along after the porter who conducted them to the hall, the small procession consisting of two young foreigners, a rotund priest, their noble leader, and a local guide caused nary a ripple of interest from anyone they passed. Upon entering the vestibule, they were shortly brought to stand before the seneschal. Alan a'Dale, despite his many shortcomings, performed the service of interpreter surprisingly well, and they were admitted into the hall without the slightest difficulty whatever. Tuck breathed a prayer as they entered Wolf Hugh's den: a noisy and noisome room filled with rough board benches and tables at which men and women, and even a few children, appeared to be entering the final progressions of a night's debauch-even though the sun had yet to quarter the sky. The roil of eating and drinking, dicing and dancing, flirting and fighting amidst gales of coarse laughter and musicians doggedly trying to make themselves heard above the revellers greeted the visitors like the roll and heave of a storm-fretted sea. In one corner, dirty-faced boys tormented a cat; in another, an amorous couple fumbled; here, a man already deep in his cups shouted for more wine; there, a fellow poked at a performing juggler with a fire iron. Hounds stalked among the benches and beneath the tables, quarrelling over bones and scraps of meat. There was even a young pig, garlanded and beribboned, wandering about with its snout in the rushes underfoot.

  Crossing the threshold, Bran paused to take in the tumult, collected himself, and then waded into the maelstrom. Here Bran's special genius was revealed, for he strode into the great, loud room with the look of a man for whom all that passed beneath his gaze in this riotous place was but dreary commonplace. His arrival did not go unnoticed, and when he judged he had gathered enough attention, he paused, his dark eyes scanning the ungainly crowd, as if to discern which of the roisterers before him might be the earl.

  "By Peter's beard," muttered Tuck, unable to believe that anyone entering the castle could experience so much as a fleeting doubt about which of the men at table was Fat Hugh. Only look for the biggest, loudest, most slovenly and uncouth brigand in the place, he thought, and that's the man. And yet… here's our Bran, standing straight and tall and searching each and every as if he could not see what was plain before his nose. Oh, this shows a bit of sass, does it not?

  What is more, Tuck could tell from the curious look on the earl's face that Hugh was more than a little taken aback at the tall dark figure standing before him. For there he was, a very king in his own kingdom, the infamous Wolf d'Avranches renowned and feared throughout his realm, and who was this that did not know him? And here was Bran without so much as a word or gesture, taking the overbearing lord down a peg or two, showing him that he was nothing more than a wobble-jowled ruffian who could not be distinguished from one of his own stablehands.

  Oh, our canny King Raven is that shrewd, Tuck considered, a little courage seeping back into his own step. He glanced at Ifor and Brocmael and saw from the frozen expressions on their faces that the two Cymry, appalled by what they saw, were nevertheless struggling to maintain any semblance of calm and dignified detachment. "Steady on, lads," Tuck whispered.

  Alan a'Dale, however, seemed at ease, comfortable even, walking easily beside Tuck, smiling even. At the friar's wondering glance, he said, "Been here before, ye ken."

  "Often?"

  "Once or twice. I sing here of a time."

  "You sing, Alan?"

  "Oh, aye."

  Bran silenced them with a look and turned to address the onlooking crowd. "Qua est vir?" Bran announced in that curious broken Latin that passed for Spanish among folk who knew no better. "Qua est ut accersitus Senor Hugh?"

  The seneschal, not understanding him, looked to Alan for explanation. He conferred with Tuck, then replied, "My lord wishes to know where is he that is called Earl Hugh?"

  "But he is there," answered the chief servant as if that should be every whit as obvious as it was. He indicated the high table where, surrounded by perhaps six or eight ladies of the sort already glimpsed in the courtyard, sat a huge man with a broad, flat face and hanging dewlaps like a barnyard boar. Swathed in pale sea-green satin so well filled one could see the wavelike ripples of flesh beneath the tight-stretched fabric, he occupied the full breadth of a thronelike chair which was draped in red satin lined with ermine. Dull brown hair hung in long, ropy curls around his head, and a lumpy, misshapen wart besmirched one cheek. He held a drinking horn half raised, his wide, full-lipped mouth agape as he stared at the strange visitors with small, inquisitive eyes.

  "I present my Lord Hugh d'Avranches," proclaimed the seneschal, his voice striving above the commotion of the great room.

  Alan passed this along to Bran, who made a sour face as if he suddenly smelled something foul. "Et? Et?" he said. That?

  Even the seneschal understood him then. "Of course," he said, stiffly. "Who else?"

  Without another word, Bran approached the table where the earl sat drinking with his women. A strained silence fell at his approach as attention turned to the newcomers. Bran inclined his head in the slightest of bows and waved both Tuck and Alan to his side. "Adveho, sto hic. Dico lo quis ego detto," he said grandly, and Tuck relayed his words to Alan, who offered: "His estimable lord Count Rexindo greets you in the name of his father, Ranemiro, Duke of Navarre, who wishes you well."

  "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the earl, his astonishment manifest.


  Bran, looking every inch a Spanish nobleman, made another slight bow and spoke again. When he finished, he nodded at Tuck, who said, speaking through Alan, "Count Rexindo wants you to know that word of your fame has reached him in his travels, and he requests the honour of a private audience with you."

  "Duke of Navarre, eh?" said Earl Hugh. "Never heard of him. Where is that?"

  "It is a province in Spain, my lord," explained Alan politely.

  "The duke is brother to King Carlos, who is-"

  "I know who King Carlos is, by the rood," interrupted the earl."Heard of him." He passed an appraising eye over the tall man before him, then at his companions, evidently finding them acceptable. "Nephew of the king of Spain, eh? However did you find your way to a godforsaken wilderness like this?"

  Tuck and Count Rexindo conferred, whereupon Alan replied, "The count has been visiting the royal court, and heard about the hunting here in the north."

  "Eh? Hunting?" grunted the earl. He seemed to remember that he held a cup in his hand and finished raising it to his mouth. He guzzled down a long draught, then wiped his lips on the sleeve of his green satin shirt.

  As if this was the signal the room had been awaiting, the hall lurched into boisterous life once more. The earl slapped his hand on the board before him, rattling the empty jars. "Here! Clear him a place." He began shoving his cups and companions aside to make room for his new guests. "Sit! All of you! We'll share a drink-you and your men-and you can tell me about this hunting, eh?"

  By Saint Mewan's toe, thought Tuck, he's done it! Our Bran has done it!

  Earl Hugh filled some empty cups from a jar and sent one of the women to fetch bread and meat for his new guests. Turning to regard his visitors from across the table, he observed, "Spaniard, eh? You're a long way from home."

  Bran gazed placidly back at him as Alan, translating Tuck's hurried whispers, relayed his words.

  "That is so, may it please God," replied Count Rexindo. Even speaking through two interpreters his highborn courtesy was clear to see. "We have heard that the hunting in England is considered the best in the world. This, I had to see for myself." He smiled and spread his hands. "So, here I am."