“What do you see?” asked Agnes.
The baron was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I see wealth and power and a throne to rival England’s.” His naked declaration embarrassed him a little; he could feel Agnes’s eyes on him, so he shrugged and added, “At least, it is closer now than it has ever been. The wedding will make a glorious beginning.”
She returned his smile and took his hand. “That, mon amour, is exactly what I was thinking.”
CHAPTER 4
It was five days of anxious travel before Bran and the Grellon reached Coed Cadw. Footsore, weary, and disheartened beyond measure, they sought the safety of their forest keep. As they moved into the lush, green-shadowed solitude of the Guardian Wood, the heat of the day dropped away and they walked a little easier and lighter of step. There among the trees the weary, heartsick band began to heal the wounded memories of the last days—the betrayal of the Ffreinc king, the treachery of the Black Abbot, the fierce and bloody battle, and their anxious flight.
Though they had escaped the battle without fatality—a few of the men suffered cuts and bruises, one a broken arm, and another a deep sword wound to the thigh—the carnage had exacted a toll that only became apparent in the days that followed. For most of the Grellon the panic and horror of that day was a plague that worked away on their souls, and they were infected with it.
Thus, soul-sick and exhausted they crept back into the solace of the greenwood to heal the raw, inflamed wounds of their memories, arriving at Cél Craidd to the great relief of those who had been left to look after the settlement in their absence.
The watchers had seen them on the road and hastened back to prepare a welcome: jars of cool water flavoured with elderflower blossoms and honey seed cakes to restore their strength. But the travellers were in no mood to rejoice, and their stark response to what should have been a glad homecoming soon dashed any notions of celebration. “Something is amiss, my lord,” observed Henwydd delicately; an older man, he had been given the care of Cél Craidd in Bran’s absence. “Forgive me if I speak in error, but the faces I see around me would be better suited to a funeral party, not a homecoming.”
“How can it be otherwise?” said Bran, his voice thick with bitterness. “The black-hearted English king broke his promise. The realm belongs to the Ffreinc, and we are outlaws still.”
“Sooner have milk from a stone,” grumbled Iwan, following Bran, “than get satisfaction from a Norman.”
Angharad arranged her wrinkled face into a sad smile. She thanked Henwydd and the others for their thoughtfulness and accepted a drink from the welcome cup. Then, taking her leave of Bran and the others, she shuffled slowly to her hut.
“Did Red William not redeem your throne?” asked another, pressing forward.
“He did not,” answered Bran. “Count Falkes is banished to Normandie with his uncle the Baron de Braose, and Elfael is claimed by the king.”
“Bloody Black Abbot Hugo and his gutless marshal, Gysburne, are placed over us for our care and protection,” growled Siarles.
“Then we won’t be going home,” said Henwydd.
“No,” Bran replied. “We stay here—for now, at least.”
“Are we to remain in the forest forever?” asked Teleri, another who had remained behind. An older woman, she had lost all she had to the Ffreinc when the count took her house for the new church. There were tears in her eyes as the meaning of Bran’s words broke upon her.
Mérian had come to stand beside Bran; she reached out and put her arm around the woman’s shoulders to comfort her. “We have endured the forest this long,” Mérian said, “what is another season or two?”
“Season or two?” said Henwydd, growing angry. “Why not ten or twenty?”
“If you have something to say,” Bran replied sternly, “go on, say it. Speak your mind.”
“We believed in you, my lord. We trusted you. I have suffered this outlaw life for the hope of the deliverance you promised. But I cannot abide another season scrabbling hand to mouth in the greenwood. It is no fit life, and I am too old.”
Others, too, spoke out against the desperate life in the forest, with its darkness and dangers—exposure, privation, and the constant fear of discovery. If the Ffreinc didn’t kill them, they said, the wolves would. They had followed Bran this far, but now that there was no hope of justice to be had from the Ffreinc, it was time to think what was best for themselves. “William the Red commands armies beyond number,” one man said. “We cannot fight them all, and only a fool would try.”
Bran glowered, but held his tongue.
“I am sorry, my lord,” continued Henwydd, “but you see how it is. I beg leave to quit the forest. I have never asked anything of you, but I’m asking you now to grant me leave to depart.”
“And where will you go?” asked Mérian.
“Well,” considered the old man, “I have kinsmen still in Dyfed. It may be they will take me in. But whether they do or don’t makes no matter, ’cause anywhere is better than here.”
“There we have it,” Bran said, eyes alight and voice cold. He turned and addressed the rest of the settlement. “Who else feels this way? Who else wants to leave the forest?” He swung around, his voice attacking. “Iwan? Will Scarlet? Siarles, what about you? Mérian—God knows you’ve wanted to leave often enough, why not go now?” He glared around at the ring of grim faces. None would meet his ferocious stare.
Mérian, standing beside Tuck, grasped the friar’s hand. “Oh, no,” she breathed, tears starting to her eyes. Tuck grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Who else is for leaving?” demanded Bran. “If you would go, speak up. All who wish to leave may go with my blessing. I do not force anyone to stay who would not do so gladly and of their own accord.”
There was an instant commotion at this, and the forest-dwellers began arguing it over amongst themselves. Some were for leaving, others for staying, and all shouting to be heard and convince the rest. Bran let this continue until most had had a chance to speak out, then said, “Well? What say you? Anyone else want to go? Step up and take your place with Henwydd. For all saints bear witness, I do not care to stand with anyone who does not care to stand with me.”
At first, no one moved, and then, one by one, others joined Henwydd until a group of seventeen men and women, some with children, stood together in a dismal clump.
“So, now,” Bran, his face hard, addressed those who had chosen to leave. “Gather your things and make ready to depart—take whatever you need for your journey. If you would have my advice, wait until the sun goes down and make your way by night; you should avoid any Ffreinc and reach the borders of Elfael before sunrise tomorrow. I bid you God’s speed, and may you all fare well.”
With that, he turned and strode to his hut.
A shocked and dismayed Cél Craidd watched him go. Iwan and Siarles looked on aghast, and Scarlet and Mérian began to persuade those who had decided to leave that they were making a mistake—but thought better of it. The tight bond between King Raven and his proud Grellon was broken; the settlement was divided and there was nothing anyone could do.
Later, as twilight deepened the shadows in the wood, Friar Tuck called the people together for a prayer of thanks for their deliverance from the hands of the enemy and for a safe return, and for the future of the realm. He then led his discouraged flock in a hymn; he sang the first verses alone, but soon everyone joined in, lifting their voices and singing loudly as the moon rose in the pale blue sky. Neither Bran nor Angharad attended the prayer service, but the banfáith appeared after sundown when the first of those leaving the forest settlement were setting off. Gripping her staff, she offered blessings for the journey and safe arrivals for all who would travel that night.
The next morning after breaking fast, the remaining Grellon resumed their chores; there was more work now that a fair number of the most able-bodied had gone. As those who remained took stock of their numbers it was clear that others, unwilling to be seen
by their friends, had departed silently during the night. Taking a silent tally, they soon realized that fewer than half their number remained.
With heavy hearts they set to and were just discussing how to divide the duties of the day and the days to come when Angharad called all Cél Craidd to gather at the Council Oak in the centre of the settlement. As the forest-dwellers assembled beneath the spreading boughs of the great, grey giant, they found Bran seated in his chair made of ash branches lashed together and covered by a bearskin. Bran looked like a Celtic king of old—an impression only strengthened by the long-beaked mask of King Raven that lay at his feet. Angharad stood behind her king, wearing the Bird Spirit cloak and holding a long, thin, rodlike staff in her right hand.
As soon as everyone had settled themselves close about this primitive throne, the banfáith raised the staff and said, “Heed the Head of Wisdom and attend her counsel. You are summoned here to uphold your king in his deliberations with strong consideration. Therefore, make keen your thoughts and carefully attend your words, for the course we determine here among us will be the life and death of many.”
She paused, and Bran said, “If anyone here does not wish to bear this burden, you may leave now in peace. But if you stay, you will agree to abide by the decisions we shall make and pledge life, strength, and breath to fulfil them whatever they shall be.”
Iwan, grim and deeply aggrieved, spoke for them all when he said, “Those who wanted to leave have gone, my lord, and God bless ’em. But those you see before you are with you to the end—and that end is to see you take your rightful throne and lead your people in peace and plenty.”
“Hear him!” said Scarlet. “Hear him!”
“S’truth,” added Siarles, and others shouted, “God wills it!”
Bran nodded to Angharad, who struck the bare earth three times with the end of her staff to silence the commotion. Then, raising her hand, palm outward, she tilted her face to the light slanting down through the leaf-laden branches. “Goodly Wise, Strong Upholder, Swift Sure Hand,” she said in a queer chanting voice, “draw near to us; enter into our minds and hearts; be to us the voice that speaks the True Word. Be to us our rock and fortress, our shield and defender, our strength and courage. Go before us, Lord of Hosts, bare Your mighty arm, set Your face against our enemies, and as You destroyed the army of the wicked pharaoh in the sea, let fear swallow up those who raise their hands against us. These things we ask in the name of Blesséd Jesu, Our Hope and Redeemer, and Michael Militant the Terrible Sword of Your Righteousness.” Her mouth moved silently for a moment longer; then she said, “Amen.”
All gathered in the solemn assembly echoed. “Amen.”
Bran turned his head and thanked his Wise Banfáith for her prayer. To the people gathered before him, he said, “We are here to decide how the war with the Ffreinc shall be pursued. On my most solemn vow, there will be an end to their rule in this realm . . . or there will be an end to me. For I will not tolerate their presence in the land of my fathers while there is yet a single breath in my body.”
“I am with you, my lord!” cried Iwan, slapping his knee. “We will drive them from this realm—or die in the attempt.”
Bran gave a downward jerk of his chin by way of acknowledgement of Iwan’s pledge, and continued. “Let us speak freely now, holding nothing back. As we must stand together in the days to come, let us share our hearts and minds.” He paused to let his listeners gather their thoughts. “So now.” He spread his hands. “Who will begin?”
Tuck was first to find his voice. “To speak plain, I am grieved in heart, soul, and mind since the attack in the grove—and any man who said otherwise is a liar. Our King William has proven himself a greedy, grasping rogue and a stranger to all honour. If that was not a bitter enough brew to swallow, our Ffreinc overlords have shown us that they will attack with impunity, little respecting women and children—”
“Devil take them all,” muttered Siarles.
“Nevertheless,” the friar continued, raising a hand for silence, “I have bethought myself time and time again, and it seems to me that if our enemies have any tender feelings within reach of their cold hearts, it may be that they are even now sorely regretting that rash act.”
“What are you saying, Tuck?” asked Bran softly.
“It would be well to send Abbot Hugo an offer of peace.”
“Peace!” scoffed Bran. “On my father’s grave, a moment’s peace they will not have from me.”
“I know! My lord, I know—they have earned damnation ten times over. Is there anyone here who does not know it? But, I pray you, do not dismiss the notion outright.”
Tuck turned to appeal to those gathered beneath the oak boughs. “See here, it is not for our enemies that I make this plea—it is for us and for our good. The pursuit of war is a dire and terrible waste—of life and limb, blood and tears. It maims all it touches. Maybe we gain justice in the end, maybe not. No one knows how it will end. But, know you, we will lose much that we hold dear long ’ere we reach the end, and of that we can be more than certain.”
“We have little to lose, it seems to me,” remarked Iwan.
“True enough,” Tuck allowed, “but it is always possible to lose even that little, is it not? Think you now—if war could be avoided, we might be spared that loss. By pursuing peace as readily as war, we might even gain the outcome we seek—and is that not a thing worth the risk of trying?”
Tuck’s plea fell into silence even as he implored the others to at least consider what he had said. No one, so it appeared, shared his particular sentiment.
“Our priest is right to speak so,” said Mérian, moving to stand beside the little cleric. “War with the Ffreinc will mean the deaths of many—maybe all of us. But if death and destruction can be avoided, we must by all means try—for the sake of those who will be hurt by what we decide today, we must make an offer of peace.”
“Offer peace?” wondered Scarlet aloud. “That’s begging for trouble with a dog and bowl.”
“Aye, trouble and worse,” growled Siarles. “If you have no stomach for the fight ahead, maybe you should both join Henwydd and his band of cowards. They’re not so far ahead that you couldn’t catch ’em up.”
“Coward? Is that what you think?” asked Tuck, voicing the question to the whole gathering. “Is that what everyone thinks?”
“I don’t say it is, I don’t say it en’t,” replied Siarles. “But the shoe fits him who made it.”
“Enough, both of you. Courage is not at issue here,” Bran pointed out. “I was willing to swear fealty to William Rufus. Indeed, I encouraged my father to do so, and we would not be here now if he had listened to me and acted before it was too late . . .”
“Do you not see?” said Mérian. “You’re in danger of becoming just like your father—too proud and stubborn for the good of your people. And, like your father, you will die at the end of a Norman spear.” She put out a slender hand and softened her tone. “Red William is a false king; that is true. His decision was the ruin of all our hopes, and now everything has changed. Look around, my lord—only half of Cél Craidd remains. Even if we were mighty warriors, champions each and every one, we could not take back Elfael by force of arms alone.”
Bran glared at her, his brow low and furrowed. Judging from the expressions on the faces around him, Mérian had won solid support for her opinion. “What do you suggest?” he said at last.
Mérian glanced at Tuck. “That is not for me to say, my lord.”
“It seems to me you have said a great deal already, my lady. Why stop now?” He lifted his head to include the rest of the gathering. “Come, speak up, your lord is asking for your counsel. What do you advise?”
“If I may speak freely, my lord,” began Tuck.
“I doubt anything in heaven or earth could prevent you,” remarked Bran. “Speak, priest.”
“Hardheaded Saxon that I am, I have always thought it a good thing that the clerics rule the church and kings rule the rea
lm. That is the way God has ordained it, has He not? Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, to be sure, but give to God the things that are God’s. Like it or not, the Ffreinc—”
“Is there a point to this sermon, Friar?” interrupted Bran.
“Only that we must be prepared to compromise if we are to persuade the abbot and sheriff to accept the peace.”
“Compromise,” repeated Bran dully.
“What sort of compromise?” asked Siarles.
“That any Ffreinc who have settled should be allowed to remain in Elfael under your rule, and that Hugo will remain in charge of the spiritual concerns of the abbey.”
“Let Hugo keep the abbey and I take the fortress—is that what you’re saying?” said Bran.
“In a word, yes, my lord.”
“Why in heaven’s name would Hugo agree to that?”
“Because,” suggested Tuck, “it would allow him to put his efforts into saving his abbey, which he will certainly lose if he continues to pursue this war. Lose the abbey and he has lost his place in the church—and I heartily doubt he’ll ever get another one. Who’d have him?”
“Indeed,” said Bran.
“You know what I mean,” Tuck continued. “If he agrees to the peace, he will survive, and keep much that he will lose if the war continues.”
“My lord, you would have to swear fealty to William,” Will Scarlet pointed out.
“He has offered to do that already,” Iwan reminded him. “Twice.”
“What about the king? He has given the realm to Hugo.”
“Then he can take it away again and give it back to its rightful ruler,” said Tuck, adding, “of course, the abbot would have to agree to support you before the king.”
“He’d never do it,” said Siarles.
“Share my realm with that rank Ffreinc butcher?” wondered Bran, shaking his head. “My stomach churns at the very thought.”
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