“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 hangéd must be,
As soon as ere it comes day.
But before the sheriff this victory could get,
Four men did Will Scadlocke slay!”
When Rhiban heard this loathly report,
O, he was grievéd 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 proposéd 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 Señor 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 wave
like 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.”
The count drank from his cup while his words were translated for the earl, smiling, looking for all the world like a man at utter ease with himself and his fellows. The women at the board seemed to find his dark looks attractive; they vied for his notice with winks and none-too-subtle smiles. When Alan finished, Count Rexindo indicated his companions and conferred with his interpreter, who said, “Pray allow me to introduce the count’s companions. I present to you Father Balthus, Bishop of Pamplona,” he said, and Tuck dipped his head in modest acknowledgement. “Also, I give you Lord Galindo of Tolosa”—and here he indicated Ifor—“and next to him is Lord Ramiero of Petilla.” Brocmael, solemn as the tomb, inclined his head. “They are favourites among the count’s many cousins.”
If Alan suspected that he was part of a cunning deception, he did not let it show in the slightest. On the contrary, the further into the tale he delved, the more comfortable he became, and the more his admiration for the dark-haired young nobleman grew. Bran, as Count Rexindo, was a very marvel: his manner, his air, his being—everything about him had changed since entering that den of rogues; even his voice had taken on a subtle quality of refinement and restraint.
Tuck, too, was impressed, for when Bran spoke his made-up Spanish, it was with the light, soft lisping tone of Hibernia that Tuck recalled in their friend from Saint Dyfrig’s, the stately Brother Jago. Slow boat that he was, it finally occurred to the friar that this was where Bran had got the names and titles and all the rest for them all. All that time spent travelling together last spring, Bran had had plenty of time to learn all that and more besides from the Spanish monk.
“You like to hunt, eh?” mused Earl Hugh into his cup. “So do I, by the bloody rood! So do I.”
A brief conference between Tuck, Alan, and Bran set the course for the next part of the plan. “Give him to know that in Spain I am renowned as a great hunter, and that my father keeps a stable of the best horses in the realm. There is nothing I have not hunted.” Bran nodded. “Make a good tale of it, Tuck, but be sure to remember what you have said so you can tell me after.”
Tuck relayed to Alan what Bran had said, and added his own warning, “And don’t over-egg the pudding, boyo,” he said. “I’ll be listening, mind, so keep it pure and simple.”
“Never fear,” replied Alan, who then turned to Earl Hugh and said, “My apologies, Lord. The count is embarrassed by his lack of French. But he wishes you to know that in his home country, he is a very champion among hunters and has ridden to the hunt throughout Spain. His father, the duke, keeps a stable of the finest horses to be found anywhere in the realm.”
The earl listened, his interest piqued. “No finer horses than mine, I’ll warrant,” he suggested when Alan finished. “I’d like to see them. Did you bring any with you?”
“Alas no, Lord,” answered Alan, without waiting to consult his master. “They are very valuable animals, as you must imagine, and could not be allowed to make a voyage, however short.”
“A pity,” replied Hugh. “I should like to have seen them in the flesh. My own horses have been praised by those who know a good animal when they see one. I’ll show them to you, eh?”
Alan turned his head to receive the count’s decision, then said, “My lord would like nothing more than to have the pleasure of viewing your excellent animals.”
“Then let’s be at it!” said Hugh, hoisting himself from his chair with the aid of the board before him. Calling for his seneschal, he motioned his visitors to follow and bowled from the hall with a lurching, unsteady gait.
“We’re well on our way, men,” Bran whispered. To Ifor and Brocmael, he said, “This next part will be in your hands. Are you ready?” Both young men nodded. “Good.” To Tuck, he added, “Tell Alan—”
“My lord,” said Alan, with a fishy grin at Tuck, “it is not necessary, as I speak a fair bit of Cymry, too, ye ken?”
“You do amaze me,” Bran confessed. “I begin to believe you were born to this.”
“Just where did you learn to speak like that?” Tuck wondered. “I mean no offence, but you spoke like a roadside beggar before we passed through these gates.”
Alan lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “It is useful for the earnin’ o’ a penny or two,” he said, putting on the rough speech again as easily as a man putting on a hat. “A wanderin’ musician is a pitiful lump without his harp.”
“Wandering musician,” echoed Tuck. “A minstrel?”
“If ye like,” said Ala
n.
“How did you lose your harp?” the friar asked.
“Let’s just say some lords appreciate a jest more’n others, ye ken?”
Bran laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I want you to stay with us while we’re here—will you do that? I’ll reward you well. Perhaps when this is over we can even find you a harp.”
“I am honoured, Sire,” the beggar answered.
“Here now!” called Earl Hugh from a doorway across the way. “This way to the stables.”
“Let the hunt begin,” said Bran, and the four Spanish noblemen and their interpreter hurried to join their host.
CHAPTER 15
Cél Craidd
Mérian held the long smooth length of ash between her fingers and carefully wrapped the thin rawhide strap in a tight spiral around the end, placing the clipped halves of stripped feathers from a goose’s wing just so as she slowly turned the rounded shaft. Half her mind was on her task—fletching arrows required patience and dexterity, but consumed little thought—and the other half of her mind was on the worrying news that had reached them the night before.
The news had come after nightfall. Mérian and Noín and two of the other women were tending to the evening meal, and the rest of Cél Craidd was still at work: some trimming and shaping branches of ash and yew for war bows, or assisting Siarles in splitting narrow lengths of oak for arrows; two of the women were weaving hemp and linen for strings, and Tomas was helping Angharad affix the steel points. Scarlet and his small host of warriors—two of the younger women and three of the older children—were hard at work training to the longbow—they would practice until it was too dark to see. And any who were not busy with either bows or arrows were tending the bean field. The forest round about was sinking into a peaceful and pleasant autumn twilight.
And then they heard the long, low whistle that signalled the return of the scouts—those who had been away all day watching the King’s Road. A few moments later, Rhoddi and Owain tumbled breathless down the bank and into the settlement bearing the news: Sheriff de Glanville had returned with upwards of fifty knights.
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