Tuck

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The dog handler picked up the heap of rags and showed it to the earl, whose eyes narrowed. “He is smart, this one,” he said with grudging appreciation. “But it will take more than that to throw one of my dogs off the scent.” To the handler, he said, “Give him to mark.”

  The handler shoved the bundle against the dog’s muzzle to renew the scent, and the hound began circling the tree to raise the trail. Once, and again, and then three more times—but each time the beast stopped in the place where the clothes had lain, confusing himself the more and frustrating his handler.

  “We must raise another scent, my lord,” reported the handler at last. “This trail is tainted.”

  “Tainted!” growled Hugh. “The man shed his clothes is all. Give the hound his head and he will yet raise the trail.”

  The handler loosed the hound from the leash and urged it to search a wider area around the tree. This time the dutiful hound came to stand before Count Rexindo, who gazed placidly down from his saddle as the dog bayed at him. “Lontano!” said the count, waving the dog away.

  The handler pulled the animal off, but time and again, the fuddled dog ran between the heap of clothing on the ground and Count Rexindo on his horse. Finally, the handler picked up some of the rags and gave them a sniff himself. Then, approaching the earl, he handed up the rags. “There is some mischief here, Sire,” he said. “As you will see.”

  The earl gave the scraps a sniff and straightened in the saddle. “What?” He sniffed again. “What is that?”

  “Lavender, methinks,” replied the handler. “Tainted, as I said.”

  The earl looked around suspiciously. “How in the devil’s name . . . ?”

  Count Rexindo, impatient and keen to be off, spoke up, and Alan offered, “The count says that clearly the dog is useless. Our prey cannot be far away. He suggests we spread out and raise the trail ourselves.”

  “Yes, yes,” replied Earl Hugh. “You heard him, eh?” he said to the Ffreinc noblemen. “Go to it—and give a shout when you find the trail.”

  So all scattered, each a separate way. The count led the search farther down the run, and several of the Ffreinc followed that way. Bishop Balthus led lords Galindo and Ramiero to the opposite side of the run and began searching there—all of them knowing full well that Gruffydd would not be found.

  CHAPTER 20

  Caer Rhodl

  Mérian’s fingernails dug deep grooves in her palm, and she fought to control the rage she felt roiling inside her. She did not expect the ladies Neufmarché to understand, much less accept the least part of what she had to tell them. They would refuse to listen, call her liar, heap scorn upon her. So be it.

  Her mother and brother, however, could be counted on to support her. Once she had explained what had happened the day she was abducted—as well as all that had happened since—she knew they would rally to her aid without question. She drew a calming breath and organized her thoughts, deciding how she would relate the events of the past two years in the greenwood. Then, raising her head, she squared her shoulders and put her hand to the latch. She pushed open the door to the hall and stepped inside. They were all assembled to hear her: Lady Agnes beside her daughter, Queen Sybil, and in the next seat, her brother, Garran; beside him sat her mother, the dowager Queen Anora. The two Ffreinc women sat erect, grim-faced, clearly unhappy; they had heard the accusations Mérian had laid at their feet. Her brother, the king, appeared no happier; drawn and somewhat haggard, he was torn between his own family and that of his new bride. Only her mother looked at all sympathetic, offering her a sad smile, and saying, “Do come along, Mérian. We have been waiting for you.”

  “Pray forgive me,” she said, moving farther into the room. She saw there was no chair for herself. Very well, she would stand; it was better this way. Taking her place before them, she folded her hands and glanced at each in turn. “I see you have been discussing the problem of Mérian already.”

  “You’re not a problem to be solved, my dear,” her mother replied. “But we thought it wise to talk a little among ourselves before seeing you again. You will appreciate how awkward—”

  “Some of the things you have said,” said Lady Agnes. “These allégations—”

  “If it please you, my lady,” interrupted Garran, “we will yet come to that. First,” he declared, turning to face his sister, “I want you to know that these are grave charges you have made, and we are taking them very seriously.”

  “Naturally,” replied Mérian, feeling more and more like a criminal with each passing moment. She rankled against the feeling. “Be assured, Brother, I would not have declared them if they were not true.”

  “We do not doubt you, Mérian,” her mother put in quickly. “But you must see how difficult this has become—”

  “Difficult?” Mérian snapped, her voice instantly sharp. “Mother, you have no idea. Living in the greenwood with the dispossessed who have been driven from their homes and lands, whose hands have been cut off or eyes gouged out for petty offences and imaginary crimes, is difficult. Living in a hovel made of sticks and mud and covered with animal skins in deep forest where the sun cannot penetrate and stifling every stray sound for fear of discovery is difficult. Creeping place to place, careful to stay out of sight lest the Ffreinc soldiers see you is difficult. Hiding day on day from a sheriff who slaughters any unfortunate who happens to cross his path—that is difficult. Grubbing in the dirt for roots and berries to feed—”

  “Enough, Mérian!” snapped her brother, his tone matching hers. “We know you’ve suffered, but you are home now and safe. There is no one in this room who wishes you harm. Mind your tongue and we will all fare the better for it.”

  “Your brother is right, mon cher,” said Agnes Neufmarché, controlling her tone. Her Welsh was fair, if simple; that she was able to speak it at all Mérian considered a revelation. “We are your family now. We seek nothing but your good.”

  “How kind,” Mérian retorted. “And was it for my good that your husband the baron pursued me and tried to kill me?”

  “Of course, you have endured the ordeal terrible,” Agnes granted loftily. “Yet, knowing my husband as I do, I cannot . . . accepter? . . .accept this as the truth.”

  Mérian stiffened. She had been expecting this. “You would call me liar?”

  “Jamais!” said the baroness. “I suggest only that perhaps in your fear you mistook the baron’s, ah . . . l’action as the assaut . . .”

  She glanced to her daughter, who supplied the proper word. “As an attack,” said Sybil.

  “Is that what you think?” challenged Mérian. “You were there that day, Sybil. You saw what happened. Is that what you think? Bran was forced to flee for his life. He took me with him, yes—at first I thought he meant to abduct me for ransom, but it was to save me. He saw the danger I was in before I did, and he acted. When the baron discovered our escape he sent men to kill us both.”

  “Very well!” said Garran irritably. “Granting what you say is true, what can be done about it now?” He stared at his sister, his lips bent in a frown of deep dissatisfaction. “It’s been two years, Mérian. Things have changed. What do you want me to do?”

  There it was: the question she had been anticipating, her sole reason for coming. “I want,” she replied, taking time to choose her words carefully, “I want you to join with us. I want you to raise a war band and come help us recover Elfael.”

  “Us?” wondered Garran. It was not a response Mérian had anticipated. “Have you lived so long among the outlaws that you no longer know where your true loyalties lie?”

  “My loyalties?” She blinked at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “What your brother is saying,” offered Anora, “is that the affairs of Elfael are nothing to do with us. You are safe now. You are home. What is past is past.”

  “But the fate of Elfael is my worry, Mother—as it is for all Cymry who would live free in their own country.” She turned to her brother, the king, and
his nervous young queen beside him. “That is where my loyalties lie, Brother—and where yours should lie too. Unless that bit of French fluff beside you has addled your mind, you would know this.”

  Her brother bristled. “Careful, Mérian dear, you will go too far.”

  “I am sorry,” she said, changing her tone from haughty self-righteousness to appeal. She smoothed the front of her gown beneath her hands and began again. “I truly do not mean to offend. But if I cannot speak my mind here in this room among those who know me best, then perhaps I do not belong here anymore. In any event, the urgency of my errand leaves me little choice.” She licked her lips.“Baron de Braose has been banished from his lands and holdings in England and Wales, as you may have heard by now. Elfael is in the hands of Abbot Hugo de Rainault and the king’s sheriff, Richard de Glanville. Without the baron to back them up, they are weak. This is the best chance we’ve had in many years to drive the invaders from our land—but we must strike soon. The sheriff has brought more men, and we must act quickly if we are to keep our advantage. If you were to—”

  “We know all this,” her brother interrupted. “Elfael belongs to the king now. I should not have to remind you that to go against Red William is treason. To raise rebellion against him will get you drawn and quartered at the White Tower and your pretty head fixed to a pike above the gates.”

  “De Braose stole the land from Bran and his people. King William promised justice, but betrayed Bran and kept the land for himself.”

  “He is the king,” countered Garran. “It is his right to do with it what pleases him.”

  “Oh? Truly?” said Mérian, growing angry again. “Is that what you think? You would sing a different song if the king’s greedy eye was on your throne, brother mine. Or has Baron Neufmarché already bought your throne for the price of a wife?”

  “Mérian!” warned her mother. “That is beneath you.”

  “Non! S’il vous plaît,” put in the baroness. “Do not tax her so. She has had the . . . traumatisme, yes? She is not herself. In time she will see that the famille Neufmarché means only good for the people of this realm.”

  “Thank you, Lady Agnes,” said Garran. “As always your judgement is most welcome.” To Mérian, he said, “Bran’s affairs are nothing to do with us. He has become an outlaw and a rebel and will pay with his life for his crimes. Of that I have no doubt.”

  “Do not speak to me of crimes,” Mérian said, her face flushing hot. “Abbot Hugo and the sheriff rule with blood and terror. They hang the innocent and subject the Cymry living beneath their rule to all manner of torment and starvation. They are the real criminals, and chief among them is King William himself.” She tried one last desperate appeal. “Listen to me, please. Bran and his people are preparing for war. They mean to take the fight to the invaders, and there is every chance they can succeed, but they need help.” Glancing at Queen Sybil, whose face appeared unnaturally white and pinched with worry, she said, “Join us. Help us overthrow this wicked throne and restore the rightful king to Elfael.”

  “No,” said her brother. “We will speak no more about it.”

  “Then there is nothing more to say.” Mérian turned on her heel and prepared to walk from the hall and out through the gates. Stunned by her brother’s outright rejection, the only thing she could think was returning to Cél Craidd, and that if she hurried, she might make it back before the night had passed.

  “Where do you think to go, Mérian?” King Garran called after her.

  “To the greenwood,” she said. “I am needed there. It is plain to me now that I have no place here.”

  “You will not leave the caer,” Garran informed her.

  She spun around and stormed back to confront her brother. “Who are you to tell me where I will or will not go?”

  “Father is dead,” Garran replied. “Until you are wed and have a husband, I am your guardian. Moreover I am king and you are a member of my household. You will obey me in this.”

  “My guardian! When did you ever lift a finger to help me, dear brother?” demanded Mérian. Her defiance gave her a terrible aspect, but Garran stood his ground. “I am a lady in my own right, and I will not submit to your ridiculous rule.”

  “You will never see those outlaws again,” Garran told her with icy calm. “Never. You will remain here for your own protection.”

  The audacity of the command stole the warm breath from her body. “How dare you!”

  “It is for your own good, Mérian,” said her mother, trying to soften the blow. “You will see.”

  “I see very clearly already, Mother,” Mérian retorted. “I see I was wrong to come here. I see that you have all made your bed with the enemy. Where once there was a family, I see only strangers. Mark me, you will yet curse this day.”

  “You are much mistaken, Sister,” Garran said.

  “Oh, indeed,” agreed Mérian. She began backing away. “Thinking my own flesh and blood would understand and want to help—that was my mistake.” She turned once more toward the door. “But do not worry, dear hearts. It is not a mistake I will make again.”

  She pulled open the heavy door, stepped through, and slammed it shut behind her with a resounding crack. She marched out into the yard, her heart roiling with anger at the unfeeling hardness of her own nearest kin. How could they fail to see the need and refuse her plea for help? Their intimate contact with the Ffreinc had corrupted them, poisoned their judgement and tainted their reason. That was the only explanation. Mérian shuddered. She, too, had come very close to succumbing to that same corruption once. If Bran had not rescued her she would be like her brother now—perhaps married off to some odious Norman nobleman or other. She would rather be dead.

  Mérian strode to the stable, brought out her horse, and led it to the gate—only to find it closed. “Open it, please,” she said to the gateman, a young man with a bad limp.

  “Forgive me, my lady—” he began.

  “Spare me!” she snapped. “Open the gate at once. I am leaving.”

  “Lord help me, I cannot.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Why not?”

  “My lord King Garran said I was to keep it locked and let no one in or out until he told me otherwise.”

  “Oh, he did?” she said. “Well, I am sure he did not mean me. Open the gate at once.”

  “Sorry, my lady. He mentioned you especially—said it was more than my life was worth to let you pass.” The young man crossed his arms across his chest and stood his ground.

  Mérian stepped around him and moved to the gate. At that moment there came a call from across the yard, and three men-at-arms issued from the hall and ran to apprehend her. “Now, now, Lady Mérian, come away from there,” said the first to reach her. “You are to follow us—king’s orders.”

  “And if I should refuse?”

  The warrior made no reply, but simply wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her off her feet. She shrieked her outrage and kicked at his legs. The remaining two warriors joined the first, and all three laid hold; Mérian was hauled back to the hall in a spitting rage and thrown into her room.

  No sooner had the door been shut than she began hammering on it with her fists, shouting to be let out.

  “Scream all you like; it will avail you nothing,” came the voice of her brother through the planking of the door.

  “Let me out!” she cried.

  “When you are prepared to listen to reason,” he replied blandly, “and pledge to rejoin your true family.”

  “To the devil with you!”

  Her only reply was the sound of the heavy iron bar dropping into place outside, and her brother’s retreating footsteps.

  CHAPTER 21

  When a painstaking search of the hunting run and woodland surrounding the tree where the captive’s cast-off clothing had been found failed to turn up any trace of their human prey, the hunters moved down the run and deeper into the forest. Owing greatly to Count Rexindo’s many wrongheaded interventions, the co
mpany was subtly led farther and farther away from any path Gruffydd might have taken, thus spending the entire day without discovering their quarry or raising even so much as a whiff of his trail. As twilight began to glaze the trails with shadow, the frustrated company was forced to conclude that the captive king had miraculously eluded their pursuit. It appeared that Bran’s audacious plan had worked; all that remained was to suffer the wrath of a very angry earl and then they, too, would be free.

  The Spanish visitors endured an extremely acrimonious ride back to the fortress, the earl fretting and fuming all the way, cursing everything that came to mind—most especially, Count Rexindo’s ineptitude and the incompetence of Spaniards in general, as well as his own misguided complicity in a fool-bait scheme which had not only cost him a very valuable prisoner, but also had returned a powerful enemy to the battlefield. “Courage, men,” counselled Bran as they paused before the doors of the hall. “It is soon over.” To Ifor and Brocmael, he said, “Are the horses ready?”

  The young men nodded.

  “Good. Whatever happens, be ready to depart on my signal. We may have to bolt.”

  They entered a hall much subdued from the previous night; where before the walls had reverberated with song and laughter, this night’s supper was taken in sullen silence and bitter resentment. Count Rexindo and his retinue braved the blast of ill-will with stoic silence as they listened to Hugh d’Avranches alternately berating one and all for their gross failure and bemoaning the loss of his captive. As the drink took hold of him, the livid, simmering anger gave way to morose distemper, with the earl declaring loudly for all to hear that he wished he had never laid eyes on Count Rexindo and his miserable company. This, then, was the signal for the visitors to make their farewells and remove themselves from the castle.

  The count, having been seen to bear the earl’s complaints and abuse with the good grace of one who could not grasp the more subtle nuances of insult in a foreign tongue, rose from his seat and with the aid of his able interpreter, said, “No one is more sorry than I that we have failed today. Still, it is in the nature of things that the hunter is sometimes outwitted by his prey and must return to his hearth empty-handed.” He gave a slight shrug. “I, myself, blame no one. It happens. We live to hunt another day. But a man would be a fool to remain where his friendship is no longer welcome or valued. Therefore, I thank you for your hospitality, my lord, and bid you farewell.”