Tuck

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Tuck decided that he would best be served by a new staff, so took himself into the wood to find a sturdy branch of ash which he cut to length and then shaped. As he worked, he found great satisfaction in reciting a few of the Psalms that the young Israelite warrior David composed when seeking deliverance from his many enemies.

  By the time the sun began its long, slow plunge into the western sea, all was ready. The raiders, eight in all, departed for the ford to meet the spies. Alan and Noín were already waiting at the forest’s edge when they arrived. Will Scarlet was the first to see them and ran to where the two sat beside the stream near the ford. “Is all well?” he asked, and received a brushing kiss by way of answer from his wife.

  “No one paid us any heed at all,” Alan told them. “Why would they? We were just two humble folk attending the market, ye ken?”

  “Well and good,” said Bran. “So now, what did you discover?”

  “It is true the town is full of Ffreinc,” began Alan, “but they trust their numbers a little too much, it seems to me.” He went on to explain that the soldiers were everywhere to be seen—at the entrance to the town square, before the abbey gate, clustered around the guardhouse tower—but almost to a man they appeared bored and lax. “You can see those fellas idling here and there, dicin’ and drinkin’ and what-all. They swagger around like little emperors all, and most of them don’t carry weapons—maybe a dagger only.”

  “No doubt they know where to find a ready blade smart enough when pressed to it,” observed Iwan.

  “Oh, no doubt,” agreed Alan readily. “But I’m just saying what I saw.”

  “What about the sheriff ?” asked Will. “Did you see that rat-faced spoiler?”

  “I did not,” answered Alan. “Neither hide nor hair. Plenty of soldiers though, as I say.”

  “You found where they keep the supplies?” asked Bran.

  “We did, Lord,” answered Alan. Looking to Noín, he nodded. “Noín here did that easy as please and be thanked.”

  “I went to the church when they rang the bell for the midday mass,” Noín reported. “There were but a few townsfolk and a merchant or two, so I knelt in the back and waited for the service to finish. Then I followed the monks to the abbey, pretending that I was hungry and in need of food for myself and my poor starving children three.”

  “You told them that?” said Scarlet, chagrined at the barest suggestion that he was no fit provider for his family.

  “It was only pretence,” she said lightly. “But I have been pared near enough to the bone to know how it feels. To their credit the priests took pity on me and let me inside the abbey walls. I was made to wait in the yard while they fetched a few provisions.”

  “And you saw where these were kept?” said Siarles.

  “Oh, aye—made sure of it. There is a granary behind the bishop’s house. It looks new to me—wattled and thatched like a barn, but smaller.”

  “They brought you food from these stores?” asked Tuck. “You saw this?”

  “Aye, they did—brought me some grain and a rind of salt pork,” Noín told him, “and a handful of dried beans. There was plenty more whence that came, believe me.”

  “There must be,” mused Iwan, “if they are about giving away food to needy Cymry.”

  “At least,” suggested Siarles, “they are not over-worried about running out of provisions anytime soon.”

  “They will be running out sooner than they know,” said Bran. “What else?”

  The raiding party listened to all that Alan and Noín had to say about the troops and stores. When they finished, Bran praised their good service and sent them on their way back to Cél Craidd, saying, “Tell the others we’re going ahead with the raid. If all goes well, we will return before dawn.”

  So Alan and Noín continued on their way, and the raiding party settled down to wait, watching a pale blue velvet dusk settle over the Vale of Elfael below. The stars winked on one by one, and the raiders sat and talked, their voices a low murmur barely audible above the liquid splash of the nearby stream.

  It is so beautiful, thought Tuck, so peaceful. “Ach, fy enaid,” he sighed.

  “Second thoughts, Friar?” asked Siarles, sliding down beside him.

  “Never that, boyo,” replied Tuck. “But it does seem a very shame to violate such tranquillity, does it not?”

  “Perhaps, but it will be far more tranquil when the Ffreinc are gone, Friar,” answered Siarles. “Think of that.”

  “I pray that it is so.” Tuck sighed again. “It is a beautiful valley, though.”

  They talked a little while, and then Tuck closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, to be awakened sometime later by Siarles jostling his shoulder. “Time to be about the devil’s business, Friar.”

  Regaining their saddles, the party rode down into the vale, circling around to the north of the town and the abbey fields. They came to the edge of a bean field which lay just beyond the stone walls of the monastery Abbot Hugo had erected. “If I heard it right, the abbot’s storehouse is just the other side of that wall,” Iwan pointed out. The wall, like the abbey and town behind it, was an indistinct mass, black against the deeper, featureless blackness of a moonless night.

  “Owain and Rhoddi,” said Bran, “go and rouse the others. Bring them here—and for the love of God and all the angels, tell everyone to keep quiet.” The two warriors turned and rode for the forest’s edge north of town. As soon as they had gone, Bran said, “Tuck, you will stay with the horses and keep order outside the walls. Tomas and Scarlet—go with Iwan. Siarles, you come with me. Once over the wall, meet at the storehouse.” The old sly smile played on his lips as he said, “Time for Rhi Bran y Hud to fly.”

  The raiders urged their mounts forward across the leafy field, now black beneath the hooves of their horses. A few paces from the wall, they stopped and dismounted. “God with you,” whispered Tuck as they hefted first one man and then the next up onto the top of the abbey wall. When the last raider disappeared, the friar turned to look for Rhoddi and Owain, but could see nothing in the darkness.

  He waited, gazing wide-eyed into the darkness and listening for any stray sounds from the other side of the wall, but saw nothing and heard only the sound of the horses breathing and, once in a while, chafing the ground with an idle hoof. After a time, there came a whispered hiss from somewhere above his head. “Ssssst!” Once, and then again. “Ssssst!”

  “Here!” whispered Tuck. “This way—to your right.”

  “Get ready,” said the voice. It was Siarles kneeling atop the wall. “We’ll send over the grain sacks first. Ready?”

  “I’m the only one here,” Tuck told him.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “They’re here,” came the reply as Rhoddi appeared silent as a ghost out of the darkness. To his unseen companions, he said, “Owain, line ’em up behind me. Keep out of the way, and stay alert.”

  “How many are with you?” Siarles called down softly.

  “Ten,” answered Owain “We’re ready, so heave away.”

  A moment later another figure joined Siarles on the wall. There was a dry scraping sound followed by a thick thud as the first sack hit the ground at the base of the wall. Three more followed in quick succession. “Get ’em up,” whispered Siarles.

  Fumbling in the darkness, the Cymry from the surrounding settlements jostled the bulging sacks of grain onto the shoulders of three of their number, who disappeared into the darkness. “Ready,” Rhoddi called quietly.

  There followed a pause, and then, without warning, a large, weighty object thudded to the ground. “What was that?” wondered Tuck, mostly to himself. Four more objects were sent over the wall in quick succession, followed by numerous smaller bundles dropped over the wall to form a growing heap on the ground.

  “Clear it out,” whispered Siarles.

  “You heard him, men,” said Owain. Again, the waiting Cymry leapt forward and fell upon the bundles, sacks, and casks that had been tossed over the
wall. The process was repeated two more times, and each time there were fewer Cymry left to carry the supplies away. Finally, Siarles reappeared atop the wall and said, “There’s people stirring in the abbey. I’m coming over.” Squatting down, he turned, grabbed an edge, and lowered himself lengthwise down the face of the wall.

  “The others are clean away,” Tuck told him. “I’ve got the horses ready.”

  “We best stir ourselves and get this lot loaded, too,” Siarles said. “Bring ’em up, and let’s have at it.”

  The two of them began piling the goods onto the carriers attached to the saddles of the horses. One by one, the remaining raiders joined Tuck and Siarles outside the wall; Bran and Iwan were the last, and all made short work of toting the bundles and casks to the waiting horses. The back-and-forth continued until from somewhere beyond the wall a bell sounded and the raiders halted. The bell tolled three times. “It’s Lauds,” said Tuck. “They’ll be going to the chapel for prayer.”

  “That’s it, lads,” said Bran. “Time to fly.” He glanced away towards the east, where a dull glow could be seen above the dark line of treetops. “Look, now! It’s beginning to get light, and all this thieving has made me hungry.”

  “Luckily, there’s ale for our troubles,” Scarlet said, picking up a cask and shaking it so it sloshed. “And wine, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

  The last of the goods were packed and tied into place, and as each horse was ready one of the riders led it away. Bran and Tuck were last to leave, following the others across the broad black expanse of the bean field to the forest edge, where they met with the Cymry who had helped; and a rough division of the spoils was made then and there. “Spread it around to those who need it most,” Bran told them. “But mind to keep it well hid in case any of the Ffreinc come sniffing around after it.”

  The rest of the way back to the forest was a long, slow amble through the night-dark vale and up the rise into the greenwood. They moved with the mist along cool forest pathways and arrived back at Cél Craidd as the sun broke fair on another sparkling, crisp autumn day—but a day that Abbot Hugo would remember as dismal indeed, the day his troubles began in earnest.

  CHAPTER 25

  King Raven visited the abbey stores again the next night, despite the watch the sheriff and abbot had placed on the gate and storehouse. This time, however, instead of carrying off the supplies, the black-hooded creature destroyed them. Iwan and Tuck rode with him to the edge of the forest and, as they had done the previous night, waited for night to deepen the darkness. The moon would rise late, but it would be only a pale sliver in the sky. In any event, Bran planned to be back in the forest before his trail could be followed.

  When he judged the time was right, he donned his feathered cloak and the high-crested beak mask, and climbed into the saddle. “I could go with you,” Iwan said.

  “There’s no need,” Bran demurred. “And it will be easier to elude them on my own.”

  “We’ll wait for you here, then,” replied the champion. He handed Bran his bow and six black arrows, three of which had been specially prepared.

  “Go with God,” Tuck said, and passed Bran the chain from which was suspended a small iron canister—a covered dish of coals. “Oh, it’s a sorry waste,” he sighed as Bran rode away. His dark form was swiftly swallowed by the darkness.

  “Aye,” agreed Iwan, “but needful. Taking food from the mouth of an enemy is almost as good as eating it yourself.”

  Tuck considered this for a moment. “No,” he decided, “it is not.”

  The two settled back to watch and wait. They listened to the night sounds of the forest and the easy rustling of the leaves in the upper boughs of the trees as the breeze came up. Tuck was nodding off to sleep when Iwan said, “There he is.”

  Tuck came awake with a start at the sound. He looked around, but saw nothing. “Where?”

  “Just there,” said Iwan, stretching out his hand towards the darkness, “low to the ground and a little to your left.”

  Tuck looked where Iwan indicated and saw a tiny yellow glow moving along the ground. Then, even as he watched, the glow floated up into the air, where it hung for a moment.

  “He’s on the wall,” said Iwan.

  The glowing spark seemed to brighten and burst into flame. In the same instant the flame flared and disappeared and all was darkness again.

  They waited.

  In a moment, the glow fluttered to life once more in midair. It flared to life and disappeared just as quickly.

  “That’s two,” said Iwan. “One more.”

  They waited.

  This time the glow did not reappear at once. When it did, it was some distance farther along the wall. As before, the faint firefly glow brightened, then flared to brilliant life and disappeared in a smear of sparks and fire. Darkness reclaimed the night, and they waited. A long moment passed, then another, and they heard the hoofbeats of a swiftly approaching horse, and at almost the same time a line of light appeared low in the sky. The light grew in intensity until they could see the form of a dark rider galloping toward them. All at once, the light bloomed in the sky, erupting in a shower of orange and red flames.

  “To your horses,” shouted Bran as he came pounding up. “They’ll be wanting our heads for this. I fired the storehouse and granary both.”

  “Did anyone see you?” wondered Iwan as he swung up into the saddle.

  “It’s possible,” Bran said. “But they’ll have their hands full for a little while, at least.”

  “Tsk,” clucked Tuck with mild disapproval. “Such a sad waste.”

  “But necessary,” offered Iwan. “Anything that weakens them, helps us.”

  “And anything that helps us, helps Elfael and its people,” concluded Bran. “It was necessary.”

  “A holy waste, then,” replied Tuck. He raised himself to a fallen limb and squirmed into the saddle. By the time he had the reins in his fist, his companions were already riding along the edge of the field up the long rising slope towards Coed Cadw, a dark mass rising like a wall against a sky alive with stars.

  As the news about what had happened spread throughout the Vale of Elfael, everyone who heard about the theft and fire of the previous nights knew what it meant: King Raven’s war with the Ffreinc had entered a new, more desperate stage. Burning the abbey’s storehouse and granary would provoke Abbot Hugo and the sheriff to a swift and terrible reaction. If an army cannot eat, it cannot fight, and the abbot’s army had just lost its supper.

  “Sheriff de Glanville won’t be dainty about taking what he needs from the poor Cymry round about,” Scarlet pointed out after hearing an account of the previous night’s raid. “He’ll make a right fuss, no mistake.”

  “I expect he will,” Bran agreed. “I’d be disappointed otherwise.”

  “Will’s got a fair point,” Siarles affirmed. “De Glanville will steal from the farm folk. It’s always them he turns to.”

  “Yes, and when he does, he’ll find King Raven waiting for him,” said Bran.

  Bran’s reply stunned his listeners—not what he said—the words themselves were reasonable enough. It was the way he said them; there was a coldness in his tone that chilled all who heard it. There wasn’t a man among them who did not recognize that something had changed in their king since his return from the north. If he had been determined before, he was that much more determined now. But it was more than simple purpose—there was a dark, implacable hardness to it, as if somehow his customary resolve had been chastened and hardened in a forge. There was an edge to it, keen and lethal as stropped steel. Scarlet put it best when he said, “God bless me, Brother Tuck, but talking to Rhi Bran now is like talking to the blade of a spear.” He turned wondering eyes on the little priest. “Just what did you two get up to in the north that’s made him so?”

  “It’s never the north that’s made him this way,” replied the friar, “although that maybe tipped the load into the muck. But it’s coming back home and seeing how things ar
e here—all this time passing, and the abbot is ruling the roost and the sheriff cutting up rough and all. The Ffreinc are still here and nothing’s changed—nothing for the better, at least.”

  Scarlet nodded in commiseration. “It may be as you say, Friar, but I say that little jaunt up north changed him,” he insisted. “I’ll bet my back teeth on’t.”

  “Perhaps,” allowed Tuck. “Oh, you should have seen him, Scarlet. The way he peeled that hard-boiled earl—it was a gladsome sight.” The friar went on to describe the elaborate deception he’d witnessed and in which he’d taken part—the clothes, the hunting, Alan’s tireless translating, the young Welshmen and their willing and industrious participation, the breathless escape, and all the rest. “We were Count Rexindo and his merry band, as Alan says—albeit, his song makes it sound like a frolic of larks, but it was grim dire, I can tell you. We were tiptoeing in the wolf ’s den with fresh meat in our hands, but Bran never put a foot wrong. Why, it would have made you proud, it truly would.”

  “And yet it all came to nothing in the end.”

  “Saints bear witness, Scarlet, that’s the naked bleeding heart of it, is it not? We dared much and risked more to save King Gruffydd’s worthless neck,” Tuck said, his voice rising with the force of his indignation. “And we succeeded! Beyond all hope of success, we succeeded. But that selfish sot refused to help. After we saved his life, by Peter’s beard, that rascal of a king would not lend so much as a single sausage to our aid.” He shook his head in weary commiseration. “Poor Bran . . . that his own kinsman would use him so ill—it’s a wicked betrayal, that’s what it is.”

  “Raw as a wound from a rusty blade.” He considered this for a moment. “So that’s the grit in his gizzard—our Bran knows we’re on our own now,” concluded Scarlet gloomily. “Aye, we’re alone in this, and that’s shame and pity enough to make man, woman, horse, or dog weep.”