Tuck

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “We run, but they won’t get away,” said Guy. “Sheriff de Glanville will see to that.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Are they gone?” asked Owain, his fingers tight around the arrow nocked to his bowstring.

  “Shhh,” said Iwan gently. “Stay sharp. We’ll wait just a little and then take a look round.” He turned to Siarles, crouched low behind the doorpost of the farmhouse. “See to it, Siarles, but keep an eye out for the wounded. There might be some fight in one or two yet.”

  Siarles nodded and continued to watch the yard from one of the small windows. Nothing moved outside. The three archers waited a few moments more, alert, arrows on string, listening for any sound of returning horses—but, save for a low, whimpering moan from one of the fallen soldiers, all seemed quiet enough. Siarles rose and stepped lightly through the door, paused and looked around, then disappeared into the yard at a run. He was back a few moments later saying, “They’ve gone. It’s safe to come out.”

  As they stepped from the house, Bran, Tomas, and Rhoddi emerged from the barn. “To me, men!” Bran called, pulling off the hooded raven mask. When everyone had gathered, he said, “Strip the dead of anything useful. Throw it in the wagons and let’s fly home. Scarlet and the others will be tired of waiting.”

  “Aren’t we going to give back all the supplies they’ve stolen?” asked Owain.

  “Aye, lad,” replied Iwan, “but not now, not today.”

  “Your concern does you credit, Owain,” Bran told him. “But the enemy will return to the caer and muster the rest of the soldiers to come and retrieve their dead. Unless we hurry, we’ll meet them again, and this time we’ll not own the advantage.”

  “Too many Ffreinc around for the few of us,” Iwan told him. “We’ll return the supplies when it’s a mite safer.”

  “There’s eighteen fewer Ffreinc now than there were a while ago,” announced Siarles, who had been making a count. “And four more that will likely join ’em before the sun is over the barn.”

  “Twenty-two!” gasped Rhoddi. “God help us, that must be near half their force—destroyed in one battle.”

  “There will be hell to pay,” muttered Tomas as the realization of the enormity of their success came over him.

  “Too right, there will,” agreed Bran. “But we must make very sure it is the abbot who pays. Come, men, let’s be about our business before the marshal comes back.”

  So while Siarles kept watch, the other five archers stripped the dead and dying, tossing the various articles into the wagons the soldiers had abandoned in their retreat. Then, leading the oxen from the yard, they departed—not by the road which led away to the fortress and town—but by the field track that led up through the valley towards Coed Cadw, the Guardian Wood.

  Owing to the weight of the wagons and the slowness of the oxen, they could not travel as swiftly as the demands of the situation warranted; even so, they reached the edge of the forest in due course without any sign of pursuing Ffreinc. As they drew in towards the line of trees, however, the leaves of the nearby hawthorn bushes quivered, rattling an alarm.

  Bran, in the lead, glanced up in time to see the round gleaming top of a Norman helmet rising from the brush.

  The spear was in the air before Bran could shout a warning. He dodged to the side, and the missile caught Owain a few steps behind him. The young man gave out a yelp and fell back. Bran had an arrow in the air before Owain’s body came to rest in the grass.

  The stone point struck the helmet and shattered, scattering shards into the attacker’s eyes. He screamed and sank out of sight. Instantly, another soldier was there in his place, and others were appearing in a ragged rank all along the forest line.

  “Ambush!” shouted Bran, loosing an arrow at the nearest head to appear.

  “Fall back!” shouted Iwan. Stooping low, he scooped up the wounded Owain, put him over his shoulder as lightly as a sheaf of wheat, and ran to the nearest wagon, ducking behind it as the spears began to fall.

  The four archers joined the champion behind the wagon, and all looked to Bran for a way out of their predicament.

  “How many are there?” asked Siarles. “Anybody see?”

  “Plenty for each of us,” Iwan said. “Never you fear.”

  “Owain?” said Bran. “Owain, look at me. How bad are you?”

  “It hurts,” groaned the young man through gritted teeth. He held his side above his hip; blood seeped through his fingers. “I’m lying if I say otherwise, but get my feet under me and I can walk.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Iwan told them. “They’ll charge soon and cut us down in the open like this.”

  “Right,” said Bran. “Everyone nock an arrow and be ready to move. They can’t run and throw at the same time, so as soon as they mount the charge, we go for the greenwood.”

  “Go into them?” said Tomas.

  “Aye,” replied Iwan. “Headfirst into the charge.”

  “Smack ’em hard in the teeth,” said Siarles, glancing up as a spear head chipped through the side of the wagon above his head. “It’ll be the only thing they’re not expecting.”

  “Once we’re in the trees we have a chance,” Bran said. Reaching over the side of the wagon, he pulled down a Norman shield and handed it to Owain, then took the young man’s bag of arrows and passed them around to the others.

  “Did anyone see which manjack is leadin’ ’em?” asked Siarles as he peered around the back of the wagon towards the tree line.

  The question went unanswered, as there came a rising cry from the forest and Ffreinc soldiers rushed up out of the brush towards the wagons. “Ready!” shouted Bran. “Now! Fly!”

  Out from behind the wagon he darted. Raising his bow, he drew on the foremost knight just then charging up out of the bush. The bowstring slapped, and the arrow blurred across the distance, lifting the onrushing soldier off his feet and throwing him onto his back. The sudden absence of the soldier created a hole in the line, and Iwan, running hard behind his lord, opened it a little wider by taking out the soldier to the left of the first.

  Spears sailed in deadly arcs, slicing through the sun-drenched air, sprouting like leafless saplings in turf. The archers dodged those that sprang up in their path, loosing arrows as they ran. The gap which Iwan and Bran had opened narrowed as more knights, screaming and cursing, drove in, desperate to close on the fleeing outlaws before they could reach the wood.

  Bran loosed the last of his arrows, put his head down, and ran. Two heavily armoured knights lurched into the gap, low behind their spears. The nearest lunged, making a wide swipe with the spear blade, and the second let fly. The throw was low and skidded along the ground. Bran leapt over it easily; but Iwan, coming two steps behind, was not so lucky. The sliding shaft snaked through the grass, gliding between his feet; he tripped and fell onto his left side.

  The knight was on him instantly, sword drawn. With a shout of triumph, he swung the blade high and prepared to deliver the killing stroke. Iwan, defenceless on his back, saw the blade flash as it swung up, and threw his hands before him to ward off the blow. But the knight’s cry of triumph stuck in his throat, and he seemed to strain against the blade that had become inextricably caught in the air.

  The knight, sword still high, crashed to his knees, his eyes wide in shock and disbelief. Iwan had just time enough to roll aside as the knight’s body jolted forward with the force of the second arrow, which drove him facedown into the ground.

  As Iwan scrambled to his feet, he saw twin shafts protruding from the knight’s mail hauberk.

  “Here! Iwan!”

  The champion looked to the shout and saw Scarlet, bow in hand, waving him forward.

  The first knight, still gripping his spear, made a second swipe at Bran, who grabbed hold of the spear shaft with his free hand, pulling the soldier towards him. As the knight fell forward, Bran swung his longbow like a club into the man’s face. The knight lowered his head and let his helmet take the blow, then thrust again with the spe
ar. Bran lashed out with his foot, catching the knight on the chin; his jaw snapped shut with a teeth-shattering crack, and his head flew back. Bran swung the body of the longbow down hard, and the mail-clad knight went down. As he sprawled on the ground, Bran, light as a deer in flight, took a running step, planted a foot in the middle of the man’s back, and vaulted over him.

  He reached the shelter of the trees to find Scarlet waiting for him. “Here, my lord,” said the forester, thrusting a handful of arrows at him. “You’ll be needing these, I think.”

  “Thanks, Will,” said Bran, breathing hard.

  “This way.” Scarlet led him along the tree line, and together they loosed arrow after arrow into the Ffreinc from behind until the remaining archers had reached the wood.

  Now King Raven and his men occupied the wood, and the Ffreinc were exposed on open ground. As the lethal oaken shafts struck again and again, some of the knights sought shelter behind the wagons. Others crawled back into the wood.

  Bran and Scarlet gathered the archers. “How many arrows have you got left?” Bran asked as the men gathered under cover of a bramble thicket. “Two,” said Siarles; Tomas and Scarlet each had two as well. None of the others had any.

  “Then this fight is over,” said Bran.

  “Just leave?” objected Siarles. “We can end it now.”

  “With but six arrows? No, Siarles,” Bran told him. “We live to fight another day. It’s time to go home.”

  “Where’s Tuck got to?” wondered Iwan.

  “He should be nearby,” Scarlet replied. “He was right beside me before the charge. Do you want me to go look for him?”

  “We can’t be leaving him behind for the Ffreinc to capture,” said Iwan.

  “Scarlet and I will find him,” Bran said. “The rest of you start back to Cél Craidd.” He held out his hand. “Give us the arrows.” He took the remaining arrows and urged them away. “Go. We’ll join you on the way.”

  The others disappeared into the bush. “Where were you when this started?” Bran asked, passing three arrows to Scarlet. “Show me.”

  “This way,” Will told him, starting back along the tree line to the place he and Tuck had been hiding when the attack began.

  No sooner had they skirted a large bramble thicket than they heard someone call out. “Scarlet! Here, boyo!”

  “I think it came from over there somewhere,” said Scarlet. Both men turned and started for the spot. They quickly came to a dense wall of elder and halted. “Tuck! Sing out, Brother. Where are you?”

  “Here!” came the voice once more. “This way! Hurry!”

  The two pushed through the elder hedge to find the little priest holding a sturdy quarterstaff in one hand and a sword in the other as he stood astraddle an inert figure on the ground. The figure groaned and made to rise, and the friar gave him a sharp rap between the shoulder blades that pushed him back down.

  “Thank the Good Lord you’re here,” breathed Tuck. “I was halfway to wishing I’d never a’caught this one. He’s getting to be a handful.”

  “Here now,” said Bran, taking the sword. “Stand aside and let’s see who you’ve got.”

  Tuck moved away, but kept the staff at the ready.

  Bran took hold of the prostrate man’s hair and lifted his head from the ground. “Richard de Glanville!” he exclaimed, his surprise genuine. Glancing around to the friar, he said, “Well done, Tuck. You are a very wonder.” He released his handful of hair, and the groggy head thumped back onto the earth. “With a little luck and Providence on our side, we may reclaim the throne of Elfael far sooner than we ever dared hope.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye,” declared Bran, “with the sheriff ’s valuable assistance, of course. But we must act quickly. We cannot give Gysburne and Hugo time to think.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Well, here’s a prize we never thought to get,” remarked Iwan. He put a hand to the sheriff ’s shoulder and rolled him over onto his back. The sheriff moaned, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled for consciousness, but he made no effort to rise.

  Bran had quickly recalled his men, and they gathered once more to receive new instructions. As Bran began to explain what he had in mind, their prisoner regained his senses. “Vous! J’ai pensé j’ai senti la merde,” groaned the sheriff in a voice thick and slurred.

  “What did he say?” asked Bran.

  “Nothing nice,” replied Tuck. He gave the sheriff a kick with the toe of his shoe and warned him to speak respectfully or keep his mouth shut.

  “Me tuer, et est fait.”

  “He wants us to kill him now and be done with it,” offered the friar.

  “Kill a valuable prisoner like you?” said Bran. Squatting down, he patted the sheriff ’s clothes and felt along his belt before withdrawing a dagger, which he took and handed to Scarlet. “I suppose you’d prefer death just now, but you’ll have to become accustomed to disappointment.” To Tuck, he added, “Tell him what I said.”

  Tuck relayed Bran’s words to de Glanville, who groaned and put his face to the ground once more.

  “What is in your mind, my lord?” asked Iwan.

  “Bind him,” Bran directed, “and get him on his feet. Gysburne and his men will be recovering their courage, and any moment they might take it into their heads to come after us. Siarles, Tomas—see how many arrows you can get from the field, and hurry back.”

  The two hurried off, returning a short while later with eight shafts collected in fair condition from dead soldiers, which added to the six they already possessed brought the total to fourteen. “I would there were more, but these will have to do,” Bran said. “Pray it is enough.” He gave arrows to each of the archers, save the wounded Owain and himself. Instead, he shouldered his bow and took the sheriff ’s sword, and instructed Tuck to ask de Glanville where the Ffreinc had hidden their horses.

  Tuck did so, and received a terse reply—to which Tuck responded with another sharp rap of his staff against the sheriff ’s shins. De Glanville let out a yelp of pain and spat a string of words. “He says they’re behind the rocks,” reported Tuck, pointing a short distance away to a heap of boulders half covered in ivy and bracken.

  While Siarles and Rhoddi collected the horses, Bran turned to Owain. “Do you think you can ride?”

  His face was white and he was sweating, but his voice was steady as he replied, “I can ride, my lord.”

  “Very well.” Bran nodded. He turned to Tomas. “I’m sending you and Owain back to Cél Craidd. Tell Angharad and the others what has happened, and to see to Owain’s wound. Then get Alan and bring him. The two of you meet us on the road—the place near the stream where the willows grow.”

  Tomas nodded. “I know the place.”

  “Then go. Ride like the devil himself was on your tail.” To the others Bran said, “Find us something to drink and be ready to ride as soon as Siarles and Rhoddi return with the horses.”

  “What about the wagons?” asked Iwan.

  “Leave them,” said Bran. “If all goes well, we will own not only the wagons but all the rest of Elfael before nightfall.”

  The graves had been dug outside the abbey walls and the first bodies were being laid to rest under the solemn gaze of Captain Aloin and the chanting of Psalms from some of Saint Martin’s monks when one of the gravediggers glanced up and saw, in the crimson light of a fading sunset, a body of men on horseback riding towards them from the direction of the forest. At first thought, he assumed it must be Sheriff de Glanville and his men returning at last from their part in the day’s events, so he said nothing. But as the riders came closer, a trickle of doubt began to erode his assumption.

  Captain Aloin, bruised and battered by his first encounter with King Raven and the lethal Welsh longbows, had determined to raise the issue of what he considered Marshal Guy’s murderous incompetence with both the abbot and the sheriff at first opportunity. Clearly, Gysburne had to go. Aloin was thinking how best to put his case before the abbot and did
not hear the monk speaking to him. He felt a touch on his arm and glanced up.

  “Mon seigneur, regarder . . . ” said the monk.

  Aloin shifted his eyes from the corpse being lowered into the grave and looked where the monk was pointing. The approaching horsemen were near enough now to make out their faces, and what he saw was not the sheriff and his men, but strangers riding Ffreinc horses. “Qui dans les flames!”

  “C’est le gallois . . .”

  “Que?”

  “The one they call King Raven,” said the monk.

  “Blind them! They have Sheriff de Glanville!”

  Instantly terrified, the monks and soldiers scattered, running for the safety of the abbey walls. Within moments, the abbey bells were signalling alarm. The few remaining knights who were not seriously wounded scurried to arm themselves and meet the attack. What they met instead were seven outlaws surrounding a red-faced, sullen Sheriff Richard de Glanville bound with his own belt.

  The town square had been given over to the wounded from the day’s earlier skirmishes; they had been laid on pallets in the open air to have their injuries tended by the monks, who moved among the rows of pallets, bathing and bandaging the injuries and offering what comfort they could to the dying. The outlaws rode to the entrance of the square, and one of them—in good plain French—called aloud for Abbot Hugo. The abbot, heeding the warning of King Raven’s approach, had hidden himself in the guard tower to be defended by the eight knights still able to fight. These had arrayed themselves before the tower, weapons levelled, ready for the attack.

  When the abbot failed to present himself, the French-speaking outlaw called, “Marshal Guy de Gysburne! Show yourself!”

  There was a movement at the foot of the tower. “I am Guy,” said the marshal, shoving through the knot of men. “What is this?”

  “This,” replied Alan, putting out a hand to the sheriff, “is all that is left of the company sent out to plunder the countryside this morning. The battle is over, and we have come to negotiate the terms of surrender.”