Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“A health to you, fair lady,” I called, raising my cup to her across the fire.
Smiling brightly, she stepped around the ring to touch the rim of her cup to mine. “Health and strength to you, Will Scarlet,” she said, her voice dusky and low.
We drank together, and she moved closer and, wrapping an arm around my waist, hooked a finger in my belt. “God’s blessing on you this day, and through all the year to come.”
“And to you and yours,” I replied. Glancing around, I asked, “Where is the little ’un?”
“Playing with the other tads. Why?”
“There will be no keeping them abed tonight,” I suggested, watching the excited youngsters kicking up the snow in their games.
“Nor, perhaps, their elders,” Nóin said, offering me a smile that was both shy and seasoned. Oh, she knew the road and where it led; she had travelled it, but was a mite uncertain of her footing just then. It opened a place in my heart, so.
Well, we talked a little, and I remembered all over again how easy she was to be near, and how the firelight flecked her long, dark hair with red, like tiny sparks. She was the kind of woman a man would find comfortable to have around day in, day out, if he should be so fortunate.
I was on the point of asking her to join me at table for the feast when Friar Tuck raised his voice and declared, “Friends! Gather around, everyone! Come, little and large! Come fill your cups. It is time to raise a health to the founder of the feast, our dear Blesséd Saviour—who on this night was born into our midst as a helpless infant so that he might win through this world to the next and, by his striving, open the gates of heaven so that all who love him might go in.” Lofting his cup, Tuck shouted, “To our Lord and Eternal Master of the Feast, Jesus!”
“To Jesus!” came the resounding reply.
Thus, the Feast of Christ began.
The devil, however, is busy always. Observing neither feast nor fest, our infernal tormentor is a harsh taskmaster to his willing servants. The moment we dared lift cup and heart to enjoy a little cheer, that moment the devil’s disciples struck.
And they struck hard.
T
he first sign of something amiss came as our forest tribe gathered to share the festal meal. We drank the abbot’s wine and savoured the aromas of roasting meat and fresh bread, and then Friar Tuck led us in the Christ Mass, offering comfort and solace to our exiled souls. We prayed with our good priest and felt God’s pleasure in our prayers.
It was as we were singing a last hymn the wind shifted, coming around to the west and bringing with it the scent of smoke.
Y
es, Odo.” I sigh at his interruption. “It is not in any way unusual to smell smoke in a forest. In most forests there are always people burning things: branches and twigs to make charcoal, or render lard, clear land . . . what have you. But the Forest of the March is different from any other forest I’ve ever known, and that’s a fact.”
My monkish friend cannot understand what I am saying. To him, a forest is a forest. One stand of trees is that much like another. “See here,” I say, “Coed Cadw is ancient and it is wild—dark and dangerous as a cave filled with vipers. The Forest of the March has never been conquered, much less tamed.”
“You would call a forest tame?” He wonders at this, scratching the side of his nose with his quill.
“Oh, aye! Most forests in the land have been subdued in one way or another, mastered long ago by men—cleared for farmsteads, harvested for timber, and husbanded for game. But Coed Cadw is still untouched, see. Why, there are trees that were old when King Arthur rallied the clans to the dragon flag, and pools that have not seen sunlight since Joseph the Tin planted his church on this island. It’s true!”
I can see he doesn’t believe me.
“Odo, lad,” I vouch in my most solemn voice, “there are places in that forest so dark and doomful even wolves fear to tread—believe that, or don’t.”
“I don’t, but I begin to see what you mean,” he says, and we move on . . .
W
ell, as I say, we are all of us in fine festive fettle and about to sit down to a feast provided, mostly, at Abbot’s Hugo’s expense, when one of the women remarks that something has caught fire. For a moment, she’s the only one who can smell it, and then a few more joined her, and before we knew it, we all had the stink of heavy timber smoke in our nostrils. Soon enough, smoke began to drift into the glade from the surrounding wood.
In grey, snaking ropes it came, feeling its way around the boles of trees, flowing over roots and rocks, searching like ghost fingers, touching and moving on. Those of us seated at the table rose as one and looked to the west, where we saw a great mass of slate-black smoke churning up into the winter sky. Even as we stood gaping at the sight, ash and cinders began raining down upon us.
Someone gave out a cry, and Bran climbed onto the board. He stood with hands upraised, commanding silence. “Peace!” he said. “Remain calm. We will not fear until there is cause to fear, and then we will bind courage to our hearts and resist.” Turning to the men, he said, “Iwan, Siarles, fetch the bows. Will, Tomas, Rhoddi, follow me. We will go see what mischief is taking place.” To the others he said, “Those who remain behind, gather supplies and make ready to leave in case we must flee Cél Craidd.”
“Be careful, Will,” said Nóin, biting her lip.
“A little work before dinner,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound light and confident although the smoke thickening and ash raining down on our heads filled me with dread. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Iwan and Siarles returned and passed out the bows and bundles of arrows. I slung the strung bow over my chest and tied a sheaf of arrows to my belt. Leaving the folk in the care of Angharad and the friar, we departed on the run. We followed the drift of the smoke as the wind carried it from the blaze, and with every step the darkness grew as the smoke clouds thickened. Before long, we had to stop and wet the edges of our cloaks and pull them fast around our faces to keep from breathing the choking stuff.
We pressed on through the weird twilight and soon began to see the flicker of orange and yellow flames through the trees ahead. The fire produced a wind that gusted sharply, and we felt the heat lapping at our hands and faces. The roar of the blaze, like the surge of waves hurled onto the shore, drowned out all other sound.
“This way!” urged Bran, veering off the track at an angle towards the wall of fire.
Working quickly and quietly, we came around to a place where the fire had already burned. And there, standing on the charred, still-smouldering earth stood a body of Ffreinc soldiers—eight of them, loitering beside a wagon pulled by two mules and heaped with casks of oil. Some of them carried torches. The rest held lances and shields. All were dressed for battle, with round steel helmets and swords strapped to their belts; their shields leaned against the wagon bed.
We dropped to the ground and wormed back out of sight behind the screen of smoke and flames.
“Sheriff ’s men,” spat Siarles.
“Trying to burn us out,” observed Tomas, “and on Christmas day, the sots. Not very friendly, I’d say.”
“Shall we take them, Bran?” asked Rhoddi.
“Not yet,” Bran decided. “Not until we know how many more are with them.” Turning to me and Rhoddi, he said, “You two go with Iwan. Siarles and Tomas come with me. Go all the way to the end and take a good look”—he pointed off into the wood where the wall of flame burned brightest—“and then come back here. We will do the same.”
Rhoddi and I fell into step behind Iwan, and the three of us made our way along the inside of the fiery wall, as it were, until, after a few hundred paces, we reached the end. Keeping low, to better stay out of the smoke, we crawled on hands and knees to peer around the edge of the flames. Ten Ffreinc soldiers were working this end of the blaze—two with torches and three with casks of oil they were sprinkling on the damp underbrush. Five more stood guard with weapons ready.
Iwan pointed out the one who seemed to be the leader of the company, and we withdrew, hurrying back to the meeting place. Bran and Iwan spoke briefly together. “We will take the first group here and now,” Bran told us, unslinging his bow. “Then we will take the others.”
Iwan drew three arrows from the cloth bag. “Fan out,” he told us, indicating the spread with three jerks of his hand, “and loose on my signal.”
We all drew three shafts and crept into position, halting at the edge of the flame wall. The Ffreinc were still watching the fire, their faces bright. When I saw Iwan fit an arrow to the string, I did likewise. When he stood, I stood. He drew, and so did I . . .
“Now!” he said, his voice low but distinct.
Six shafts streaked out from the wood, crossing the burned clearing in a wink. Four soldiers dropped to the ground.
The two remaining men-at-arms had no time to wonder what had happened to the other fellas. Before they could raise their shields or look around, winged death caught them, lifted them off their feet, and put them on their backs—pierced through with two shafts each.
Then it was a fleet-footed race to the further end of the flame wall. The fire was burning hotter as more of the underbrush and wood took light, drawing wind to itself and spitting it out in fluttering gusts. The smoke was heavy. We clutched our cloaks to our faces and made our way as best we could, stumbling half-blind through the murk to take up new positions.
The flames were now between us and the Ffreinc. We could see the soldiers moving as through a shimmering curtain. Imagine their surprise when out from this selfsame curtain flew not frightened partridges to grace the Christmas board, but six sizzling shafts tipped with stinging death.
Four of the arrows found their marks, and three Marchogi toppled into the snow. A fifth shaft ripped through a soldier’s arm and into the cask in the hands of the fella behind him. The amazed soldier dropped the cask, dragging down his companion, who was now securely nailed to the top of the cask.
“Ready . . . ,” said Iwan, placing another arrow on the string and leaning into the bow as he drew and took aim. “Now!”
Six more arrows sped through the high-leaping flames, and four more Ffreinc joined the first four on the ground. The remaining two, however, reacting quickly, threw themselves down, pulling their shields over them, thinking to protect themselves this way. But Iwan and Siarles, pressing forward as far as the flames would allow, each sent a shaft pelting into the centre of the shields; one glanced off, taking the edge of the shield with it. The other shaft struck just above the boss and penetrated all the way through and into the neck of the soldier cowering beneath it.
The last fella, crouching behind his shield, tried to back away. Bran knelt quickly and, holding the bow sideways, loosed a shaft that flashed out of the flames, speeding low over the ground. It caught the retreating soldier beneath the bottom edge of the shield, pinning the man’s ankles together. He fell screaming to the snow and lay there moaning and whimpering.
We held our breath and waited.
When no more soldiers appeared, we began to imagine it safe to leave.
“What are we to do about the fire?” I asked.
“We cannot fight it,” Siarles replied. “We’ll have to let it go and hope for the best.”
“We will watch it,” Iwan said. “If it spreads or changes direction, we should know.”
Bran looked back through the curtain of flame towards the fallen soldiers. “I did not see the sheriff.” Turning to us, he said, “Did anyone see the sheriff ?”
No one had seen him, of course, for just as the question had been spoken there came a shout and, from the night-dark wood behind us, mounted knights appeared, lances couched, crashing up out of the brush where they had been hidden.
I
saw the spearheads gleam sharp in the firelight and the fire glow red on the helmets of the knights and chamfers of the horses as they clattered up out of the brake. I tried to count and made it eight or ten of them, closing fast.
They were that near we had time but to pull once and loose.
In less time than it takes to catch a breath, our arrows streaked out, the stinging whine followed by a slap and crack like that of a whip as steel heads met padded leather jerkin and then ring mail, piercing both. The force of the blow lifted two hard-charging riders from the saddle and sent a third backwards over the rump of his horse.
Before the onrushing knights could check their mounts, we each had another shaft on the string. Iwan took the foremost knight, and I took the one behind him. Bran changed his aim at the last instant and sent a shaft into the breast of a charger that had already lost its rider. The oncoming horse’s legs tangled and it stumbled, taking down the two horses behind it as well. The knights tried to quit the saddle before their steeds rolled on them, but only one avoided the crush. The other was lost in a heap of horseflesh and churning hooves.
I pulled another arrow from my sheaf and nocked it, but did not have time to aim. I threw myself to the ground as a lance blade swept the place lately occupied by my head. As I scrambled to my feet, a trumpet sounded. I looked to the sound as at least eight more knights came bounding from the wood with Marshal Gysburne leading the charge.
Slow cart that I am, it was only then that I understood we had been caught in a neatly spread net and the ends were about to close on us.
Bran had already seen it. “Fall back!” he shouted.
But there was nowhere to flee.
Behind us was a wall of burning trees and brush, ahead a swarm of angry soldiers—each one in a blood-rage to take our heads.
The trumpet sounded again, and there he was: Sir Richard de Glanville, the devil himself, looking powerfully pleased with his surprise. He swept out of the darkness flanked by two knights holding torches, and I do believe he imagined that at the very sight of him the fight would go out of us. For as he emerged from the dark wood he called out in English.
The others looked to me. “He says we must surrender, but that quarter will be given.”
Siarles spat and put an arrow on the string. Iwan said, “We ask no quarter.”
Raising his bow, Siarles said, “Shall I make reply, Lord?”
Bran nodded. “Give him our answer.”
Before Bran had even finished speaking, the shaft was on its way. The sheriff, anticipating such a response, was ready.
Having faced a Welsh bowman before, he had provided himself with a small round shield clad in iron plate. As Siarles’ arrow seared across the flame-shot distance, de Glanville threw his heavy round shield before him, taking the blow on the iron boss. There was a spark as metal struck metal, and the sturdy oak shaft shattered from the impact.
There was no time for a second flight, for at that moment a second body of knights charged in on the flank. I could not count them. I saw only a rush out of the darkness as the horses appeared.
We all loosed arrows at will, sending as fast as we could draw. Three knights were despatched that quick, and two more followed before the first were clear of the saddle. Then, with the horses on top of us, it was time to flee.
“This way!” cried Bran, edging back and back towards the burning trees and brush—a place even the best-trained Norman horses would not willingly go. “Through there,” said Bran, already starting towards a gap between two burning elm trees. Pulling his cloak over his head, he darted through the narrow, fire-filled space as through a flaming arch.
Siarles and Rhoddi followed. Iwan, Tomas, and I made good their escape, sending another shaft each into the mounted soldiers as they wheeled and turned to get a good run at us. Then it was our turn to face the fire.
Pulling my cloak over my head, I bent low and ran for the flames, diving headlong between the two elms. I felt the heat lick out, scorching the cloth of my cloak, and then I was through to the other side. Tomas was not so fortunate. He got a little too close and his cloak caught fire. He came through in a rush, shouting and crying that he was burning alive. I grabbed him and threw him down on the ground, rolling him until the flames were out. He was singed, and his cloak was blackened a little along the hem in the back, but he was unharmed.
“To me!” shouted Bran. Through the flames, he had seen the Marchogi regrouping. As I took my place beside him, I could hear the sheriff rallying his men on the other side of the flame wall. “Take the horses!”
With that, he sent a shaft through the shimmering flames into the indistinct shapes that were the Ffreinc knights and their horses. The arrow found a target, for at once a knight gave out a cry. Soon we were all at it, braving the heat and smoke, to stand and deliver death and havoc from out of the flames. Again and again, I drew and loosed, working in rhythm with the others.
We made good account of ourselves, I think—though it was hard to be sure as we could not always see where our shafts went. But by the time the soldiers had regrouped and come charging around the end of the flame wall, there were far fewer than there had been just moments before.
“Away!” shouted Bran, pointing to the wood behind us. Siarles was already disappearing into the scrub at the edge of the clearing. Bran followed on his heels.
“Time to run for it,” said Iwan. Loosing one last shaft, he turned and fled.
I slung my bow and pushed Tomas ahead of me, saying, “Go! Run! Don’t lose them!”
We crossed the smouldering ground, leaping over the bodies of the soldiers we had killed before the sheriff had tipped his hand. While Tomas dived into the underbrush, I cast a glance over my shoulder as the knights came pounding into the clearing.
By the time Sheriff de Glanville took command of the field, he found it occupied only by his own dead men-at-arms, lying where they’d fallen in the melted snow. His voice sounded sharp in the cold night air. I fancied I could hear the disappointment and frustration as he began calling for his men to start searching the area for our tracks.
That much I got, anyway. The luck of Cain to ’em, I thought. The ground was that chewed up—what with the soldiers setting fires and all—I did not think they’d be able to find our trail in a month of Christmases, but we did not wait to find out. From the cover of the wood, we sent some more arrows into them, killing some, wounding others. The sheriff, realising the battle was now beyond winning, called the retreat. They fled back the way they had come and, since our arrows were mostly spent, we let them go.
“They might return,” Bran said, and ordered us all to scatter and work our way around the blaze. “Confuse your trail and make certain you are not followed. Then fly like ravens for the roost.”
I put my head down and lit out through the dark winter wood. Keeping the blaze on my left, I worked my way slowly and carefully around until I’d coursed half the circle, then faded back along a deer run that took me near to the bottom of the ridge protecting Cél Craidd. After a time picking my way carefully through a hedge of brambles and hawthorn, I reached the foot of the ridge and paused to listen, kneeling beside a rock to rest a moment before continuing.
I heard nothing but the night wind freshening the tops of the larches and pines. The fire still stained the night sky, tinting the smoke a dull rusty red, but it was less fierce now; already the blaze was dying out. Overhead, there were patches of winter sky showing through the clouds, and stars glimmering bright as needle pricks. The air was cold and crisp. As I started up the snow-covered slope it came to me that this attack signalled a change in our fortunes. We had beaten the sheriff this time, but it was just the beginning. Next time he would come with more men, and still more. There would be no stopping him now.