Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
Antoin frowned. I could see him wavering.
“My master has said he will gladly pay anything you ask,” I told him. “Anything reasonable.”
“Where is your master now?”
“They were already entering the forest when I left them on the road.”
“How many?”
“Four only,” I answered, “and two wagons.”
He considered this a moment, tapping his chin with his finger. Then he said, “A moment, please.”
Leaving me by the door, he walked to where the sheriff was seated and knelt beside the chair. They exchanged a brief word, and Antoin rose quickly and returned to me. “He has agreed to provide you with an escort. See to your horse and wait for me in the square outside. I will summon the men and meet you there.”
“Very well, Sire,” I said, ducking my head like a dutiful vassal. “Thank you.”
I returned to the square and watered my mount in a stone trough outside the guardhouse, then waited for the sheriff and his soldiers to appear. While I waited, I observed the square, searching for any signs of the battle that had taken place only a few nights before.
There were none.
Aside from a few hoofprints in the churned-up mud and, here and there, a darker stain which might have been made by blood, there was nothing at all to suggest anything more than a Twelfth Night revel had taken place. Even what was left of the gallows had been removed.
I wondered about this. Why take away the gibbet? Was it merely that it was not needed now that the captives would not be executed? Or was there more to it—an end to the sheriff ’s hanging ways, perhaps?
I determined to find out if I could. When Bailiff Antoin appeared a short time later, I found my chance. Quickly scanning the double rank of knights, I did not see the one man I wanted. “Where is Sheriff de Glanville?” I asked.
“He has asked me to lead the escort,” said Antoin.
Just like that our deception was dashed to pieces.
“Will he come later?” I asked, climbing into the saddle. Mind whirling like a millwheel in the race, I tried my best to think how to rescue our shattered plan.
“No,” replied the bailiff, “he will remain here and await our return. Ride on; lead the way.”
That is how I came to be leading a company of six knights, a bailiff, and three men-at-arms into the forest—and myself to my doom.
Ogof Angharad
I
t had taken far longer to reach the cave than she hoped. The deep snow underfoot made for slow going, and now, as Angharad toiled up the long steep track leading to the rock cave, she wished she had left Cél Craidd earlier. Already, there were stars peeping between the clouds to the east; it would be dark before she could get a fire going. Exhausted, she paused and sat on the cracked bole of a fallen tree to rest for a moment and catch her breath for the final climb up to the cave entrance.
She listened to the silence of the forest, keen ears straining for wayward sounds. All she heard was the tick of branches settling in the evening air and, far off, the rasping call of a rook coming in to roost. The distant, lonely sound moved her unexpectedly. She loved the winter and the night. She loved the forest, and all its wonders—just one of innumerable gifts bestowed by a wildly benevolent Creator.
“Before Thee, may I be forever bowing, Kindly King of All Creation,” sighed Angharad, the prayer rising gently upward with the visible mist of her breath. And then, leaning on her staff, much more heavily than before, she continued on her way.
Upon reaching the small level clearing halfway up the hill, she paused again to catch her breath. The day would come when she would no longer have the strength to climb up to her
ogof
, her cave house.
The snow lay undisturbed, deep and crisp and white before the open black entrance. All was as it should be, so she moved quickly inside, throwing off her tuck bag and cloak at the threshold. Then, gathering the dry kindling from its place by the cave mouth, she carried it to the fire ring. Working in utter darkness, her deft fingers found the steel and flint and wisps of birch bark, and soon the rosy bloom of a fire was spreading up through the mass of broken twigs. With patience born of long practice, Angharad shepherded the flames, slowly feeding in larger branches until the fire spread its rosy glow over the interior of the cave.
Rising from her knees, she removed her shoes and her wet, cold robe and drew the undershift over her head, then hung the damp garments from hooks set in the rock walls of the cave so that they could dry. She unrolled her favourite bearskin nearer the still-growing fire and lay down. Closing her eyes, she luxuriated in the blesséd warmth seeping into her ancient bones.
After a time, she roused herself, and, wrapping herself in a dry cloak she kept in a basket in the cave, she began to prepare a simple meal, singing as she worked. She sang:
O Wise Head, Rock and Redeemer,
In my deeds, in my words, in my wishes,
In my reason, and in the fulfilling of my desires, be Thou.
In my sleep, in my dreams, in my repose,
In my thoughts, in my heart and soul always, be Thou.
And may the promised Son of Princely Peace dwell,
Aye! in my heart and soul always.
May the long-awaited Son of Glory dwell in me.
Taking the stone lid from a jar, she placed a double handful of barley meal into a wooden bowl, adding a splash of water from the stoup and a bit of lard from the leather tuck bag she had brought with her. She kneaded the dough and set it aside to rest while she filled her kettle and put it on the fire to boil. Next she formed the dough into small cakes and set them on the rounded stones of the fire ring.
Then, while waiting for the water to boil and the cakes to bake, she resumed her song . . .
In my sleep, in my dreams, in my repose,
In my thoughts, in my heart and soul always, be Thou.
Thou, a bright flame before me be,
Thou, a guiding star above me be,
Thou, a smooth path below me be,
And Thou a stout shield behind me be,
Today, tonight, and ever more.
This day, this night, and forever more
Come I to Thee, Jesu—
Jesu, my Druid and my Peace.
She rested, listening to the fire as the flames devoured the fuel and the water bubbled in the kettle. When the water reached the boil, she roused herself and turned the cakes. Then she rose and, taking a handful of dried herbs and roots from another of her many jars and baskets, she cast the stuff into the steaming bath, removing the kettle from the fire to allow the mixture to steep and cool.
When it was ready, she poured some of the potion into a wooden bowl and drank it, savouring the mellow, calming effect of the brew as it eased the stiffness in her old muscles. She ate a few of the cakes, and felt her strength returning. The warmth of the fire and food, combined with the exertions of the last days, made her drowsy.
Yawning, she rose and carried some more wood to the hearth so that it would be close to hand. Then, banking the fire for the night, she lay down to sleep. She stretched out on the bearskin, and pulled her cloak over her and along with it a covering made from the downy pelt of a young fallow deer. There was no special significance to these but, like the wise women of old who esteemed the hides of the red ox for qualities friendly to dreams and visions, Angharad had always had good luck with this particular combination.
At once, exhaustion from her long walk overwhelmed her and dragged her down into the depths of unknowing. She fell asleep with the words of her song still echoing through her mind and heart . . .
In my sleep, in my dreams, in my repose,
In my thoughts, in my heart and soul always, be Thou.
Thou, a bright flame before me be,
Thou, a guiding star above me be,
Thou, a smooth path below me be,
And Thou a stout shield behind me be,
Today, tonight, and ever more.
She had come to her cave to dream. She had come to think, and to spend time alone, away from Bran and the others, in order to discern the possible paths opening before them into the future. Following the last raid, the feeling had come upon her that Bran stood at a crossing of the ways.
It may have been the appearance of the baron’s odd gifts—the gold ring and embroidered gloves and mysterious letter—which filled her with sick apprehension. But the count’s swift retaliation in burning the forest indicated that the theft was far more damaging than any of them had yet suspected.
This did seem to be the case. Whatever value those particular objects possessed was far beyond silver or gold; it was measured in life and death. This is what concerned Angharad most of all. Not since the coming of King Raven to the greenwood had anything like this happened; she did not know what it meant, and not knowing made her uneasy. So she had come to her snug ogof to seek an answer.
All along the way, as she trudged through the deep-drifted snow, she had turned this over in her mind. As her aged body stumped along, her agile mind ranged far and wide through time and realms of ancient lore, searching out the more obscure pathways of knowledge and knowing, means now largely forgotten.
As a child, sitting at the feet of Delyth, her people’s wise hudolion, little Angharad had seen how the old woman had cast a pinch of dry herb powder into the flames as she stirred her porridge. Taking a deep breath, she had announced that the hunting party that had been away for three days was returning.
“Go, Bee.” That was her nickname for young Angharad. “Go tell the queen to fill the ale vat and fire the roasting pit, for her husband will soon arrive.” Angharad knew better than to question her banfáith, so she jumped up and darted off to deliver the message. “Three pigs and four stags,” Delyth called as the youngster scampered away. “Tell her we will be entertaining strangers as well.”
Before the sun had quartered the sky, the hunting party rode into the settlement leading pack animals bearing the dressed carcases of three big boars and four red deer stags. With them, as the banfáith had said, were strangers: three men and two boys from Penllyn, a cantref to the north, who were to be their guests.
That was not the first or last time she had witnessed such foretelling of events, but it was the time she asked how the banfáith gained this knowledge. “Knowledge is easy,” the old woman told her. “Wisdom is hard.”
“But how did you know?” she persisted. “Was it in the smoke?”
Banfáith Delyth smiled and shook her head. “When something happens, little one, it is like casting a rock into a pool—it sends ripples through the subtle currents of time and being.” Her fingers lightly bounced as if tracing such ripples. “If you know how, you can follow all the rings back to where they began and see the rock that made them.”
“Can you teach me?” she had said, blissfully ignorant of what she was asking.
Banfáith Delyth had cupped her small face in her wrinkled hand and gazed deep into her eyes for a long time. “Aye, yes, little Bee. I think I can.” In that moment, Angharad’s life and destiny had been decided.
The cave had been Delyth’s ogof, and that of the hudolion before her, and so on. Now, a lifetime or two later, she was about to call on those same skills she had first learned from her wise teacher so many, many years ago.
It would take all her considerable skill and experience to succeed. Events which had happened so far away were much more difficult to discern; their ripples—she still thought of it that way—were faint and diffused by the time they reached Angharad’s cave in the forest. She would have to be on her best mettle to learn anything useful at all. But if she was right in thinking that the appearance of the baron’s curious gifts signalled an event of great significance, the ripples cast in the pool of time and being would be more violent, and she still might be able to learn something about what, and who, had caused them.
She slept and rose early, but rested. The herbal tincture had done its restorative work, and she felt clearheaded and ready to proceed. She built up the fire from coals smoored the night before, and set about making some porridge on which to break her fast. It was dark outside yet; the sun would be late rising. So she lit a few of the clay candle pots she had scattered around the cave, and soon the dark interior was glowing with soft, flickering light. She had brought a bit of cooked meat with her, and decided to warm it up, too. If all went well, she would need a little flesh to carry her through until she could eat again.
After she had eaten, Angharad went outside, knelt in the snow, and as a pale pink sun broke in the east, she lifted her hands in a morning prayer of thanksgiving, guidance, and protection. When she finished, she walked to an alcove deeper in the cave and took up the hide-wrapped bundle there—her harp. Returning to the hearth, she settled herself on her three-legged stool and began to play, stroking the strings, tuning them as needed, limbering up fingers that were no longer as supple as they had once been.
After a time, the music began to work its ancient magic. She could feel her body relax as her mind began to drift on the music, as a leaf drifts on the river’s flow. She felt all around her the dip and swirl of time, like the tiny flutters of butterfly wings causing minute eddies in the air. She imagined herself standing to her thighs in a wide, slow-flowing stream and resting her fingertips lightly on the surface of the water so as to feel each tiny wave and ripple as it passed. Each of these, she knew, was some small happening in Elfael or beyond.
It was always the same picture in her mind: the broad easy-moving water, dense with the myriad particles of random happenstance, glowing like pale gold beneath a sky of sunset bronze in the time-between-times. She moved deeper into the warm wash and felt the water surge around her, gently tugging against legs and gown as she stood there—head held to one side as if listening, her face intent, but calm—touching the sliding skin of the river as it flowed.
After a time, her hands fell from the harp strings and found their way to a small jar she had placed beside her stool. She withdrew a pinch of a pungent herb and dropped it into the flames, just as Delyth had done so long ago. The smoke rose instantly—a clean, dry, aromatic scent that seemed to sharpen her inner sight and touch. She imagined she could feel the ripples more easily now as her fingers played among them.
There were so many, so very many. She shrank within herself to see how many there were and each one connected in some way to another and to many others. It was impossible to know which of all those flowing ripples bore significance for her. She lifted her fingers to the strings and began strumming the harp once more, holding in her mind an image of the ring and the gloves, demanding of the flowing stream to bring her only those waves and ripples where the ring and gloves could be felt.
It took monumental patience, and ferocious concentration, but at last the river seemed to change course slightly—as when the tide, which has been rising all the while, suddenly begins to ebb. This it does between one wave and the next and, while there is nothing to signal the change, it is definite, inexorable, and profound. The flow of time and being changed just as surely as the tide, and she felt the inescapable pull of events flowing around her—some definite and fixed, others half-formed and malleable, and still others whose potential was long since exhausted. For not everything that happened in the world was fixed and certain; some events lingered long as potentialities, influencing all around them, and others were more transient, mere flits of raw possibility.
As a child might dangle its fingers in the water to attract the tiny fish, Angharad trailed her fingers through the tideflow of all that was, and is, and is yet to be. She imagined herself strolling through the water, feeling the smooth rocks beneath her bare feet, the shore moving and changing as she walked until she came to a familiar bend. She had dabbled here before. Taking a deep breath, she stretched out her hands, tingling with the pulse of possibility.
There!
She felt a glancing touch like the nibble of a fish that struck and darted away. An image took shape in her mind: A host of knights past numbering, all on the march, swarming over the land, burning as they advanced, crushing and killing any who stood in their way. Black smoke billowed to the sky where they had passed. At the head of this army she saw a banner—bloodred, with two golden lions crouching, their claws extended—and carrying the banner, a man astride a great warhorse. The man was broad of shoulder and gripped the pole of the banner in one hand and a bloody sword with the other; he bestrode his battle horse like a champion among men. But he was not a mere man, for he had flames for hair and empty pits where his eyes should be. The vast army arrayed behind this dread, implacable lord carried lances upraised—a forest of slender shafts, the steel heads catching the livid glimmer of a dying sun’s rays.