Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
I
t was an odd thing: everyone scurrying around like ants in the rain—the children dragging wood into heaps near the door of each hut, and the women bundling foodstuffs, and the men drawing water and snugging the shelters—all labouring under a clear, bright sky to prepare for snow, the only hint of which was a twinge in an old woman’s bones.
While the rest of us were taking such measures against the coming storm, Iwan and Siarles went to spy out the best place for the welcome. We did not know how many soldiers would come with the wagons, nor how many wagons there might be. But Iwan and Siarles knew the road and knew where an ambush might succeed.
They were gone all that short winter’s day, returning at dusk. Upon arrival, they went directly to our lord’s hut. Tired from the day’s work, I settled by the common fire where a stew pot was bubbling, to warm myself and wait for the food to be served. “You were busy all day,” observed a woman nearby.
“I was that.” I turned to see Mérian, bundled in her cloak, taking her place on the log beside me. “My lady, I give you good greeting.”
“You didn’t go with the others,” she observed.
“No, there was enough to be done here. They only went to see where the wagons might pass.”
“To see where the wagons might be attacked,” she corrected. “That is what you mean.”
“Yes, I suppose that is my meaning.” She made a small tut of disapproval. “You do not agree with the king in this?”
“Whether I agree or not makes no difference,” she replied crisply. “The point is that Bran will never achieve peace with the baron if he insists on raiding and thieving. It only angers the baron and provokes him and the count to ever more cruel reprisals.”
“You are right, of course,” I agreed. “But from where I stand, I don’t see Rhi Bran making peace with the baron or the count, either one. He wants to punish them.”
“He wants the return of his throne,” she corrected crisply, “and he will not achieve it by plundering a few supply wagons.”
“No, perhaps not.”
“There!” she said, as if she had won a victory herself. “You agree. You see what must be done.”
“My lady?”
“You must talk to Bran and persuade him to change his mind about the raid.”
“Me?” I said. “I cannot. I dare not.”
“Why?” she said, turning her large dark eyes on me.
“It is not my place.”
“I would have thought it the place of any right-thinking man to help his lord whenever he can. Certainly, if you saw him sticking his hand in a nest of vipers you would warn him.”
I regarded her closely before answering. “My lady, please,” I said. “I cannot do as you ask. Iwan might, and I daresay Siarles would risk it. But Will here cannot. I do beg your pardon.”
She lifted one slender shoulder and sighed. “Oh, very well. It was worth a try. Do not think poorly of me, Will Scarlet. It is just that . . .” She paused to find the right word. “I get so vexed with him sometimes. He will not listen to me, and I don’t know what else to do.”
I accepted this in silence, stretching my hands towards the flames.
“I know he will get himself killed one day,” she continued after a time. “If the sheriff catches him, or one of the baron’s men, Bran is as good as dead before the sun sets.”
“You worry about him.”
“Truly, I do so worry,” she confided. “I do not think I could bear losing him again.”
“Again?”
She nodded, growing pensive. “It was just after the Ffreinc came to Elfael. The king—Bran’s father, Lord Brychan—had been killed and all the warband with him. Only Iwan survived.” She went on to describe how Bran had been seized and taken hostage by Count Falkes, and how he had fled the cantref. “He might have made good his escape, but he stopped to help a farmer and his wife who were being attacked by the count’s rogues. He fought them off, but others came and gave chase. They caught him, and he was wounded and left for dead.” She paused, adding in a softer voice, “Word went out that he had been killed . . . and so I thought. Everyone thought he had been killed. I only learned the truth very much later.”
She drew breath as if there was more she would say, but thought better of it just then, for she fell silent instead.
“How did Bran survive?” I asked after a moment.
“Angharad found him,” she explained, “and brought him back to life. He has lived in the forest ever since.”
I considered this. It explained the curious bond I sensed between the old woman and the young man, and the way in which he honoured her. I thought on this for a time, content in the silence and the warmth of the flames.
“He won’t always live in the forest,” I said, more to have something to say and so prolong our time together.
“No?” she replied, glancing sideways at me. She was kneading her fingers before the fire, and the flames made her eyes shine bright.
“Why, he intends to win back his throne. You said so yourself just now. When that happens, I expect we will all bid the forest a fond fare-thee-well.”
“But that will never happen,” she insisted. “Does no one see? The baron is too strong, his wealth too great. He will never let Elfael go. Am I the only one who sees the truth?” She shook her head sadly. “What Bran wants is impossible.”
“Well,” I said, “I wouldn’t be too sure. I have seen the lone canny fox outwit the hunter often enough to know that it matters little how many horses and men you have. All the wealth and weapons in the world will not catch the fox that refuses to be caught.”
She smiled at that, which surprised me. “Do you really think so?”
“God’s truth, my lady. That is exactly what I think.”
“Thank you for that.” She smiled again and laid her hand on my arm. “I am glad you are here, Will.”
Just then, the first fresh flakes of snow arrived. One brushed her forehead and caught on her dark eyelashes. She blinked and looked up as the snow began to fall gently all around. God help me, I did not look at the snow. I saw only Mérian.
I
s she?” Odo wants to know. His question brings me out of a reverie, and I realise I’ve drifted off for some moments.
“Is she what, lad?” I ask.
“Is she very beautiful—as beautiful as they say?”
“Oh, lad, she is all that and more. It is not her face or hair or fine noble bearing—it is all these things and more. She is a right fair figure of a woman, and I will trounce the man who slanders her good name. She was born to be a queen—and if there is a God in heaven, that is what she will be.”
“Pity,” sniffs Odo. “With men like you to protect her, I wouldn’t give a rat’s whisker for her chances. Most likely, she’ll share the noose with your Rhi Bran.”
Oh, this makes me angry. “Listen, you little pus pot of a priest,” I say, my voice low and tight. “This en’t finished yet, not by a long walk. So, if you have any other clever ideas like this, keep ’em under your skirt.” Tired of him, of my confinement, sick of the pain that burns in my wounded leg, I lean back on my filthy pallet and turn my face away.
Odo is silent a moment, as well he should be, then says, “Sorry, Will, I did not mean to offend you. I only meant—”
“It makes no matter,” I tell him. “Read back where we left off.”
He does, and we go on.
T
he snow fell through the night. We awoke to a thick layer of white fluff over the forest. Branches dragged down and saplings bent low beneath the weight of cold, wet snow. Our little village of low-roofed huts lay almost hidden beneath this shroud. Early yet, the sun was just rising as we gathered our gear and made our final preparations. After a quick meal of black bread, curds, and apples, we gathered to receive our marching orders.
“Here,” said Siarles, handing me what appeared to be a bundle of rags covered with bark and twigs and leaf wrack, “put this on.”
Taking the bundle, I shook it out and held it up before me. “A cloak?” I asked, none too certain of my guess. Long, ragged, dun-coloured things with all manner of forest ruck sewn on, they looked like the pelt of some fantastical woodland creature born of tree and fern.
“We wear these when moving about the forest,” he said, pulling a similar garment around his shoulders. “Good protection.”
Folk—whether two-legged or four—are difficult enough to see in dense wood. This, any forester will tell you for nothing. Wearing these cloaks, a fella would be well-nigh impossible to see even for eyes trained in tracking game along tangled pathways through dense brush in the dim or faulty light that is the forest. Nevertheless, bless me for a dunce, I saw a flaw in the plan. “It has snowed,” I said.
“You noticed,” replied Siarles. “Oh, you’re a shrewd one, no mistake.” He indicated a basket into which the others were digging. “Get busy.”
The basket was filled with scrags of sheep’s wool, birch bark, and scraps of bleached linen and such which we fixed to the distinctive hooded cloaks of the Grellon, quickly adapting them for use in the snow.
One of the men, Tomas—a slender, light-footed little Welshman—helped me with mine, then set it on my shoulders just right and adjusted the hood as I drew the laces tight. I did the same for him, and Iwan passed among us with bow staves, strings, and bags of arrows. I tucked the strings into the leather pouch at my belt and slung the bag upon my back. At Bran’s signal, we fell in behind Iwan and tried our best to keep up with his great, ground-covering stride; no easy chore in the best of times, it was made more difficult still by the snow.
After a while we came to a place beneath the great overhanging limbs of oak and ash and hornbeam where the path was wide and still mostly dry. I found myself walking beside Tomas. “Once in Hereford, a man told me a tale about Abbot Hugo losing his gold candlesticks to King Raven,” I said, opening a question that had been rumbling around in my skull for some time now. “Is it true at all?”
“Aye, ’tis true,” Tomas assured me. “Mostly.”
“Which part? Pardon my asking.”
“What did you hear?” he countered.
“There were twenty wagons full of gold and silver church treasure, they said—and all of it under guard of a hundred mounted knights and men-at-arms. They say King Raven swooped down, killed the soldiers with his fiery breath, and snatched away the gold candlesticks to use in unholy devil rites,” I told him. “That’s what I heard.”
“We did stop the wagons and help lighten the load,” replied the Welshman. “And there was some gold, yes, and the candlesticks—that’s true enough. But there were never a hundred knights.”
“Twenty, more like,” put in Siarles, who had overheard us talking.
“Aye, only twenty,” confirmed Iwan, joining in. “And there weren’t but three oxcarts. Still, we got more than seven hundred marks in that one raid, not counting the candlesticks.”
“And how much since then?” I asked, thinking I had come into a most gainful employment.
“A little here and there,” said Siarles. “Nothing much.”
“Only some pigs and a cow or two now and then,” put in Iwan.
“Aye, any that wander too close to the forest,” said Tomas. “Them’s ours.”
“But the way people talk you’d think the raids were ten-a-day.”
“You can’t help the way people talk,” Iwan said. “We might stop the odd wagon betimes to remind folk to respect King Raven’s wood, but there was only the one big raid.”
“What did you do with all the money?”
“We gave it away,” said Tomas, a note of pride in his voice. “Gave it to Bishop Asaph to build a new monastery.”
“All of it?”
“Most of it,” agreed Iwan placidly. “We still have a little kept by.”
“Thing is,” said Siarles, “silver coin isn’t all that useful in the forest.”
“We give out what is needful to the folk of Elfael to help keep body and soul together.”
I had heard this part of the tale, too, but imagined it merely wishful thinking on the part of those telling the story. It seemed, however, the generosity of Rhi Bran the Hud was true even if the greater extent of his notorious activities was not.
“Just the one big raid? Why so?”
“Two good reasons,” Iwan replied.
“It is flamin’ dangerous,” put in Siarles.
“To be sure,” said Iwan. “It does no one any good if we are caught or killed in a needless fight. Neither did we want the Ffreinc to become so wary they would make the escorts too large to easily defeat . . .”
“Or change the route the wagons followed,” Siarles said. The slight edge to his tone suggested that he did not altogether agree with the caution of his betters.
“As a result,” continued Iwan, “the Ffreinc have grown lax of late. Because they have passed through the forest without trouble these many months, they think they can come and go at will now. Today, we will remind them who allows them this right.”
Such prudence, I thought. They would not spend themselves except for great and certain gain, nor kill the goose that laid the silver eggs. Meanwhile, they watched and waited for those chances worthy of their interest.
“Am I to take it that today’s supply train is of sufficient value to make a raid worth the risk?”
“That is what we shall soon discover.” Iwan surged on ahead, and it was all we could do to keep up with him.
Finally, as the unseen sun stretched toward midday, we came in sight of the King’s Road. Here we stopped, and Bran addressed us and delivered his final instructions. My own part was neither demanding nor all that dangerous so long as things went according to plan. I was to work my way along the road to a position a little south of the others, there to lie in wait for the supply train. I was to keep out of sight and be ready with my bow if anything went amiss.
Just before he sent us to our places, Bran said, “Let no one think we do this for ourselves alone. We do it for Elfael and its long-suffering folk, and may God have mercy on our souls. Amen.”
A
men!” We pledged our lives with our king’s, and then stood for a moment, listening to the hush of a woodland subdued beneath the falling snow. And there was that much to goad a fella to reflection. Some or all of us might be dead before the day’s journey had run, and there’s a thought to make a man think twice.
“You heard him, lads. Be about your work,” said Iwan, and we all scattered into the forest.
I moved a few dozen paces along the roadside and found a place behind the rotting bole of a fallen pine. It lay atop the slight rise of a bank overlooking the road below with a clear view ahead to the place where our rude welcome would commence. Trying not to disturb the snow too much, I cleared me a place and heaped up some dry leaves and pine branches, and lay my bowstave lengthwise along the underside of the pine trunk, where it would be somewhat protected from the snow and ready to hand. Then I hunkered down amongst the boughs and bracken. I need not have worried about leaving too many telltale signs, for the snow kept falling, gradually becoming heavier as the morning wore on. By midday the tracks we’d made had been filled in, removing any traces of disturbance. All the world lay beneath a clean, unbroken breast of glimmering white.
I sat and watched the flakes spin down, snow on snow, and still it fell. The day passed in silence, and aside from a few birds and squirrels, I saw no movement anywhere near the road. All remained so quiet I began to think that the soldiers guarding the supply train had thought better of continuing their journey and decided to lay up somewhere until the snow stopped and travel became easier. Maybe little Gwion Bach had it wrong and the wagons were not coming at all.
The daylight, never bright, began to falter as the snow fell thicker and faster. Warm as a cock in a dovecot under my cloak, I dozed a little the way a hunter will, alert though his eyes are closed, and passed the time in my half-sheltered nook . . .
. . . and awakened to the smell of smoke.
I looked around. Nothing had changed. The road was still empty. There was no sign of anyone passing or having passed; the snow was still falling in soft, clumping flakes. The light was dimmer now, the winter day fading quickly into an early gloom.
And then I heard it: the light jingle of a horse’s tack.
I fished a dry string from my pouch and was rigging the bow before the sound came again. I shook the snow off from the bag of arrows and opened it. Bless me, there were nine black arrows inside—black from crow feather to iron tip. I placed four of them upright along the trunk of the tree in front of me, and blew gently on my hands to steady and warm them.
Oh, a fella can get a bit cramped waiting in the snow. I tried to loosen my stiff limbs a little without making too much commotion.
The sound came again and, again, the faint whiff of smoke. I had no time to wonder at this, for at that same instant two riders appeared. The snow softened all sound but the jingle of the tack as they rode, and the hooves of their horses breaking a path in the snow. Big men—knights—they loomed larger still in their padded leather jerkins and long winter cloaks which covered their mail shirts. Helmeted and gauntleted, their shields were on their backs and their lances were tucked into the saddle carriers; their swords were sheathed.
They passed quietly up the road and out of sight. I counted slow beats until those following them should arrive. But none came after.
I waited.
After a time, the first two returned, hastening back the way they had come. When they reached a place just below my overlook, one of the riders stopped and sent the other on ahead while he tarried there.
Scouts, I thought. Wary, they were, and right prudent to be so.
The soldier below me was so close, I could smell the damp horsehair scent of his mount and see the steam puff from the animal’s nostrils and rise from its warm, sodden rump. I kept my head low and remained dead still the while, as would a hunter in the deer blind. In a moment, I heard the jingle of horse’s tack once more and the second rider reappeared. This time, eight mounted soldiers followed in his wake. All of them joined the first knight, who ordered the lot to take up positions along either side of the road.
So now! These were not complacent fools. They had identified the hollow as potentially dangerous and were doing what they could to pare that danger to a nub. As the last soldier took his place, the first wagon hove into view. A high-sided wain, like that used to carry hay and grain, it was pulled by a double team of oxen, its tall wheels sunk deep in the snow-covered ruts of the King’s Road. And though the wagon bed was covered against the snow, it was plain to a blind man by the way the animals strained against the yoke that the load was heavy indeed. Within moments of the first wain passing, a second followed. The oxen plodded slowly along, their warm breath fogging in the chill air, the falling snow settling on their broad backs and on their patient heads between wide-swept horns.
No more appeared.
The ox-wains trundled slowly down between the double ranks of mounted knights, and that hint of smoke tickled my nostrils again—nor was I the only one this time, no mistake. The soldiers’ horses caught the scent too, and came over all jittery-skittery. They tossed their fine big heads and whinnied, chafing the snow with hooves the size of bleeding-bowls.
The soldiers were not slow to notice the fuss their mounts were making; the knights looked this way and that, but nothing had changed in the forest ’round about. No danger loomed.
As the first wain reached the far end of the corridor, I caught a flicker of yellow through the trees. A glimmering wink o’ light. Just that quick and gone again. With it, there came a searing, screeching whine, like the sound an arrow-struck eagle might make as it falls from the sky.
The short hairs on my arms and neck stood up to hear it, and I looked around. In that selfsame moment, one of the scouts’ horses screamed, and broke ranks. The stricken animal reared and plunged, its legs kicking out every direction at once. The rider was thrown from the saddle, and as he scrambled to regain control of his mount, the animal reared again and went over, falling onto its side.
The other knights watched, but held firm and made no move to help the fella. They were watching still when there came another keening shriek and another horse reared—this one on the other side of the long double rank. As with the first animal, the second leapt and plunged and tried to bolt, but the rider held it fast.
As the poor beast whirled and screamed, I chanced to see what none of the soldiers had yet seen: sticking from the horse’s flank low behind the saddle was the feathered stub of a black arrow.
The knight yelled something to the soldier nearest him. My little bit of the Frankish tongue serves me well enough most times, but I could not catch hold of what he said. He flung out a beseeching hand as the horse beneath him collapsed. Another soldier in the line gave out a cry—and all at once his horse likewise began to rear and scream, kicking its hind legs as if to smite the very devil and his unseen legions.
Before a’body could say “Saint Gerald’s jowls,” three more horses—two on the far side of the road and one on the near side—heaved up and joined in that dire and dreadful dance. The terrified animals crashed into one another, bucking and lashing, throwing their riders. One of the beasts bolted into the wood; the others fell thrashing in the snow.
It was then one of the knights caught sight of what was causing all this fret and flurry: an arrow sticking out from the belly of a downed horse. With a loud cry, he drew his sword and called upon his fellows to up shields and hunker down. His shouts went unheeded, for the other knights were suddenly fighting their own mounts. The poor brutes, already frightened by the scent of smoke and blood and the sight of the other animals flailing around, broke and ran.
The soldiers could no longer hold their terrified mounts.
The wagon drivers, fearful and shaking in their cloaks, had long since halted their teams. The commander of the guard—one of the two fellas I had first seen—spurred his mount into the middle of the road and began shouting at his men. Black arrows cut his horse from under him just that quick, and he had to throw himself from the saddle to avoid being crushed.
Dragging himself to his feet, he shouted to his men once more, trying to rally them to his side. Then, over and above the shouts and confusion, there arose a cry from the wood the like of which I had never heard before: the tortured shriek of a creature enraged and in terrible agony, and it echoed through the trees so that no one could tell whence it came.
The sound faded into a tense and uneasy silence. The Norman soldiers put hands to their weapons, turning this way and that, ready to defend themselves against whatever might come.
The screech rang out again, closer this time—devilishly close—and, if possible, even louder and angrier.
Three more horses went down, and the last followed in turn. Now all the knights were afoot, their mounts dead or dying. Oh, but it was a sorrowful sight—those proud destriers flailing away in the bloodred snow. It fair brought a sorry tear to the eye to see such fine animals slaughtered, I can tell you.
The commander of the knights summoned his soldiers to him. They seized their lances and hastened to join their commander. Back-to-back, weapons drawn, they formed a tight circle and waited behind their long, pointed shields for the next flight of cursed black arrows.
For a moment, all was quiet save for the quick breathing of the men and the neighing of the wounded horses. And then . . .
I saw a clump of snow fall from an elm branch overhead, sending a glistening curtain of down upon the road. When the frozen dust settled, there he was: King Raven. Black as Satan’s tongue from the crown of his head to booted feet, and covered all over with feathers, great wings outspread with long, curving claws on the ends. But the thing which gave him the look of the pit was the absolutely smooth, round skull-like face with its wide hollow eyes and unnaturally long sword of a beak.
King Raven—it could be none other.
The knights saw this phantom creature and shrank back at the sight. I forgave them their fright. I felt it, too. Indeed, it seemed as if the day, already cold and dim, grew cold and dark as the grave in the moment of his appearing.
That dread beak rose slowly until it pointed straight up toward the dense webwork of snow-laden branches and boughs. The creature loosed another of its horrific cries. As if in reply, I saw a bright flicker in the air, and a flaming brand landed in the snow midway between King Raven and the cowering knights. Another joined the first—more or less the same distance from the knights, but behind them. Then a third fell behind the second—to the left of the huddled body of knights this time. A fourth fell among the others, on the opposite side of the third. I saw it arc high through the surrounding trees, and before it had even touched the ground, three more were in the air.
The knights, stunned and lifeless with disbelief, were ringed about with fire. The torches sputtered in the snow, sending thick black smoke boiling up through the down-drifting flakes.
So far, all had fallen out as planned, and I imagined we would escape clean away with the goods. But bad luck has a knack for catching a fella when he least can abide it. Even as our numb fingers reached for victory, ill fortune arrived in the person of Abbot Hugo. Dressed in a white satin robe with white leather boots and a woollen cloak of rich dark purple, he appeared more king than cleric as he came galloping into the clearing. With him was Marshal Guy de Gysburne, commanding a small company of oafish louts spoiling for a fight.
Truth be told, at the time I did not know who these men might be, though I would be learning soon enough. All I knew was that they had come to the banquet as guests uninvited, and had to be driven off before one or another of our folk got hurt.
Well, they burst into the clearing, weapons drawn, ready to start lopping heads and making corpses. Eight soldiers not counting the abbot broke into the ring of torches. Guy, all in mail and leather, greaves and gorget, charged ahead on a pale grey destrier. He took one look at the black-feathered phantom, reared up in the saddle, and let fly with his lance.
King Raven darted lightly to the side as the spear sailed past, easily evading the throw, even as I nocked one of the black arrows onto the string and, holding my breath, drew and aimed at the marshal.
Someone else had the same idea.
Out from the brushwood beside the trail streaked an arrow. It blazed across the clearing, struck Guy, and slammed him backwards in the saddle as he reached to draw his sword.
That reaching saved his life, I think. The arrow pierced the steel rings of his hauberk at the fleshy part of his upper arm and stuck there. If he had been more upright in the saddle, he’d have had it in his bonnet. As it was, he dropped the sword and called his men to shield themselves as the arrows began falling thick and fast.
Three men went down before they could unsling their shields, and a fourth took an arrow in the back the instant he swung it around to protect his chest. They fell like stones dropped in a well.
Abbot Hugo, shouting in Ffreinc, drove into the clearing, heedless of the missiles flying around him. Well, I suppose killing a priest is serious business—Norman or no—and Hugo maybe felt safe even with men falling all around him. Or, it may be he is that brave or stupid. Even so, he was urging the knights and men-at-arms to throw off their fear and attack, but that showed no understanding of the nature of the assault. A fella afoot cannot strike what he cannot see, and a warrior on a horse cannot charge into the brush and brake if he hopes to live out the day.
The soldiers on foot drew together, trying to form a shield ring to give them protection from the whistling death all around. I loosed two, and made good account of myself so that, by now, any soldier still in the saddle threw himself to the ground even as his horse was slaughtered beneath him. Those who somehow escaped being skewered with an oaken shaft scuttled on hands and knees to join the others as arrow after arrow slammed into the shield wall, splintering the wood, ripping the leather-covered panels apart, striking with the force of heavy hammers. I sent two more arrows to join those of the others.