Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
T
hree days of hunting from earliest daylight to evening dusk, and each day Bran, having taken a great interest in the earl’s hounds, greeted the dogs with morsels of food he had saved from the previous night’s supper board—gobbets of meat he kept in a little bag. Tuck watched the process with fascination and admiring approval as Earl Hugh swallowed the bait in a manner not at all unlike his hounds: and all because Count Rexindo let it be known that he wanted to buy three or four of the animals to take back to Spain as a gift for his father, the duke. The ever-greedy earl welcomed the sale, of course, fixing the price at a princely thirty marks—a price that made Tuck’s eyes water. He could never have brought himself to buy three smelly hounds when he might have built an entire church—altar to steeple and everything in between—and had money left over.
Having favoured the hounds, they mounted their horses and all rode out to spend the day working the runs—to be followed by a night’s drinking and roister in the hall. By the fourth day, Earl Hugh’s nightly feasting began to tell on them all—everyone except Bran. Somehow Bran seemed to bear up under the strain of these all-night revels, awaking the next morning none the worse for his excesses. Indeed, Tuck began to think him blessed with the fortitude of Samson himself until he noticed the trick. Friar Tuck—himself an enthusiastic consumer of the earl’s good wine and fortifying meat—happened to discover Bran’s secret the second night. Bran quaffed as readily as the next man; however, the instant their host’s attention wandered elsewhere, quick as a blink Bran’s cup dipped below the board and the contents were dashed onto the soiled rushes under their feet. Thereafter, he drank from an empty vessel until it was filled again, and the process was repeated.
From then on, Tuck did the same himself even though it pained him to throw away good drink.
Wolf Hugh himself was ragged and mean of a morning, soreheaded, stinking of stale wine and urine, his eyes red and his nose running as he shuffled from his chambers bellowing for food and drink to drive the demons from head and belly. Still he seemed to possess unusual powers of recovery, and by the time the sun had breached the castle walls, the earl was ready to ride to his hounds once more, steady as a stone and keen for the chase. On the third day, Tuck freely complained that the nightly debauch was too much for him, and begged Bran to let him observe the hunt from the rails of his bed; but Bran insisted that they must go on as they had started. Ifor and Brocmael had youth on their side, and tolerated the revelry, but were increasingly reticent participants. Alan a’Dale fared less well and was laid low of a morning.
On the fourth day, the earl decided to rest the horses and hounds. He had business to attend to with some of his nobles, leaving his guests free to take their ease and amuse themselves as they would. Bran let it be known that he wanted to go into the town and attend the market, and so they did. A hundred paces beyond sight of the castle gate, he gathered his crew around him and said, “You are doing very well, lads. I beg but a little more patience and we are done. We will not abide here much longer.”
“How much longer?” asked Alan a’Dale.
“Next time we ride.”
“That might be tomorrow,” Brocmael pointed out.
Bran nodded. “Then we best make certain everything is ready today.”
The two young men glanced at one another. “Do you think the earl will tumble?” Ifor wondered.
“Why not?” replied Bran. “He suspects nothing. If all goes well, we should be far away from here before he learns what has happened . . .” Regarding the solemn expressions on the faces of his two young comrades, he gave them his slightly twisted smile. “. . . if he ever learns—and I strongly suspect he never will.”
Bran resumed his stroll into the town with Alan at his side, leaving Tuck and the two young lords to reckon what had just been said. “Don’t you worry, lads,” Tuck said, trying to bank their courage a little higher. “By tomorrow night we’ll be well on our way back to Wales with our prize, and beyond the claws and teeth of Wolf d’Avranches.”
A short while later they entered a fair-sized market in full cry; merchants shouting for custom, animals bawling, dogs barking. Bran paused and surveyed the comely chaos for a moment. “Good,” he said, “there are enough people about that we should not draw undue attention to ourselves. You all know what to do?”
Brocmael and Ifor nodded grimly. Bran opened his purse and fished out a few pennies. “This should be enough,” he told them. “We are not clothing him for his coronation, mind.”
“We know what to do,” said Ifor.
“Then off you go. Return here when you are finished and wait for us.”
When they had gone, Bran, Tuck, and Alan commenced their own particular quest. “Have you given any thought to my idea?” asked Bran as they began to stroll among the stalls and booths of the busy market.
“That I have,” Tuck replied.
“And?”
“Oh, I think it should work—although I am no dog-handler. It seems a simple enough matter, does it not? We will require a little oil and perhaps an herb or two to mix with it—something strong, but not too offensive. No doubt if Angharad were here she would know better.”
“But she is not here, so we look to you now,” Bran said. “What do you suggest?”
“Essence of angelica for the oil,” Tuck answered after a moment’s consideration. “It is light, yet easily stains a cloth. Get it on your skin and it lingers long, even after you wash.”
“Excellent! Just the thing,” said Bran. He gazed around at the seething crowd of people and animals. “What do you say, Alan? Will we find what we need here?”
“I expect so, my lord. I know of a ’pothecary who comes to market most days.”
“And the herbs?” he asked. “What are we looking for?”
“There are several—any one of which will suffice,” Tuck mused aloud. “Lavender is strong, but not unpleasant. It is distinctive and not to be mistaken for anything else. There is also thyme, marjoram, or sage. Any of those, I think. Or all of them, come to that.”
Bran commended his cleric happily. “Splendid! One day Alan here will laud your native Saxon cunning from one end of this island to the other.”
“Lord help us, I don’t want to be lauded,” Tuck told him. “I’d as soon settle for a month of peace and quiet in my own snug oratory with nary a king or earl in sight.” He paused, considering. “I think about that, do I not?” He caught Bran’s expression and said, “I do! Sometimes.”
Bran shook his head. “Ah, Tuck, my man, you were born for greater things.”
“So you say. The world and his wife says different, methinks.” The three waded into the busy square and made short work of purchasing the items required. Alan prevailed upon the apothecary to mix the lavender and angelica oil for them, and add in the herbs. This made a fairly sticky concoction with a strong odour which seemed right for the purpose. They also bought a stout hemp bag with a good leather cord to close it, and then wound their way back to meet their two young companions and see how they had fared.
“We bought these,” said Brocmael, offering up the bundle of goods they had purchased. “Not new, mind, but good quality.” Still looking doubtful, he added, “I would wear them.”
“It cost but a penny,” Ifor explained. “So we bought a cloak as well.” He shook out a hooded cloak and held it up. It was heavy wool of a tight weave, dyed green. It had once been a handsome thing, made perhaps for a nobleman. It was slightly faded now and patched in several places, but well-mended and clean. “No doubt he’d choose a better one,” Ifor admitted, looking to Bran for approval, “but needs must, and this is better for hiding.”
“He will be glad of it,” Bran assured him. “You’ve done well—both of you. So now”—he looked around with the air of a man about to depart for territories unknown—“I think we are ready at last.”
With that, the party began making their way back to the castle. The day had turned fair and bright; the breeze coming inland from the sea was warm and lightly scented with the salt-and-seaweed smell of the bay. They walked along in silence as thoughts turned to the danger of what lay ahead. All at once, Bran stopped and said, “We should not go on this way.”
“Which way should we go?” Alan said. “This is the shortest way back to the castle.”
“I mean,” Bran explained, “it will not do to rouse the wolf in his den.”
Tuck puzzled over this a moment, and said, “Dunce that I am, your meaning eludes me, I fear.”
“If we return to the caer like this—all long-faced and fretful—it might put the earl on edge. Tonight of all nights we need the wolf to sleep soundly while we work.”
“I agree, of course,” Tuck replied. “So, pray, what is in your mind?”
“A drink with my friends,” Bran said. “Come, Alan, I daresay you know an inn or public house where we can sit together over a jar or two.”
“Right you are there, m’lord. I’m the man fer ye!” he declared, lapsing once more into that curious beggar cant he adopted from time to time. “Fret ye not whit nor tiddle, there’s ale aplenty in Caer Cestre. Jist pick up yer feet an’ follow Alan.”
He turned and led the little group back down the street towards the centre of the town. It is a commonplace among settlements of a certain size that the better alehouses will be found fronting the square so as to attract and serve the buyers and sellers on market days. And although the Normans ruled the town of late, it was still Saxon at heart, which meant, if nothing else, that there would be ale and pies.
Alan pointed out two acceptable alehouses, and they decided on the one that had a few little tables and stools set up outside in the sun. There were barrels stacked up to one side of the doorway, forming a low wall to separate the tables from the bustle of the square. They sat down and soon had jars of sweet dark ale in their fists and a plate of pies to share amongst them.
“I would not insult you by repeating your instructions yet again,” Bran said, setting his jar aside. “You all know what to do and need no reminding how important it is.” He looked each in the eye as he spoke, one after the other as if to see if there might be a weakening of will to be glimpsed there. “But if any of you have any questions about what is to come, ask them now. It will be the last time we are together until we cross the river.”
Bran, mindful of the trust he was placing on such young and untried shoulders, wanted to give the two Welshmen a last opportunity to ease their minds of any burdens they might be carrying. But each returned his gaze with studied determination, and it was clear the group was of one accord and each one ready to play his part to the last. Nor did anyone have any questions . . . save only their guide and interpreter.
“There is something I’ve been thinking these last few days, m’lord,” Alan said after a slight hesitation, “and maybe now is a good time to ask.”
“As good a time as any,” agreed Bran. “What is in your mind, Alan?”
“It is this,” he said, lowering his eyes to the table as if suddenly embarrassed to speak, “when you leave this place, will you take me with you?”
Bran was silent, watching the man across the table from him. He broke off a bit of crust from a pie and popped it into his mouth. “You want to come with us?” Bran said, keeping his voice light.
“That I do,” Alan said. “I know I’m not a fighting man, and of no great account by any books—”
“Who would say a thing like that?” teased Bran.
“I know what I know,” insisted Alan seriously. “But I can read and write, and I know good French and English, some Welsh, and a little Latin. I can make myself useful—as I think I’ve been useful to you till now. I may not be all—”
“If that is what you want,” said Bran, breaking into Alan’s carefully prepared speech. “You’ve served us well, Alan, and we could not have come this far without you. If we succeed, we will have you to thank.” Bran reached out his hand. “Yes, we’ll take you with us when we leave.”
Alan stared at Bran’s offered hand for a moment, then seized it in his own and shook it vigorously. “You will not be sorry, m’lord. I am your man.”
So, the five sat for a while in peace, enjoying the ale and the warmth of the day, talking of this and that—but not another word of what was to come. When they rose a little later to resume their walk back to Castle d’Avranches, it was with lighter hearts than when they had sat down.
They slipped back into the castle and went to their separate quarters to prepare for the next day’s activities. That night at supper, Bran baited and set the snare to catch Wolf Hugh.
A
h, there you are!” cried Earl Hugh as his Spanish guests trooped into the hall. With him at the table were several of his courtiers, six or seven of the women he kept, and, new to the proceedings, five Ffreinc noblemen the others had not seen before—large looming, well-fleshed Normans of dour demeanour. Judging from the cut and weave of their short red woollen cloaks, white linen tunics and fine leather boots, curled hair and clean-shaven faces, they were more than likely fresh off the boat from France. Their smiles were tight—almost grimaces—and their eyes kept roaming around the hall as if they could not quite credit their surroundings. Indeed, they gave every appearance of men who had awakened from a pleasant dream to find themselves not in paradise, but in perdition.
“Here’s trouble,” whispered Bran through his smile. “Not one Norman to fleece, but five more as well. We may have to hold off for tonight.”
“No doubt you know best,” Tuck said softly; and even as he spoke, an idea sprang full-bloomed into his round Saxon head. “Yet, here may be a godsend staring us dead in the eye.”
“What do you see?” Bran said, still smiling at the Ffreinc, who were watching from their places at the board. He motioned Alan and the others to continue on, saying, “Keep your wits about you, everyone—especially you, Alan. Remember, this is why we came.” Turning once more to Tuck, he said, “Speak it out, and be quick. What is it?”
“It just came to me that this is like John the Baptiser in Herod’s pit.”
Bran’s mouth turned down in an expression of exasperated incomprehension. “We don’t have time for a sermon just now, Friar. If you have something to say—”
“King Gruffydd is John,” Tuck whispered. “And Earl Hugh is Herod.”
“And who am I, then?”
“It is obvious, is it not?”
“Not to me,” Bran muttered. He gestured to the earl as if to beg a moment’s grace so that he might confer a little longer.
“Lord bless you.” Tuck sighed. “Do you never pay attention when the Holy Writ is read out? Still, I’d have thought some smattering of the tale would have stuck by you.”
“Tuck! Tell me quick or shut up,” Bran rasped in a strained whisper. “We’re being watched.”
“You’re Solomé, of course.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“The dancing girl!”
Bran gave him a frustrated glare and turned away once more. “Just you be on your guard.”
The two approached the board where the earl and his noble visitors were waiting. Alan, standing ready, smiled broadly for the Normans and made an elaborate bow. “My lords, I give you greetings in the name of Count Rexindo of Spain”—he paused so that Bran might make his own gesture of greeting to the assembled lords—“and with him, Lord Galindo and Lord Ramiero”—he paused again as the two young Welshmen bowed—“and Father Balthus, Bishop of Pamplona.” Tuck stepped forward and, thinking it appropriate, made the sign of the cross over the table.
“Welcome, friends!” bellowed Earl Hugh, already deeply into his cups. “Sit! Sit and drink with us. Tonight, we are celebrating my good fortune! My lords here”—he gestured vaguely at the five newcomers—“bring word from Normandie, that my brother has died and his estates have passed to me. I am to be a baron. Baron d’Avranches—think of that, eh!”
“My sympathies for the loss of your brother,” replied the count.
“He was a rascal and won’t be missed or mourned,” sniffed the earl. “But he leaves me the family estates, for which I am grateful.”
“A fine excuse for a drink, then,” remarked Count Rexindo through his able interpreter. “I can think of none better than sudden and unexpected wealth.” Bran sent up a silent prayer that none of the earl’s new guests could speak Spanish and took his place on the nearest bench; the rest of his company filled in around him. Two of the women—one of whom had been openly preening for the count’s attention ever since he stepped across the threshold—brought a jar and some cups. She placed these before Bran, and then bent near to fill them—bending lower and nearer than strictly necessary. The count smiled at her obvious attentions, and gave her a wink for her effort. Such blatant flirtation was shameless as it was bold. But then, Tuck reflected, shame was certainly an oddity in Earl Hugh d’Avranches’s court, and quite possibly unknown. Nevertheless, as Bishop Balthus, Tuck felt he should give the brazen woman a stiff frown to show his clerical displeasure; he did so and marked that it did nothing to chasten her. Nor did it prevent her from insinuating herself between him and the handsome count.
Oh well,
thought Tuck as he slid aside to make room for her,
with a toothsome prize in sight folk
are blind to all they should beware of—and that has been true since Adam first
tasted apple juice.
The jars went round and round, filling cups and bowls and goblets, and then filling them again. Earl Hugh, in a high and happy mood, called a feast to be laid for this impromptu celebration of his windfall of good fortune. His musicians were summoned, and as the kitchen servants began laying a meal of roast venison on the haunch, loaves of bread, rounds of cheese, and bowls of boiled greens, a gang of rowdy minstrels entered the hall and commenced perpetrating the most awful screech and clatter, pushing an already boisterous gathering into a barely restrained chaos. Tuck viewed the convivial tumult as a very godsend, for it offered a mighty distraction to lull suspicious minds. He glanced around the board at his nearest companions: Alan seemed to be watching the roister in an agony of want as jar after jar passed him by. Yet, Lord bless him, he resisted the temptation to down as many as might be poured, and contented himself with coddling his one small cup; Ifor and Brocmael, true to their duty, resisted the temptation to indulge and passed the jars along without adding anything to their cups.
Bran, as Count Rexindo, on the other hand became more expansive and jolly as the evening drew on. He not only filled his own cup liberally, but was seen to fill others’ as well—including those of the earl and the hovering women. Engaging the visiting Norman lords in loud conversation about hunting and fighting and the like—with the aid of Alan’s ready tongue—he drew them out of their stony shells and coaxed a laugh a time or two. Therefore, no one was the least surprised when he rose from his seat and hoisted his cup high and announced, again through Alan, “I drink to our esteemed and honoured host! Who is with me?”
Of course, everyone stood with him then—as who would not?— and raised their cups, shouting,
“Attenté! Attenté!”
The Spanish count tipped down a great draught of wine, wiped his mouth, and said, speaking loudly and with some little passion, “My friends and I have enjoyed our sojourn here in your realm, my lord earl. Your hospitality is as expansive as your girth—”
The earl looked puzzled as this was spoken, and Alan quickly corrected the count’s meaning, saying, “—generosity . . . as expansive as your generosity, my lord. Please excuse my poor translation. He means your hospitality is as great as your generosity.”
“It is nothing,” replied Earl Hugh grandly. “Nothing at all!”
“I must beg your pardon, my good earl,” replied Count Rexindo a little blearily, “but it is
not
nothing to me. In Spain, where all the virtues are accorded great regard, none sits higher in our esteem than the welcome given to kin and countrymen, and the strangers in our midst.” His words came across a little slurred through the wine, though Alan cleaned them up. “As one who knows something of this, I can say with all confidence that your hospitality is worthy of its great renown.” He lifted his cup once more. “I drink to you, most worthy and esti . . . estimable lord.”
“To Earl Hugh!” came the chorused acclaim.
All drank, and everyone sat down again and made to resume the meal, but Count Rexindo was not finished yet. “Alas, the time has come for us to leave. Tomorrow’s hunt will be my last, but it will be memorable . . .” He paused to allow these words to penetrate the haze of drink and food befogging his listeners’ heads. “Indeed, all the more if our exalted earl will allow me to suggest a certain refinement to tomorrow’s ride.”
“Of course! Of course!” cried the earl, his spirits lofty, goodwill overflowing like the wine sloshing over the rim of his cup. “Anything you desire,” he said with an airy wave of his hand. “Anything at all.” He smiled, his ruddy face beaming with pride at the way he’d been feted and flattered by the young count in the presence of his visiting noblemen.
“How very gracious of you, my lord. In truth, I expected nothing less from one whose largesse is legendary,” Count Rexindo replied, beaming happily.
“Come, man!” bellowed the earl, thumping the table with his hand. “What is it that you want? Name it and it is done.”
Count Rexindo, all smiles and benevolence, gave a little bow and said, “In my country, when a lord wishes to make a special hunt in honour of his guests he releases a prisoner into the wild. I can assure you that it is sport second to none.”
Ah, there it is,
thought Tuck.
Our Bran has remembered his Bible story at
last.
It took a moment for the earl and the others to work out what had just been suggested. “Hunt a
man
?” said the earl, his smile growing stiff.
“Yes, my lord,” agreed the count, still standing, still commanding the proceedings. “A criminal or some other prisoner—someone of no account. It makes for a very good chase.”
“But . . .” began the earl, glancing around the table quickly. He saw his other guests looking to him expectantly. Tuck saw the hesitation and, instantly, the distress that followed, and knew the earl was well and truly caught in Bran’s trap. “Surely, that is unworthy of your attention,” Hugh replied lamely. “Why not choose something else?”
“I see I have overreached myself,” the count said, sitting down at last. “I understand if you have no appetite for such rich sport . . .”
“No, no,” Earl Hugh said quickly, seeing the frowns appear on the faces of his gathered noblemen. Having accepted the count’s effusive praise for his untethered largesse, how could he now refuse to grant Rexindo’s wish? He had no wish to appear tightfisted and mean before his noblemen. So, like a ferret trapped in a snare, squirm though he might he could not get free without gnawing off one of his own legs. “Did I say no? I am intrigued by your suggestion,” he offered, “and would be eager to try it myself. It is just that I keep no criminals here. As it is, I have only one captive in my keep . . .”
“And he is too valuable,” concluded Count Rexindo, his disappointment barely contained. “I understand.”
The earl glanced around at his noblemen as if to explain, saw their frowns growing and his own reputation diminishing in their eyes, and hastily reconsidered. “However, it seems to me that this prisoner would be well worthy of our sport—a king in his own country who has enjoyed my hospitality far too long already.”
“Splendido!”
cried the count. Through Alan, he continued, “It will give me a chance to try the hounds I am buying.”
Again, a slight hint of a grimace crossed the earl’s face. He did not like the idea of using valuable dogs for such dangerous sport—especially, considered Tuck, dogs that had not yet been purchased. This required a small conference, whereuponBut, rising to the bait, the earl shrugged off his misgivings. “Why not?” he roared, stirring the feast to life once more. “Why not, I say! Here! Let us drink to the count, and to tomorrow’s sport!”
Thus, the trap was set and sprung, and the prey neatly captured. Tuck waited until the festivity slowly resumed, and when the music and drink were once again in full spate, he rose. Bowing to their host, who had recovered his good cheer, he approached the earl’s chair and, with Alan’s help, declared, “This game you propose sits ill with me, I do confess, my lord.”
“Does it?” he replied lazily. “Does it indeed? How so, pray?”
“The hunting of men is an abomination before the throne of God.” Before the earl could reply, he added, “True, it is a custom long honoured in Spain and elsewhere, but one that the church does not endorse.”
This rocked the old wolf back a step or two. He frowned and swirled the wine in his cup. “If I told you that this rogue of a prisoner has earned his death ten times over, would that make it sit more comfortably with you?”
“Perhaps,” Tuck allowed. “Though I would still wish to give the wretch the benefit of absolution. By your leave, Earl, I will hear his confession and shrive him now. Then he will be ready to face his ordeal with a clear mind and clean soul.”
Seeing that Bishop Balthus was determined, and he equally anxious to maintain his top-lofty dignity in the eyes of his guests, Earl Hugh agreed. “Then do so,” he said, as if it had been his own idea all along. He put his nose in his cup once more. “Do so by all means, if it pleases you. One of my men will take you down to him.”
Tuck thanked him, begged his dinner companions to excuse his absence, and then departed. In the company of the earl’s seneschal, who was standing at the door, the friar made his way down and down into the low-vaulted under-castle, to the hostage pit, to see for the first time the man they had come to free. Leaving the hall and its uproar behind, they passed along a dark, narrow corridor to an even darker, more narrow passage through the castle inner wall to a round chamber below what must have been the guardhouse.
“Attendre ici, s’il
vous plaît,” s
aid the seneschal, who disappeared up the steps to the room above, returning a few moments later with a dishevelled man who had very obviously been drug from his bed. Yawning, the guard applied a key to an iron grate that covered a hole in the floor, unlocked it, and pulled back the grate. He took up a torch from a basket on the floor, lit it from the candle in the seneschal’s hand, and beckoned Bishop Balthus to follow. A short flight of spiral steps led them to another passage, at the end of which stood another iron grate which formed the door of a cell. Upon reaching the door, the guard thrust his torch closer, and in the fitful light of it Tuck saw the prisoner slumped against the wall with his head down, legs splayed before him, hands limp at his sides, palms upward. With his thick and matted tangle of hair and beard, he looked more like a bear dressed up in filthy rags than a man.