Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“O cowardly dastard!” Will Scadlocke exclaim’d.
“Thou faint-hearted, sow-mothered reeve!
If ever my master doth deign thee to meet,
Thou shalt thy full paiment receive!”
Then Rhiban Hud, setting his horn to his mouth,
A blast he merrily blows;
His yeomen from bushes and treetops appeared,
A hundred, with trusty longbows.
And Little John came at the head of them all,
Cloath’d in a rich mantle, green;
And likewise the others were fancif ’ly drest,
A wonderous sight to be seen.
Forth from the greenwoode about they are come,
With hearts that are firm and e’er stout,
Pledging them all with the sheriff ’s yeomen
To give them a full hearty bout.
And Rhiban the Hud has removéd his cloak,
And the sheriff has uttered an oath,
And William now smites him on top of his pate
and swift exit is now made by both.
“Little I thought,” quod Scadlocke eft-soon,
“When I first came to this place,
For to have met with dear Little John,
Or again see my master’s fine face.”
I
t is a grand day, my lord Bran,” Llewelyn proclaimed, grinning blearily through a haze of brown ale. “A grand and glorious day. Though it shames me to admit it, I never hoped to see our Gruffydd on his throne again. No, I never did. Yet, here he is—all thanks to you. Here he is.”
Two days of riotous celebration had followed the rescuers’ triumphant return to Aberffraw with their newly freed captive. King Gruffydd’s homecoming was heralded as a miracle on the order of Lazarus walking out of his tomb; and Bran, Tuck, Ifor, Brocmael, and Alan were lauded as champions and made to recount their exploits time and again to rapturous listeners until they grew hoarse for speaking. The revel was entering its third day before Bran and Tuck finally found the opportunity to speak to Gruffydd and Llewelyn in private.
“Here are men after my own heart!” declared Gruffydd, closing the door on the celebration to join them in his chamber. Bathed and shaved, his matted, moth-eaten locks shorn to his scalp, arrayed in a new wool cloak and fine red linen shirt, the king of the Northern Cymry finally resembled something worthy of the name. “You should have seen them, Llewelyn,” he bellowed. “They were mighty giants doing battle for me. It’s true!” Swaying unsteadily, he draped an arm across Bran’s shoulders. “I am forever in your debt, my friend. Hear me, Bran ap Brychan, may God blind me if I should ever forget.”
“That would be most uncomfortable for you,” allowed Bran with a smile, “but, never fear. I have a way to help you.”
“Then speak it out, man, and see how quickly it is accomplished,” said Gruffydd. Reeling slightly, he looked around for his cup, saw one in Llewelyn’s hand, and took it.
Bran hesitated, uncertain whether to take advantage of the king’s ale-induced generosity or wait until Gruffydd was sober once more—which might mean a wait of several more days.
“Speak, man, and if it is in my power to grant, you shall have it before the sun has set on another day,” boasted Gruffydd. He drained the cup and wiped the foam from his moustache. “What will you have?”
“Your friendship,” said Bran.
“That you have in abundance already,” replied Gruffydd grandly. He waved his hand airily.
“What else?” prompted Llewelyn, well aware of Bran’s true desire.
Bran looked to Tuck, who urged him with a glance to ask for the help he had come north to seek. “As I have aided the return of your king to his lands and people,” replied Bran, speaking slowly and deliberately, “I ask the king’s pledge to aid me in the return of my lands and people.”
A shadow passed over Gruffydd’s square face just then. The smile remained firmly fixed, but his eyes narrowed. “Then receive my pledge,” Gruffydd said. “How can I help you?”
“With men and weapons,” Bran said. “Raise the tribes of Gwynedd and the north and ride with me. Together we can wrest Elfael from the Ffreinc and drive them from our lands.”
Gruffydd frowned. He looked into the empty cup as if it had offended him, then thrust it back at Llewelyn. “If that lay within my power,” he said, his voice falling, “you would have it this very night. Alas, I cannot grant such a request.”
Bran’s face tightened. Staring at the king, he said, “You will not help?”
“I cannot,” replied Gruffydd, who seemed to have sobered in the matter of a moment. “You must understand,” he continued, half turning away, “I have been absent from my realm eight years! For eight years my people have been without a king—”
“They’ve had Llewelyn,” Bran pointed out.
“True enough,” granted Gruffydd, “and I am the first to say he has served faithfully and well. But you and I both know that it is not the same thing at all.”
“Then you will not help me,” Bran said, his voice tight.
“I wish you had asked anything but that,” the king replied. “My first duty is to my people and my realm. I cannot resume my reign by running off again as soon as I am home. Much less can I mark my return by forcing my people into a war that does not concern them. If you were in my place, you would see that.”
“My friends and I risked all to save you—”
“And for that you have my friendship and gratitude to my dying breath,” Lord Gruffydd replied.
“It is not your gratitude I want,” Bran said, his tone taking on an edge. “It is your aid in arms.”
“That,” said Gruffydd carelessly, “is the one thing you cannot have.”
Bran made to step closer. Gruffydd held his ground.
“My lord,” said Tuck, insinuating his bulk between Gruffydd and an increasingly angry Bran, “if you knew the precarious hold the Ffreinc possessed, you would see our request in a different light.”
“How so?” asked Llewelyn, doing what he could to help.
“The Ffreinc forces are few in number,” Tuck said, still holding himself between the increasingly angry lords, “and poorly supplied. We have seen to that, have we not? For though we are few in number, living rough in the greenwood on pitiful fare, with families and little ’uns to keep—even so, we have pressed them hard these last two years and more, and they are bent that near to breaking. All it needs is some stout warriors, a few fresh fighters, a last battle or two—a final push over the edge and the thing is done.”
“How long would you need the use of the men?” asked Llewelyn.
“A month perhaps,” said Bran quickly. “The Ffreinc do not have enough soldiers to make a lengthy campaign. It would be finished in a month—no more. That is little enough, it seems to me.”
“Alas,” rued Gruffydd, unmoved, “even that little is too much. I wish I could help.”
“My lord, I urge you to reconsider,” pleaded Llewelyn. “A month, mind you. Surely, it is not beyond our ability to aid them in this—”
His entreaty was cut short by a curt gesture from his king. “I have spoken.” Gruffydd turned and stepped towards the door. “My friends,” he said, adopting a stiffly formal air even as he clutched the doorpost to steady himself, “you are most welcome to remain with me as long as you like. I am happy for your company. Nevertheless, we will not speak of this again.”
With that, the king returned to the celebration.
“Come, Tuck,” said Bran, watching Gruffydd through the open door as the king moved among his kinsmen and friends, embracing some, sharing the cup with others. “We will not remain here a moment longer than it takes to scrape the dung of this miserable place off our feet.”
“My lord,” said Llewelyn, deeply embarrassed by his king’s behaviour, “do not be overhasty. Stay a little longer—a few days only—and we will yet change his mind. I will summon the lords to council with the king, and he will be persuaded. On my word, you will yet have your just reward.”
“If only you were king, Llewelyn,” replied Bran darkly. Then, remembering himself, he softened his tone and said, “You have shown me honour and respect, and I thank you for that. Nor do I hold Gruffydd’s ingratitude against you. But I see now that I was wrong to come here, wrong to ask, wrong to think the fate of Elfael meant anything to my family in the north.”
Llewelyn opened his mouth to protest this last assertion, but a warning glance from Tuck prevented him. Instead, he moved quietly to the door, and there he paused and regarded Bran sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said, then stepped back into the hall, leaving Tuck and Bran alone.
“And God with you, too, Cousins,” muttered Bran to men who were no longer there. “Bring the horses, Tuck,” he said after a moment, “and find Alan. We’re leaving.”
They left the hall and moved out into the yard. It was after midday, and the clouds were low and dark, threatening rain. Tuck thought to argue for staying at least one day longer to allow Gruffydd the chance to change his mind and so they would not have to ride in the rain, but he knew Bran would not hear it. As the cinch belts were being tightened on the saddles, Ifor and Brocmael came into the stables.
“We were looking for you,” said Brocmael. “You’re leaving?”
“So soon?” said Ifor.
Both young men appeared so crestfallen that Tuck tried to put a better face on it. “We have finished here, and anyway we are needed back home. But, God willing, we’ll come back one day,” he told them, then added, patting the fresh mount beside him, “Do thank your father for the gift of these fine horses.”
“It is the least we could do,” said Ifor, “after all you’ve done for us.”
“What about the troops?” wondered Brocmael.
“Your king does not see fit to raise any,” Bran told him.
“That’s why you’re leaving,” said Ifor.
“Aye,” confessed Bran. “That is why.”
“We’ll come with you,” Ifor offered. He nudged Brocmael, who agreed. “We can fight.”
“Your place is here,” said Bran. “Your king will not give you leave to go. He has made it very clear he does not think Elfael worth saving.” Reaching out a hand, he gave each of their arms a squeeze by way of farewell. “Nevertheless, you have been brave and loyal companions these past days. You have done yourselves and your families proud. No one could have served me better. But here is where it ends.”
The two young warriors exchanged an unhappy glance. “What about Earl Hugh’s hounds?” asked Brocmael. “Shall I fetch them for you?”
“No, I want you and Ifor to have them,” answered Bran. “Consider them a small gesture of thanks for your help.”
“We cannot, my lord,” protested Ifor. “They are worth a very fortune.”
“It is too much,” agreed Brocmael. “They are far too valuable.”
“No more valuable than the help you gave me when asked,” Bran replied. “They are yours, my friends. Make your fortune with them.”
Tuck, Alan, and Bran left Aberffraw as soon as the horses were ready. Bran did not speak the rest of the day, but fumed and fretted, working himself into such a dark and threatening gloom that Tuck began to fear for the havoc unleashed when the gathering storm finally broke. He had seen Bran like this before—once in Londein when they had gone to redeem the lands from the crown at the enormous price of six hundred marks, only to have Cardinal Flambard cheat him by raising the price to two thousand. Tuck and Iwan had pulled him off the scoundrel churchman or in all likelihood none of them would have lived out the day. Angharad knew best how to ease Rhi Bran’s murderous moods, but she was in faraway Elfael.
“Alan,” Tuck had said, “if you know any songs that would put our Bran in a better mood, I pray you sing one now.”
“As it happens,” replied Alan a’Dale, “I have been thinking of a song he might enjoy. It isn’t finished yet—I need a rhyme for Count Rexindo, d’ye ken?”
“Sing it anyway,” Tuck told him.
So Alan sang them on their way.
Four days later, he was still singing, as from time to time Bran’s dark and dangerous mood threatened to swallow them all. Alan, it seemed, was full of unexpected talents, and ever ready to cheer his lord along with a quip or a joke or a song. Of the latter, most of his ditties were English drinking songs and ballads more appreciated by Friar Tuck than by Bran, who from time to time slipped back into his moody darkness. The French and Welsh songs had lilting melodies—some glad, some mournful to suit their solemn humour—but the best songs were those Alan had made up himself: including the new one that extolled the exploits of Count Rexindo and his merry band, who deceived the wicked earl and won the freedom of the captive king of Gwynedd. Tuck found this highly amusing, but Bran was not so sure he wanted his doings voiced about the countryside like so much scattered seed.
Still, the singing and stories told under the clear, open sky worked their wonders, and by the time the travellers came within sight of the towering green wall of the great forest of Coed Cadw, Bran’s temper had cooled to the point where Tuck thought he might risk venturing a thought or two of his own regarding their predicament as it now stood. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “it might be well to heed Mérian’s advice and go see her father.”
Bran considered this only as long as it took to purse his lips and shake his head. “God knows that man is no friend of mine. Even if Cadwgan did not hate me when this began, I will not have risen any higher in his esteem by holding his daughter captive.”
“At the first, maybe,” granted Tuck. “But she stayed on of her own free will. When given the choice, she stayed.”
“Even if he was inclined to help,” countered Bran, “he is a vassal of Baron Neufmarché. As it runs against his interests, the baron would never allow it. No,” said Bran, shaking his head again, this time with resignation, “we will get no help from Lord Cadwgan.”
They skirted Saint Martin’s, the abbot’s town, and entered the sheltering forest just as the sky of lowering clouds sent rain streaming down the wind. It would be a wet night in the greenwood, but the rain did little to dampen the welcome the travellers received at their homecoming. The Grellon gathered to greet them, and Bran roused himself from his grim melancholy to say that he was glad to be home once more. But as he scanned the faces gathered around, the one looked-for face did not appear.
“Where’s Mérian?” Bran asked.
An uneasy hush drew across the forest dwellers, and Iwan stepped forward. “Welcome, my lord,” he said, his voice booming in the quiet. “It is good to have you back safely. I trust your journey was successful.”
“Your trust is misplaced,” snapped Bran. “We failed.” Still searching among the Grellon, he said, “Mérian . . . where is she, Iwan?”
The big warrior paused, looking thoughtful. “Mérian is not here,” he said at last. “She left and went back to Eiwas.”
Before Bran could ask more, the champion gestured to someone in the crowd of onlookers, and Noín stepped forward. “Tell him what happened,” Iwan instructed.
Noínina made a small bow of greeting to her king and said, “It is true, my lord. Mérian went home.” She folded her hands into the apron at her waist. “It was in her mind to go and ask her father to send men to aid us in the fight against the Ffreinc.”
“I see,” Bran replied coldly. “When did she leave?”
“Two days after you departed for the north.”
“Who went with her?”
“My lord,” said Noín, a note of anxiety rising in her voice, “she went alone.”
“Alone!” Turning on Iwan, he demanded, “You let her go alone?” When the big man made no reply, Bran glanced around at the others. “Did no one think to go with her?”