Tuck (22 page)

The friar was hauled from the yard and pushed out through the gate. “Sorry, Friar,” said one as he closed the gate.

“Bless you, friend,” replied Tuck with a sigh, “I do not hold it against you.” He took a moment to shake the dust from his feet, and then started the long walk back to where Bran and Scarlet were waiting for a better word than he had to give them.

Nor was Bran any better pleased than Tuck imagined he would be. He listened to all that Tuck had to say about what had taken place up at the caer, and then walked a few paces apart and stood looking at the fortress mound in the near distance. He stood there so long that Scarlet eventually approached him and said, “My lord? What is your pleasure?”

When Bran failed to respond, he said, “If we hurry, we can be back in Cél Craidd before dark.”

Without turning, Bran replied, “I am not leaving until I have spoken to Mérian.”

“How?” wondered Tuck. “He will hardly allow any of us inside the caer again.”

Bran turned and flashed his crooked smile. “Tuck, old friend, I have been in and out of that fortress without anyone the wiser more times than you’ve et hot soup.” He looked around for a soft spot in the shade. “It’s going to be a long night; I suggest we rest until it gets dark.”

They tethered the horses so that they might graze among the trees, and then settled back to nap and wait for night and the cover of darkness. The day passed quietly, and night came on. When Bran reckoned that all in the fortress would be in bed asleep, he roused the other two. Tuck rose, yawned, shook out his robe, and clambered back into the saddle, thinking that he would be heartily glad when all this to-ing and fro-ing was over and peace reigned in the land once more. They rode in silence around the base of the hill on which the fortress sat, Bran picking his way with practiced assurance along a path none of the others could see in the darkness. They came to a place below the wall where a small ditch or ravine caused the wall to dip slightly. Here, Bran halted and dismounted. “We are behind the kitchen,” he explained. “Mérian’s chamber used to be just the other side of the wall. Pray it is so now.”

“And is this why Lord Cadwgan took such umbrage against you?” wondered Scarlet.

“Now that you mention it,” Bran allowed, his grin a white glint in the dark, “that could have had something to do with it—not that any other reason was needed.” He started up the steep hillside. “Let’s be at it.”

Quick and silent as a shadow, Bran was up the slope and over the wall, leaving Scarlet and Tuck to struggle over as best they could. By the time Tuck eased himself over the rough timber palisade and into the yard, Bran was already clinging onto the sill below a small glass window—one of only three in the entire fortress. Bran lightly tapped twice on the small round panes . . . paused, and tapped three more times.

When nothing happened, he repeated the same series of raps.

“D’you think she’s there?” asked Scarlet.

Bran hissed him to silence and repeated his signal yet again. This time there was a tap from the other side, and a moment later the window swung inward on its hinges and Mérian’s face appeared where the glass had been. “Bran! Saints and angels, it
is
you!”

“Mérian, are you well?”

“I thought you would never get here,” she said. “I have been praying you would come—and listening for you each night.”

“Are you well, Mérian?”

“I am very well—for all I am made prisoner in my own house,” she said tartly. “But I am not mistreated. They think you took me hostage—”

“I did.”

“—and held me against my will. They seem to think that if I am given a little time I will come to see how I was tricked into siding with you against the Ffreinc. Until I repent of my folly, I am to remain locked in this room.”

“We’ll have you out of there soon enough,” said Bran. He glanced across to the shuttered window of the kitchen. “Give me a moment and I’ll come through there. Is there likely to be anyone awake in the kitchen?”

“Bran, no—wait,” said Mérian. “Listen to me—I’ve been thinking. I should stay here a little longer.”

“But, you just said—”

“I know, but I think I can persuade Garran to send men to aid us.”

“Tuck tried to ask him already. He asked to see you, too, and Garran refused. He wouldn’t hear anything we had to say.”

“You talked to him? When?”

“Today. Tuck came up, but Garran had him thrown out of the caer. It’s no use; your brother will not go against Baron Neufmarché in any case.”

“He has good reason,” Mérian said. “He’s married to the baron’s daughter.”

“What?”

“Lady Sybil Neufmarché—they were wed in the spring.” She explained about her father’s death and funeral, and the match the baron had proposed. “They are living here—Lady Agnes and Sybil, I mean.”

Bran dropped lightly to the ground. “They won’t let you go. And no matter what you say, you’ll never persuade them to join us.” He gestured behind him. “Scarlet, Tuck, come here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Free you.”

“Please, Bran, not like this. If I stay here I might yet be able to convince them to join us. If I leave now, it will enrage them—and then you will have Garran and his men against you, too. We cannot risk making enemies of those who should be our friends.”

“Come with me, Mérian. I need you.”

“Bran, I pray you, think what this means.”

Bran paused and looked up at her. “I remember once, not so long ago, when I stood where I’m standing now and asked you to come with me,” he said. “Do you remember?”

“I remember,” she said.

“You refused to come with me then too.”

“Oh, Bran.” Her voice became plaintive. “This is not like that. I
will
come—as soon as I can. Until then, I will work to bring Garran around to our side. I can do this; you’ll see.”

Bran started away, fading into the night-shadowed darkness.

“It is for the best,” Mérian insisted. “You will see.”

“Farewell, Mérian.” Bran called over his shoulder. “Come,” he said to Scarlet and Tuck, “we are finished. There is nothing for us here.”

CHAPTER 27

  Saint Martin’s

T
he small steading lay amidst fields of barley in a narrow crook of a finger of the Vale of Elfael north of Saint Martin’s—not the largest holding in Elfael, nor the closest to the caer, but one that Gysburne had marked before as a prosperous place and well worth keeping an eye on. Captain Aloin, commander of the knights that had been sent to help the abbot and sheriff maintain order in the cantref, surveyed the quiet farm from the back of his horse.

“Are you certain this is the place?” asked the captain, casting his gaze right and left for any sign of trouble. “It seems peaceful enough.”

“The calm can be misleading,” replied Marshal Gysburne. “These Welsh are sly devils every one. You must be prepared to fight for your life at any moment.”

The sheriff and abbot had determined to begin retaliation for the most recent predations of King Raven and his thieving flock. The sack of the Welsh farms and confiscation of all supplies, stock, and provisions would serve as a warning to the folk of the cantref—especially those who benefited from the thievery. To this end, a large body of knights—fully half of the entire force, accompanied by men-at- arms and four empty hay wains—had been dispatched to the holding with orders to strip it of all possessions and kill anyone bold enough to resist.

“And when we’ve finished here?” Captain Aloin asked.

“We continue on to the next farm, and the next, until the wagons are full. Or until King Raven and his foul flock appear.”

“How do you know he will come?” asked Captain Aloin as he and Gysburne rode out from the caer, each at the head of a company of soldiers.

“He will appear, without a doubt,” replied Marshal Guy. “If not today, then tomorrow. Attacking one of his beloved settlements raises his ire—killing a few Cymry is sure to bring him out of hiding.”

“If that is so,” surmised Aloin. “Then why have you not done this before? Why have you waited so long and put up with his thievery and treasons all this time?”

“Because Count Falkes de Braose—the ruler of Elfael before he was driven into exile—had no stomach for such tactics. He thought it important to gain the trust and goodwill of the people, or some such nonsense. He said he could not rule if all hands were against him at every turn.”

“And now?”

Gysburne smiled to himself. “Now things have changed. Abbot Hugo is not so delicate as the count.”

“And Sheriff de Glanville?”

“What about him?”

“Where does he stand in this matter? It was de Glanville who begged our services from the king. I would have thought he would ride out with us today.”

“But he
has
,” replied Gysburne. “He most certainly has—as you shall see.” The marshal lifted the reins. “Walk on,” he said.

Captain Aloin raised his fist in the air and gave the signal to move out, and the double column of soldiers on horseback continued on. Upon reaching the farmstead, the knights quickly arrayed themselves for battle. While half of the company under the command of Gysburne rode into the yard and took over the holding, Aloin’s division fanned out to form a shield wall to prevent any approach to the property and discourage anyone who might be minded to take an interest in the affair.

Sitting on his great warhorse in the centre of the yard, Gysburne gave the command to begin.

Knights and men-at-arms swarmed into the house and dragged out the farmer, his wife and daughter, and three grown sons. There were several others as well, hauled out into the early-morning light to stand in the yard surrounded by enemy soldiers and watch while all their possessions, provisions, and supplies were bundled into wagons. None of the Welshmen made even the slightest attempt to interfere with the sack of their home. The farmer and his sons stood in stiff-legged defiance, glowering with pent rage at all those around them, but said nothing and did not lift a hand to prevent the pillage—which Gysburne put down to their display of overwhelming military might. For once, the superior Ffreinc forces had cowed the indomitable Welsh spirit.

The ransacking of the house and barn and outbuildings was swiftly accomplished. The fact that the soldiers had not had to subdue the hostile natives and the piteous lack of possessions meant that the raid was finished almost as soon as it began. “It is done,” reported Sergeant Jeremias as the last grain sacks were tossed into a waiting wagon. “What is your command?”

“Burn it, Sergeant.”

“But Sire—Sheriff de Glanville said—”

“Never mind what de Glanville said. Burn it.”

“Everything?”

“To the ground.”

The sight of torches being lit brought the farmer and his sons out of their belligerent stupor. They began shouting and cursing and shaking their fists at the Ffreinc soldiers. One of the younger boys made as if to rush at one of the knights as he passed with a torch. But the farmer grabbed his son back and held him fast. They all watched as the flames took hold, rising skyward on the soft morning air. The farmwife held her head in her hands, tears streaming down her face. Still, none of the Cymry stirred from where they stood.

When it was certain that the flames could not be extinguished, Marshal Guy gave the order for the knights to be mounted, and the company moved off.

“That went well,” observed Aloin when the last of the wagons and soldiers had cleared the yard. “Better than I expected—from what you said about the Welshies’ love of fighting.”

“Yes,” agreed the marshal slowly, “in truth I expected more of a fight. Just see you keep your sword ready. We cannot count on the next one being so peaceful.”

But, in fact, the Cymry at the second farm were no more inclined to take arms and resist the pillagers than the first lot. Like those at the previous settlement, the second clan put up no struggle at all, bearing the assault with a grave and baleful silence. If they did not voice their fury outright, their doomful expressions were nevertheless most eloquent. Again, Marshal Guy could not quite credit the odd docility of the natives when faced with the destruction of their homes. But there it was. In spite of this conundrum, he decided to burn the second farm, too—the better to provoke King Raven to show himself.

“What now?” asked Captain Aloin as the smoke rolled skyward. “The wagons are almost full.”

“Almost full is not enough,” replied Guy. “We go on.”

“And if this King of the Ravens does not appear? What then?”

“Then we’ll take the wagons back to the caer and raid again tomorrow. We keep at it until he comes.”

“You’re sure about that,
oui
?”

“Oh, yes, he’ll come. He always does.”

The third farmstead lay almost within sight of the walls of Caer Cadarn. It was small and, owing to its nearness to the town and stronghold, it had suffered plundering by Ffreinc troops before, and Guy remembered it. The farm was quiet as the soldiers surrounded the property. No one came out to meet the soldiers as they entered the yard, so Gysburne ordered Sergeant Jeremias to go in and bring the farmer and his family out.

The sergeant returned a moment later. “There is no one here, my lord.”

“They must have gone into hiding,” concluded the marshal.

“They knew we were coming?” asked Captain Aloin. “How so?”

“The Welsh are uncanny this way,” explained Gysburne. “I don’t know how they know, but word travels on the air in these valleys. They seem to know everything that happens.” Turning back to the sergeant, he said, “Ransack the barn and granary. They will not have had time to carry anything away.”

Jeremias hurried off. “Strip it!” he called. “Take everything.”

The soldiers dismounted and, while the wagons were driven into position, they moved off to the buildings. The first man-at-arms to reach the barn threw open the doors and started in—to be met by the angry wasp-buzz of arrows streaking out of the dark interior. He and two other soldiers dropped dead to the ground; three more staggered back clutching their chests and staring in horror at the oaken shafts that had so suddenly appeared there.

Marshal Guy saw the arrows flash and realized they were under attack. He turned to the soldiers who were just then about to enter the house. “Halt!” he shouted. “Don’t go in there!”

But the knight’s hand was on the door and he had already pushed it open.

With a sound like that of a whip snapping against naked flesh, the first flight of arrows struck home. Four knights fell as one. An errant arrow glanced off a soldier’s helmet and careered off at an angle, striking a horse standing in the yard. The animal reared and began bucking in a forlorn effort to relieve the lethal sting in its side.

Then all was chaos, as everywhere knights and men-at-arms were stumbling back, colliding with one another, fleeing the deadly and unseen assault. With desperate shouts and screams of agony they shrank from the arrows that continued to stream into the yard, seemingly from every direction at once. There was no escaping them. With each flight more soldiers dropped—by twos and threes they fell, pierced by the lethal missiles.

“To arms! To arms!” cried Captain Aloin, trying to rally his troops. “Seal the barn! Seal the barn and burn it!”

In answer to the command, three well-armoured knights leapt to obey. Through the deadly onslaught they ran, their shields high before them as shaft after shaft hammered into the splintering wood. One of the knights reached the right-hand door of the barn and flung it closed. He put his back against it to hold it shut while his two comrades flung the left-hand door closed.

“The torches! Get the torches!” shouted the first knight, still bracing the door shut. He drew breath to shout once more and shrieked in agony instead as, with the sound of a branch breaking in a storm, the steel point of an arrow slammed through the planking and poked through the centre of his chest. He gave out a strangled yelp and slumped down, his body snagged and caught by the strong oaken shaft of the arrow.

His two companions holding the left-hand barn door heard the sharp cracking sound and watched aghast as three more arrows penetrated the stout timber doors to half their length. Had their backs been to the door they would have suffered the same fate as their unfortunate comrade.

Meanwhile, arrows continued to fly from the house—from the door and the two small windows facing the yard, which had become a tumult of plunging horses and frightened men scrambling over the bodies of corpses. The wagon drivers, defenceless in the centre of the yard, threw themselves from their carts and ran for safety beyond range of the whistling shafts. This left the oxen to fend for themselves; confused and terrified by the violent turmoil, the beasts strained at their yokes and tried to break their traces. Unable to escape, they stood in wild-eyed terror and bawled.

When the barn doors burst open once more, a tall slender figure appeared in the gap: a man’s form from shoulders to the tips of his tall black boots, but bearing the head of an enormous bird with a weird skull-like black face and a wickedly long, narrow beak. In its hand, the creature clutched a longbow with an arrow nocked to the string. The smooth, expressionless face surveyed the churning turmoil with a quick sweep of its head, picked out Gysburne, and directed an arrow at him. The marshal, who was already wheeling his horse, took the arrow on his shield as three more archers joined the creature and proceeded to loose shaft after shaft at will into the melee.

“Retreat!” cried Gysburne, trying to make himself heard above the commotion. “Retreat!”

Arrows singing around his ears, Guy put his head down and raced from the yard. Those soldiers still in the saddle, and those yet able to walk or run, followed. Five more met their deaths before the last of the knights had cleared the yard.

The Ffreinc raiding party continued to a place beyond arrow’s reach and halted to regroup.

“What was
that
?” shouted Captain Aloin as he came galloping in beside the marshal. “What in the holy name
was
that?”

“That was King Raven,” replied Guy, pulling an arrow from his shield, and another from the cantle of his saddle. “That was the fiend at his worst.”

“By the blood,” breathed the captain. “How many were with him?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Captain Aloin cried in stunned disbelief. Gazing quickly around him, he counted those who had escaped the massacre. “Are you insane? We’ve lost more than half our men in a one-sided slaughter and you say it doesn’t matter?”

“Six or sixty,” muttered Guy. “What does it matter? We were beaten by those God-cursed arrows.”

“This is an outrage,” growled the captain of the king’s men. “Mark me, by heaven, someone will pay for this.”

“I daresay they will,” agreed Guy, looking away towards the forest, where he imagined he saw the glint of sunlight off a steel blade.

“What are we to do now?” demanded Aloin. “Are we to retreat and let the bastards get away with it?”

“We run, but they won’t get away,” said Guy. “Sheriff de Glanville will see to that.”