Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
While Bran and Rhoddi worked to keep the knights pinned down, Tuck scrambled back into the forest and, tearing through the undergrowth and bracken, made for the top of the ridge where the unknown archers had placed themselves.
“Hold!” he shouted, tumbling into the road. “Put up!”
“Friar Tuck!”
Tuck recognized the voice. “Brocmael! God love you, man, get out of here!”
“We saw some Ffreinc down there and thought to put the fear of God into them, Friar.”
“There’s a battle on,” the friar told him. He glanced at the young man’s companions. “Follow me before the whole Ffreinc army falls on your foolish heads.”
“Greetings, Bishop Balthus,” said the man nearest him.
“Ifor! Bless your unthinking head, that’s King William the Red’s army you’ve attacked, and they’ll be on us like bees on honeycomb.”
By the time the newcomers reached the rocks, Bran and Rhoddi were slinging arrows down into the road as fast as they could draw. Shouts and screams of men and horses crashing and thrashing echoed along the rock walls of the defile. Already, the bodies were thick on the ground. Brocmael and his companions took one look at the chaos below and joined in.
“
Cenau
Brocmael,” said Bran as the young man came to stand beside him, “as good as it is to see you, I could have wished you’d held your water a little while longer.”
“Forgive me, my lord. I did not know you were lurking hereabouts. Have we spoiled the hunt for you?”
“A little,” Bran admitted, sending feathered death into the churning mass of soldiers below. “Would you have taken on the king’s army by yourself ?”
“I thought it was just a few knights out for a jaunt in the forest.” He paused to consider. “Is it really the king’s army, then?”
“The king and his many minions, yes,” put in Tuck, “along with a right handsome multitude of knights and men-at-arms so they won’t be lonely.”
“Another sheaf, Tuck!” called Bran, loosing the last arrow from his bag.
Tuck hurried to the pile and, taking a bundle under each arm, climbed up to the archers. He opened one bundle for Bran and placed one nearby for Rhoddi, then took two more to Owain. Across the road, the arrows streaked through the sun-bright air as Scarlet and Tomas and their two farm lads loosed and loosed again in deadly rhythm. Many of the knights had quit their saddles and were trying to scale the rocks. Weighed down by their heavy mail coats, they moved slowly and were not difficult to pick off, but more and more soldiers were streaming up the hill to the fight.
“How many are with you?” Bran asked the young lord, drawing and loosing in the same breath.
“Besides Ifor—only Geronwy and Idris,” answered Brocmael, “good bowmen both. I would like to have brought more, but we had to sneak away as it was.”
“I expect . . .” Bran began, drawing and loosing again. The arrow sang from his bow into the heaving chaos below. “. . . that your uncle will not be best pleased.”
“Then he must accustom himself to displeasure,” replied the young nobleman. “It is the right and honourable thing to do.”
“And now, gentlemen all,” said Rhoddi, picking up his bundle of arrows, “the right and honourable thing for us to do is to leg it into the greenwood.”
He started away, and Tuck risked a look down into the chasm. The dust-dry road, where it could be seen, was taking on a ruddy hue and was now made impassable by the corpses of men and horses piled upon one another. The knights and soldiers coming up from the rear were scaling the rocks in a courageous effort to get at the archers above. Even as he looked over the cliff, a spear glanced off a nearby rock, throwing sparks and chips of stone into the air before sliding back down into the road. Duly warned, Tuck scuttled back from the edge.
Bran gave out a loud, shrieking whistle and waved with his bow to Scarlet and the others on the high bank across the road in a signal to abandon the attack. And then they were running for their lives into the deep-shadowed safety of the greenwood.
A
mad scramble through the forest brought them to a tiny clearing where Bran and his men paused to regroup. “We had the devils trapped and trussed,” Brocmael said, breathing hard from his run. “We could have defeated them.”
“There are too many,” Rhoddi countered. “We dare not stay in one place very long or they’ll surround us and drag us under.”
“Like crossing a mud flat,” said Tuck, hands on knees, his lungs burning. “The longer you stand . . . the deeper you sink.” He shook his head. “Ah, bless me, I am too old and fat for this.”
“Will they come in after us, do you think?” wondered Geronwy, leaning on his longbow.
“Oh, aye,” answered Rhoddi. “Count on it.”
There was a clatter in the wood behind them just then, and Scarlet, followed by Llwyd and Beli, tumbled into the clearing. The two farm lads were looking hollow-eyed and a little green. Clearly, for all their skill with the bow, they had never killed before—at least, thought Tuck, not living men. While Bran and the others exchanged battle reports, Tuck undertook to gentle the skittish newcomers. Putting a hand on each of their shoulders, he said, “Defending your people against the cruel invader is a good and laudable thing, my friends. This is not a war of your making, God knows—does He not?”
The two glanced at one another, and one of them, Llwyd, found his voice. “We never killed before.”
“Not like that,” added Beli.
“If there is sin in it,” Tuck told them, “then there is also grace enough to cover it. You have done well this day. See you remember your countrymen whose lives depend on you and let your souls be at peace.”
Overhearing this, Bran turned to address the newest members of his tiny war band. “To me, everyone,” he said. “Believe me when I say that I wish no one had to learn this cruel craft within the borders of my realm. But the world is not of our choosing. We have many battles to fight before this war is through, and your lives may be required long since.” He spoke softly, but in grim earnest. “You are men now. Warriors. And part of my Grellon. So grasp your courage and bind it to your hearts with bands of steel.” His twisted smile flashed with sudden warmth. “And I will pray with every shaft I loose that all will yet be well and you will live to see Elfael at peace.”
“My lord,” said Llwyd, bending his head.
Beli went one better and bent the knee as well. “Your servant,” he said.
Then Bran addressed those who had come with Brocmael. “Greetings, friends, and if you’ve come to stay, then welcome. But if now that you’ve had a taste of this fight and find it bitter in your mouth, then I bid you farewell and God go with you.”
“We came to help you fight the Ffreinc, my lord,” said Brocmael. “As you know me, know my cousins. This is Geronwy.” He put out a hand to a slender, sandy-haired youth holding a fine bow of polished red rowan.
“My lord Rhi Bran,” said Geronwy, “we have heard how you bested Earl Hugh and would pledge our aid to such a king as could humble that mangy old badger in his den.”
The other, not waiting to be presented, spoke up, saying, “I am Idris, and I am glad to lend my bow to your cause, my lord. It seems to me that either we fight the Ffreinc with you here and now—or we will fight them by ourselves later.” A stocky lad with a thick, tight-knit frame, he seemed rough-carved of the same yew as the sturdy bow in his hand.
Scarlet, listening to the sounds echoing up from the road and forest behind them, called, “We must fly if we are to stay ahead of the chase. This way!”
“Our horses are back there.” Brocmael jerked a thumb in the direction of the road.
“Leave them,” Bran said, hurrying after Scarlet. “Horses are a hindrance in the forest. Anyway, it isn’t far.”
The archers started away again, disappearing into the close-grown trees and bramble and hawthorn undergrowth. It soon became clear that Bran was leading them along a stony trail up the long slope of the ridge where, in no more than a few hundred paces, the path suddenly erupted in outsized stones and boulders big as houses, all tumbled together to form a sizeable cairn—a natural fortress of stone. In the gaps and crevices between the rocks grew holly and briar, into which had been driven stakes of ash whose ends were sharpened to narrow spear points.
“Find a place to hide and wait for my signal,” called Bran, disappearing into a holly hedge at the base of the cairn.
“Up we go, lads,” called Scarlet. “Get snugged in good. There are arrow sheaves in the hidey-holes. Keep ’em close to hand.”
Brocmael glanced at his cousins, gave a shrug, and followed the others up into the storied heap of rocks. They picked their way carefully among the thorns and stakes to find that, in amongst the spaces between rocks, small wooden platforms had been prepared where the archers could stand. The warriors found bundles of arrows tied to the timber supports and stuffed into crevices within easy reach. “I told you Rhi Bran was cunning clever,” Brocmael declared to his kinsmen. “And here is the proof.”
“Did we ever doubt you?” said Idris.
“Shh!” hissed Scarlet, taking his place on a nearby stand. “Sharp and quiet, lads. They’ll likely try to come by stealth, so be ready for the signal.”
“What
is
the signal?” wondered Brocmael aloud.
“You’ll know it when you hear it,” answered Scarlet, “for you’ve never heard the like in your whole sweet life entire.”
“And when you hear it,” said Tuck, squirming up onto one of the lower platforms, “be sure you take no fright, for it is only our Bran distracting our foemen from the task at hand.”
“If they’re about thinking they can run us to ground,” added Rhoddi, “they’ll soon be thinking twice about chasing blind through the phantom’s wood.”
“The phantom,” said Geronwy. “
Rhi Bran y Hud
—is that who you mean?”
“One and the same,” replied Scarlet. “You’ve heard of him?”
“
Everyone
has heard of him,” answered the young warrior. “Are you saying he is real?”
“Brace yourself, boyo,” said Tuck, “you’re about to see for yourself.”
Fitting arrows to strings, the Cymry settled down to wait. The sounds of the chase grew louder as the Ffreinc drew nearer until, with a thrashing of branches and bushes, the first wave of armour-clad foot soldiers reached the base of the rock wall. There they paused to determine which way to go and in that briefest of hesitations were doomed. For as they stood looking at the boulders in their path, there arose a thin, bloodless cry—like that of the wind when it moans in the high tree branches, but no kindly breeze lifted the leaves.
The soldiers glanced around furiously, trying to discover the source of the sound. The cry became a shriek, gathering strength, filling the surrounding woodland with a call at once unnatural and unnerving, full of all the mystery of the greenwood—as if the forest itself had taken voice to shout its outrage at the presence of the Ffreinc.
They were still looking for the source of this fearsome cry when there appeared, near the top of the wall of stones, a strange, dark shape that in the green half-light of the forest seemed far more shadow than substance: a great, bird-shaped creature with the body of a man and the wings of a raven, with a naked, round, skull-like head and a long, wickedly sharp beak. This phantom moved with uncanny grace among the rocks, pausing now and again to utter its scream as a challenge to the wary, half-frightened soldiers on the ground.
One of the knights took up the challenge and, rearing back, loosed his spear, lofting it with a mighty heave up at the strange creature sliding among the rocks. The bravely launched spear struck the smooth face of a boulder, and the iron tip sparked. At the same moment, a black arrow sang out from the dark recess of the stones, struck the knight, and with a sound like the crack of a whip, threw him onto his back, dead before his body came to rest in the bracken.
It took a moment for the rest of the knights to realize what had happened, and by then it was too late. Three more arrows sped to their marks with lethal accuracy, dropping the enemy in their tracks.
The phantom of the greenwood gave out a last, triumphant scream and disappeared once more as the arrows began to fly thick and fast, filling the air with their hateful hiss. The Ffreinc fell back and back again, stumbling over one another, over themselves, over the corpses of the dead to escape the feathered death assailing them from the rocks. Those still coming up from behind choked off the escape, holding their unlucky comrades in place, thus sealing their fate.
And then it was over. The last soldier, an arrow in his thigh, pulled himself into the undergrowth, and all that could be heard was the clatter of the Ffreinc knights in full-tilt retreat . . . and then only the distant croak of gathering crows and the soft, whimpering moans of the dying.
Coed Cadw
T
he war between Bran ap Brychan and King William for the throne of Elfael continued as it began—with short, sharp skirmishes in which the Grellon unleashed a whirlwind of stinging death before disappearing into the deep-shadowed wood. These small battles were fought down in the leafy trenches of greenwood trails, down amongst roots and boles of close-grown trees and the thick-tangled undergrowth where Ffreinc warhorses could not go and swords were difficult to swing. The Welsh rebels struck fast and silently; sometimes it seemed to the beleaguered knights that the Cymry materialized out of the redolent forest air. The first warning they had was the fizzing whine of an arrow and the crack of the shaft striking leather and breaking bone.
And although there was never any telling when or where the dreaded attack would come, the result was always the same: arrow-pierced dead, and wounded Norman soldiers lurching dazed along the narrow trackways of the greenwood.
After a few disastrous running battles, the Ffreinc knights, whose fighting lives were spent on horseback, quickly lost all interest in facing King Raven and his men in the dense forest and on foot. In this, Coed Cadw lived up to its name—the Guardian Wood—providing the rebels with an immense and all-but impenetrable defensive bulwark against an enemy whose numbers far exceeded their own many times over.
Without the use of their horses, and forced to traverse unknown and difficult terrain, the knights’ supreme effectiveness as a weapon of war became nothing more than a blunt and broken stub of a blade. They might thrash and hack along the borders of the wood but could do little real damage, and the elusive King Raven remained beyond their reach.
Still, the king of England was determined to bring this rebel Welsh cantref to heel. He insisted that his commanders pursue the fight wherever they could. Even so, rather than send yet more men to certain death in the forest, they made endless sorties along the road and told themselves that at least they controlled the supply route and enforced the peace for travellers. King Raven was more than happy to grant William the rule of the road, since it allowed his archers time to rest and the Grellon to make more arrows and increase their stockpile.
As it became clear that there would be no easy victory over King Raven in the forest, King William moved to take the Vale of Elfael. The Ffreinc army set up encampment in the valley between the forest and Saint Martin’s, laying siege to the Welsh fortress at Caer Cadarn. William invaded the town of Saint Martin’s with a force of five hundred knights and men-at arms with himself in the lead. There was no resistance. The invaders, discovering only monks there—most of them French, under the authority of an ageing Bishop Asaph— and a few wounded soldiers and frightened townsfolk with little enough food to supply those already there, simply declared the town conquered and effectively reclaimed for the king’s domains.
Caer Cadarn was not so easily defeated. The occupying Ffreinc troops quickly learned that they could not approach nearer than three hundred paces of the timber walls without suffering a hail of killing arrows. But as the old fortress itself seemed to offer no aid or support to King Raven and the rebels in the wood, William decided to leave it alone, and trust to a rigorous siege to bring the stronghold into submission.
Day gave way to day, and sensing a cold, wet winter on the near horizon, with no advancement in his fortunes and the time for his departure for France looming ever closer, the king decided to force the issue. He called his commanders to him. “Our time grows short. Autumn is at an end, and winter is soon upon us,”William announced. Standing in the centre of his round tent with his earls and barons ranged around him, he looked like a bear at a baiting, surrounded by wolves with extravagant appetites. “We must leave for Normandie within the fortnight or forfeit our tribute, and we will have this rebellion crushed before we go.”
Hands on hips, he glared at the grim faces of his battle chiefs, daring them to disagree. “Well? We will have your council, my lords, and that quick.”
One of the barons stepped forward. “My lord and king,” he said, “may I speak boldly?”
“Speak any way you wish, Lord Bellême,” replied William. A thick-skinned warhorse himself, he was not squeamish about any criticisms his vassals or subjects might make. “We do solicit your forthright opinion.”
“With all respect, Majesty,” began Bellême, “it does seem we have allowed these rebels to run roughshod over our troops.” The Earl of Shrewsbury could be counted on to point out the obvious. “What is needed here is a show of strength to bring the Welsh to their knees.” He made a half turn to appeal to his brother noblemen. “The savage Welshman respects only blunt force.”
“And yours would be blunter than most,” remarked a voice from the rear of the tent.
“Mock me if you will,” sniffed Bellême. “But I speak as one who has some experience with these Welsh brigands. A show of force—
that
will turn the tide in our favour.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Earl de Reviers of Devon, stepping forward, “you might tell us how this might be accomplished when the enemy will not engage? They strike out of the mists and disappear again just as swiftly. My men half believe the local superstition that the forest is haunted by this King Raven and we fight ghosts.”
“Bah!” barked Earl Shrewsbury. “Your men are a bunch of old women to believe such tales.”
“And yet,” replied Devon, “how is this show of strength to be performed against an enemy who is not there?” He offered the craggy Shrewsbury a thin half smile. “No doubt this is something your vast experience has taught you.”
Shrewsbury gave a muttered growl and stepped back.
“The rebels refuse to stand and fight,” put in Le Noir of Richmond. “That is a fact. Until we can draw them out into the open we will continue to fail, and our superior numbers will count for nothing.”
“To be sure,” agreed the king, “and meanwhile our superior numbers are eating through all our supplies. We’re already running out of meat and grain. More will have to be brought in, and that takes time. Time we do not have to spare.”William’s voice had been rising as he began to vent his rage. “My lords, we want this ended now! We want to see that rebel’s head on a pike tomorrow!”
“Your Majesty,” ventured another of the king’s notables, “I would speak.”
William recognized his old friend, the Earl of Cestre. “Lord Hugh,” he said, “if you see a way out of this dilemma, we welcome your wisdom.”
“Hardly wisdom, Sire,” answered Hugh. “More an observation. When facing a particularly cunning stag, you must sometimes divide your party in order to come at the beast from unexpected quarters.”
“Meaning?” inquired William, who was in no mood for hunting lessons.
“Only this, my lord: that unless these rebels are truly spirits, they cannot be in two places at once. Sending a single large force into the wood is no use—as we have seen. So, send three, four, five or more smaller ones. Come at them from every direction.”
“He’s right,” affirmed Lord Rhuddlan. “They cannot defend all sides at once. We can cut them down before they can escape again.”
“We never know where they are,” complained another lord. “How can we muster troops on the flanks and rear if we cannot tell where they will attack?”
“We must create a lure to draw them into battle,” suggested Earl Hugh, “and when the bastards take the bait, we’re ready to sally in from the rear and flanks and slice them up a treat.”
There was more discussion then, about how this might be best accomplished, but the plan was generally accepted and agreed: the king’s army would adopt a new tactic. They would abandon their normal course of moving into the forest in a single large force, and would instead advance in smaller groups towards a single destination using a body on horseback as a lure to draw the rebels into a fight, whereupon the individual parties would rally to the fight and, sweeping in from the flanks, quickly surround them, cutting off any escape.
The king, satisfied that this plan offered a better way forward, gave his blessing to the scheme and ordered all to be made ready for it to be implemented the following morning. Then, in a far better mood than he had enjoyed since his arrival in Elfael, he ordered a good supper for himself and Earl Hugh and a few others, to celebrate their impending victory.
At dawn the next day, six separate hunting parties rode out with a seventh, larger body of knights and men-at-arms to serve as the lure to draw the rebels into the trap. Upon reaching the forest’s edge, they dismounted and proceeded on foot; the six smaller bodies fanned out around the main group and proceeded with all stealth.
It was slow and arduous work, hacking through the vines and branches, searching out pathways and game trails through the dense woodland. But just after midday, their determination was rewarded when the main body of knights encountered the Welsh rebels.
They had been stalking through a rock-lined rill, following the stream, when suddenly the canopy of branches seemed to open and begin raining arrows down upon them. The soldiers took shelter where they could, pressing themselves against the rocks and stones, all the while sounding blast after blast on the trumpets some of them were carrying. The attack continued much as previous assaults, but faltered when there arose a great shout and a second body of Ffreinc knights entered the battle from behind the rebel position. This was quickly followed by the appearance of a third body of knights that drew in from the left flank and mounted a fierce resistance to the killing shafts.
The battle lasted only moments and ended as abruptly as it had begun. There was a rustling in the branches overhead—as if a flock of nesting rooks had just taken flight—and the arrows stopped.
As the king’s men reassembled to gather up their wounded and reckon their losses, they found a longbow lying among the rocks in the streambed—one of the rebels’ weapons. What is more, it had blood on it. And there was no Ffreinc body in sight.
After the ruinous ventures of the previous encounters, this was deemed a triumph. It shrank in significance, however, when the victorious troops returned to their camp in the Vale of Elfael to learn that the other three search parties had become lost in the forest and unable to join the battle as planned. In their confusion, they had stumbled upon a hidden settlement—a cluster of crude huts and hovels made of sticks and skin around a great oak tree and a stone-lined well, together with a few storehouses and a pitiful field. Caught unawares, the inhabitants scattered. But the knights did manage to kill one of them as they fled—an old woman who seemed to be in some way guarding the place with only a wooden staff.