Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
T
uck half carried, half dragged the wounded Tomas through the wood, pausing now and then to rest and listen for sounds of pursuit. He heard only the nattering of squirrels and birds, and the rapid beating of his own heart. The spear, so far as he could tell, had been hurled in blind desperation up into the branches where the soldier had marked the arrow that killed the man beside him. By chance, the missile had caught Tomas in the soft place below the ribs on his left side. Tuck had been hiding in a crevice behind the tree and saw Tomas fall.
The archer landed hard among the roots of the tree, and Tuck heard the bone-rattling thump. Without a moment’s hesitation, Tuck rushed to the warrior’s aid and, with a shout to alert the others, hefted Tomas up onto his shoulders and started for home. He paused at the nearest stream to get some water and to assess the injury.
The spearhead had gone in straight and clean and, by the look of it, not too deep. There was plenty of blood, however, and Tuck wet one of the cloths he carried in his satchel and pressed it to Tomas’s side. “Can you hold that?” he asked.
Tomas, his face ashen, nodded. “How bad is it?” he asked between clenched teeth.
“Not so bad,” Tuck replied, “for all I can see. Angharad will be able to put it right. Is there much pain?”
Tomas shook his head. “I just feel sick.”
“Yes, well, that is to be expected, is it not?” replied the friar. He offered the archer another drink. “Get a little more water down you and we’ll move along.”
Tomas drank what he could, and Tuck hefted him onto his feet once more. Draping the injured man’s arm across his own round shoulders so as to bear him up, they continued on. The way was farther than he remembered, but Tuck kept up a ready pace, his short, sturdy legs churning steadily. As he walked, he said the Our Father over and over again, as much for himself as for the comfort of the man he carried.
After two more brief pauses to catch his breath, Tuck approached Cél Craidd. He could see the lightning-blasted oak that formed an archway through the hawthorn hedge which helped to hide the settlement. “Almost there,” Tuck said. “A few more steps and we can rest.”
There was a rush and rustle behind him. “Tuck! How is he?”
The friar half turned, bent low beneath the warrior whose weight he bore. “Iwan, thank God you’re here.” He glanced quickly around. “Is anyone else hurt?”
“No,” he replied. “Only Tomas here.” Tossing aside his bow, he helped ease the weight of the wounded man to the ground. Tomas, now only half-conscious, groaned gently as they stretched him out. “Let’s have a look.”
“I lost my bow,” moaned the injured warrior.
“No matter, Tomas,” replied Iwan. “We’ll get you another. Lie still while we have a look at you.”
Tuck loosened the young man’s belt and pulled up his shirt. The wound was a simple gash in the fleshy part of his side, no more than a thumb’s length. Blood oozed from the cut, and it ran clean. “Not too bad,” Iwan concluded. “You’ll be chasing Ffreinc again before you know it.” To Tuck, he said, “Let’s get him to a hut and have Angharad see to him.”
As the two lifted Tomas between them, the rest of the war band appeared. “We’re clean away,” reported Rhoddi, breathing hard from his run. “No one gave chase.”
Scarlet, Owain, and Bran were the last to arrive. Bran glanced around quickly, counting his men. “Was anyone else injured?”
“Only Tomas here,” said Iwan, “but he—”
Before the words were out of his mouth there arose a piercing shriek—the voice of a woman—from the settlement beyond the concealing hedge. The cry came again: a high-pitched, desperate wail.
“Noín!” shouted Scarlet, darting forward. He dived through the archway of the riven oak and disappeared down the path leading into Cél Craidd.
The men scrambled after him, flying down into the bowl of a valley that cradled their forest home. At first glance all appeared to be just as they had left it earlier that morning . . . but there were no people, none to greet their return as on all the other days when they had gone out to do battle with the Ffreinc.
“Where are they?” wondered Owain.
The shuddering wail came again.
“This way!” Scarlet raced off along one of the many pathways radiating out into Coed Cadw.
Only a few steps down the path he found his wife standing in the path, bent almost double, her shoulders shaking with the violence of her sobs.
“Noín!” Scarlet rushed to her side. “Noín, are you hurt?”
She turned, her face stricken and crumpled with pain, although she appeared to be unharmed. And then Will looked at the bundle she cradled in her arms. It was little Nia, her arms and legs limp and still. The child appeared to be asleep, eyes closed, her features composed. There was a dark, ugly purple bruise on her throat.
Will Scarlet put his ear to the little one’s face. “She’s not breathing.”
“Oh, Will . . .” sobbed Noín as Scarlet gathered them both in his arms.
“Bran!” shouted Rhoddi. “Over here!”
A few dozen steps farther along the path lay another, larger bundle—a shapeless mass of bloody rags, as if a sack of meat had been rolled and crushed beneath a millstone. Beside what was left of this body lay the banfáith’s staff. Bran halted in midstep, staring, his face frozen.
“Angharad!” he cried, rushing swiftly to the body. He sank to his knees beside the pathetic heap of rag and bone and gathered it into his arms. He knelt there, rocking back and forth, cradling the corpse of his beloved teacher and advisor, his confidante, his best and dearest friend.
After a time, Bran collected himself somewhat; he lowered the body to the ground and gently smoothed the hair from the old woman’s face and then cupped her wrinkled cheek in his hand. “Farewell, Mother,” he whispered, gazing at the wizened features he had come to know so well. He placed the tips of his fingers to her eyes and drew her eyelids shut, then bent his head in sorrow as his tears flowed freely.
Owain and the others raced off to make a search of the path and surrounding wood. Bran gathered up the broken body of the Wise Banfáith in his strong arms and returned to Cél Craidd; Scarlet and Noín came after, bearing their beloved daughter. Tuck, ministering to Tomas’s wound, looked up as Bran and Scarlet returned with the little girl and the old woman. He rose and ran to them as they lay the corpses beneath the spreading boughs of the Council Oak. “Who is it? Who—?” he said and stopped in his tracks. “Lord have mercy,” he sighed when he saw who had been killed. “Christ have mercy.”
Turning to Noín and Scarlet, he gathered them in a gentle embrace and prayed for them then and there, that the Lord of Life would give them strength to bear their loss. He did the same for Bran and, seeing as there was nothing more to be done just then, he returned to tending the wounded Tomas.
Bran was kneeling by the still body of Angharad when Owain came to him. “We found no one else injured, Rhi Bran. I think—I hope—everyone got away.”
He was silent for a moment, watching Bran straighten the old woman’s battered limbs. “Do you think they knew it was King Raven’s home they attacked?”
“Those knights weren’t looking for this place, but they found it anyway.”
“But do they know what they found?” asked Owain.
“Perhaps not,” allowed Bran. “But if they do come back, they’ll come in force, and we will not be able to defend it. We will stay here tonight and abandon Cél Craidd in the morning—and pray we have at least that much time.” He folded one of the old woman’s wrinkled hands over the other. “Tell everyone to prepare to leave. We’ll take only what we can carry easily. Bundle up all the arrows and extra bows—get Brocmael and Ifor to help you secure all the weapons. Tell Siarles to set sentries in the usual places. Go. We must be ready to move at first light tomorrow.”
Owain nodded. “Where will we go, my lord?”
“It is a big forest,” he said, brushing a wispy strand of hair away from Angharad’s face. “We’ll find someplace to camp.”
It was early evening, and the sun had tinged the sky with a crimson hue when Noín finally brought herself to speak about what had happened, which was that after the war band had departed, the Grellon went about their daily chores. She and Cia had gone to gather blackberries in the wood; she had taken Nia with her, and the three of them had spent the morning picking. When they had filled their bowls, they started back. “Nia was so excited,” Noín said, “she’d gathered more and bigger berries than ever before, and she wanted to show Angharad. So she went ahead of us . . . I tried to call her back . . .” Noín paused, choking back the tears. “But she didn’t hear me, and anyway she knew the path. I let her go . . .” Her voice faltered. Scarlet, grim with grief, put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
Bran offered her a cup of water. After she had swallowed a little, she continued. “We started back. Cia and I were talking . . . Then we heard shouts and voices . . . scared . . . We met some of the Grellon on the path, running away. Cél Craidd had been discovered, they said; the Ffreinc had found us. Everyone had scattered, and everyone had got away. ‘What about Nia? Did anyone see my little girl?’” Noín shook her head, her lips trembling. “No one had seen her. I started running toward the settlement. But it was all over.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “The Ffreinc were gone. There was no one around. I began calling for Nia, but there was no answer. I started looking for her, calling her . . . I thought, I hoped—maybe one of the others picked her up in the confusion, someone had taken her to safety. I searched one path and then another until . . .” She let out a wrenching sob and lowered her face into her hands. “I found her on the path—just before you came. I think she got trampled by a horse . . . one of the hooves struck her head . . .” She turned eyes full of tears to the others. “How could anyone do that to a little child? How could they?”
Bran and Tuck left Noín and Scarlet to their grief then and went to see what could be done for Tomas. The wounded warrior had been laid out on a bed of rushes covered with a cloak.
“He is sleeping,” Rhoddi told them. “I did as you said, Friar—I put a clean cloth and some dry moss on the cut. It seems to have stopped bleeding.”
“That’s a good sign, I think,” said Tuck.
Bran nodded. He raised his eyes; the tops of the tallest trees were fading into the twilight. “We must bury Nia and Angharad soon. I will dig the graves.”
“Allow me, my lord,” said Rhoddi.
Bran nodded. “We’ll do it together.”
“I want to help,” said Tuck.
“Is it wise to leave him alone?” said Rhoddi, with a nod towards Tomas.
Tuck glanced at the sleeping warrior beside him. “We’ll hear him if he wakes,” he said. So the three went off to begin the bleak task of digging the graves: one pitifully small for Nia, and another for Angharad. Iwan and Scarlet came to help, too, and all took their turn with the shovel. While they were at their work, some of the Grellon who had fled the settlement began coming back—one by one, and then in knots of two or three—and they gave their own account of what had happened.
The settlement had been discovered by a body of Ffreinc knights on horseback—eight or ten, maybe more—who then attacked. The forest-dwellers fled, with the knights in pursuit. They would have been caught, all of them, but Angharad turned and blocked the trail. They had last seen her facing the enemy with her staff raised high, a cry of challenge on her lips; and though it cost her life, the enemy did not follow them into the forest. The returning Grellon were shocked to find their good bard had been killed, and dear little Nia as well. The tears and weeping began all over again.
The women attended Noín, helping her wash and dress little Nia in her best clothes. They combed her hair and plaited flowers in the braids, and laid her on a bed of fresh green rushes. They washed the blood from Angharad’s body and dressed her in a clean gown and brought her staff to lay beside her. Bran made a cross for the graves using arrows which he bound together with bowstring. Meanwhile, Tuck moved here and there, comforting his forest flock, giving them such solace as he possessed. He tried to instil some hope in the hearts of the grieving, and show a way to a better day ahead. But his own heart was not in it, and his words sounded hollow even to himself.
When the graves were ready, Scarlet came and, taking Noín by the hand, said, “It is time, my heart.” Noín nodded silently. He knelt and gathered up his daughter and carried her to the new-dug grave; Noín walked beside him, her eyes on the bundle in her husband’s arms.
Iwan and Owain bent to Angharad, but Bran said, “Wait. Bring her Bird Spirit cloak and put it on her. And her staff. We will bury her as befits the last True Bard of Britain.”
Owain fetched the black-feathered cloak and helped Bran wrap it around the old woman, and the two bodies were laid to rest in the soft earth. Iwan brought Angharad’s harp to place in the grave, but Bran prevented him. “No,” he said, taking the harp. “This I will keep.” As he cradled the harp to his shoulder, his mind flashed with the memory of one of their last partings.
“All that needs saying have I
said,”
his Wise Banfáith had told him.
“Now it is for us to remember.”
He held the harp, and his mind returned to the time of their first meeting—in the old woman’s winter cave hidden deep in the forest. There, she had healed his body with her art, and healed his soul with her songs. “A raven you are, and a raven you shall remain—until the day you fulfil your vow,” Bran murmured, remembering the words of the old story. He turned his eyes one last time to the face of his friend—a face he had once considered almost unutterably ugly: the wide, downturned mouth and jutting chin; the bulbous nose; the small, keen eyes burning out from a countenance so wrinkled it seemed to be nothing but creases, lines, and folds. Death had not improved her appearance, but Bran had long ago ceased to regard her looks, seeing instead only the bright-burning radiance of a soul alight with wisdom. “She called me a king.”
“My lord?” said Iwan. “Did you say something?”
“She had never done that before, you see? Not until now.”