Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“Ah, Tuck,” said Bran, interrupting the friar’s meditation, “you’re here—good.” Still holding Mérian, he turned to the little friar. “I have a job for you.”
D
awn was still but a whisper in the pale eastern sky when Tuck finally reached Saint Martin’s. He paused below the brow of a hill a short distance from the little town and dismounted. He trudged wearily up to the top of the hill and there stood for a time to observe. The moon, bright still, illuminated the hills and filled the valleys with soft shadows. Nothing moved anywhere.
He yawned and rubbed his face with his hands. “This friar is getting too old for these midnight rambles.” His empty stomach growled. “Too right,” he muttered.
At Bran’s behest, Tuck had ridden all night, making a wide, careful circuit of the valley to avoid being seen by any Ffreinc sentries or watchmen posted on the outer perimeter of King William’s sprawling encampment, which lay between the forest and Elfael’s fortress, Caer Cadarn. Now, coming upon the town from the north, he paused to make certain he could continue to the completion of his mission. Having come this far, it would not do to be caught now.
There did not seem to be any Ffreinc troops around; he could not see anyone moving about the low walls. The town was quiet, asleep. “Well, Tuck, my man, time to beard the lion in his den.”
Struggling back into the saddle, he resumed his errand, descending the hill and starting up the gentle slope to the town, keeping his eyes open for any sign of discovery at his approach. But there was no one about, and he entered the town alone and, for all he could tell, unobserved. He dismounted and tethered the horse to an iron ring set in the wall of the guardhouse, then quickly and quietly started across the deserted market square towards the abbey.
The abbey gates were closed, but he rapped gently on the door and eventually managed to rouse the porter. “I have a matter of utmost urgency for the bishop,” he announced to the priest who unlatched the door. “Take me to him at once.”
The young monk, yawning, shook his head. It was then Tuck recognized him. “Odo! Wake up, boyo. It’s me, Tuck. I have to see Bishop Asaph without delay.”
“God with you, Friar,” said Odo, rubbing his eyes. “The bishop will be asleep.”
“There is no time,” said Tuck, pressing himself through the gap. “It is life and death, Odo. We’ll have to wake him.”
Tuck took the young monk’s elbow, spun him around, and started walking towards the palatial lodge Abbot Hugo had built for himself. “Never fear, Brother, I would not disturb the good bishop’s rest if it was not of highest importance.”
“This way, then,” said Odo, and led Tuck not to the main entrance, but around the side to a small room where the secnab had lodged. “He prefers a less ostentatious cell,” explained the young scribe, knocking on the door.
There came a sleepy voice asking them to wait, and in a moment the door opened. There stood the wizened, elderly priest, barefoot, his haze of white hair a wispy nimbus on his head. One look at Tuck and he said, “How may I serve you, Brother?”
“Bishop Asaph,” said Tuck, “it is Brother Aethelfrith—do you remember me?”
The old priest studied his face in the moonlight. Then, recognition flooded into the pale eyes. “Bran’s friend! Yes, I remember you. But, tell me, has something happened? Is he well?”
“All is well, Father,” replied Tuck. “Or soon will be. I have come—”
Asaph shivered. “Come in, Brother Aethelfrith, and let us sit by the fire.” Tuck thanked Odo and stepped inside; the old priest showed him to a stool by a tiny fire in the hearth. “These old bones are hard to keep warm,” explained the bishop. “My advice, Brother, do not get old—and if you do, see you keep a little fire going in the corner. It works miracles.”
“I’ll remember that,” replied Tuck.
“Now then,” said Asaph, “what has kept you from your bed this night?”
“Bran has sent me with a message,” replied the friar, and went on to explain about the miraculous arrival of Gruffydd and the Cymry kings. “And that is not all—far from it!” he remarked. “Baron Neufmarché has joined the rebellion. He is lending the full force of his troops to the cause. It is, I think, the only way he can hope to hold on to his estates.”
Bishop Asaph gasped with a sharp intake of breath. “Lord Almighty!” His eyes grew round. “Then it is soon over, praise be to God.”
“One way or another, yes,” replied Tuck, “and perhaps sooner than you know. The Cymry mean to attack tomorrow. We have not the supplies and such for a prolonged clash. The troops are ready, and the weather is good. We will have the higher ground . . .” He paused. “In short, there is no point in waiting. That is what I came to tell you. The battle attack will come in the morning, when the sun has risen above the trees so that it will be in the eyes of the Ffreinc troops.”
“God have mercy.” Asaph shook his head. “I will make ready to receive the wounded, of course.”
“Yes,” agreed Tuck, “and one other thing—we must get word to Iwan and Siarles at the fortress. They must know so they can be ready to strike from the rear if and when the opportunity arises.” He paused. “Bran has asked if you will take the message to them.”
“Me?” blustered Asaph. “Well, of course, but—”
“Have the king’s men made any trouble for you?”
“No, no,” replied the bishop quickly. “It has been very quiet. They come here for prayer and confession—and to ensure the wounded are receiving good care. But they leave us alone.”
“Well then,” concluded Tuck. “Perhaps you might take two or three brothers with you and go to the caer. Take a bell and ring it as you go so the Ffreinc will know you’re on holy business.”
Asaph nodded slowly. “What if they make bold to stop us?”
“Simply tell them that you are going up to shrive the Cymry in the stronghold, yes? You can do that, too, once you’ve delivered the message, can you not?”
The old churchman considered this for a moment, then, making up his mind, he said, “If there is to be a battle, soldiers must be shriven. Men facing their eternal destiny have no wish to die with sins unconfessed dragging their souls into perdition. The Ffreinc understand this.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Tuck. They talked a little more then, and Tuck gave the bishop a lengthy account of all that had taken place in the last days—the running battle with King William’s troops in the forest, leading up to the unexpected return of Mérian bringing King Gruffydd and the baron. They talked of the difficulties looming in the days ahead—caring for the injured and wounded in the aftermath of battle, finding food for the survivors, and rebuilding lives and livelihoods destroyed by the war.
Finally, Tuck rose and, with great weariness of body and spirit, made his farewells and moved to the door.
“God with you, Brother Aethelfrith,” said Asaph with deepest sincerity.
“And also with you, Father,” replied Tuck. “May the Good Lord keep you in the hollow of His hand.”
“Amen,” said Asaph. “I will leave you to make your own way out. I want to pray for a while before we go up to the caer.”
Tuck left the monastery without bothering Odo again. He slipped out of the abbey gate and started across the deserted square of the still-sleeping town. As he was passing the church, he heard the sound of horses approaching and turned just as four or five riders entered the square. Ffreinc soldiers. He was caught like a ferret in a coop.
Instinctively, he dived for the door of the church. It was dark and cool inside, as he knew it would be. A single candle burned on the altar, and the interior was filled with the sweet stale odour of spent incense and beeswax. The baptismal font stood before him, square and solid, the cover locked with an iron hasp. That was vile Hugo— locking the font lest any poor soul be tempted to steal a drop of holy water.
Gazing quickly around the empty space for a place to hide, he saw—could it be? Yes! In the far corner of the nave stood a strange, curtained booth. Oh, these Normans—chasing every new whim that whispers down the road: a confessional. Tuck had heard of them, but had never seen one. They were, it was said, becoming very fashionable in the new stone churches the Ffreinc built. The notion that a body could confess without looking his priest in the eye all the while seemed faintly ludicrous to Tuck. Nevertheless, he was grateful for this particular whim just now. He crossed quickly to the booth. It was an open stall with a pierced screen down the centre: on one hand was a chair for the priest; on the other a little low bench for the kneeling penitent. A curtain hung between the two, and another hid the priest from view.
Tuck could not help clucking his tongue over such unwonted luxury. Not for the Norman cleric a humble stool; no, nothing would do but that Hugo’s priests must have an armchair throne with a down-filled cushion. “Bless ’em,” said Tuck. Pulling aside the curtain, he stepped in and closed the curtain again, then settled himself in the chair, thanking the Good Lord for his thoughtful provision.
No sooner had he leaned back in his chair than the door of the church opened and the soldiers entered.
Tuck remained absolutely still, hardly daring to breathe.
The footsteps came nearer.
They were coming towards the confessional. One of the knights was standing directly in front of the booth now, and Tuck braced himself for discovery. The soldier put a hand on the curtain and pulled it aside. The soldier saw Tuck, and Tuck saw the soldier—only it was no ordinary knight. The squat, thick body, the powerful chest and slightly bowed legs from a life on horseback, the shock of flaming red hair: it was none other than King William Rufus in the flesh.
Tuck pressed his eyes closed, expecting the worst.
But the king turned away without the slightest hint of recognition in his pale blue eyes and called over his shoulder to the two with him.
“Le prêtre est ici,”
he said.
“Me partir.”
The priest is here,
thought Tuck, translating the words in his head.
God help me, he thinks I am the priest to hear his confession.
King William dropped the curtain and settled himself on the kneeling bench.
“Père, entendre mon aveu,”
he said wearily.
Knowing he would have to speak now—and that his French was not up to the challenge—he said,
“Mon seigneur et mon roi, Anglais s’il
vous plait.”
There came a heavy sigh from the other side of the curtain, and then the king of England replied, “
Oui
—of course, I understand. My
Anglais
is not so good, forgive
moi
, eh?”
“God hears the heart, my lord,” offered Tuck. “It makes no difference to him what language we use. Would you like me to shrive you now?”
“
Oui, père
, that is why I have come.” The king paused, and then said, “Forgive me, Father, a sinner. Today I ride into battle, and I cannot pay for the souls of those who will be slain. The blood-price is heavy, and I am without the silver to pay, eh?”
It took Tuck a moment to work out what William was talking about, and he was glad the king could not see him behind the curtain. “I see,” he said, and then it came to him that William Rufus was talking about the peculiar Norman belief that a soldier owed a blood debt for the souls of those he had slain in battle. Since one could never know whether the man he had just killed had been properly shriven, the souls of the combat dead became the survivor’s responsibility, so to speak—he was obligated to pray for the remission of their sins so that they might enter heaven and stand blameless before the judgement seat of God.
“Oh, yes,” intoned Tuck as understanding broke upon him. The king, like many great lords, was paying priests to pray for the souls of men he had slain in battle, praying them out of purgatory and into heaven.
“By the Virgin, the cost is heavy!” muttered William. “
Intolérable,
eh? It is all I can do to pay my father’s debt, and I have not yet begun to pay my own.”
“A very great pity, yes,” Tuck allowed.
“Pitié, oui,”
sighed William.
“Très grande pitié.”
“Begging your pardon,
mon roi
,” said Tuck. “I am but a lowly priest, but it seems to me that the way out of your predicament is not more money, but fewer souls.”
“Eh?” said William, only half paying attention. “Fewer souls?”
“Do not kill any more soldiers.”
The king laughed outright. “You know little about warring, priest!
Un innocent!
I like you. Soldiers get killed in battle; that is the whole point.”
“So I am told,” replied Tuck. “But is there no other way?”
“It could all be settled tomorrow—
Dieu sang
, today!—if the blasted Welsh would only lay down their weapons. But they have raised rebellion against me, and that I will not have!”
“A great dilemma for you,” conceded Tuck. “I see that.”
Before he could say more, William continued. “This cantref
infortuné
has already cost me more than it will ever return. And if I do not collect my tribute in Normandie in six days’ time, I will lose those too. Philip will see to that.”
Tuck seized on this. “All the more reason to make peace with these rebels. If they agreed to lay down their arms and swear fealty to you—”
“Et payer le tribut royal,”
added William quickly.
“Yes, and pay the royal tribute, to be sure,” agreed Tuck. “Your Majesty would not have to feed an army or pay for the souls of the dead. Also you could go to Normandie and collect the tribute that is due—all this would save the royal treasury a very great load of silver, would it not?”
“
Par le vierge!
Save a great load of silver, yes.”
Tuck, hardly daring to believe that he was not in a dream, but unwilling to wake up just yet, decided to press his luck as far as it would go. “Again, forgive me,
mon roi
, but why not ask for terms of peace? This rebel—King Raven, I believe they call him—has said that all he wants is to rule his realm in peace. Even now, I believe he could be convinced to swear fealty to you in exchange for reclaiming his throne.”
There was a long and, Tuck imagined, baleful silence on the other side of the curtain. He feared the king was deciding how to slice him up and into how many pieces.
Finally,William said, “I think you are a man of great faith.” The wistful longing in that voice cut at Tuck’s heart. “If I could believe this . . .”