Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“Believe it, Sire,” said Tuck. “For it is true.”
“If I am seen to allow rebellion, every hand will be raised against me.”
“Perhaps,” granted Tuck. “But if you are seen to practice mercy, it would inspire others to greater loyalty, would it not?” He paused. “The sword is always close to hand.”
“Hélas, c’est vrai,”
granted the king.
“Alas, yes, it is too true.”
There was silence again then. Tuck could not tell what was happening beyond the curtain. He prayed William was seriously considering the idea of suing for peace.
When he spoke again, the king said, “Will you yet shrive me?”
“That is why I am here. Bow your head, my son, and we begin,” replied Tuck, and proceeded with the ritual. When at last the king rose to depart, he thanked his priest and walked from the church without another word.
Tuck waited until he heard the sound of horses in the square, and then crept to the door. King William and his knights were riding away in the grey dawn of a new day. He waited until they were out of sight and then ran to his own horse and flew to the greenwood as if all the hounds of hell were at his heels.
T
he sun was well up and climbing towards the tops of the higher trees by the time Tuck reached the safety of the greenwood. The combined armies of Cymry rebels were already amassing at the edge of the forest. Hampered by the trees and undergrowth, Tuck worked his way along the battle line, searching for Bran. By the time he found him, the sun was that much higher and the assault that much nearer.
“Bran!” cried Tuck. “Thank God, I’ve found you in time.” He slid from the saddle and ran to where Bran was waiting with Scarlet, Owain, and his own small war band, engulfed and surrounded by King Gruffydd’s troops and those of the northern lords. “I bring word—”
“Be quick about it,” Bran told him. “I am just about to give the command—”
“No!” said Tuck, almost frantic. “Forgive me, my lord, but do nothing until you’ve heard what I have to say.”
“Very well,” Bran agreed. He called across to Gruffydd and Llewelyn, who were standing a little apart. “Stand ready to march as soon as I have returned.” To Tuck, he said, “Come with me.”
He led them a little way into the wood, to a place where they would not be overheard. “Well? Is the bishop able to get a message to the caer?”
It took a moment for the priest to recall his original errand. “Oh, that, yes.” Tuck licked his lips and swallowed. “I have seen the king.”
“The king . . . Red William?”
“The same,” replied the friar, and explained what had happened in the town—how he had been surprised by Ffreinc riders and hid himself in the church, how William had mistaken him for one of the abbey priests and asked to be shriven, and their talk about the rebellion.
“Did you shrive him?”
“I did, yes, but—”
“So that means they intend to attack today,” concluded Bran. “Well done, Tuck; it confirms us in our plan. We will strike without delay.” He started away.
“That is not all,” said Tuck. “The king was distraught about the cost of this war. It weighs heavily with him. He stands to lose his tribute money from Normandie.”
“Good.”
“Above all else he desires a swift end to this conflict,” Tuck explained. “I believe he would be moved towards peace.”
“That he will not have,” declared Bran. “And you are certain Bishop Asaph will warn Iwan and Siarles at the fortress?”
“He will.”
“Then all is ready.” He commended Tuck for his diligence, and returned to the battle line, where he gave a nod to Gruffydd, Llewelyn, and the others. “God with you today, my lords, and with us all,” he called, and raising his warbow, he gave the signal to move out.
The massed armies of Cymry archers and Ffreinc soldiers under the command of Baron Neufmarché slowly moved out from the shelter of Coed Cadw; the knights on horseback and the Cymry on foot, they marched down the slope and into the Vale of Elfael. Their appearance threw William’s troops into a chaos of frantic activity as the alarms were sounded through the various camps. The knights, men-at-arms, and footmen were well trained, however, and hastily mustered for battle. As the Cymry drew nearer, the Ffreinc moved to meet them, first one division and then another until the gaps in the line were filled and they had formed a single, dense body of soldiers—the knights in the centre, flanked by the footmen.
Tuck, with his staff, taking his place behind Bran and Scarlet, found himself walking beside Owain. “Whatever happens today,” said the young warrior, “I would have you say a prayer for me, Friar.”
“And here I have been praying for us all since first light, have I not?”
“Then,” said Owain, “I will pray for you, Friar Tuck.”
“Do that, boyo,” agreed Tuck. “You do that.”
The Cymry moved slowly down from the forest, spreading out along the rim of the valley a little north of the King’s Road so that when they attacked the sun would be at their backs and in the eyes of the enemy. They came to the steepest part of the slope and stopped so that William’s troops would have to toil uphill to engage them, while they could rain arrows down into the ranks of advancing knights as well as those behind.
King William’s barons and earls, each in command of his own men, formed the battle line, filling in the gaps between the separate bodies until the knights rode shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield, spears raised and ready to swing down into position when the order was given to charge. The footmen scrambled into ranks behind the knights and prepared to deliver the second assault when the knights broke the enemy line.
Up on the slopes across the valley, the Cymry archers took handfuls of arrows and thrust them point-first into the turf before them, ready to hand when the order came to loose havoc on the advancing Ffreinc. Baron Neufmarché, at the head of his troops, drew into position to the northwest—ready to swoop down upon the unprotected flanks of William’s army the moment the charge faltered under the hail of shafts. If, however, the knights survived the charge and carried the attack forward, he would come in hard to protect the archers’ retreat.
“Come on, you ugly frog-faced knaves . . .” muttered Scarlet. He stretched and flexed the stiffness from his injured hand, then plucked a shaft from the ground and nocked it to the string. “. . . a little closer and you’re mine.”
Other men were speaking now—some in prayer, and others in derision of the enemy, banking courage in themselves and those around them. Bran stood silent, watching the slow, steady advance of the Ffreinc line. He suddenly found himself wishing Angharad were alive to see this day. He missed her and the knowledge that she was upholding him in her mysterious and powerful way. Closing his eyes, he prayed that she was gazing down on him and would intercede with the angels of war on his behalf and sustain him in the battle.
He was still occupied with this thought when he heard Gruffydd say, “Here, now! What’s this?”
Bran opened his eyes to see that the Ffreinc had halted just out of easy arrow flight. The early sun glinted off the polished surfaces of their shields and weapons. There was a movement from the centre, and the line broke, parting to the left and right as a small body of knights rode forward. Two of the riders carried banners—one bearing the royal standard of King William: a many-tailed flag with a red cross on a white field and a strip of ermine across the bottom separating the body from the green, blue, and yellow tails. The other knight bore the standard of England: the Cross of Jerusalem in gold surrounded by smaller crosslets of blue; its tails were green, gold and blue, each tail ending in small gold tassels.
These banners preceded a single knight, riding between them. Two more knights followed the lone rider, and all advanced to a point halfway between the two armies, and there they halted.
“Saints and angels,” said Gruffydd, “what’s the old devil about?”
“I think Bloody William wants to talk,” replied Llewelyn.
“I say we give him an arrow in the eye and let that do our talking for us,” declared Gruffydd. He nudged Llewelyn beside him. “Your aim is true, Cousin; let fly and we’ll see that rascal off right smart.”
“No!” said Tuck, pressing forward. “Begging your pardon, my lords, I do believe he wants to beg terms of peace.”
“Peace!” scoffed Gruffydd. “Never! The old buzzard wants to sneak us into a trap, more like. I say give him an arrow or two and teach him to keep his head down.”
“My lord,” pleaded Tuck, “if it is peace he wants, it would be the saving of many lives.”
Bran gazed across the distance at the king, sitting on his fine horse, his newly burnished armour glinting in the golden light of a brilliant new day. “If he
does
want to talk,” Bran decided at last, “it will cost us nothing to hear what he has to say. We can attack as soon as the discussion is concluded.” He turned to Gruffydd. “I will talk to him. You and Llewelyn be ready to lead the assault if things go badly.” He motioned to Will Scarlet, saying, “Come with me, Will. And you, too, Tuck—your French is better than mine.”
“Baron Neufmarché speaks French better than any of us,” Tuck pointed out. “Send for him.”
“Maybe later,” allowed Bran. “We’ll see if there’s anything worth talking about first.”
Together the three of them walked down the grassy slope to where the king of England had established himself between his billowing standards.
“Perhaps the friar is right,” suggested Will Scarlet. “It would not hurt to have Neufmarché with us.”
“We will call him if we need him,” allowed Bran.
“William speaks English,” Tuck told them.
“Does he indeed?” said Bran.
“A little, anyway—more than he’ll admit to.”
“Then we will insist,” Bran decided. “That way we can all be very careful about what we say to one another.”
They came to within fifty paces of the knights on horseback.
“Mon roi,”
said Bran, with a glancing nod of respect.
“Parlerez-vous?”
“Oui,”
replied King William.
“Je veux vous parler de la paix.”
“He wants to talk to you about making peace,” said Tuck.
“Bon,”
said Bran. To Tuck, he said, “Tell him that we will speak in English and that you will relay my words to him.”
Tuck did as he was commanded, and a strange expression passed over the king’s face.
“You,”
he said. “Have I seen you before?”
“You’ve seen us
all
before, you mule-headed varlet,” muttered Scarlet in Welsh.
“Steady on, Scarlet,” said Bran. “We’re here to listen.”
“Oh, indeed, yes, Sire,” replied Tuck. “We met first in Rouen last year—when my Lord Bran came to warn you of the plot by your brother against your throne.”
William nodded. “Somewhere else, I think.”
“Yes,” said Tuck. “I was at Wintan Cestre when you gave your judgement against Baron de Braose and Count Falkes, and delivered this cantref into the care of Abbot Hugo Rainault and Sheriff de Glanville.”
William squinted his eyes and regarded the little friar with a suspicious look—as if trying to decide if the priest was mocking him in some subtle way. “No . . . somewhere else.” Realization came to him, and his eyebrows raised. “
Le Sang Vierge!
You were that priest in the church this morning.”
“True, Majesty,” answered Tuck. “That is a fact I cannot deny.”
“Good Lord, Tuck,” whispered Scarlet, “you’ve been a busy fella.”
The king frowned, then said, “
C’est la vie
—I am glad you are here.” Turning his attention to the task at hand he said to Bran, “Good day for a battle, eh?”
“None better,” replied Bran, through Tuck.
“What is this about you, ah . . .
désirer
the throne of this godforsaken cantref ? You have caused me the very devil of trouble, my lord.”
“With respect, Sire,” answered Bran, “I want only what is rightfully mine—the throne my family has occupied for two hundred years.”
“Hmph!” sniffed William, unimpressed. “That is finished. Britain is a Norman country now. I made my decision. Can you not accept it?”
Tuck and Bran conferred, and the friar said, “Again, with respect, Sire, my Lord Bran would remind you that the two of you made a bargain in Rouen—a throne for a throne. That is what you said. Bran helped you save your throne; now he wants the one he was promised.”
King William frowned. He took off his helmet and rubbed a gloved hand through his thinning red hair. After a moment, he said, “Your priest here,” he jabbed a stubby finger at Tuck, “says you will swear fealty to me. Is that true?”
“Oui,”
said Bran. “Yes.”
“If I restore you to the throne,” William said, “you will cease this rebellion—is that so?”
Again, Bran and Tuck conferred. “That is what I intended from the first.”
“This miserable little cantref has already cost me more than I will ever see out of it,” grumbled William. “What you want with it, God knows. But you are welcome to it.”
“Your Majesty!” gasped one of the barons attending William. “I fear you are making a grave mistake.”
The knight moved up beside the king, and the forest-dwellers recognized him for the first time. “You had your say long ago, Gysburne,” Tuck told him.
“Ferme la bouche.”
“You cannot just give it back to them,” insisted Marshal Gysburne, “not after what they’ve done.”
“Can I not?” growled the king. “Who are you, sir, to tell me what I can do? The priest is right—shut your mouth.” Turning to Bran, he said, “It grows hot and I am thirsty. Can we discuss this somewhere out of the sun? I have wine in my tent. Come, let us talk together.”
“I would like nothing more,” replied Bran when Tuck had told him what the king said. “However, I would like to choose the place of discussion.”
“Where, then?”
“The fortress is just there,” said Bran, pointing down the slope to the caer on its mound in the near distance. “We will talk there.”
“But the stronghold is full of your warriors,” the king pointed out.
“Some warriors, yes,” allowed Bran. “But farmers and herders, too—the people who have suffered under de Braose, Abbot Hugo, and Sheriff de Glanville these last years.”
“Am I to go into this den of wolves alone?” said the king.
“Bring as many of your knights as you wish,” Bran told him. “The more who see us swear peace with one another, the better it will be for everyone.”
W
hen King William and his knights rode into the fortress yard at midday, Bran and his people were ready to receive them. Bran, with Mérian on one hand and Tuck on the other, was flanked by Iwan and Siarles on the right, and Will Scarlet and Alan a’Dale on the left. Behind him were other members of the Grellon—Noín, Owain, Brocmael, and Ifor, and most of the forest-dwellers. Baron Bernard Neufmarché stood a little apart, with two of his knights holding Sheriff Richard de Glanville, bound at the wrists, between them. Beside the knights stood Bishop Asaph gripping the oaken shaft of his brass-topped crosier, and Odo clutching a big Bible.
The king of England was accompanied by a dozen knights, Marshal Guy of Gysburne amongst them. Around the perimeter of the yard stood the people of Elfael. Outside the walls of the fortress, the army was drawn up and waiting. Beyond them, on the heights above the valley, the Cymry kings and their archers kept watch on the proceedings. If William’s army moved to attack, they would move to prevent it.