Tuck Part 24

"Nothing of the kind, lad," Scarlet told him. "We've bloodied their noses a bit, is all. They'll come back-"

"In force," added Tuck. "You can bet your last ha'penny on that."

Two days of jubilation following the Ffreinc defeat had given way to more sober reflection. It was, Tuck thought, as if the farm dog that chased every pa.s.sing wagon had, against every sane expectation, finally caught one. Now the forest dwellers were faced with the awful realization that there would be reprisals, and they were woefully outmanned. How could they hope to protect their gains? That was the question in the forefront of their minds, and it leached the joy from their hearts.

"The point is," Bran continued, "we will never be secure in Elfael until we have King William's seal on a treaty of peace and protection. I do not expect Red William to grant that without a fight-which is why we're still skulking around in the greenwood like outlaws." He broke another stick and tossed the ends into the fire, then declared the council at an end.

Scarlet rose and shuffled off to join Noin and Nia in their hut; Owain, whose wound, though still painful, was healing quickly, went to his rest. Tuck and Angharad were left to sit with Bran a little while longer. "You are right to prepare for war, of course," Tuck began.

"Did you think we would gain Elfael without one?"

"But perhaps King William's appet.i.te for this war is no match for your own," the friar ventured, watching the firelight and shadows flicker over Bran's sharp features. "Perhaps even now he is searching for a way to avoid a fight."

"Perhaps," Bran allowed. "What are you suggesting?"

"We might send an emissary to the king with an offer of peace."

Bran regarded the little priest thoughtfully.

"Peace, that is," Tuck clarified, "in exchange for fealty."

"If William recognizes my throne, I agree to swear fealty-and the war is over."

"Over before it has begun."

Bran looked to Angharad sitting quietly beside the fire on her three-legged stool. "What do you see?" he asked.

"The friar is right to suggest an offer of peace," observed Angharad. "It is close to G.o.d's heart always." She rose stiffly and pulled the edges of her Bird Spirit cloak closed. "But unless G.o.d moves in the Red King's heart, peace we will not have."

The old woman made a little stirring motion with her hands in the smoke from the fire, then lifted her palms upward as if raising the fragrance towards the night-dark sky above. Tilting her face heavenward, her small, dark eyes lost in the creases of her wrinkled face, she stood very still for a long moment.

Bran and Tuck found themselves holding their breath in antic.i.p.ation.

At last, she sighed.

"What do you see, Mother?" asked Bran gently, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the flames.

"I see . . ." she began, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly as she searched the tangled pathways of the future. ". . . I see a trail of blood that leads from this place and spreads throughout the land. Where it ends, G.o.d knows." She opened her eyes, and her face crinkled in a sad smile. "What we sow here will be reaped not by our children, but by our children's children-or those who after them come. But sow we must; another course we have not."

"Yet, there is hope?" asked the friar.

"There is always hope, Aethelfrith," replied the old woman. "In hope we do abide. As children of the Swift Sure Hand, hope is our true home. You, a priest, must understand this."

Tuck smiled at the gentle rebuke. "I bow to your teaching, Banfaith. And you are right, of course. I used to know a bishop who said much the same thing. Hope is the treasure of our souls, he would say."

"It is an end worth fighting for," mused Bran. "It may be for others to complete what we've begun, but there must be a beginning. And we will carry this fight as far as we can before pa.s.sing it on to those who come after."

The three of them sat in silence, watching the flames and listening to the crack and hiss of the wood as it burned. From somewhere in the forest an owl called to its mate. It was a sound Tuck had heard countless times since throwing in his lot with the forest folk, but tonight it filled him with an almost unbearable sadness. He rose from his place and bade the other two a good night. "G.o.d rest you right well, friends, and grant you His peace."

"Tuck," said Bran as the friar stepped from the hearth, "the Ffreinc are grasping, devious devils-false-hearted as the sea is wide. Even so, I am willing to swear fealty to Red William if it means we can draw a living breath without their foot on our neck. If you can find a way to speak peace to William, I stand ready to do my part. I want you to know that."

That night the friar did not sleep. Though cool and damp, the sky was clear and ablaze with stars; he found a place among the roots of one of the giant oaks and settled down in the dry bracken to pray for Elfael and its people, and all those who would not be able to avoid the war that was coming. He was praying still when the watchers rose, silently saddled their horses, and departed Cel Craidd to take up their posts on the King's Road.

CHAPTER 33.

Hereford Spare me the excuses, Marshal," said King William, cutting off the lengthy beggings of pardon as read out by Guy of Gysburne. Following his eviction from Elfael, his fortunes had risen beyond anything he might have dared to hope. Owing to his intimate knowledge of the Cymry and the lands beyond the March, the young marshal had become an aide-de-camp to William Rufus for the purpose of what the king now referred to as the Harrowing of Wales. "Tell it to me plain-who has come?"

Gysburne allowed his gaze to drop down the parchment roll prepared for him by the court scribes in attendance. "Besides Huntingdon, Buckingham, and Surrey, who marched out with you, there is Belleme of Shrewsbury and de Reviers of Devon. Salisbury arrived a short while ago," he read on. "FitzRobert of Cornwall has sent word ahead and should arrive before nightfall. Earl Hugh of Chester-accompanied by Rhuddlan-will join us tomorrow or the day after. Le Noir of Richmond is on the road; he begs pardon, but the distance is too great and the time too short . . ."

"Yes, yes," interrupted the king irritably. "Go on."

"There is de Mowbray of Northumberland, who also sends regrets and apologies, albeit he is en route and will join you as soon as travel permits." Guy looked up from the roll. "As for the rest, we must presume they are either on their way, or sending pet.i.tions of pardon."

The king nodded. "There is one notable absence."

"Sire?"

"Neufmarche, of course. This is his castle, by the b.l.o.o.d.y rood! He should be here to receive us. Where is he?"

"I have spoken to his seneschal, Sire, who will say only that the baron is away visiting his lands in Wales. The summons was sent on, but it is not at all certain that it reached him, since the messenger has not yet returned."

"I swear upon my father's grave, if Neufmarche does not appear in two days' time, it would be better for him not to appear at all."

"Sire?"

"The baron is a devious, two-faced schemer, Marshal. I snubbed him once to put him in his place-summoned him to attend me and then kept him wearing out the waiting bench for three days . . . and this is how he repays the insult. He should have learned humility."

"So one would think, Majesty."

William began pacing, his short, bowed legs making quick steps from one side of the chamber to the other. "On the martyrs' blood, I will not have it. Mark me, Gysburne, the king will not have it! I will make an example of this vexsome baron for once and all. G.o.d help me, I will. If Neufmarche does not appear with his men by the time we leave this place, he is banished and his estates in England fall forfeit to the crown. I vow it."

Gysburne nodded. Clearly, there was some deeper grievance between the two that had caused this rift between the baron and his sovereign lord. Whatever it was, Neufmarche was now in very grave danger of losing everything.

"How far away is Mowbray?" asked William, returning to the business at hand.

Guy glanced once more to the parchment roll in his hand. "The messenger indicated that unless he encounters some difficulty Mowbray will reach the March in three days' time. It will be the same with Richmond, I would expect-three or four days."

"The incursion will be over by then," fumed the king. He spun on his heel and started pacing again. "From what you have said, the Welsh have few horses, no knights, and only a handful of archers."

Gysburne nodded.

"Well then. Two days," decided William. "One day of fighting, and one to sluice down the abattoir floor, as it were. Two days at most."

"That is greatly to be hoped, Sire," answered Gysburne, all the while thinking that it was manifestly imprudent to underestimate the amount of havoc that could be wreaked by a single Welsh bowman. No one knew that better than did Guy himself, but he kept his mouth shut before the king.

"Ha!" said William. "I hope Neufmarche misses the battle entirely. Then I can banish him for good and sell all this." He looked around at the interior of the chamber as if considering how much it might bring in the marketplace. "How many men do we have now?"

"With the arrival of Salisbury's sixty-eight we have three hundred ten knights and five hundred forty men-at-arms at present. All are encamped in the fields outside the town." Antic.i.p.ating the king's next question, Guy added, "Counting those en route should almost double that number, I believe."

"That, friend marshal, is counting eggs, not chickens," cautioned a voice from the doorway.

Both men turned to see a haggard young man in boots and gauntlets, his green cloak and long dark hair grey with dust. The fellow took one step into the room and went down on one knee. "Forgive my tardiness, Sire," he said, "I was on my way to Londein when I received your summons, but came as soon as I could a.s.semble my men."

"All is forgiven now you're here," said the king, smiling for the first time that day. "Rise, Leicester, and let's have a look at you." The king crossed to the young lord and clapped him in a warm embrace. "Heaven bless you, Robert, I am right glad to see you. It has been too long."

The king called over his shoulder to Marshal Guy, "You can go now, Gysburne. But bring me word if anyone else should arrive this evening." Taking the Earl of Leicester by the arm, he steered the young man to a nearby table and drew out a chair. "What news from your brother?"

"I had word this morning, Sire. Henry is well and has raised two hundred. He hopes to join us tomorrow."

"Two hundred! Splendid! Here, have some wine. You must be parched," said the king. He picked up the jar, but the younger man took it from him.

"Allow me, Majesty," he said, pouring out the wine. He handed the cup to his king. "It would not do for anyone to think that the king served a lowly earl by his own hand."

"Hang what they think," said William recklessly. He took the cup and raised it. "Let us drink to a swift campaign," he said.

"And successful," said the earl.

"Swift and successful!" echoed the king. "This time next week, we shall be on our way to France."

"To be sure," affirmed Leicester lightly. "G.o.d willing."

"The Almighty has nothing to do with it," declared William, his nose in his cup. He swallowed down a bolt, then said, "This uprising will be crushed in the egg. We need not invoke heaven's help to apprehend a few scofflaw rogues and rebels."

Why this agonie agonie? I do not see that you have any choice, mon cher mon cher," said Lady Agnes Neufmarche. "You must go. You must attend the king."

"I know! I know!" snapped the baron. "But this king will be the ruin of us all. He is an idiot. What is more, he is an idiot with a stick and a hornet's nest."

"Perhaps it will not be as bad as you fear," counselled his wife. "And if you were there, mon cour mon cour, you could see that our interests were well defended."

Bernard was not listening. "He has no idea of the h.e.l.l he is about to loose on the land. No idea at all."

"You could warn him," suggested Agnes.

"Too late for that," the baron replied. "I know William. He's just like his father. Once he has his sword drawn, he will not see reason-only blood." The baron shook his head gravely. "There will be plenty of blood . . . on both sides."

"All the more reason to go and see what can be done to prevent it."

Bernard shook his head again and looked at the sc.r.a.p of parchment on the table. He had received many royal summonses over the years and had always responded-to do anything else invited royal wrath at the very least or, at worst, banishment or hanging. There was no way around it; this summons had come at a most inopportune time: just when the baron was winning over the devotion of his Welsh va.s.sals and preparing to expand his interests in the region, the king declared war. Neufmarche stood to lose years of patient work and hard-won goodwill to the unthinking ire of a flighty king who would tramp around the hills and valleys for a few days and then beetle off back to Londein or Normandie, as the whim took him.

Pretending he had not received the king's summons had bought him enough time to a.s.semble his men and flee Hereford before the king arrived; not the wisest course, he would be the first to agree, but in his mind the only one open to him just now.

"There is something else," Agnes said.

Her tone made him abandon his ruminations on the problems posed by the king's untimely summons. He glanced at his wife to see the pucker of concern between her brows. "And that is?"

"Merian," she said simply.

"Merian," he repeated. His heart quickened at the name, but he stifled any sign of recognition. "What of her?"

"She is here," said the baroness.

"Alive-you mean . . ."

"Yes, alive and well-and here here in this castle. She returned a few weeks ago-escaped from her captors, it seems. Although she does not admit to being held so. She-" in this castle. She returned a few weeks ago-escaped from her captors, it seems. Although she does not admit to being held so. She-"

"Merian . . . here," said the baron, as if trying to understand a complex calculation.

"Oh, yes," said Agnes. "And the curious thing about it is that Garran has locked her in her chamber-for her own safety, of course. Given the chance, there is no doubt she would run straight back to the brigands who took her captive in the first place."

"How extraordinary," mused the baron.

"You should know, husband," continued Agnes, "that she has been saying some very disturbing things about you."

"About me me?"

"Yes, mon cher mon cher, about you. It seems that through her ordeal she has come to believe that you tried to kill her. And this is why she fled her home and family for the forest."

"Mon Dieu," breathed Bernard. Recalling his bungled attack on Bran that day, his heart beat faster still. "She thinks breathed Bernard. Recalling his bungled attack on Bran that day, his heart beat faster still. "She thinks I I tried to kill her? Has the poor girl lost all reason then?" tried to kill her? Has the poor girl lost all reason then?"

"Oh, no," his wife a.s.sured him quickly, "she seems as sane as anyone. But she does cling to this absurd belief-perhaps it was a way for her to keep her sanity while captive. I only tell you about this so that when you see her you will not be taken by surprise at anything she says."

"I see, yes." Bernard nodded thoughtfully, considering the implications of what he had just been told. "I will speak to her, of course, but not just yet, I think. Perhaps when I have decided what to do about the king's summons."

"Well, do see her before you leave," advised the baroness. "If we were able to make her understand just how ridiculous is this notion of hers, then perhaps she might be trusted to obey and we could release her." Lady Agnes smiled. "It is a very cruelty to keep her captive in her own home after the torment she has endured, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, indeed," replied the baron, his mind racing to how this meeting might be put off. He was not of a mood to deal with angry, contrary, and likely vengeful women just now, and perhaps not for a very long time. "A very cruelty, as you say."

CHAPTER 34.

They're coming!"

At the shout, Tuck sat up and rubbed his face. He had been tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the end of his staff and had fallen asleep in the warm sunlight. Now, he rose and, taking up the st.u.r.dy length of ashwood, gave it a swing once around his head, offering a grunt of satisfaction at the comforting heft of the simple weapon. He then turned around in time to see the messenger slide down the gra.s.sy bank and into the bowl of Cel Craidd. It was Prebyn, the son of one of the farmers whose house and barn had been burned by the Ffreinc when they ransacked their settlement a few days before. "They're coming! The Ffreinc are coming!"

Bran and Tuck hurried to meet the young man. "My lord Rhi Bran! Rhi Bran! They're coming," announced Prebyn, red faced and breathless from his run. "The Ffreinc . . . King William . . . they're on the road . . . they'll be here any moment." He gulped air. "There's thousands of them . . . thousands . . ."

"Steady on, Prebyn," said Bran. "Draw breath." He put his hand on the farmer's broad back. "Calm yourself."