Tuck (18 page)

“We had no time to get you one,” Bran replied. “But it isn’t far—you can share with one of us.”

“I will not ride behind anyone!” the king asserted stiffly.

“You can have my horse, Sire,” volunteered Brocmael. “Ifor and I will share. For all it’s only back to town.”

Bran nodded. “We best be on our way. I want to be as far from here as possible when Wolf Hugh realizes what has been done to him—if he hasn’t guessed already.”

Dismounting quickly, Brocmael gave over the reins of his horse and helped his king into the saddle; then he vaulted up behind Ifor and the party set off.

The fastest way to the town was along one of the hunting runs towards the castle. As the morning was still fresh, Bran decided the need for a speedy retreat outweighed the concern of being seen, so they made their way to the nearest hunting run and headed back the way they had come. They passed along the slightly undulating green-walled corridor, eyes searching the way ahead, alert to the barest hint of danger.

Even so, danger took them unawares. They had just rounded a blind bend, and as the leaf-bounded tunnel of the run came straight they saw, in the near distance, a hunting party riding towards them. Without a word, the four fugitives urged their mounts into the brake and were soon concealed in the heavier undergrowth amongst the trees. “Do you think they saw us?” asked Ifor, drawing up beside Bran.

“Impossible to say,” replied Bran. Dismounting, he darted back toward the run. “Stay here, everyone, and keep the horses quiet.”

“Do as he says,” instructed Tuck, sliding from the saddle. He followed Bran, and found him crouched in the bracken, peering out from beneath low-hanging yew branches onto the run.

“Any sign of them?” he said, creeping up beside Bran.

“Not yet,” whispered Bran, laying a finger to his lips.

In a moment, they heard the light jingling of the Ffreinc horses’ tack and the faint thump of hooves on the soft earth as they came. Bran flattened himself to the ground, and Tuck likewise. They waited, holding their breath.

The first of the riders passed—one of the visiting Ffreinc noblemen who had ridden with them the previous day—scouting ahead of the others. At that moment, there was a rustling of brush behind them and King Gruffydd appeared.

“Is it him?” demanded Gruffydd. “Is it Wolf d’Avranches?”

“Shh!” Bran hissed. “Get down.”

Just then the main body of hunters passed: four knights and Earl Hugh, riding easily in the early morning. “There he is!” said Gruffydd, starting up again.

“Quiet!” said Bran.

“That vile gut-bucket—I’ll have him!” growled Gruffydd, charging out of the brake. Bran made a grab for the king, caught him by the leg and pulled. Gruffydd kicked out, shaking Bran off, and stumbled out onto the run. The riders were but a hundred paces down the run when the Welsh king appeared out on the open track behind them. He gave a shout, and one of the riders turned, saw him, and jerked hard on the reins.
“Ici! Arrêt! ”
he cried, wheeling his horse.

“He’s insane!” snarled Bran. Out from the wood he leaped, snagged the king by the neck of his cloak, and yanked him back under the bough of the yew tree.

“Release me!” shouted the king, wrestling in his grasp.

“You’ll get us all killed!” growled Bran, dragging him farther into the wood.

“Let them come!” sneered Gruffydd, shrugging off Bran’s hands. “I’m not afraid.”

“Jesu forgive,” said Tuck to himself. Stepping quickly behind the king, he tapped him on the shoulder. Gruffydd turned, and the friar brought the thick end of a stout stick down on the top of his head with a crack. The king staggered back a step, then lurched forward, hands grasping for the priest. Tuck gave him another smart tap, and the king’s eyes fluttered back in his head and he fell to his knees.

“Good work, Tuck,” said Bran, catching Gruffydd as he toppled to the ground. From the hunting run there came a sound that set their hearts beating all the faster: hounds. The first dog gave voice, followed by two others. “Hurry! Get back to the horses.”

Dragging the half-conscious king between them, they fought through the bracken and tangled vines of ivy to where Ifor and Brocmael were waiting with the horses. “Get his clothes off him,” directed Bran, pointing to Gruffydd. As Brocmael and Ifor began stripping off the Welsh king’s clothing, Bran laid out his plan. “Fly back to town and make for the docks. Find Alan and have him get any ship that’s going.” Bran began shucking off his boots. “I’ll keep them busy while you make good your escape.”

The baying of the hounds seemed to fill the forest now, drawing ever nearer.

“What are you going to do?” said Tuck, watching Bran pull off his tunic and trousers.

“Give those to me.” He took Gruffydd’s tunic and cloak from Ifor. “Get his trousers.”

There was shouting from the hunting run; the hunters had found their trail. As the others hefted an unresisting Gruffydd into the saddle, Bran pulled on the Welsh king’s trousers and stuffed his feet into his boots.

“I’ll stay with you,” said Tuck.

“No,” said Bran. “Go with them. Take care of Gruffydd. If I don’t find you before you reach the town, see you get yourselves on the first ship sailing anywhere. Leave the horses if you have to—just see you get clear of the town with all haste.”

“God with you,” said Tuck as Bran disappeared into the forest, racing towards the sound of the barking dogs.

“We should stay and help him,” Ifor said.

“He can take care of himself,” replied the priest, struggling into the saddle. “Believe me, no one knows how to work the greenwood like Rhi Bran.”

“I’m staying,” Ifor declared, drawing his sword.

“Put that away, lad,” Tuck told him. “There’s been enough disobedience for one day. We’ll do as we’re told.”

With a grimace of frustration, the young Welshman thrust his blade back into the scabbard and the three took to flight, leading Bran’s horse with the wounded king slung sideways across his mount like a bag of grain.

They worked deeper into the wood and heard, briefly, shouts echoing from the direction of the hunting run, and horses thrashing into the close-grown bushes and branches. There was a crash—as if a horse or its rider had fallen into a hedge—and then a cry of alarm, followed by other shouts and the frenzied barking of the hounds sighting their quarry. Then, slowly, the sounds of the chase began to dwindle as the pursuit moved off in another direction.

The riders continued on, eventually working back to the head of the hunting run. By this time Gruffydd was able to sit up in the saddle, so they lashed their horses to speed and made quick work of the remaining distance, keeping out of sight of the castle until they reached the track leading to Caer Cestre. Alan was there on the wharf, waiting where they’d left him. He waved as Tuck and the others came in sight—a quick, furtive flick of his hand. Tuck then saw why Alan was trying to warn them. His heart sank. For between Alan and the dock stood two of the Ffreinc noblemen they had been hunting with the day before, and there was no ship in sight.

CHAPTER 22

L
eaping, ducking, dodging through the thick-grown woodland tangle like a wild bird, Bran flew towards the sound of the baying hounds. In a little while, he reached the edge of the hunting run and burst out onto open ground—not more than a few hundred paces from the hunting party: four men on horseback, lances ready. They were standing at the edge of the run, watching the wood and waiting for the dogs and their handler to flush the quarry into the open so they could ride it down.

It was their usual way of hunting. Only, this time, their quarry was Bran.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Bran put his head down and ran for the opposite side of the wide grassy corridor. He had made it but halfway across when there arose a shout behind him.
“Arrêt! Arrêt!”

He ran even faster and reached the far side of the hunting run and flashed into the undergrowth with the riders right behind. There was more shouting behind him and the sound of ringing steel as the four knights began hacking their way into the wood. Bran found a big elm tree and paused to catch his breath. He waited until he heard the hounds again and then darted off once more, this time working his way back through the woods in the direction of the earl’s castle.

The chase was breathless and frantic. The hounds were quick on his scent, and as fast as Bran hurtled through the brake, the dogs were faster still. It was only a matter of time before he would be caught and brought to bay. He ran on, trying his best to put some distance between himself and the hunters. He heard the slavering growls as the beasts closed on him. He was searching for a heavy branch to wield as a club when the first hound finally reached him.

The dog bounded over a fallen limb, and Bran turned meet it. The animal—a great, long-legged rangy grey beast—howled once and leaped for him. Bran, standing still in the path, made no move to flee. Instead, he held out his hands. “Here! Come, old friend. Come to Count Rexindo.”

The dog, confused now, hesitated. Then, identifying the man who had fed him and befriended him, it gave a yelp of recognition and ran to Bran, put his paws on his chest, and began licking Bran’s face. “Good fella,” said Bran. “That’s right, we’re friends. Here, come with me. Let’s run.”

Bran started off again with the dog loping easily beside him. They were joined by a second dog and, within another dozen running steps, the third hound came alongside. The four of them, dogs and man, flowed through the forest with the ease and grace of creatures born to the greenwood, quickly outdistancing the handler and the hunters still sitting on their horses in the hunting run.

They came onto a path lying roughly parallel to the hunting run; a few flying steps farther and it began sloping down towards a stream which would, Bran guessed, lead to the river and the river to the town. “This way, boys,” called Bran, hurtling down towards the water. They splashed into the stream and continued on at a slower pace. After a time, Bran paused to listen.

He heard nothing—no crack and swish of branches, no shouts of hunters keen on the trail, no sounds of pursuit at all. He had outstripped the chase, and without the constant howling of the dogs to lead them, the hunters were floundering far, far behind and likely on a different path altogether.

He paused in the stream, then stooped and cupped water to his mouth and swallowed down a few gulps. Then stood, sunlight splashing down from a gap in the branches overhead, and drew the moist air deep into his lungs. The sky was clear and blue, the day stretching out fine before him. “Come on, lads,” said Bran. “Let’s go home.”

They resumed their long walk, splashing downstream, sometimes in it, more often on the wide, muddy bank. The dogs did not follow so much as accompany him—now running ahead, now lagging behind as they sniffed the air for scent of errant game. Bran kept up a steady pace, pausing to listen every now and then, but heard nothing save the sounds of the forest. Some little time later, the woodland began to thin and he glimpsed cultivated fields through the trees. He stepped out to find himself at the edge of a settlement—a few low houses, a barn, and a scattering of outbuildings with a small pen for pigs. He watched the place for a moment, but saw no one about, so quickly moved on, working his way towards the track he knew he would find eventually—the path that connected the settlement to the town.

Once on the road, he made good time. Reaching Caer Cestre after midday, he hurried down the narrow streets and proceeded directly to the wharf, alert to any threat of discovery. At the lower town, he made for the dockyard and was still a little way off when he saw the mast of a moored ship: a small coast-crawling cog with a single low central mast and broad tiller. Closer, he saw a clump of men standing on the dock, and picked out the plump form of Tuck and, with him, four of Earl Hugh’s soldiers. They seemed to be arguing.

He halted, thinking what to do.

There was no sign of the other Welshmen, so Bran resumed his walk down to the dock, picking up his speed as he went until, with a sudden furious rush, he closed on the group of men. He was on them before they knew he was there. Seizing the nearest soldier by the arm, he marched the surprised knight to the edge of the jetty and, with a mighty heave, vaulted him into the river. The body hit with a loud thwack, and the resulting splash showered the dock with water.

Bran dropped lightly down into a small fishing boat moored to the pier below and, seizing an oar from the oarlock, fended off the flailing knight. The soldier’s companions stared in slack-jawed astonishment at this audacious attack. One of them dashed to the end of the dock and extended his hand to his comrade. Bran dropped the oar, grabbed the hand, and pulled for all he was worth. The knight gave out a whoop as he toppled over the edge and into the water as well.

The two remaining knights backed away from the edge of the dock and drew their swords. One of them raised the point of his blade to Tuck’s throat, while the other waved his weapon impotently at Bran, who remained out of reach in the boat. Both were shouting in French and gesturing for the two Welshmen to surrender. “Tuck!” cried Bran, lofting the other oar. “Catch!”

Up came the oar. The friar snatched it from the air and, gathering his strength behind it, drove the blade into the soldier’s chest, propelling him backward and over the edge of the dock to join his two companions in the water. The last knight standing swung towards Tuck, his blade a bright arc in the air.

Tuck was quicker than he knew. Sliding his hands along the shaft of the oar, he deftly spun it up into the man’s face. The knight stumbled backwards, retreating step by step. Bran, meanwhile, scrambled back onto the dock. “Now, Tuck!”

Tuck drove forward with the oar, and the knight fell back a step, tripping over Bran’s outstretched foot. The knight lurched awkwardly, trying to keep his feet under him. He swung the blade wildly at Tuck, who easily parried the stroke, knocking it wide. Another thrust with the oar sent the soldier sprawling onto his backside, and before he could recover, Bran had grabbed his legs, pulled them up over his head, and pitched the knight heels first off the dock and into the river.

Bran and Tuck paused to look at their handiwork: four soldiers thrashing in the water and crying for help. Owing to the weight of their padded jerkins and mail shirts, they were unable to clamber out of the river; it was all they could do to keep their heads above water. Their cries had begun to draw would-be rescuers to the waterfront.

“Where are Gruffydd and the others?” asked Bran.

“They’re hiding across the way,” Tuck said, waving vaguely behind him. “I told Alan to keep them out of sight until the ship was ready. It has only just arrived.”

Bran glanced around. Two boys stood on deck, laughing at the spectacle played out on the dock. Their shipmates had gone ashore, leaving the youngest crew members to watch the vessel. “Go get them,” ordered Bran. “Get everyone aboard the ship and cast off!”

“But the captain and crew are not here,” replied Tuck. “They’ve gone up to the town.”

“Just go,” Bran urged, picking up the oar. “I’ll keep the soldiers busy.”

Tuck dashed away, returning as fast as his stubby legs allowed with Alan, Gruffydd, and the two young Welshmen trailing in his wake. They arrived on the dock to find Bran swinging the oar and shouting, keeping the water-logged Ffreinc in the water and the gathering crowd of onlookers at bay. Truth be told, Bran found preventing the rescue far easier than he imagined. Most of the townsfolk seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of the earl’s thugs at such an embarrassing disadvantage. Several boys were throwing stones at the knights, who singed the air with curses and obscenities.

“Get aboard!” cried Bran. “Cast off!”

Tuck turned on the others. “You heard him! Get aboard and cast off.”

While Ifor and Brocmael untied the mooring ropes, Alan picked up two long poles that were lying on the dock and tossed them onto the deck of the ship. The boat’s two young guardians protested, but were powerless to prevent their vessel from being boarded. They stood by helplessly as Tuck and Gruffydd set the plank on the rail and climbed aboard. “Ready!” Tuck called.

“Push away!” shouted Bran, wielding the oar over his sputtering charges.

Using the poles, Alan and Brocmael began easing the cog away from the dock. As the ship floated free, Ifor grabbed the tiller and tried to steer the vessel into deeper water in the centre of the stream. The ship began to move. “Bran!” shouted Tuck. “Now!”

Bran gave a last thrust with the oar and threw it into the water. Then, with a running jump, he leapt from the dock onto the deck of the ship. He was no sooner aboard than a howling arose from the wharf; he turned to see the three hounds pacing along the edge of the dock and barking.

“Come!” called Bran, slapping the side of the vessel. “Come on, lads! Jump!”

The dogs needed no further encouragement. They put their heads down and ran for the ship, bounded across the widening gap, and fell onto the deck in a tangle of legs and tails. Bran laughed and dived in among them. They licked his hands and face, and he returned their affection, giving them each a chuck around the ears and telling them what good, brave dogs they were.

“You’ve stolen the earl’s hounds,” Brocmael said, amazed at Bran’s audacity—considering the high price Wolf Hugh set on his prize animals.

“Hounds?” said Ifor. “We’ve stolen a whole ship entire!”

“The ship will be returned,” Bran told them, still patting the nearest dog. “But the hounds we keep—they’ll help us to remember our pleasant days hunting with the earl. Anyway, we’ve left him our horses—a fair enough trade, I reckon.”

“Does anyone know how to sail a ship of this size?” wondered Alan.

“Maybe the lads there can help us,” Tuck said, regarding the boys—who were thoroughly amazed at what had taken place and were enjoying it in spite of themselves. “Maybe they know how to sail it.”

“We don’t have to sail it,” Bran countered. “We’ll let the tideflow carry us downriver as far as the next settlement and try to pick up a pilot there. Until then, Ifor, you and your two young friends will man the tiller and see you keep us in the stream flow and off the bank. Can you do that?”

“I’ve seen it done,” replied the young man.

“Then take us home,” said Bran. Ifor called the two young crewmen to him and, with an assortment of signs and gestures, showed them what they were to do. Bran crossed to where Gruffydd was sitting against the side of the ship, knees up and his head resting on his arms.

“Are you well, my lord?” Bran said, squatting down beside him.

“My blasted head hurts,” he complained. “Did you have to hit me so hard?”

“Perhaps not,” Bran allowed. “But then, you did not give us much choice.”

The king offered a grunt of derision and lowered his head once more. “You will feel better soon,” Bran told him, rising once more. “And when we cross over into Wales you’ll begin to see things in a better light.”

Gruffydd made no reply, so Bran left him alone to nurse his aching head. Meanwhile, Tuck and Brocmael had begun searching the hold of the ship to see what it carried by way of provisions. “We have cheese, dried meat, and a little ale.”

“We’ll pick up more when we stop. Until then, fill the cups, Tuck! I feel a thirst coming on.”