Tuck (26 page)

CHAPTER 33

  Hereford

S
pare 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 Bellême 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 petitions of pardon.”

The king nodded. “There is one notable absence.”

“Sire?”

“Neufmarché, of course. This is his castle, by the bloody 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 Neufmarché 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. God help me, I will. If Neufmarché 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, Neufmarché 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 Neufmarché 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.” Anticipating 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 assemble 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. “God 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.”

W
hy this
agonie
? I do not see that you have any choice,
mon cher
,” said Lady Agnes Neufmarché. “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
, you could see that our interests were well defended.”

Bernard was not listening. “He has no idea of the hell 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 scrap 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 vassals and preparing to expand his interests in the region, the king declared war. Neufmarché 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 assemble 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?”

“Mérian,” she said simply.

“Mérian,” 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
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—”

“Mérian . . . 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
?”

“Yes,
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
I
tried to kill her? Has the poor girl lost all reason then?”

“Oh, no,” his wife assured 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

T
hey’re coming!”

At the shout, Tuck sat up and rubbed his face. He had been trimming the end of his staff and had fallen asleep in the warm sunlight. Now, he rose and, taking up the sturdy 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 grassy bank and into the bowl of Cél 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.”

The young man bent over and rested his hands on his knees, blowing air through his mouth. When he was able to speak again, Bran said, “Now, then. Tell me, what did Rhoddi say?”

“My lord Rhi Bran, he said I was to tell you that Red William’s soldiers have been sighted on the road at the bottom of the long ridge—where the stream crosses—”

“I know the place,” Bran said. “Rhoddi has given us fair warning. We have a little time yet.” He sent the youth away with instructions to get something to drink, saddle a horse, and hurry back for new orders. “Well, my friend, we’re in it now,” he said when the messenger had gone. “I’ll send Prebyn to the caer to alert Iwan and Siarles.”

“God have mercy,” breathed Tuck.

Bran turned and called out across Cél Craidd, “Scarlet! Owain! To me! Tomas—my weapons. To me, lads! The Ffreinc have been sighted.”

This call roused the sleepy settlement, and soon the few remaining inhabitants were running here and there to help the warriors on their way. Out from a nearby dwelling, Angharad emerged. Bran hurried to meet her. “It begins,” he said.

“So it does.” She unfolded a bit of soft leather and handed Bran three coiled bowstrings. “God with you, Rhi Bran,” she said. “These I made especially for this day.” Her face froze then, and she drew a breath as if to speak, but thought better of it.

“I thank you, Wise Banfáith,” he replied, placing the bowstrings in a pouch at his belt. “Was there something else you wanted to say?”

The old woman stared at him, her dark eyes peering as through a mist. Bran could sense her struggling . . . to find the words? To reach him in some way? Finally, she relaxed. Her face softened and she smiled, her wrinkled face smoothing somewhat in simple pleasure. “All that needs saying have I said.” Reaching out, she covered his hands with hers and gripped them tight. “Now it is for us to remember.”

“Then we will do the work of remembering,” replied Bran.

The old woman lifted her hand to his face; then, rising on tiptoes, she brushed his cheek with her dry lips. “I am proud of you, my king. Do remember that.”

Prebyn returned then and received orders to tell Iwan and those in the valley fortress that the king’s army was on its way. “Come back as soon as you’ve delivered your message,” Bran told him. “There may be Ffreinc outriders around, and you do not want to be caught.” Then, turning to the rest of the Grellon, he said, “You all know what to do.” There were murmurs of assent all around, and some voices called out encouragements, which the king acknowledged. Then, addressing Angharad one last time, he said, “Pray for us, all of you, and let your prayers strengthen our courage and sharpen our aim.”

“I will uphold you in battle with psalms and prayers and songs of power as befits a bard of Britain,” Angharad said. Raising her staff, she held it crosswise in her hands and lifted it high. “Kneel before the High King of Heaven,” she instructed.

Bran knelt before his Wise Banfáith, to receive her blessing. “Fear nothing, O King,” she said, placing one withered hand on his head. “The Almighty and His angelic battlehost go before you. Fight well and behold the glory of the Lord.”

Bran thanked his bard and commended his people to her care. Tomas passed him his longbow, and Scarlet handed him a sheaf of arrows which he tied to his belt. “Come, friends. Let’s be about the day’s business.”

Shouldering a thick bundle of arrows each from their sizeable stockpile of begged, bought, and Grellon-made shafts, they climbed the rim of Cél Craidd’s encircling rampart and started off along one of the many pathways leading into the forest. Bran had taken but half a dozen steps when he heard a heavy tread on the trail behind him. “What are you doing, Tuck? I thought we agreed you would stay here and help Angharad.”

“I seem to recall that we discussed something of the sort, yes,” allowed the friar. “But
agreed
? No, I think not.”

“Tuck—”

“You leave your flock in safe hands, my lord. Angharad needs no help from me, and I will be more aid to you on the battle line.” The priest patted the satchel at his side. “I am bringing cloths and such for wounds. I can serve you better at the sharp end, can I not?”

“Come, then,” Bran said, shifting the bundle of arrows on his hip. “It would not do to keep King William waiting.”

They marched at a steady pace, moving silently as shadows through the thick-grown trees and heavy undergrowth of bracken and tangled ivy vines and bramble canes, guided by an intimate knowledge of the greenwood’s myriad trackways—many of which would be invisible to anyone who had not spent years in the wild woodlands of the March. They changed direction often, abandoning one trail for another, always working south, however, towards the King’s Road.

“Do you think William Rufus himself has come?” asked Tuck.

“Perhaps,” allowed Scarlet a few paces behind him. “Where you find king’s men, you sometimes find a king leading them. Red William is said to like a fight.”

“It would be good if he has come,” Tuck observed. “Then when we sue for peace he will be ready to hand.”

“Sue for peace,” said Bran. “I have no intention of suing for peace.”

“I was not thinking of
you
, my lord,” replied the friar. “I was thinking of the Ffreinc. After a few days, I would not be surprised if we see a flag of truce from William’s camp.”

“A few days?” wondered Bran. “Tuck, bless you, we have but ten men! If we make it to the end of this day with body and soul knit together, I will count it a triumph.”

“Oh, ye of little faith!” the priest scoffed, and on they went.

The land rose steadily beneath to form the long slope of the ridge that was the southern border of Elfael. At the place where the old road crested the ridge—dropping low as it passed between two steep banks of stone like a river flowing through a gorge—Bran had chosen to engage the enemy. They dropped their bundles at the foot of a high rock stack shielding them from view of the road below. While Scarlet and the others took a moment’s rest, Tuck and Bran climbed the stack. On a flat rock jutting out above the road, they found Rhoddi lying on his stomach and gazing down the long southern slope towards the foot of the ridge.

“Thank God,” said the warrior, squirming upright as Bran crawled up on hands and knees to join him. “Here I was thinking Prebyn had lost his way.”

“Where are they?” asked Bran, squatting beside Rhoddi.

“Just there.” He pointed down the slope towards a stand of oaks that grew beside the deep-rutted road. “They seem to have stopped. They’ve been there for a while, but they should come in sight any time now.”

Tuck scrambled up at last and, lying on his belly, turned his eyes to the dark stretch of road far down the slope where the intertwining limbs still overhung the deep-sunk path. The Grellon had cleared the trees for a dozen yards on either side of the defile to give themselves a clear and unobstructed view from above.

“How many do you think there are?” asked the friar.

“I don’t know,” replied Rhoddi. “A fair few, I reckon.”

Bran returned to where the others were waiting. “Scarlet, you and Tomas will command the other side. Llwyd and Beli,” he said, referring to the two newcomers, both farmers’ sons who had been added to their number following the abbot’s disastrous raid, “go with Scarlet. He’ll show you what to do. You’d better hurry. We don’t want the Ffreinc to see you.”

The four left on the run, and Bran and Owain took up an armful of bundled arrows and scrambled back up to the lookout post. “I see them!” said Tuck, pointing down the long incline. “That spot of red, there. It’s moving.”

“It’s one of the scouts,” Rhoddi told him. “They advance and fall back. They’re plenty wary.”

“They know we will attack,” said Bran. “Trying to tempt us into showing ourselves.”

“Brave men,” Tuck murmured to himself.

“Brave fools,” amended Owain.

“Is this the main body?” asked Bran.

“I made it three divisions,” Rhoddi replied, and explained how he had worked his way down to the bottom of the ridge to see what could be learned of the king’s army from that vantage. “Most are mounted, but there are a number on foot as well. And those I saw appeared but lightly armed.”

“They know they will not be facing knights on horseback,” surmised Bran, “so they need not overburden themselves or their animals.”

Tuck backed slowly down the rocks and into a little sunny patch nearby; hitching up his robe, he knelt in the long grass and, crossing his hands over his chest, he lifted his face to the clear blue sky above and began to pray, saying, “Commander of the Heavenly Host, You are no stranger to war and fighting. I know You’d rather have peace, and I’d have it, too, if it was left to me. But You know that sometimes that en’t possible, and if peace was in William’s mind I don’t reckon he’d be marching against us now. So, I’m asking You to think back to Your man, Moses, and how You supported him in all his wrangles with the Pharaoh-Who-Knew-Not-Joseph. Great of Might, I’m asking You to support Bran and his men today—and like You did with the Hebrew slaves when Pharaoh chased them out of Egypt, I’m asking You to drown the armies of the enemy in their own bloodlust. Last but not least, I’m asking You to ease the suffering of the wounded and, above all, to treat kindly the souls of those who will be coming to stand before You in a little while. Grant them eternal rest in Your wide kingdom for the sake of Your most Merciful Son, Our Lord Jesus.”

Tuck was roused from his prayers by the sound of a trumpet—small but bright as a needle point in the quiet forest. “Amen, so be it,” he whispered and, crossing himself, he picked up his staff and hauled himself back up the rocks to where Bran, Owain, and Rhoddi were waiting.

The trumpet sounded again: a single long, unwavering note.

“What is the meaning of that?” wondered Owain. “Vanity?”

“Maybe they think to frighten us,” suggested Tuck.

“Take more than a pip on the horn to send a shiver up my spine,” said Rhoddi. He nocked an arrow to the string, but Bran put a hand on his arm and pulled it down.

“They’re still trying to get us to show ourselves so they can mark our positions,” said Bran, “perhaps get some idea how large a force they will face. If they only knew how few . . .” He let the rest of the thought go.

The trumpet called once more, and this time the trumpeter himself rode into view. Behind him came two knights bearing banners: a blue square with three long tails of green and a cross of gold in the centre surrounded by small green crosslets. Behind them could be seen the first ranks of knights; some of these also carried banners of red and blue, some with yellow lions, some with crosses of white and red.

“Owain,” said Bran, “find yourself a good position somewhere just there”—he pointed a little farther along the rock wall—“and be ready to loose on my signal.” As the young warrior departed, Bran turned to the friar. “Tuck,” he said, placing a bundle of arrows upright at his feet, “I want you to see that we do not run out of arrows in this first skirmish. Keep us supplied and let us know how many we have left if supplies run low.”

“Good as done,” said Tuck. He scuttled back down the rocks and arranged the bundles in stacks of three which he then hauled up to a place just below the archers to keep them within easy reach. By the time he rejoined Rhoddi and Bran, the Ffreinc were much closer. Tuck could make out individual faces beneath the round helmets of the knights. They rode boldly on, scanning the rocks for the first sign of attack. Some were sweating beneath their heavy mail, the water glistening in the sunlight as it dripped down their necks and into their padded leather tunics.

Both Bran and Rhoddi had arrows nocked and ready. “We’ll wait until they come directly below us,” Bran was saying. “The first to fall will—”

Even as he was speaking there came the whining shriek of an arrow, followed by the hard slap of an iron head striking home. In the same instant, one of the knights was thrown so far back in the saddle he toppled over the rump of his horse.

“No!” muttered Bran between clenched teeth. “Not yet. Who did that?” he demanded, looking around furiously. “Rhoddi, Tuck—did you see? Who did that?”

“There!” said Tuck. “It came from up there.”

He pointed to a place where the road crested the ridge and there, four men could be seen kneeling in the middle of the road.

The Ffreinc knights saw them, too, and those in the fore rank lowered their spears, put spurs to their horses, and charged.

“Take them!” cried Bran, and before the words had left his mouth two arrows were streaking towards the attacking knights. The missiles struck sharp and fast, dropping the foemen as they passed beneath the rocky outcrop. Two more knights appeared and joined the first two in the dust of the King’s Road.

The archers on the road seemed unconcerned by the commotion their appearance had caused. They calmly loosed arrow after arrow into the body of knights now halted in the road still some distance away from the place Bran had set for the ambush.

“Tuck!” said Bran, furious that his plan had been spoiled—so needlessly and so early. “Get down there and stop them. Hurry!”