Tuck (8 page)

It was well past midday when they came within sight of the monastery, and in a little while stood in the yard of Saint Tewdrig’s introducing the young Ffreinc priest to Bishop Asaph, who professed himself overjoyed to receive an extra pair of hands. “As you see,” he told them, “we are run off our feet day and night caring for the souls who come to us. We will put him to work straightaway, never fear.” He fixed Bran with a look of deepest concern. “What is this I am hearing about you declaring war on Abbot Hugo?”

“It is true,” Bran allowed, and explained how the English king had reneged on his promise to restore Bran’s throne, appointing the abbot and sheriff as his regents instead. “We are on our way north to rally the tribes.”

The ageing bishop shook his head sadly. “Is there no other way?”

“If there was,” Bran conceded, “we are beyond recalling it now.” He went on to tell how the Black Abbot had rebuffed his offer of peace. “That was Tuck’s idea.”

“We had to try,” offered the friar. “For Jesus’ sake we had to try.”

“Indeed,” sighed the bishop.

They stayed with the monks that night, and bidding Odo farewell, they departed early the next morning. They rode easily, passing the morning in a companionable silence until they came to a shady spot under a large outcrop of stone, where Bran decided to stop to rest and water the horses, and have a bite to eat before moving on once more. The going was slow, and the sun was disappearing beyond the hill line to the west when they at last began to search for a good place to make camp for the night—finding a secluded hollow beside a brook where an apple tree grew; the apples were green still, and tart, but hard to resist, and there was good water for the horses. While Bran gathered wood for the fire, Tuck tethered the animals so they could graze in the long grass around the tree, and then set about preparing a meal.

“We should reach Arwysteli tomorrow,” Bran said, biting into a small green apple. The two had finished a supper of pork belly and beans, and were stretched out beneath the boughs bending with fruit. “And Powys the day after.”

“Oh?” Tuck queried. “We are not stopping?”

“Perhaps on the way back,” Bran said. “I am that keen to get on to Bangor. I know no one in these cantrefs, and it might be easier to get men if on our return we are accompanied by a sizeable host already.”

This sounded reasonable to the friar. “How long has it been since you’ve seen your mother’s people?” he asked.

Bran gnawed on his sour apple for a moment, then said, “Quite a long time—a year or two after my mother died, it must have been. My father wanted to return some of her things to her kinfolk, so we went up and I met them then.”

“You were—what? Eight, nine years old?” Tuck ventured.

“Something like that,” he allowed. “But it will make no difference. Once they have heard what we intend, they will join us, never fear.”

They spent a quiet night and moved on at dawn, passing through Builth without seeing another living soul, and pressing quickly on into Arwysteli and Powys, where they stopped for the night in a settlement called Llanfawydden. Tuck was happy to see that the hamlet had a fine wooden church and a stone monk’s cell set in a grove of beeches, though the village consisted of nothing more than a ring of wattle-and-mud houses encircling a common grazing area. After a brief word from the local priest, the chief of the village took them in and fed them at his table, and gave them a bed for the night. The chieftain and his wife and three sons slept on the floor beside the hearth.

The travellers found the family amiable enough. They fed them well, entertained them with news of local doings, and asked no questions about who their guests were, or what their business might be. However, when they were preparing to leave the next morning, one of the younger lads—upon learning that they had travelled from Elfael—could not help asking whether they knew anything about King Raven.

“I might have heard a tale or two,” Bran allowed, smiling.

The boy persisted in his questions despite the frowns from his mother and brothers. “Is it true what they say? Is he a very bad creature?”

“Bad for the Ffreinc, it would seem,” Bran said. “By all accounts King Raven does seem a most mysterious bird. Do you know him hereabouts?”

“Nay,” replied the middle lad, shaking his head sadly. “Only what folk say.”

One of his older brothers spoke up. “We heard he has killed more’n two hundred Ffreinc—”

“Swoops on ’em from the sky and
spears
’em with his beak,” added the one who had raised the subject in the first place.

“Boys!” said the mother, embarrassed by her sons’ forthright enthusiasm. “You have said enough.”

“No harm,” chuckled Bran, much amused by this. “I don’t know about spearing knights with his beak, but at least the Ffreinc are afraid of him—and that’s good enough for me.”

“They say he helps the Cymry,” continued the younger one. “Gives ’em all the treasure.”

“That he does,” Tuck agreed. “Or, so I’ve heard.”

The travellers took their leave of their hosts shortly after that, resuming their journey northward. The day was bright and fair, the breeze warm out of the south, and the track good. Bran and Tuck rode easily along, talking of this and that.

“Your fame is spreading,” Tuck observed. “If they know King Raven here, they’ll soon enough know him everywhere.”

Bran dismissed the comment with a shrug. “Children are readily persuaded.”

“Not at all,” the friar insisted. “Where do children hear these things except from their elders? People know about King Raven. They are talking about him.”

“For all the good it does,” Bran pointed out. “King Raven may be better liked than William the Red, but it is the Red King’s foot on our neck all the same. The Ffreinc may be wary of the Phantom of the Wood, but it hasn’t changed a blessed thing.”

“Perhaps not,” Tuck granted, “but I was not thinking of the Ffreinc just now. I was thinking of the Cymry.”

Bran gave an indifferent shrug.

“King Raven has given them hope,” insisted Tuck. “He has shown them that the invaders can be resisted. You must be proud of your feathered creation.”

“He had his uses,” Bran admitted. “But, like all things, that usefulness has reached its end.”

“Truly?”

“King Raven has done what he can do. Now it is time to take up bows and strap on swords, and join battle with the enemy openly, in the clear light of day.”

“Perhaps,” Tuck granted, “but do not think to hang up your feathered cloak and long-beaked mask just yet.”

“There will be no more skulking around the greenwood like a ghost,” Bran declared. “That is over.”

“Certain of that, are you?” Tuck said. “Just you mark my words, Bran ap Brychan, King Raven will fly again before our cause is won.”

CHAPTER 9

L
ong before Rome turned its eyes toward the Isle of the Mighty, Bangor, in the far north of Gwynedd, was an ancient and revered capital of kings. There, among the heavy overhanging boughs of venerable oaks, the druids taught their varied and subtle arts, establishing the first schools in the west. That was long ago. The druids were gone, but the schools remained; and now those aged trees sheltered one of the oldest monasteries in Britain, and for all anyone knew, all of Christendom. Indeed, the proud tribes of Gwynedd had sent a bishop and some priests to Emperor Constantine’s great council half a world away in Nicea—as the inhabitants of north Wales never tired of boasting.

When Bran’s father—Brychan ap Tewdwr, a prince of the south—found himself in want of a wife, it was to Gwynedd that he had come looking. And in Bangor he had discovered his queen: Rhian, a much-loved princess of her tribe. While she had lived, ties between the two kingdoms north and south had remained strong. Thus, Bran expected to find a hearty welcome among his mother’s kinsmen.

After three days on the road, the two travellers drew near the town and the pathways multiplied and diverged. So they stopped to ask directions from the first person they met—a squint-eyed shepherd sitting under a beech tree at the foot of a grassy hill.

“You’ll be wanting to see your folk, I expect,” observed the shepherd.

“It is the reason we came,” Bran told him, a hint of exasperation colouring his tone. Having already explained that his mother had been the daughter of a local chieftain, he had asked if the fellow knew where any of her people might be found.

“Well,” replied the shepherd. He craned his neck around to observe his sheep grazing on the hillside behind him, “you won’t find any of ’em in town yonder.”

“No?” wondered Bran. “Why not?”

“They en’t there!” hooted the man, whistling through his few snaggled teeth.

“And why would that be?” wondered Bran. “If you know, perhaps I could persuade you to tell me.”

“No mystery there, Brother,” replied the shepherd. “They’ve all gone over to Aberffraw, en’t they.”

“Have they indeed,” said Bran. “And why is that?”

“It’s all to do with that Ffreinc earl, ’n’ tryin’ to stay out o’ his reach, d’ye ken?”

“I think so,” replied Bran doubtfully. “And where might this Aberffraw be?”

“Might be anywhere,” the shepherd replied. His tanned, weather-beaten face cracked into a smile as he tapped his nose knowingly.

“Just what I was thinking,” remarked Bran. “Even so, I’ll wager that
you
know, and could tell me if you had a mind to.”

“You’d win that wager, Brother, I do declare.”

“And will you yet tell me?”

The shepherd became sly. “How much would you have wagered?”

“A penny.”

“Then I’ll be havin’ o’ that,” the man replied.

Bran dug in his purse and brought out a silver coin. He held it up. “This for the benefit of your wide and extensive knowledge.”

“Done!” cried the shepherd, delighted with his bargain. He snatched the coin from Bran’s fingertips and said, “Aberffraw is on the Holy Isle, en’t it. Just across the narrows there and hidden round t’other side o’ the headland. You won’t see it this side, for it is all hidden away neat-like.”

Bran thanked the shepherd and wished him good fortune, but Tuck was not yet satisfied. “When was the last time you went to church, my friend?”

The shepherd scratched his grizzled jaw. “Well now, difficult to say, that.”

“Difficult, no doubt, because it has been so long you don’t remember,” ventured Tuck.Without waiting for a reply, he said, “No matter. Kneel down and bow your head. Quickly now; I’ll not spend all day at it.”

The shamefaced shepherd complied readily enough, and Tuck said a prayer for him, blessed his flock, and rode on with the stern admonition for the herdsman to get himself to church next holy day without fail.

At Bangor, they stopped to rest and eat and gather what information they could about the state of affairs in the region. There was no tavern in the town, much less an inn, and Tuck was losing hope of finding a soothing libation when he glimpsed a clay jar hanging from a cord over the door of a house a few steps off the square. “There!” he cried, to his great relief, and made for the place, which turned out to be the house of a widowed alewife who served the little town a passing fair brew and simple fare. Tuck threw himself from his saddle and ducked inside, returning a moment later with generous bowls of bubbly brown ale in each hand and a round loaf of bread under his arm. “God is good,” he said, passing a bowl to Bran. “Amen!”

The two travellers established themselves on the bench outside the door. Too early for the alewife’s roast leg of lamb, they dulled their appetites with a few lumps of soft cheese fried in a pan with onions, into which they dipped their bread. While they ate and drank, they talked to some of the curious townsfolk who came along to greet the visitors—quickly informing them that they’d arrived at a bad time, owing to the overbearing presence of the Earl of Cestre, a Ffreinc nobleman by the name of Hugh d’Avranches.

“Wolf Hugh is a rough pile,” said the ironsmith from the smithy across the square. He had seen the travellers ride in and had come to inquire if their horses needed shoeing or any tack needed mending.

“That he is,” agreed his neighbour.

“You call him Wolf,” observed Tuck. “How did he come by that?”

“You ever see a wolf that wasn’t hungry?” said the smith. “Ravening beast like that’ll devour everything in sight—same as the earl.”

“He’s a rough one, right enough,” agreed his friend solemnly. “A rogue through and through.”

“As you say,” replied Bran. “Here’s to hoping we don’t meet up with him.” He offered his bowl to the smith.

The smith nodded and raised the bowl. “Here’s to hoping.” He took a hearty draught and passed the bowl to his friend, who drained it.

When they had finished, Bran and Tuck made their way down to the small harbour below the town. A fair-sized stretch of timber and planking, the wharf was big enough to serve seagoing ships and boats plying the coastal waters between the mainland and Ynys Môn, known as Holy Island, just across the narrow channel. They found a boatman who agreed to ferry them and their horses to the island. It was no great distance, and they were soon on dry land and mounted again. They followed the rising path that led up behind the promontory, over the headland, and down to a very pleasant little valley on the other side: Aberffraw and, tucked into a fold between the encircling hills, the settlement of Celyn Garth.

Less a town than a large estate consisting of an enormous timber fortress and half a dozen houses—along with barns, cattle pens, granaries, and all surrounded by apple orchards and bean, turnip, and barley fields scraped from the ever-encroaching forest which blanketed the hills and headlands—it had become the royal seat of the northern Welsh and was, as the shepherd had suggested, perfectly suited to keeping out of the voracious earl’s sight.

Bran and Tuck rode directly to the fortress and made themselves known to the short, thick-necked old man who appeared to serve the royal household as gateman and porter. With a voice like dry gravel, he invited them to enter the yard and asked them to wait while he informed his lord of their arrival.

Whatever life the kings of North Wales had known in earlier times, it was clear that it was much reduced now. As in England, the arrival of the Normans meant hardship and misery in draughts too great to swallow. The Cymry of the noble houses suffered along with the rest of the country, and Celyn Garth was proof of this. The yard was lumpy, rutted, and weedy; the roof of the king’s hall sagged, its thatch ratty and mildewed; the gates and every other door on the nearly derelict outbuildings stood in need of hingeing and rehanging.

“I hope we find the king well,” said Bran doubtfully.

“I hope we find him at his supper,” said Tuck.

What they found was Llewelyn ap Owain, a swarthy, nimble Welshman who received them graciously and prevailed upon them to stay the night. But he was not the king.

“It’s Gruffydd you’re looking for, is it?” he said. “Aye, who else? It pains me, friend, to inform you that our king is a captive.” Llewelyn explained over a hot supper of roast pork shanks and baked apples. They were seated at the hearth end of the near-empty hall. Their host sat at table with his guests, while his wife and daughters served the meal. “He’s held prisoner by Earl Hugh, may God rot his teeth.”

“Wolf Hugh?” asked Bran. “Is that the man?”

“Aye, Cousin, that’s the fellow—Hugh d’Avranches, Earl of Cestre—devious as the devil, and cruel as Cain with a toothache. He’s a miserable old spoiler, is our Hugh, with a heart full of torment for each and all he meets.”

“How long has Gruffydd been captive?” wondered Tuck.

Llewelyn tapped his teeth as he reckoned the tally. “Must be eight years or more, I guess,” he said. “Maybe nine already.”

“Has anyone seen him since he was taken prisoner?” Tuck asked.

“Oh, aye,” replied Llewelyn. “We send a priest most high holy days. The earl allows our Gruffydd to receive food and clothing and such since it whittles down the cost of keeping an expensive captive. We use those visits for what benefit we can get.”

Bran nodded; he and Tuck shared a glance, and each could sense the sharp disappointment of the other. “Who’s ruling in Gruffydd’s place?” asked Bran, swallowing his frustration.

Llewelyn paused to consider.

It was a simple enough question, and Tuck wondered at their host’s hesitation. “You must be looking at him, I reckon,” Llewelyn confessed at last. “Although I make no claim myself, you understand.” He spread his hands as if to express his innocence. “I merely keep the boards warm for Gruffydd, so to speak. I am loyal to my lord, while he lives, and would never usurp his authority.”

“Which is why the Ffreinc keep him alive, no doubt,” observed Bran. As long as Gruffydd drew breath, no one else could occupy his empty throne, much less gather his broken tribe.

“But people do come to me for counsel and guidance,” Llewelyn offered, “and I see it my duty to oblige however I can.”

“I understand,” said Bran. He fell silent, contemplating the depth of his difficulty. The kingdom of Gwynedd, leaderless and adrift, was in no shape to supply a war host to help fight a war beyond its borders. He realized with increasing despair that he had come all this way for nothing.

“So then, I’ll be sending for your relations,” said Llewelyn, breaking the silence. “They’ll be that glad to see you.”

“And I them,” replied Bran, and complimented his host on his thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Llewelyn; I am in your debt.”

They finished supper, and the guests were given their own quarters so they would not have to share with the rest of Llewelyn’s household, who mostly slept on benches and reed mats in the hall. The next morning—on the counsel and guidance of their host—Bran and Tuck rode out to get the measure of the land and people of the northern part of Gwynedd, and to speak frankly without being overheard.

“This is going to be more difficult than I thought,” Bran admitted when, after riding for a goodly time, they stopped to water the horses at a stream flowing down a rocky, gorse-covered hill and into Môr Iwerddon, the Sea of Ireland, gleaming blue under a fine early autumn sky.

“Raising an army of king’s men with the king in an enemy prison?” Tuck queried. “What is difficult about that?”

“I don’t think he even
has
an army.”

“Well, that would make it slightly more tricky, I suppose,” remarked Tuck.

“Yes,” mused Bran. “Tricky.” He walked a few paces away, then back. Glancing up suddenly, he grinned that twisted, roguish smile that Tuck knew meant trouble. More than that, however, it was the first time in many, many days that Tuck had seen him smile, and the friar had almost forgotten the magic of that lopsided grin—truly, it was as if a slumbering spirit had awakened in that instant to reanimate a young man only half-alive until now. He was once again himself, Rhi Bran y Hud, alive with mischief and alert to possibility. “That’s it, friend friar—a trick!”

“Eh?”

“To raise a king’s army from a king who is in prison.”

Tuck caught his meaning at once.

Gathering up the reins, Bran stepped quickly to his horse, raised his foot to the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. “Come, Tuck, why are you dragging your feet?”

Why, indeed? Tuck walked stiffly to his horse and, after leading it to a nearby rock big enough to serve as a mounting block, struggled into the saddle. “You’ll get us killed, you know,” the priest complained. “Me most of all.”

Bran laughed. “A little more faith would become you, Friar.”

“I have faith enough for any three—and I’ll thump the man who says me nay. But you go jumping into a bear trap with both feet, and it’ll not be faith you feel chomping on your leg bones!”

Grabbing up the reins, he raised his eyes towards heaven. “Is there no rest for the weary?” he sighed. By the time he regained the path, Bran was already racing away.

On their return to Celyn Garth, Bran secluded himself in his quarters and set Tuck to finding certain items that he needed. When they had assembled everything necessary, Bran went to work and the change was swiftly effected. It was nearly time for the evening meal when he emerged, and Tuck accompanied him to the hall where Llewelyn was waiting with some of Bran’s relations he had invited especially to meet their long-lost kinsman. There were seven of them: three young men in the blue-and-red checked tunics of the north country; three of middling age in tall boots and leather jackets over their linen shirts; and one old man, bald as a bean, in a pale robe of undyed wool.

“Lead the way, Tuck,” Bran murmured. “And remember, I speak no Cymry.”

“Oh, I’ll remember,” Tuck retorted. “It’s yourself you should be reminding.”

Stepping into the hall, the little friar approached the long table where the men were already gathered over their welcome cups. Llewelyn took one look at the cleric and his companion and rose quickly. “Friar Aethelfrith,” he said, “I did not know you brought a guest. Come, sit down.” To the unexpected visitor, he said, “Be welcome in this house. Pray, sit and share a cup with us.”