Hood (49 page)

“Aux armes! Gardes!”
bawled the cardinal. “To arms! Seize them!”

“Iwan! Siarles!” shouted Bran. Slapping the reins across his mount’s withers, he started for the gate. “To me!”

The porter, hearing this commotion, stepped from his hut just in time to see Bran bearing down on him. He flung himself out of the way as Bran slid from his still-galloping horse and dove into the hut, appearing three heartbeats later with the weapons that had been given over on his arrival. Raising his longbow and nocking an arrow to the string, he loosed one shaft at a bare-chested knight who was readying a lance for Iwan’s unprotected back. The arrow sang across the yard with blazing speed, striking the knight high in the chest. He dropped to the ground, clutching his shoulder, writhing and screaming.

Iwan finished tying the money sack and swung into the saddle. Siarles followed an instant behind, and both rode for the open gate. Tuck’s horse, skittish with the sudden commotion, reared and shied, unwilling to be mounted. The friar held tight to the reins and tried to calm the frightened animal.

Meanwhile, the porter, having regained his feet and his wits, threw himself at Bran and received a jab in the stomach with the end of the bow. He crumpled to his knees, and Bran, returning to the business at hand, raised the bow, drew, and buried a second shaft in the doorpost a bare handsbreadth from the cardinal’s head. Ranulf yelped and stumbled back into the hall. The porter struggled to his knees again—just in time to receive a sidelong kick to the jaw, which took him from the fight. “If you want to live,” said Bran, “stay down.”

Iwan reached the porter’s hut, and Bran, darting inside again, retrieved the champion’s bow and sword. “Ride on ahead!” shouted Bran, handing the champion his weapons; he galloped away, leading the packhorse. “Wait for me at the bridge!”

Siarles followed, holding tight to the reins of the second packhorse. He paused at the porter’s hut long enough to snatch his bow and a sheaf of arrows from Bran’s grasp. “Go with Iwan.”

“My lord, I won’t leave you behind.”

“Keep the money safe,” Bran shouted. “I’ll bring Tuck.

Wait for us at the bridge.”

“But, my lord—,” objected Siarles.

“Just go!” Bran waved him away as he darted back into the yard.

The friar had his hands full now; he was surrounded on three sides by Ffreinc knights—two holding the padded lances they had been using when the fight began, and one wielding a wooden practise sword. One of the knights made a lunge with his lance, striking the priest on the back of the neck. Tuck fell, still clinging to the reins of his rearing mount, and was dragged backward.

Bran, running to the middle of the yard, loosed a shaft as the knight drove in to crush Tuck’s skull with the butt of the lance. The arrow struck just above the hip, throwing the knight sideways; his lance spun from his hand. “Pick it up!” shouted Bran. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dull glint of metal as two helmeted heads appeared in the doorway of the hall. He sent another arrow into the doorway to keep them back and shouted for Tuck to release the horse.

“The spear, Tuck!” he cried, pointing to the weapon on the ground. “Use it!”

Understanding came to him at last. The friar let go of the reins and snatched up the practise weapon just as the knight with the wooden sword closed on him. Spinning the shaft like a quarterstaff, Tuck dealt the man a solid blow on the forearm as the wooden blade swung down. The sword slipped from his grasp. As the soldier grabbed his broken arm, Tuck swung hard at the man’s knee; the soldier’s leg buckled, and he went down. Meanwhile, Tuck, spinning on his toes, whirled around to face his last assailant. He neatly parried one swipe of the padded lance and dodged another before landing a doublehanded blow on top of the knight’s unprotected head.

The lance pole bounced and split with a resounding
crack!
as the knight dropped senseless to the ground.

“Away, Tuck!” cried Bran. Seizing the reins of the friar’s skittish horse, he held the animal until the priest gained the saddle and, with a slap on the beast’s rump, sent him off. “Fly!”

Bran turned around to face the next assault, only to find himself alone in the yard. There were other soldiers in hiding close by, he guessed, but none brave enough to face his bow until they could better protect themselves. He walked to the soldier squirming in the dirt with an arrow in his hip. “If you’re finished with this, I’ll be having it back,” Bran told him. Placing a foot on the wounded man’s side, he gave a hefty yank and pulled the arrow free; the knight screamed in agony and promptly passed out. Bran set the bloody arrow on the string and, watching for anyone bold enough to challenge him, backed toward the gate and his own waiting mount.

Upon reaching his horse, he cast a last look at the hall, where a knight’s red-painted shield was just then edging cautiously into view from the open doorway. He drew and loosed. The arrow blazed across the distance and struck the shield just above the centre boss. The oak shaft of the arrow shattered, and the shield split. Bran heard a yowl of pain as the splintered shield disappeared. Smiling to himself, he climbed into the saddle, wheeled his horse, and rode to join his swiftly fleeing band.

CHAPTER 45

T
he fields and groves of Winchester fell away behind the steady hoofbeats of the horses. Bran pushed a relentless pace, and the others followed, keeping up as best they could. When Bran finally paused to rest his mount, the sun was a golden glow behind the western hills. The first stars could be seen in patches of clear sky to the east, and the king’s town was but a dull, smoke-coloured smudge on the southern horizon.

“Do you know what this means?” demanded Tuck. Out of breath and sweating from the exertion, he reined in beside Bran and gave vent to his anger.

“I suppose it means we won’t be asked to join the king’s Christmas hunt,” replied Bran.

“It means,” cried Tuck, “that a worse fate has befallen Elfael than any since Good King Harold quit the battle with an arrow in his eye. Christ and all his saints! Attacking the cardinal like that—you could have got us all killed—or worse!

What were you thinking?”

“Me? You blame me?” shouted Bran. “You cannot trust these people, Tuck. The Ffreinc are two-faced liars and cheats, every last one—beginning with that red-haired maggot king of theirs!”

“Well, boyo, you showed
them
,” the friar growled. “This time tomorrow there will be a price on your head—on
all
our heads, thanks to you.”

“Good! Let Red William count the cost of cheating Bran ap Brychan.”

“For the love of God, Bran,” Tuck pleaded, “all you had to do was swallow a fair-sized chunk of that blasted Welsh pride and you could have had Elfael for two thousand marks.”

“Yesterday it was six hundred marks, and today two thousand,” Bran spat. “It’ll be ten thousand tomorrow, and twenty the day after! It is always more, Tuck, and still more. There is not enough silver in all England to satisfy them. They’ll never let us have Elfael.”

“Not now,” Tuck snapped. “You made fair certain of that, did you not?”

Bran, glaring at the fat priest, turned his face away.

Iwan and Siarles, leading the packhorses, reined up then.

“Sire,” said Iwan, “what about the money? What are we going to do now?”

“Why ask me?” Bran replied, not taking his eyes from the far horizon. “I had one idea and risked everything to make it work—we all did—but it failed. I failed. I have nothing else.”

“But you will think of something,” said Siarles. “You can always come up with something.”

“Aye, and it had better be quick,” Friar Tuck pointed out.

“After what happened back there, the Ffreinc will be fast on our trail. We cannot stand here in the middle of the road.

What are we going to do?”

Can’t you see?
thought Bran.
We tried and failed. It is over.

Finished. The Ffreinc rule now, and they are too powerful. The best we can
do is take the money and divide it out amongst the people. They can use it
to start new lives somewhere else. For myself, I will go to Gwynedd and
forget all about Elfael.

“Bran?” said Iwan quietly. “You know we will follow you anywhere. Just tell us what you want to do.”

Bran turned to his friends. He saw the need in their eyes.

It was as Angharad had said: they had no one else and nowhere else to go. For better or worse, beleaguered Elfael was their home, and he was all the king they had.

Well, he was a sorry excuse for a king—and no better than his father. King Brychan had cared little enough for his people, pursuing his own way all his life.
“You are not your
father,”
Angharad had told him.
“You could be twice the king he
was—and ten times the man—if you so desired.”

Yet here he was, set to follow in his father’s footsteps and go his own way. Was this his fate? Or was there another way?

Competing thoughts roiled in his mind until one finally won out: he was
not
his father; it was not too late; he could still choose a better way.

God in heaven,
thought Bran,
I cannot leave them. What am I to do?

“What are you thinking, Bran?” asked Aethelfrith.

“I was just thinking that the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” said Bran as the words came to him.

“Indeed?” Tuck wondered, regarding him askance. “And who is this dubious friend of yours?”

“Neufmarché,” said Bran. “You said the baron had called a council of his vassals and liege men—”

“Yes, but—”

“The place where they are meeting, could you find it?”

“It would not be difficult, but—”

“Then lead me to him.”

“See here, Bran,” Tuck remonstrated, “let us talk this over.”

“You said the Ffreinc will be searching for us,” he countered. “They will not think to look for us in the baron’s camp.”

“But, Bran, what have we to do with the baron?”

“There is no justice to be had of England’s king,” Bran answered, his voice cutting. “Therefore, we must make our appeal wherever we find a ready ear.”

Turning in the saddle, the priest appealed to Iwan. “Talk to him, John. I’ve grown fond of this splendid neck of mine, and before I risk it riding into the enemy’s camp, I would know the reason.”

“He has a fair point, Bran,” said the champion. “What have we to do with Neufmarché?”

Bran turned his horse around to address them. “The king weighs heavily on de Braose’s side,” he said, his face aglow in the golden light of the setting sun. “With the two of them joined against us, we need a powerful ally to even the balance.” Regarding Tuck, he said, “You have said yourself that Neufmarché and de Braose are rivals—”

“Rivals, yes,” agreed Tuck, “who would carve up Cymru between them—and then squabble over which one had the most.” He shook his head solemnly. “Neufmarché may hate de Braose every mite and morsel as much as we do, but he is no friend to us.”

“If we make alliance with him,” said Bran, “he will be obliged to help us. He has the power and means to rid us of de Braose.”

“Tuck is right,” said Iwan. “Besides, how can we persuade him to ally with us? We have nothing to offer him that he wants.”

“Even so,” said Siarles, “would Neufmarché make such a bargain?”

“Aye, and if he did,” added Tuck, “would he keep it?”

Bran paused in silent reflection. Could Neufmarché be trusted? There was no way to tell. “Lord Cadwgan in Eiwas holds him trustworthy and just. He and his people have been treated fairly. But whether the baron honours his word or not,” Bran said, the words like stones in his mouth, “we will be no worse off than we are now.”

“This is a remedy of last resort,” Tuck argued. “Let us exhaust all other possibilities first.”

“We have done that, my friend.We have. All that is left us now is to watch the Ffreinc grow from strength to strength at our expense. Baron de Braose and the Red King mean us nothing but harm. As for Neufmarché? We have nothing to lose.” Bran offered a bitter smile. “If we must sleep with the devil, let us do it and be done. This is nothing more than what my father should have done long ago. If Brychan had sworn allegiance to the Ffreinc when he had the chance, we would not be in this predicament now.”

The others, unable to gainsay this argument, reluctantly agreed.

Bran, brightening at last, said, “Lead the way, Tuck, and pray with every breath that we find the friend we seek.”

B
aron Bernard de Neufmarché had dismissed the last of the day’s petitioners and returned to his tent, where, after summoning Remey to bring him refreshment, he removed his short cloak and eased himself into his chair. It had been a long day but, in balance, a good one and a fitting conclusion to a council that had, in the end, satisfied his every demand. Convening at Talgarth—the scene of vaunted Lord Rhys ap Tewdwr’s recent demise—had been the masterstroke, providing a strong and present reminder to all under his rule that he was not afraid to deal harshly with those who failed to serve him faithfully. The point had been made and accepted. Tomorrow the council would formally end, and he would send his vassals home—some to better fates than they had hoped, others to worse—and he would return to Hereford to oversee the harvest and begin readying the castle for the influx of fresh troops in the spring.

“Your wine, sire.” Remey placed a pewter goblet on the table beside the baron’s chair. “I have ordered sausages to be prepared, and there is fresh bread soon. Would you like anything else while you wait?”

“The wine will suffice for now,” the baron replied, easing off his boots and stretching his legs. “Bring the rest when it is ready—and some of those
fraises
, if there are any left.”

“Of course, sire,” replied the seneschal. “The sessions went well today, I assume?”

“They went very well indeed, Remey. I am content.” Baron Neufmarché raised his cup and allowed himself a long, satisfying sip, savouring the fine, tart edge of the wine. Councils always brought demands, and this one more than most—owing to the prolonged absence of the king. Royal dispatch fresh from Normandie indicated that the conflict between Red William and his brother, Duke Robert, had bogged down; with summer dwindling away, there would be no further advances at least until after harvest, if then. Meanwhile, the king would repair to Rouen to lick his wounds and restock his castles.