Tuck Page 11

  CHAPTER 13

  Lord love us,” said Tuck, a little breathless from his ride to the caer, “It’s an Iberian trading vessel on its way to Caer Cestre. The ship’s master has agreed to take us on board, but they are leaving on the tide flow.”

  “Tuck, my friend, I do believe things are going our way at last,” declared Bran happily. “Fetch young Ifor and Brocmael. I’ll give Llewelyn our regards and meet you at the dock. Just you get yourself on board and make sure they don’t leave without us.”

  The travelling party arrived wharfside just as the tide was beginning to turn and got themselves to the ship with little time to spare. As the last horse was brought aboard and secured under the keen gaze of the ship’s master—a short, swarthy man with a face burned by wind and sun until it was creased and brown as Spanish leather—Captain Armando gave the order to up anchor and push away from the dock. A good-natured fellow, Armando contented himself with the money Bran paid him for their passage, asking no questions and treating his passengers like the nobility they purported to be. The ship itself was broad abeam and shallow drafted, built for coasting and river travel. It carried a cargo of olive oil and wine in an assortment of barrels and casks; bags of dried beans and black pepper, rolls of copper and tin, and jars of coloured glass. And for the noblemen of England and France: swords, daggers, and helmets of good Spanish steel; and also rich garments of the finest cloth, including silks and satins from the Andalus, and wool from the famous Spanish merinos. The four travellers ate well on board, and their quarters, though cramped—“a body cannot turn around for tripping over his own feet,” complained Tuck—were nevertheless clean enough. At all events it was but a short voyage and easily endured. Mostly, the passengers just leaned on the rail and watched shoreline and riverbank slide slowly by, now and again so close they could almost snatch leaves from the passing branches.

  On the third day, having skirted the north coast of Wales and then proceeded inland by way of the River Dee, the ship and its passengers and cargo reached the wharf at Caer Cestre. After changing their clothes for the finery bought at some expense in Bangor, the four prepared to disembark.

  All during the voyage, Bran had laboured over the tale they were to tell, and all knew well what was expected of them. “Not a cleric this time,” Bran had decided on the morning of the second day out. He had been observing the ship’s master and was in thrall of a new and, he considered, better idea.

  “God love you, man,” sighed Tuck. “Changing horses in the middle of the stream—is this a good idea, I ask myself ?”

  “From what you say, Friar,” replied Bran, “Wolf Hugh is no respecter of the church. Good Father Dominic may not receive the welcome he so rightly deserves.”

  “Who would fare better?” wondered Tuck.

  “Count Rexindo!” announced Bran, taking the name of a Spanish nobleman mentioned by the ship’s master.

  Tuck moaned. “All very well for you, my lord. You can change like water as mood and whim and fits of fancy take you. God knows you enjoy it.”

  “I confess I do,” agreed Bran, his twisted smile widening even more.

  “I, on the other hand, am a very big fish out of water. For all, I am a poor, humble mendicant whom God has seen fit to bless with a stooped back, a face that frightens young ’uns, and knees that have never had fellowship one with the other. I am not used to such high-flown japes, and it makes me that uneasy—strutting about in someone else’s robes, making airs like a blue-feathered popinjay.”

  “No one would think you a popinjay,” countered Bran. “You worry too much, Tuck.”

  “And you not enough, Rhi Bran.”

  “All will be well. You’ll see.”

  Now, as they waited for the horses to be taken off, Bran gathered his crew close. “Look at you—if a fella knew no better,” he said, “he’d think you had just sailed in from Spain. Is everyone ready?” Receiving the nodded affirmation from each in turn, he declared, “Good. Let the chase begin.”

  “And may God have mercy on us all,” Tuck added and, bidding their captain and crew farewell, turned and led the landing party down the gangplank. Bran came on a step or two behind, and the two young Welshmen, doing their best to look sombre and unimpressed with their surroundings, came along behind, leading the horses.

  Their time aboard the Spanish ship had served Bran well, it had to be admitted. The moment his feet touched the timber planks on the landing dock, Bran was a man transformed. Dressed in his finery—improved by garments he’d purchased from the trading stock Captain Armando carried—he appeared every inch the Spanish nobleman. Tuck marvelled to see him, as did the two young noblemen who were inspired to adopt some of Bran’s lofty ways so that to the unsuspecting folk of Caer Cestre, they did appear to be a company of foreign noblemen. They were marked accordingly and soon drew a veritable crowd of volunteers eager to offer their services as guides for a price.

  “French!” called Tuck above the clamour. “Anyone here speak French?”

  No one did, it seemed; despite the years of Norman domination, Caer Cestre remained an English-speaking town. The disappointed crowd began to thin as people fell away.

  “We’ll probably have better luck in the town,” said Bran. “But offer a penny or two.”

  So they proceeded up the steep street leading to the town square, and Tuck amended his cry accordingly. “A penny! A penny to anyone who speaks French,” he called at the top of his voice. “A penny for a French speaker! A penny!”

  At the end of the street stood two great stone pillars, ancient things that at one time had belonged to a basilica or some such edifice but now served as the entrance to the market square. Though it was not market day, there were still many people around, most paying visits to the butcher or baker or ironmonger who kept stalls on the square. A tired old dog lay beside the butcher’s hut, and two plough horses stood with drooping heads outside a blacksmith’s forge at the far end of the square, giving the place a deceptively sleepy air.

  Tuck strode boldly out into the open square, offering silver for service, and his cry was finally answered. “Here! Here, now! What are you on about?” Looking around, he saw a man in a tattered green cloak, much faded and bedraggled with mud and muck; he was sitting on the ground with his back against the far side of the butcher hut and his cap in his hands as if he would beg a coin from those who passed by. At Tuck’s call, he jumped up and hurried towards the strangers. “Here! What for ye need a Frankish man?” Tuck regarded him with a dubious frown. The fellow’s hair was a mass of filthy tangles hanging down in his face, and his straggling beard looked as if mice had been at it. The eyes that peered out from under the ropy mass were watery and red from too much strong drink the night before, and he reeked of piss and vomit. Unshorn and unkempt he was, Tuck considered—not the sort of person they had in mind for this special chore. “We have business in this town,” Tuck explained brusquely, “and we do not speak French.”

  “I does,” the beggar boasted. “Anglish and Frenchy, both alike. What’s yer sayin’ of a penny, then?”

  “We have a penny for anyone who agrees to bear a message of introduction for us,” Tuck replied.

  “I’m t’man fer ye,” the beggar chirped, holding out a filthy hand to receive his pay.

  “All in good time, friend,” Tuck told him. “I’ve heard you speak English, but how do I know you can speak French?”

  “Speaks it like t’were me ine mither tongue,” he replied, still holding out his hand. “Je parler le français et tout, ye ken?”

  “Well?” said Bran, stepping up beside them. “What’s he say?”

  Tuck hesitated. “This fellow says he’ll help us, but if his French is as poor as his English, then I expect we’re better off asking the butcher’s dog over there.”

  Bran looked around. Seeing as no one else had come forward, and the day was getting on, he said, “Had we a better choice . . . but”—Bran shrugged—“he will have to serve. All the same, tell him we’ll give him an
extra penny if he will wash and brush before we go.”

  Tuck told the scruffy fellow what Bran had said, and he readily agreed. “Go then,” Tuck ordered. “And be quick about it. Don’t make us wait too long, or I’ll find someone else.”

  The beggar dipped his head and scampered off to find a trough in which to bathe himself. Tuck watched him go, still nursing deep misgivings about their rough guide; but since they only needed someone to make introduction, he let the matter rest.

  While they waited for the beggar to return, Bran rehearsed once again the next portion of his plan with the two young noblemen so they might keep in mind what to expect and how to comport themselves. “Ifor, you know some Ffreinc.”

  “A little,” admitted Ifor. A slender young man with dark hair and wary eyes beneath a smooth, low brow, he was that much like Bran anyone could well see the family resemblance, however distant it might have been. Blood tells, thought Tuck, so it does. “Not as much as Brocmael, though.”

  “We hear it at the market in Bangor sometimes,” Brocmael explained. Slightly older than Ifor, he had much about him of a good badger dog.

  “You may find it difficult to pretend otherwise,” Bran told them, “but you must not let on. Keep it to yourselves. The Ffreinc will not be expecting you to understand them, and so you may well hear things to our advantage from time to time.” He smiled at their dour expressions. “Don’t worry. It’s easy—just keep remembering who you are.”

  The two nodded solemnly. Neither one shared Bran’s easy confidence, and both were nearly overwhelmed by their arrival in a Norman town and the deception they meant to work—not to say frightened by the prospect of delivering themselves into their chief enemy’s hands. Truth be told, Tuck felt much the same way. The sun climbed a little higher, and the day grew warmer accordingly. Bran decided that they should get a bite to eat, and Tuck, never one to forego a meal if it could be helped, readily agreed. “Unless my nose mistakes me,” he said, “the baker is taking out fresh pies as we speak.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” said Bran. Turning to his young attendants, he said, “Here is a good time to test your mettle. Remember who we are.” He pulled a leather bag from his belt and handed it to Ifor. “Get us some pies—one for each and one for our guide, too, when he returns. He looks like he could use a meal.”

  “And, lads, see if there is any beer,” Tuck added. “A jug or two would be most welcome. This old throat is dry as Moses’ in the wilderness.”

  They accepted the purse, turned, and with the air of men mounting to the gibbet, moved off to the baker’s stall. “They’ll be all right,” observed Bran, more in hope than conviction.

  “Oh, aye,” Tuck agreed with equal misgiving. “Right as a miller’s scale.”

  The presence of wealthy foreign strangers in the square was attracting some interest. A few of the idlers who had been standing at the well across the square were staring at them now and nodding in their direction. “You wanted to be noticed,” Tuck said, smiling through his teeth. “But I don’t think those fellas like what they’re seeing.”

  “You surprise me, Tuck. This is just what we want. If word of our arrival reaches the earl before we do, so much the better. See there?” He indicated two of the men just then hurrying away. “The news is on its way. Be at ease, and remember—as highborn Spanish noblemen it is beneath us to pay them heed.”

  “You may be the king of Spain for all Caer Cestre knows,” Tuck declared, “but these rich clothes fit me ill, for all I am a simple Saxon monk.”

  “A simple Saxon worrier it seems to me,” Bran corrected. “There is nothing to fear, I tell you.”

  Brocmael and Ifor returned a short while later with pies and ale for all. Their errand had settled them somewhat and raised their confidence a rung or two. The four ate in the shade of the pillar at the side of the square and were just finishing when three of the idlers approached from the well.

  “Here’s trouble,” muttered Tuck. “Keep your wits about you, lads.”

  But before any of them could speak, the beggar returned. He came charging across the square and accosted the men in blunt English. Bran and the others watched in amazement as the idlers halted, hesitated, then returned to their places at the well.

  “A man after my own heart,” said Tuck. He looked their reprobate guide up and down. “Here now, I hardly know you.”

  Not only had he washed himself head to toe, but he had cleaned his clothes with a bristle brush, cut his hair, and trimmed his beard. He had even found a feather to stick in his threadbare hat. Beaming with somewhat bleary good pleasure, he strode to where Bran was standing and with a low bow swept his cap from his head and proclaimed in the accent of an English nobleman, “Alan a’Dale at your service, my lord. May God bless you right well.”

  “Well, Tuck,” remarked Bran, much impressed, “he’s brushed up a treat. Tell him that I mean no offence when I say that I’d not mark him for the same man.”

  The man laughed, the sound full and easy. “The Alan you see is the Alan that is,” he said. “Take ’im or leave ’im, friend, ’cause there en’t no ither, ye ken?”

  When Tuck had translated, Bran smiled and said, “We’ll take you at your word, Alan.” To Tuck, he said, “Give him his pennies and tell him what we want him to do.”

  “That is for the wash,” said Tuck, placing a silver penny in Alan’s pink-scrubbed palm, “and this is for leading us to Earl Hugh’s castle. Now, sir, when we get there we want you to send for the earl’s seneschal and tell him to announce us to the earl. Do that, and do it well—there’s another penny for you when you’re finished.”

  “Too kind, you are, my friend,” said Alan, closing his fist over the coins and whisking them out of sight.

  “And here’s a pie for you,” Tuck told him. The pie was still warm, its golden crust clean and unbroken.

  “For me?” Alan was genuinely mystified by this small courtesy. He looked from Tuck to Bran and then at the younger members of their party. His hand was shaking as he reached out to take the pie. “For me?” he said again, as one who could not quite believe his good fortune. It seemed to mean more to him than the silver he had just been given.

  “All for you, and we saved a little ale too,” Tuck told him. “Eat now, and we will go as soon as you’ve finished.”

  “Bless you, Father,” he said, grabbing Tuck’s hand and raising it to his lips. “May the Good Lord repay your kindness a thousand times.”

  It happened so fast the little friar had no time to snatch his hand away again before the teary-eyed fellow had kissed it. “Here now! Stop that!”

  “Bless you, good gents all,” he said, lapsing into the accents of the street once more. “Alan a’Dale en’t one to fergit a good turn.”

  He sat down on the ground at the base of the pillar and began to eat, stuffing his mouth hungrily and smacking his lips with each bite. Bran sent Ifor and Brocmael to water the horses while they waited, and then asked Tuck to find out what he could from their hungry guide. “Tell him who we are, Tuck, and let’s see how he takes it.”

  “My lord wants you to know that you are in the service of an esteemed and wealthy foreign nobleman in need of your aid. Perform your service well and you will be amply rewarded. He gives you good greeting.”

  At this, Alan carefully laid his pie aside, rose to his knees, swiped off his hat, and bowed his head. “You honour your servant, m’lord. May God be good to you.”

  “Give him our thanks,” Bran said, “and ask him how long he’s been in the town, and what news of the earl and his court.”

  Turning to Alan, Tuck relayed Bran’s question. “My lord thanks you and wishes to know how long you have sojourned in this place.”

  Alan raised his eyes heavenward, his lips moving as he made his calculations. “In all, three year—give or take. No more than four.”

  “And how do you find the lord here—Earl Hugh?” Tuck asked, then added, “Please, finish your meal. We will talk while you eat.”
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  “Aye, that’s him,” replied their guide, settling himself against the pillar once more. He picked up the pie and bit into it. “Fat Hugh, they call him—aye, and well-named, he. There’s one hog wants the whole wallow all to himself, if ye ken.”

  “A greedy man?”

  “Greedy?” he mused, taking another bite and chewing thoughtfully. “If a pig be greedy, then he’s the Emperor o’ Swine.”

  “Is he now?” Tuck replied, and translated his words for the Cymry speakers, who chuckled at the thought.

  “That tallies with what we’ve heard already,” replied Bran. “Ask him if he knows the castle—has he ever been inside it?”

  “Aye,” nodded Alan when Tuck finished. “I ken the bloody heap right well. Lord have mercy, I been up there a few times.” He crinkled up his eyes and asked, “Why would a bunch o’ God fearin’ folk like yerselves want to go up there anyway?”

  “We have a little business with the earl,” explained Tuck.

  “Bad business, then,” observed Alan. “Still, I don’t suppose you can be blamed for not knowing what goes on hereabouts . . .” He tutted to himself. “Mark me, you’d be better off forgetting you ever heard of Wolf d’Avranches.”

  “If it’s as bad as all that,” Tuck ventured, “then why did you agree to take us there so quickly?”

  “I didn’t ken ye was God-fearin’ gents right off, did I?” he said. “I maybe thought you were like his nibs up there, an’ ye’d give as good as get, ye ken?”

  “And now?”

  “Now I ken different-like. Ye en’t like them rascals up t’castle. Devil take ’em, but even Ol’ Scratch won’t have ’em, I daresay.” Alan gazed at the strangers with pleading eyes. “Ye sure ye want to go up there?”

  “We thank you for the warning. If we had any other choice, no doubt we’d take your advice,” Tuck told him. “But circumstances force us to go, and go we must.”