Hood Page 11

  “I need a weapon,” he said, tucking the bag away. “Can you get me a sword? Or a spear? Both would be best.”

  “Let me see.” She darted away again and was gone longer this time. Bran waited. The sky brightened. The rising sun bathed his back with its warming rays. It would be daylight before he could start out, and that would mean finding a way north that avoided as much of Elfael as possible. He was pondering this when Mérian returned to the window.

  “I couldn’t get a sword,” she said, “but I found this. It belongs to my brother.” She pushed the polished ash-wood shaft of a longbow out to him, followed by a sheaf of arrows.

  Bran took the weapons, thanked her coolly, and stepped away from the window. “Farewell, Mérian,” he said, raising a hand in parting.

  “Please don’t go.” Reaching out, she strained after him, brushing his fingertips with her own. “Think of your people, Bran,” she said, her voice pleading. “They need you. How can you help them in Gwynedd?”

  “I love you, Mérian,” he said, still backing away. “Remember me.”

  “Bran, no!” she called. “Wait!”

  But he was already running for his life.

  CHAPTER 12

  By the time Bran reached the stream separating the two cantrefs, the sun was burning through the mist that swathed the forest to the east and collected in the hollows of the lowlands. Astride his slow horse, he cursed his luck. He had considered simply taking a horse from Cadwgan’s stable but could not think how to do so without waking one of the stable hands. And even if he had been able to achieve that, adding the wrath of Lord Cadwgan to his woes was not a prospect to be warmly embraced. The last thing he needed just now was an irate king’s search party hot on his heels.

  Despite his slow pace, he rode easily along the valley bottom through fields glistening with early morning dew. The crops were ripe, and soon the harvest season would be upon them. Long before the first scythe touched a barley stalk, however, Bran would be far away beyond the forest and mountain fastness to the north, enjoying the warmth and safety of a kinsman’s hearth.

  There were, Bran considered as he clopped along, two ways to Gwynedd through the Cymraic heartland. Elfael straddled both, and neither was very good.

  The first and most direct way was straight across Elfael to Coed Cadw and then through dense woodland all the way to the mountains. They were not high mountains, but they were rough, broken crags of shattered stone, and difficult to cross—all the more so for a man alone and without adequate supplies. The second route was less direct; it meant skirting the southern border of Elfael and working patiently through the intricate interlacing of low hills and hidden valleys to the west before turning north along the coast.

  This second route was slower and passed uncomfortably close to Caer Cadarn before bending away to the west. There was a risk that he might be seen. Still, it kept him out of the treacherous mountain pathways and made best use of his mount’s limited value as a steady plodder.

  Bran did not relish the idea of passing so close to the unfriendly Ffreinc, but it could not be helped. He considered laying up somewhere and waiting until nightfall; however, the idea of trying to remain hidden under de Braose’s nose and then thrashing around the countryside in the dark lacked the allure of ready flight. The day was new, he reckoned, and he would pass Caer Cadarn at the nearest point while it was still early morning and the invaders would most likely be otherwise occupied. Perhaps they were not even looking for him yet.

  He reached the boundary stream but did not cross. Instead, he turned his slow steed west and, in the interest of keeping well out of sight of Caer Cadarn, followed the narrow waterway as it snaked through the gorsy lowlands that formed the border between Elfael and Brycheiniog to the south. In time, the stream would swing around to the northwest, entering Maelienydd, a region of rough hills and cramped valleys that he hoped to cross as quickly as possible. Then he would head for Arwstli, angling north all the while toward Powys—and so work his way cantref by cantref to Gwynedd and a glad welcome amongst his mother’s people.

  Bran was thinking about how distraught and outraged his kinsmen would be upon learning the news of his father’s cruel murder and the loss of Elfael when the distant echo of a scream brought him up short. He tried telling himself he had imagined it only and was halfway down the path toward believing that when the terrified shriek came again: a woman’s voice, carried on the breeze and, though faint, clearly signifying terrible distress. Bran halted, listened again, and then turned his mount in the direction of the cry.

  He crossed the stream into the far southwestern toe of Elfael. Over the nearest hill, he saw the first threads of black smoke rising in the clear morning air. He crested the hill and looked over into the valley on the other side, where he saw the settlement called Nant Cwm, a fair-sized holding comprised of a large house and a yard with several barns and a few outbuildings. Even from a distance, he could see that it was under attack; smoke was spewing from the door of the barn and from the roof of the house. There were five saddled horses in the yard between the house and barn, but no riders. Then, as Bran watched, a man burst from the front door of the house, almost flying. He ran a few steps, his feet tangled, then fell sprawling on his side. Right behind him came his attackers—two Ffreinc men-at-arms with drawn swords. Two more marchogi emerged from the house, dragging a woman between them.

  Bran saw the hated Ffreinc, and his anger flared white hot in an instant. Snatching up the bow Mérian had given him, he grabbed the sheaf of arrows, and before he knew his feet had touched ground, he was racing down the hill toward the settlement.

  In the yard, the farmer cried out, throwing his hands before him—clearly pleading for his life. The two Ffreinc standing over him raised their swords. The woman screamed again, struggling in the grasp of her captors. The farmer shouted again and tried to rise. Bran saw the swords glint hard and bright in the sun as they slashed and fell. The farmer writhed in a vain attempt to avoid the blows. The fierce blades slashed again, and the man lay still.

  At the farmer’s death, Bran’s vision hardened to a single, piercing beam, and the world flashed crimson. He bit his lip to keep from crying out his rage as he flew toward the fight. As soon as he judged he was within the longbow’s range, he squatted down and opened the cloth bundle.

  There were but six arrows. Every arrow would have to count. Bran nocked the first onto the string, pulled the feathered shaft close to his cheek, and took aim—his target the nearer of the two soldiers struggling with the farmer’s wife.

  Just as he was about to let fly, the farmhouse door opened and out of the burning building ran a young boy of, perhaps, six or seven summers.

  One of the marchogi shouted, and from around the far side of the house another Ffreinc soldier appeared with a sword in one hand and the leash of an enormous hunting dog in the other. This was the commander—a knight with a round steel helmet and a long hauberk of ringed mail. The knight saw the boy escaping across the yard and gave a shout. When the child failed to stop, he loosed the hound.

  With staggering speed, the snarling, slavvering beast ran down the boy. The mother screamed as the hound, fully as big as her son, closed on the fleeing child.

  The hound leapt, and the terrified boy stumbled. Bran let fly in the same instant.

  The arrow whirred as it streaked home, burying itself in the hound’s slender neck, even as the beast’s jaws snatched at the child’s unprotected throat. The dog crumpled and rolled to the side, teeth still gnashing, forelegs raking the air.

  As the whimpering boy climbed to his feet, the Ffreinc men-at-arms searched the surrounding hills for the source of the unexpected arrow. The knight who had released the dog was the first to spot Bran crouching on the hill above the settlement. He shouted a command to his marchogi, pointing toward the hillside with his sword.

  He was still pointing when an arrow—like a weird, feathered flower—sprouted in the middle of his mail-clad stomach.

  The sword s
pun from his hand, and the knight crashed to his knees, clutching the shaft of the arrow. He gave out a roar of pain and outrage, and the two soldiers standing over the dead farmer leapt to life. They charged at a run, blades high, across the yard and up the hill.

  Bran, working with uncanny calm, placed another arrow on the string, took his time to pull, hold, and aim. When he let fly, the missile sang to its mark. The first warrior was struck and spun completely around by the force of the arrow. The second ran on a few more steps, then halted abruptly, jerked to his full height by the slender oak shaft that slammed into his chest.

  Next, Bran turned his attention to the two marchogi holding the woman. No one was struggling now; all three were staring in flatfooted disbelief at the lone archer crouching on the hillside.

  By the time Bran had another arrow on the string and was taking aim, the two had released the woman and were running for the horses. One of the marchogi had the presence of mind to try to cut off any possible pursuit; he gathered the reins of the riderless horses, leapt into the saddle, and fled the slaughter ground.

  Bran raced down to the farmyard, pausing at the foot of the hill to release another arrow. He drew and loosed at the nearest of the two fleeing riders. The arrow flew straight and true, sizzling through the air to sink its sharp metal head deep between the shoulders of the Ffreinc warrior, who arched his back and flung his arms wide as if to embrace the sky. The galloping horse ran on a few more steps, and the warrior slumped sideways and plunged heavily to the ground.

  Bran’s last arrow streaked toward the sole remaining soldier as he gained the low rise at the far end of the yard. Lashing his mount hard, the rider swerved at the last instant as the missile ripped by, slashing through the tall grass. The fleeing warrior sped on and did not look back.

  Bran hurried to the farmwife, who was on her knees, clutching her wailing son. “You must get away from here!” he told her, urgency making him sharp. “They might come back in force.” The woman just stared at him. “You must go!” he insisted. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded and, still holding tight to her child, turned her tearful gaze back to the yard where her husband lay. Bran saw the look and relented. He allowed her a moment and then took her gently by the shoulder and turned her to face him. “They will come back,” he said, softening his tone. “You must get away while you can.”

  “I have no place to go,” cried the woman, turning again to the twisted, bloody body of her dead husband. “Oh, Gyredd!” Her face crumpled, and she began to weep.

  “Lady, you will mourn him in good time,” Bran said, “but later, when you are safe. You must think of your child now and do what is best for him.”

  Taking the crying boy into his arms, he walked quickly to the horse on the hill, urging the woman to hurry. Its rider slain, the animal had stopped running and was now grazing contentedly. If he considered taking the good horse for himself and giving the plough horse to the farmwife, one look at the woman struggling valiantly to bear up under the calamity that had befallen her abolished any such thought. Here was a woman with a boy so much like himself at that age they could have been brothers.

  “Here is what you will do,” Bran said, speaking slowly. “You will take the lad and ride to the abbey. The monks at Saint Dyfrig’s will take care of you until it is safe to return, or until you find somewhere else to go.”

  He helped her onto the horse, holding the boy as she climbed into the saddle. “Go now,” he commanded, lifting the child and placing him in the saddle in front of his mother. “Tell them what happened here, and they will take care of you.”

  Putting his hand to the bridle, Bran ran the horse to the top of the rise where he could get a clear view of the countryside around. There were no marchogi to be seen, so he pointed the woman in the direction of the monastery. “Take good care of your mother, lad,” he told the boy, then gave the horse a slap on the rump to send them off. “Do not stop until you reach the abbey,” he called. “I will see to things here.”

  “God bless you,” said the woman, turning in the saddle as the horse jolted into motion.

  Bran watched until they were well away and then hurried back to the farm. He dragged the dead farmer to the grassy hillside, then fetched a wooden shovel from the barn; the fire had been hastily set, and the flames had already burned down to smouldering ash, leaving the barn intact.Working quickly, he dug a shallow grave in the green grass at the foot of the hill, then rolled the body into the long depression and began piling the soft earth over the corpse.

  He left the shovel at the head of the grave to mark the place and then ran to retrieve his arrows. Pulling them from the bodies was a grim task, but they were too valuable to waste, and he had no way to replace them. Despite his care, one of them broke when he tried to worry it free from the rib cage of the dead soldier, and the one that had missed its target could not be found. In the end, he had to settle for recovering but four of the six.

  He wiped the iron heads on the grass, bundled them up again, and then hurried to retrieve his shamble-footed mount. Grabbing a handful of mane, he swung up onto the swaybacked creature once more and, with much kicking and cursing, clopped away.

  He did not get far.

  Upon reaching the top of the hill, he glanced back toward the settlement. At that moment, five marchogi on horseback crested the rise beyond Nant Cwm. The riders paused, as if searching out a direction to follow. Bran halted and sat very still, hoping they would not see him. This hope, like all the others he had conceived since the Ffreinc arrived, died as it was born.

  Even as he watched, one of the riders raised an arm and pointed in his direction. Bran did not wait to see more. He slapped the reins hard across the withers of his plough horse mount and kicked back hard with his heels. The startled animal responded with a gratifying burst of speed that carried him over the crest of the hill and out of sight of the riders.

  Once over the hilltop, the nag slowed and stopped, and Bran swiftly scanned the descent for his best chance of escape. The slope fell away steeply to the stream he had been following. On the other side the land opened onto a meadow grazing land— flat and bereft of any rock or tree big enough to hide behind. Away to the northeast rose the thick dark line of Coed Cadw.

  He turned his face to the north, kicked his mount to life once more, and rode for the strong, protecting wall of the forest.

  CHAPTER 13

  The ancient woodland rampart rose before him in vast dark folds, like a great bristling pelt covering the deep, rocky roots of Yr Wyddfa, the Region of Snows in the north. His rickety mount trotted along at a pace resembling a canter, and still some distance away from the nearest trees, Bran despaired of reaching them before his galloping pursuers overtook him.

  Midway between himself and the forest, a course of rock jutted up out of the mounded earth, forming a narrow spine of stone that ran all the way to the forest. Tiring quickly now, his slow-footed animal resumed its customary amble. Bran slung the bow across his chest and, gripping his clutch of arrows, slid off the beast’s back and sent it on. As it sauntered away without him, he bounded to the rocky outcrop and ducked behind it.

  He knew the marchogi would not follow a riderless horse, and the lazy animal would not wander far, but he hoped the slight misdirection would distract them at least long enough to allow him to reach the shelter of the forest. Once amongst the trees, he had no doubt at all that he could elude pursuit without difficulty. The forest was a place he knew well.

  Crouching low to keep his head below the jagged line of rock, Bran worked his way quickly up the rising slope toward the tree line, pausing now and again to scan the open ground behind him. He saw no sign of the marchogi and took heart. Perhaps they had given up the chase and returned to pillage the farm instead.

  The last few hundred paces rose up a steep embankment, at the top of which lay the forest edge. Bran paused and gathered himself for the last mad scramble. Gulping air, he tried to calm his racing heart as, with a final glance behind
him, he ran to the escarpment. It took longer than he thought to reach it, but clambering over the grey lichen-covered rocks on hands and knees, he eventually gained the top, pulling himself up the last rise with his hands and gripping the arrow bundle with his teeth.

  The trees lay just ahead. He put his head down and staggered on. He had taken but a half-dozen steps when a Ffreinc rider appeared from the edge of the forest and stepped directly into his path. Bran did not have time even to raise his bow before the warrior was on him. Sword drawn, the soldier spoke a command that Bran could not understand and indicated that Bran was to turn around and start back the way he had come.

  Instead, Bran ran toward him, dove under the belly of the horse, and, legs churning, continued running. The rider gave a shout and put spurs to his mount. Bran flew to the forest.

  This first rider cried after him, and his shout was answered by another. A second rider appeared, racing along the margin of the forest to cut off Bran’s flight before he could reach the wood.

  Desperation lent him speed. He gained the entrance to the dark refuge of Coed Cadw as two more riders joined the chase. The rippling thud of the horses’ hooves thrummed on the turf, punctuated by gusting blasts of air through the galloping animals’ nostrils. On the riders came, whooping and shouting as they converged on his trail, readying their spears as if he were a deer for the kill.

  They were loud, and they were overconfident. And they had not enough wit to know to quit the saddle before entering the wood. Realising this, Bran stopped dead on the trail and turned to face his attacker. The oncoming rider gave out a wild shriek of triumph and heaved his lance. Bran saw the spearhead spin as the lance left the rider’s hand. He gave a simple feint to the side, and the spear sliced the air where his head had been. The rider cursed and came on, drawing his sword.