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  A second knight threw his arms wide, his sword spinning from his grasp as he crashed to his knees and flopped face-first to the ground. A third knight paused in midstroke and glanced down at his chest, where he saw a rose-coloured stain spreading across his pale tunic; in the centre of the crimson stain, the steel tip of an arrowhead protruded. With a cry of pain and disbelief, he threw down his sword, grabbed at the lethal missile, and tried to pull it free even as he toppled.

  The fourth knight took an arrow on his shield and was thrown onto his back as two more arrows ripped the autumn air, one of them striking the soldier a step or two ahead of him. The knight faltered, his legs tangling in midstep as the missile jolted into him, twisting his shoulders awkwardly. His shield banged against his knees, and he plunged onto his side at Bran’s feet.

  The sole remaining knight, still on the ground, covered his helmeted head with his shield and lay unmoving as the dead around him. Nocking another arrow to the string, Bran surveyed the battleground with a rapid sweep to the right and left. Several of the monks with Abbot Hugo had thrown off their robes to reveal mail shirts and swords, and others—five mounted soldiers including Sheriff Richard de Glanville—charged out from the nearest trees.

  Stooping swiftly, Bran picked up Odo, dragging the frightened monk to his feet and driving him headlong into the safety of the greenwood. There came the sound of leaves rustling and branches thrashing in the forest nearby, and they were gone.

  The mounted knights galloped to the edge of the wood and halted, listening.

  All that could be heard were the groans of the wounded and dying. The marshal and Sergeant Jeremias ventured slowly out from behind their shields. “See to those men, Sergeant,” ordered Gysburne. To the knight who lay unharmed among the bodies, he called, “Get up and find the horses.”

  “Are we going after the outlaws, Sire?” inquired the knight.

  “Why, by the bloody rood?” cried the marshal. “To let them continue to practice their cursed archery on us? Think, man! They’re hiding in the trees!”

  “But I thought the abbot said—” began the knight.

  “Obey your orders, de Tourneau!” snapped the marshal irritably. “Forget what the abbot said. Just do as you’re told—and take Racienne with you.”

  The two knights clumped off together, and Gysburne turned to see Sheriff de Glanville and his bailiff turning back from the edge of the wood. “Have no fear,” called the marshal. “The outlaws have gone. You are safe now.”

  The sheriff stiffened at the insinuation. “It was not for fear that we held back.”

  “No,” granted the marshal, “of course not. Why would I think that? You merely mislaid your sword, perhaps, or I am certain you would have been in the fore rank, leading the charge.”

  “Enough, Gysburne,” snarled the sheriff. “The last time I looked, you were crawling on your hands and knees like a baby.”

  The abbot shouted from the clearing, cutting short what promised to be a lively discussion. “De Glanville! Gysburne! Did you get him? Is he dead?”

  “No,” answered the marshal, “he got away.” He promptly amended this, adding, “They got away. It was a trap; they were waiting for us.”

  Abbot Hugo turned his gaze to the bodies lying in the long grass. His face darkened. “Are you telling me you’ve lost four men and the outlaws have escaped again?” He swung around to face the marshal. “How did this happen?” he shouted.

  “You ask the wrong man, Abbot,” replied Gysburne coolly. “We did our part. It was the sheriff who failed to attack.”

  “You were supposed to draw them from hiding, Abbot, remember?” said the sheriff darkly. “Since you failed in the first order, no good purpose would be served by pursuing the second.” He pointed to the bodies on the ground. “You can see what that accomplished.

  If I had attacked, it would have been at the cost of more men, and more lives wasted.”

  “If you had attacked as planned,” the marshal said, his voice rising, “we could have taken him and we’d not be standing here now heaping blame on each other.”

  “There is plenty of blame to go around, it seems to me,” retorted de Glanville angrily. “But I’ll not own more than my share. The plan was flawed from the beginning. We should have anticipated that they would not be drawn out so easily. And now they know we have no intention of accepting their ridiculous peace offer. We’ve gained nothing.” Turning away from the other two, he shouted for his men to load the bodies of the dead onto the backs of their horses and return to Saint Martin’s. He climbed into the saddle, then called, “Gysburne! I turn my duties over to you while I am away. Bailiff will assist you.”

  De Glanville wheeled his horse.

  “Where are you going?” demanded the marshal.

  “To Londein,” came the answer. “I am the king’s man, and I require soldiers and supplies to deal with these outlaws.”

  “We should discuss this,” Gysburne objected.

  “There is nothing to discuss. We need more soldiers, and I’m going to get them. I should return within the fortnight.”

  Marshal Guy looked to the abbot. “Let him go,” said Hugo. “He is right.”

  “I would not linger here any longer if I were you,” called the sheriff. “We are finished, and it is not safe.” He snapped the reins, and the big horse bounded off.

  “Do not underestimate me, Sheriff,” muttered Abbot Hugo, watching him go. “I am far from finished . . . very far from finished.”

  Marshal Guy de Gysburne walked over to where a knight had been slain; there was blood in the grass. He picked up the dead man’s sword and stuck it in his belt. “You can stay if you like, Abbot, but they are probably watching from the forest.”

  Casting a hasty glance over his shoulder, the abbot hurried to rejoin his bodyguard and scuttled back to the abbey in undignified retreat.

  PART TWO

  Came Little John through the forest that morn,

  And chanc’d upon poor Rhiban Hud,

  So high on his back he carries him to

  A priest on the edge of the woode.

  “God save you, Fryer Tuck,” quod John.

  “A handsome fish I’ve here.

  His length’s as longe from snout to tail

  As any I’ve seen this yere.”

  “Then don’t delay, friend John,” quod Tuck,

  “But lay him here on the hearthe.

  Let’s get him skinned and then get him cleaned

  And warmed up quick and smart.”

  Young Rhiban quickly mended himself

  At Fryer Tuck’s strong, healing hands.

  And when he had sense, the two hearde account

  Of the change that had passed in those lands.

  “For twenty long summers,” quoth Rhiban, “by God,

  My arrows I here have let fly.

  Methinks it quite strange, that within the march,

  A reeve has more power than I.

  “This forest and vale I consider my own,

  And these folk a king think of me;

  I therefore declare—and so solemnly swear:

  I will live to see each of them free.”

  “By t’rood, this is a most noble sport,”

  John Little did him proclaim.

  “I’ll stand with thee and fight ’til death!”

  “And I,” quod Tuck, “The same!”

  “Then send you bold captains to head up our men

  And meet in the greenwoode hereon:

  Mérian, Llech-ley, and Alan a’Dale,

  Thomas, and Much Miller’s son.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Two riders picked their way carefully along the rock-lined riverbed, one in front of the other, silent, vigilant. Dressed in drab, faces hidden beneath wide-brimmed, shapeless hats, they might have been hunters hoping to raise some game along the river or, more likely, a party of merchants making for a distant market. Strange merchants, however—they shunned the nearby town, going out of their way to avoid it
.

  It was Bran’s idea to appear as wayfarers simply passing through, in the hopes of attracting as little notice as possible. He watched the hilltops and ridgeways on either side of the valley, while Tuck remained alert to anyone approaching from the rear. Overhead, a brown buzzard soared through the empty air, its shadow rippling over the smooth, cloud-dappled slopes. Ahead the river forked into two branches: one wide and shallow, one little more than a rill snaking through a narrow, brush-choked defile. Upon reaching the place where the two streams divided, Bran paused.

  “Which way?” Tuck said, reining in beside him. Odo halted a few paces behind.

  “You ask me that?” replied Bran with a grin. “And still you call yourself a priest?”

  “I am a priest,” affirmed Tuck, “and I do ask you—for, all evidence to the contrary, I cannot read the minds of men, only their hearts.” He regarded the two courses. “Which way do we go?”

  “The narrow way, of course,” answered Bran. “‘Narrow is the way and hard the road that leads to salvation . . .’ Isn’t that the way it goes?”

  “‘Straight is the gate and narrow the way that leadeth to life, and there be few that find it,’” the friar corrected. “You should pay better attention when the Holy Script is read.”

  “We’ll have to walk from here,” Bran said, climbing down from the saddle. “But when we reach the end, we will be beyond the borders of Elfael and out of reach of de Glanville’s soldiers.” He glanced at Odo. The young priest had maintained a gloomy silence since climbing into the saddle. “Do either of you want to rest a little before we move on?”

  “My thanks, but no—a chance to quit this saddle is all I need just now,” Tuck said, easing himself down from the saddle. “Come, Odo. A change is as good as a rest, is it not?” He wiped the sweat from his face. “Although, to be sure, a jar of ale would not go amiss.”

  “When day is done,” said Bran, starting into the gorge. “This way, you two.”

  They had left the forest before dawn, crossing the open ground to the south of the caer while it was still dark, quickly losing themselves in the seamed valleys of Elfael. They proceeded ever north ward, keeping out of sight of the fortress and town until both were well behind them—and even then Bran continued with all caution. A chance encounter with a wayward Ffreinc party was to be avoided at all costs.

  Leading the horses, they resumed their trek, picking their way along the stream. It was slow going because rocks, brush, and nettles filled the defile, making each step a small ordeal. The bowlegged priest struggled to keep up with his long-legged companions, scrambling over the rocks and dodging thorny branches, all the while ruing the turn of events that had made this journey necessary.

  They had left the forest before dawn, crossing the open ground to the south of the caer while it was still dark, quickly losing themselves in the seamed valleys of Elfael, keeping out of sight of the fortress and town until both were well behind them—and even then Bran continued with all caution. A chance encounter with a wayward Ffreinc party was to be avoided at all costs.

  “We acted in good faith,” Bran had declared in the council following the abbot’s misguided ambush. “But Hugo sought to betray us—once again. It is only by God’s favour that Odo and I escaped unharmed and none of our men were killed or wounded.”

  Bran and his archers had just returned from their encounter with the Ffreinc, and one glance at their scowling faces gave everyone to know that all was not well.

  Tuck, with Mérian a close step behind, was there to meet the returning peace party. “God love you, Iwan, what happened?” Tuck asked, snagging hold of the big man’s arm as he came through the blasted oak. “Did they fail to ring the bell?”

  “Nay, Friar,” answered the champion, shaking his head slowly.“They rang the bell for all to hear—but then attacked us anyway.”

  “They were lying in wait for us,” said Siarles, joining them. “Hiding in the forest.”

  “Gysburne and his men showed themselves for the black devils they are,” said Scarlet.

  “Aye, and the sheriff too,” added Siarles. “Dressed up as monks, some of ’em.”

  “Even so, we honoured our part,” said Iwan. “We did not draw on them until they attacked Bran.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Tuck glanced quickly at the other archers trooping into the settlement. There was no blood showing; all seemed to be in ruddy good health.

  “No hurt to anyone but themselves,” Scarlet pointed out. “A fella’d a thought they’d have learnt a little respect for a Welsh bowman by now. Seems they are a thick lot, these Ffreinc, say what you will.”

  The friar heard these words, and his heart fell like a stone dropped into a bottomless well. The slender hope that the abbot would accept the offered peace sank instantly, swallowed in the knowledge that Abbot Hugo would never be appeased. In light of this new outrage, he felt the fool for even imagining such a thing possible.

  “You did what Christian duty required, and it will be accounted to your credit,” Tuck assured them lamely. “God will yet reward you for remaining true to your part.”

  “No doubt, Friar,” replied Siarles. “The same way he helps them who help themselves, methinks.”

  “I do not blame you for being disappointed,” Tuck said, “but you should not place the failure at the Almighty’s feet, when it—”

  “Spare us, Tuck,” snapped Bran. He and Odo, the last to arrive, passed the others as they stood talking. “I am not of a mind to hear it.” Addressing the men, he said, “Get something to eat, all of you. Then I want my advisors to come to me and we will hold council again—this time it is a council of war.”

  The six archers moved off to find some food, leaving Tuck, Mérian, and the others looking on in dismay.

  “I feared this might happen,” said Mérian. “Still, we had to try.” She looked to the friar for assurance. “We did have to try.”

  “We did,” confirmed the priest. “And we were right.” He glanced at the young woman beside him. How lovely she was; how noble of face and form. And how determined. A pang of regret pierced him to see her once-fine clothes now stained and growing threadbare from their hard use in the greenwood. She was made for finer things, to be sure, but had cast her lot with the outlaw band; and her fate, like all who called the forest home, was that of a fugitive.

  “Ah, my soul,” he sighed, feeling the weight of their failure settle upon him. “So much hardship and sadness could have been avoided if only that blasted abbot had agreed.”

  “I had my hopes, too, Friar,” offered Mérian. “My father has ruled under Baron Neufmarché these many years—to the benefit of both, I think. It can be done—I know it can. But Hugo de Rainault is a wicked man, and there is no reasoning with him. He will never leave, never surrender an inch of ground until he is dead.”

  “Alas, I fear you’ve struck to the heart of it,” confessed Tuck, shaking his head sadly. “No doubt that is where the trouble lies.”

  “Where, Friar?”

  “In the hearts of ever-sinful men, my lady,” he told her. “In the all-too-wicked human heart.”

  After the men had eaten, those who were counted among King Raven’s advisors joined their lord in his hut. As they took their places around the fire ring, Bran said, “We need more men, and I am going to—”

  More men, thought Tuck, and remembered what it was that he had learned from the abbot. “Good Lord!” he cried, starting up at the memory. “Forgive me,” he said quickly as all eyes turned towards him, “but I have just remembered something that might be useful.”

  Bran regarded him, waiting for him to continue.

  “It is just that—” Glancing around, he said to Iwan, “How many soldiers did you say the abbot and sheriff had with them?”

  “No more’n twenty,” replied the champion.

  “At most,” confirmed Siarles.

  “Then that is all they have,” said Tuck. “Twenty men—that is all that are left to them following the two attack
s.” He went on to explain about meeting with the abbot, and how Hugo had let slip that he no longer had enough men to defend the town. “So, unless I am much mistaken, those who attacked you are all that remain of the troops Baron de Braose left here.”

  “And there are fewer now,” Siarles pointed out. “Maybe by four or five. He can have no more than fifteen or sixteen under his command.” He turned wondering eyes towards Bran. “My lord, we can defeat them. We can drive them out.”

  “We can take back control of the cantref,” echoed Iwan. “One more battle and it would be ours.”

  They fell to arguing how this might be accomplished, then, but arrived always at the same place where the discussion had begun.

  “Gysburne may have only sixteen left,” Bran pointed out. “But you can believe he won’t be drawn into open battle with us. Nor can we take the town or the fortress, for all we are only six able-bodied bowmen. So, it comes to this: we need more men, and I am going to raise them.” He paused. “First things first. Iwan, I want you and Owain and Rhoddi to watch the road—day and night. Nothing is to pass through the forest without our leave. All travellers are to be stopped. Any goods or weapons they carry will be taken from them.”

  “And if they refuse?” asked the champion.

  “Use whatever force you deem necessary,” Bran replied. “But only that and no more. All who comply willingly are to be sent on their way in peace.”

  “Nothing will get past us, my lord. I know what to do.”

  “Siarles,” said Bran, “you and Tomas are to begin making arrows. We’ll need as many as we can get—and we’ll need bows too.”

  “And where will we be getting the wood for all these bows and arrows?” asked Siarles.

  “Wood for bows, I know, and where to find it,” Angharad said, speaking up from her place behind Bran’s chair. “We will bring all you need, Gwion Bach and I.”