Tuck Read online

  Bran nodded. “The rest of the Grellon are to be trained to the longbow.”

  “Women too?” asked Mérian.

  “Yes,” confirmed Bran. “Women too.” He turned to Will Scarlet.

  “Until your hand is healed, you will teach others what you know about the bow.”

  “That much is easily done,” said Scarlet. “It’s the trainin’ that takes the time.”

  “Then start at once. Today.”

  Owain, one of the newer members of the council, asked, “You said you meant to raise more men. What is in your mind, my lord, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I have kinsmen among my mother’s people in Gwynedd,” replied Bran. “I mean to start there. Once the word spreads that we are gathering a force to overthrow the Ffreinc, I have no doubt we’ll soon get all the warriors we need.”

  “There are warriors nearby that are yours for the asking,” Mérian pointed out. “I have but to go to my father and—”

  “No,” said Bran firmly.

  “The fact is, my father—”

  “Your father is a vassal of Baron Neufmarché,” Bran said in a pained tone, “a fact you seem determined to ignore.”

  Mérian opened her mouth to object, but Bran cut her off, saying, “That is the end of it.”

  Mérian glared at him from under lowered brows, but gave in without another word.

  “Well then,” said Bran, declaring himself satisfied with the preparations. “Be about your work, everyone. If all goes well, Tuck and I will return with a war band large enough to conquer the Ffreinc and force their surrender.” As the others shuffled out, Bran called Tuck to him. “I will see to the horses, and you take care of the provisions—enough for four days, I make it.”

  The friar spent the rest of the day assembling the necessary provisions for their journey. While he was scraping together the few items they would need for making camp, Scarlet came to him. “I am worried about Odo,” he said, sitting down on a nearby stump. “That scrape this morning has pitched the poor fella into the stew.”

  “Oh? I am sorry to hear it,” replied Tuck. “Has he said anything?”

  “Not so much,” said Will. “He wouldn’t. But if there was ever a creature ill fashioned for the wildwood, that’s Odo through and through.”

  Tuck paused, considering what Scarlet was telling him. “What do you think we should do?”

  “Well, seeing as you are heading north, I was wondering if it might be best for everyone if you took Odo along.”

  “To Gwynedd?”

  “Aye,” said Scarlet, “but only as far as that monastery with the old bishop.”

  “Saint Tewdrig’s.”

  “That’s the one. I know he’d fare better there, and no doubt the way things are with the folk so hard-pressed everywhere hereabouts, he’d be a better help there than here, if you see what I mean.”

  “He’s suffering, you say.”

  “I’ve seen whipped dogs more cheerful.”

  “Well then,” said Tuck. “I’ll speak to Bran and see what we can do.” He paused, then asked, “Why did you bring this to me?”

  “I deemed it a priest thing—like confession,” replied Scarlet, rising. “And Odo would never be able to lift his head again if he thought Bran reckoned him a coward.”

  Tuck smiled. “You’re a good friend,William Scatlocke. Consider it done, and Bran will think no ill of Brother Odo.”

  The travellers spent a last night in the forest, departing early enough to cross the Vale of Elfael before dawn.

  Only Angharad was awake to see them off, which she did in her peculiar fashion. Raising her staff, she held it aloft, and blessed them with a prayer that put Tuck in mind of those he had heard as a child in the north country.

  The three climbed into their saddles—Bran swinging up easily, Odo taking a bit more effort, and Tuck with the aid of a stump for a mounting block—and with a final farewell, quickly disappeared into the gloaming. By the time the sun was showing above the horizon, the riders had passed the Ffreinc-held Saint Martin’s and were well on their way. Now, as the sun sailed high over head, they eked their way over bare rocks along the edge of the rill and, a little while later, passed beyond the borders of Elfael and into the neighbouring cantref of Builth.

  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 th
ey 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

  Long 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 roas
t 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.