Tuck Page 9

  Bran and Tuck rode directly to the fortress and made themselves known to the short, thick-necked old man who appeared to serve the royal household as gateman and porter. With a voice like dry gravel, he invited them to enter the yard and asked them to wait while he informed his lord of their arrival.

  Whatever life the kings of North Wales had known in earlier times, it was clear that it was much reduced now. As in England, the arrival of the Normans meant hardship and misery in draughts too great to swallow. The Cymry of the noble houses suffered along with the rest of the country, and Celyn Garth was proof of this. The yard was lumpy, rutted, and weedy; the roof of the king’s hall sagged, its thatch ratty and mildewed; the gates and every other door on the nearly derelict outbuildings stood in need of hingeing and rehanging.

  “I hope we find the king well,” said Bran doubtfully.

  “I hope we find him at his supper,” said Tuck.

  What they found was Llewelyn ap Owain, a swarthy, nimble Welshman who received them graciously and prevailed upon them to stay the night. But he was not the king.

  “It’s Gruffydd you’re looking for, is it?” he said. “Aye, who else? It pains me, friend, to inform you that our king is a captive.” Llewelyn explained over a hot supper of roast pork shanks and baked apples. They were seated at the hearth end of the near-empty hall. Their host sat at table with his guests, while his wife and daughters served the meal. “He’s held prisoner by Earl Hugh, may God rot his teeth.”

  “Wolf Hugh?” asked Bran. “Is that the man?”

  “Aye, Cousin, that’s the fellow—Hugh d’Avranches, Earl of Cestre—devious as the devil, and cruel as Cain with a toothache. He’s a miserable old spoiler, is our Hugh, with a heart full of torment for each and all he meets.”

  “How long has Gruffydd been captive?” wondered Tuck.

  Llewelyn tapped his teeth as he reckoned the tally. “Must be eight years or more, I guess,” he said. “Maybe nine already.”

  “Has anyone seen him since he was taken prisoner?” Tuck asked.

  “Oh, aye,” replied Llewelyn. “We send a priest most high holy days. The earl allows our Gruffydd to receive food and clothing and such since it whittles down the cost of keeping an expensive captive. We use those visits for what benefit we can get.”

  Bran nodded; he and Tuck shared a glance, and each could sense the sharp disappointment of the other. “Who’s ruling in Gruffydd’s place?” asked Bran, swallowing his frustration.

  Llewelyn paused to consider.

  It was a simple enough question, and Tuck wondered at their host’s hesitation. “You must be looking at him, I reckon,” Llewelyn confessed at last. “Although I make no claim myself, you understand.” He spread his hands as if to express his innocence. “I merely keep the boards warm for Gruffydd, so to speak. I am loyal to my lord, while he lives, and would never usurp his authority.”

  “Which is why the Ffreinc keep him alive, no doubt,” observed Bran. As long as Gruffydd drew breath, no one else could occupy his empty throne, much less gather his broken tribe.

  “But people do come to me for counsel and guidance,” Llewelyn offered, “and I see it my duty to oblige however I can.”

  “I understand,” said Bran. He fell silent, contemplating the depth of his difficulty. The kingdom of Gwynedd, leaderless and adrift, was in no shape to supply a war host to help fight a war beyond its borders. He realized with increasing despair that he had come all this way for nothing.

  “So then, I’ll be sending for your relations,” said Llewelyn, breaking the silence. “They’ll be that glad to see you.”

  “And I them,” replied Bran, and complimented his host on his thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Llewelyn; I am in your debt.”

  They finished supper, and the guests were given their own quarters so they would not have to share with the rest of Llewelyn’s household, who mostly slept on benches and reed mats in the hall. The next morning—on the counsel and guidance of their host—Bran and Tuck rode out to get the measure of the land and people of the northern part of Gwynedd, and to speak frankly without being overheard.

  “This is going to be more difficult than I thought,” Bran admitted when, after riding for a goodly time, they stopped to water the horses at a stream flowing down a rocky, gorse-covered hill and into Môr Iwerddon, the Sea of Ireland, gleaming blue under a fine early autumn sky.

  “Raising an army of king’s men with the king in an enemy prison?” Tuck queried. “What is difficult about that?”

  “I don’t think he even has an army.”

  “Well, that would make it slightly more tricky, I suppose,” remarked Tuck.

  “Yes,” mused Bran. “Tricky.” He walked a few paces away, then back. Glancing up suddenly, he grinned that twisted, roguish smile that Tuck knew meant trouble. More than that, however, it was the first time in many, many days that Tuck had seen him smile, and the friar had almost forgotten the magic of that lopsided grin—truly, it was as if a slumbering spirit had awakened in that instant to reanimate a young man only half-alive until now. He was once again himself, Rhi Bran y Hud, alive with mischief and alert to possibility. “That’s it, friend friar—a trick!”

  “Eh?”

  “To raise a king’s army from a king who is in prison.”

  Tuck caught his meaning at once.

  Gathering up the reins, Bran stepped quickly to his horse, raised his foot to the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. “Come, Tuck, why are you dragging your feet?”

  Why, indeed? Tuck walked stiffly to his horse and, after leading it to a nearby rock big enough to serve as a mounting block, struggled into the saddle. “You’ll get us killed, you know,” the priest complained. “Me most of all.”

  Bran laughed. “A little more faith would become you, Friar.”

  “I have faith enough for any three—and I’ll thump the man who says me nay. But you go jumping into a bear trap with both feet, and it’ll not be faith you feel chomping on your leg bones!”

  Grabbing up the reins, he raised his eyes towards heaven. “Is there no rest for the weary?” he sighed. By the time he regained the path, Bran was already racing away.

  On their return to Celyn Garth, Bran secluded himself in his quarters and set Tuck to finding certain items that he needed. When they had assembled everything necessary, Bran went to work and the change was swiftly effected. It was nearly time for the evening meal when he emerged, and Tuck accompanied him to the hall where Llewelyn was waiting with some of Bran’s relations he had invited especially to meet their long-lost kinsman. There were seven of them: three young men in the blue-and-red checked tunics of the north country; three of middling age in tall boots and leather jackets over their linen shirts; and one old man, bald as a bean, in a pale robe of undyed wool.

  “Lead the way, Tuck,” Bran murmured. “And remember, I speak no Cymry.”

  “Oh, I’ll remember,” Tuck retorted. “It’s yourself you should be reminding.”

  Stepping into the hall, the little friar approached the long table where the men were already gathered over their welcome cups. Llewelyn took one look at the cleric and his companion and rose quickly. “Friar Aethelfrith,” he said, “I did not know you brought a guest. Come, sit down.” To the unexpected visitor, he said, “Be welcome in this house. Pray, sit and share a cup with us.”

  Tuck kept his eyes on Llewelyn, who seemed to recognize something familiar in the young man beside him. But if the long black robes did not fully disguise him, then the sallow, sombre expression, the slightly hunched shoulders and inwardly bending frame, the close-shorn hair and gleaming white scalp of his tonsure, the large sad eyes, hesitant step, and almost timid way he held his head—taken all together, the appearance was so unlike Bran ap Brychan that Llewelyn did not trust his first impression and withheld judgement on the newcomer’s identity.

  For his part, Bran inclined his head in humble acceptance and offered, as it seemed to those looking on, a somewhat melancholy smile—as if the slender y
oung man carried some secret grief within and it weighed heavily on his heart. He turned to Tuck, and the others also looked to the priest as for an explanation.

  “My lords,” said Tuck, “allow me to present to you my dear friend, Father Dominic.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Speaking with the humble, yet confident authority that one would expect of a papal envoy, the slender young man introduced as Father Dominic charmed his listeners with tales of his travels in the service of the Holy Father and his dealings with kings and cardinals. It fell to Tuck, of course, to translate his stories for the benefit of his listeners since Bran spoke in the curious, chiefly meaningless jibber-jabber of broken Latin that passed for the language of the Italian nobility among folk who had never heard it. Tuck was able to keep one step ahead of his listeners by his many sudden consultations—to clarify some word or thought—where Bran, as Father Dominic, would then whisper the bare bones of what his struggling translator was to say next. Such was Father Dominic’s winsome manner that Tuck found himself almost believing in the charming lies, even knowing them to be spun of purest nonsense and embellished by his own ready tongue.

  Father Dominic revealed that he was on a mission from Rome, and explained that he had come to the region to make acquaintance with churchmen among the tribes of Britain who remained outside Norman influence. This was announced in a casual way, but the subtlety was not lost on his listeners. Father Dominic, speaking through Tuck, told them that because of the delicate nature of his inquiry, he was pleased to travel without his usual large entourage to enable him to go where he would, unnoticed and unannounced. The Mother Church was reaching out to all her children in Britain, he said, the silent and suffering as well their noisier, more overbearing, and belligerent brothers.

  All the while, their distracted host would glance towards the empty doorway. Finally, when Bran’s absence could no longer be comfortably ignored, Llewelyn spoke up. “Forgive me for asking, Friar Aethelfrith, but I begin to worry about our cousin. Is he well? Perhaps he has fallen ill and requires attention.”

  Bran ap Brychan’s kinsmen had done him the honour of travelling a considerable distance to greet their cousin from the south, and although beguiled by the unexpected arrival of a genuine emissary of the pope in Rome, they could not help but wonder about their cousin’s puzzling absence. Father Dominic heard Llewelyn’s question, too, and without giving any indication that he knew what had been said, he smiled, raised his hands in blessing to those who sat at the table with him, then begged to be excused, as he was feeling somewhat tired from his journey.

  “Certainly, we understand,” said Llewelyn, jumping to his feet. “I will have quarters prepared for you at once. If you will kindly wait but a moment—”

  Father Dominic waved off his host, saying, through Tuck, “Pray do not trouble yourself. I shall find my own way.”

  With that he turned and, despite Llewelyn’s continued protests, walked to the door of the hall, where he paused with his hand on the latch. He stood there for a moment. Then, with the others looking on, stepped back from the door, shook himself around and—wonder of wonders—seemed to grow both larger and stronger before the startled eyes of his audience. When he turned around it was no longer Father Dominic who stood before them, but Bran himself once more—albeit berobed as a priest, and with a shorn and shaven pate.

  Llewelyn was speechless, and all around the board stared in astonishment at the deception so skilfully executed under their very noses. They looked at one another in baffled bemusement. When Llewelyn finally recovered his tongue, he contrived to sound angry—though his tone fell short by a long throw. “How now, Cousin? What is this devilment?”

  “Forgive me if I have caused offence,” said Bran, finding his own true voice at last, “but I knew no better way to convince you all.”

  “Convince?” wondered Llewelyn. “And what, pray, are we to be convinced of, Cousin?”

  Bran shrugged off the black robe, resumed his place at the board, and poured himself a cup of ale, saying, “That I will tell, and gladly.” Smiling broadly, he raised his cup to the men around the board. “First, I would know these kinsmen of mine a little better.”

  “As soon said as done,” replied Llewelyn, some of his former goodwill returning. Indicating the elder man sitting beside him, he said, “This is Hywel Hen, Bishop of Bangor, and the granduncle of young Brocmael beside him; Hywel was brother to your mother’s father. Next is Cynwrig, from Aberffraw, and his son Ifor. Then we have Trahaern, Meurig, and Llygad from Ynys Môn. Meurig is married to your mother’s younger cousin, Myfanwy.”

  “God with you all,” said Bran. “I know your names, and I see my dear mother in your faces. I am pleased to meet you all.”

  “We’ve met before, my boy,” said Hywel Hen, “though I don’t expect you to remember. You were but a bare-bottomed infant in your mother’s arms at the time. I well remember your mother, of course—and your father. Fares the king well, does he?”

  “If it lay in my power to bring you greetings from Lord Brychan, trust that nothing would please me more,” replied Bran. “But such would come to you from beyond the grave.”

  The others took this in silence.

  “My father is dead,” Bran continued, “and all his war band with him. Killed by the Ffreinc who have invaded our lands in Elfael.”

  “Then it is true,” said Meurig. “We heard that the Ffreinc are moving into the southlands.” He shook his head. “I am sorry to hear of King Brychan’s death.”

  “As are we all,” said Trahaern, whose dark hair rippled across his head like the waves of a well-ordered sea. “As are we all. But tell us, young Bran, why did you put on the robes of a priest just now?”

  “I cannot think it was for amusement,” offered Meurig. “But if it was, let me assure you that I am not amused.”

  “Nor I,” said Cynwrig. “Your jest failed, my friend.”

  “In truth, my lords, it was no jest,” replied Bran. “I wanted you to see how easily men defer to a priest’s robe and welcome him that wears it.”

  “You said it was to convince us,” Llewelyn reminded him.

  “Indeed.” Hands on the table, Bran leaned forward. “If I had come to you saying that I intended to fetch King Gruffydd from Earl Hugh’s prison, what would you have said?”

  “That you were softheaded,” chuckled Trahaern. “Or howling mad.”

  “Our king is held behind locked doors in a great rock of a fortress guarded by Wolf Hugh’s own war band,” declared Llygad, a thickset man with the ruddy face of one who likes his ale as much as it likes him. “It cannot be done.”

  “Not by Bran ap Brychan, perhaps,” granted Bran amiably. “But Father Dominic—who you have just seen and welcomed at this very table—has been known to prise open doors barred to all others.”

  He looked to Tuck for confirmation of this fact. “It is true,” the friar avowed with a solemn shaking of his round head. “I have seen it with my own eyes, have I not?”

  “Why should you want to see our Rhi Gruffydd freed from prison?” asked Hywel, fingering the gold bishop’s cross upon his chest. “What is that to you?”

  Despite the bluntness of the question, the others looked to Bran for an answer, and the success of King Raven’s northern venture seemed to balance on a knife edge.

  “What is it to me?” repeated Bran, his tone half-mocking. “In truth, it is everything to me. I came here to ask your king to raise his war band and return with me to help lead them in the fight. Unless, of course, you would care to take the throne in his absence . . . ?” He regarded Hywel pointedly and then turned his gaze to the others around the board. No one volunteered to usurp the king’s authority, prisoner though he was.

  “I thought not,” continued Bran. “It is true that I came here to ask your king to aid me in driving the Ffreinc from our homeland and freeing Elfael from the tyranny of their rule. But now that I know that my best hope lies rotting in a Ffreinc prison—for all he is my kinsman, too—I wi
ll not rest until I have freed him.”

  Bran’s kinsmen stared at him in silence that was finally broken by Trahaern’s sudden bark of laughter.

  “You dream big,” the dark Welshman laughed, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. “I like you.”

  The tension eased at once, and Tuck realized he had been holding his breath—nor was he the only one. The two younger Cymry, silent but watchful, sighed with relief and relaxed in their elders’ pleasure.

  “It will take more than a priest’s robe to fetch Gruffydd from Wolf Hugh’s prison,” Meurig observed. “God knows, if that was all it took he’d be a free man long since.”

  The others nodded knowingly, and looked to Bran for his response.

  “You have no idea,” replied Bran, that slow, dangerous smile sliding across his scarred lips, “how much more there is to me than that.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Caer Rhodl

  The wedding was all Baroness Neufmarché hoped it would be, conducted in regal pomp and elegance by Father Gervais, who had performed the marriage ceremony for herself and the baron all those years ago. Lady Sybil—resplendent in a satin gown of eggshell blue, her long brown hair plaited with tiny white flowers—made a lovely bride. And King Garran, his broad shoulders swathed in a long-sleeved, grey tunic falling to the knees and a golden belt around his lean waist, looked every inch a king worthy of the name. It was to Agnes’s mind a fine match; they made a handsome couple, and seemed unusually happy in one another’s company. Garran’s French was not good, though better than Sybil’s Welsh, but neither seemed to care; they communicated with smiling glances and flitting touches of fingers and hands.

  The final prayer caught Lady Agnes somewhat by surprise. When Sybil’s attendants—several of the groom’s young female cousins—stepped forward to hold the carr over the couple kneeling before Father Gervais, Agnes felt tears welling up in her eyes. The simple white square of cloth was the same one that had been stretched above her head the day she married the baron and which had swaddled the infant Sybil at her baptism. Now it sheltered her daughter on her wedding day, and would, please God, wrap Sybil’s baby in turn. This potent reminder of the continuity of life and the rich depth of family and tradition touched the baroness’s heart and moved her unexpectedly. She stifled a sob.