Tuck by Stephen R. Lawhead
“Nonsense,” snorted William. “Hang the cost and bloodshed. The rest of Wales will see and understand by this that our sovereign rule will not be violated. Treason will not be tolerated. And that will save blood and silver in days to come.”
“You can always invade Wales as a last resort, my liege,” suggested Cardinal Flambard. “Should the embassy fail, that is, which I doubt . . .”
But William the Red was no longer listening. He had turned his back and was striding for the door. “Send to the barons, Cardinal,” he called over his shoulder. “All are to meet me in Hereford ready to fight in six days’ time.”
PART FIVE
For nine seasons long they lived in the woode
he sheriff, they vexed, and his men.
The regent’s reeve bent but did not yet break,
and Rhiban was angered with him.
“I must regayne my land and my rights,
My people needs all must be free.
Let’s go with our bows to the true king’s keep,
And there with our points make our plea.”
“I rede that not,” said Mérian fayre,
“Belovéd, repent of your haste.
Let’s all of us, yeomen and women alike,
Go with you to argue your case.”
So soon they are gone up to greate Lundein Town,
Wives, maids, and warriors same.
But when city folk ’round there them saw,
They thought that besiegers there came.
The ploughman he leaves his plough in the fields,
The smithy has fled from his shop;
And beggars who only a’creeping could go,
Over their crutches did hop.
The king is informed of the forth-marching host
And assembles his armies at speed.
He swings-to the gates and he marshals his men,
Their progress he means to impede.
With Fryer Tuck, Rhiban approaches the king
Under the true sign of peace.
The king gives him entrance, for he is full wise
And wishes hostility cease.
“God save the king,” quod Rhiban to he,
“And them that wish him full well;
And he that does his true sovereign deny,
I wish him with Satan to dwell.”
CHAPTER 32
Iwan awoke in the hall of the fortress where he had been born, raised, and grown to manhood. As a young warrior, he had become champion to Brychan ap Tewdwr, Bran’s father—a hard man, fair but uncompromising, easily angered and stony as flint—and until the arrival of the Ffreinc invaders Caer Cadarn, the Iron Stronghold, had been his home. God willing, it would be again.
He sat up and looked around at the scores of bodies asleep on the floor around him, then rose and quietly made his way to the entrance, pushed open the heavy oaken door, and stepped out into the quiet dawn of a fresh day. He turned his face to the new-risen sun and drew the soft morning air deep into his lungs, exhaling slowly. From somewhere high above a lark poured out its heart in praise of a glorious day. “It should be like this always,” he murmured.
Surveying the yard and surrounding buildings, he noted the alterations made to the old fortress during the Ffreinc occupation of the last four years—mostly for the better, he had to admit. The timber palisade had been shored up all around, and weak timbers replaced and strengthened; a covered guard station had been erected above the entrance gate; the roof of the hall had been replaced with new thatch and given stout new doors; there were new storehouses, a granary, and the kitchen and cookhouse had both been enlarged. There were other changes he would notice in the days to come, to be sure.
Still, it felt like home to him. The thought brought a rare smile to his lips. He had come home.
What the day held, he could not say, but if it was anything like the last it would be busy. Since the capture of the sheriff and the departure of Hugo and his retinue from Saint Martin’s, Cymry had been streaming to the caer bringing provisions and livestock; men and women brought their families for protection and to help defend the caer against the retaliation all knew was surely coming. For now, they were housed mostly in the hall and outbuildings of the fortress—with a few, here and there, sleeping on the ramparts.
He washed his face in the big, iron basin beside the door and then walked across the deserted yard to an empty storehouse behind the stables. Outside the small, square wooden building he found Alan a’Dale sitting slumped against a nearby post, his head on his knees.
“God with you, Alan,” said Iwan, nudging the minstrel with his foot.
Alan jolted awake and jumped to his feet. “Oh, Iwan—it’s you. Here, I must have nodded off for a few winks just then.”
“Never mind,” said Iwan. “No harm done. Has our captive made any trouble?”
“Quiet as a lamb,” replied Alan. He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Quieter, even. Maybe he has resigned himself to his fate.”
“Not likely,” replied Iwan. “Open the door, and let’s have a look at him.”
Alan untied the braided leather rope used to secure the storehouse and pulled open the rough plank door. There, huddled in his cloak on the beaten dirt floor, sat Richard de Glanville, Sheriff of Elfael, chained at the wrists and ankles, red-eyed from lack of sleep, his hair wild on his head as if he had been beating his skull against the walls of his prison. He spat and began cursing as soon as he saw who had come to observe him.
Iwan regarded the enraged prisoner for a moment, then said, “You would think a man so eager for the captivity of others would endure his own with a little more dignity. What is he saying?”
Alan listened to the sheriff ’s onrushing gush of abuse, then said, “Nothing worth hearing. Suffice it to say that he holds himself ill-used.”
“No doubt,” Iwan agreed, then addressed the prisoner. “If you think yourself mistreated now, Sheriff, try escaping and whole new realms of woe will open before you.” To Alan he added, “Tell him what I said.”
Alan did as commanded, which loosed another tirade in snarled French from the captive. “Me tuer maintenant, ou me relâcher—je l’exige!”shouted Sheriff de Glanville. “Vous les porcs dégoûtants. M’entendre? Je l’exige!”
“What did he say?” asked Iwan. “Something about pigs?”
“Aye, swine came into it,” replied Alan. “More to the point, he says he wants us to kill him now or set him free.”
“If it was left to me,” replied the champion, “he would have had his wish long since. But our Lord Bran thinks he may be of some value yet.”
“Mes regrets, mon shérif. Hélas, il est impossible,” said Alan to the sheriff, who spat by way of reply.
Iwan said, “I’ll send someone to relieve your watch very soon. But before you go, see his water bowl is filled and get him some bread and a little meat if there is any.”
“As good as done,” replied Alan.
“And tell our hostage that he is going to be with us for a few more days at least, so he must try to endure his captivity with better grace than he has shown till now.”
This was passed along to the prisoner, who spat again and turned his face to the wall. Alan retied the rope securing the door, and he and Iwan walked across the yard to the hall. “He is a right rogue, that one,” Alan observed. “As black-souled a brute as ever strode the earth on two legs. What if King William will not bargain for his life?”
“Oh, he’ll bargain, never fear,” Iwan assured him. “For all his faults, de Glanville is a Ffreinc nobleman. And if I’ve learned anything these last years, it is that the noble Ffreinc look out for their own. William may not like de Glanville very much—no blame there, God knows—but he will bargain. All we need do is make sure the ransom is not so high that the king will refuse to pay.”
Following the eviction of the Ffreinc from the cantref, Bran had swiftly moved to occupy not only the fortress of Caer Cadarn, but the nearby town as well, reclaiming them for the Cy
With these measures in place, Bran had returned to Cél Craidd; and now, two days after escorting Abbot Hugo and Marshal Gysburne and their few remaining troops to the borders of the March, he planned his defence of his realm. He had spent the day at the caer working with Iwan on the fortifications there, returning at sundown. And now, while the rest of the forest dwellers slept, Bran sat in council with his closest advisors: Angharad, his Wise Banfáith, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet, and Owain. Mérian’s absence was a pang felt by them all.
“Forgive me, Rhi Bran, but I thought—” Owain gave a shrug. “What is the point of driving out the enemy if we still must skulk around in the greenwood like outlaws?”
“We have not seen the last of the Ffreinc,” Bran told him. “Iwan and Siarles can direct the defence of the caer, but we need Cél Craidd as well.”
“How long, then?” Owain asked.
“Until William the Red recognizes my claim,” Bran replied.
“Surely, that cannot be long in coming,” Owain said. “The king must recognize your kingship now. We’ve defeated his lackeys.”
“Nothing of the kind, lad,” Scarlet told him. “We’ve bloodied their noses a bit, is all. They’ll come back—”
“In force,” added Tuck. “You can bet your last ha’penny on that.”
Two days of jubilation following the Ffreinc defeat had given way to more sober reflection. It was, Tuck thought, as if the farm dog that chased every passing wagon had, against every sane expectation, finally caught one. Now the forest dwellers were faced with the awful realization that there would be reprisals, and they were woefully outmanned. How could they hope to protect their gains? That was the question in the forefront of their minds, and it leached the joy from their hearts.
“The point is,” Bran continued, “we will never be secure in Elfael until we have King William’s seal on a treaty of peace and protection. I do not expect Red William to grant that without a fight—which is why we’re still skulking around in the greenwood like outlaws.” He broke another stick and tossed the ends into the fire, then declared the council at an end.
Scarlet rose and shuffled off to join Noín and Nia in their hut; Owain, whose wound, though still painful, was healing quickly, went to his rest. Tuck and Angharad were left to sit with Bran a little while longer. “You are right to prepare for war, of course,” Tuck began.
“Did you think we would gain Elfael without one?”
“But perhaps King William’s appetite for this war is no match for your own,” the friar ventured, watching the firelight and shadows flicker over Bran’s sharp features. “Perhaps even now he is searching for a way to avoid a fight.”
“Perhaps,” Bran allowed. “What are you suggesting?”
“We might send an emissary to the king with an offer of peace.”
Bran regarded the little priest thoughtfully.
“Peace, that is,” Tuck clarified, “in exchange for fealty.”
“If William recognizes my throne, I agree to swear fealty—and the war is over.”
“Over before it has begun.”
Bran looked to Angharad sitting quietly beside the fire on her three-legged stool. “What do you see?” he asked.
“The friar is right to suggest an offer of peace,” observed Angharad. “It is close to God’s heart always.” She rose stiffly and pulled the edges of her Bird Spirit cloak closed. “But unless God moves in the Red King’s heart, peace we will not have.”
The old woman made a little stirring motion with her hands in the smoke from the fire, then lifted her palms upward as if raising the fragrance towards the night-dark sky above. Tilting her face heavenward, her small, dark eyes lost in the creases of her wrinkled face, she stood very still for a long moment.
Bran and Tuck found themselves holding their breath in anticipation.
At last, she sighed.
“What do you see, Mother?” asked Bran gently, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the flames.
“I see . . .” she began, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly as she searched the tangled pathways of the future. “. . . I see a trail of blood that leads from this place and spreads throughout the land. Where it ends, God knows.” She opened her eyes, and her face crinkled in a sad smile. “What we sow here will be reaped not by our children, but by our children’s children—or those who after them come. But sow we must; another course we have not.”
“Yet, there is hope?” asked the friar.
“There is always hope, Aethelfrith,” replied the old woman. “In hope we do abide. As children of the Swift Sure Hand, hope is our true home. You, a priest, must understand this.”
Tuck smiled at the gentle rebuke. “I bow to your teaching, Banfáith. And you are right, of course. I used to know a bishop who said much the same thing. Hope is the treasure of our souls, he would say.”
“It is an end worth fighting for,” mused Bran. “It may be for others to complete what we’ve begun, but there must be a beginning. And we will carry this fight as far as we can before passing it on to those who come after.”
The three of them sat in silence, watching the flames and listening to the crack and hiss of the wood as it burned. From somewhere in the forest an owl called to its mate. It was a sound Tuck had heard countless times since throwing in his lot with the forest folk, but tonight it filled him with an almost unbearable sadness. He rose from his place and bade the other two a good night. “God rest you right well, friends, and grant you His peace.”
“Tuck,” said Bran as the friar stepped from the hearth, “the Ffreinc are grasping, devious devils—false-hearted as the sea is wide. Even so, I am willing to swear fealty to Red William if it means we can draw a living breath without their foot on our neck. If you can find a way to speak peace to William, I stand ready to do my part. I want you to know that.”
That night the friar did not sleep. Though cool and damp, the sky was clear and ablaze with stars; he found a place among the roots of one of the giant oaks and settled down in the dry bracken to pray for Elfael and its people, and all those who would not be able to avoid the war that was coming. He was praying still when the watchers rose, silently saddled their horses, and departed Cél Craidd to take up their posts on the King’s Road.
CHAPTER 33
Hereford
Spare me the excuses, Marshal,” said King William, cutting off the lengthy beggings of pardon as read out by Guy of Gysburne. Following his eviction from Elfael, his fortunes had risen beyond anything he might have dared to hope. Owing to his intimate knowledge of the Cymry and the lands beyond the March, the young marshal had become an aide-de-camp to William Rufus for the purpose of what the king now referred to as the Harrowing of Wales. “Tell it to me plain—who has come?”
Gysburne allowed his gaze to drop down the parchme
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the king irritably. “Go on.”
“There is de Mowbray of Northumberland, who also sends regrets and apologies, albeit he is en route and will join you as soon as travel permits.” Guy looked up from the roll. “As for the rest, we must presume they are either on their way, or sending petitions of pardon.”
The king nodded. “There is one notable absence.”
“Sire?”
“Neufmarché, of course. This is his castle, by the bloody rood! He should be here to receive us. Where is he?”
“I have spoken to his seneschal, Sire, who will say only that the baron is away visiting his lands in Wales. The summons was sent on, but it is not at all certain that it reached him, since the messenger has not yet returned.”
“I swear upon my father’s grave, if Neufmarché does not appear in two days’ time, it would be better for him not to appear at all.”
“Sire?”
“The baron is a devious, two-faced schemer, Marshal. I snubbed him once to put him in his place—summoned him to attend me and then kept him wearing out the waiting bench for three days . . . and this is how he repays the insult. He should have learned humility.”
“So one would think, Majesty.”
William began pacing, his short, bowed legs making quick steps from one side of the chamber to the other. “On the martyrs’ blood, I will not have it. Mark me, Gysburne, the king will not have it! I will make an example of this vexsome baron for once and all. God help me, I will. If Neufmarché does not appear with his men by the time we leave this place, he is banished and his estates in England fall forfeit to the crown. I vow it.”