Scarlet

  Angharad was there, wrapped head to foot in her cloak, although the day was mild enough for that time of year and the sun, low in the southern sky, was bright. Standing beside her was a small boy; I’d seen him before darting here and there about the place, always moving, never still. He seemed a clever, curious child, and a favourite of Bran’s among the youngsters.

  “Gwion Bach has news from Elfael,” she announced when Bran had taken his place. “Count Falkes is expecting winter supplies from his uncle, the baron. The wagons are to arrive any day.”

  “Is it known what is coming?” asked Bran.

  “Grain and wine, cloth and such,” she replied, glancing at the boy, who gave a slight nod. “And some things for the abbot’s new church.”

  “Any day,” mused Bran. “Not much time.”

  “None to lose,” agreed the hudolion.

  “Then we must hurry if we are to make ready a warm welcome for them.” Bran was already moving towards his hut. “Iwan! Siarles! To me!” He paused in midstep, turned, and regarded me as if weighing the prudence of taking an untried hound a-hunting with the pack.

  I sensed his reluctance and guessed what he was thinking. “My lord, I stand ready to lend both hand and heart to whatever command you give me.” Indicating young Gwion Bach, who was following in his lord’s footsteps, I said, “But if even children serve you in this fight, then perhaps you would not deny a willing elder to aid you in your purpose.”

  He nodded once, deciding it then and there. “Come along, Will. Join us.”

  “Rhi Bran!” Angharad called after him. “One thing more—something else comes with the wagons.”

  “Yes?”

  “There will be snow,” she said, gathering her robe around her more tightly.

  Bran accepted this without hesitation, but I had not yet learned to honour these utterances with unquestioning belief. Unable to help myself, I glanced up at the sky, bright and fine, and not the least smudge of a cloud to be seen anywhere. The amused expression on my face must have given me away, for as I stood looking on, Bran called to me. “What,Will? Could it be that you doubt our good banfáith’s word?”

  “Nay, Lord,” I replied, softening his accusation. “Let us rather say that it will be the first time I’ve seen snow from a clear blue sky.”

  “Hmph!” sniffed Angharad, muttering as she stumped away, “These old bones know snow when they feel it.”

  I followed Bran to his hut and took my place alongside the other two. Iwan seemed comfortable enough with my presence, but Siarles did not appear to prize it much. Even so, I was there at the king’s pleasure, so there was nothing to be said or done. “It seems the baron in his boundless generosity is sending us a Christmas blessing,” Bran said. “We must make ready to receive it with all good grace.”

  The other two grinned at the thought, and all three began planning how best to greet the supply wagons when they passed through the forest on their way to Castle Truan. I listened to their talk, keeping my own counsel—as I was yet a little uncertain what manner of outlawry I had fallen into. Every now and then, the name King Raven arose in their discussion. It was the first time I had heard the name used among them in just this way. It was Bran himself they meant, and yet all three spoke of him as if it were someone else.

  Finally, after this had gone on awhile, I asked, “Pardon my ignorance, Lord, but are you not King Raven?”

  “Of course,” replied Bran, “as you already know.”

  “To be sure,” I said, “but why when you speak the name do you say, ‘he will go . . .’ or, ‘. . . when he calls . . .’ and the like, if it is yourself you mean?”

  Bran laughed.

  Iwan answered, “It is Bran and not Bran. See?”

  “Again, I must beg pardon. But that makes no sense to this dull head at all.”

  “Bran is King Raven,” Siarles explained, giving me a superior smile, “but King Raven is not Bran.”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “I may be slow of wit, God knows, but it still seems nonsense to me.”

  Bran said, “Then you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Well, we spent most of the day planning the welcome for the baron’s supply train. While they talked about all they would do, I still had little real idea what to expect save for my part in the proceedings, which amounted to little more than watching the road and being ready with a bow in case events did not fall out as predicted.

  A few of the Grellon were involved, but not many, and none of them was given duty at the sharp end. Bran, Siarles, and Iwan assumed the greatest risk and made particular efforts to keep the people both out of sight and out of danger as much as possible.

  Oh, but it would be dangerous. There was no avoiding that.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was an odd thing: everyone scurrying around like ants in the rain—the children dragging wood into heaps near the door of each hut, and the women bundling foodstuffs, and the men drawing water and snugging the shelters—all labouring under a clear, bright sky to prepare for snow, the only hint of which was a twinge in an old woman’s bones.

  While the rest of us were taking such measures against the coming storm, Iwan and Siarles went to spy out the best place for the welcome. We did not know how many soldiers would come with the wagons, nor how many wagons there might be. But Iwan and Siarles knew the road and knew where an ambush might succeed.

  They were gone all that short winter’s day, returning at dusk. Upon arrival, they went directly to our lord’s hut. Tired from the day’s work, I settled by the common fire where a stew pot was bubbling, to warm myself and wait for the food to be served. “You were busy all day,” observed a woman nearby.

  “I was that.” I turned to see Mérian, bundled in her cloak, taking her place on the log beside me. “My lady, I give you good greeting.”

  “You didn’t go with the others,” she observed.

  “No, there was enough to be done here. They only went to see where the wagons might pass.”

  “To see where the wagons might be attacked,” she corrected. “That is what you mean.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is my meaning.” She made a small tut of disapproval. “You do not agree with the king in this?”

  “Whether I agree or not makes no difference,” she replied crisply. “The point is that Bran will never achieve peace with the baron if he insists on raiding and thieving. It only angers the baron and provokes him and the count to ever more cruel reprisals.”

  “You are right, of course,” I agreed. “But from where I stand, I don’t see Rhi Bran making peace with the baron or the count, either one. He wants to punish them.”

  “He wants the return of his throne,” she corrected crisply, “and he will not achieve it by plundering a few supply wagons.”

  “No, perhaps not.”

  “There!” she said, as if she had won a victory herself. “You agree. You see what must be done.”

  “My lady?”

  “You must talk to Bran and persuade him to change his mind about the raid.”

  “Me?” I said. “I cannot. I dare not.”

  “Why?” she said, turning her large dark eyes on me.

  “It is not my place.”

  “I would have thought it the place of any right-thinking man to help his lord whenever he can. Certainly, if you saw him sticking his hand in a nest of vipers you would warn him.”

  I regarded her closely before answering. “My lady, please,” I said. “I cannot do as you ask. Iwan might, and I daresay Siarles would risk it. But Will here cannot. I do beg your pardon.”

  She lifted one slender shoulder and sighed. “Oh, very well. It was worth a try. Do not think poorly of me, Will Scarlet. It is just that . . .” She paused to find the right word. “I get so vexed with him sometimes. He will not listen to me, and I don’t know what else to do.”

  I accepted this in silence, stretching my hands towards the flames.

  “I know he will get himself killed one day,” she continued after a
time. “If the sheriff catches him, or one of the baron’s men, Bran is as good as dead before the sun sets.”

  “You worry about him.”

  “Truly, I do so worry,” she confided. “I do not think I could bear losing him again.”

  “Again?”

  She nodded, growing pensive. “It was just after the Ffreinc came to Elfael. The king—Bran’s father, Lord Brychan—had been killed and all the warband with him. Only Iwan survived.” She went on to describe how Bran had been seized and taken hostage by Count Falkes, and how he had fled the cantref. “He might have made good his escape, but he stopped to help a farmer and his wife who were being attacked by the count’s rogues. He fought them off, but others came and gave chase. They caught him, and he was wounded and left for dead.” She paused, adding in a softer voice, “Word went out that he had been killed . . . and so I thought. Everyone thought he had been killed. I only learned the truth very much later.”

  She drew breath as if there was more she would say, but thought better of it just then, for she fell silent instead.

  “How did Bran survive?” I asked after a moment.

  “Angharad found him,” she explained, “and brought him back to life. He has lived in the forest ever since.”

  I considered this. It explained the curious bond I sensed between the old woman and the young man, and the way in which he honoured her. I thought on this for a time, content in the silence and the warmth of the flames.

  “He won’t always live in the forest,” I said, more to have something to say and so prolong our time together.

  “No?” she replied, glancing sideways at me. She was kneading her fingers before the fire, and the flames made her eyes shine bright.

  “Why, he intends to win back his throne. You said so yourself just now. When that happens, I expect we will all bid the forest a fond fare-thee-well.”

  “But that will never happen,” she insisted. “Does no one see? The baron is too strong, his wealth too great. He will never let Elfael go. Am I the only one who sees the truth?” She shook her head sadly. “What Bran wants is impossible.”

  “Well,” I said, “I wouldn’t be too sure. I have seen the lone canny fox outwit the hunter often enough to know that it matters little how many horses and men you have. All the wealth and weapons in the world will not catch the fox that refuses to be caught.”

  She smiled at that, which surprised me. “Do you really think so?”

  “God’s truth, my lady. That is exactly what I think.”

  “Thank you for that.” She smiled again and laid her hand on my arm. “I am glad you are here, Will.”

  Just then, the first fresh flakes of snow arrived. One brushed her forehead and caught on her dark eyelashes. She blinked and looked up as the snow began to fall gently all around. God help me, I did not look at the snow. I saw only Mérian.

  Is she?” Odo wants to know. His question brings me out of a reverie, and I realise I’ve drifted off for some moments.

  “Is she what, lad?” I ask.

  “Is she very beautiful—as beautiful as they say?”

  “Oh, lad, she is all that and more. It is not her face or hair or fine noble bearing—it is all these things and more. She is a right fair figure of a woman, and I will trounce the man who slanders her good name. She was born to be a queen—and if there is a God in heaven, that is what she will be.”

  “Pity,” sniffs Odo. “With men like you to protect her, I wouldn’t give a rat’s whisker for her chances. Most likely, she’ll share the noose with your Rhi Bran.”

  Oh, this makes me angry. “Listen, you little pus pot of a priest,” I say, my voice low and tight. “This en’t finished yet, not by a long walk. So, if you have any other clever ideas like this, keep ’em under your skirt.” Tired of him, of my confinement, sick of the pain that burns in my wounded leg, I lean back on my filthy pallet and turn my face away.

  Odo is silent a moment, as well he should be, then says, “Sorry, Will, I did not mean to offend you. I only meant—”

  “It makes no matter,” I tell him. “Read back where we left off.”

  He does, and we go on.

  The snow fell through the night. We awoke to a thick layer of white fluff over the forest. Branches dragged down and saplings bent low beneath the weight of cold, wet snow. Our little village of low-roofed huts lay almost hidden beneath this shroud. Early yet, the sun was just rising as we gathered our gear and made our final preparations. After a quick meal of black bread, curds, and apples, we gathered to receive our marching orders.

  “Here,” said Siarles, handing me what appeared to be a bundle of rags covered with bark and twigs and leaf wrack, “put this on.”

  Taking the bundle, I shook it out and held it up before me. “A cloak?” I asked, none too certain of my guess. Long, ragged, dun-coloured things with all manner of forest ruck sewn on, they looked like the pelt of some fantastical woodland creature born of tree and fern.

  “We wear these when moving about the forest,” he said, pulling a similar garment around his shoulders. “Good protection.”

  Folk—whether two-legged or four—are difficult enough to see in dense wood. This, any forester will tell you for nothing. Wearing these cloaks, a fella would be well-nigh impossible to see even for eyes trained in tracking game along tangled pathways through dense brush in the dim or faulty light that is the forest. Nevertheless, bless me for a dunce, I saw a flaw in the plan. “It has snowed,” I said.

  “You noticed,” replied Siarles. “Oh, you’re a shrewd one, no mistake.” He indicated a basket into which the others were digging. “Get busy.”

  The basket was filled with scrags of sheep’s wool, birch bark, and scraps of bleached linen and such which we fixed to the distinctive hooded cloaks of the Grellon, quickly adapting them for use in the snow.

  One of the men, Tomas—a slender, light-footed little Welshman—helped me with mine, then set it on my shoulders just right and adjusted the hood as I drew the laces tight. I did the same for him, and Iwan passed among us with bow staves, strings, and bags of arrows. I tucked the strings into the leather pouch at my belt and slung the bag upon my back. At Bran’s signal, we fell in behind Iwan and tried our best to keep up with his great, ground-covering stride; no easy chore in the best of times, it was made more difficult still by the snow.

  After a while we came to a place beneath the great overhanging limbs of oak and ash and hornbeam where the path was wide and still mostly dry. I found myself walking beside Tomas. “Once in Hereford, a man told me a tale about Abbot Hugo losing his gold candlesticks to King Raven,” I said, opening a question that had been rumbling around in my skull for some time now. “Is it true at all?”

  “Aye, ’tis true,” Tomas assured me. “Mostly.”

  “Which part? Pardon my asking.”

  “What did you hear?” he countered.

  “There were twenty wagons full of gold and silver church treasure, they said—and all of it under guard of a hundred mounted knights and men-at-arms. They say King Raven swooped down, killed the soldiers with his fiery breath, and snatched away the gold candlesticks to use in unholy devil rites,” I told him. “That’s what I heard.”

  “We did stop the wagons and help lighten the load,” replied the Welshman. “And there was some gold, yes, and the candlesticks—that’s true enough. But there were never a hundred knights.”

  “Twenty, more like,” put in Siarles, who had overheard us talking.

  “Aye, only twenty,” confirmed Iwan, joining in. “And there weren’t but three oxcarts. Still, we got more than seven hundred marks in that one raid, not counting the candlesticks.”

  “And how much since then?” I asked, thinking I had come into a most gainful employment.

  “A little here and there,” said Siarles. “Nothing much.”

  “Only some pigs and a cow or two now and then,” put in Iwan.

  “Aye, any that wander too close to the forest,” said Tomas. “Them’s ours.”
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  “But the way people talk you’d think the raids were ten-a-day.”

  “You can’t help the way people talk,” Iwan said. “We might stop the odd wagon betimes to remind folk to respect King Raven’s wood, but there was only the one big raid.”

  “What did you do with all the money?”

  “We gave it away,” said Tomas, a note of pride in his voice. “Gave it to Bishop Asaph to build a new monastery.”

  “All of it?”

  “Most of it,” agreed Iwan placidly. “We still have a little kept by.”

  “Thing is,” said Siarles, “silver coin isn’t all that useful in the forest.”

  “We give out what is needful to the folk of Elfael to help keep body and soul together.”

  I had heard this part of the tale, too, but imagined it merely wishful thinking on the part of those telling the story. It seemed, however, the generosity of Rhi Bran the Hud was true even if the greater extent of his notorious activities was not.

  “Just the one big raid? Why so?”

  “Two good reasons,” Iwan replied.

  “It is flamin’ dangerous,” put in Siarles.

  “To be sure,” said Iwan. “It does no one any good if we are caught or killed in a needless fight. Neither did we want the Ffreinc to become so wary they would make the escorts too large to easily defeat . . .”

  “Or change the route the wagons followed,” Siarles said. The slight edge to his tone suggested that he did not altogether agree with the caution of his betters.

  “As a result,” continued Iwan, “the Ffreinc have grown lax of late. Because they have passed through the forest without trouble these many months, they think they can come and go at will now. Today, we will remind them who allows them this right.”

  Such prudence, I thought. They would not spend themselves except for great and certain gain, nor kill the goose that laid the silver eggs. Meanwhile, they watched and waited for those chances worthy of their interest.

  “Am I to take it that today’s supply train is of sufficient value to make a raid worth the risk?”