Tuck

  “They came quick and they came quiet,” Rhoddi said when he had swallowed a few mouthfuls of water and splashed a cup over his head. “It was already getting dark, and they were on us before we knew it or we would have prepared a welcome for them.”

  “Where’s Iwan?” asked Siarles, already halfway to flying off to his aid.

  “He stayed to watch and see if any more came along,” explained Owain. “He sent us on ahead.” Catching Siarles’s disapproving glance, the young warrior added, “There was nothing we could do. There were just too many, and we didn’t have men or arrows enough to take ’em on.”

  “We thought better to let be this once,” offered Rhoddi.

  “Rhi Bran would have fought ’em,” said Siarles.

  “Given men enough and clear warning to get set in place, aye,” agreed Rhoddi, “King Raven would have taken ’em on and no doubt won the day. But we en’t Bran, and we didn’t have men enough or time.”

  Iwan had returned a little while later to confirm what the others had said. “So now, Bloody Hugo has fifty more knights to throw at us. I hope Bran and Tuck fare well on their errand—we’ll need all the help we can get. I just wish there was some way to get word to them.”

  Now, as the sun beat down brightly upon their wildwood settlement, Mérian looked around at the quiet industry around her, Iwan’s words circling in her mind like restless birds. I might not be able to get word to Bran, she thought, but I can do better than that—I can raise troops myself. In that moment, she knew what she had to do: she would go to her father and persuade him to join Bran in the battle to drive the Ffreinc out of Elfael. Her father could command thirty, perhaps forty men, and each one trained to the longbow. Experienced archers would be more than welcome and, added to however many men Bran was able to raise, would form the beginnings of a fair army. She knew Bran’s feelings about involving her father, but he was wrong. She’d tried to persuade him otherwise and met with a stubborn—nay, prideful—resistance. But in this matter of life and death, she considered, the outcome was just too important to allow such petty concerns to cloud good judgement. They needed troops, her father had them, and that was that.

  Bran, she knew, would forgive her when he saw the men she would bring. Moreover, if she left at once, she could be back in Cél Craidd with the promise of warriors or better, the warriors themselves, before Bran returned.

  Having made up her mind, the urge to go reared up like a wild horse and she was borne along like a helpless rider clinging to its neck. She made short work of the arrow she was fletching, set it aside, and rose, brushing bits of feather from her lap. I can’t be wearing this home to meet my family, she decided, looking down at her stained and threadbare gown. Hurrying to her hut, she went inside and drew a bundle down from the rafters, untied it, and shook out the gown she had worn as an Italian noblewoman when accompanying Bran on the mission to rescue Will Scarlet. Though of the finest quality, the material was dark and heavy and made her look like an old woman; nevertheless, it was all she had and it would have to do. As she changed into the gown, she thought about what she would say to the family she had not seen for . . . how long had it been? Two years? Three? Too long, to be sure.

  She brushed her hair and washed her face, and then hurried off to prepare a little something to eat on the way, and to ready a horse. Caer Rhodl was no great distance. It was still early; if she left at once and did not stop on the way, she could be there before nightfall.

  “Are you certain, my lady?” said Noín with a frown when Mérian explained why she was saddling a horse while wearing her Italian gown. “Perhaps you should wait and speak to Iwan. Tell him what you plan.”

  “I am only going to visit my family,” replied Mérian lightly. “Nothing ill can come of it.”

  “Then tell Angharad. She should—” Mérian was already shaking her head. “But you must tell someone.”

  “I am,” said Mérian. “I’m telling you, Noín. But I want you to promise me you won’t tell anyone else until this evening when I’m sure to be missed. Promise me.”

  “Not even Will?”

  “No,” said Mérian, “not a word to anyone—even Will. I should be at Caer Rhodl by the time anyone thinks to come looking for me, and by then there will be no need.”

  “Take someone with you, at least,” suggested Noín, her voice taking on a note of pleading. “We could tell Will, and he could go with you.”

  “He is needed here,” answered Mérian, brushing aside the offer. “Besides, I will be safe home before anyone knows it.”

  Noín’s frown deepened; a crease appeared between her lowered brows. “There are dangerous folk about,” she protested weakly.

  “I shouldn’t worry,” replied Mérian, a smile curving her lips. “The only dangerous folk here about are us.” She took the other woman’s hand and pressed it firmly. “I’ll be fine.”

  With that, she took up her small cloth bag, mounted quickly into the saddle, and was gone.

  She struck off along a familiar path—it seemed as if she had lived a lifetime in this forest; were there any paths she didn’t know?—and with swift, certain strides soon reached the King’s Road. There she paused to take a drink of water from her stoppered jar and listen for anyone moving in the greenwood. Satisfied there was no one else about, she crossed the road, flitting quickly as a bird darting from one leafy shelter to another, and rode quickly on.

  Just after midday, the trail divided and she took the southern turning, which, if she remembered correctly, would lead to her father’s lands in Eiwas. The day was warm now, and she was sweating through her clothes; she drank some more water and moved along once more, riding a little slower now; she was well away from Cél Craidd, and there had been no sign of anyone following her. Except for a few stands of nettles and some brambles to be avoided, the path was clear and bright and easy underfoot. When she grew hungry, she ate from the bag slung under her arm, but she did not stop until finally reaching the forest’s southwestern border.

  Here, at the edge of the great wood that formed the boundary of the March, the land fell away to the south in gentle, sloping runs of low, grassy hills and wooded valleys—the land of her home. As she gazed out upon it now, Mérian was lifted up and swept away on wave after wave of guilt: it was so close! And all this time it had been awaiting her return—her family had been awaiting her return.

  Stepping from the forest, she started down the broad face of a long hill towards the small, winding track she knew would lead her home—the same track Bran had used so often in the past when he came calling, usually in the dead of night. The thought sent another pang through her. Why, oh why, had she never tried to get home sooner?

  It was no good telling herself that she had been taken prisoner and held against her will. That had been true for only the first few moments of her captivity. Events had proven Bran right: Baron Neufmarché was a sly, deceitful enemy, and no friend of hers or her family’s. He had shown neither qualm nor hesitation in sending men to kill them following their escape. Once she understood that, she had stopped trying to get away. In fact, she had been more than content to remain at Bran’s side in his struggle to save Elfael. And after that first season, the greenwood had become her home, and truth be told, she had rarely spared a passing thought for Eiwas or her family since.

  The reason was, she decided, because in her heart of hearts she knew there was nothing waiting for her at Caer Rhodl except marriage—most likely to an insufferable Ffreinc nobleman of her father’s choosing in order to advance her family’s fortunes and keep the cantref safe. As true as that may have been, it was still only part of the tale. Partly, too, her lack of interest in returning home was due to the fact that in the months following her abduction she had become a trusted member of King Raven’s council. In Cél Craidd she was honoured and her presence esteemed by all, and not merely some chattel to be packed off to the first Norman with a title that her father deemed advantageous to befriend. Mérian did not mean to condemn her father, b
ut in the precarious world her family inhabited that was the way things were.

  In short, with Bran she had a place—a place where she was needed, valued, and loved, a place she did not have without him. And that, more than anything else, had prevented her from leaving.

  Now Bran needed her more than ever, if he only knew it. Stubborn as an old plough horse, Bran had refused to even consider asking her father for aid. They needed warriors; Lord Cadwgan had them. The solution was simple, and Mérian was not so childish as to allow anything so inconsequential as stubbornness or pride or a misplaced sense of honour to stand in the way of obtaining the aid her people so desperately needed.

  Oh, there was a question: when, exactly, had she begun thinking of them as her people?

  Mérian continued along the well-trod trail, her mind ranging far and wide as her mount carried her unerringly home. Once she passed a farmer and his wife working in a turnip field; they exchanged greetings, but she did not turn aside to talk to them. In fact, she stopped only once for a short rest in a little shady nook beside the road; she watered the horse, then drank some herself, and splashed some water on her face before moving on again. The sun quartered the sky, eventually beginning its long descent.

  The sun was well down and the first stars were alight in the east when Mérian came in sight of Caer Rhodl. The old fortress with its timber walls stood tall and upright on the hill, the little wooden church quiet in the valley below. The place breathed an air of peace and contentment. In fact, nothing about the settlement had changed that she could see. Everything was still just the same as she remembered it.

  This thought gave her heart a lift as she hurried on, reaching the long ramp leading to the gate, which stood open as if awaiting her arrival. A few more quick steps brought her through the gate and into the yard, where Mérian paused to look around.

  Across the way, two grooms were leading horses to the stables; the horses were lathered, lately ridden—and at some distance and speed. Odd, she had not seen them on the road.

  And then she saw Garran, her brother. Mérian had only the briefest glimpse of him as he disappeared through the entrance to the hall, but she thought he was in the company of a young woman. With a shout, she called his name and started across the yard. Three men and several women stood talking near the kitchen; they turned at Mérian’s cry and saw a dark-haired young woman in a long dark gown flitting across the yard.

  “Here! You!” shouted one of the men, moving forward. “Stop!”

  When Mérian gave no sign that she had heard him, he cried out again, and moved to catch her before she reached the hall.

  “Here, now!” he called, stepping into her path. “Where might you be going, young miss?”

  So intent was she that it was not until the man took hold of her arm that she noticed him. “What?” she said. Feeling the man’s hand tighten around her arm, she tried to pull away. “Let me go!” Looking towards the door to the hall, she cried, “Garran! Garran, it’s me!”

  “Be still,” said the man, pulling her back. “You just stop that now. We’re going to have a talk.”

  “Let me go!” She turned to face her captor, and recognized him as one of her father’s men. “Luc?”

  “Here, now,” he said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “How do you know my name?”

  “Luc, it’s Mérian,” she said. “Mérian—do you not know me?”

  A figure appeared in the doorway behind Luc. “What’s this?”

  Mérian’s gaze shifted to the hall entrance. “Garran!”

  “I warned you,” said her father’s man, pulling her away. “Come along. You’re going to—”

  “Release me!” Mérian wriggled in his grasp.

  “Mérian?”

  She turned to find herself looking into the face of her very astonished brother.

  “Saints and angels, Mérian,” he gasped, “is it really you?”

  “Oh, Garran—thank God, you’re here. I—I . . .” she began, and suddenly could not speak for the lump in her throat.

  “Lady Mérian,” said Luc, “forgive me. On my word I didn’t recognize you.” He turned and called to the others who stood looking on. “El! Rhys! It’s Lady Mérian come home!”

  The others surged forward, clamouring all at once. Garran silenced them with a wave of his hand. “Look at you,” he said, lifting her face with a thumb and finger. “Where have you been all this time?”

  “Father and Mother—are they here? Of course they are,” she said, finding her voice again. She started towards the hall. “I’m longing to see them. Come, Garran, you can present me to the king.” When her brother did not move, she turned to him again. The solemn look on his face stopped her. “Why? What is it?”

  “Father is dead, Mérian.”

  She heard what he said, but did not credit the words. “Where?” she asked. “Come along, I’m certain they—”

  “Mérian, no,” said Garran firmly. “Listen to me. Father is dead.”

  “He was sick for a very long time, my lady,” offered Luc. “My lord Cadwgan died last spring.”

  “Father . . . dead?” Her stomach tightened into a knot, and her breath came in a gasp as the full weight of this new reality broke upon her. “It can’t be . . .”

  Garran nodded. “I’m the king now.”

  “And mother?” she asked, fearing the answer.

  “She is well,” replied Garran. “Although, when she sees you . . .”

  Some of the others who had gathered around spoke up. “Where have you been?” they asked. “We were told you had been killed. We thought you dead long ago.”

  “I was taken captive,” Mérian explained. “I was not harmed.”

  “Who did this to you?” demanded Luc. “Tell us and we will avenge you, my lady. This outrage cannot be allowed to stand—”

  “Peace, Luc,” Garran interrupted. “That is enough.We will discuss this later. Now I want to take my sister inside and let her get washed. You and Rhys spread the news. Tell everyone that Lady Mérian has come home.”

  “Gladly, Sire,” replied Rhys, who hurried off to tell the women standing a little way off.

  Rhi Garran led the way into the hall, and Mérian followed, walking across the near-empty hall on stiff legs. She was brought to her father’s chamber at the far end of the hall and paused to smooth her clothes and hair with her fingers before allowing Garran to open the door. She gave him a nod, whereupon he knocked on the door, lifted the latch, and pushed it open.

  The dowager queen sat alone in a chair with an embroidery frame on a stand before her. With a needle in one hand and the other resting on the taut surface of the stretched fabric, she hummed to herself as she bent over her work.

  “Mother?” said Mérian, stepping slowly into the room as if entering a dream where anything might happen.

  “Dear God in heaven!” shrieked Queen Anora, glancing up to see who it was that had entered the room.

  “Mother, I—”

  “Mérian!” Anora cried, leaping up so quickly she overturned the embroidery frame. She stretched out her arms to the daughter she had never hoped to see again. “Oh, Mérian. Come here, child.”

  Mérian stepped hesitantly at first, then ran, and was gathered into her mother’s embrace. “Oh, oh, I—” she began, and found she could not speak. Tears welled in her eyes and began to run down her cheeks. She felt her mother’s hands on her face and her lips on her cheek.

  “There now, dear heart,” her mother said soothingly. “All is well now you’re home.”

  “Oh, Mother, I-I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, burying her face in the hollow of her mother’s throat. “There are so many times I would have come to you—so many times I should have come . . .”

  “Hush, dearest one,” whispered Queen Anora, stroking her daughter’s hair. “You are here now and nothing else matters.” She held Mérian for a time without speaking, then said, “I only wish your father could have seen this day.”

  Mérian, overcome with grief an
d guilt, wept all the more. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured again. “So very sorry.”

  “Never mind,” Anora sighed after a moment. “You’re home now. Nothing else matters.” She held her daughter at arm’s length and cast her eyes over her, as if at a gown or tunic she had just finished sewing. “You’re half starved. Look at you, Mérian: you’re thin as a wraith.”

  Mérian stepped back a little and looked down the length of her body, smoothing her bedraggled clothing with her hands. “We have many mouths to feed, and there is not always enough,” she began.

  There was a movement behind her, and a voice said, “Quel est ceci?”

  Mérian’s shock at hearing the news of her father’s death was only slightly greater than that of seeing the women who had entered the room. “Sybil!” gasped Mérian. “Baroness Neufmarché!”

  At the sight of Mérian, Lady Agnes Neufmarché put her hands to her face in amazement. “Mon Dieu!”

  “Mérianne,” said Sybil, echoing her mother’s astonishment.

  Prince Garran stood to one side, a half smile on his face, enjoying the women’s surprise at seeing one another again so unexpectedly.

  Mérian saw his smile and instantly turned on him. “What are they doing here?” she hissed.

  The baroness crossed quickly to her. “Mon cher,” she cooed, placing a hand on her shoulder. “How you must have suffered, non?”

  Mérian reacted as if she had been burned by the touch. She gave a start and shook off Lady Agnes’s hand. “You!” she snarled. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Mérian!” said Garran. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Why are they here?” demanded Mérian, her voice quivering with pent rage. “Tell me why they’re here!”

  Lady Agnes stepped back, her expression at once worried and offended.

  “Darling, what do you mean?” asked her mother. “They are living here.”

  Mérian shook her head. “No,” she said, backing away a step. “That cannot be . . . it can’t.”