And although there was never any telling when or where the dreaded attack would come, the result was always the same: arrow-pierced dead, and wounded Norman soldiers lurching dazed along the narrow trackways of the greenwood.
After a few disastrous running battles, the Ffreinc knights, whose fighting lives were spent on horseback, quickly lost all interest in facing King Raven and his men in the dense forest and on foot. In this, Coed Cadw lived up to its name—the Guardian Wood—providing the rebels with an immense and all-but impenetrable defensive bulwark against an enemy whose numbers far exceeded their own many times over.
Without the use of their horses, and forced to traverse unknown and difficult terrain, the knights’ supreme effectiveness as a weapon of war became nothing more than a blunt and broken stub of a blade. They might thrash and hack along the borders of the wood but could do little real damage, and the elusive King Raven remained beyond their reach.
Still, the king of England was determined to bring this rebel Welsh cantref to heel. He insisted that his commanders pursue the fight wherever they could. Even so, rather than send yet more men to certain death in the forest, they made endless sorties along the road and told themselves that at least they controlled the supply route and enforced the peace for travellers. King Raven was more than happy to grant William the rule of the road, since it allowed his archers time to rest and the Grellon to make more arrows and increase their stockpile.
As it became clear that there would be no easy victory over King Raven in the forest, King William moved to take the Vale of Elfael. The Ffreinc army set up encampment in the valley between the forest and Saint Martin’s, laying siege to the Welsh fortress at Caer Cadarn. William invaded the town of Saint Martin’s with a force of five hundred knights and men-at arms with himself in the lead. There was no resistance. The invaders, discovering only monks there—most of them French, under the authority of an ageing Bishop Asaph— and a few wounded soldiers and frightened townsfolk with little enough food to supply those already there, simply declared the town conquered and effectively reclaimed for the king’s domains.
Caer Cadarn was not so easily defeated. The occupying Ffreinc troops quickly learned that they could not approach nearer than three hundred paces of the timber walls without suffering a hail of killing arrows. But as the old fortress itself seemed to offer no aid or support to King Raven and the rebels in the wood, William decided to leave it alone, and trust to a rigorous siege to bring the stronghold into submission.
Day gave way to day, and sensing a cold, wet winter on the near horizon, with no advancement in his fortunes and the time for his departure for France looming ever closer, the king decided to force the issue. He called his commanders to him. “Our time grows short. Autumn is at an end, and winter is soon upon us,”William announced. Standing in the centre of his round tent with his earls and barons ranged around him, he looked like a bear at a baiting, surrounded by wolves with extravagant appetites. “We must leave for Normandie within the fortnight or forfeit our tribute, and we will have this rebellion crushed before we go.”
Hands on hips, he glared at the grim faces of his battle chiefs, daring them to disagree. “Well? We will have your council, my lords, and that quick.”
One of the barons stepped forward. “My lord and king,” he said, “may I speak boldly?”
“Speak any way you wish, Lord Bellême,” replied William. A thick-skinned warhorse himself, he was not squeamish about any criticisms his vassals or subjects might make. “We do solicit your forthright opinion.”
“With all respect, Majesty,” began Bellême, “it does seem we have allowed these rebels to run roughshod over our troops.” The Earl of Shrewsbury could be counted on to point out the obvious. “What is needed here is a show of strength to bring the Welsh to their knees.” He made a half turn to appeal to his brother noblemen. “The savage Welshman respects only blunt force.”
“And yours would be blunter than most,” remarked a voice from the rear of the tent.
“Mock me if you will,” sniffed Bellême. “But I speak as one who has some experience with these Welsh brigands. A show of force—that will turn the tide in our favour.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Earl de Reviers of Devon, stepping forward, “you might tell us how this might be accomplished when the enemy will not engage? They strike out of the mists and disappear again just as swiftly. My men half believe the local superstition that the forest is haunted by this King Raven and we fight ghosts.”
“Bah!” barked Earl Shrewsbury. “Your men are a bunch of old women to believe such tales.”
“And yet,” replied Devon, “how is this show of strength to be performed against an enemy who is not there?” He offered the craggy Shrewsbury a thin half smile. “No doubt this is something your vast experience has taught you.”
Shrewsbury gave a muttered growl and stepped back.
“The rebels refuse to stand and fight,” put in Le Noir of Richmond. “That is a fact. Until we can draw them out into the open we will continue to fail, and our superior numbers will count for nothing.”
“To be sure,” agreed the king, “and meanwhile our superior numbers are eating through all our supplies. We’re already running out of meat and grain. More will have to be brought in, and that takes time. Time we do not have to spare.”William’s voice had been rising as he began to vent his rage. “My lords, we want this ended now! We want to see that rebel’s head on a pike tomorrow!”
“Your Majesty,” ventured another of the king’s notables, “I would speak.”
William recognized his old friend, the Earl of Cestre. “Lord Hugh,” he said, “if you see a way out of this dilemma, we welcome your wisdom.”
“Hardly wisdom, Sire,” answered Hugh. “More an observation. When facing a particularly cunning stag, you must sometimes divide your party in order to come at the beast from unexpected quarters.”
“Meaning?” inquired William, who was in no mood for hunting lessons.
“Only this, my lord: that unless these rebels are truly spirits, they cannot be in two places at once. Sending a single large force into the wood is no use—as we have seen. So, send three, four, five or more smaller ones. Come at them from every direction.”
“He’s right,” affirmed Lord Rhuddlan. “They cannot defend all sides at once. We can cut them down before they can escape again.”
“We never know where they are,” complained another lord. “How can we muster troops on the flanks and rear if we cannot tell where they will attack?”
“We must create a lure to draw them into battle,” suggested Earl Hugh, “and when the bastards take the bait, we’re ready to sally in from the rear and flanks and slice them up a treat.”
There was more discussion then, about how this might be best accomplished, but the plan was generally accepted and agreed: the king’s army would adopt a new tactic. They would abandon their normal course of moving into the forest in a single large force, and would instead advance in smaller groups towards a single destination using a body on horseback as a lure to draw the rebels into a fight, whereupon the individual parties would rally to the fight and, sweeping in from the flanks, quickly surround them, cutting off any escape.
The king, satisfied that this plan offered a better way forward, gave his blessing to the scheme and ordered all to be made ready for it to be implemented the following morning. Then, in a far better mood than he had enjoyed since his arrival in Elfael, he ordered a good supper for himself and Earl Hugh and a few others, to celebrate their impending victory.
At dawn the next day, six separate hunting parties rode out with a seventh, larger body of knights and men-at-arms to serve as the lure to draw the rebels into the trap. Upon reaching the forest’s edge, they dismounted and proceeded on foot; the six smaller bodies fanned out around the main group and proceeded with all stealth.
It was slow and arduous work, hacking through the vines and branches, searching out pathways and game trails through the de
nse woodland. But just after midday, their determination was rewarded when the main body of knights encountered the Welsh rebels.
They had been stalking through a rock-lined rill, following the stream, when suddenly the canopy of branches seemed to open and begin raining arrows down upon them. The soldiers took shelter where they could, pressing themselves against the rocks and stones, all the while sounding blast after blast on the trumpets some of them were carrying. The attack continued much as previous assaults, but faltered when there arose a great shout and a second body of Ffreinc knights entered the battle from behind the rebel position. This was quickly followed by the appearance of a third body of knights that drew in from the left flank and mounted a fierce resistance to the killing shafts.
The battle lasted only moments and ended as abruptly as it had begun. There was a rustling in the branches overhead—as if a flock of nesting rooks had just taken flight—and the arrows stopped.
As the king’s men reassembled to gather up their wounded and reckon their losses, they found a longbow lying among the rocks in the streambed—one of the rebels’ weapons. What is more, it had blood on it. And there was no Ffreinc body in sight.
After the ruinous ventures of the previous encounters, this was deemed a triumph. It shrank in significance, however, when the victorious troops returned to their camp in the Vale of Elfael to learn that the other three search parties had become lost in the forest and unable to join the battle as planned. In their confusion, they had stumbled upon a hidden settlement—a cluster of crude huts and hovels made of sticks and skin around a great oak tree and a stone-lined well, together with a few storehouses and a pitiful field. Caught unawares, the inhabitants scattered. But the knights did manage to kill one of them as they fled—an old woman who seemed to be in some way guarding the place with only a wooden staff.
CHAPTER 37
Tuck half carried, half dragged the wounded Tomas through the wood, pausing now and then to rest and listen for sounds of pursuit. He heard only the nattering of squirrels and birds, and the rapid beating of his own heart. The spear, so far as he could tell, had been hurled in blind desperation up into the branches where the soldier had marked the arrow that killed the man beside him. By chance, the missile had caught Tomas in the soft place below the ribs on his left side. Tuck had been hiding in a crevice behind the tree and saw Tomas fall.
The archer landed hard among the roots of the tree, and Tuck heard the bone-rattling thump. Without a moment’s hesitation, Tuck rushed to the warrior’s aid and, with a shout to alert the others, hefted Tomas up onto his shoulders and started for home. He paused at the nearest stream to get some water and to assess the injury.
The spearhead had gone in straight and clean and, by the look of it, not too deep. There was plenty of blood, however, and Tuck wet one of the cloths he carried in his satchel and pressed it to Tomas’s side. “Can you hold that?” he asked.
Tomas, his face ashen, nodded. “How bad is it?” he asked between clenched teeth.
“Not so bad,” Tuck replied, “for all I can see. Angharad will be able to put it right. Is there much pain?”
Tomas shook his head. “I just feel sick.”
“Yes, well, that is to be expected, is it not?” replied the friar. He offered the archer another drink. “Get a little more water down you and we’ll move along.”
Tomas drank what he could, and Tuck hefted him onto his feet once more. Draping the injured man’s arm across his own round shoulders so as to bear him up, they continued on. The way was farther than he remembered, but Tuck kept up a ready pace, his short, sturdy legs churning steadily. As he walked, he said the Our Father over and over again, as much for himself as for the comfort of the man he carried.
After two more brief pauses to catch his breath, Tuck approached Cél Craidd. He could see the lightning-blasted oak that formed an archway through the hawthorn hedge which helped to hide the settlement. “Almost there,” Tuck said. “A few more steps and we can rest.”
There was a rush and rustle behind him. “Tuck! How is he?”
The friar half turned, bent low beneath the warrior whose weight he bore. “Iwan, thank God you’re here.” He glanced quickly around. “Is anyone else hurt?”
“No,” he replied. “Only Tomas here.” Tossing aside his bow, he helped ease the weight of the wounded man to the ground. Tomas, now only half-conscious, groaned gently as they stretched him out. “Let’s have a look.”
“I lost my bow,” moaned the injured warrior.
“No matter, Tomas,” replied Iwan. “We’ll get you another. Lie still while we have a look at you.”
Tuck loosened the young man’s belt and pulled up his shirt. The wound was a simple gash in the fleshy part of his side, no more than a thumb’s length. Blood oozed from the cut, and it ran clean. “Not too bad,” Iwan concluded. “You’ll be chasing Ffreinc again before you know it.” To Tuck, he said, “Let’s get him to a hut and have Angharad see to him.”
As the two lifted Tomas between them, the rest of the war band appeared. “We’re clean away,” reported Rhoddi, breathing hard from his run. “No one gave chase.”
Scarlet, Owain, and Bran were the last to arrive. Bran glanced around quickly, counting his men. “Was anyone else injured?”
“Only Tomas here,” said Iwan, “but he—”
Before the words were out of his mouth there arose a piercing shriek—the voice of a woman—from the settlement beyond the concealing hedge. The cry came again: a high-pitched, desperate wail.
“Noín!” shouted Scarlet, darting forward. He dived through the archway of the riven oak and disappeared down the path leading into Cél Craidd.
The men scrambled after him, flying down into the bowl of a valley that cradled their forest home. At first glance all appeared to be just as they had left it earlier that morning . . . but there were no people, none to greet their return as on all the other days when they had gone out to do battle with the Ffreinc.
“Where are they?” wondered Owain.
The shuddering wail came again.
“This way!” Scarlet raced off along one of the many pathways radiating out into Coed Cadw.
Only a few steps down the path he found his wife standing in the path, bent almost double, her shoulders shaking with the violence of her sobs.
“Noín!” Scarlet rushed to her side. “Noín, are you hurt?”
She turned, her face stricken and crumpled with pain, although she appeared to be unharmed. And then Will looked at the bundle she cradled in her arms. It was little Nia, her arms and legs limp and still. The child appeared to be asleep, eyes closed, her features composed. There was a dark, ugly purple bruise on her throat.
Will Scarlet put his ear to the little one’s face. “She’s not breathing.”
“Oh, Will . . .” sobbed Noín as Scarlet gathered them both in his arms.
“Bran!” shouted Rhoddi. “Over here!”
A few dozen steps farther along the path lay another, larger bundle—a shapeless mass of bloody rags, as if a sack of meat had been rolled and crushed beneath a millstone. Beside what was left of this body lay the banfáith’s staff. Bran halted in midstep, staring, his face frozen.
“Angharad!” he cried, rushing swiftly to the body. He sank to his knees beside the pathetic heap of rag and bone and gathered it into his arms. He knelt there, rocking back and forth, cradling the corpse of his beloved teacher and advisor, his confidante, his best and dearest friend.
After a time, Bran collected himself somewhat; he lowered the body to the ground and gently smoothed the hair from the old woman’s face and then cupped her wrinkled cheek in his hand. “Farewell, Mother,” he whispered, gazing at the wizened features he had come to know so well. He placed the tips of his fingers to her eyes and drew her eyelids shut, then bent his head in sorrow as his tears flowed freely.
Owain and the others raced off to make a search of the path and surrounding wood. Bran gathered up the broken body of the Wise Banfáith in hi
s strong arms and returned to Cél Craidd; Scarlet and Noín came after, bearing their beloved daughter. Tuck, ministering to Tomas’s wound, looked up as Bran and Scarlet returned with the little girl and the old woman. He rose and ran to them as they lay the corpses beneath the spreading boughs of the Council Oak. “Who is it? Who—?” he said and stopped in his tracks. “Lord have mercy,” he sighed when he saw who had been killed. “Christ have mercy.”
Turning to Noín and Scarlet, he gathered them in a gentle embrace and prayed for them then and there, that the Lord of Life would give them strength to bear their loss. He did the same for Bran and, seeing as there was nothing more to be done just then, he returned to tending the wounded Tomas.
Bran was kneeling by the still body of Angharad when Owain came to him. “We found no one else injured, Rhi Bran. I think—I hope—everyone got away.”
He was silent for a moment, watching Bran straighten the old woman’s battered limbs. “Do you think they knew it was King Raven’s home they attacked?”
“Those knights weren’t looking for this place, but they found it anyway.”
“But do they know what they found?” asked Owain.
“Perhaps not,” allowed Bran. “But if they do come back, they’ll come in force, and we will not be able to defend it. We will stay here tonight and abandon Cél Craidd in the morning—and pray we have at least that much time.” He folded one of the old woman’s wrinkled hands over the other. “Tell everyone to prepare to leave. We’ll take only what we can carry easily. Bundle up all the arrows and extra bows—get Brocmael and Ifor to help you secure all the weapons. Tell Siarles to set sentries in the usual places. Go. We must be ready to move at first light tomorrow.”
Owain nodded. “Where will we go, my lord?”
“It is a big forest,” he said, brushing a wispy strand of hair away from Angharad’s face. “We’ll find someplace to camp.”