Hood

  Nothing would be allowed to impede the progress he meant to make. Only too aware that his future hung by the slender thread of his uncle, the baron’s, good pleasure, Falkes agonised over his arrangements; he ate little and slept less, worrying himself into a state of near exhaustion over the details large and small.

  On a sunny, windblown morning, the master mason approached Falkes on one of his visits to the building sites. “If it please you, sire, I would like to begin tomorrow,” he said.

  Having supervised the raising of no fewer than seven castles in Normandie, Master Gernaud—with his red face beneath his battered straw hat and faded yellow sweat rag around his neck—was a solid veteran of the building trade. These were to be the first castles he had raised outside France.

  “Nothing would please me more,” the count replied. “Pray begin, Master Gernaud, and may God speed your work.”

  “We will soon have need of the rough labourers,” the mason pointed out.

  “It has been arranged,” replied the count with confidence.

  “You shall have them.”

  Two days passed, however, and none of the required British volunteers appeared.

  When, after a few more days, not a single British worker had come to any of the building sites, Falkes de Braose sent for Bishop Asaph and demanded to know why.

  “Have you spoken to them?” asked Falkes, leaning on the back of his oversized chair. The hall was empty save for the count and his guest; every available hand—excepting his personal servants and a few soldiers required to keep the fortress in order—had been sent to help with the construction.

  “I have done as you required,” replied the churchman in a tone suggesting he could do no more than that.

  “Did you tell them we must have the town established? Each day delayed is another day we must work in the winter cold.”

  “I told them,” said Asaph.

  “Then where are they?” queried Falkes, growing irate at the inconvenience perpetrated by the absent locals. “Why don’t they come?”

  “They are farmers, not quarrymen or masons. It is ploughing season, and the fields must be prepared for sowing. They dare not delay; otherwise there will be no harvest.” He paused, plucked up his courage, and added, “Last year’s harvest was very poor, as you know. And unless they are allowed to put in their crops, the people will starve. They are hungry enough already.”

  “What?” cried Falkes. “Do you suggest this is in any way my fault? They fled their holdings. The ignorant louts were in no danger, but they fled anyway. The blame lies with them.”

  “I merely state the fact that the farmers of Elfael were prevented from gathering in the harvest last year, and now there is precious little ready food in the valleys.”

  “They should have thought of that before they ran off and abandoned their fields!” Falkes cried, slapping the back of the chair with his long hands. “What of their cattle? Let them slaughter a few of those if they’re hungry.”

  “The cattle are the only wealth they possess, lord count.

  They cannot slaughter them. Anyway, the herds must be built up through the summer if there is to be food enough to see them through the winter.”

  “This is not my concern!” Falkes insisted. “This problem is of their own making and will not be laid at my door.”

  “Count de Braose,” said the bishop in a conciliatory tone, “they are simple folk, and they were afraid of your troops.

  Their king and warband had just been slain. They feared for their lives. What did you expect—that they would rush with glad hosannas to welcome you?”

  “That tongue of yours will get you hanged yet, priest,” warned de Braose, wagging a long finger in warning. “I would guard it if I were you.”

  “Will that help raise your castles?” asked Asaph. “I merely point out that if they ran away, it was for good reason.

  They are afraid, and nothing they have seen from you has changed that.”

  “I meant them no harm,” insisted the count, growing petulant. “Nor do I mean them harm now. But the town will be raised, and the fortresses will be built. This commot will be settled and civilised, and that is the end of it.” Crossing his arms over his narrow chest, Falkes thrust out his chin as if daring the churchman to disagree.

  Bishop Asaph, squeezed between the rock of the count’s demands and the hard place of his people’s obstinate resistance to any such scheme, decided there was no harm in trying to mitigate the damage and ingratiate himself with the count. “I see you are determined,” he said. “Might I offer a suggestion?”

  “If you must,” granted Falkes.

  “It is only this. Why not wait until the fields have been sown and planted?” suggested the churchman. “Once the crops are in, the people will be more amenable to helping with the building. Grant them a reprieve until the sowing is finished. They will thank you for it, and it will demonstrate your fairness and good faith.”

  “Dieu défend! Delay the building? That I will not do!” cried Falkes. He took three quick strides and then turned on the bishop once more. “Here now! I give you one more day to inform the people and assemble the required labourers—the two strongest men from each family or settlement. They will come to your monastery, where they will be met and assigned to one of the building sites.” Glaring at the frowning cleric, he said, “Is that understood?”

  “Of course,” the bishop replied diffidently. “But what if they refuse to come? I can only relay your demands. I am not their lord—”

  “But I am!” snapped Falkes. “And yours as well.” When the bishop made no reply, he added, “If they fail to comply, they will be punished.”

  “I will tell them.”

  “See that you do.” Falkes dismissed the churchman then. As Asaph reached the door, the count added, “I will come to the monastery yard at dawn tomorrow. The workers will be ready.”

  The bishop nodded, departing without another word.

  Upon arriving at the monastery, he commanded the porter to sound the bell and convene the monks, who were quickly dispatched to the four corners of the cantref to carry the count’s summons to the people.

  When Count de Braose and his men arrived at the monastery the next morning, they found fifteen surly men and four quarrelsome boys standing in the mostly empty yard with their bishop. The count rode through the gate, took one look at the desultory crew, and cried, “What? Is this all? Where are the others?”

  “There are no others,” replied Bishop Asaph.

  “I distinctly said two from every holding,” complained the count. “I thought I made that clear.”

  “Some of the holdings are so small that there is only one man,” explained the bishop. Indicating the sullen gathering, he said, “These represent every holding in Elfael.” Looking at the unhappy faces around him, he asked the count, “Did you think there would be more?”

  “There must be more!” roared Falkes de Braose. “Work is already falling behind for lack of labourers. We must have more.”

  “That is as it may be, but I have done as you commanded.”

  “It is not enough.”

  “Then perhaps you should have invaded a more populous cantref,” snipped the cleric.

  “Do not mock me,” growled the count, turning away. He strode to his horse. “Find more workers. Bring them in. Bring everybody in—women too. Bring them all. I want them here tomorrow morning.”

  “My lord count,” said the bishop, “I beg you to reconsider.

  The ploughing will soon be finished. That is of utmost concern, and it cannot wait.”

  “My town cannot wait!” shouted Falkes. Raising himself to the saddle, he said, “I will not be commanded by the likes of you. Have fifty workers here tomorrow morning, or one holding will burn.”

  “Count de Braose!” cried the bishop. “You cannot mean that, surely.”

  “I do most certainly mean exactly what I say. I have been too lenient with you people, but that leniency is about to end.”


  “But you must reconsider—”

  “Must? Must?” the count sneered, stepping his horse close to the cleric, who shrank away. “Who are you to tell me what I must or must not do? Have the fifty, or lose a farm.”

  With that, the count wheeled his horse and rode from the yard. As the Ffreinc reached the gate, one of the boys picked up a stone and let fly, striking the count in the middle of the back. Falkes whirled around angrily but could not tell who had thrown the rock; all were standing with hands at their sides, staring with dour contempt, men as well as boys.

  Unwilling to allow the insult to stand, Falkes rode back to confront them. “Who threw the stone?” he demanded. When no one answered, he called to the bishop. “Make them tell me!”

  “They do not speak Latin,” replied the churchman coolly.

  “They only speak Cymry and a little Saxon.”

  “Then you ask for me, priest!” said the count. “And be quick about it. I want an answer.”

  The bishop addressed the group, and there was a brief discussion. “It seems that no one saw anything, count,” the cleric reported. “But they all vow to keep a close watch for such disgraceful behaviour in the future.”

  “Do they indeed? Well, for one, at least, there will be no future.” Indicating a smirking lad standing off to one side, the count spoke a command in Ffreinc to his soldiers, and instantly two of the marchogi dismounted and rounded on the panic-stricken youth.

  The elder Britons leapt forward to intervene but were prevented by the swiftly drawn swords of the remaining soldiers. After a momentary scuffle and much shouting, the offending youngster was marched to the centre of the yard, where he was made to stand while the count, drawing his sword, approached his quivering, bawling prisoner.

  “Wait! Stop!” cried the bishop. “No, please! Don’t kill him!” Asaph rushed forward to place himself between the count and his victim, but two of the soldiers caught him and dragged him back. “Please, spare the child. He will work for you all summer if you spare him. Do not kill him, I beg you.”

  Count de Braose tested the blade and then raised his arm and, with a fury born of frustration, yanked down the boy’s trousers and struck the boy’s exposed backside with the flat of his sword—once, twice, and again. Thin red welts appeared on the pale white skin, and the boy began to wail with impotent fury.

  Satisfied with the punishment, the count sheathed his sword, then raised his foot and placed his boot against the crying lad’s wounded rump and gave him a hard shove. The boy, his legs tangled in his trousers, stumbled and fell on his chin in the dirt, where he lay, weeping hot tears of pain and humiliation.

  The count turned from his victim, strode to his horse, and mounted the saddle once more. “Tomorrow I want fifty men here, ready to work,” he announced. “Fifty, do you hear?”

  He paused as the bishop translated his words. “Fifty workmen or, by heaven, a farm will burn.” His words were still ringing in the yard as he and his soldiers rode out.

  The next morning there were twenty-eight workers waiting when the count’s men arrived, and most of those were monks, as the entire monastery—save aged Brother Clyro, who was too old to be of much use at heavy labour—rallied to the cause. Bishop Asaph hastened to explain the deficit and promised more workers the next day, but the count was not of a mood to listen. Since the tally was short the required number, the count ordered his soldiers to ride to the nearest farm and put it to the torch. Later, the smoke from the burning darkened the sky to the west, and the following day, eighteen more Cymry—ten men, six women, and two more boys—joined the labour force, bringing the total to forty-six, only four shy of the number decreed by the count.

  Falkes de Braose and his men entered the yard to find the bishop on his knees before a sulky and fearful gathering of native Cymry and monks. The bishop pleaded with the count to rescind his order and accept those who had come as sufficient fulfilment of his demand. When that failed to sway the implacable overlord, Asaph stretched himself out on the ground before the count and begged for one more day to find workers to make up the number.

  The count ignored his entreaties and ordered another holding to be burned. That night the monks offered prayers of deliverance all night long. The next morning four more workers appeared—two of them women with babes in arms— bringing up the total to the required fifty, and no more farms were destroyed.

  CHAPTER 23

  With the onset of warmer weather, Bran felt more and more restless confined to the cave. Angharad observed his discontent and, on fine days, allowed him to sit outside on a rock in the sun; but she never let him venture too far, and he was rarely out of her sight for more than a moment or two at a time. Bran was still weaker than he knew, and his eagerness to resume his flight to the north made him prone to overtax himself. He mistook convalescence for indolence and resented it, seldom missing an opportunity to let Angharad know he felt himself a prisoner under her care. This was natural enough, she knew, but there was more.

  Lately, Bran’s sleep had grown fitful and erratic; several times as dawn light broke in the east, he had called out; when she rose and went to him, he was asleep still but sweating and breathing hard. The reason, Angharad suspected, was that the story was working on him. His acceptance of the tale that night had been complete. Weak from his wandering in the snow, his fatigue had left him in an unusually receptive condition— unusual, that is, for one so strong-willed and naturally contrary; he had been in that state of alert serenity the bards called the trwyddo ennyd, the seeding time, and which they recognised as a singular moment for learning. This condition of attentive repose allowed the song to sink deep into Bran’s being, passing beneath his all-too-ready defences. Now it was under his skin, burrowing deep into his bones, seeping into his soul, changing him from the inside out, though he did not know it.

  There would come a day when the meaning would break upon him; maybe sooner, maybe later, but it would come. And for this, as much as for the progress of his healing, Angharad watched him so that she would be there when it happened.

  She also made plans.

  One day, as Bran sat outside in a pool of warm sunlight, Angharad appeared with an ash-wood stave in her hand. She came to where he sat and said, “Stand up, Bran.”

  Yawning, he did so, and she placed the length of wood against his shoulder. “What is this?” he asked. “Measuring me for a druid staff ?” In his restlessness, he had begun mocking her quaintly antiquated ways. The wise woman knew the source of his impatience and astutely ignored it.

  “Nay, nay,” she said, “you would have to spend seventeen years at least before you could hold one of those—and you would have had to begin before your seventh summer.

  This,” she said, placing the stave in his hands, “is your next occupation.”

  “Herding sheep?”

  “If that is your desire. I had something else in mind, but the choice is yours.”

  He looked at the slender length of wood. Almost as long as he was tall, it had a good heft and balance. “A bow?” he guessed. “You want me to make a bow?”

  She smiled. “And here I was thinking you slow-witted.

  Yes, I want you to make a bow.”

  Bran examined the length of ash once more. He held it up and looked down its length. Here and there it bent slightly out of true—not so badly that it could not be worked—but that was not the problem. “No,” he said at last, “it cannot be done.”

  The old woman looked at the stave and then at Bran.

  “Why not, Master Bran?”

  “Do not call me that!” he said roughly. “I am a nobleman, remember, a prince—not a common tradesman.”

  “You ceased being a prince when you abandoned your people,” she said. Though her voice was quiet, her manner was unforgiving, and Bran felt the now-familiar rush of shame. It was not the first time she had berated him for his plan to flee Elfael. Laying a hand on the stave, she said, “Tell me why the wood cannot be worked.”

  “It
is too green,” replied Bran, petulance making his voice low.

  “Explain, please.”

  “If you knew anything about making a longbow, you would know that you cannot simply cut a branch and begin shaping.

  You must first season the wood, cure it—a year at least. Otherwise it will warp as it dries and will never bend properly.” He made to hand the length of ash back to her. “You can make a druid staff out of it, perhaps, but not a bow.”

  “And what leads you to think I have not already seasoned this wood?”

  “Have you?” Bran asked. “A year?”

  “Not a year, no,” she said.

  “Well then—” He shrugged and again tried to give the stave back to her.

  “Two years,” she told him. “I kept it wrapped in leather so it would not dry too quickly.”

  “Two years,” he repeated suspiciously. “I don’t believe you.” In truth, he did believe her; he simply did not care to consider the more far-reaching implications of her remark.

  Angharad had turned away and was moving toward the cave. “Sit,” she said. “I will bring you the tools.”

  Bran settled himself on the rock once more. He had made a bow only twice as a lad, but he had seen them made countless times. His father’s warriors regularly filled their winter days, as well as the hall itself, with sawdust and wood shavings as they sat around the fire, regaling each other with their impossible boasts and lies. For battle, the longbow was the prime weapon of choice for all True Sons of Prydein—and a fair few of her fearless daughters, too. In skilled hands, a stout warbow was a formidable weapon—light, durable, easily made with materials ready to hand, and above all, devastatingly deadly.