Bran rolled to his feet and brushed at the dog’s muddy footprints. Angharad smiled and reached down to help him. “I thought you were away to the north country and the safety of a rich kinsman’s hearth,” she said, her smile brimming with merry mischief. “How is it that you are still forest bound?”
“You would know that better than I,” replied Bran.
Embarrassed to be so easily found, he nevertheless welcomed the sight of the old woman.
“Aye,” she agreed, “I would. But we have had this discussion before, I think.” She extended her hand, and Bran saw that she held a cloth bundle. “Your fast is over, Master Bran.
Come, let us eat together one last time.”
Bran, chastened by his luckless wandering through the forest, dutifully fell into step behind the old woman as she led her little party a short distance to a glade and there spread out a meal of cold meat, nuts, dried fruit, mushrooms, honey cakes, and eggs. The three of them ate quietly; Angharad divided the meat and shared it out between them. When the edge of his hunger had been blunted, Bran turned to the boy, who seemed curiously familiar to him, and asked, “What’s your name?”
The boy raised big dark eyes to him but made no reply.
Thinking the boy had not understood him, Bran asked again, and this time the lad raised a dirty finger to his lips and shook his head.
“He is telling you he cannot speak,” explained Angharad.
“I call him Gwion Bach.”
“He is a kinsman of yours?”
“Not mine,” she replied lightly. “He belongs to the forest— one of many who live here.When I told him I was going to find you, he insisted on coming, too. I think he knows you.”
Bran examined the boy more closely . . . the attack in the farmyard—could it be the same boy? “One of many,” he repeated after a moment. “And are there many?”
“More now that the Ffreinc have come,” she answered, handing the boy a small boiled egg, which he peeled and popped into his mouth with a smack of his lips.
Bran considered this for a moment and then said, “You knew I would be here. You knew I would not be able to find my way out of the wood alone.” He did not accuse her of laying a spell on him, but it was in his mind. “You knew, and still you let me go.”
“It was your decision. I said I would not prevent you.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I am a fool, Angharad, as we both know. But you could have told me the way out.”
“Oh, aye,” she agreed cheerfully, “but you did not ask.”
Growing suddenly serious, she regarded him with a look of unsettling directness. “What is your desire, Bran?” Their meal finished, it was time, once more, for them to part. “What will you do?”
Bran regarded the old woman before him; wrinkled and stooped she might be, but shrewd as a den of weasels. In her mouth the question was more than it seemed. He hesitated, feeling that much depended on the answer.
What answer could he give? Despite his newfound appreciation of the forest, he knew the Ffreinc would kill him on sight. Seeking refuge amongst his mother’s kinsmen was still a good plan. In the months he had been living with Angharad, no better scheme had come to him, nor did anything more useful occur to him now. “I will go to my people,” he replied, and the words thudded to the ground like an admission of defeat.
“If that is what you wish,” the old woman allowed as graciously as Bran could have hoped, “then follow me, and I will lead you to the place where you can find them.”
Gathering up the remains of the meal, Angharad set off with Bran following and little Gwion Bach and the dog running along behind. They walked at an unhurried pace along barely discernible trails that Angharad read with ease. After a time, Bran noticed that the trees grew taller, the spaces between them narrower and more shadowed; the sun became a mere glimmer of shattered gold in the dense leaf canopy overhead; the trail became soft underfoot, thick with moss and damp leaves; the very air grew heavier and more redolent of earth and water and softly decaying wood. Here and there, he heard the tiny rustlings of creatures that lived in shady nooks.
Everywhere—around this rock, on the other side of that holly bush, beyond the purple beech wall—he heard the sound of water: dripping off branches, trickling along unseen courses.
The morning passed, and they paused to rest and drink from a brook no wider than a man’s foot. Angharad passed out handfuls of hazelnuts from the bag she carried. “A good day,” observed Bran. He owed his life to the old woman who had saved him, and as much as he wanted to part on good terms, he also wanted her to understand why he had to leave.
“A good day to begin a journey,” he added.
“Aye,” she replied, “it is that.” Her answer, though agreeable, did not provide him the opening he sought, and he could think of no way to broach the subject. He fell silent, and they continued on a short while later, pressing ever deeper into the forest. The farther they went, the darker, wilder, and more ancient the woodland became. The smaller trees— beeches, birch, and hawthorn—gave way to the larger woodland lords: hornbeam, plane, and elm. The immense boles rose like pillars from the earth to uphold tremendous limbs, which formed a timber ceiling of intertwined branches. It would be possible, Bran imagined, to move through this part of the forest without ever setting foot on the ground.
Deeper they went, and deeper grew the shadows, and more silent the surrounding wood with a hush that was at once peaceful and slightly ominous—as if the woodland solitude was wary of trespass and imposed a guarded watch on strangers.
Bran’s senses quickened. He imagined eyes on him, observing him, marking him as he passed. The impression grew with every step until he began darting glances right and left; the dense wood defied sight; the tangles of branch and vine were impenetrable.
Finally, the old woman stopped, and Bran caught the scent of smoke on the air. “Where are we?” he asked.
Extending a hand, she pointed to an enormous oak that had been struck by lightning during a storm long ago. Half-hollow now, the trunk had split and splayed outward to form a natural arch. The path on which they stood led through the centre of the blast-riven oak. “I am to go through there?”
A quick nod was the only answer he received.
Drawing himself up, he stepped to the fire-blackened arch, passing through the strange portal and into the unknown.
CHAPTER 28
Stepping through the dark arch, Bran found himself holding his breath as if he were plunging into the sea, or leaping from a wall from which he could not see the ground below. On the other side of the oak arch was a hedge wall through which passed a narrow path. Two quick strides brought him through the hedge and into an enormous glade—a great wide greensward of a valley in the heart of the wood, bounded by a ring of towering trees that formed a stout palisade of solid oak around the mossy-banked clearing.
And there, spread out across the floor of the dell, was a camp with dwellings unlike any Bran had ever seen, made of brushwood and branches, the antlers of stags and hinds, woven grass, bark, bone, and hide. Some were little more than branches bent over a hollow in the ground. Others were more substantial shelters of such weird and fanciful construction that Bran was at once entranced and a little unsettled by the sight. He did not see the people who inhabited these queer dwellings, but having heard him coming a long way off, they saw him.
Moments before Bran emerged from the arch of the hedge wall beyond the shattered oak, women whisked children out of sight, men disappeared behind trees and huts, and the settlement that only moments before had been astir with activity now appeared deserted.
“Is anybody here?” called Bran.
As if awaiting his signal, the menfolk emerged from hiding, some carrying sticks and tools for weapons. Seeing that he was alone, they approached. There were, Bran estimated quickly, perhaps thirty men and older boys, ragged, their clothes patched and worn—like those the farmers gave the stick-men in the fields to frighten the birds.
“Pax vobiscum,” Bran called. When that brought no response, he repeated it in Cymry, “Hedd a dy! ” The men continued advancing. Silent, wary as deer, they closed ranks, dark eyes watching the stranger who had appeared without warning in their midst.
“Sefyll!” called Angharad, taking her place beside Bran.
Her appearance halted the advance.
One of the menfolk returned the greeting. “Hudolion!”
He was joined by others, and suddenly everyone was calling, “Hudoles!” and “Hudolion!”
Ignoring Bran, they hurried to greet the old woman as she scrambled gingerly down the mossy bank into the shallow basin of the glade. The respect and adulation provoked by her appearance impressed Bran. Clearly, she had some place of honour in this rough outcast clan.
“Welcome, hudolion,” called one of the men, advancing through the knot of people gathered around her. Tall and lean, there was something of the wolf about him; he wore a short red cloak folded over his shoulder in the manner of a Roman soldier of old. The others parted to let him through, and as he took his place before the old woman, he touched the back of a grimy hand to his forehead in the ancient sign of submission and salutation.
“Greetings, Siarles,” she said. “Greetings, everyone.” Lifting a hand to Bran, she said, “Do you not recognise Prince Bran ap Brychan when you see him?”
The man called Siarles stepped nearer for a closer look.
He peered into Bran’s face uncertainly, cool grey eyes moving over the young man’s features. He then turned to those behind him. “Call the big ’un,” he commanded, and a slender youth with a downy moustache raced away. “I do not,” Siarles said, turning once more to Bran and Angharad, “but if it is as you say, then he will.”
The youth ran to one of the larger huts and called to someone inside. A moment later, a large, well-muscled man stepped from the low entrance of the hut. As he straightened, Bran saw his face for the first time.
“Iwan?” cried Bran, rushing to meet him.
“Bran? Mary and Joseph in a manger, Bran!” A grin spread across his broad face; his thick moustache twitched with pleasure. Seizing Bran, he gathered him in a crushing embrace.
“Bran ap Brychan,” he said, “I never thought to see you again.”
“If it had not been for Angharad, no one ever would,”
Bran confessed, gazing up into the face of his father’s champion. “By heaven, it is good to see you.”
Iwan raised his hand high and called out in a voice that resounded through the glade. “Hear me, everyone! Before you stands Bran ap Brychan, heir to the throne of Elfael! Make him welcome!”
Then, turning once more to Bran, the warrior clapped his hand to the young man’s shoulder. “Humble it may be,”
Iwan said, “but my hearth will be all the merrier with you for company.”
“I would be honoured,” Bran told him.
“Come, we will share a cup,” announced Iwan. “I am that anxious to hear how you fared all this time without me.”
The former champion turned on his heel and started back to his hut. Bran caught Angharad by the arm and whispered, “You did not tell them I was coming?”
“The choice, my son, was always yours alone,” she replied.
“You knew this would happen,” he insisted. “You must have known all along.”
“You said you wanted to go to your people.” Extending a gnarled hand to the bedraggled gathering before him, she said, “Here are your people, Bran.”
How strange she was, this old woman standing before him—at once aged and ageless. The dark eyes gazing out at him from that wrinkled visage were as keen as blades, her mind sharper still. Bran was, he knew, at her mercy and always had been. “Who are you, Angharad?” he asked.
“You asked me once,” she replied, “but you were not ready to receive the answer. Are you ready now?”
“I am—I mean, I think so.”
“Then come,” Angharad said. “It will not take long. Iwan will wait.” She led him to a round moss- and bracken-covered hut in the centre of the settlement. The hide of a red ox served for a door, and here she paused, saying, “If you enter, Master Bran, you must leave your unbelief outside.”
“I will,” he told her. “So far as I am able, I will.”
She regarded him without expression and then smiled. “I suppose that will have to do.” To the others who had followed them, she said, “Go about your business. Siarles, tell Iwan we will join him soon. I would speak to Bran alone a moment.” The people moved off reluctantly; Angharad gave Bran a little bow and, drawing aside the red oxhide, said, “Be welcome here, Prince of Elfael.”
Bran stepped into the dim interior of the odd dwelling.
Although dark, it was surprisingly ample and comfortable.
Light filtered in through a single hole in the roof directly over the stone-lined fire pit in the centre of the room. The furnishings were spare. A single three-legged stool, a row of woven grass baskets along the curving wall, and a bed of reeds and fleeces were the only belongings in the room.
These Bran took in with a single glance as he entered.
A second look revealed another item he did not see until his eyes had better adjusted to the dusky interior: a robe made entirely of feathers, all of them black. Drawn to the peculiar garment, he ran his hand over the glossy plumage. “What is this?”
“It is the Bird Spirit Cloak,” replied the old woman.
“Come, sit down.” She indicated a place opposite her at the fire ring.
“They called you hudolion,” Bran said, settling himself cross-legged on a grass mat. “Are you?” he asked. “Are you an enchantress?”
“I have been called many things,” she replied simply. “Hag . . . Whore . . . Leper . . . Witch . . . I am each of these and none. Banfáith of Elfael . . . True Bard of Britain, these titles are also mine. Call me what you will, I am myself alone, the last of my kind.”
In her words Bran heard the echo of a long-forgotten time, a time when Britain belonged to Britons alone, and when its sons and daughters walked beneath free skies.
The old woman exhaled gently and closed her eyes. She was silent for a long moment and then drew a deep breath.
When she spoke again, her voice had changed, taking on the timbre and cadence of one of her songs. “Not for Angharad the friendly hearth, the silver-strung harp, or torc of gold,” she said, almost singing the words. “In the forest she resides, living like the wild things—the nimble fox, elusive bear, or phantom wolf. Like these, her four-footed sisters, the forest is her shelter and her stronghold.”
She exhaled again, and another long pause ensued. Bran, accustomed to the old woman’s queer moods and eccentric ways, knew better than to interrupt her. He waited in silence for her to continue.
“Oh, beloved, yes, the greenwood is her caer, but it is not her home,” she said after a moment. “Angharad was born to a more exalted position. She was born to bless the hall of a king with her song, to adorn and complete a noble sovereign with her strengthening presence. But the world has turned, the kings grown small, and the bards sing no more.
“Listen! Do not turn away. There was a time once, long ago, when the bards were lauded in the halls of kings, when rulers of the Cymry dispensed gold rings and jewelled armbands to the Chieftains of Song, when all men listened to the old tales, gloried in them, and so magnified their understanding; a time when lord and lady alike heeded the Head of Wisdom and sought the counsel of the Learned in all things.
“Alas! That time is gone. Everywhere kings quarrel amongst themselves, wasting their substance on trivialities and the meaningless pursuit of power, each one striving to rise at the expense of the other. They are maggots in manure, fighting for supremacy of the dung heap. Meanwhile, the enemy goes from strength to strength. The invader waxes mighty while the Gwr Gwyr, the True Men, melt away like mist on a sun-bright morning.
“The Day of the Wolf has dawned. The dire shape of its coming was seen and foretold, i
ts arrival awaited with fear and dread. At long last it is here, and there are none who can turn it aside. Hear me, O Rhi Bran, the Red King stretches out his hand across the land, grasping, seizing, rending. He will not be satisfied until all lies under his dominion, or until he awakens from his sleep of death and acknowledges the law of love and justice laid down before the foundations of the world.”
She spoke with eyes shut, her head weaving from side to side, as if listening to a melody Bran could not hear.
“I am Angharad, and here in the forest I watch and wait. For, as I live and breathe, the promise of my birth will yet be proved. By the grace of the Christ, my druid, I will yet compose a song to be sung before a king worthy of his praise.” Then, slowly opening her eyes, she gazed at Bran directly. “Do you believe me when I say this?”
“I do believe,” replied Bran without hesitation. More than anything else he had ever wanted, he ached for those words, somehow, to be true.
Bishop Asaph stood in the door of his old wooden chapel, watching the labourers break a hole in the wall of his former chapter house, which was to become the residence of Count de Braose’s chief magistrate and tax collector—an ominous development, to be sure, but of a piece with the multitude of changes taking place throughout Elfael almost daily.
The monastery yard had slowly become the market square of the new town, and the various monastic buildings either converted to accommodate new uses or pulled down to make way for bigger, more serviceable buildings. One row of monks’ cells was being removed to make way for a blacksmith forge and granary. The long, low wattle-and-daub refectory was to be a guildhall, and the modest scriptorium a town treasury. That there were no guilds in Elfael seemed not to matter; that no one paid taxes was, apparently, beside the point. The guilds would come in due course; the taxman, too.
Lamentable though the thought surely was, the bishop could not give it more than fleeting consideration. His mind was occupied with the far more urgent matter of feeding his hungry people. The grain promised by Baron Neufmarché had not yet arrived, and Asaph had determined to go to Count de Braose and see what might be done. He had hoped his next audience with the count would be on more amiable terms, but the prospect of better dealings seemed always to remain just beyond his grasp.