“Later,” Bran told him. “We must be miles from here before midday. Our day’s work has only begun. Come along,” he said, beckoning the priest to follow. “Watch and learn.”
The game run was narrow, and the horses were fast, pounding along the ridgetop track as the outreaching hazel branches whipped past. Bran, following Iwan’s lead, slashed his mount across the withers with his reins, careering through the forest. The trail continued to climb as the ridge rose, bending around to the north; upon reaching the summit, they abandoned the run and struck off along another trail, moving west toward the edge of the forest. The riders might have travelled more quickly but for the extra weight behind Bran, clinging on for dear life.
The trail dropped sharply into a rocky defile. The pathway became rough under hoof, and the riders slowed. Stones the size of houses rose abruptly on each hand, forming a winding and shadowed corridor through which they had to pick their way carefully. When the path grew too narrow, they abandoned their mounts, tying them to a small pine tree growing in a crevice, and then proceeded on foot.
Silently, they stalked along a stone gallery so close they could have touched both sides with arms outstretched. This trail ended, and they stepped out into a small clearing, where they were met by another man—also dressed in a long, hooded cloak of green tatters. “Where have you been?” he whispered sharply. He saw the bandy-legged priest toiling along in Bran’s wake and asked, “Where did you find that?”
Ignoring the question, Bran asked, “Are they here?”
“Aye,” answered the man, “but they will soon be moving on—if they are not already gone.” He darted away. “Hurry!”
Bran turned to his visitor and said, “You must swear a sacred oath to hold your tongue and keep silent.”
“Why? What is going to happen?” asked Aethelfrith.
“Swear it!” insisted Bran. “Whatever happens, you must swear.”
“On my naked soul, I swear silence,” the friar replied. “May all the saints bear witness.”
“Now stay out of sight.” To Iwan, looking on, he said, “Take up your position. You know what to do.”
All three moved off at a fast trot. Brother Aethelfrith stood for a moment, catching his breath, and then hurried after them.
Soon the surrounding wood began to thin somewhat, and they came to a dell with huge boulders strewn amongst the standing trees like miniature mountains. At the far end of the dell, the forest ended, and the Vale of Elfael opened before them.
Beneath a great spreading beech tree at the forest’s edge, three swineherds were taking their midday meal—two men and a boy, eating from a tuck bag they passed between them. All around them their scattered herd—thirty or more large grey-and-black-spotted swine—grubbed and rooted for last year’s acorns and beech mast beneath the trees.
Without a word, Bran and his two companions left the trail, quickly melting into the shadowed greenwood. Aethelfrith knelt down on the path to catch his breath and wait to see what would happen.
Nothing happened.
His attention had begun to drift when he heard a shout from the swineherds. Turning his eyes back to the trio of herdsmen, the friar saw that all three were on their feet and staring into the wood. He could not see what had drawn their attention, but he could guess.
The three remained stock-still, unable or unwilling to move, rigid with fear. Then Aethelfrith saw what they had seen: the elusive black shape moving slowly in and out of the shadows amongst the trees. At the same time, two figures in green emerged from the wood behind the watching herdsmen.
Keeping the low-hanging beech between the swineherds and the black shape that held their attention, the two green-cloaked men, using nothing more than short staves, quickly culled eight pigs from the herd and led them away into the wood.
Wonder of wonders, the swine followed the strange herdsmen willingly and without a sound. In less time than it would have taken Aethelfrith to tell, the livestock had been removed from the dell. Just as the animals disappeared into the forest, there arose a ghastly unnatural shriek from the surrounding wood. It was the same screech the priest had heard at the ford, only now he knew what it signified.
The swineherds, terrified by the inhuman cry, threw themselves to the ground and covered their heads with their mantles. They were still cowering there, not daring to move, when Iwan appeared and, with a gesture only, summoned Tuck to follow him. They returned to the horses then and waited for Bran, who soon joined them. “You can have Siarles’s horse,”
Bran told the priest. “He is bringing the pigs.”
The three retreated back down the narrow defile, retracing their steps until they reached a wider way, and then rode north into the heart of the forest. Unaccustomed to riding, it was all
Aethelfrith could do to remain in the saddle, let alone guide his mount. He soon lost all sense of distance and direction and contented himself with merely keeping up as he pressed deeper and ever deeper into the dark heart of the ancient wood.
Eventually, they slowed their horses and, after splashing across a brook and gaining a long, low rise, arrived at the great black trunk of a lightning-blasted oak. Here Bran stopped and dismounted. Aethelfrith, grateful for the chance to quit the saddle, climbed down and stood looking around. The trees were giants of the forest, their limbs huge and majestic, their crowns lofty. Their great girth meant that their trunks were far apart from one another and little grew in the shadows beneath them. Younger trees struggled up, straight and thin as arrows, to reach the sun; most failed. Unable to sustain their own weight, they fell back to earth—but slowly, slanting down at unnatural angles.
“This way,” said Bran, motioning his guest to follow. He stepped through the split in the trunk of the blighted oak as through an open door. The friar followed, emerging on the other side into a wide, sunlit hollow large enough to contain a most curious settlement, a veritable village of hovels and huts made from branches and bark and—could it be?—the horns, bones, and skins of deer, oxen, and other beasts. On the far side of the glade were small fields, where a number of settlement dwellers were at work amongst the furrowed rows of beans, peas, and leeks.
“Passing strange,” murmured Aethelfrith, oddly delighted with the place.
“This is Cél Craidd,” Bran told him. “My stronghold.
You are welcome here, Tuck, my friend. The freedom of my home is yours.”
The cleric made a polite bow. “I accept your hospitality.”
“Come along, then,” said Bran, leading the way into the peculiar settlement, “there is someone else I would have you meet before we sit down to hear your news.”
Bran, his cloak of black feathers gleaming blue and silver in the bright daylight, led the way to one of the hovels in the centre of the settlement. As they approached, an old woman emerged, pushing aside the deer hide that served as her door.
She regarded the newcomer with a keen dark eye and then touched the back of her hand to her forehead.
“This is Angharad,” said Bran. “She is our banfáith.”
Seeing that the priest did not understand the word, he added, “It is like a bard. Angharad is Chief Bard of Elfael.”
To the old woman, he said, “And this is Brother Aethelfrith—he helped us in Lundein.” Clapping a hand to the friar’s shoulder, Bran continued, “He has come with news he deems so important that he has travelled all the way from Hereford.”
“Then let us hear it,” said Angharad. Stepping back, she pulled aside the deerskin and indicated that her guests should enter. The single large room had a bare earth floor; packed hard and swept clean, it was covered by an array of animal skins and handwoven coverings. More skins encircled a round firepit in the centre of the room, where a small fire flickered amongst the embers. There was a sleeping pallet on one side and a row of woven grass baskets.
Bran untied the leather laces at the neck of his feathered cloak and hung it on the tine of a protruding antler above one of the baskets; above the cloak, he
hung the high-crested hood with its weird mask, then removed the black leather gauntlets and put them in the basket. He knelt over a basin on the floor to splash water on his face and drew his hands through his black hair. Shaking off the excess moisture, he arched his back and then suddenly slumped and sighed, and his body quivered as if with cold. The tremor passed, and Bran straightened. When he turned, he had changed slightly; he was more the Bran whom Aethelfrith remembered.
Angharad invited her guests to sit and stepped out to a barrel beside the door; she dipped out a bowl, which she brought to the priest. “Peace, friend, and welcome,” she said, offering him the cup. “May God be good to thee all thy days, and strengthen thee to every virtue.”
The priest bowed his head. “May his peace and joy forever increase,” he replied, “and may you reap the rich harvest of his blessing.”
“It is water only,” Bran explained. “We don’t have enough grain to make ale just now.”
“Water is the elixir of life,” declared the priest, raising the bowl to his lips. “I never tire of drinking it.” He sucked down a healthy draught and passed the bowl to Bran, who also drank and passed it to Iwan. When the big man finished, he returned the bowl to Angharad, who set it aside and took her place at the fire ring with the men.
“I trust all is well in Hereford,” said Bran, easing into the reason for the friar’s journey to Elfael.
“Better than here,” replied Aethelfrith. “But that could change.” Leaning forward in anticipation of the effect his words would have, he said, “What if I told you a flood of silver was coming your way?”
“If you told me that,” replied Bran, “I would say we will all need very big buckets.”
“Aye,” agreed the priest, “and tubs and vats and casks and tuns and barrels and cisterns large and small. And I say you had best find them quickly, because the flood is on the rise.”
Bran eyed the stout priest, whose plump cheeks were bunched in a self-satisfied grin. “Tell us,” he said. “I would hear more of this silver flood.”
CHAPTER 36
The rider appeared unannounced in the yard at Caer Rhodl. The horse was exhausted: hide wet with lather, spume pink with blood, hooves cracked. Lord Cadwgan took one look at the suffering animal and its dead-eyed rider and commanded his grooms to take the poor beast to the stables and tend it. To the rider, he said, “Friend, your news must be grievous indeed to drive a good horse this way. Speak it out, and quickly—there will be ale and warm meat waiting for you.”
“Lord Cadwgan,” said the rider, swaying on his feet, “the words I have are bitter ashes in my mouth.”
“Then spit them out and be done, man! They will grow no sweeter for sucking on them.”
Drawing himself up, the messenger nodded once and announced, “King Rhys ap Tewdwr is dead—killed in battle this time yesterday.”
Lord Cadwgan felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Only months ago, Rhys, King of Deheubarth—and the man most Britons considered the last best hope of the Cymry to turn back the tide of the Ffreinc invaders—had returned from exile in Ireland, where he had spent the last few years ingratiating himself with Irish kings, slowly eliciting support for the British cause against the Ffreinc.Word had gone out that Rhys had returned with a massive warhost and was preparing to make a bid for the English throne while William the Red was preoccupied in Normandie. Such was the strength of King Rhys ap Tewdwr’s name that even men like Cadwgan—who had long ago bent the knee to the Ffreinc king—allowed themselves to hope that the yoke of the hated overlords might yet be thrown off.
“How can this be?” Cadwgan wondered aloud. “By whose hand? Was it an accident?” Before the messenger could answer, the lord collected himself and said, “Wait. Say nothing.” He raised his hand to prevent the reply. “We will not stand in the yard like market gossips. Come to my chambers and tell me how this tragedy has come about.”
On his way through the hall, King Cadwgan ordered drink to be brought to his room at once, then summoned his steward. With Queen Anora and Prince Garran in attendance, he sat the messenger down in a chair and commanded him to tell all he knew of the affair.
“Word came to our king that Ffreinc marchogi had crossed our borders and set fire to some of our settlements,” the messenger began after taking a long pull on the ale cup. “Thinking it was only a few raiders, Lord Rhys sent a warband to put a stop to it.When none of the warriors returned, the alarm was raised and the warhost assembled. We found the Ffreinc encamped in a valley inside our lands, where they were building one of those stone caers they glory in so greatly.”
“And this inside the Marches, you say?” asked Cadwgan.
The messenger nodded. “Inside the very borders of Deheubarth itself.”
“What did Lord Rhys say to that?”
“Our king sent word to the commander of the foreigners, demanding their departure and payment for the burned settlements on pain of death.”
“Good,” said Cadwgan, nodding his approval.
“The Ffreinc refused,” continued the messenger. “They cut off the noses of the messengers and sent the bloodied men back to tell the king that the Ffreinc would leave only with the head of Rhys ap Tewdwr as their prize.” The messenger lifted his cup and drank again. “By this we knew that they had come to do battle with our lord and kill him if they could.”
“They left him no choice,” observed Garran, quick to refill the cup. “They wanted a fight.”
“They did,” agreed the rider sadly, raising the cup to his lips once more. “Though the Ffreinc force was smaller than our own—fewer than fifty knights, and maybe two hundred footmen— we were wary of some treachery. God knows, we were right to be so. The moment we assembled the battle line, more marchogi appeared from the south and west—six hundred at least, two hundred mounted, and twice that on foot. They had taken ship and come in behind us.” The messenger paused.
“They had marched through Morgannwg and Ceredigion, and no one lifted a hand to stop them, nor to warn us.”
“What of Brycheiniog?” demanded Cadwgan. “Did they not send the battle host?”
“They did not, my lord,” replied the man curtly. “Neither blade nor shield of Brycheiniog was seen on the field.”
Speechless with shock, King Cadwgan stared at the man before him. Prince Garran muttered an oath beneath his breath and was silenced by his mother, who said, “Pray continue, sir.
What of the battle?”
“We fought for our lives,” said the messenger, “and sold them dear. At the end of the first day, Rhys raised the battle call and sent to the cantrefs close about, but none answered.
We were alone.” He passed a hand before his eyes as if to wipe the memory from his sight. “Even so,” he continued, “the fighting continued until the evening of the second day.
When Lord Rhys saw that we could not win, he gathered the remnant of the warhost to him, and we drew lots—six men to ride with word to our kinsmen, and the rest to remain and seek glory with their comrades.” The messenger paused, gazing emptily down. “I was one of the six,” he said in a low voice, “and here I am to tell you—Deheubarth is no more.”
King Cadwgan let out a long breath. “This is bad,” he said solemnly. “There is no getting around it.” First Brychan at Elfael, he thought, and now Rhys at Deheubarth. The Ffreinc, it seemed, would not be content with England. They meant to have all of Wales, too.
“If Deheubarth is fallen,” said Prince Garran, looking to his father, “then Brycheiniog cannot be far behind.”
“Who has done this?” asked Queen Anora. “The Ffreinc— whose warriors were they?”
“Baron Neufmarché,” answered the messenger.
“You know this?” demanded Cadwgan quickly. “You know this for a truth?”
The messenger gave a sharp jerk of his chin sideways.
“Not for a truth, no. The leaders amongst them wore a strange livery—one we have not seen before. But some of the wounded we captured spoke that name b
efore they died.”
“Did you see the end?” asked Anora, clasping her hands beneath her chin in anticipation of the answer.
“Aye, my lady. Myself and the other riders—we watched it from the top of the hill. When the standard fell, we scattered with the news.”
“Where will you go now?” she enquired.
“I ride to Gwynedd, to inform the northern kingdoms,” replied the messenger. “God willing, and my horse survives.”
“That horse has run as far as it will go today and for many days, I fear,” replied the king. “I will give you another, and you will rest and refresh yourself here while it is readied.”
“You should stay here tonight,” Anora told the messenger.
“Continue on your way tomorrow.”
“My thanks to you, my lady, but I cannot. The northern kings were raising warriors to join us. They must hear that they can no longer look to the south for help.”
The king commanded his steward to bring food and make ready provisions the messenger could take with him. “I will see to the horse,” said Garran.
“My lord king, I am much obliged.” Having discharged his duty, the messenger slumped, grey faced, into the chair.
“We will leave you to your rest now,” said the queen, leading her husband out.
Once out of hearing of the chamber, the king turned to his wife. “There it is,” he concluded gloomily. “The end has begun. So long as the south remained free, it was possible to think that one day the Cymry might yet shake off the Ffreinc.
There will be nothing to stop the greedy dogs now.”
Queen Anora said, “You are client to Neufmarché. He will not move against us.”
“Client I may be,” spat the king bitterly. “But I am Cymry first, last, and always. If I pay tribute and rents to the baron, it is only to keep him far away from here. Now it seems he will not be satisfied with anything less than taking all of Cymru and driving us into the sea.”
He shook his head as the implications of the catastrophe rolled over him. “Neufmarché will keep us only so long as it pleases him to do so. Just now he needs someone to hold the land and work it, but when the time comes to repay a favour, or provide some relative with an estate, or reward some service rendered—then,” intoned Cadwgan ominously, “then all we have will be taken from us, and we will be driven out.”