Hood (12 page)

But no, they breathed still. They were alive, and he was a captive. His head beat with a steady throb; his ribs burned where he had been kicked. There was a nasty metallic taste in his mouth, as if he had been sucking on rusty iron. His shirt was wet where he had sweat through it, and the night air was cold where the cloth clung to his skin. He ached from head to heel.

When the owl called again, memory came flooding back in a confused rush of images: an enemy soldier writhing and moaning, his face a battered, bloody pulp; mailed soldiers swarming out of the shadows; the body of his friend Ffreol crumpled in the road, grasping at words as life fled through a slit in his throat; a blade glinting swift and sharp in the moonlight; Iwan, horse rearing, sword sweeping a wide, lethal arc as he galloped away; a Ffreinc helmet, greasy with blood, lifted high against a pale summer moon . . .

So it was true. Not
all
of it was a dream. He could still tell the difference. That was some small comfort at least. He told himself he had to keep his wits about him if he was to survive, and on that thought, he closed his eyes and called upon Saint Michael to help him in his time of need.

T
he Ffreinc marchogi broke camp abruptly. Bran was tied to his own horse as the troops made directly for Caer Cadarn. The invaders moved slowly, burdened as they were with ox-drawn wagons full of weapons, tools, and provisions. Alongside the men-at-arms were others—smiths and builders. A few of the invaders had women and children with them. They were not raiders, Bran concluded, but armed settlers. They were coming to Elfael, and they meant to stay.

Once free of the forest, the long, slow cavalcade passed through an apparently empty land. No one worked the fields; no one was seen on the road or even around the few farms and settlements scattered amongst the distant hillsides. Bran took this to mean that the monks had been able to raise the alarm and spread the word; the people had fled to the monastery at Llanelli.

At their approach to the caer, the Ffreinc seneschal rode ahead to inform his lord of their arrival. By the time they started up the ramp, the gates were open. Everything in the caer appeared to be in good order—nothing out of place, no signs of destruction or pillage. It appeared as though the new residents had simply replaced the old, continuing the steady march of life in the caer without missing a step.

The marchogi threw Bran, still bound, into the tiny root cellar beneath the kitchen, and there he languished through the rest of the day. The cool, damp dark complemented his misery, and he embraced it, mourning his losses and cursing the infinite cruelty of fate. He cursed the Ffreinc, and cursed his father, too.

Why, oh why, had Rhi Brychan held out so long? If he had sworn fealty to Red William when peace was first offered—as Cadwgan, in the neighbouring cantref of Eiwas, and other British kings had long since done—then at least the throne of Elfael would still be free, and his father, the warband, and Brother Ffreol would still be alive. True, Elfael would be subject to the Ffreinc and much the poorer for it, but they would still have their land and their lives.

Why had Rhi Brychan refused the Conqueror’s repeated offers of peace?

Stubbornness, Bran decided. Pure, mean, pigheaded stubbornness and spite.

Bran’s mother had always been able to moderate her husband’s harsher views, even as she lightened his darker moods. Queen Rhian had provided the levity and love that Bran remembered in his early years. With her death, that necessary balance and influence ceased, never to be replaced by another. At first, young Bran had done what he could to imitate his mother’s engaging ways—to be the one to brighten the king’s dour disposition. He learned riddles and songs and made up amusing stories to tell, but of course it was not the same. Without his queen, the king had grown increasingly severe. Always a demanding man, Brychan had become a bitter, exacting, dissatisfied tyrant, finding fault with everyone and everything. Nothing was ever good enough. Certainly, nothing Bran ever did was good enough. Young Bran, striving to please and yearning for the approving touch of a father’s hand, only ever saw that hand raised in anger.

Thus, he learned at an early age that since he could never please his father, he might as well please himself. That is the course he had pursued ever since—much to his father’s annoyance and eventual despair.

So now the king was dead. From the day the Conqueror seized the throne of the English overlords, Brychan had resisted. Having to suffer the English was bad enough; their centuries-long presence in Britain was, to him, still a fresh wound into which salt was rubbed almost daily. Brychan, like his Celtic fathers, reckoned time not in years or decades but in whole generations. If he looked back to a time when Britain and the Britons were the sole masters of their island realm, he also looked forward to a day when the Cymry would be free again. Thus, when William, Duke of Normandie, settled his bulk on Harold’s throne that fateful Christmas Day, Rhi Brychan vowed he would die before swearing allegiance to any Ffreinc usurper.

At long last, thought Bran, that oft-repeated boast had been challenged—and the challenge made good. Brychan was dead, his warriors with him, and the pale high-handed foreigners ran rampant through the land.

How now, Father?
Bran reflected bitterly.
Is this what you hoped
to achieve? The vile enemy sits on your throne, and your heir squats in the
pit. Are you proud of your legacy?

It was not until the following morning that Bran was finally released and marched to his father’s great hall. He was brought to stand before a slender young man, not much older than himself, who, despite the mild summer day, sat hunched by the hearth, warming his white hands at the flames as if it were the dead of winter.

Dressed in a spotless blue tunic and yellow mantle, the thin-faced fellow observed Bran’s scuffed and battered appearance with a grimace of disgust. “You will answer me— if you can, Briton,” said the young man. His Latin, though heavily accented, could at least be understood. “What is your name?”

The sight of the fair-haired interloper sitting in the chair Rhi Brychan used for a throne offended Bran in a way he would not have thought possible. When he failed to reply quickly enough, the young man who, apparently, was lord and leader of the invaders rose from his seat, drew back his arm, and gave Bran a sharp, backhanded slap across the mouth.

Hatred leapt up hot and quick. Bran swallowed it down with an effort. “I am called Gwrgi,” he answered, taking the first name that came to mind.

“Where is your home?”

“Ty Gwyn,” Bran lied. “In Brycheiniog.”

“You are a nobleman, I think,” decided the Norman lord. His downy beard and soft dark eyes gave him a look of mild innocence—like a lamb or a yearling calf.

“No,” replied Bran, his denial firm. “I am not a nobleman.”

“Yes,” asserted his inquisitor, “I think you are.” He reached out and took hold of Bran’s sleeve, rubbing the cloth between his fingers as if to appraise its worth. “A prince, perhaps, or at least a knight.”

“I am a merchant,” Bran replied with dull insistence.

“I think,” the Ffreinc lord concluded, “you are not.” He gave his narrow head a decisive shake, making his curls bounce. “All noblemen claim to be commoners when captured. You would be foolish to do otherwise.”

When Bran said nothing, the Norman drew back his hand and let fly again, catching Bran on the cheek, just below the eye. The heavy gold ring on the young man’s finger tore the flesh; blood welled up and trickled down the side of his face. “I am not a nobleman,” muttered Bran through clenched teeth. “I am a merchant.”

“A pity,” sniffed the young lord, turning away. “Noblemen we ransom—beggars, thieves, and spies we kill.” He nodded to his attending soldiers. “Take him away.”

“No! Wait!” shouted Bran. “Ransom! You want money? Silver? I can get it.”

The Ffreinc lord spoke a word to his men. They halted, still holding Bran tightly between them. “How much?” inquired the young lord.

“A little,” replied Bran. “Enough.”

The Norman gathered his blue cloak around his shoulders and studied his captive for a moment. “I think you are lying, Welshman.” The word was a slur in his mouth. “But no matter. We can always kill you later.”

He turned away and resumed his place by the fire. “I am Count Falkes de Braose,” he announced, settling himself in the chair once more. “I am lord of this place now, so mind your tongue, and we shall yet come to a satisfactory agreement.”

Bran, determined to appear pliant and dutiful, answered respectfully. “That is my fervent hope, Count de Braose.”

“Good. Then let us arrange your ransom,” replied the count. “The amount you must pay will depend on your answers to my questions.”

“I understand,” Bran said, trying to sound agreeable. “I will answer as well as I can.”

“Where were you and that priest going when my men found you on the road?”

“We were returning from Lundein,” replied Bran. “Brother Ffreol had business with the monastery there, and I was hoping to buy some cloth to sell in the markets hereabouts.”

“This business of yours compelled you to ride at night. Why?”

“We had been away a long time,” answered Bran, “and Brother Ffreol was anxious to get home. He had an important message for his bishop, or so he said.”

“I think you were spies,” de Braose announced.

Bran shook his head. “No.”

“What about the other one? Was he a merchant, too?”

“Iwan?” said Bran. “Iwan is a friend. He rode with us to provide protection.”

“A task at which he failed miserably,” observed the count. “He escaped, but we will find him—and when we do, he will be made to pay for his crimes.”

Bran took this to mean he had injured or killed at least one of the marchogi in the skirmish on the road.

“Only a coward would kill a priest,” observed Bran. “Since you require men to pay for their crimes, why not begin with your own?”

The count leaned forward dangerously. “If you wish to keep your tongue, you will speak with more respect.” He sat back and smoothed his tunic with his long fingers. “Now then, you knew my men were attacked by your people on that same road some days ago?”

“I was in Lundein, as I said,” Bran replied. “I heard nothing of it.”

“No?” wondered the count, holding his head to one side. “I can tell you the attack was crushed utterly. The lord of this place and his pitifully few warriors were wiped out.”

“Three hundred against thirty,” Bran replied, bitterness sharpening his tone. “It would not have been difficult.”

“Careful,” chided the count. “Are you certain you knew nothing of this battle?”

“Not a word,” Bran told him, trying to sound both sincere and disinterested. “But I know how many men the King of Elfael had at his command.”

“And you say you know nothing of the priest’s business?”

“No. He did not tell me—why would he? I am no priest,” Bran remarked. “Churchmen can be very secretive when it suits them.”

“Could it have something to do with the money the priest was carrying?” inquired the count. He gestured to a nearby table and the four bags of coins lying there. Bran glanced at the table; the thieving Ffreinc had, of course, searched the horses and found the money Bran had hidden amongst the provisions.

“It is possible,” allowed Bran. “I did not think priests carry so much money otherwise.”

“No,” agreed de Braose, “they do not.” He frowned, apparently deciding there was nothing more to be learned. “Very well,” he said at last, “about the ransom. It will be fifty marks.”

Bran felt bitter laughter rising in his throat. Cardinal Ranulf wanted six hundred; what was fifty more?

“Fifty marks,” he repeated. Determined not to allow the enemy the pleasure of seeing him squirm, Bran shrugged and adopted a thoughtful air. “A heavy price for one who is neither lord nor landholder.”

De Braose regarded him with an appraising look. “You think it too high. What value would you place on your life?”

“I could get ten marks,” Bran told him, trying to make himself sound reasonable. “Maybe twelve.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Fifteen, maybe,” Bran offered reluctantly. “But it would take time.”

“How much time?”

“Four days,” said Bran, pursing his lips in close calculation. “Five would be better.”

“You have one,” the Norman lord decided. “And the ransom will be twenty marks.”

“Twenty, then,” agreed Bran reluctantly. “But I will need a horse.”

De Braose shook his head slowly. “You will go afoot.”

“If I am not to have a horse, I will certainly need more time,” said Bran. He would have the money before the morning was out but did not want the Ffreinc to know that.

“Either you can find the ransom or you cannot,” concluded de Braose, making up his mind. “You have one day—no more. And you must swear on the cross that you will return here with the money.”

“Then I am free to go?” asked Bran, surprised that it should be so easy.

“Swear it,” said de Braose.

Bran looked his enemy in the eye and said, “I do swear on the cross of Christ that I will return with money enough to purchase my ransom.” He glanced at the two knights standing by the door. “I can go now?”

De Braose inclined his long head. “Yes, and I urge you to make haste. Bring the money to me before sunset. If you fail, you will be caught and your life will be forfeit, do you understand me?”

“Of course.” Bran turned on his heel and strode away. It was all he could do to refrain from breaking into a run the moment he left the hall. To maintain the pretence, he calmly crossed the yard under the gaze of the marchogi and strode from the caer. He suspected that his new overlords watched him from the fortress, so he continued his purposeful, unbroken stride until the trees along the river at the valley bottom took him from sight—then he ran all the way to Llanelli to tell Bishop Asaph the grievous news about Brother Ffreol.

CHAPTER 11

W
here is everyone?” shouted Bran, dashing through the gate and into the tidy spare yard of the Llanelli monastery. He had expected the yard to be full to overflowing with familiar faces of cowering, frightened Cymry seeking refuge from the invaders.