Hood

CHAPTER
7

Ffreol waited a moment, and when no one answered, he gave the braided cord a more determined pull. The bell sounded once more-a clean, clear peal in the soft evening air. Bran looked around, taking in the old oratory and its surroundings.

The cell stood at the head of a small grove of beech trees. The ground was covered with thick grass through which an earthen pathway led down the hillside into the town. In an earlier time, it occupied the grove as a woodland shrine overlooking the river. Now it surveyed the squalid prospect of a busy market town with its herds and carts and the slow-moving boats bearing iron ore to be loaded onto ships waiting at the larger docks downriver.

When a third pull on the bell rope brought no response, Ffreol turned and scratched his head. "He must be away."

"Can we not just let ourselves in?" asked Bran.

"Perhaps," allowed Ffreol. Putting his hand to the leather strap that served for a latch, he pulled, and the door opened inward. He pushed it farther and stuck in his head. "Pax vobiscum!" he shouted and waited for an answer. "There is no one here. We will wait inside."

Iwan, wincing with pain, was helped to dismount and taken inside to rest. Bran gathered up the reins of the horses and led them into the grove behind the cell; the animals were quickly unsaddled and tethered beneath the trees so they could graze. He found a leather bucket and hauled water from a stoup beside the cell. When he had finished watering the horses and settled them for the night, he joined the others in the oratory; by this time, Ffreol had a small fire going in the hearth that occupied one corner of the single large room.

It was, Bran thought, an odd dwelling-half house, half church. There was a sleeping place and a stone-lined hearth, but also an altar with a large wooden cross and a single wax candle. A solitary narrow window opened in the wall high above the altar, and a chain of sausages hung from an iron hook beside the hearth directly above a low three-legged stool. Next to the stool was a pair of leather shoes with thick wooden soles-the kind worn by those who work the mines. Crumbs of bread freckled both the altar and the hearthstones, and the smell of boiled onions mingled with incense.

Ffreol approached the altar, knelt, and said a prayer of blessing for the keeper of the cell. "I hope nothing has happened to old Faganus," he said when he finished.

"Saints and sinners are we all," said a gruff voice from the open doorway. "Old Faganus is long dead and buried."

Startled, Bran turned quickly, his hand reaching for his knife. A quick lash of a stout oak staff caught him on the arm. "Easy, son," advised the owner of the staff. "I will behave if you will"

Into the cell stepped a very short, very fat man. The crown of his head came only to Bran's armpit, and his bulk filled the doorway in which he stood. Dressed in the threadbare brown robes of a mendicant priest, he balanced his generous girth on two absurdly thin, bandy legs; his shoulders sloped and his back was slightly bent, giving him a stooped, almost dwarfish appearance; however, his thick-muscled arms and chest looked as if he could crush ale casks in his brawny embrace.

He carried a slender staff of unworked oak in one hand and held a brace of hares by a leather strap with the other. His tonsure was outgrown and in need of reshaving; his bare feet were filthy and caked with river mud, some of which had found its way to his full, fleshy jowls. He regarded his three intruders with bold and unflinching dark eyes, as ready to wallop them as welcome them.

"God be good to you," said Ffreol from the altar. "Are you priest here now?"

"Who might you be?" demanded the rotund cleric. He was one of the order of begging brothers which the Ffreinc called freres and the English called friars. They were all but unknown amongst the Cymry.

"We might be the King of England and his barons," replied Iwan, rising painfully. "My friend asked you a question."

Quick as a flick of a whip, the oak staff swung out, catching Iwan on the meaty part of the shoulder. He started forward, but the priest thumped him with the knob end of the staff in the centre of the chest. The champion crumpled as if struck by lightning. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

"It was only a wee tap, was it not?" the priest said in amazement, turning wide eyes to Bran and Ffreol. "I swear on Sweet Mary's wedding veil, it was only a tap."

"He was wounded in a battle several days ago," Bran said. Kneeling beside the injured warrior, he helped raise him to his feet.

"Oh my soul, I didn't mean to hurt the big 'un," he sighed. To Ffreol, he said, "Aye, I am priest here now. Who are you?"

"I am Brother Ffreol of Llanelli in Elfael."

"Never heard of it," declared the brown-robed priest.

"It is in Cymru," Bran offered in a snide tone, "which you sons of Saecsens call Wales."

"Careful, boy," snipped the priest. "Come over high-handed with me, and I'll give you a thump to remind you of your manners. Don't think I wont."

"Go on, then," Bran taunted, thrusting forward. "I'll have that stick of yours so far up your-"

"Peace!" cried Ffreol, rushing forward to place himself between Bran and the brown priest. "We mean no harm. Pray, forgive my quick-tempered friends. We have suffered a grave calamity in the last days, and I fear it has clouded our better judgement." This last was said with a glare of disapproval at Bran and Iwan. "Please forgive us."

"Very well, since you ask," the priest granted with a sudden smile. "I forgive you." Laying his staff aside, he said, "So now! We know whence you came, but we still lack names for you all. Do they have proper names in Elfael? Or are they in such short supply that you must hoard them and keep them to yourselves?"

"Allow me to present Bran ap Brychan, prince and heir of Elfael," said Ffreol, drawing himself upright. "And this is Iwan ap Iestyn, champion and battlechief"

"Hail and welcome, friends," replied the little friar, raising his hands in declamation. "The blessings of a warm hearth beneath a dry roof are yours tonight. May it be so always."

Now it was Bran's turn to be amazed. "How is it that you speak Cymry?"

The brown priest gave him a wink. "And here was I, thinking you hotheaded sons of the valleys were as stupid as stumps." He chuckled and shook his head. "It took you long enough. Indeed, sire, I speak the tongue of the blessed."

"But you're English," Bran pointed out.

"Aye, English as the sky is blue," said the friar, "but I was carried off as a boy to Powys, was I not? I was put to work in a copper mine up there and slaved away until I was old enough and bold enough to escape. Almost froze to death, I did, for it was a full harsh winter, but the brothers at Llandewi took me in, did they not? And that is where I found my vocation and took my vows." He smiled a winsome, toothy grin and bowed, his round belly almost touching his knees. "I am Brother Aethelfrith," he declared proudly. "Thirty years in God's service." To Iwan, he said, "I'm sorry if I smacked you too hard."

"No harm done, Brother Eathel… Aelith…," Iwan stuttered, trying to get his British tongue around the Saxon name.

"Aethelfrith," the priest repeated. "It means `nobility and peace', or some such nonsense," He grinned at his guests. "Here now, what have you brought me?"

"Brought you?" asked Bran. "We haven't brought you anything."

"Everyone who seeks shelter here brings me something," explained the priest.

"We didn't know we were coming," said Bran.

"Yet here you are." The fat priest stuck out his hand.

"Perhaps a coin might suffice?" said Ffreol. "We would be grateful for a meal and a bed."

"Aye, a coin is acceptable," allowed Aethelfrith doubtfully. "Two is better, of course. Three, now! For three pennies I sing a psalm and say a prayer for all of you-and we will have wine with our dinner."

"Three it is!" agreed Ffreol.

The brown priest turned to Bran expectantly and held out his hand.

Bran, irked by the friar's brash insistence, frowned. "You want the money now?"

"Oh, aye."

With a pained sigh, Bran turned his back on the priest and drew the purse from his belt. Opening the drawstring, he shook out a handful of coins, looking for any dipped coins amongst the whole. He found two half pennies and was looking for a third when Aethelfrith appeared beside him and said, "Splendid! I'll take those."

Before Bran could stop him, the priest had snatched up three bright new pennies. "Here, boyo!" he said, handing Bran the two fat hares on the strap. "You get these coneys skinned and cleaned and ready to roast when I get back."

"Wait!" said Bran, trying to snatch back the coins. "Give those back!"

"Hurry now," said Aethelfrith, darting away with surprising speed on his ludicrous bowed legs. "It will be dark soon, and I mean to have a feast tonight."

Bran followed him to the door. "Are you certain you're a priest?" Bran called after him, but the only reply he heard was a bark of cheerful laughter.

Resigned to his task, Bran went out and found a nearby stone and set to work skinning and gutting the hares. Ffreol soon joined him and sat down to watch. "Strange fellow," he observed after a time.

"Most thieves are more honest."

Brother Ffreol chuckled. "He is a good hand with that staff."

"When his victim is unarmed, perhaps," allowed Bran dully. He stripped the fur from one plump animal. "If I'd had a sword in my hand…"

"Be of good cheer," said Ffreol. "This is a fortuitous meeting. I feel it. We now have a friend in this place, and that is well worth a coin or two.

"Three," corrected Bran. "And all of them new."

Ffreol nodded and then said, "He will repay that debt a thousand times over-ten thousand."

Something in his friend's tone made Bran glance up sharply. "Why do you say that?"

Ffreol offered a small, reticent smile and shrugged. "It is nothing-a feeling only."

Bran resumed his chore, and Ffreol watched him work. The two sat in companionable silence as evening enfolded them in a gentle twilight. The hares were gutted and washed by the time Friar Aethelfrith returned with a bag on his back and a small cask under each arm. "I did not know if you preferred wine or ale," he announced, "so I bought both."

Handing one of the casks to Bran, he gave the other to Ffreol and then, opening the bag, drew out a fine loaf of fresh-baked bread and a great hunk of pale yellow cheese. "Three moons if a day since I had fresh bread," he confided. "Three threes of moons since I had a drink of wine." Offering Bran another of his preposterous bows, he said, "A blessing on the Lord of the Feast. May his days never cease and his tribe increase!"

Bran smiled in spite of himself and declared, "Bring the jars and let the banquet begin!"

They returned to the oratory, where Iwan, reclining beside the hearth, had built up the fire to a bright, crackling blaze. While Aethelfrith scurried around readying their supper, Ffreol found wooden cups and poured out the ale. Their host paused long enough to suck down a cup and then returned to his preparations, spitting the fat hares and placing them at the fireside for Iwan to tend. He then brought a wooden trencher with broken bread and bite-sized chunks of cheese, and four long fire-forks, which he passed to his guests.

They sat around the hearth and toasted bread and cheese and drank to each other's health while waiting for the meat to cook. Slowly, the cares of the last days began to release their hold on Bran and his companions.

"A toast!" said Iwan at one point, raising his cup. "I drink to our good host, Aethleth-" He stumbled at the hurdle of the name once more. He tried again, but the effort proved beyond him. Casting an eye over the plump priest, he said, "Fat little bag of vittles that he is, I will call him Tuck."

"Friar Tuck to you, boyo!" retorted the priest with a laugh. Cocking his head to one side, he said, "And it is Iwan, is it not? What is that in couth speech?" He tapped his chin with a stubby finger. "It's John, I think. Yes, John. So, overgrown infant that he is, I will call him Little John." He raised his cup, sloshing ale over the rim, "So, now! I lift my cup to Little John and to his friends. May you always have ale enough to wet your tongues, wit enough to know friend from foe, and strength enough for every fight."

Ffreol, moved as much by the camaraderie around the hearth as by the contents of his cup, raised his voice in solemn, priestly declamation, saying, "I am not lying when I say that I have feasted in the halls of kings, but rarely have I supped with a nobler company than sits beneath this humble roof tonight." Lofting his cup, he said, "God's blessing on us. Brothers all!"